Dragon Heart (17 page)

On that side of the spit, mild little waves slapped along a pale grey beach. In the tidal wash, green with rippling seaweed, starfish and anemones covered the rocks, barnacles as big as her fist. Crabs and tiny octopuses lived in the pools between them. The castle loomed up beyond it all, taller than anything else, a crown of spires.

Undercastle lay on her right hand, across the bay; sounds carried across the water, a calling voice, the rhythmic clanking of the forge. She saw some movement on the cliff and after watching awhile decided it was a woman sweeping off the trail to the top. The four fishing boats had gone out earlier, to winnow the passing streams, their red and yellow sails leaning on the wind. Midway across the bay, two naked boys with a raft were diving for oysters. Everything lay around her; everything went by her here. She could see it all from here.

She could see it all and yet no one could see her, and perhaps that was the way of this. Nobody ever really noticed her. Her mother had cursed her, and she was condemned, and everybody knew. Maybe there was a mark on her somewhere. Or just how she was, small and strange.

She remembered how after she escaped from the dragon, when she was lost in the wilderness, she would call for help and people would only drive her away. She remembered them calling her a witch, chasing her into a tree, and then trying to set the tree on fire.

In a fit of fury she made that into a story: she imagined that they made the fire, but it turned on them and burnt them up. Morosely she pulled the cloak tighter around her. She would do well enough by herself.

She dozed, and she dreamed. She was in the tree again, sitting on a branch looking down through the leaves, but the fire was gone. Instead the dragon was coming toward her, up the little gorge where the stream ran.

She huddled against the trunk behind her, afraid. He came up beneath her, and turned his huge red eyes on her.

He said, “I have done as you wished. They have suffered for what they meant to do to you.”

She climbed up higher in the tree, out of his reach. “Go away,” she said.

He gave one of his cold chuckles. “For now, I will. This is too far from the sea for my comfort, and I am not hungry anymore. I want to enjoy you on a clean palate.” His eyes glittered. “In the meantime, wherever you are, wait for me.” He turned and hauled himself back down the stream, crushing trees and bushes under his weight, leaving behind a long trail of broken things.

She woke. The dream faded. Back along the Jawbone, someone was walking toward her. She folded her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, and watched: when this person saw her, he would turn away, too, and leave her alone.

But he did not, he came on toward her, leaping from rock to rock, and she saw that it was Luka. When he came up, she gave him a black scowl.

He sat down beside her. “I thought you might be hungry.” From his belt pouch he took something wrapped in a white cloth.

Inside she found bread, cheese, a bit of fish. Suddenly she was overwhelmed with hunger and she gobbled it all up. He sat watching her. When she was done, he swung his arm around her and hugged her against him. “Mervaly says you're afraid of the Erdhartssons.”

She exploded at him. “You let them in, after all we did—” She bit her lips that only spoke gibberish. She sank against him, her face against his shoulder, and cried.

He hugged her again. “I know. I understand.”

She did not think he understood. She clung to him, saved. His arm gripped her fast. “I want you to come home.”

She sat up straight, moving out of his arms, her gaze on his face. She wanted to tell him how wonderful he was, how he had defeated their enemies against all the odds; she wanted to tell him the story of himself, but she could not make the sounds.

“We should all be together. Jeon is turning very strange; he wants me to … to … What use would it be to win, if I must become like one of them to do it? And Casea is the one who is afraid.” His hands kneaded together in front of him. She thought he talked to her as if to himself. “Mervaly I know I can depend on. And you, if you will come back.” He smiled at her, his long face crinkling. “Besides, it's getting to be autumn now; you'll be cold.”

She looked up at the castle, behind them and above them, dark with the sun behind it. He said, “Come in at least now and then.”

She nodded uncertainly; when she thought about going into the castle again her skin crawled. Some evil harbored there, new, since her mother died.

She wondered if their mother had whispered some curse in Luka's ear, also, before she danced herself off the cliff. When he stood up, going, she stood, too, and followed him.

As they went along on the rocks he stopped and held out his hand to help her across. She took his hand, as if she needed help. They walked along the Jawbone toward the sea gate; she felt much better.

*   *   *

The sergeant Pal Dawd made his rounds, starting with the gatehouse and the yard. All the soldiers not in their camp out on the cliff top gathered here, sitting and standing around the paved yard; they would not willingly go into the castle. The gatehouse and the bridge and the yard had all been built much later than the rest of the castle, and Dawd wondered how anybody had gotten in before; maybe there had been an earlier entry, but he could see no sign of it, not on this side, where the gate opened on a sheer drop, which the bridge spanned, nor on any other side, which all went straight into the water.

Something nudged his mind; he remembered the passage he had gotten lost in, and shook that off; he didn't want to think about that. He spoke to this soldier and that one, and gave them their duties. Half of them he left there to mind the gatehouse.

Oto had ordered Dawd especially to secure the gate. Broga had ordered Dawd to mount a heavy guard on the tower where the brothers lived. Dawd could not do both at once, not with half the little army at work in the kitchens and around the castle.

Beneath the new tower was a rambling cave where they kept the kitchen. This also had been built by men, with brick walls, brick ovens. As he went in there he noticed that along the tables in the center of the room were many of the castle servants, the people from Undercastle. The middle table itself was heaped with fresh rounds of cheese and bread in stacks that still smelled warm from the oven. The soldier who had been the cook was gone and the old cook was back, haggling with a man over some mushrooms.

Dawd was relieved to see this; now maybe he would have enough men to do what both brothers wanted. He went through the new tower and made sure the brothers' doors shut and opened and that nobody lurked in the corners. Coming down that narrow stair, he crossed the center room to the hall, that cavern in the black rock.

He went through the broad space into the open sunlight, drawn to the stiff, salty wind and the sight of the sea. If the wind got any higher, they would have to rig up the storm wall. The whole wide ocean was bounding with waves, the wind spinning their tops off in flags of white foam. The top of the new wall was wet. As he came to the edge, a wave crashed below and threw up a spout of foam that rocketed along the whole wall before it sagged out of sight. Looking out at the ocean gave him the feeling sometimes that he was looking at the birth of the world. Then he noticed that at the far end some of the new wall had fallen down.

Casea, the King's beautiful sister, was standing there. In her plain dark gown she was slender as a flower stem.

Dawd said, “Now this will have to be mended.”

“I don't think that's possible,” she said. She turned the full, dark gaze of her eyes on him, her head slightly to one side, quizzical. Her curly red hair was like the roses of the south. He could not look away from her, even when another wave churned up the side of the sea cliff and a little more of the wall crumbled. He put out his hand to her.

“Come back; you will fall.”

She laughed. She said, “May I help you? You seem troubled.”

He blurted out, “I can't serve two officers.”

“Serve yourself,” she said, watching him, those wide, clear dark eyes.

“I need a master. How will I know what to do? I am not big enough to matter.”

She put her hand on his arm, so light it felt like nothing. She was smiling, as if they shared some joke. She said, “Even so, you must serve yourself, you know.” She went away. For a moment, as he turned his gaze to follow her, he thought the room behind them was full of people, but all he saw was the tall girl walking through the shadows.

*   *   *

Amillee slammed the cups down on the counter next to the taps. Lumilla threw her a piercing look.

“Get to work, girl! What's wrong with you?”

Amillee muttered under her breath. Her mother made her furious; all this made her furious, this ordinary, boring, donkey life of work and custom. She filled the cups. Aken came up behind her, reaching for his special cup on the rack over her head, and brushed against her, and she dumped ale on him.

“Get away from me; I'm not my mother.”

He goggled at her, startled, and looked down at his sodden apron. She went by him into the brewery public room, where every bench was full. They were roaring songs, calling insults and greetings, stamping their feet, all celebrating, while she had to scurry around giving them drink and carrying their dirty dishes. She wanted to kill them all. Her eyes stung.

The whole room erupted in cheers. Luka was coming in.

She drew back toward the taps, watching him plow through the room, where everybody wanted to shake his hand, to slap his back and call his name, so it took him moments to get to his chair. His face was bright as sunlight. His eyes snapped. Before he sat down, he waved to the room to be quiet. Nobody quieted. They screamed his name in a chant. They pounded on the floor with their feet.

He stopped, in the middle of the room, and held his hands up, and they hushed. He looked all around him. His voice rang out. “Remember,” he said. “Some of us gave up everything to save Undercastle. Osa, poor thing, has died of her wounds. Leanara died in the first battle. Freo is dead.”

In the silence Luka looked around him again, and he nodded. “Remember these. Remember that we suffered for this. Remember.” He nodded. “That's all.” He went off toward his place at the back of the room.

The others turned to one another, and the murmur of talk sprang up again. Amillee heard the names of the dead people, over and over, and they began to drink salutes. She brought Luka his cup, full of ale, and he smiled and reached out to pull her against him. “Well, pretty Amillee.”

She recoiled out of his grip. She did not want that anymore. She wanted him to lead her into battle again; she wanted to be a hero again. She said, “What is this, you let them back into the castle? Did we fight so hard for nothing?”

Even through the noise in the room, people nearby heard that and listened, and a hush fell. Luka leaned back in his chair, not smiling anymore. Everybody was watching him and her.

He said, “I see how you feel. I honor you for your valor. But I am King and you are not.”

A sigh went up from the others in the room. In a flash she saw that they wanted this from him, above all, this decision. Amillee looked him in the eyes, her back stiff. “Why are you the King, Luka?”

From the crowd a roar went up, angry. He was frowning at her, not angry, more quizzical, as if she had asked him something unexpected. She wanted him to say, Because of my people. I am King because of you. She wanted power over him. He watched her steadily, and he started to say something, and then a noise behind her pulled him that way, and he stood up.

Someone called, “The King—I need to find the King!”

She turned. In the doorway Aken was supporting a panting, ragged boy by one arm and pushed him toward Luka.

“There is the King.”

The boy said, “I have a message … from inland—Terreon—” and slumped down onto his knees. “They need your help.” Luka went to him, and the whole room's attention followed. Amillee sat down, her legs wobbly.

Luka said, “There's something happening over at Terreon, and I'm going out there. You”—he pointed to Oto, sitting behind the table—“are going with me.”

The Erdhartssons had been playing chess. Broga sat stiff as a board now, staring at Luka, his hand fisted around a piece. Jeon came across the room from the terrace. “In Terreon? Nothing happens there. What is happening there?”

Oto stood, his face taut as old leather. Through the holes in this mask his eyes gleamed with some intent. “My lord, surely I am of more use to you here—”

Luka grunted at him. “No, you're not. You need better clothes.” Luka turned to Jeon. “The boy was only the end of the relay; he didn't know anything, except they are in trouble there. While I'm doing this, I want you to keep my lord Broga company.” He clapped Jeon on the shoulder: with Oto gone, Broga would be harmless.

His hand fisted on the table, Jeon growled at him. “I'll do what I can.”

Broga's face was flushed; he had overheard this. He turned his murderous gaze on Jeon, and folded his arms over his chest.

Luka turned back to Oto. “Hurry. I have no idea what this is and it could be very dangerous. Get stout clothes. Order your horse brought around. I'll meet you at the gate.” He bent, pushing his face into Oto's. “There are worse things, you know.”

Oto smiled. “I am pleased to come, my lord.” His voice grated. He cast a quick look at Broga, turned, and walked out. Luka smacked his brother again on the shoulder, and Jeon turned and saluted him. Luka went down into Undercastle, to find himself a horse.

 

9

Oto gritted his teeth; Luka's lack of ceremony was picturesque but uncomfortable. He should have made a grand progress to this Terreon, as the Emperor would have, with heralds and solemn progress, proper food and drink, files of soldiers. That alone could have solved the problem, run off brigands, cowed local rebels, but here they were trotting hard along the high road, just the two of them, not even a banner.