Dragon's Treasure (21 page)

Without warning, a huge shadowy head lifted from the flagstones. Up and up it rose, unfolding dark wings. Its lambent eyes burned silver. Heart pounding, Treion stepped back from it. It gazed down at him, and yawned, displaying serrated teeth.

"Don't be afraid," Karadur said. "It will not harm you." He gestured to the page to fill his glass. "So, Taran. Let us be clear. You offer to serve Dragon Keep freely and without stint for one year, in whatever task I set you."

"Yes."

"Anything."

"Yes."

"Cleaning privies."

"Yes."

"In exchange, you would have me promise that at the end of that year, I will give you a sword, and make you free of my domain forever. Is that what you want?"

His legs were trembling. If he stayed upright much longer he might fall. "Yes."

Karadur said, "So be it."

Herugin rasped, "You would trust his word? The word of a thief and a murderer?"

Karadur said, "Herugin,
be quiet
." The dragon-lord nodded at Boris. "He's yours."

"Come on, you," the cook said.

Treion turned to follow him. Karadur's deep voice called him back. "Taran. I almost forgot. I have news for you about your sister."

All the eyes in the hall were on him. They glittered in the dark, like the eyes of wolves. To his horror, Treion felt tears burning in his throat. He set his teeth against them.

Brusquely he said, "I know what you would tell me. I've known it for months. My sister is dead."

Karadur said, "Your sister Maia is alive, and under my protection. She lives on Coll's Ridge."

Treion stared at him, too shocked to speak. "When you are healed, I will take you to her."

PART THREE

11

In the dark old house in Issho, Ydo Talvela wondered if he was doing the right thing.

He loved his sons, both of them. He had never had any trouble with the eldest; or rather, he had always known what trouble to expect from the eldest: Koiiva Talvela had always done exactly what he had done when
he
was Koiiva's age. Now, at twenty-two, Koiiva was past his youthful rebellions and ready, almost, to take on the responsibilities which would one day be his as lord of the domain.

But Juni... The boy had no regard for swordsmanship, or horses. He had no interest in girls, though they were interested enough in him, nor boys, for that matter; he preferred solitude. His body was sound: he could run, and wrestle, and swim, and he did not lack courage: he faced his father's temper without flinching or excuses. He was—though it was not the sort of word Ydo Talvela normally used of his children—a superb bowman. But he hated hunting. And hunting, everyone knew, was training for war.

What he liked, as far as Ydo had been able to determine, was music, and tales about faraway places and far-off times. He was a romantic. That was the problem. Music and history were all very well, but a warrior had to know how to rule: himself and other men. Peace was short-lived; trouble could come at any time.

It had to be done. It would have been done earlier, had not there been all that nonsense about the naming. But that was over.

He heard footsteps and looked up. His younger son stood on the threshold.

"You sent for me, sir?" His voice was light; it had not yet broken.

"Come in," Ydo said.

Juni stepped into the room. His clothes were clean and dry. His hair was too long. He looked entirely too neat, Ydo thought with some irritation. A fourteen-year-old boy should have mud on his clothes.

"I received a letter today from Bork Hal," he said. "Now that the succession ceremonies are over, he has agreed to take you into his household."

"Yes, Father."

"Is that all you have to say?"

"Yes, Father."

"Good," Ydo said. "In that case, go pack, and don't forget to say good-bye to your mother. You leave tomorrow."

Juni's face whitened perceptibly. "Yes, Father." He bowed, and walked away.

Perversely, Ydo found himself wishing that the boy had argued, had shouted at him, something.... He knew Juni did not want to go to Serrenhold. But Koiiva had trained in Serrenhold. He himself had trained in Serrenhold, with the old man. Bork Hal was harsh, as all the Hal men were. But rigor would do Juni no harm. It had to be done.

In later years, the boy would thank him for it.

* * *

On a blistering hot day in early August, Maia diSorvino walked to Castria to get her boots repaired.

A light haze hung over the cornfields: harvest had begun. Reapers, sickles in hand, moved steadily through the tall corn, while crows and pigeons circled overhead, waiting for the gleaners to pass so that they might make their own harvest from the leavings. Thunder rumbled in the hills. Birds perched in trees, too stupefied to chirp. White and orange lilies drooped by the side of the road. Flame-winged butterflies, undeterred by the heat, undulated from blossom to blossom, looking for nectar.

She had stopped at the Halland farmhouse to show the boots to Angus, hoping that he would be able to cobble them back together. The soles were completely separated from the heels, and the leather was cracked and battered. But he signed regretfully that they were beyond his skill to mend. She asked Maura if Castria had a cobbler.

"Aye: Hoskil Iarsen. He's a sickly, sour man, but skillful. He may be able to fix them. If not, he can make you a new pair."

As Maia and the wolfhound passed through the village gate, a fawn-colored cur rose barking from its bed outside the wall. Morga bared her teeth and growled low. The other dog's ears flattened. Nacio the hunchback strutted down the street.
"
Pretty ladies, lovely ladies, stop and see my ribbons, fine ribbons, who'll buy my ribbons....
" He mimed a courtier's bow. "Pretty lady, want a ribbon?
I have red ones, blue ones, yellow ones, green ones.
..." He shook the pole on which the ribbons were tied.

The bright fluttering bands made Maia smile. Her hair was long again. "How much for a ribbon?" she asked.

"For you, sweet lady, a penny."

"Let me have a red one." She gave him a penny from her pouch. Threading the ribbon through her hair, she walked to the market. Beneath a drooping tree, Hennifen the scribe worked patiently at a letter.

Beside the well, three women with water jars sat talking. She knew two of them. They waved to her. Across the square, Graciela Parisi's red hair stood out like a flag. Some weeks ago she had approached the herbalist for a physic for her youngest daughter's eyes, which were red and swollen. Maia had made her an eyewash of elder tea. She crossed the square. In the stall beside Graciela's, hens squawked mournfully through their crate slats. Morga sniffed at them with interest. The stall was festooned with trinkets: mirrors, bracelets, fans, carved and painted animals, gauzy scarves, and strings of polished stones.

"Good morning."

"Oh, aye, the herbalist. How is it with you?" Maia assured her that she was well. "What brings you to town? Trade?"

"Necessity. My boots need repair."

A long-necked white goose ambled past the stall. It had what appeared to be a narrow red collar around its neck. Maia looked inquiringly at Graciela.

"That's Jansi's goose, loose again. You know Jansi, the butcher's wife? The bird's her pet. It has a bad wing and can't fly. It was the runt of the flock. She raised it by hand."

A barefoot boy scampered after the goose, rope in hand.

"See, here comes Small Toma to fetch it." The boy pounced. The goose honked and spread its wings. Fowl and child tussled in the gutter. The hens squawked. Graciela folded her arms. "Have you heard the news?"

"Likely not," Maia said. "Tell me."

"Sinnea Ohair is pregnant with her first."

"That I knew." Rain of Sleeth had told her.

"Her sister Muriella's come to stay with her. She'll know what to do; she has four of her own, and a fifth she took in when her cousin Lisa died of the birth-fever. Blaise Sorenson's mother is ill."

"I'm sorry," Maia said automatically.

"Oh, aye, she's old. She must be eighty. She was born when Saramanta Atani ruled the domain, her that was called the Dragon of the Mist." Graciela lifted a fan from the pile and fanned herself. "I got a letter from my cousin Amanda, who lives in Nakase. Hennifen read it for me. There's talk of war in the south."

"War with whom?"

Graciela shrugged. "Chuyokai pirates, Isojai raiders: who knows? I wrote a letter back to her, telling her she can bring the family to stay with me if she wishes. They won't come here. No one challenges Dragon Keep. Here, have a fig." She held out a bowl. Maia took a fig. The soft green flesh was achingly sweet.

"Mama, Mama, I want this bear."

A blond-haired girl child bobbed up under Maia's elbow. A second child, perhaps a year older but as like to the first as a big sister can be, pushed in beside her. Behind them came a towheaded boy and two women, one blond, one gray.

"Tina, don't be greedy," the younger woman said.

But the rapt child barely heard the admonition. She touched her finger to a painted red bear. "Mama,
please
may I have this bear."

A slender man with red-gold hair stepped up beside the woman. He drew a handful of coins from a pocket. "You shall have a bear, Tina. Placida, what would you have?" Unhesitatingly, the older girl took a wooden bracelet from the tray. "Is there something you would want, Timothy?"

Shyly, the boy pointed to a painted soldier.

"Excellent. Bear, bracelet, guardsman; we'll take them all." He handed Graciela the coins.

He noticed Maia watching, and grinned amiably at her. Their eyes were almost precisely on a level. He bowed slightly. He had the look of a horseman about him. He was a well-made man, though nowhere near the size and breadth of Karadur Atani. She found herself thinking of the dragon-lord, and flushed.

"Say, thank you, Uncle," the mother prompted.

"Thank you, Uncle," the children chorused.

The little girl cradled the red bear. "His name is Rudy," she declared. The two little ones began to chase each other. Placida slipped the bracelet onto her slender wrist and held it up for the older woman to admire.

"Granna, look! See what I have!" The woman laid her hand lightly on the child's shoulder. Their ease and trust with one another filled Maia's heart with a sudden, unanticipated ache. She wondered where their father was. Back at the farm, perhaps, mending a kettle, or at the mill, watching the miller weigh out his flour, or hunting across the meadow after a strayed sheep... The man limped slightly.

When she was certain they were out of earshot, she asked Graciela who they were. Graciela's sandy eyebrows rose. "That's Hern Amdur. And Leanna and her children, and Mellia, Thorin Amdur's widow."

"Ah." She felt a rush of shame, that she had not known them. She should have. A mirror caught her eye. The wooden frame had been carved into the shape of a climbing rose. The woodwork was marvelously delicate. She picked it up.

"Pretty, isn't it?" said Graciela. "It's from Orsia, in Nakase, the Lake country."

"It's lovely." Her mother had owned an oval mirror nearly as tall as she was, in a painted gold frame. Maia had been forbidden to touch it, less her grubby hands mar the gleaming surface. When she was very small she had pretended that her mother's mirror was enchanted, and that someday it would open like a door, and from it would emerge all manner of marvelous beings, like those in the stories Uta told: elephants, phoenixes, manticores, chimeras.... Like all luxuries of Iva diSorvino's life, the mirror had been left behind when she fled Sorvino. She laid the mirror back on the table.

"Take it," Graciela said. "The mirror. Take it. You can keep it."

"Are you sure?" Maia said. "Thank you." She cupped the mirror between her palms. A stranger looked back at her, a woman in a man's shirt, with shoulder-length, unbound hair and skin burned amber by the summer sun. She was not the skinny twelve-year-old who had fled her father's house, or the hollow-eyed sixteen-year-old who had watched her mother die, nor the woman who had stood in the moonlight beside her drunken grandfather, hoping to turn a dragon- lord's rage. She was all of them.

She had become the chimera.

* * *

Maura had said that the cobbler's shop was on the north side of the square, next to the glassblower's. She found it easily. The shop was windowless and dark. A wiry, narrow-faced man stood behind a counter.

His skin was almost grey. She had seen that look before. Her mother had had it, just before she died. She told him who she was, and held out the boots.

"Can you fix them?"

Iarsen turned the boots over in his hands. "No. They've been patched as much as they can be. I'll make you a new pair, deerskin, very strong, very supple. Half a ridari."