Dragon's Treasure (12 page)

"Whom would you choose?"

Marek said, "Lurri is the Keep's strongest swordsman." Lurri looked pleased. "But Lurri has no manners. He's bound to quarrel with someone." Lurri reddened. "Take Edruyn. He is not as strong as Lurri, but he is skilled and quick, and he gets on well with everybody."

Karadur glanced at Lorimir Ness. "Lorimir?"

"I agree," the old swordsman said.

"Edruyn, then," the dragon-lord said. "Hawk, my hunter. You shall come, too." Hawk said nothing. Finle clapped her on the shoulder. She looked sideways at him. "Let's have some music."

At once, everything went still. Azil the singer rose from his place. "What would you hear, my lord?" he said. It was what he always said.

"Sing 'Ewain and Mariela,'" someone yelled.

" 'Tree of Gold.' "

" 'The Old Man's Beard.' "

The dragon-lord glanced at the visitor. "We have a guest," he said. "Let him choose."

Laslo Umi said, "My lord, I do not know your singer, and this is your hall. Of your courtesy, choose for me."

"Sing 'March to the Sea.'" "March to the Sea" was a victory song. It told how Pohja Leminin, the first Pohja Leminin, Kalni Leminin's great-great-great-however-many-greats-it-was-grandfather, had marched his troops from Ujo across the border between Nakase and Chuyo all the way to Balas Bay.

When at last they sheathed their swords, on the diamond-white sands before the Towers of Morning, hundreds had died. The soldiers loved it. Even Devin, who had no ear for music, shouted. Shem slipped back to Devin's side.

Azil bowed his head.

Then he lifted it again, and his voice filled the hall. Strong as Raudri's trumpet, soft as the whisper of snow in the early morning.
"
Bright swords in the vanguard and sorrow in his wake
," he sang, making poetry of slaughter.

When it ended, no one moved. Even the dogs were still.

Laslo Umi said, "My lord, I have never heard such singing, not in Kalni Leminin's hall, nor at any hall in Kameni or Issho."

The men yelled, and banged their knife hilts on the tables.

"More!" they cried.

Azil raised his voice. "Be quiet!" They obeyed. "I will sing a song none of you have heard before.

I am a wanderer; this is not my home.

My home is far away, on the southern shore

Where the bright sea shines, and the white gulls soar;

My heart rests there, however far I roam.

My home is far away, by the southern sea.

Strangers smile when they speak my name,

And they pour sweet wine, and they bid me stay,

But the grey sea calls, and I must obey.

When the south wind sings, and the night is still,

And bright stars burn through the apple trees,

I will take the road; it will bring me home

To the southern shore, where she waits for me.

The plaintive melody was unfamiliar. It made a lonely sound in the quiet room. When it ended, no one spoke for a while. Azil sat on the bench, and Dragon put an arm around his shoulders. The singer leaned into it.

Brian came forward to pour wine.

Devin said dreamily, "When I am older, I shall be Dragon's page."

"I, too," Shem said. He could think of nothing more desirable than to be Dragon's page: to ride with his lord, carry his messages, serve his meals, and keep his long, bright sword free from stain.

"When I am grown I shall join the guard, like my father. I shall be a swordsman."

"I, too."

Devin sat back. "You won't, though," he said.

Shem frowned at him. A trickle of cold wormed along his spine. "Why not?"

"My father says a man must fight beside his own people."

"So?"

"My father says that your father's people live in Nakase, by the Crystal Lake, where the river ends. It is a long, long ride from Dragon's country, along the Great South Road, farther than Mako, farther even than Ujo. My father says that someday they will come for you, and you will go to them."

A log fell in the hearth, and a shower of sparks scattered out of the big stone mouth of the fireplace. A spark landed on Shem's bare knee. He barely felt it. The succulent turkey, so tasty in his mouth a moment before, turned to ash. He did not want to leave the Keep. The Keep was home, comfort, love. There was a place he had been before coming to the Keep, a place of malevolence and pain. His heart raced. He sprang to his feet.

"I won't," he said wildly. "I won't go!" Knotting a fist, he swung at Devin. The blow connected squarely on Devin's left cheekbone.

Devin fell over, mouth agape.

In the dark courtyard, the hounds had finished their own battles, and were lying in their places. Savage, the big bull-headed pack leader, lay regally beside the kennel, a lamb shank between his paws. He growled as Shem blundered past, but the growl held no animosity, only warning. Within the kennel, Luga the dogboy raised his head.

"Who is it?"

"No one," Shem said. Wisely, Luga blinked and put his head back down on Bessie's flank. Shem burrowed in the sweet-smelling kennel straw. In a moment, a cold nose snuffled at his neck, and a familiar body wriggled beside him.

"Dog," he whispered. "Dog, you dog." He hugged Turtle to him, sick at heart.

At last the queasy feeling diminished. Sitting up, he scrubbed his face. His stomach felt hollow. He felt angry, and ashamed. He had hit his friend. He had run away. A warrior never runs away. He wondered if he had marked Devin's face.

Wriggling from the dog-scented space, he brushed the straw from his hair and clothes. The big dark courtyard was quiet: empty, except for the softly breathing dogs, and the shadows. Turtle's nails clicked on the stone. It was strange, and a little frightening, to be alone in the empty space. The night breeze nibbled on his skin. He looked up. Torches flared on the ramparts: blurred saffron-yellow spearpoints of light.

But when he looked back there was a shadow in the center of the empty courtyard, a shadow that had not been there before. Turtle, tail whipping from side to side, whined a greeting. A deep, well-loved voice said, "Hey, cub."

A tiny light spurted out of nothing. Dragon sat on a bench beside the pillar. The dragon-lord snapped his fingers. Turtle pranced forward. Dragon scratched him under the chin and over the loose scruff of his neck.

The dragon-lord said, "You should be in bed, cub."

Shem said, "I wasn't sleepy."

"Is it so? Perhaps it was another boy I saw crawling from the dog pen, knuckling his eyes."

"I was in the dog pen. But I was not sleeping."

"Ah. I see. Come here." Shem obeyed. A warm hand brushed lightly over his head. "So Devin Marekson goes to bed with a bruise on his cheek, and Shem Wolfson stays wakeful through the night, grieving because he struck his dearest friend. What was the quarrel about, my wolf cub? Speak."

Shem took a long breath. It felt as if a heavy stone was lying on his chest.

"He said—Devin said—that
he
could join the war band, and be a swordsman, like his father, but that I—I will have to leave the Keep, and ride south to Nakase, and join my father's people. He said they will come for me, and I will have to go with them."

"Would that be so bad, cub?"

"I do not want to go," Shem said. "I do not
want
them to want me. I want to stay here, and join the war band, and be a soldier."

Again Dragon's palm brushed his hair. "It is no bad thing, to be wanted by one's father's people. But as for leaving: that shall not happen, not for some time. Dragon Keep is your home, cub. And even if you leave one day, to find your father's kin, or for whatever task you set your hand to, you will always be welcome back."

The stone lifted. The dragon-lord had said it, and it would be so, no matter what Devin or anyone else thought. Adults, Shem knew, did not always keep their promises, but Dragon did.

Suddenly he wanted to find Devin, to curl beside him, back to back, on the big soft pallet beside Devin's mother's fire that was their usual sleeping place.... Bootheels clattered on the paving stones. It was Cuillan, come to shut the dogs in, all but Savage, whose right and pleasure it was to roam the courtyard through the night. Cuillan was singing softly, an uncouth drone, and the smell of beer preceded him.

"Hey, Asa, hey, Blackie, heya, my Bess," he called. "Hoy, my beauties, come to bed now." Suddenly he stopped. "Who is there, fooling with my beasts? By the gods, I'll have the hide off you, so I will!"

Bright as a torch, light blazed into the night. Cuillan froze.

"My lord!" he said. "Excuse me. I didn't see you."

Rising, the dragon-lord held his hand out toward Shem. "Come, cub." Shem went to him and laid his small hand in the dragon-lord's huge one. They walked through the dark courtyard to the kitchen. "You know your way from here. Good night."

"Good night, my lord," Shem answered. Then he was within, among the smoke and lingering odors and the huge metal cauldrons, loosed from their chains now, brass bottoms bright where they had been scrubbed.

The scullions snored into their quilts. He picked his way carefully between them. Beryl and the children lived in a chamber beyond the kitchen. A red glow rose from the center of the hearth, where a thick log still burned. By its light, Shem saw Beryl's curtained sleeping place, and baby Elise's cradle. Devin's head was just visible beneath his blanket.

"Down, Turtle," he whispered. Grunting, Turtle turned in a circle thrice and lay down. Lifting up a corner of the blanket, Shem slid beneath it. Devin muttered, but did not wake. Shem pillowed his head on his arm. The fire gleamed. He gazed into it, until his eyes blurred and he saw, not a log afire, but a giant clutching a ruby in its fist. He wondered if he would dream. Hawk said dreaming was like memory. But Shem thought that really it was a kind of magic. There was a place he visited sometimes, dreaming. He could not see it clearly, but he could smell and taste it: a smell warm as new milk, and a taste sweet as honey on the tongue. In it there was a woman singing, and a cool softness, smooth as silk, against his skin. It made him happy to go there.

Hopefully he closed his eyes.

7

From everywhere in Ryoka, caravans rolled toward Ujo.

They carried lace, silk, and velvet, for the gowns of noble ladies. They carried beer from Chingura, wine from Merigny; spices from Chuyo; silverwork from Taleva. In Mirrinhold, men packed blocks of ice in straw, loaded them on barges, and floated them down the river to Ujo. In Averra, the potters spun their wheels until their feet bled.

In Merigny, Allumar Marichal gave last-minute instructions to his wife, who received them with her usual placid competence. In Firense, Lukas Ridenar packed his second-best sword.

In Castria, Gerda Sorenson bemoaned the cruelty of the gods, who had given her a tavern in the northern mountains, instead of on the Great South Road.

"Imagine," she mourned to her husband Blaise, "all those travelers riding to the celebration, saddlesore, thirsty, desiring only a place to rest. If we lived farther south, we could be rich!"

* * *

In Dragon Keep, the scullions were taking bets.

They all agreed on one thing: Rosset would win the horse race. No horse in Ippa could beat him.

Anssa, chief of the undercooks, said, "Finle will win the archery."

"I don't know," said Ruth the pastry-maker, sister to Raudri, the herald. "The Talvelai have good archers. So does the Lemininkai."

"Care to bet?" said Anssa. "Five pennies says he takes it."

"Where did you get five pennies?"

"Never you mind that. Will you bet?"

"Done."

After some discussion, it was further agreed that Edruyn would not win the sword contest, despite his youth and quickness.

"He's good," Simon the stew cook said, "but others are better."

The scullions scowled at their toes. It irked them to be forced to agree with Simon, whom none of them liked. Pico, the youngest, spoke loyally from beside the onion bin. "Dragon will win."

"Idiot." Simon aimed a cuff at him. Expertly, Pico dodged it. "Dragon won't fight."

"He would win if he did."

"He won't. He'll be too busy."

"Doing what?"

"What lords do," Simon said loftily. The scullions hooted at him.

"Will there be dancing?" asked Jess.

Ruth said, with heraldic authority, "Of course there will be dancing. There is always dancing at weddings. And this is not just any wedding, but the wedding of a prince. Pass me that bowl. No, not that one—the one with the cloth over it." She lifted the cloth and prodded the rising dough.