Dragon's Treasure (20 page)

Someone seized his head and forced it to turn. Karadur had drawn his sword. Red flame ran along the blade's edge.

I won't cry out
, he thought.
I won't.

"So do we punish thieves in the north." The sword flashed down. There was a bright pain in his arm. Blood ran into his mouth. He smelled burning flesh.

Then the pain swelled into an agony so brutal and fierce that he could not endure it.

* * *

Gathering spikes of sage and rosemary, attended by a dog, Maia diSorvino did not know that the lord of Dragon Keep had returned to Ippa.

Seated at her table, grinding sage into powder with pestle and mortar, she heard the rush and, thunder of the dragon's passage. Morga, tail thrashing, flew up from her rug.

Rising, Maia set mortar and pestle to one side. She heard the footsteps on the path, and opened the door. Karadur Atani stood before her doorway.

She could not help the quickening in her heart.

"Welcome, my lord," she said. "When did you return?"

"Last night." He bent to run his fingers gently over the wolfhound's ears. The dog leaned blissfully against his leg. His gaze was steady and a little sad.

"Treion," she said. "It is Treion, isn't it? He's dead." Her knees started to tremble.

Karadur caught her lightly by the upper arms. "He is not dead." The warm clasp steadied her. He led her into the garden. She sat on the bench Angus had built for her. He sat beside her. Single-minded, Morga slid her head between his knees.

"Tell me," she said.

"I have him," Karadur said. "He was captured in Lienor and returned to Ujo. The Lemininkai gave him to me."

A black-bodied bee bumbled up to her and nuzzled her as if she were a flower. She did not stir. It drifted away. She said, "I would like to see him, if I may. Before—" She could not finish it. She had heard tales of the dragon's justice. She hoped it would be quick, that Treion would not be tortured.

Karadur said, "Of course. You may see him as soon as he recovers."

Surely she had misunderstood him. "I thought he was condemned to death."

"By the Lemininkai. Not by me."

"You pardoned him?" Her heart thudded painfully against her breastbone.

"No," he said. "That I will not do."

She imagined Treion crippled, broken, eyeless.... "What, then?"

"I have taken his right arm." He paused, and then said gently, "You must not worry too much. He is being cared for. My senior captain, Lorimir Ness, is very skilled with wounds."

There had been a one-armed man in Sorvino, who sold ribbons and small trinkets in the market. She pictured Treion peddling trinkets in the market. He would die first.

He might die anyway. She wondered if the wound had bled a great deal. Poppy would ease the pain. Comfrey powder would keep the stump from festering.

Stubborn Treion. Savage Treion.

"What happens to him now?" she asked. "Will you release him?"

"No."

"Will you kill him?"

"Not unless I must. Have you forgotten what your grandfather said? It is possible that we may be kin."

Reo Unamira's vivid, obscene words leaped out of memory.
He fucked her, though, the lovely slut, I saw them, lying beside the stream....

"You think what Grandfather said was true? He was old and sick with drink, and he babbled."

"He was old," the dragon-lord said. "But he saw what he saw. Your mother and my father were lovers. That is one reason I would spare him. There is another.

"Treion Unamira has a sister," he said slowly, "whose peace has become somewhat dear to me."

The lacings of his shirt lay open to the sun. The pulse of blood, slow and steady, beat in his throat. He laid his palms on either side of her face. She closed her eyes, trembling. He kissed her lightly on the lips. She set her hands on his bare forearms. Soft golden hairs shifted against her palms. She felt his body's heat. Her skin felt liquid. She slid her hands up to his shoulders.

Dragon sleeping, Dragon wakes, Dragon holds what Dragon takes.

"Maia," he whispered. "Maia, Maia, look at me." She opened her eyes. "When Treion is healed, I shall bring him to you. Will that please you?"

"Do you wish to please me?"

"Yes," he said, "I do. Very much."

* * *

At first it did not matter to Treion Unamira if he lived or died.

The absence of his arm seemed as much a hallucination as the other hallucinatory dreams he was having. People hovered over him, talking. They prodded at him. His right arm hurt. But when he felt for it he could not find it.

The tiny, wood-walled chamber he lay in was no bigger than a cell, but it was not a cell. Beneath him were a straw pallet and a heap of sweat-soaked quilts. A ginger cat lay sleeping in a corner.

He dragged himself upright. He had expected to awaken in a field somewhere, surrounded by crows. He reached his hand to touch his aching shoulder. It was neatly bandaged. A pitcher had been set nearby. He lifted it. It felt odd in his left hand.

He drank. It was water, flavored with wine. Effortfully, he stood. Holding on to the walls, he shuffled out of the tiny chamber. A placid bay horse peered amiably at him from a stall. He tottered forward, taking shaky old-man steps. At the end of the long passageway he heard the click-clack of wooden practice blades. He followed the sound to a doorway. He leaned a moment to catch his breath. Then he stepped into the sunlight. Twenty feet from him, men in pairs circled and lunged. Beneath stair risers and in shady corners, panting dogs lay stretched on their sides. The heat was intense.

There was a shaded bench a few yards away. He took a step toward it. Black shapes danced across his eyes. The pain in his stump bit like an auger.

The clack of the swords slowed; the men were watching to see if he would fall. Sweat rolled down his sides. He walked to the bench and sat, breathing hard. A man shouted. The men resumed their practice. Children raced through the yard, calling to each other in high, challenging voices. He watched until exhaustion sent him stumbling back to the stables.

That evening, a stableboy silently brought him food: an oat bannock, some cheese, some bits of burnt meat. He did not want the meat, but he ate the bannock and cheese.

He was lying on his pallet, staring into darkness, when Herugin and Lorimir appeared at the entrance to the stall. Herugin was holding a lantern.

Lorimir said, "Let me see your arm."

Treion wanted to refuse. But that was stupid. He sat up. Slowly he worked the sleeve of his shirt back from the stump. Lorimir knelt. Treion set his teeth. But the old man was surprisingly gentle. He unwound the bandage. Herugin held the lantern close.

"It's healing," Lorimir said. "I see no signs of infection." He salved the stump with some strong-smelling ointment and retied the bandage.

As he rose to leave: "Wait," Treion said. "Please."

Lorimir turned.

"Am I a prisoner?"

The two men looked at one another. Lorimir said, "You're not a prisoner. I don't know what you are."

"May I have the light? I promise not to burn anything down."

Lorimir hesitated. Then he said, "Give it to him."

Herugin, expressionless, held out the lantern.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, his strength returned. The stableboys brought him gruel. No one touched him, or gave him orders, or spoke to him. He was a ghost. He walked through the yard. He sat on the bench to watch the swordsmen. He ate in the stable, with the mice and the barn cats.

Lorimir—who was, he learned, the Keep's senior officer, captain of the war band—came regularly to examine and salve his stump.

When he could no longer bear his own stink, he found a clean bucket, filled it at the well, and hauled it into his stall. When he could walk from the stable to the well without stopping to rest, he decided it was time to get his own food. He made his way to the kitchen. A skinny youth in a dirty apron scowled at him, and muttered something, in which the words "thief" and "murderer" were prominent. But a sweet-faced girl placidly handed him a stew bowl and a hunk of bread.

That evening, when the men went to eat, Treion followed them. In this hall there was no high seat. Karadur sat with his men, at the long table nearest the hearth. Treion stayed well away from them. He found a shadowy corner, out of the torchlight. No one looked at him, or spoke to him. A serving-girl bustled by him, carrying a platter piled with vegetables and meat and bread. He waited until the men at tables were eating before reaching out to catch her attention. She gave him a bowl of soup and a slab of bread covered with butter. He set the bowl on his knee. The soup had bits of meat in it. He ate slowly. He was still clumsy with his left hand.

A shadow fell across the bowl. It was Herugin.

"Get up," the rider said. "He wants to talk to you."

A chill finger ran up Treion's backbone. He set the bowl aside. "Now?"

"Now," Herugin said. Treion rose from the stone.

As he approached Karadur's table, the hall fell silent. Karadur sat with his back against the cold stone and his arm around Azil Aumson's shoulders.

"You wanted to see me," Treion said.

At his back, Herugin said harshly, "You wanted to see me,
my lord
." Treion ignored him. The men at the table— Rogys, Finle, Lorimir, the others whose names he didn't know—looked at him as if he were not quite human.

"I did," the dragon-lord said pensively. His eyes were half-closed; for a moment he looked asleep. Then he opened his eyes, wide enough for Treion to see the flame in them.

"Lorimir says your arm is nearly healed. It is in my mind that I need to do something about you. What shall I do with you, One-arm?"

"Give me my sword."

"What could you do with a sword?"

"Cut his own balls off, most likely," said Edruyn. The listening men laughed.

Karadur said, "Quiet." They breathed as one, and were silent. "What would you do with a sword, One-arm? You cannot fight us all."

He could not fight even one of them.

He said, "I know I can't fight you. Let me go."

"Go where? Where would you go, Treion Unamira? West? South? East? In Nakase and Kameni, there's a price on your head."

It was so, of course. The Lemininkai and Lukas Ridenar both had a grievance against him. If he left the Keep, they would find him, eventually. Someone would give him up. And when they found him, they would take him to Firense, or Ujo, and he would die a slow death.

Stubbornly, because he could not think what else to say, he repeated, "Let me go."

"If I let you go, what will you do?"

He said, knowing how foolish it sounded, "Kill Marion diSorvino."

Herugin laughed. But the others were still. The dragon-lord unwound his arm from Azil Aumson's shoulders.

"I think you will not do that. Indeed, I am not going to allow you to do that. I am going to keep you, One-arm, and make you useful. Even a one-armed man can work. Can you clerk? Can you write with your left hand?" Treion shook his head. "Can you swing a scythe? I didn't think so. You will be no help in the fields, then."

Someone said, "Even a one-armed man can clean a privy."

Herugin said, "Give him to me. There's always work to do in the stable."

"No," Karadur said. "Boris!"

The bald cook walked out of the kitchen. "My lord?"

"I have a new kitchen worker for you. Can you find a place for him? He's clumsy, but he'll do what he's told."

The cook said tranquilly, "Certainly, my lord. Has he a name?"

"Treion. No. Taran." The word meant
wanderer
and, sometimes,
foreigner.
"His name is Taran."

Herugin said, "Keep him away from the spice jars, Boris. He might try to poison us."

Again, the soldiers laughed. Karadur did not. He said, "He won't do that. Will you, Taran?"

"No," Treion said.

Hawk the archer said, "He might try to escape."

Karadur said, "You think so, my hunter? What do you say, Taran? Will you run?"

He had thought of it, of course. He had strolled past the postern gates once or twice, just to see if the men on the walls were paying attention. They always were. And even if, by some miracle, he had been able to get through the gates unseen, he was too weak to get far.

"I won't run," he said. It was a pledge, of sorts. "I'll work, at whatever task you set me to, I'll make no trouble, I'll be docile as a puppy—for a year."

Orm, the archer chief, laughed his flat bark. "My lord, he's trying to bargain with you! Gods, he's mad!"

"And then?" Karadur said. "When the year ends?"

"Then you'll give me a sword, and let me go. I can learn to use it again. There are left-handed swordsmen."