Dragon Heart (16 page)

*   *   *

Mervaly sat with her arms folded over her chest, staring at Oto; she said nothing. She had said nothing much since they had brought her here, tangled in the rope net, and dropped her at his feet. He said, “My brother is vengeful. Only I can save you from his wrath, when he comes back. With Luka out of the way, you and your brother and sisters will be meat in his hands.”

Her expression never changed; her eyes never wavered. She said nothing. Oto walked off around the room, swinging his arms. He decided on a shift in tone. Wheeling, he faced her across the room, one hand out, imploring.

“You do not know that I care about you. Deeply. I have watched you—learned to admire you. Give me the honor of defending you. You cannot know the danger you are in, and your two young—”

Outside, a horn blasted. He jerked up straighter, his head swiveling; that was the gate. He leapt to the window and leaned out to see the road.

“Broga,” he said. He could see only a dark swarm moving along the road, but that was certainly his brother, coming back in triumph, marching like a King. Oto had no time left; he had to make do with what was actually here. “Guards! To me!” He stared back at Mervaly. “For this next part, lady, you don't have to speak. Let's go.”

*   *   *

He was ready for Broga riding at the head of a victorious army. He was not ready for what he saw as they came nearer.

The Imperial soldiers walked in the midst of the crowd, footsore and weary, their striped doublets filthy, their heads bare and their hands empty. All around them the townspeople swarmed, singing, arm in arm, brandishing the pikes, wearing the helmets. Whatever had happened, it was clear who had won.

And who had lost. Oto picked out his brother, Broga, trudging in their midst, head down, beaten, the lout, well beaten. Oto covered his face with his hand a moment, to mask his pleasure at this.

As the great unruly crowd reached the land end of the bridge, all but a few of the townspeople swung off to the meadow on the cliff where the soldiers had their camp, shoving their exhausted prisoners along with them. The dozen leaders strode up toward the castle. Oto glanced back into the outer gateway. There stood Mervaly, in a white lace dress, her hands clasped together before her, a guard on either arm. Oto gave her a friendly smile and moved a step to the side, so that she could see more clearly. He faced the bridge again. There had to be something he could make of this.

First Luka walked toward him, with a long hooked pole over his shoulder. After him came his little brother and, to Oto's amazement, his tall sister Casea. Then Broga Erdhartsson, his hands bound, a collar around his neck.

Broga's horse paced along behind him, a brawny girl in the saddle, holding the rope to Broga's collar. Oto surged with fury, that an Imperial high lord, a man of the golden blood, was treated so, but also delight, that his brother had failed so miserably.

Broga was covered all over with a patina of sand, in his clothes and beard and hair, crusted on his skin. He was staring at the ground, his shoulders hunched. Oto went forward now, out onto the hump of the bridge, to meet Luka in the bright sunlight.

He did not let Luka speak first. Oto bowed, and said, “I don't know how you've done it, but you've beaten us. You have my fullest admiration.”

Luka had brought the butt of his fishing hook down to the ground, and he leaned on it. He looked Oto up and down, and said, “Tell me why I should not command you to take all these and go.”

Oto gave him another bow, to give himself time to assess this: Luka was not actually demanding that he surrender. “I have your castle,” he said, “and your sister.”

Luka said amiably, “I have your brother and your army.”

Oto straightened, meeting the other man's clear green eyes. He had misjudged Luka; he made himself see that—no fool, this one. Oto nodded his head. “You are a master of the craft of war. How you defeated trained soldiers with this”—he veered away from calling them a rabble—“I shall need to hear at length.” He took in a deep breath, seeing a way forward. “But let me warn you. Do not lose in the peace what you have gained in the war.”

“Ah,” Luka said. Behind him, his brother, Jeon, gave a violent twitch.

“There is still the Emperor,” said Oto. “I can help you with him.”

“The Emperor! He can give up any thought of Castle Ocean. He will never hold Castle Ocean.”

Oto spread his hands, smiling, nodding. “Yet his reach is very long, and he forgets nothing. Let me help you. You are the King, by right and by battle. But I can be of use to you—working things out with the Emperor. Because, you know, otherwise—” His voice flattened a little, edged. “It will all happen, all over again.”

Their eyes met. For a moment Luka was silent; Oto thought, He will kill me, or I will have him.

Luka said, “Let me think about this.” He looked over Oto's shoulder, toward the gateway, and smiled. “I see my sister, and I will greet her.”

“At once,” said Oto. “Let us all come into the castle together, give up quarreling, and be friends.” He stretched out his hand. “I give you my word of honor.”

Luka gave a low laugh; his gaze was piercing. He let Oto shake his hand, and went on down the bridge toward the gate. Mervaly was coming toward him, her arms out. Oto turned, and faced Broga, standing there, scowling. The rope still led from his collar to the girl on the horse behind him.

Broga said, “Bah. You grovel.”

Oto reached out and untied the leash from the collar; he tossed the rope at the girl on the horse. Eagerly he turned back to Broga.

“You seem quite wretched. How did he manage to destroy you like this?”

Broga's face was red as a coxcomb under the grime of sand, his lips twisting back from his teeth. “I'll kill him.” He wrenched at his arms; his hands were still tied behind him.

“Well, you didn't.” Oto smiled. His gaze flicked from side to side, making sure no one overheard him. The girl with the horse had gone. All the red Princes and Princesses had gone into the castle. Drawing his knife, he went behind Broga to slit his bonds. As he did he spoke into his brother's ear.

“Your way failed. I am in command here. Do as I will.” His voice fell to a hiss. “Keep your hands off them. Our time will come.”

Broga snarled something. Head down, he plowed across the gate yard toward the castle; Oto followed him.

 

8

Luka walked up the main steps into the castle, and in the dark corridor Jeon came up close behind him, his voice a harsh whisper.

“Why did you let them back in here? Do you really think they have given up?”

Luka kept walking. “I'd rather have them here, where I can see them, than off somewhere making trouble.” He gave his brother half a glance. “Consider them hostages.”

Jeon snorted. Luka went ahead of him toward the hall; beyond the open doors the sun was blazing into the room from the ocean side, and the great roaring of the surf reached his ears. Luka was enjoying his victory and had no intention of worrying now. He thought Jeon did not see this well: there was no ignoring the Emperor, far away, and yet always there.

“Then kill them,” Jeon snarled at Luka. “We can do this. Come out of the walls. They would have no defense.”

“Am I to use my castle to do murder?”

In the hall, the light was different, and he stopped and looked around. A wall, knee-high, made of squared-off stone fitted together, bounded the rim of the terrace. Luka laughed; they thought they would stop Erdhart going over a second time. “I'll knock that down. Tomorrow. Hafgavra has to breathe.” Luka spread his arms out, looking around, here for the first time in his kingly hall.

He went across the great room, to the high table, and his King's seat, carved out of the black rock. He turned, and sat, and could not keep the broad smile from his face. Through the door on his right hand the hall was filling up with people, and each one stopped as he came in and bowed to Luka. The old ones were appearing around the lower tables. He was glad to see them, although he knew that what they bowed to was the King's seat and not the phantom on it. That thought amused him, and he laughed again. That was what he had to live up to.

The servants had not yet come back. Most lived in Undercastle, which was still celebrating. Therefore, Oto's Imperials in their striped doublets were attending the tables. Oto walked in through the big doors and stopped, his gaze on Luka, his face stiffly smiling, the courtier's face he wore like a mask. He was splendidly dressed in tissue of red and gold. Beside him Broga, well tidied up and packed into the same colors, hung back also, looking elsewhere. Oto bowed to Luka with many flourishes and mouthed some phrases. Broga simply lowered his head, his eyes still directed away. They crossed to the far end of the high table.

Now Mervaly and Casea walked down the room toward Luka, and as she came Mervaly, trailing veils of lace, danced this way and that. Casea in a dark gown was like her solemn shadow. Mervaly swept him a lavish courtesy.

“Luka, my brother, well seen, well honored, I salute you.”

Casea bent her knee also, and came around the end of the table to his right side, and kissed him. “Thank you. You saved us.”

He knew that they had expected him to fail, to lose to Broga, to deliver them all into the Empire. They would have more faith in him now. The two girls sat on his right side at the table, and Jeon appeared on Luka's left, the place of the King's brother. A soldier brought a goosenecked pitcher and poured their wine.

Luka took his cup in his hand, and stood, and at once the whole room hushed. Dozens of people here now. He had waited a long time to do this, and he swelled with the pleasure and the power. He lifted the cup and said, “Remember Reymarro, King of Castle Ocean, who gave his life for us. Hail, Reymarro!”

Everybody shouted, even the old ones, and drank. Only the two Erdhartssons stood silent in the uproar, their heads bowed. Luka sat down again. That was well done, but he would not see Reymarro here among them until his body lay within the castle walls.

His body would be bones, now, if anything at all was left.

It gnawed in Luka like a canker that he had abandoned his father's body in the mountains. He would have had to search over every rock on the dark and stony battlefield, while the Imperials still ranged the place, killing and killing. Instead he had gathered the surviving men and led them back home. Now he should bring his father home also. Luka considered going into the defiles of the mountains looking for bones and his mind shrank from it. He should not turn from that: losing Reymarro was a chink in the family, through which hard winds could blow.

Jeon was leaning toward Luka again, his gaze aimed down the table. “Look at them, the swine. I cannot bear to see them here. Do you think they would show you such mercy, if they were in your place?”

“They are not in my place,” Luka said. “Where I belong, I am immortal.” He turned to Jeon and gripped his shoulder. “You have stood by me, Jeon. All through this. Trust me again.”

Jeon said, “It was you who won the battle for us. But sometimes I think—”

“Trust me,” Luka said, and cuffed Jeon's shoulder. Jeon fell still, his lips pressed together.

Mervaly was chattering away beside Luka to Casea, who was tilted slightly toward her, listening and sometimes laughing and sometimes saying a quick word that made Mervaly laugh uproariously. Luka said, “Where is Tirza?”

Casea faced him, her dark eyes wide in the perfect oval of her face. As always, she had her needlework, her hands moving in system. “She is not here in the castle. She's hiding. She's afraid of them, Luka.” She was on Jeon's side, Luka thought, although not in the same way.

Luka leaned back, considering this. He did not think that Tirza was afraid. She had thrown the rock. He had heard this story now a dozen times, from several different people, how while he and the other men jabbered away in a back room Tirza started the war.

Mervaly said, “Let's not pick on each other. We should be glad now, and not worry about anything else.”

Casea said, “I'm glad you're all right,” and leaned over and kissed her. “Tirza was supposed to look after you.”

“Maybe she did.”

Jeon was frowning down the table toward the Erdhartssons. Luka remembered what his brother had said, back in the corridor, another glimpse of that black, cold streak in him. He could manage Jeon; he had seen how to get the best from Jeon. It was Tirza not being there that bothered him. He thought anyone who gave up such a gift as the power of language must have gotten something potent in return. He knew where she would be; he would find her.

*   *   *

Oto picked glumly at the fish before him; the soldiers were bringing in the meat, some huge roasts on platters, indifferently arranged. The soldiers were awkward servers and dropped knives and once even a platter full of juices. Oto kept on his calm, smiling face, nodded to others around the table, spoke occasionally. Broga sat like a lump, barely touching any of his food.

Luka, on the high seat, held everybody's attention. Time and again he lifted his cup and everybody roared his name and called him King and hero. Oto seethed at Broga for giving this bumpkin such a platform to perform on, a victory by a handful of fishwives over Imperial troops. If the Emperor found out about this, the Erdhartssons could be recalled. They could lose everything.

Also: the castle. In this room, where his father had fallen to his death, where half the people seemed not to notice Oto's existence, he felt the dread gather in him, some premonition he could not distill into any practical idea. He wanted to be gone from here. But this was where the struggle was. He fixed his gaze on Luka, up there exulting in his glory, and watched him for some weakness.

*   *   *

Here and there along the Jawbone some little evergreen trees grew, like green whiskers, but the southernmost end was nothing but bare black rocks. Tirza sat on the highest, up above everything else. The surf boomed on one side of her, tossing its white froth into the wind; there was no beach on that side, only a long tumble of rocks down into the water, and then more big rocks offshore. On the biggest and flattest, sea cattle flopped and barked. Some pelicans sat on the choppy water, their heads cocked back on their long necks. The wind blew her hair back and she pulled her cloak up under her chin and looked east over the bay.