[Hurog 01] - Dragon Bones (8 page)

“Ghost,” I said casually. “I'll go clean up, now.” I bowed to everyone in general and bounced up the stairs in character. As soon as everyone cleared out, I planned to go back and check on Oreg.

Axiel waited for me in my rooms. Mutely, he helped me disrobe and wash up. He didn't even comment about the new set of Oreg-sewn clothes lying on my bed ready for me to wear to dinner. I'd have to talk to Oreg about that. I didn't mind Axiel knowing about the “family ghost,” but it wouldn't do to have him the topic of common gossip.

My bedroom door opened just as Axiel was tightening the lacing on my left arm—the right was already done.

“If I could speak to you for a moment alone?” asked my uncle.

I nodded. Axiel finished the lacing and bowed his head shortly. “I'll be in my quarters if you need me.”

Duraugh waited until the valet left before he began pacing back and forth. “Out of the mouths of children and . . .” His voice trailed off before he added “idiots.” “Where did you get your sense of right and wrong, Ward? Not from Fen, I vow. Much as I loved him, he was a chip off our father, and Da would have laughed himself to butter if someone reminded him that Hurog was supposed to be a refuge.”

I stood where I was, moving my head with his pacing—something that looked particularly idiotic. I stopped when I remembered that I was going to tell my uncle the truth.

He halted midstride as if it had only been my head movements that had powered his steps. “I came up here to argue with you. If word of this gets out, we'll be a target for every runaway slave in the Five Kingdoms. We'll be laughed at in the king's court. But that wouldn't matter to you, would it?”

He didn't sound like he wanted an answer, so I didn't answer him directly. “In Hurog there are no slaves.”

He sighed, but it sounded almost like a sigh of relief. He
stared past me, speaking as if to himself. “There are no slaves at Hurog. The ancient law, written into our charter by the first high king states when any slave sets foot here, they are freemen from that time forth. That my father and his father chose to forget it makes it nonetheless true. Landislaw and Garranon will just have to take their chances with Ciernack. Seleg's word still holds true in Hurog.”

“Garranon's all right.” I said. “Landislaw can rot.”

Duraugh frowned. “You don't like him? Why not?”

This was my chance to tell him that I was smarter than he knew. But my tongue was never swift, and in the end, I just shrugged. I'd wait until Garranon was gone.

“If you had liked him, would you have declared the slave free?” asked my uncle.

I frowned at him. It was a good question. Was most of my decision based on spite? Would I have remembered the ancient laws if Landislaw hadn't been in the middle of it? I thought of Oreg mourning in the great hall and the chained dragon somewhere below the keep. Too many Hurogs had forgotten their laws over the centuries.

“There are no slaves at Hurog,” I said.

My uncle gave me an odd smile and half bowed in a gesture of respect. “Indeed.” He shut the door behind him.

The only slave who remained in Hurog said, “Ward? You won't turn her in?”

I turned to see Oreg standing before the panel in my wall that had opened into the passages. The cuts and marks were gone, and he seemed lucid again, though he hugged himself and shifted from one foot to the other anxiously.

I wished suddenly that I knew how to free him, too. Perhaps I'd talk to one of the king's sorcerers next time I was at court, though I wasn't sure I wanted anyone else to know our secrets. I also doubted that even one of the king's wizards could unlock an enchantment that would last so many years. Everyone knew that mages were more powerful in the Age of the Empire.

“I won't turn her in,” I said.

Oreg raised his chin. “Really?”

“Really.” I hoped the firmness in my voice was enough to convince him. “You've seen that she has bedding and food?”

“Yes,” he whispered, “but she's still scared. I put her in the cave with the dragon bones.” In a softer voice, he said, “She hasn't seen me. I just put warm things and food in the cave. I should have told you this morning.”

“You've sealed her in the cave?” I asked. “She's been there all day?”

He nodded.

“I'll go talk to her,” I said. “She should be all right in the keep, even if Garranon and Landislaw haven't left yet. Or she can wait there if she likes and you have no objections.”

Oreg had come to me for help. Yesterday, Pansy had whickered when I came up to his paddock. Miracles do happen. Oreg stared at me uncertainly—looking as young as my brother had that last day. Sometimes I could forget what Oreg was, but not after the scene in the great room a few minutes ago. He'd come for help, but he didn't quite trust me enough to take it.

“She will be safe,” I assured him.

Though he didn't move, the panel behind him slid open. He turned on his heel and walked through. I followed, and the panel slid shut behind me. This time, the passage was very short into the dragon cave, as if it were merely adjacent to my room instead of deep in the heart of Hurog. As I crossed into the cavern, I noticed two things: The first was a strange, thrumming noise inside, and the second was the magic filling the cavern like thick soup fills a pot. I could see faint glows twinkling among the rocks, and the back of my neck kept telling me that there were things watching from the shadows.

When I stopped, Oreg turned back to me and said,
“She's trying to work magic, but she isn't strong enough to break my protection of the bones here in Hurog.”

We hadn't been quiet coming in, but she didn't seem aware of us as we maneuvered through the rubble to the sandy area where the dragon bones lay. She sat in front of the skull. Her hair hung in matted, filthy clumps halfway down her back. She was so dirty it was hard to tell much more about her, even in the light provided by the dwarnvenstones. The thrumming sound I'd heard was her singing, though it sounded like no music I'd ever heard.

I was watching her so closely, it took me a moment to notice that the chains were off the skeleton. I'd thought about doing it myself but had come to the conclusion that it was too much like hiding my family's guilt. A dragon's remains being found deep in Hurog would not be surprising; having it bound made our culpability clear to any who saw it. So I'd left it as it was.

“Welcome, fair traveler, to Hurog's hearth.” I gave her the traditional greeting, making her status as my guest real, whether she realized it or not.

She must have been absorbed in her spells, because at my words, she jumped to her feet like a startled rabbit, and her voice choked off. Before I could say anything further, she made a throwing gesture with her right hand and a flaming, crackling
something
launched itself from her hand with blinding speed.

Then it stopped several lengths in front of us and winked out.

“Peace, little sister,” crooned Oreg. “I'm sorry I had to leave you here, but I had to know what the Hurogmeten intended before I knew what I could do for you.”

She lifted her chin. “I am not your sister.” Her voice shook, disguising everything about her accent except that she had one.

“Why did you come to Hurog?” I asked peaceably.

“I thought Hurog was supposed to be a place of refuge,
where dragons and slaves are safe. The others laughed at me. Then I came here and found they were right.” She gestured toward the dragon's chains that lay near her.

I decided she was probably from Avinhelle, though Ilander's accent was much thicker. The Avinhelle folk were given to slavery, so that would make sense. But something about her didn't ring true; she didn't sound as subservient as she should if she were a slave.

“You are safe here,” I said earnestly. “You may stay at Hurog if you wish. It might be wiser to stay down here until Garranon and Landislaw are gone, but that is up to you.”

“Who are you to say this?” she asked scornfully after staring at the two of us a moment. “The both of you are little more than children.” The effect was ruined when her voice broke.

Lines of weariness gathered about her mouth and eyes. Garranon and Landislaw had looked tired, but they'd been on horseback. She'd been . . . I looked down and muffled an exclamation. She'd been barefoot.

“Oreg,” I said, ignoring her earlier question. “See her feet?”

He looked down. “I'll get a pail of water and some of Penrod's witch hazel brew from the stables,” he said and vanished.

The woman's eyes widened, and she sat down abruptly. “Who are you?” This time there was no accusation in her voice.

“Ward,” I said companionably. “My father, Fenwick of Hurog, died a few weeks ago, so I am Hurogmeten—though my uncle rules Hurog until I'm one and twenty.”

“And he?” She asked gesturing vaguely at where Oreg had been standing.

“Oh, Oreg?” I thought about what I could tell her. “He's a friend.”

“He is a wizard,” she said, almost to herself.

“Well,” I confided, deep in my role as idiot, because that was how I always dealt with people, “I really don't think he's a wizard. We have a wizard here, but he doesn't look at all like Oreg.”

“Wizards don't all look alike,” she said in surprise.

“Uncle Duraugh's wizard and Father's wizard look alike,” I protested.

“That's because they're brothers, Ward,” murmured Oreg gently, returning from his errands.

I blinked at him for a moment. It was easier than usual to look stupid. I wasn't used to him popping in and out in front of me. “Oh, right. I'd forgotten that.”

I motioned her to a broken slab of rock that was just a little low to be comfortable.

“I'm pretty good at this,” I said, taking the bucket from Oreg and setting it on the ground at a comfortable distance in front of her. “The Brat used to cut her feet up all the time because she didn't like wearing women's slippers. Got her some good woodsmen's boots. Mother didn't like them, but she didn't have to doctor the Brat's feet, either.” By the time I finished speaking, she looked calmer.

I took the pottery bottle holding Penrod's brew and uncorked it. I poured a fair portion into the bucket. Cautiously, she put her feet into the bucket, hissing when the disinfectant touched the cuts. I dipped the clean vegetable brush Oreg handed me into the bucket and pulled out a foot.

She'd done some damage. The whole bottom of her foot was raw and embedded with dirt. Knowing that there was nothing I could do to lessen the pain of scrubbing, I set about doing it well once, so I wouldn't have to do it again. When I was satisfied I'd gotten all the grit and filth out of that foot, I set it back in the water and picked up the other one.

All in all, she was a strange slave, I thought. For one thing, she'd demonstrated she was mageborn when she'd
thrown magic at us. Although I suppose a mage could be made a slave, I'd never heard of one. For another, tired as she must be, she had none of the dull helplessness I'd seen in all the slaves I'd ever met.

“What will your uncle do when he knows I'm here?” she asked tightly.

“He already knows,” I replied, frowning. There was some infection starting on this foot already.

“My lord?” said Oreg, his face going distant. “Your uncle is looking for you. Supper is ready.”

“Can you finish here?” I asked.

He nodded, his eyes still unfocused. “If you hurry, you can meet him in your rooms.”

 

GARRANON
AND
L
ANDISLAW WERE
seated on either side of my mother, across from my uncle and the Brat, while I sat at the head of the table. Garranon was his usual smooth self, but Landislaw was grim and silent.

“So,” said Duraugh. “What is the news from court? I haven't been there since Winterfair.”

Garranon set down the bite he had been going to eat and said, “King Jakoven is worried about Vorsag, still.” Vorsag lay just to the south of the Five Kingdoms, along Oranstone's southernmost border. “The new ruler, Kariarn, is said to be unstable, and there is some question as to whether he will hold to his father's treaties.”

“There was some question as to whether Kariarn's father would hold to the treaties,” replied my uncle. “I've met Kariarn, and I'd say there is no question at all about him. He'll hold them as long as it suits him and not a moment more. I've heard that there have been Vorsagian border raids in Oranstone.”

Garranon nodded. “I've sent most of my men back to my lands with my arms master.”

“But your estate is more than six leagues from Vorsag,”
said Duraugh, his voice tautening from relaxed conversation to honest interest. “If there are bandits that far in, why isn't the king sending troops?”

“King Jakoven accepts Kariarn's claims that it's a few lone bandit clans increasing their activity, or even Oranstonians doing the raiding themselves.” I'd never heard Garranon utter a word against the high king, but there was a bitter edge to his voice. “Jakoven won't declare war over a few bandit raids.”

“War?” I asked, trying to sound eager, the way an idiot who was good at fighting would say it.

Garranon shrugged. “The king won't go to war over Oranstone unless the Vorsag decide to start taking land rather than riches and lives.” He said it with casual ease, and I wondered if I'd imagined the earlier bitterness. He was Oranstonian, but he'd been the king's lover for fifteen years.

I turned my outward attention to my food. War would mean leaving Hurog in the hands of . . . someone . . . while Duraugh, I, and the Blue Guard traveled all the way across the Five Kingdoms to Oranstone. With the threat of bad harvest, it wouldn't do Hurog any good at all, except there would be fewer mouths to feed.