[Hurog 01] - Dragon Bones (9 page)

Like my uncle, I'd met the Vorsagian king, Kariarn, at court. He was one of those men who was not particularly blessed in feature or form but left you believing he was. He'd been decked with bone charms and followed about by a handful of mages. The official word was that he was a mage himself, but I thought not. His attitude about magic was wrong for a wizard; reverently obsessive, when the wizards I knew reveled in it.

“Don't you, Ward?” asked Landislaw.

I looked up. “What? I was thinking.”

He smiled. “Your uncle was just telling us about your father's horse. Said it was a killer, but you have it following you around like a lady's puppy.”

“Easy to get a horse to follow you,” I said cheerfully. “ 'Nuther matter to ride him. Had me off three times this week.”

“Hmm,” said Landislaw neutrally. “I was observing to your uncle that you collect misfits like the stallion. You did it at court. Remember that gawky girl last year, Garranon? Even look at your sister—though a woman who can't speak is not a bad thing. And now you're trying to add my slave.”

Duraugh and Garranon smiled politely; the Brat looked nervous and tried to be invisible in her seat.

Mother looked up and said in the rambling-dreamy way she had this late in the day, “But of course he does. If he weren't the heir, he'd have been sent to apprentice with the mages, but his father wouldn't hear of it. The High King Jakoven himself commanded Fen to do it. We don't have nearly enough mages anymore. But before Fen could send him, there was that terrible accident. And then Ward wasn't at all suitable for learning magic.” She turned back to her meal.

Landislaw frowned at her. “What does that have to do with Ward's strays?”

Mother chewed daintily and swallowed, then washed her food down with a small sip of wine. “He's a finder—like the ones in the stories. He finds lost things—and they find him.” Her pupils were pinpoints, though the hall was only dimly lit by oilcloth-covered skylights. I wondered which of the herbs in her garden she'd been eating. Dreamroot didn't affect the pupils.

I'd almost expected her to get better after Father died, but she seemed instead to lose herself in the role of grieving widow. The woman who'd made my blocks move around the room was gone for good.

“I don't think it works that way, Lady Hurog,” objected my uncle. “If he were still a finder, and Fen told me that his abilities disappeared when . . .” He glanced at me, but
I chewed unworriedly and rather loudly on a raw carrot. “When he was hurt. If he were still a finder, he would find things; they wouldn't find him.”

“Yes, dear,” said Mother, just as she had to Father. “I'm sure you're right.”

I coughed, feeling sorry for my uncle. It's hard to argue with someone who slides away from your point like wet oatmeal slides around a spoon. Garranon looked particularly uncomfortable, and it occurred to me that eating at a table with Mother and me would not be a treat.

I finished the last bit of bread on my wooden trencher and got up. Duraugh looked at me and frowned, trying to remind me that it was rude for the host to leave while people were still eating. But I thought I'd let Duraugh explain that Hurog was going to hold Landislaw's slave without me.

“Pansy,” I said. “He needs some carrots.” I showed everyone the ones I'd stolen from the table. The Brat grabbed the remnants of her bread and jumped up after me.

“All right,” I said before my uncle could say something about her manners. “You can come. Stay out of the way. If Pansy hurts you, it will make him feel bad.”

Running is an act of cowardice. Not that cowardice is necessarily bad. As my aunt used to say, “Moderation in all things.”

AFTER
I
WAS THROUGH
with
P
ANSY
, Ciarra followed me back to my room and manipulated me into a game of thieves and kings. The contest depended purely upon chance, and she was always confoundedly lucky—or else she knew how to cheat.

Oreg watched from his perch on his favorite stool and snickered or rolled his eyes at me as she trounced me. Oreg never hid from Ciarra unless there was someone else present.

“To bed,” I said sternly when she'd beaten me yet again.

She laughed, kissed me on the cheek, and danced out of the room.

I waited until the door shut firmly behind her before I turned to Oreg. “How's our fugitive?”

He smiled lazily at me. “Sleeping. She'll stay underground until the other two leave. She doesn't like Landislaw much.”

“Nor do I,” I admitted freely. “I'll be happy when they're gone from here.”

Someone knocked politely at my door.

“I'll just check on our sleeping guest and leave you to deal with Garranon,” Oreg said and disappeared. His stool stayed on two legs for a moment before falling to the floor with a loud clatter.

I hadn't changed for bed yet, so I didn't even have to slow for my robes when I answered the knock. Garranon stood just outside the door.

“Hello,” I said with an easy grin, holding the door back so he could come in.

He took the door out of my hand and closed it behind him. He stepped close to me and said, “I need your help, Ward.”

I blinked at him stupidly. He needed
my
help?

“I found this in my brother's pack tonight,” he said, taking a bundled cloth from his belt pouch. “I wondered if you had seen anything like it before.”

As I bent down to get a closer look, he lifted the cloth and blew the gray green powder it had contained into my face. Before I fell, I saw him step back and cover his nose.

 

I
AWOKE AND DREAMED
I was twelve again and I couldn't move. People shuffled about me, but I couldn't make sense of what they were saying. I screamed and howled in gibbering fear, but not even a whisper broke through my lips. Finally, the outside noises quieted, and for moment I thought it was because my ears had quit working, too.

Then Oreg's voice broke through the fog surrounding me.

“I had to wait until they left, Ward,” he said urgently. “Don't be angry with me. Please, please don't be. I'll break you free of it. It's all right.”

As the bonds of the magic Garranon used broke, I rolled
to my knees with a gasp. “Ah gods,” I pleaded, involuntary tears rolling down my face.

“Shh, shh,” Oreg whispered, patting me anxiously on the hand. He kept his body angled away from me, afraid that I was going to hit him for not rescuing me sooner. His fear and my ability to move again brought me to myself.

“It's fine,” I said. “Thank you.” My voice sounded as hoarse as if I had screamed.

I wiped my face with shaking hands and realized I was on my own bed. I struggled to think.
Why had Garranon imprisoned me in a spell and then left me in my room?

Oreg's head came up. “They're coming back. What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Not unless I ask you.”

I could hear voices outside now. My uncle was very angry.

“Don't let them see you.”

I stretched back out on the bed and closed my eyes.

“Not so stiff,” warned Oreg, so I relaxed as well as I could as the door opened.

“My dear sir,” said Garranon in a bored voice, “Ward is unfit to hold Hurog. To ensure for his proper care, he is to be delivered to the royal asylum in Estian as his father requested. I've shown you the king's writ. You don't even have to worry about the usual charges for this service. Knowing the state of Hurog's wealth, I have donated the fee myself.”

My father had intended to imprison me in the King's Asylum?

“That was five years ago,” argued my uncle. “Fenwick feared the damage to Ward was more extensive than it was.”

“The Hurogmeten just didn't want to pay the fees,” corrected Garranon dryly, “which I have done. The only thing you can affect now is who holds Hurog. If you help me
recover the slave, I will see that you are named lord in Ward's place.”

My uncle inhaled deeply in surprise or excitement. There was a long pause. What was taking him so long to accept? Here was his opportunity to have Hurog with no blame to himself.

Garranon's voice grew slick and sweet. “The king will listen to me on such a matter, especially since Ward's younger brother has been missing for over two years. Long enough to presume him dead.”

“You tie my hands,” said my uncle.

“You tied your own hands when you allowed the boy to make all the decisions,” replied Garranon calmly. “When we found out the girl was headed here, I thought we might need this. I know your nephew from court. He recites ballads about Seleg by the hour to anyone who will listen.”

Only to the people who really annoyed me,
I thought.

“I knew he would hold to the old ways. He is too . . . innocent to be negotiated out of it. Unlike you and me.”

A hand came down and rested briefly on my forehead—my uncle's hand. “Do you torture puppies, too?” he murmured.

“To protect my brother I would.” Garranon's voice was hard.

“I will speak to King Jakoven.” Duraugh's tone held warning. “I am not without influence.”

I couldn't see it without opening my eyes, but I heard Garranon's smile in his voice. “He will not reconsider. I will have that slave.”

Not if Oreg had anything to say about it, I thought. Unless they took Hurog apart stone by stone, she would be safe.

“My lord Duraugh,” continued Garranon, “think of it this way. How long would Hurog survive with an idiot to run it?”

From the sound of my uncle's voice as he replied, I
knew he was pacing. “And what if I don't want Hurog? Look at it. It's just an old keep, smaller than my own. The only reason it's still standing is sheer Shavig stubbornness. It's too far north to do much more than to feed itself. This year it's not even going to do that. The old mines are played out and have been for generations.” He was trying to convince himself, but I heard in his voice the same soul-deep hunger I had for Hurog. I wondered if Garranon noticed.

“Poor? What about the dwarves' treasure? I've heard there was gold, gems, and magical amulets,” said Landislaw. I hadn't known he was there until he spoke. I couldn't tell if he was serious or if he was just making one of his idle, cutting comments—or both.

“There have been people searching for treasure since before my grandfather was born,” my uncle snapped impatiently. “If there ever was such a thing, it is long gone.”

“Hurog could revert to the high king,” said Garranon. “His interests leave him with large debts to cover. If
someone
—” Threat added an edge to his voice. “—suggested that he hold Hurog in trust, he might sell off the horses and anything else of value and leave Hurog to rot. If you help capture my brother's slave, I'll see to it that Hurog is yours.”

Silence filled the air.

“To hold in trust for my missing nephew, Tosten,” said my uncle finally, giving in. “You may have the slave as soon as we get her out.”

“I thought you might be reasonable, Duraugh. But you'll forgive me if I post my own guard on Ward's door. In the morning, a delegation of my men will escort Ward to the asylum. Landislaw and I will stay here until you collect his slave.”

“As you wish,” my uncle agreed. I heard his footfall approach my bed. He touched my forehead again and left the room without speaking another word.

“We might have trouble with him,” observed Garranon.

“No,” Landislaw disagreed. “The boy will do well enough in the King's Asylum with all the other noble embarrassments Jakoven collects there. Duraugh knows it. His position will hardly change at all. Hurog will be better for it, and so will I.”

“You will keep your promise to me?” asked Garranon. “You will stay away from Ciernack's gambling halls?”

“Of course,” answered Landislaw. “Of course.”

Garranon set a guard on the inside of the door and left with his brother. Alone, except for the shufflings of Garranon's man, I examined my options.

Under no circumstances would I allow myself to be incarcerated in the King's Asylum. Father had taken me to see the poor folk who lived there once—possibly to inspect the fate he'd decided upon for me. The visit had filled me with sympathy for the empty-eyed occupants of the barred rooms.

But I knew I wasn't going to see the inside of the asylum. Garranon didn't know what he'd face getting me out of Hurog. Oreg was my secret weapon, but I expect my aunt would have no trouble stopping him, either. She wasn't one to worry about possible political consequences of her actions, and the Blue Guard outnumbered Garranon's men.

But cold fear still coursed through my heart. My father had found a way to keep Hurog from me after all. Hurog earth was in my bones, and its magic ran through my blood. When I wasn't at Hurog, there was an emptiness inside of me that nothing else could fill. Without it, I was nothing.

Stala could drive out Garranon, but the high king would not ignore treason. Eventually, Hurog would fall—destroyed by me.

I'd have to leave. And it was my own fault.

Garranon was clever; otherwise he would not have
survived the war that his father had begun. An Oranstone noble of middle rank, when merely a boy he had taken down more powerful men than my uncle. He knew how the game was played.

Within his realm of corruption in the rougher areas of the royal city of Estian, Black Ciernack was as powerful as King Jakoven. So Garranon had gone after the weaker opponent: me, the idiot.

If I'd told my uncle the truth the day my father died, the whole of Shavig and most of the Five Kingdoms would have known there was nothing wrong with me, and Garranon would not have asked the king for the writ. So the loss of Hurog was my fault.

But first I would escape. Then I would kick myself for being as stupid as I pretended. After that, I'd find some way to win Hurog back.

My decisions made, I dozed lightly for a while until the guard's breathing lapsed into the slow patterns of sleep, and I cautiously opened my eyes. But I had to shut them again when someone knocked at the door.

“Who is it?” grumped the guard.

“I have food and drink for you, sir.” It was Axiel.

Axiel
didn't carry food. He was the Hurogmeten's body servant. Serving maids carried food.

The guard opened the door, and I heard Axiel step in the room and cross to the table near the fireplace. The guard shut the door, and I heard nothing more. No footsteps, no voices, nothing, until Axiel spoke beside my bed.

“Well, now,” he said. “What did they do to you, boy?”

I felt a sudden sympathy for Oreg and Pansy. How much could I trust my father's man?

“A spell,” I said, sitting up. I dropped the character of Ward the Stupid (a matter of subtle change in enunciation and facial expression) as I continued. “It's just hard to make a spell stick to a Hurogmeten in Hurog.”

He stared at me a moment, and I took the opportunity to
glance behind him at the crumpled form of Garranon's guard lying bound and gagged on the floor. I knew Axiel was good, but to accomplish so much without me hearing it was better than good.

I tried a smile. “I think that I'd better leave here, unless you can think of a way for me to oppose Garranon's writ incarcerating me without bringing the king's forces down upon Hurog.”

The corner of his mouth turned up suddenly. “Can you define incarceration for me, Ward? Or is your intellect too deficient?”

“Guilty as charged,” I said.

He laughed once, quietly. “I've watched you at practice with Stala and wondered how a stupid man could fight the way you do. I should have realized that you weren't as stupid as you pretended.” His face grew serious. “We'd best go. When Stala heard that you'd been taken, she started gathering supplies at the stables and sent me here.”

“There are some others who'll have to come with us,” I said, having already thought through my escape that far. “Ciarra can't stay. She's turning into a pretty girl, and there are too many men who look at her as defenseless because she can't cry out, can't tell anyone what was done to her.”

“And you won't be around to scare them,” agreed Axiel.

“I have Ciarra and Bastilla—the ex-slave—waiting to leave,” said Oreg from the other side of the room.

Axiel had his sword drawn and was halfway to Oreg before he'd finished speaking, leading me to conclude that Oreg had decided, for whatever reasons, to show himself.

“Hold, Axiel,” I said, keeping my voice down in case someone was walking in the hall outside my door.

Axiel stopped but didn't sheathe his sword.

“Axiel, this is my—” I hesitated. “Cousin.” Thanks to my father and grandfather, there were a lot of Hurog “cousins” around. “He's a wizard, and the reason
Garranon's spell didn't stick. Oreg, this is my man, Axiel.” Oreg already knew him, of course, but I didn't want to advertise it.

Oreg bowed with old-fashioned formality. Axiel nodded in return, sheathing his steel. I didn't want to give him too much time to think until I figured out a better way to explain Oreg.

“Oreg, is there a passage to the stables? There are guards in the hall.”

“Of course,” he said. He turned to the nearest wall, not the panel he'd used before, and pressed a stone as if there were some mechanical lever behind it. A section of the wall slid back soundlessly, answering, I hoped, any questions Axiel had about how Oreg had come to my room—even if the answer was incorrect.