King's Dragon

  Pain, like a knife driven into her temple. A voice, so far distant that it was no more articulate than the surf on a rocky shore….

  She pressed her palms to her head and shut her eyes, as if that could shut out the vision. Slowly the pain and the memory ebbed. She set a hand on the wall and got up on her feet. Stood a moment, testing her strength.

  The drip came from the opposite corner, steady and remarkably even. A dirty pool of water covered the earth there. She didn’t really remember coming in here, but she was sure this must be the Common House root cellar. Even Hugh could not have persuaded Marshal Liudolf to confine her in the church crypt. Which meant, by the drip, that she must be below the pig troughs and therefore just five strides from the edge of the wood. If only the windows were not so narrow and the four iron rods barring it so very thick.

  A hissed whisper sounded, sharp and anxious, next to the slit. “Liath? Are you there?”

  “Hanna?” Her heart raced with sudden hope. “Did you find the book?”

  A gusting sigh, of anxiety lifted, answered her. After a moment Hanna spoke again. “Yes. Under the floorboards, just where you said it would be. And buried it where you said to.”

  “Thank the Lady,” Liath murmured.

  Hanna went on, not hearing this brief prayer. “But we haven’t enough coin for the debt price. Or…” She hesitated. “Not even the bond price. It’ll be the auction tomorrow. I’m sorry.”

  Liath went to the window and grasped an iron bar in each grimy hand. Peering up into the sunlight, she could not quite make out Hanna’s face. “But Da’s four books. Surely they brought a good price. Those four books alone are worth two horses.”

  “Didn’t Marshall Liudolf tell you? Frater Hugh said those books were church property and he confiscated them. They’re not to be sold at all.”

  “Lady’s Blood,” swore Liath, but the bitter anger, filling her, made her hurt everywhere. Why had Da trusted Hugh?

  “I’m sorry—” Hanna began again.

  “Don’t be sorry. What could you have done?”

  “If Inga hadn’t been so selfish about her wedding feast, we might have been able to at least pay the bond price—”

  “It isn’t Inga’s fault. Frater Hugh means to pay the debt price, so it wouldn’t have mattered.”

  “Even so, Liath, how did your Da run up such debts in two years? You never said anything. All this time …” Her voice dropped even lower. A shadow colored the ground and Hanna’s chin and mouth appeared to Liath’s view. A moment later, a strong hand gripped hers. “My mother says it isn’t from natural pursuits.”

  Hanna’s hand felt warm in hers. Liath held it tightly. My father is a sorcerer. Of course it isn’t from natural pursuits. But she could not say it aloud, not even to her dear friend. In the village they all had thought Master Bernard was a defrocked monk, a man who had dishonored his vow to Our Lady and Lord and been forced to leave the cloister because he had confessed to getting a woman with child. A churchman knew how to write. A churchman understood the power of herbs and hexes to ward off pests and sickness and worse evils. Da had never disabused them of this notion. It made it possible for the villagers to accept him without fear. A fallen monastic was a shamed man but not a dangerous one.

  Only Frater Hugh had suspected. Only he had wormed himself into Da’s confidence. Footsteps sounded in the corridor behind. She heard muffled voices.

  “Hanna. Go.”

  “But, Liath—”

  “Someone’s coming.”

  “Mother is going to bring you food. I’ll come tonight.”

  A key scraped in the lock. Chains met and rang softly. Liath turned as the shadow vanished from the lip of the window. With a slow grind of wood against stone, the door opened. Liath retreated until her back was against the wall. She lifted her chin defiantly.

  Three figures stood at the door. Two entered: Frater Hugh and the marshal. Hugh carried a candle. The better, thought Liath coldly, to illuminate his handsome face.

  “The book,” Hugh said immediately in his clipped, arrogant voice, so unlike the honeyed tones he used to cozen her father. “After a night here, have you thought better of telling me where the book is?”

  “Frater,” interposed the marshal in a calm voice. “You have finished with the child’s testimony, I believe. I am satisfied that she had nothing to do with her father’s death.” Marshall Liudolf had an accounts book clasped under one elbow. “Now, child,” he said, turning to Liath, “I have tallied the whole of your father’s debts and possessions, and Frater Hugh has copied them here, in these pages. I will list them to you now.”

  Hugh was staring at her. Even when she kept her eyes focused on the old marshal, she could feel Hugh’s gaze. Four books he had found in the cottage; four books he had stolen, whatever he might say about the church. He knew there was a fifth book, one she had hidden.

  Marshal Liudolf stated the tally aloud, not referring to the parchment, since he could not read. But his memory was good. The tally of debts was impressive, and the tally of possessions short in comparison: one bow, a quiver, and fourteen arrows; quills and scraping knife and parchment; a silver sceatta minted during the reign of the Emperor Taillefer; one cooking pot, one bowl, two spoons, and one knife; a honestone; two shirts and one wool tunic; a wool cloak lined with rabbit’s fur; a bronze brooch; leggings, boots; a bed, a table, a bench, a shelf, and a copper basin; two wool blankets; half a barrel of ale, honey, smoked meat, and three soapstone vessels, one filled with salt and two with ground wheat; two hens; two pigs; and one daughter.

  “Aged fifteen,” Liudolf finished.

  “I turned sixteen four days ago, on Mariansmass.”

  “Did you?” Liudolf asked with interest. “That changes the auction, then. There can be no question of a bond price. As a legal adult, you assume all of your father’s debts. Unless there is some other living relative?”

  “None that I know of.”

  He sighed and nodded. “Then whoever assumes your debt will buy your freedom with it.”

  “There were books,” she said quickly, not looking at Hugh. “My Da had four books and a …” Here she must be circumspect. “And a brass instrument for telling the time.”

  “Those items have been confiscated by the church.”

  “But they would bring enough to pay Da’s debts!”

  “I’m sorry, child.” He said it firmly. She knew at once there was no point in arguing. Why should he listen to her, a kinless girl with no possessions and no one to protect her? “Here, you must mark the page where this is all written, to show that I’ve tallied it out correctly, so far as you know.”

  She took the pen and balanced the open book in her left hand. Hugh watched her avidly, but she carefully drew an awkward ‘X’ below the last bit of writing. She handed the book back to the marshal, and he clucked under his breath, looking truly sorry for her plight, sighed again, and scratched at his hair.

  “It will be the auction tomorrow, child.” Liudolf glanced at Hugh, knowing as well as Liath did that the frater was the only person able to buy off the entire price—especially now that he had also taken the books. Or at least, Hugh was the only person who might want to buy her. Old Count Harl had the wherewithal, and he even had a few slaves, but he had never interested himself in the affairs of the village except to hire Hanna’s mother as a wet nurse for his children.

  “Begging your pardon, Frater, Marshal,” said a woman from behind them. “May I come in now?”

  “Of course, of course. We’re finished here.” Liudolf retreated. Hugh glared at Liath, not moving. “Frater,” said Liudolf mildly. “We’ve business to finish before tomorrow, have we not?”

  “I’ll have that book,” muttered Hugh. He left, taking the candle with him.

  Mistress Birta came forward out of the gloom, holding a pitcher and a small package wrapped in cloth. “Here, Liath. I heard you had no food nor drink at all yesterday.”

  “I had a little wine.” Liath took the pitcher.
Her hands shook as she set it down on the floor, and she unwrapped the cloth to find a loaf of bread and a square of goat’s cheese. “Oh, bless you, Mistress Birta. I’m so hungry. I didn’t know it until now.”

  Mistress Birta glanced behind. The two men stood in the dank corridor, waiting for her. “I’ll see that you’ve food in the morning, too.” She raised her voice slightly. Daringly, Liath thought. “It isn’t right to keep you hungry, no matter your circumstances.” Taking a step closer to Liath, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “If we could have, child, we would have made the bond price at least, and treated you well. But custom has been off this year, and with Inga’s wedding feast last autumn…”

  “No, please, Mistress,” Liath said hastily, embarrassed. “I know you did all you could. But Da never had any head for what it cost him—” She broke off, aware of the silence from the corridor, of Hugh listening avidly to every least word she said. “To live as he wished. He loved it here and had many a good evening at the inn gossiping with your husband.”

  “Yes, child,” said Birta briskly, taking Liath’s cue. “I’ll leave you now. They wouldn’t let me bring a blanket, but I trust to the Lady and Lord that it will stay warm tonight.” She kissed Liath on the forehead and left her.

  The door was shut behind her, scraping along the stone. Liath was alone. She ate first, all the food, but drank the ale sparingly. Then she paced.

  Walking helped her think, even if it was only five paces and a turn, five paces and a turn. But though she might pace the cell a hundred times, she could not escape what Da had left her. Da was dead. Tomorrow his possessions would be sold to pay the debts he had left, and then she would be sold to cover what remained of those debts. Tomorrow she would lose her freedom. But she possessed Da’s treasure, The Book of Secrets, and as long as she had that, she still possessed a measure of freedom in her heart.

  She curled up in one corner, hugging her knees to her chest. Small comfort. She tucked her chin down onto her knees and closed her eyes. Liath started once, thinking she heard a soft voice calling her name. It did not call again. She rubbed at her eyes and curled tighter for warmth, shivering, and fell into a fitful sleep.

  Murdered. Whoever had been hunting him had caught up with him at last. When had he lost his power? Or had it been her mother’s gift he had used to call butterflies from empty air to charm a small child’s lonely days?

  “They’ve killed her, Liath,” he had said to her that day eight years ago. “They’ve killed Anne and taken her gift to use as their own. We must flee. They must never find us.”

  Her mother. Her face rose from the remembered dream, her hair as pale as straw, her skin as light as if sun never touched it even when she sat for hours under the sun in the garden, eyes seeing elsewhere. Liath would sit and watch her and, sometimes, scrub her own skin, hoping to make the dirt come off, only the dirt never came off because it was baked there as if she had been formed in an oven and her skin baked to a golden brown before she was brought into this world.

  Once they began their long, their endless, trail leading away from the little cottage and the garden where her mother had been killed, she had come to appreciate her skin, for even in the deepest heat of the summer’s sun, she never burned or blistered. At first she thought it was Da’s magic that spared her, for he burned and he blistered. Then, when she understood that Da had no real magic, no sorcery beyond tricks and homely remedies, beyond his encyclopedic knowledge, she thought it might be her own magic that protected her, waiting, quiescent, to be born when she grew old enough. Strong enough.

  But Da told her over and over that she must never hope to have the gift. What little frail sorceries he conjured had not the slightest effect on her. If he called fire, it did not burn her hands. If he spelled a door shut, she could open it as if the spell had not worked at all, and then Hanna would come by and wonder how their door had gotten stuck.

  She was dumb to it, Da said, like a mute who cannot speak. Like a deaf man who can see others speaking but not hear them. Once Da had caught her reading aloud a fire spell out of the book. Nothing had happened, but he had been so mad at her that he had made her sleep in the pig shed for the night, to teach her a lesson. But she had never minded the pigs.

  “Liath.”

  She jerked awake, rose, and found her way by touch to the window. But there was no one outside. Wind whispered in the trees. Nothing else stirred. She shivered, rubbing her hands along her arms. She was not cold, really; she was scared.

  However much they had roamed, however much they had lived from one day to the next, picking up and moving at the strangest signs, to the tune of mysterious portents that only Da recognized, she had always had Da. Whatever else he might be or failed to be, he had always taken care of her. Loved her. She wiped a tear from her cheek, and another.

  “I love you, Da,” she whispered to the cool night air, but there was no answer.

  In the morning Marshal Liudolf escorted her to the common. The entire village had turned out, and quite a few farmers from farther out had heard the news that an auction was to be held and had come in for the occasion. The inn had set up tables out front. Liath could not bring herself to blame Mistress Birta and Master Hansal for taking advantage of this windfall to increase their custom. She refused the marshal’s offer of a seat. Frater Hugh stood to one side, silent, while the marshal sold off each item from the list. However eccentric Da had been, he had been a man willing to help any woman or man who came to his door and no doubt Liath was the poorer now for Da having spent much of his substance trying to help others for no return. But even with the bidding running high, for Da had been well-liked, when all his worldly goods were sold, the debt was not yet covered.

  Liudolf nodded and sighed his great, gusting sigh, and looked at her. The crowd looked at her. By the inn door, Hanna stared, her face caught between anger and grief. But not crying, not Hanna. A sudden commotion stirred at the far edge of the common, and a horseman appeared.

  Hugh flung up his head, starting ’round, his fine profile set off by his angry expression.

  “Ivar!” cried Hanna. She ran to hold the horse’s reins while Ivar dismounted.

  They were too far away for Liath to be able to hear what they said, but Hanna spoke quickly, gesticulating wildly. Ivar shook his head. Hanna said something more, impassioned, but Ivar simply shook his head again. He led the horse across the common, Hanna walking and still talking beside him, and halted before the marshal.

  Liudolf raised his eyebrows. “My lord Ivar,” he said politely. “Have you come at your father’s bidding?”

  Ivar glanced once, swiftly, toward Liath, then away. Where she and Hanna, at sixteen, looked more like women now than the girls they had been two years ago when the three of them had formed their bond of friendship, Ivar still carried much of the coltish boy in his limbs and in the awkward grace that he would soon grow out of.

  “No,” he said in so low a voice she barely heard it. Hugh smiled contentedly.

  “I just heard of Master Bernard’s death,” Ivar went on. He turned to face Hugh. “I came to see that… that Liath is treated well.” He said it sturdily, but as a threat or promise, thrown up against Hugh’s overweening confidence, it had little impact. Hugh had at least eight years on Ivar and the kind of natural grace that comes from a tyrant’s soul melded with a handsome man’s conceit. And though Hugh’s father might be baseborn—or so at least Birta gossiped—his mother was a margrave, by several degrees Count Harl’s superior. Bastard or not, Hugh was destined for greater things, starting with the vast church holdings endowed by his mother and mother’s mother. While it was rare for a man to act as an administrator of church property—as the Lord tends the wandering sheep so the Lady tends to the hearth—it was not unknown, especially where monasteries controlled vast estates. Or so Mistress Birta had said when Frater Hugh came as wandering priest to Heart’s Rest last year to minister to the folk hereabouts. Mistress Birta was the most reliable source of news, gossip, and lore
in all of Heart’s Rest.

  “Marshal,” said Hugh quietly, looking bored, “may we finish? I haven’t the leisure to stand here all day.”

  Ivar grimaced, blushing, and made a fist with his right hand, but Hanna grabbed him by the wrist and led him back to the inn. That he went unresistingly was marked by the crowd, which had gotten an extra bit of drama out of the morning. Liudolf sighed again and made a great show of tallying up the coin and barter gained from the sale of Da’s possessions.

  “How much remains?” demanded Hugh.

  “Two gold nomias, or sceattas of equal worth.”

  “It’s a shame,” muttered someone in the crowd.

  “The price of the books,” whispered Liath.

  Without blinking, Hugh handed two coins to the marshal. She stared, trying to get a look at them, but Liudolf closed his hand over the coins quickly, a startled expression on his face which made Liath wonder if he had ever seen a nomia either. Hugh turned to Liath. “Will you come? Or must I drag you?”

  Da always said to let them think you knew something they did not. Liath spared a glance for Hanna and Ivar, who were standing together under the eaves of the inn, watching her. Hanna was pale, Ivar flushed. Liath nodded toward them, hoping her expression was calm. She began to walk toward the church, which lay down the road from the common. Hugh was caught off guard by her abrupt acquiescence, and he had to hurry to catch up. That gave her some small satisfaction.

  He grabbed her arm at the elbow and with that grip walked out of the village and to the chapel, going inside and all the way along the nave and past it into the little warren of chambers behind. All the way to the small chamber where his bed stood.

  “Here.” He held onto her tightly. This room was rather more luxurious than Liath expected. Frater Robert, who had ministered here before Hugh, had slept on a cot in the nave. The chamber held a finely carved table and chair and a wooden chest inlaid with bright gems and enameling. On the table sat parchment, three quills, and a stoppered bottle of ink. A thick rug covered the floor, an expensive carpet woven with eight-pointed stars. Liath knew better than to let Hugh realize she recognized the pattern as an Arethousan design. A featherbed and a feather quilt lay heaped on the bed. “Here is where you sleep,” he said.