[Hurog 01] - Dragon Bones Read online

  As could be expected at this hour of the day, no one was in the tavern when I entered except a ragtag minstrel too involved with the tune he was fingering on an old harp to pay attention to me. I found a clean mug on a shelf just inside the kitchen door and helped myself to ale from an open barrel.

  Taking a seat, I listened to the music. The harper was better than I expected, given his youth, though he would have done well to replace the old harp with something better crafted.

  “The owner will expect payment for that ale,” said the minstrel at length, brushing pale gold hair out of his eyes.

  “I have a few coppers,” I replied.

  “I heard that the Hurogmeten died.” He played a few sorrow-laden notes as he watched me.

  I nodded and sipped the beer. “I didn’t think you’d want to come for the funeral.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  At last I set down my empty mug. “I thought to find you working wood at the cooper’s, Tosten, rather than playing tunes for a rabble lot of sailors.”

  My brother’s chin came up defensively. “I’ve no talent for wood. But I can play the harp. It may not be real work—”

  I broke in, “Real enough with your skill. Don’t confuse me with Father. Music probably pays better than being a cooper’s apprentice.” He looked away, so I guess it didn’t. I cleared my throat. “The reason I left you with the cooper had more to do with your safety than your talents. A handsome lad like you has to be careful around sailors.” He stiffened, understanding what I meant, which he wouldn’t have when I left him in Tyrfannig.

  “You are the new Hurogmeten.” He changed the subject abruptly. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

  Tosten had always been a secretive person. I don’t believe he’d ever liked me much. My loud, good-natured idiot self had made him uncomfortable, like a noisy dog and a hot-bred horse. My father’s rages and beatings—though Tosten experienced them less often than I did—had been worse for him. He’d fought and fought to be what Father wanted, not seeing that Father would never be satisfied.

  “No, I’m not the Hurogmeten.” I stopped to consider it. Actually, I didn’t know what the king’s writ did with the title. “At least I don’t hold Hurog right now.”

  I’d gotten his interest. “Why not?”

  “It seems our father decided to declare me unfit, and politics have lent him posthumous aid. Unless our uncle decides to get greedy, Hurog belongs to you.”

  There was a long silence that stretched until the back of my neck tightened with tension. If he wanted Hurog, it was his. I didn’t think he would, but he might. He was my brother; I would not fight him for it. Tosten stared through the dark wall of the tavern as his fingers, long and graceful like Oreg’s, flexed on the table.

  “How?” His voice cracked, as if his mouth were dry.

  “After me, you are our father’s heir,” I said.

  “I know that,” he said impatiently, “but no one knows where I am . . . except you. I meant, how are you going to do it?”

  I frowned at him. His voice laid some significance on the last two words. “Do what?”

  He snorted. “You don’t think I could watch you and Father spar all these years—” He sounded as if he were several decades older than he was. “—without knowing what Hurog meant to you. After you got me out, I thought about why you’d pretend to be stupid when you weren’t, and I realized that you were intent on annihilating anything that got between you and Hurog. Father destroying his children; you destroying him.” He set the harp aside and stood up to face me. “So you have me here alone, now. You’d better hurry, though. The tavern owner will be back soon; he’s gone to get another keg of beer.”

  I stared at him, feeling as stupid as I’d pretended to be. I had not a clue what he was talking about. Why should I care that the owner was coming back?

  “Look,” I said. “I have to leave here one way or the other, or else I’ll end up in the King’s Asylum for Unwanted Nobles and Embarrassing Relatives. If you want to go to Estian and train at the Minstrel Hall there, I can give you money. The cooper knows people; he can find an escort for you. If you want Hurog . . . well, I think Duraugh’s all right; but you might keep close to Stala for a while. I’ll send Penrod back with you, too—” And Oreg if I could manage it. “Maybe Axiel as well.” If he wanted Hurog, I wouldn’t need an army. I looked around. “I don’t want to leave you here, though; it’s not safe. If you can think of anywhere else you’d like to go—” I stopped midsentence as I suddenly understood what he thought I was here to do. “You think I’m here to kill you.”

  I was stupid for it to take me so long. The thought that I could kill my brother was so far from the truth, it had never occurred to me he might believe it.

  Tosten, watching my face, flinched.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. His hand moved as if he would reach out, but he jerked it back and wrapped it around his harp so hard it must have hurt.

  I felt light-headed at the sudden insight into how he saw me: battling for Hurog, so caught up in the struggle that Father’s death was the merely the final punctuation.

  “If you died, the king would just claim Hurog for the throne,” I said, stepping back. I needed someplace to curl up in and nurse my wounds; I needed to sleep away the nagging fatigue that reminded me I wasn’t on Hurog soil. I needed to leave here.

  “You left the cooper’s because you thought he was my man,” I said, knowing that was part of the truth, though Tosten had always loved music. “Well, enough. As long as you bring in money, the tavern owner should protect you from harm.” To my surprise, my voice sounded just as it always had.

  I took out the heavy bag of coins that Oreg had given me and divided its contents in half. I took one pile and slid it back into the purse. There wasn’t enough left to hire a band of mercenaries, but I’d find some other way. Half would be enough to pay Tosten’s way through whatever school or service he wanted.

  He said my name as I walked out the door.

  I MET UP WITH the others at the inn. They were ready to leave, and it wasn’t long before Tyrfannig was behind us. We didn’t dare take the main highway to Estian; we might run into Garranon by accident. So we traveled the rougher tracks. We rode through the day and stopped before it got too dark to see.

  Stala’s admonitions about knowing the men fighting for you ringing in my ears, I assigned Bastilla with me to the first watch. She was still so tired she was drooping, but I was still fresh enough to stay awake until Penrod relieved us.

  There was a knoll just above the camp, and I motioned Bastilla to follow me as the others were laying themselves down to sleep. She limped, but it didn’t seem to slow her much.

  While I sat on a fallen log, she folded her arms and leaned against a tree. Though I couldn’t see her clearly in the shadows of the evening, I’d watched her as we rode today, my eye drawn to the flawless beauty of her profile. Oreg had managed a bath for her, and clean, her dark hair glinted with red highlights. She was older than I, perhaps a few years older than Mother even, but I doubted she’d seen her fortieth year.

  “So,” I said. “Tell me about yourself.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  I smiled. “We may not have slaves at Hurog, but I’ve been to court. Slaves don’t act like you. Slaves are meek and quiet. A slave wouldn’t, for instance, have tried to hide how much I was hurting her when I cleaned her feet, because slaves know that making light of pain just invites more of it. Tell me who you are and why Black Ciernack would want you so badly.”

  She was silent.

  “She’s a mage, my lord,” said Oreg. It was difficult to see him in the dark. I hadn’t heard him approach.

  “So much I did know,” I said. Bastilla had looked around when he’d spoken, so I knew that he hadn’t been using his trick of being unseen and unheard by anyone except me.

  “I am a slave, whatever you believe,” she said finally. “And I’m not a very good mage, but I am the only sl
ave Ciernack has who is also mageborn. He finds me useful.” She gestured, and a cold white flame appeared in her hand. She held it up and stared into my face for a long moment. Her complexion was pale, but that might have been because of the brilliance of the light she’d called. Her eyes glittered with stress. I don’t know what she was looking for in my expression nor if she found it before she extinguished the light.

  “I see,” I said. “Where did he get you? Avinhelle?” Her accent sounded western, all soft consonants.

  She hesitated, then nodded. “From the Cholyte refuge.”

  “You were sworn to Chole?” The patron goddess of Avinhelle demanded mages to serve in her temples: slaves in truth, but not ordinary slaves. For the first time I believed her claims. “How did he get you out?” I asked. The Cholytes were very well defended.

  I could hear the bitter smile in her voice. “My life was dearly bought. I understand the Cholynn was in need of wealth to gain more power with the high king.”

  “She sold you to him.”

  Bastilla inclined her head.

  “You are free to go where you will, you know. We’re about as far from Avinhelle as we can get and still be in the Five Kingdoms, but I can pay for an escort home.” And not much more, if the rest of us were going to make it to Oranstone.

  She shook her head. “My family sold me to the Cholynn, my lord. They would be obliged to return me, and the Cholynn would simply send me back to the man she sold me to in the first place. I have no place to go. If you take me with you, I’ll make myself useful.” She lowered her head and shifted against the tree.

  “How did you know about Hurog?” asked Oreg suddenly. “Hurog has not been a refuge for runaway slaves for a very long time. If you’d arrived few months earlier, my lord’s father would have had you returned to your owner immediately.”

  She laughed without amusement. “Ciernack has a slave boy whose job it is to keep the fire burning in the room where the men drink. He told me that once a great lord came in and told stories about a fabled keep called Hurog. He must have listened very hard, for the boy knew three or four stories by heart.”

  I laughed, feeling even more stupid. “No, he probably heard them any number of times. Last time I went to court, I went to Ciernack’s place several times and told those stories over and over to anyone with the misfortune to be in my company.” I’d been trying to help a friend out of Ciernack’s clutches. I’d failed.

  So it had been my stories that caused Bastilla to come to Hurog. Even that straw in my downfall had been by my own doing.

  I rubbed my face. “You are certain you want to stay with us? If you come, you’re likely to find yourself in the middle of a full-scale war in Oranstone.”

  “Better with you, my lord, than out selling myself in the streets.”

  “Ah, then,” I said with casual cheerfulness, “you’ll just have to hire on with a mercenary band.” I leaned closer to her and purred, “For you know, ’tis an ill-prepared mercenary who doesn’t have his own mage to counter the magics sent against him.”

  There was a little silence, then she said, “How do you do that? One minute a stupid lout, the next a lord, and an instant later a . . . a . . .”

  “Taveln Kirrete at your service,” I bowed with more flourish than grace.

  Oreg snickered suddenly. “I’d forgotten about him. He was a mercenary who came to train with the Blue Guard a few years ago,” he explained to Bastilla. “Thought an awful lot of himself, and he left the day after Stala, Ward’s aunt, wiped the dirt with his face. Couldn’t stomach being beaten by a woman. You play him better than he did himself.”

  I bowed shallowly to acknowledge the compliment. Even Oreg didn’t see the whole truth. Everyone I portrayed, including the lord, was an act as well. He was gleaned from stories of Seleg and from Seleg’s journals hidden in the library. I hadn’t been a real person since I was twelve.

  “A younger son,” I said out loud. “Too many people have met Taveln.”

  “What?” asked Bastilla.

  “I can’t be Ward of Hurog; he’s too likely to get sent to Estian, eh? Everyone knows he’s an idiot who belongs in the King’s Asylum. I think I’ll be a younger son in disgrace and trying to restore his good name. I took horses and money from my home when I escaped in the night with my faithful retainer. . . . Now, let’s see, should that be Axiel or Penrod? Penrod, I believe, he has that old-retainer air about him—and my squire, Ciarra, whom we shall call Ciar because it’s safer for her to be a boy. Axiel will be a man we met upon the road, destitute, a fighter whose master died due to illness . . . the scourge. Oreg will be my cousin or bastard half brother or something.”

  “Is he?” asked Bastilla, sounding faintly intrigued.

  Drawn back from my tale-telling, I frowned. “Yes, but he doesn’t like to talk about it.”

  “I don’t?” asked Oreg, raising an eyebrow.

  “No,” I replied firmly.

  “What about me?” asked Bastilla leaning forward.

  “She’s the cause of your disgrace?” offered Oreg.

  “No,” I shook my head. “Too melodramatic. I think we hired you at Tyrfannig. An Avinhelle-born wizard stranded at a northern seaport.”

  “Rescued from a shipwreck?” she offered enthusiastically. “Stranded too far from home to afford passage back, so I took employment with a likely-looking group of soldiers?”

  “Sure,” I nodded. I liked her, and not just because she was beautiful.

  “I thought you were against melodrama,” muttered Oreg.

  “This is strange,” Bastilla said with abrupt seriousness. “I would never have thought to end up here, so far from home. Cholytes are forbidden to leave the Tower. Some of them walk around with a permanent glow from talking to the goddess. But I never felt her. The potions that we were given to help us reach her never worked on me. The Cholynn was very upset because I did neither the goddess nor the Tower any good.” Underneath the stiffness, I heard shame.

  Oreg snorted. “Drugged the lot of you so they could siphon your powers. You don’t need drugs for the gods to touch you. Ask the ascetics at Menogue. They have Aethervon’s power, enough to crisp the Acolyte Tower, and their people aren’t drained husks after a year’s apprenticeship.”

  I cleared my throat, hoping Bastilla, Avinhelle-born, didn’t know much Tallvenish history.

  “Menogue? The ruin outside of Estian? I was told it was destroyed in the Reformation Wars.” Several hundred years ago. “And Aethervon’s order with it.”

  There was a long silence, then Oreg said, “I’m something of a historian. Sometimes I think I live more closely to the past than the present.”

  Of course she accepted it. The truth was much less believable.

  “How did you two meet?” asked Bastilla after a moment. “Axiel and Penrod don’t know you. You’re too young to be as good a wizard as you are; even the Cholynn couldn’t teleport herself without a complicated ceremony, and you do it in the blink of an eye.”

  I assumed she was talking to Oreg, as I hadn’t teleported myself anywhere.

  “Oreg’s one of the family,” I said.

  “Bastard,” confirmed Oreg truthfully enough. “I’m older than I look. There was this spell. . .” His voice trailed off, then started up again briskly. “I decided I wanted to see the family estates. It was easy to get in without anyone knowing, but Ward and his sister found me out.”

  He lied as well as I did; use as much of the truth as you can to give the wrong impression. Perhaps it was something in the blood.

  THE NIGHT WAS STILL dark when I awoke to a touch on my shoulder, and Penrod kneeling beside me. I rolled to my feet with as little noise as I could and gathered my sword. I followed him into the woods and back to the rise I’d occupied earlier, where Oreg was waiting.

  I saw immediately what he’d brought me to see. Not a half mile away was the unmistakable orange glow of a campfire.

  “Have you checked it out?” I asked.

  Penrod shook
his head.

  “Stay here. I’ll take a look, but you keep watch. If you see a scuffle, wake the others.”

  Walking quietly in the woods is difficult. Doing it in the dead of night with nothing but the light of the moon proved impossible. I was fairly sure that unless the campers were deaf or asleep, they knew I was approaching before I got there.

  There was only a single figure visible in the camp. He was wrapped in a thin cloak and perched on a large rock in front of the fire with his back to me. There was only one bedroll.

  “I thought it would be safer if you found me than if I tried to ride all the way to your camp,” said my brother conversationally, though I was fairly sure he couldn’t see me where I crouched under a nearby tree.

  “Staring into the fire is bad for your night vision,” I commented without approaching closer. I couldn’t imagine what Tosten was doing here.

  “I don’t want to study with the harpers in Estian,” he said. “I don’t want to be a cooper. I don’t want to work as the entertainment for an inn. Most especially, I don’t want Hurog.” His voice was tight with strain. “I’m sorry, Ward. If not for you, I’d be buried in the hillside with the rest of our ancestors who took the easy way out of this life.”

  I sighed and stepped out so the light of the fire made me as visible to his eyes as he was to mine.

  “Don’t fret,” I said. “You don’t know me well, not really. Just enough to know I’m not as stupid as you thought me.” I fed a small stick to his fire.

  Tosten had only known what I’d shown him. Our midnight ride to Tyrfannig several years ago had been only slightly less dramatic than the confrontation last night. He’d been weak from loss of blood and I’d been in a hurry. There hadn’t been time to talk.