Echoes of Betrayal (41 page)

Stammel bumped a little into the chair and sat. “I am still of use, lord king.”

“So you are. I wonder the Count sent you on such a long errand in winter, though.”

“I had a guide: Sir Camwyn.”

“We do not know enough of him, sir king,” said his leader. “He seems strange. Sergeant Stammel said he came from the south, but from the man himself no details.”

“Count Arcolin knows him?” the king said to Stammel.

“Yes, lord king. He bade me come with him and introduce him to you.”

“I see. Bring us this Sir Camwyn,” the king said.

“Sir king, what if—”

“I will read this in the meantime. And we will need more refreshments. Camwyn, move that other chair over here.”

For a moment Stammel was confused, but then remembered that the king’s younger brother, now crown prince, was also named Camwyn. The prince said nothing, but Stammel heard the scrape of a chair being moved, then things being moved on a table. Had the brothers been having a private meal?

The king said nothing; Stammel assumed he was reading. Suddenly, he said, “Dragon!” and then “
Dragon?
Surely not!”

“Lord king, there
is
a dragon,” Stammel said.

“A real dragon?” the prince asked. Stammel could hear eagerness
in his voice. That wouldn’t last, he thought. “Mikeli—sir king—remember the rumors from the east—”

“Rumors,” the king said. “Nothing more. Until I hear certainties from those whose perceptions I trust … And why send me a blind man to assert the reality of a fantasy?”

“He did not send only a blind man,” Stammel said. “Sir Camwyn is sighted.”

“And did he see a dragon—not just a bolt of lightning in a cloud or some wizard’s apparition or some other phenomenon that could fool the gullible?” the king asked.

“Yes,” Stammel said. “And so did Count Arcolin.”

“Don’t worry, Mikeli—sir king,” the prince said. “If there is a dragon, Camwyn Dragonmaster will protect us.”

“We’re Girdish, Cam.” The king’s voice sounded as if he were trying not to laugh.

“And the man’s name is Camwyn. Maybe he
is
Camwyn Dragonmaster.”

“Your name is Camwyn, and you’re not … Cam, of all the great saints, we know the least about Camwyn. Gird we know lived, and he is our patron. Falk we are fairly sure of. But Camwyn—”

“Our father named me Camwyn for a reason,” the prince said. Stammel could easily imagine the impetuous young prince; rumors had said for years that he was wilder than Mikeli had ever been. He heard Mikeli sigh.

“Sergeant, the Count says that you know about the gnomes that came to him as refugees and their claim that this dragon drove them from their land and insisted on changing the boundary with Pargun.”

“Yes, lord king. The gnomes are living underneath the stronghold now. When the dragon came to Count Arcolin, the dragon told the same story the gnomes had.”

“And he told you all about it?” A tone between doubt and disapproval.

“Not all, but much of it, lord king,” Stammel said. “We’re up there to defend the border; captains and sergeants and all needed to know.”

“Are you—” The king cleared his throat. “Are you staying in the Company, Sergeant?”

“Now that I’m blind, you mean? Not as a regular sergeant, no, lord king. But the Count sent me on this mission and, I’ve no doubt, will send me on others. I’ve been in the Company long enough people recognize me as part of it, not someone who might’ve stolen the uniform.”

Several people came in; he could smell more food now. The king said, “Cam, are you still hungry?”

“I’m always hungry,” the prince said from a slight distance. “Especially if those are ham pies.”

“Yes, lord prince,” a woman’s voice answered. “And custard tarts with farron.” Stammel’s mouth watered. Farron, the most expensive of spices, very rare in the north and uncommon in Aarenis. He’d tasted it only once in his life and remembered it still.

“Guests first, Cam,” the king said as the servants laid out the food, with gentle thunks and clinks on the table. Then they left, and a moment later the man who had brought Stammel said, “Sir Camwyn, sir king, as you requested.”

Stammel saw the fire-filled man-shape move to his side. The man bowed slightly, and the fire swirled within. “Sir king,” the man said.

“You are Sir Camwyn, known to Count Arcolin. I am Mikeli, the king; this is my brother, Prince Camwyn. Will you sit and take refreshment?”

“I will sit, but I am not, at this moment, hungry,” the dragon said. “Grant me leave to let others eat in my stead.”

“As you will. Sergeant?”

“Thank you, lord king.”

He knew the foods put on his plate only by the sound they made and the smells. Ham pie … redroots … a custard tart with the heady aroma of farron. He fumbled a little at the table and found eating utensils, including a dagger-sharp knife. In the mess hall, a ham pie—a rare treat—would be picked up and eaten in hand, but he heard the clink and scrape of knife and fork from the king and prince and hesitated.

“I eat ham pie out of hand,” the prince said. “Except at formal dinners, when a third of it’s lost to the plate.” The sound of the crust crunching; the prince chewing, swallowing. “Though there’s no way to eat redroots in honey sauce with your fingers without getting sticky.”

Stammel picked up the ham pie and bit into it. Ham, mushrooms,
onions, other tastes he didn’t recognize. A tangy sauce. With his last bite, he heard the soft sound of another being slid onto his plate.

“As I am not eating,” said the dragon, “there is no need to let food go to waste.”

Stammel had never imagined himself eating in the palace, let alone in a private room with the king and prince. And of course a dragon. He had not felt this kind of excitement for a long time. He loved the Company; he had enjoyed everything about his life there. But it had, he now realized, become so familiar that the joy was all in the familiar. He had forgotten the joy of the new. He had forgotten the joy of not knowing what was coming next.

“Count Arcolin said there was a dragon,” the prince said.

“Cam!”

“Sorry, Mik—sir king.”

“I would have waited until you had eaten, Sir Camwyn,” the king said. Stammel picked up the second ham pie. “But since you are not eating, and that was the essence of Count Arcolin’s message, I’m curious … I had thought dragons were gone from this world long ago. Then came a rumor out of Lyonya and then this—”

“Dragons exist, sir king,” the dragon said. The flames Stammel saw shivered inside, as if chuckling. Perhaps they were.

“And you have seen one yourself?”

“Yes,” the dragon said.

“I wish I could,” said the prince. “A great flying monster breathing flame … You must know, with your name, about Camwyn Dragon master taming the dragons forever …”

The flames fell and leapt high; to Stammel’s nostrils came the hot-iron smell for a moment, and then it vanished.

“That is not … quite … how it happened,” said the dragon.

“I thought so,” said the prince.

“Cam—” The king’s voice held warning.

“But he
does
know,” the prince said. “I’m sure of it! Please, sir, tell us—you are Camwyn Dragonmaster yourself, aren’t you? Come to capture or kill that dragon? You’ve ridden on a dragon’s back, you’ve put a bit in its mouth—”

“No.” The word came out with the tongue—to Stammel’s eyes a long curling flame; he wondered what it looked like to the others—and something breakable shattered on the floor.

“You—!” That was the king; Stammel heard the sssh of a drawn sword.

“My pardon, sir king. I would not have caused you this distress. But I am, in fact, a dragon, taking a man’s shape to move among men, and only because of great need. If you lay steel to me or cause it to be laid, I must defend myself, and that will bring more damage than one broken goblet.”

“You’re … a
dragon
?” The prince, his voice more full of awe than fear.

“I am. And named myself Camwyn as a jest, for a dragon should be master of himself ere he venture into lands humans know, lest he cause such harm as cannot be mended.”

From the king came a sort of grunt, then the sound of the sword sliding back, the quillons snicking against the scabbard. “So … you are a dragon who can take a man’s shape, and you bring word that I must yield territory to you—”

“Only because of the danger,” the dragon said. Stammel noticed, and was sure the king noticed, the lack of honorific. In the moment’s tense silence, Stammel found and bit into the custard tart. King, dragon, and now sweet fragrant farron-flavored custard …

I
am not best pleased with Count Arcolin,” the king said after a long pause. “Telling me he was sending proof of the dragon’s existence is not the same as telling me he was sending a dragon itself.”

“He did not
send
me, king,” the dragon said. “A dragon does no man’s bidding. I knew I must meet you, lest more harm come, and thought you would not willingly meet a dragon. Few men would.”

“You … influenced him?” the king said.

“A dragon does commonly influence humans who encounter him,” the dragon said. “But yes, in addition to that, I was in his office as he wrote you, and I helped choose his words. Tell me, O king, are you wise?”

“Wise? That is something no man should claim for himself,” the king said.

“Prudence is not all of wisdom,” the dragon said. “I am not a courtier, king, or fond of false modesty. Are you wise?”

“I spoke not lightly,” the king said. “So I was taught, that men should not claim wisdom for themselves but, as judgment is the duty of a king, seek to judge rightly as they can.”

“And what are the elements of right judgment?”

“To judge rightly, one must know what came before, as much of the issue as men can know of facts and character and all circumstances, and then think ahead to the consequences. Elves, we were
taught, by living long see long behind and before alike, but we humans cannot remember all or see so far ahead. Still, we must try. It is easier to judge rightly material things—craftsmanship, artistry, the quality of a fruit or an animal—than issues of conflict or love.”

“And you—have you made difficult judgments yet, in your time of kingship?”

“Yes,” the king said. “Before my reign began, when I was yet a prince, a peer of the realm tried to assassinate me, and later attacked my brother here, and me again on the day of my coronation. And since—it has not been an easy year.”

“Difficult situations, and as you are still alive and king, you must have made sound judgments. Tell me what you consider the most difficult.”

“When I attainted the Verrakai family, all but one, for their conspiracy to kill me and my brother … and when I let that one live, after she committed a crime punishable by death.”

Stammel knew who that had been: Captain Dorrin. “Because she saved you,” he said, surprising himself.

“Yes,” the king said. “And because she did not defend herself. She asked no mercy; she spoke of the law with respect; she would have accepted death as a just punishment. For all that I pardoned her.”

Stammel heard in the king’s voice some doubt that this had been a wise decision and wondered what had changed his mind. He took another bite of the custard tart to keep himself from speaking in Dorrin’s defense. The dragon spoke instead.

“And yet you doubt that was a wise decision. Why?”

“I cannot tell you,” the king said. “I have reasons … not to believe she is harboring treason, but to think she is a danger nonetheless.”

“But so far you have not taken action against her?”

“It would not be fair,” the king said. “When she had done us such service.”

“So you are withholding judgment until you know more?”

“Yes.”

“Then I account you wise in part, at least. And you, young prince?”

“Me? I am not wise, I am told often. I am hasty and rash and excitable.” The prince’s voice sounded resentful.

“Hasty, rash, and excitable is, indeed, not wise. But I was not asking for wisdom from a boy, prince, but what you thought of this person your brother pardoned.”

“Duke Verrakai? She’s wonderful! She was one of Phelan’s captains, and now she’s a duke, and she’s fought in real wars, and—”

“Cam!”

“Well, I like her, Mikeli! And so does Duke Marrakai. I know what you think about Beclan, but Gwenno Marrakai said Beclan was already being less full of himself when it happened—”

“Cam! Where do you hear such things?”

“Aris. Gwenno writes him letters, you know, things she wouldn’t say to Juris or her father …” The prince’s voice trailed away. Stammel swallowed a grin along with that bite of tart. Some of Kieri’s squires had been like the prince, rattlemouths who realized only afterward what they should not have said. “Gwenno likes Duke Verrakai,” the prince went on more quietly. “But is it about the—?”

“Cam! No more.”

“That you have secrets is certain,” the dragon said. Stammel could sense amusement. “But your very concern for secrecy reveals wherein your secrets lie; they flare in your mind like torches in the dark. Your brother speaks of someone … this Duke Verrakai? Do you think this person seeks a crown?”