[Hurog 01] - Dragon Bones (12 page)

After practice and dinner, I stole the last hour before
dusk to ride out alone on Pansy as always. Sometimes I used the time for hunting; sometimes I just worked with the stallion, teaching him the kinds of things a warhorse should know and a few others besides. It kept me fresh and gave me time to be myself—whoever that was. With the others, I was Seleg, my legendary hero, borrowing his calmness and leadership abilities, which only Oreg noticed with quiet sarcasm. And, as we approached Estian, I could see them responding to Seleg's calm confidence with confidence of their own—even Oreg. Only Pansy heard my doubts.

 

“SO,
A
XIEL
,” I
PANTED
, lying on the ground belly first and watching Oreg run Ciarra through her paces. “What do you think of us as a mercenary band? Are we big enough, or does someone need to travel to Estian and recruit?”

“Someone trained him as an assassin,” he replied with a nod in Oreg's direction. Axiel wasn't nearly as worn out as I, but I gained some satisfaction from his sweat-dampened clothes.

“Oreg, an assassin?” I watched the fight more attentively.

“I wasn't speaking of Ciarra.” His tone was dry. “He's modified them, but they're assassin's moves, all the same. Where did you find him? There can't be many assassin-trained mages scattered about.”

“He found me,” I replied truthfully. “He's a Hurog—a bastard, but still a Hurog. I don't know a lot about his background, but I'll be damned if I'll treat him the way my father did.”

“Ah,” said Axiel. After a moment he said, “I don't think we need any more men. Hit and run, midnight raids—that's the best work. More skill and less chance.”

“Less glory,” I said. “But I suppose I don't have the
belly for close-fought battles won against the odds. Stala has seen to that.”

“Never was a good general who won a close-fought battle,” agreed Axiel, somehow managing to imitate my aunt's voice with his bass.

I finished the quote. “A good general never gets in a close-fought battle. Hit them where they are weak.”

“Avoid them when they are strong,” added Tosten, coming from the fire to sit cross-legged next to me. “Hit their supply trains and their payroll.”

The fight between Oreg and Ciarra degenerated into farce when she broke into giggles at the fierce scowls he was sending her way. The sounds were atonal and odd, but they made me smile. Oreg hoisted her over his shoulder and spun around until he staggered.

It was not just my story. Some of it I heard of much later. While we were still approaching Estian, events occurring in the city were to play a major role in what happened later.

NORMALLY
THE TREATISE HE
'
D
borrowed from the king's library would have been enough to keep his attention, but Erdrick found himself too busy trying to ignore the sounds coming from his brother's room next door.

He shifted in his bed to get comfortable and turned the page. “At least they could be quieter about it,” he muttered as a particularly shrill cry came through the walls. “It's disgusting. The queen's older than Mother.” But much better looking, he had to admit.

The sex didn't bother him; he'd been ignoring his brother's mating calls since their mother's maid had first seduced Beckram. It was the thought of his brother's neck under the headsman's ax which worried him—and that was probably the very thing that had led Beckram to the affair in the first place. As usual, Beckram played, and Erdrick fussed over the risks his twin took.

Erdrick snorted in self-disgust. He'd almost jumped out of his skin yesterday when the queen mistook him for Beckram. She should have better sense than to try a little
hands-on in public. After all, it wasn't only Beckram who would die if the truth came out. The queen's adultery carried the death penalty for both.

And Erdrick had squirmed under the king's regard once too often this past week. A man whose most notable accomplishment was the number of farming manuscripts he borrowed from the king's library should not have attracted so much attention—unless the king thought he was looking at Beckram. Erdrick had no doubt that the king knew. He'd tried to warn Beckram, but his brother had just shrugged. Erdrick consoled himself with the thought that he hadn't seen anger in the king's eye, merely speculation.

 

GARRANON
TURNED FROM THE
softness of his pillow to look at his father's killer and softened his voice. “The word from my estate is that the raiding is getting bad in the west.”

Jakoven, High King of the Five Kingdoms of Tallvenish Rule, waved a hand indifferently and pushed the embroidered velvet spread to the floor. “The Vorsag won't stay there. The land has no value to them; they're raiders, not farmers.”

“Your majesty, it is your people they are killing. Your people and mine.” Though his words were imperative, Garranon was careful to keep his voice indifferent as he pulled the linen sheets straight where the bedspread had tugged them.

“My boy,” purred the king with affectionate dismissal, “you worry to much. Go to sleep. You're keeping me from my rest.”

Garranon buried his face in his pillow and forced his body to relax. He took his hatred and stuffed it carefully back behind the barriers he'd learned to build years ago, when he'd been dumped in Estian at twelve with his eight-year-old brother to take care of because everyone else was
dead, martyrs to the cause of Oranstonian freedom. He'd learned early that lack of caution got you killed. Worse, it got your wife and children raped and killed, too. He wouldn't be like his father. He planned and nudged, changing things a little at a time. If the cost was more than he could bear, at least his brother was alive and well. Garranon's efforts wouldn't harm his family, only his soul.

And his soul hurt now for what he'd done to poor Ward of Hurog. Garranon had destroyed a harmless boy's life, and it had accomplished nothing, because the boy had fled with Ciernack's slave. If it had been possible, Garranon would have told the king he had not delivered the writ; the king had left it to his discretion. But there were spies among his men, and too many of them knew he'd taken Ward with the intention of delivering him to the asylum. So Ward was a fugitive to be caught and caged, and Garranon had used almost every penny he had to buy his brother's life—if indeed he had: Ciernack wasn't exactly trustworthy. The gods knew what damage Landislaw would do to Buril, but he wasn't safe here.

Tension tightened Garranon's stomach until it burned. King Jakoven had declared Ward unfit as much to tighten the binding on Garranon as for the gold he'd given the royal treasury. Jakoven didn't care who ruled Hurog, a keep so poor it sent its taxes in kind rather than gold. With the old Hurogmeten dead, the powerful warrior who'd held everyone in awe, Hurog was of no consequence. But the king would care that Garranon cared.

If Garranon spoke up for Ward now, there was a good possibility that Jakoven would have the boy killed. The king was jealous of Garranon's affections, be it for a person or a cause.

The sleeping king's arm fell away from him as Garranon wondered if the way he'd chosen was worth anything at all. He certainly hadn't been able to help Oranstone.

Whatever he said in public or to Garranon, the king knew that Kariarn wanted all of Oranstone. Jakoven was waiting for Oranstone to fall so the Vorsag would be forced to attack Tallven and Seaford from the mountain passes, giving the strategic ground to the armies of the Kingdoms.

It had only been fifteen years since the Oranstone Rebellion had been put down. Too many would remember fighting against her to be outraged at a “little” raiding. It wouldn't be a popular war until Oranstone was swallowed up entire by the greedy Vorsagian army. Then the Kingdoms' nobles would be angry and outraged. The strength of righteous indignation would make all the nobles of the four remaining kingdoms support Jakoven completely.

It was a good strategy, if no one worried about Oranstone. When Garranon sent Landislaw home, he'd given him instructions to begin training men to protect Buril—and to evacuate the estate if necessary.

If killing the king would have saved Oranstone, Garranon would have killed him long since. But even as a boy, Garranon had known that murdering the king would accomplish nothing but Garranon's own death. It was better to use the king than to die as a murderer, though he was aware his father would not have thought so. But if he had wanted his father's approval, he'd have killed himself like his mother had. If his father could see him playing the king's whore, he would slit his eldest surviving son's throat.

Garranon stared at the thick rug on the floor of the royal bedchamber while the king slept.

 

“NEWS,
E
RDRICK
,”
SAID
B
ECKRAM
as soon as Erdrick opened the connecting door.

The morning light streamed in and hit the parchment Beckram held in his hand. His voice had been so sober,
Erdrick expected the royal guards to be waiting at the doorway.

“What's wrong?”

Beckram tossed the letter toward Erdrick. “You read it.”

As soon as he saw the script on the pages he picked up off the floor, Erdrick knew it was from his father. He read it twice.

Ward condemned to the asylum? Poor, poor, Ward. Erdrick knew what Hurog meant to his cousin, idiot or not. You couldn't be a Hurog and not know how strong the ties of the keep bound all who lived there. The Hurogmeten had reached up past the grave to hurt his son one last time. The image made him shudder; the late Hurogmeten had always scared him.

“What I want to know is how Father knew that I was sleeping with the queen,” said Beckram aggressively.

You don't
sleep
with her,
was on the tip of Erdrick's tongue. But his brother didn't deal well with other people's humor, so he said, “He doesn't say anything about it,” instead.

“He says he wants me to use my influence on the royal household to get the king to reinstate Ward.”

Time to admit it. “Hmm, yes. Well, I thought that Father ought to know you were committing the family to treason. So he'd be prepared.”

Beckram made a hissing sound. “The king doesn't care about that; she has not born him, nor anyone else, an heir. He has Garranon and whoever else he can lure to his bed.”

“Is that what she told you?”

Beckram gave one of his rare, real smiles. The ones that reminded Erdrick why he loved his twin. “No, it's what the king told me when he gave me permission to have her.” He leaned back. “Although permission is the wrong word; it was more in the nature of an order.”

Erdrick didn't know whether to be relieved or more
worried. The king played deep games. “You'd best be careful.”

Beckram nodded dismissively. “What I don't understand is why Father's so worried about Ward. Everyone knows that Ward is stupid—too stupid to run an estate like Hurog. Even for the Hurogmeten, miser though he was, it was difficult to survive from year to year. Still . . .” He hesitated. “I don't like Ward—”

Because, stupid as he is, he reminds you how you should act, instead of how you want to act,
thought Erdrick.

“But I wouldn't want to see him confined to a room in the royal asylum. Could you see it? I think he'd kill someone out of sheer frustration. But surely some compromise can be reached. Father would take him in. Poor Tosten has probably been feeding the fishes for some time, courtesy of our dead uncle, which would leave Hurog to Father.”

“Father doesn't want Hurog.” Erdrick said, knowing it would be a surprise to his brother. Duraugh had always verbally accepted the Hurogmeten's assumption that Hurog was the apex of ambition, no matter what common sense might argue.

“What?”

“It frightens him. He says it's cursed. Do you remember Grandfather? Uncle Fen was worse. He will do his duty, but he really doesn't want it. Do you?”

Beckram thought about it and grimaced. “Being a Hurog lends a certain air to a person—sort of like owning a man-eating beast. Owning Hurog, though, won't do much for my love life. Can you see any woman wanting to live in that dismal place? And as the senior estate, it would fall to me, while you get Iftahar, which is richer and warmer.” He gave an exaggerated shudder. “I'll talk to her.”

• • •

BECKRAM
SHUT THE DOOR
behind him before he let his smile fall away. Though he would have cut his tongue out rather than admit it, he was worried about his affair with the queen, too. The queen's last lover had been found floating facedown in the small fountain in the central courtyard—a little fact the court gossips did not speak about.

Beckram didn't know what mistake the fool had made, but he was determined not to make the same one. He'd been very careful to stay out of politics. He never asked any favors. He never talked to anyone about the queen—except for Erdrick, and that didn't count—though, of course, everyone knew.

But surely asking her to reinstate Ward wasn't a favor—just the opposite. Hurog wasn't as bad as all that. Not many people would risk their lives to give it away. Risk their lives.

Who'd have thought he would risk his life for Ward?

Well, he decided, as he walked down the corridor to the garden door where the ladies all gathered with their favored gentlemen just before luncheon, he would never tell Ward. Ward liked to hug people who helped him, and Ward's hugs were neither dignified nor gentle. There was a lilt in Beckram's step. Risk his life; he liked that.

 

TEHEDRA
F
OEHNE
T
ALLVEN
, Q
UEEN OF
Tallven and the Five Kingdoms, lay back in her favorite corner of the garden and let her maid fiddle with her hair. The corner was isolated, almost out of view of the rest of the garden, and when she was in it, the rest of the ladies knew to leave her alone.

The sweet scent of the blossoming bush she'd never bothered to learn the name of was as soothing as her maid's hands. There had been one just like it outside her window at her childhood home, down to the pink tinge on
edges of the white petals. With her eyes closed, she could almost hear her mother's scolding voice and her father's deeper, richer tones soothing her.

“Ah, my fair one sleeps the morning away.”

Involuntarily, a smile caught her lips, but she let it widen into something more artificial as she opened her eyes. It would never do for the maid to report that her mistress looked upon her lover with tenderness.

“Beckram, my dear.”

He smiled and let his eyes roll over her with admiration she suspected was partially true. He might be young, but she had the figure of a woman half her age. She wondered why the king had selected this one for her. Was he trying to test her? Onev hadn't been so young, though he'd been softer, less clever. It hadn't taken a full year before Jakoven had him killed. She hoped Beckram lasted longer. She wished she could save him, but she'd learned better a long time ago. So she would savor her enjoyment while it lasted and try not to grow too attached. It helped that he never talked of anything but nonsense. The one before Onev had liked sailing. She'd managed to forget his name after he'd disappeared, but she remembered that.

“My love, you make the summersweet blush in shame,” he gestured toward her favorite bush.

“Is that what it is?” she asked, startled that she'd just been wondering, and he'd answered her unspoken question. She'd remember him now, she thought, every time she saw the bush.

He laughed. “I think so, but my brother's the one to ask. What did you do to him, anyway? He was really nervous about you this morning.”

She fought to keep her public mask on. “Last night we were standing next to each other—I thought he was you. I—” Ridiculous to be embarrassed about it, she told herself. She played her role, and had for longer than this child had been alive. She managed to go on smoothly.
“—pinched his rump. I thought he was going to pass out.” She rolled her eyes, though she'd been touched by his innocence.

Beckram laughed again, settling himself at her feet with the boneless grace of youth. “He takes things too seriously.” He took one of her feet into his hands and rubbed it gently, with just enough pressure that it didn't tickle.