The Only Option (8 page)

Was the bone wyvern why everyone was gone? That would make sense, but how could so many people afford to just pack up…

Rochus winced as he realized exactly how they could have afforded it. If a certain stupid, stubborn dragon sacrificed all his worldly goods to save the most precious part of his hoard, moving an entire territory to safer areas would be completely doable.

And then Tilo had gone off and gotten married to someone he could only hope would be able to help.

The idiot seemed to forget that he deserved to be looked after and protected and cared for just as much as everyone else.

Ignoring the bothersome emotions fluttering through him, Rochus pointed at Tilo. “Sit. Do not so much as twitch your tail until you're healthy enough to shift, do you understand me? Is there anyone else around this place?”

Tilo gave him a look and huffed.

“Don't get smart with me—you know damn good and well you can move to answer a question.”

Enormous, toothy mouth curving in a way that was unmistakably smirky, Tilo shook his head back and forth.

“No one at all? Idiot. Stay there, I mean it.” Rochus turned and swept off up the stairs and into the keep proper.

Like so much else, it was painfully empty, echoing with every footstep, dust already layered over every surface save where Tilo had been coming and going.

It was a beautiful castle, soft white stone on the inside, vines, leaves, and flowers carved right into it along the edges and even completely across some walls. The gleaming wood of the doors, staircase, and the floors was gold-toned and still shiny. He could see the gaps where there'd once been statues, tapestries, rugs, paintings, and other decorative elements. All that remained were plants—scores and scores of plants, more than he could put names to.

He couldn't fathom how breathtaking it would look when everything was back in its rightful place.

It took some searching since the castle was bigger than it looked, and it hadn't looked small, but he finally found a room that looked like it saw regular use. Not the lord's chambers, peculiarly, though perhaps those were simply too big to use when there was no staff to maintain them. The room Tilo seemed to be using was a small space down a quiet hall. It looked more like a room given to a child too big for the nursery, or perhaps an unwanted guest.

He found clothes in the wardrobe and bundled them neatly together before going back downstairs and in search of the kitchens, which proved to be bigger than the entire length and width of his tower. The pantry was depressing by comparison, nothing but bread that looked a couple of days old and cheese that barely looked edible.

Seriously, of what use did Tilo think he would be if he was constantly exhausted and starving? The moment he was healthy again, Rochus was going to strangle him. Or tie him to a bed until he learned how not to be an idiot. “Song, come to me.”

By the time he was downstairs and back out in the ward, Song had arrived, perched on Fury's saddle playing with his mane.

After depositing the food and clothes where Tilo could easily get to them once he was able to shift, Rochus went to his saddlebags and quickly wrote out a message. He affixed it to Song's foot, then tied a small bag of coins into Fury's mane.

Song cawed, nibbled at his fingers, and then settled on Fury's head and the two of them headed off.

Hopefully he would get the items he wanted and not wind up robbed, though only a fool dared to cross a magus, especially a necromancer.

He checked Tilo over, smiling faintly that despite his grumbling he'd fallen fast asleep. Leaving him to his rest, Rochus wandered back into the castle and located a room for himself—large and well-equipped because no way was he living in a damned closet when there were far better options available. He'd already slept on the ground for a month, which was more than enough unpleasant sleeping arrangements.

Depositing his saddlebags at the foot of the bed, he went to figure out the best way to go about a bath. An hour later, he'd settled on just doing everything in the kitchen. There was a tub in one of the storerooms and a large pot to heat the water. That matter sorted, he went upstairs to fetch his soap, razor, and mirror and then went in search of clothes he could borrow since he was long past tired of wearing his own smelly clothes.

Thankfully it took only trying a handful of doors before he found a room that seemed to have been turned into a storage closet for old clothes—his mother did much the same thing, to his stepfather's despair.

Fresh clothes and cleaning supplies gathered, he returned to the kitchen. The hot water felt divine on his skin and after so long with nothing, the familiar lavender scent of his own soap was the best thing he'd smelled in forever. He used a bucket of warm water to rinse everything away and climbed out of the tub before he succumbed to the urge to do a third scrubbing. He dried off his face and hair, then shoved his spectacles back on his nose before pulling on the rest of his clothes.

They were old-fashioned, just the barest bit too small, but they'd suffice until he dealt with laundry on the morrow. He dragged the tub out to drain it, dumped the clothes he'd been wearing inside, and headed back out to the ward.

Which was decidedly lacking in dragon. Rochus frowned. Where had Tilo gone? If the idiot had gone back to deal with the bone wyvern, he was going to wish the wyvern
had
killed him.

The sound of footsteps drew his attention and Rochus whipped around—and stopped short as he saw Tilo standing on the top step cradling a cask of what was probably brandy like it was a baby. “There you are. I thought for a minute you'd gone back to deal with the bone wyvern like the self-sacrificing idiot you are.”

“Bone wyvern? Is that what it's called? I'd never seen one before they showed up here.”

“They?”
Rochus's heart felt like it gave out for a beat.

Tilo nodded, casting a glum look at the ground. “Four of them roam around the territory. They never leave it, just stay here, but I've never been able to kill any of them.”

“Why not call other dragons for help? Family? Friends?”

“We don't have friends,” Tilo said bitterly. “My father… well, on his good days he was difficult to deal with. On his bad days everyone hid. Plus, I tried and tried to petition for help, wrote letters… You have no idea how hard I've tried to bring in help. But everything was ignored or they showed up wanting to
bargain.
” Anger filled his face. “They'd help if I gave them my land, if I sold them rights to the lake. They'd save lives
only if I gave them something.
So I threw them all out and took care of matters alone.”

Rochus made a mental note to get the names of all the greedy, odious bastards later. “I'm sorry. You've done everything right but were betrayed or let down at every turn. For what it's worth, you did choose the right magus for the job. I'm well familiar with bone wyverns and can clear out even four of them, though it'll take me several days.”

Tilo looked for a moment like he was going to cry. “Thank you. I know you don't want—”

“I think in the grand scheme of things I have very little to complain about,” Rochus interrupted. “Let's take care of the bone wyverns and then we'll sort out everything else. One problem at a time. What is that you're holding?”

“Um. Something that's been in our cellars for almost ten years. My mother bought it when she thought we'd have a necromancer visiting us. I don't remember why now. But the necromancer wound up not coming, and it's a trifle strange for me to sell easily. Then I thought it might be best if I held on to it. For my husband. For you.” He walked down the stairs and held it out. “If you want it.”

Rochus took it, trying not to gawk like an idiot and failing miserably. “Is this blood wine?” It was more like brandy, actually, but 'blood brandy' sounded strange. Extremely difficult to make, a combination of human blood and brandy, and the northern faeries who made it jealously guarded the secret to making it—which allowed them to charge a damned fortune for it. Rochus had been given a glass of it once in his life and had wanted more for as long as he could remember, but even he didn't make enough money to justify such an expense. Healing potions, yes. Frivolous spirits, no.

Tilo nodded jerkily. “I hope it's good. Um. Did you find a room? I can show you to one of the guest suites—”

“I'm fine, at least until whoever actually has claim to my room returns. You should be resting.”

“I just finished resting,” Tilo said, though the shadows beneath his eyes and his washed out skin undermined the offended tone. “Thank you for helping me.”

“Stop thanking me for doing what I should,” Rochus said. “People don't deserve gratitude for not being jerks. I'm sorry about my poor word choice before. I never meant to imply you were a punishment. I was trying to make fun of myself and my hermit-like tendencies.”

Tilo nodded and some of the tension eased from his body. “Um. Are you hungry? I can give you my blood, or find something to drain. I think some of the farmers left their herds behind to fend for themselves since it was too difficult to move all of them.”

“You're not giving blood until you stop looking one step from death,” Rochus snapped, not bothering to say that he wasn't going to take any more of Tilo's blood period. He could still almost taste just how close Tilo had come to dying. If not for the healing potion, he would be dead. “Come on, you're getting more rest whether you like it or not. If you try to argue, keep in mind that I am fully capable of tying you to a bed and not feeling sorry about it.”

Something hot flashed through Tilo's eyes for the barest second; if Rochus hadn't been watching so intently he would have missed it. He stubbornly ignored the way his own body thrummed in response. Even if it was appropriate, neither of them was in any condition for such activities.

“I'm not a kit, no matter how much you insist on treating me like one,” Tilo replied.

“You are half my age if you are a day and that makes you near enough, especially when you think the best way to help people is by killing yourself!” Rochus snapped.

Tilo's eyes flashed, his hands balling into fists. “I do what's necessary! And you can quit exaggerating. You're not that much older than me.”

Rochus wanted to either punch him or fuck him. “You're what, twenty-five?” Tilo's face flushed, and Rochus suddenly didn't want to know the answer. “How old are you?”

“Twenty,” Tilo replied, trying to look stubborn but really just pouting. “How old are you?”

When was Rochus going to learn not to start discussions he knew he wouldn't enjoy? He surged up the stairs and past Tilo, calling out, “Forty-three,” as he strode into the castle headed for his room.
Fleeing to his room
was more like it.

Twenty, Goddess above. Rochus had thought he was long past making the stupidest mistakes in his life, but clearly he'd just been getting warmed up. And what in the ten hells had Irmhild been thinking, foisting him on some poor, desperate boy in over his fool head?

The sad truth there was that Irmhild hadn't cared. She'd had a chance to rid herself of a troublesome debt and had taken it.

Damn it. Tilo should have friends and family supporting him, looking after him—keeping him from doing stupid things like selling off his entire damned fortune to help people and marrying himself to an unknown person in a desperate bid for help that should never have worked.

Rochus slammed the door of his room shut, set the wine on a table, and crossed the room to drop down on his bed. After a moment he flopped backwards and pressed the heel of his hands to his eyes. How did he get himself into these situations? He sighed and let his hands fall away. The same way
everyone
got into these situations: liking the idea that someone so compelling would actually want someone as uninteresting as him, an obnoxious superior he couldn't defy, and pretty eyes full of sadness and hope.

Still, twenty was a new low. Tilo deserved to have someone closer to his own age at his side, someone he'd connect with, grow with. Not a creepy old necromancer who needed to stay in his tower, orders of the queen be damned.

Heaving a sigh, Rochus sat up and dragged his saddlebags over, began to pull out everything inside them to put away properly. His necromancy tools went in the chest at the foot of the bed, and the key that had been inside the chest went in his pocket.

The few bits of jewelry he'd brought went in the jewelry case in the wardrobe, the small books went on the table by the bed, and the saddlebags went under the wardrobe.

Now he was officially out of ways to hide away with his shame and mortification. The next time a beautiful, eager dragon climbed into his lap—ha, like that would happen twice in his life—he was going to brain the idiot with the nearest heavy object and run away as fast as possible.

The soft flapping of wings drew his attention and he turned to see an agitated Silence perched on his windowsill. “The one I trapped?” Silence shook her head, flapped her wings again. “One of the others. Impossible to trap with just the two of us, so we'll have to go straight to kill.” Then he should probably take care of the one he'd trapped before the necromancer controlling them came to break it free, though Rochus was fairly certain the bastard wouldn't be that stupid. “Come on, then.” Silence flew to his shoulder and picked affectionately at his hair.

Reaching up to gently pet her, Rochus gathered his supplies into a satchel, slung it across his chest, and strode off back through the castle to the ward. “What are you still doing here?”

“I wasn't,” Tilo said, scowling at him briefly before he turned his gaze back toward the bridge. “I think one of the bone wyverns is drawing close.”

“You're correct.” Rochus grabbed his arm and slung him back toward the doors. “You are also staying here.”

“You can't make me—”

Rochus whipped around. “Do not test me. There is plenty I can make you do. You are not strong enough yet. You'll do no one any favors by dying pointlessly. I can handle this. You rest, because I will be exhausted when I return and
that
is when I will need you.”