Dragon Heart (18 page)

The road carried them along the coast a way, by the edge of the sea cliff. Luka kept them moving fast through the flat winterbound meadows, the rows of furrows still visible, sprinkled with chaff and stubble. At the far edge of the fields the trees began, thick and dark, and beyond them the first blue ridges of the mountains. Oto and Luka came to a gorge where a stream ran down to the sea and crossed by a narrow bridge of stone. On the far side, the road bent inward.

In the crook of the road was a fence; and inside the fence, a low-roofed house. As they rode up to the gate, Oto saw a boy hanging on the fence, gawking at them. Luka swept his hat off, and the boy yipped and bounded over the fence and inside.

An old man came quickly out the gate, bowing and rubbing his hands together. “Greetings, King Reymarro—”

“I am King Luka,” Luka said mildly. “We need food and drink, and fresh horses.”

“This way, this way.” The old man led them toward the hut. Amazed, Oto saw he would be expected to enter this dwelling. Luka stooped to clear the lintel. Oto gathered up his cloak, the skirts of his doublet, his sleeves, and got through the door without touching anything.

Now they were in the dark, but then a lamp bloomed. In the dusky yellow light he saw a table, benches, a hearth. The floor was of dirt. Luka was already sitting down on the bench, and the old man was bringing wooden cups, a pitcher. Oto went carefully across the filthy floor. The bench was wood and did not look clean. He sat on it anyway, resigned. The bench was hard. The place smelled of mice. He leaned his forearms on the table, looking around, wondering how people could live in such a way.

Luka was watching him, smiling. “You think this is too mean for you.”

Oto straightened, his hands on the table. “It is modest, certainly. You deserve more, sir. Being King, you should show more circumstance. The people expect it.”

Luka's smile widened. He lifted his cup and took a sip of the ale. “I can move faster this way. Try the ale.”

Oto took his cup, and put his nose over it: a fresh, bright tang greeted him. He sipped at the cool drink. “This is excellent.” The old man came forward, to give Oto more, and he drank deeply.

Luka said, “Can't you make ale, in the Holy City?”

Oto grunted. The ale in the capital was notoriously bad. The old man went out and came back with a wooden tray with bread and a knife, a little pot of honey, some cheese. Oto wondered if he would have meat. He wondered briefly how he could get this ale back to the Holy City.

He said, “My lord, I have been thinking over our difficulty with the Emperor.”

Luka made a sound like a choked-off laugh. “What do you take that to be?”

“We must make some bond with him. So that he recognizes you as King. Perhaps we could—” Almost breathless with the perfection of this, Oto leaned toward him. “Weave our families together. You could marry one of the Emperor's daughters, and I could marry your sister Mervaly.”

Now Luka did not even try to keep from laughing. He leaned on his arm on the table, looking rudely into Oto's face, and after a while collected himself back to a mere smile. “Well, that's interesting. The Emperor has a lot of daughters? Could I have my choice?”

Oto sat rigid, the laugh ringing through his head. He forced his way forward with this, which did so much so well. “That would take some negotiating. But of course I could marry your sister at once.” Again the excellence of this idea caught him up. “That would dissuade my uncle from any impulsive gestures. It would win us time.”

“Ask her, if you want,” Luka said, smiling wide.

“You could not … intervene for me?”

“My sister will do as she wishes. What have you heard—no message has come from the Emperor?”

Oto was still a moment. This was sliding from his grasp somehow. He drank more of the ale, the bitter and the sweet. He put the cup down.

“Since my father … died, there's hardly been time for a message to have reached the Holy City.”

“So far,” Luka said, his eyebrows raised. “Well.”

The old man came back in again, carrying a platter with a heap of torn meat, and set it between them. Luka cut bread and piled the meat on it. Oto watched what he did, saw the utility in it, and they ate steadily for a while. The meal was simple but good, and Oto threw off his disappointed temper at his first failure. He had seen another way to move now.

Done, he drank more ale, and laying his hand flat on the tabletop, he turned toward Luka. “You have no idea of the reach of the Empire, Luka. You must tread carefully. My uncle the Emperor is busy with many matters, in all parts of the world, but he has powers you have not even dreamed of.”

Luka's face settled. He pushed away the platter and mopped his chin and beard on a cloth. Unsmiling, he looked least like Mervaly. Was he afraid? Oto pressed on. “God gives all power to the Emperor, His chosen one on earth, to do His will.” Oto touched his fingertips to his chest over his heart, the pledge of loyalty. “Resistance to him is a mortal crime.”

Luka said, “Why does this god need to do that—make one man so great? Why does your god's will not simply happen? What else does it mean to be god?” His eyes glittered. He was only pretending to be simple.

Oto said, “God works His ways through us to lift us up from our base condition. He brings order, peace, justice, to those He favors and those who serve Him. The Emperor is the model of the ideal man, his life the ideal life.”

Luka folded his arms over his chest, at ease again, smiling. “So. Of course, to stand against the tide, you need some actual place to put your feet. What will he say about the death of his brother here?”

Oto had been mulling that over; he knew of course that the Emperor would not care much about Erdhart but would care very much about getting justice for his death. How to say something useful about this to Luka was another matter. The answer rose readily to Oto. “Erdhart's murderer died with him. The Emperor will see that this is just.” He brushed that out of his way. “Sir, I know you well now. I see your glory. The Emperor loves courage and strength—the warrior virtues. He loves honor. You could be among God's paladins. And should be. How can you flourish, here in this backwater?”

Luka reached for the cup. “Apparently, the ale here is a lot better.”

“Your sisters are lovely. They would be ornaments at court. The Emperor would find them husbands to shower them with jewels.”

“They don't want for jewels. I am King of Castle Ocean; what more could I be?” Luka nodded at him. “You go to court; you know the ways there. You know what I want. I'll stay here where I belong.”

Oto said, “Only think, sir, of your own destiny.”

Luka snorted at him. “Well, maybe. Let's get going; it's another whole day's hard ride to Terreon; we're wasting daylight.”

*   *   *

The raw ocean wind swirled through the castle gate yard, ruffling the horses' manes. Broga swung his arms to get his blood moving. The soldiers were all breathing white puffs and hunching into themselves. The sergeant came up to him and saluted him.

“My lord. Glory to the Empire.”

Broga touched his chest over his heart. “And to the Emperor. You'll go along the coast, as far east as—” He glanced over his shoulder, toward the redheaded Prince watching him. Taking his brother at his word, Jeon had been dogging Broga steadily since Luka and Oto left, listening to everything Broga said. Broga faced the sergeant again.

“Go as far as the new fort. Which should be much advanced now. They'll need supplies; get a list from them; take a good look around.” He should do this himself, he thought, but Jeon would insist on going along and he did not want Jeon seeing any more of the new fort than he already had. He lowered his voice to a murmur. “Find out if there's been any word of the fleet. This weather may be slowing them up.” He didn't want Jeon to know anything about that, either. The fleet should have arrived by now, with more men and better weapons. “Return at once.” He stepped back, and the sergeant saluted him again.

“Yes, my lord. Glory.” He turned briskly and began giving orders to his men.

Broga went back up the stairs into the castle, his redheaded shadow traveling just behind him. He had nothing to do. He had just sent off the men he could have ordered around. He could not go to Undercastle, where everybody snickered at him, smiled, whispered behind his back.

The thought of that stoked a deep, dirty heat in him. He could not stop remembering being trapped in the sand, being dragged from the sand to lie at the feet of these villagers and fishermen. Their laughter still sounded in his ears, and would, until he had won back his honor.

Two flights up in the tower he shared with his brother, he had found a room to use for a chapel. It had no window and as yet no furniture, except a lamp in the niche. He lit the lamp and trimmed it, and knelt down to pray.

He offered his injuries to God, Who would redress them. He prayed for Oto to get what he deserved. For a while he thought over how he would furnish this room: he needed an altar; he needed hangings for the walls. He was aware constantly that Jeon waited just outside the door—that there was no being alone. He could not lose himself in prayer and after a while he went back down the stairs.

In the hall the storm wall had been raised across the open terrace and every hearth was blazing. The air was dim and warm and the light fluttered. Broga went to his usual place, at the end of the main table, several places down from the stone high seat. A servant came up at once with a cup and a jug; they had learned that much at least, not to make him notice them. The chessboard was there, and he picked up the black King, brooding on the crimes against him.

Jeon had gone around the table, to sit beside the high seat. Broga fingered the ebony King. “Do you play chess?”

The boy lifted his head. Even in this dim yellow light the red of his hair shone with a deep luster. The first silk of a beard fuzzed his cheeks. He said, “No.”

“Come here. I shall teach you.”

The boy studied him a moment; Broga drank ale, and Jeon left his seat, took one of the cups, and coming up to the other side of the table from Broga poured it full from the jug. “All right,” he said. He sat down.

“You know the names of the pieces?”

“Nothing,” Jeon said. “I have never even seen the game played.”

“Well then. We shall start slowly.”

He recited some names for the pieces, and then showed Jeon how each could move, and they began a game. The boy was witless, lost everything in a rush. Broga explained check and checkmate. They began another game. This time the boy risked nothing and Broga crowded him into a corner and won again.

Jeon sat back, his face red as his hair, his fists clenched; Broga knew how that felt, to lose, to be humiliated, and he smiled, laying his hands on the table.

“Well,” he said, “you are a coward, Prince Jeon. I don't think you'll ever be good at this game, which requires courage.”

Jeon was staring at the board, his body so stiff it seemed to vibrate. Broga said, “And wit, as well, another of your lacks.” He reached for his cup.

Jeon's hand shot out and Broga jumped, but the boy was reaching for the chess pieces. He began to set them up again, never looking at Broga. He said, “You go white, this time,” in a voice jagged as a ripsaw.

Broga grunted, surprised. He reached out and switched Jeon's King and Queen, lined up backward. “Well,” he said. “I have nothing else to do, I suppose.”

*   *   *

Dawd had led this patrol before, up to the new fort and back again, and always before he had taken the coast road, on top of the cliff, where there was more shelter from the weather. This time, on an impulse, he went along the beach way. He explained this to himself as a way to see more, but that wasn't the whole reason. The ocean drew him, the constant change and flux and color and smell and feel of the ocean.

He rode along beside his column, glad to get out of the castle. Oto had left him burdened with orders, and then Broga had sent him out here: he felt like something torn by dogs, the brothers fighting to control his time and his deeds.

But now surely this confusion would end, now that they both accepted that Luka was King. This felt good to Dawd. He had fought against Luka, and Luka had defeated him and then let him withdraw. In that, a sort of compact. Some common respect. Things were the way they should be. The Erdhartssons had accepted this. The business of the Empire was to keep order. Luka would give the orders henceforth, and Dawd would follow them.

His men marched along the sand. The surf and the rocks broke up their lines, but always they swung back straight and even, their pikes on their shoulders, all feet moving together.

He thought of the Princess Casea. The memory rose to the front of his mind, her wide dark eyes, fixed on him, saying, “Serve yourself.” He had no notion how to do that and doubted he ever would, and now in Luka he had a King to follow who was worthy and he needed nothing more. He rode along beside his men, keeping a sharp eye on the beach ahead of them, picking a way through the rocks and driftwood, while the sea rolled its white edge beside him.

*   *   *

Jeon said, “He's doing nothing. Except playing chess with me.” He flopped back onto the softness of his sisters' bed, his arm over his face. Broga had beaten him and mocked him all afternoon. He would never win. He was too stupid and too dull. Checkmate.

“Why do you do that?” Casea asked. Beyond her, Tirza, helping Mervaly sweep up after the birds, turned her huge eyes on him with the same question.

He said, “It's an interesting game.” He rolled over onto his stomach. “It's their game. It's how they think, lines and spaces, lots of rules, holding positions.” He nodded at Tirza. “Remember that place we saw, up the coast, where they were building? Remember the wall across the terrace?”