Dragon's Treasure (3 page)

Pain shot through her scalp. She yanked the bronze hair clip from her head, and flung it away. A searing silver rain spattered at her feet. Flame erupted from the dry forest floor. She ran, and fell, and ran again. A tree crashed in front of her, showering her with sparks. Eyes tight shut against the bitter smoke, she felt her way around it. A body cannoned into her.

"This way!" a man's voice cried. "This way. Get to the river!"

Suddenly her legs went out from under her. She fell, and slid into a sour, enveloping coolness. Near her, someone sobbed. She clutched at the riverbank. Far away, a horse screamed in agony, a terrible rending sound.

The sobbing man cursed.

* * *

Eventually, the fire passed.

Maia sat on a rock. She had no idea how she had gotten there: she did not recall leaving the haven of the river. Below her the land sloped down toward a scorched hollow. Debris littered the ground: shards of blackened wood, which had once been the thick beams of a house, her house.

Morga shivered at her feet. The black hound had somehow remained with her through her flight through the woods, and even to the river. Her coat was caked with mud; she trembled, but appeared to be unhurt. Fenris was gone: dead, no doubt. Maia's limbs felt sluggish and sore, as if she had been beaten.

Her gown was charred. She still had her knife, though; somehow, through long hours clinging to reeds in the river, it had stayed in its sheath.

Clouds like feathers streaked the pale mauve sky. A shadow passed over the sun. She looked up. High above her, the Golden Dragon, terrible and beautiful, glittered in the autumn air. His immense pale wings were evanescent as gossamer. She wondered if he knew what he had done.

A place on her side pulsed with pain. She heard Master Eccio's cool, astringent voice in her head, reminding her that tea, or a paste made of old-man's-beard, would ease the pain of burns and scalds. She had no tea.

Atani soldiers, worn and grim, accompanied by one sore-footed horse, moved slowly along the ridgetop. They halted when they saw her. After a moment, one of them maneuvered down the slippery, ash-strewn slope. He was hairless, even to his eyebrows. His face was streaked with mud and ash, as was hers. Morga growled at him. Maia stroked the dog's sleek head.

"Hush."

He said, "You need shelter. Come with us."

"To Dragon Keep?" She shook her head. "I think not."

"Where will you go?"

"I know a place." She had a picture in her mind, of a place where the river widened into a pool beside a tangle of berry bushes. Near it lay a stone cottage, a trapper's hut. Her mother had brought her to it, soon after they arrived from Sorvino.

What is this place, Mama?
twelve-year-old Maia had asked.

Her mother had said simply,
A place where I was happy. I wanted you to see it.

"You're sure?" the soldier said.

"Yes," she said. "I'm sure. Thank you."

He left, limping. Her legs ached, and her chest hurt from breathing smoke. She was stiff. The longer she sat, the stiffer her body would be. She rose. With the wolfhound at her heels, she ascended the slope. At the crest of the ridge, she stopped. Below her spread a meadow, and beyond it the blue-green tinge of forest. A glint of silver caught her eye: the river, curving through the amber meadow grass. She trudged down the slope. The river was farther away than she had thought.

By the time she reached the cottage she was shivering. A ghost of a path led to a vine-covered entrance. She struggled through the thick tangle. A thorn hidden in the glossy leaves left a bloody scrape on her arm.

"Come on, girl," she whispered to the anxious dog. Morga whined and wriggled through after her. The cottage was small, but it seemed dry. Morga snuffled in the corners. A shutterless window, a simple square, graced the south wall. A rude chest sat below it. Maia lifted the lid. Inside it, someone, some trapper or hunter, had left a blanket, a bowl, a jug, and a coiled, dry bowstring.

Thank you, she said to that unknown stranger. She wrapped the blanket around her shaking shoulders.

"Hey, girl." The dog came to her. "What shall we do now, eh?" The dog licked her chin. The cottage was dim. Light, she thought. Fire.

Methodically she felt about the hearth until she felt a loose stone. She pried it up. As she had hoped, a small leather pouch lay in the exposed hole. Inside was a bit of dry puffball, and three jagged bits of flint.

Not too far from the hut grew a cluster of white-trunked birches. Chips of bark, some of them long as her arm, littered the ground. She gathered bark in her blanket. With her knife, she cut swaths of meadow grass. Fingers chilling, she struck flint against the knife blade. At last a spark leaped into the puffball. She blew on it; it flamed. She thrust a spear of grass into the flame, and, when it lit, held it to the hearth.

It caught. The fire sang in its bed. She dragged the chest across the hard dirt floor and positioned it athwart the doorway. An owl hooted across the meadow.

Some creature of the twilight, hunter or prey, rustled through the tall grass outside the hut. Morga's head lifted; she rose to her feet.

"Morga, no! Stay." To Maia's relief, the dog obeyed the croaked command. "Lie down." They curled together beside the fire. Dragons tussled in its glowing heart. Maia's stomach growled with hunger. In the morning she would look for food. She knew how to fish. Treion had taught her. Savage, dangerous Treion...

He was dead, of course, he and all the men who rode with him. He could not have escaped the fire.

A chill breeze blew through the exposed doorway. It smelled of ash. Her hair was filthy; she needed soap to get it clean. She needed warm clothes, candles, a pot to cook in, none of which she had, nor any way to get them. She was alone. Her mother was dead. Fenris was dead. Her grandfather was dead. Treion was dead.

Her eyes stung with tears. She forced them back.

She would not weep. She was Iva Unamira's daughter; she would
not
weep.

2

The burning of Coll's Ridge made news across Ippa.

In Castria Market, where the first sketchy tales were told, the farmers and shepherds spoke of it with grim satisfaction. They were not a vengeful folk, but Thorin Amdur and his family were well-known and well respected throughout Dragon's domain, and all of them had suffered, over the years, from Reo Unamira's attentions.

The merchants from Mako and Ujo and Averra were pleased. Dragon Keep's soldiers were well trained, but they could not be everywhere, and more than one trader, over the years, had found his wagons waylaid in the twilight by Reo Unamira's men, and forced to hand over a few barrels of wine or oil or grain.

"Consider it a toll," the old outlaw had been wont to say, grinning.

In the days that followed, the news grew bleaker. Ten of Dragon Keep's soldiers had lost their lives in the fire. More had suffered burns. Macallan, the Keep's physician, was dead. So was Elief Ivarson from Castria, and Huw Udall, whose parents farmed land outside Chingura.

No one was quite sure what had caused Karadur Atani to burn Unamira's house. Those who had survived the conflagration did not speak of it. This was not surprising. Murgain Ohair, fifteen years archery-master at Dragon Keep, who knew something of Karadur Atani's temper, shared a beer one night at the Red Oak tavern in Sleeth with Egain the tavern keeper, and Niall Cooley, the leather-worker of Chingura, new come from Dragon Keep.

"How is it at the castle?" he inquired.

"Very quiet," said the leather-worker. "The men are mending. Finle Haraldsen has burns on both arms; he had the worst of it, I think."

"What of Dragon?"

"He's barred himself in the tower. No one sees him, save Azil Aumson."

Murgain said, "What angered him?"

Egain said, "I heard it was Reo Unamira's speech. The old outlaw gave the lord some insult."

Niall lowered his voice. "It was the insolence of the man who led the raid. Yellow-haired, smooth-tongued; called himself the Bastard. Took Herugin with him as safe conduct. Said he would not kill him, but what worth does the word of an outlaw have? Dragon went wild. His father come back again, men said it was."

* * *

The day after the burning, Angus Halland went out to mend the stone fence that ran along the eastern border of his farm.

He was very weary. Neither he nor his wife Maura had slept for two nights. Their daughter was sick. In the five years since her birth, Rianna had often suffered random fevers and coughing spells. But this episode seemed more severe than the others. Angus had sat up with her most of the night.

"Papa, it hurts," she whispered hoarsely, holding her throat. "Why does it hurt so much?" He could not answer.

"It's the ash from the fire," Maura said quietly, bathing her face. "My sweet, it will pass."

A light pall of smoke marred the sky to the east. Northward the peaks of the Ippan range stood sentinel. Dragon's Eye, steepest of the peaks, held a dusting of white along its crevices. The air was soft, no hint of frost. He found a gap in the fence. The ground around it was imprinted with the marks of many horses' hooves. The riders coming from the ridge had jumped the fence and tumbled the stones. The biggest of them was sunk in mud. He rocked it and kicked at it, but the ground held it firm. He would need a stick to pry it loose.

He went back to the barn and found an old ax handle. As he levered the stone out of the sucking soil, Anni, the aging black-and-white shepherd dog, growled. A tall woman stood on the other side of the fence. A lean black wolfhound pressed close to her side.

She was clean, though her blue gown was soiled and stained. Her brown hair was shoulder-length, and so uneven that it looked to him as if someone had chopped at it with a knife. He had never seen her before. The dogs gazed fixedly at each other.

"I could help you with that," the woman said. She had a pleasant voice. She stepped through the gap. While the dogs walked stiff-legged around each other, sniffing, the two of them rolled the big stone into place. Angus put the remainder of the stones on top of it, fitting each one as he knew it had to go. He walked along the fence, looking for more dropped stones. She kept pace with him. He found a fallen stone, and put it into place again. When they reached the gate, he held it open and walked his fingers in the air.

"You want me to come with you?" He pointed toward the farmhouse. "You can't speak?" He nodded again. She followed him to the farmhouse door. He pushed it open.

Maura looked up from her work. He pointed at the stranger, and touched his fist to his heart.

Maura rose. She filled a cup with cider.

"Welcome," she said, holding out the cup. "I am Maura Halland. This is my husband, Angus. Come in."

* * *

The house was warm, and it smelled of new bread. A ginger cat looked up from its place on the windowsill to gaze suspiciously at the black dog.

"Grace to the house," Maia said. She took the cup the woman handed her. She sipped. The cider's fruity wine taste made her momentarily dizzy. "My name is Maia."

Angus Halland smiled at her. He was a good-looking man. A pity he could not speak. She put the cup down.

"Sit, please," Maura said, indicating a bench beside the table. "Have some breakfast." A platter on the table held a loaf of bread and some thick slices of cheese. Maia laid a slice of cheese across a slab of bread, and bit into it. The bread had bits of pumpkin in it. Her fingers shook. She made herself eat slowly. Maura set a bowl on the floor for the black-and-white dog, and another, on the other side of the room, for Morga.

Maura Halland was an ugly woman. She was not deformed; her limbs were in the right places. But her proportions were wrong. Her torso was long, and her legs stumpy and short. She had massive hips, and almost no chest. Her face was ill-fashioned as well: her nose was too big, her eyes too small, and her mouth too wide. Her hair was lovely.

Midnight black, thick and glossy, it fell smooth as a waterfall to the middle of her back.

"Did you mend the fence?" she asked Angus. He nodded. His fingers drummed a gallop on the tabletop. "How many riders were there?" His fingers flashed, then spread apart. "They were Reo Unamira's men, weren't they? I wonder what mischief the old devil's up to now. By the smoke, it looks as if he's burned the ridge down."

Maia said, "He's dead. Karadur Atani killed him."

"Tell us, please, what happened." She did. At the end of her recital, Maura said slowly, "This is quite a tale you have told us. Thorin Amdur dead, and the Unamira house burned to ash, and Unamira with it."

Maia said, "It is true."

"Oh, I believe you. But who are you?"

"My full name is Maia Unamira diSorvino. Reo Unamira was my grandfather."

Maura said, "Then you are Iva's daughter. I heard she had returned from Sorvino, and that she brought a girl-child with her."