The Grieving Tree: The Dragon Below Book II (13 page)

“You go by sea.” Natrac tapped the modern map, pointing to the coast of Droaam. “A town called Vralkek. It’s not much, but it’s the only real port in Droaam. It’s not too far from Tzaryan Keep, either.” He measured out the distance with his fingers. “A little less than a week overland, I think.”

“Then tomorrow we try and find ourselves passage to Vralkek,” said Singe.

Bava insisted that they stay the night in her house. Geth had to admit that the offer was more than agreeable—especially when Bava produced more wine to celebrate their discovery, the first bit of good luck they’d had all day. While they talked and drank in her studio, Bava got out a pen and ink and made copies of both her maps for them.

Eventually—the wine finished and the ink on Bava’s maps dry—they found space on the floors below and went to sleep. Or at least the others went to sleep. Geth lay awake, their narrow escape from Vennet playing out again and again in his mind. Sleep didn’t come. After a time, he rose again and headed back upstairs to Bava’s studio. He didn’t bother to uncover Bava’s everbright lantern. He opened the tall doors that led onto the little balcony and stepped outside to look out over the night-shrouded City of Stilts. Night in Zarash’ak was different from nights in the swamps—or in the forests of the Eldeen Reaches. Lights broke the shadows, spilling out from taverns and bobbing along in the hands of torch boys, but to shifter eyes that could see in the dark, the extra light made little difference.

What he noticed was the noise. In the swamps and in the Eldeen, nights had been silent, broken occasionally by an animal’s call. In Zarash’ak the noise was constant, even at a late hour. Dogs barking, voices arguing, the slam of doors, the clatter of footsteps. Laughter, singing. A distant scream.

Footsteps climbing the stairs to the studio. Geth glanced over
his shoulder as Singe opened the door and started at his first glimpse of the figure on the balcony. One hand darted for his rapier, the other thrust out in the mystic gesture of a spell.

“It’s me,” Geth called softly.

The wizard relaxed, hands dropping, and made his way across the darkened studio with human night-blind clumsiness. “Don’t tell me you can’t sleep,” he said, voice pitched low. “I have Dandra believing you can sleep anytime, anywhere.”

“Someone needed to stand guard.” Geth turned back to face the night.

“Vennet and Dah’mir aren’t going to find us here.”

“Old habits stick,” he growled. “What are you doing up?”

Singe stepped up to lean on the balcony beside him. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Geth grunted. For a few moments, they stood in silence, then Singe asked, “What do you think it is that Natrac doesn’t want to talk about?”

“I don’t know.”

“What made you think he used to be a gladiator?”

Geth stared into the dark and narrowed his eyes. “Just before the attack on the Bonetree mound, while we were waiting for Batul’s orcs to move into position, we could hear Hruucan beating the light out of you—”

Singe grimaced. “I
was
fighting back,” he said.

“From the sound of it, you weren’t doing a very good job,” said Geth. “Natrac read the noise of the crowd like a gambler reads a game of cross. He said it was the sort of thing you picked up in an arena and I asked if he’d been a gladiator.”

“What did he say?”

“He didn’t give me a straight answer. I guess everybody has their secrets.” He turned his face to look up at the discs and crescents of the moons in the sky.

Singe didn’t say anything. Geth glanced back at him. The wizard was staring down into the street below, but it didn’t seem as if he was looking at anything in particular. One hand moved on the balcony railing, palm rubbing the smooth wood. “Singe?” Geth asked.

The wizard spoke without looking at him. “I remember something else that was said at the Bonetree mound.” Geth’s guts felt
hollow. He didn’t answer. Singe raised his head. “You said we would talk about Narath.”

“I remember.” His words came back to him.
Singe, about Narath—if we get out of this, we’ll talk. No more running
.

The promise brought back memories of the battle at the Bonetree mound, of the crush of dolgrims and Bonetree hunters, of the shock of Dah’mir’s transformation and the acrid stink of the dragon’s corrosive venom. But it also carried all of the memories of an older battle, of black ash and red blood staining the snow of northern Karrnath.

He’d told Adolan about the massacre years ago. But Adolan hadn’t been in Narath.

Geth gripped the rail. “Singe, I—” He clenched his teeth, grinding them together. “I’m not ready.”

Singe’s silence was cold. He stepped back, his face hard and angry. “You’re not ready?
You’re
not ready?”

“Later,” said Geth. “Another time—”

“Later?” Singe spat back at him. “It’s been nine years, Geth. How much later do you need? I hunted you for four years after Narath. I only gave up because you vanished—if I’d known where you were I would have called in every favor anyone ever owed me and brought an entire Blademarks company down on your hairy backside. If the Bonetree hunters hadn’t attacked, I would have hamstrung you that night I found you in Bull Hollow and carried you back to Karrlakton to face the lords of House Deneith. The Frostbrand company died in Narath, Geth. Robrand d’Deneith might as well have died there.”

Geth turned away. Singe grabbed his shoulder. The shifter spun around and thrust his hand back. “I don’t want to talk about it!”

“Bloody moons, maybe I do!” Singe’s face was blotched with red. “The Aundairians that attacked Narath shouldn’t have been able to get past the waterfront—but they did. Treykin was on the barricades. When it was all over, Robrand and I found him. He was still alive—barely. My people had left him trying to hold his intestines in his body with his hands.”

The sound of Treykin’s braying laugh stung Geth’s ears. “Robrand said that once we joined the Blademarks, our people were the other members of the company.”

Singe’s anger hissed between his teeth. “Don’t quote the old man’s words back to me. I tried to help Treykin and he spat at me. He wouldn’t let an Aundairian give him the mercy that Aundairians had denied him—but before he died, he told Robrand the barricades had been overrun from behind and forced open. The attacking troops had found a way into the town. There weren’t many ways through the walls of Narath. Robrand and I only had to check two of them before we found out how the Aundairians got into Narath.”

Geth hunched back, the hair on his forearms and on the back of his neck bristling. “Don’t,” he growled.

Singe didn’t stop. “A sewer,” he said. “A dung gate that three men could have held.
Should
have held. We found signs of a struggle—but we found the bodies of only two of the three men assigned to that gate. There were tracks in the snow, though. Someone had fled.”

Geth clenched his fists—and his jaw. He said nothing. Singe gave him a look of disgust, then added, “Robrand went to Karrlakton in person to report the Frostbrand’s failure to protect Narath. The old man was a true commander. He carried the blame. He told the lords of Deneith that the massacre of Narath was his responsibility. The lords accepted that—and took everything away from him. Most of Deneith won’t even say his name now. They don’t want to recognize that he even existed.” He took a slow, deep breath. “I want answers, Geth. I want to know what happened.”

The hollow in Geth’s guts had grown, swelling into a pit and engulfing him entirely. He was numb. Narath surrounded him. Wounds he had thought long healed felt like they had been ripped open again. His tongue seemed swollen in his mouth. There were no words in his throat.

He shook his head, mute.

Singe’s mouth twisted. He turned and stalked back into Bava’s studio. A moment later, Geth heard his feet on the stairs.

The shifter crouched down, resting his cheek on the bars of the railing and staring out between them.

Dandra woke to the whispering of children.

It was tempting to go back to sleep. She probably could have
done it even over the murmur of the children’s activity. Tetkashtai, though, was fully alert. Her yellow-green glow shimmered in Dandra’s mind, prodding her.
Dandra! Dandra, wake up! Listen to them!

There was an edge of panic to the presence’s mental voice, but then there almost always was. Still, Dandra opened her eyes. The room in which she, Natrac, and Orshok had found space to stretch out was suffused with a pale gray light. Through an open window she could see a gentle, enveloping morning mist.

Natrac was still asleep. Orshok’s blankets were empty, though there was no sign of the druid. Bava’s children, all of them it seemed, were clustered together at one end of the room, a couple peering cautiously out of the window. Dandra could just catch their words. She blinked the haze of sleep form her eyes and tried to focus on what they were saying.

“… should wake
Nena.”

“She doesn’t want to be woken unless it’s important!”

“I don’t like this!”

“Quiet!” One of the figures at the window was Diad. He raised his head over the sill, then ducked back and turned around. His eyes were wide and his heavy jaw was thrust forward. “They’re still there.”

A flash of unease set Dandra’s heart beating faster. She sat up. “Who’s still there?”

The children turned like a flock of birds, moving in unison to face her as she rose from her blankets. One of the smallest whimpered and ducked behind another. Ose and Mine, the twins, came forward, though. “Goblins,” said Mine in a low, serious voice.

Ose added, “They’re watching the house.”

Dandra glanced at Diad and the young man nodded. Dandra picked up her spear and crept forward to join him at the window. “Show me,” she said.

Diad looked outside again, then gestured—below the level of the sill—to the right. “There’s a cistern,” he said. “There are two of them hiding behind it. I think I recgonize them. They’re from a gang called the Biters.”

Cautiously, Dandra lifted her head until she could just see outside. Through the mist, she could see the shape of the cistern and the broad, round head of a goblin on the other side of it.

One of the goblin’s ears had been bitten off halfway along its its length. Dandra slid back down.

“There are more,” said Diad. “They’re hiding—I don’t think they know we’ve seen them. Most are watching the front door, but there are some at the back door as well.”

“How many?”

“We’ve counted twelve. There could be more.”

“It’s every goblin in Zarash’ak!” Ose said.

“No, it’s not,” her sister corrected her. “They wouldn’t all fit on our street!”

Dandra gestured for them to be quiet. “Diad,” she said. “Wake your mother.” She looked at the other children. “The rest of you stay away from the windows.”

She woke Natrac, then went looking for the others. Roused by a hunter’s instincts, Ashi was already awake and alert. Singe stirred reluctantly at Dandra’s touch—his eyes were shadowed by dark circles as if he hadn’t slept well—but he sat up sharply at news that the house being watched. “Vennet’s crew?” he asked as he kicked off tangled blankets.

Dandra shook her head. “The goblin gang from the webs. They must have tracked us down.” She helped him to his feet and led him and Ashi back to the room with the children. “Diad’s waking Bava. I’m still looking for Geth and Orshok.”

“I’m here.” Orshok appeared in the door of the room, still in the act of pulling his shirt over his head. Bava pushed past him to sweep down on her children with her arms spread protectively. The artist wore a loose gown that flapped and billowed around her. Both she and Orshok had an unmistakable flush on their cheeks. Natrac’s eyebrows rose. Orshok’s gray-green face darkened in a blush.

Bava fussed over her children, gathering them together and admonishing them to stay quiet. Only when she seemed satisfied that nothing had happened to them did she turn back to Dandra and the others. “What’s going on?”

Dandra repeated what she had told Singe, but Bava frowned. “That can’t be right.”

“Why not?” asked Natrac. Bava looked at him sideways.