Thirteen
“Are you all right?”
Not the dragon’s voice, but Werfol, who’d had more than enough surprises for one evening and probably the rest of his life, rolled his eyes. “Ancestors Tormented and Tested,” he muttered under his breath before looking around. “Who is it now?” he grumbled.
“My name is Araben Sethe, young master.” The woman bowed in the Rhothan style, fingers brushing delicately over a song stone, but everything else about her was Ansnan, from her tightly braided hair like a cap of rope to her long coat and high boots. Even her Rhothan had a lilt he’d never heard before, reminding Werfol all at once of Master Setac’s exhortation that people weren’t all the same, not matter their origin. “You are Master Werfol Westietas, second son of the household, are you not?”
It was nice not to be called youngest for once. Werfol bowed back, wincing as he moved his shoulder. “I am. You’re the engineer, come to see my esteemed father.”
“As this one is not.” Sethe looked down at Round Man, then delighted Werfol by neatly spitting on her fellow Ansnan. “Here is my identification.” She held out a compass.
It was a proper compass. He took it, turning it over and over. Unlike the ones in the workshop, this had three knurled knobs and Werfol could see at once they would allow greater precision. “It’s a good one,” he told her, handing it back reluctantly. “We should go,” he said. “It’s going to be dark soon.”
Sethe produced an intriguing small lantern from the bag at her hip. “What of him?”
As if he were her equal and would know. Werfol was about to shrug—the Round Man clearly too heavy to carry and dangerous if he woke up while they tried—when a grim warm breeze tickled his ear. “We will eat his heart for you, Truthseer.” With the words, a head appeared from behind a tree. It looked like a horse, but the rest of it was missing until the body stepped around. Dauntless.
Spirit followed behind. The two prowled closer, looking less and less like horses as they continued to eye the fallen Ansnan.
“You can talk again?” Werfol mouthed the words, knowing they’d hear.
“In the edge.” The breeze found his other ear. “If we choose.”
“Master Westietas?” the Ansnan asked warily. “What are these?”
Ansnor didn’t domesticate horses, preferring cattle, so Werfol didn’t think it a lie, exactly, to say, “War horses. Who aren’t going to eat him,” at which ears went flat but the kruar stopped their advance. “Not that we’re at war,” he finished hastily.
Sethe nodded gravely. “That is why I’ve come, to work toward peace.”
His eyes glowed amber, then gold as the truth in her words erased the lingering hurt of all the lies.
More than that, the little truthseer realized he wasn’t afraid, not like he was with others, to let her see his gift, though Ansnan and the enemy. But she wasn’t an enemy, was she. Maybe some other Ansnans weren’t either. It was an immense thought; one he’d have to ponder later.
“We need your help,” he told her.
She’d seen, he knew, but Araben Sethe merely bowed again, as if a glowing-eyed boy was nothing extraordinary. “I offer it freely.”
Well then. Werfol turned to Dauntless, who continued to drool and glare menacingly at the Round Man. “Watch the prisoner,” he ordered, making sure he looked to Spirit as well. “I’ll send Momma’s guards.”
Unable to resist, he looked deeper, for an instant, thrilled to see their camouflage fall away to reveal the magnificent beasts they were, with glittering swords for manes, and armor-plated bodies. These two had permitted saddles be grown by magic on their backs, but in no other sense were they tame—or horses.
Werfol bowed to them, gave the Round Man—who’d started to groan and was going to be very unhappy when he woke up—his fiercest scowl, then held out his hand. “This way. We’ll sneak in through the kitchen.” His stomach rumbled. “Our cook will have some leftovers.”
For the first time, Araben Sethe smiled.
The bonfires had been spectacular, but those gathered to watch had too much else on their minds to cheer. There’d been some muted “oohs and ahhs”, along with a satisfying “eeek!” from his aunt on his mother’s side when kernels of corn popped right in her lap. The aunt on his father’s side, Aunt Kinsel, had gathered them up and snacked, having a constitution as strong as her teeth.
The rest? Kept looking to their baron for the cue to move inside and hear what he had to say, which would be more and possibly greater news, if he’d had a chance to talk with his missing guest.
An arm slipped through his and he closed his eyes briefly to savor the relief. “You found him.”
“Ancestors Blessed, our son found himself,” Lila replied, her voice full of pride. “And your engineer. They’re in the kitchen enjoying the last of the pork. Go,” she said, feeling his start. “I’ve saved something special to keep our other guests occupied.”
Before he left, Emon took hold of his marvel of a wife and partner to kiss her soundly on the lips.
As he walked away, Lila gave a signal. A guard stepped up to each of the bonfires and tossed in what wasn’t a bundle of sticks at all.
The first fireworks lit the bottom of the clouds above, producing a chorus of astonished and slightly drunken cheers as Emon stepped inside.
“This is my brother Semyn,” Werfol said around a mouthful of juicy pork, feeling a certain lack of formality appropriate given Araben Sethe had her mouth full too. She was younger than he’d first thought. Younger than Momma. He’d a suspicion that had helped keep staff’s questions about an Ansnan in the kitchen at bay when they’d arrived.
That, and Mistress Ioana’s spoon.
Sethe swallowed quickly and rose from the bench to give a short dignified bow. “Your Grace. I am Araben Sethe, here at the baron’s invitation.”
Semyn, being smart, didn’t bother to clarify he wouldn’t be officially the heir or deserve any fancy title until after his upcoming birthday. “Be most welcome.” He dropped onto the bench beside Werfol, sliding close so their shoulders met and he could search his face. “Are you—is everything—is it over?”
Was it? Werfol chewed and swallowed while he considered the question. The story pages were still wrapped around his stomach and should, he thought, be dealt with to keep Momma from truedreaming. The rest? He bumped his brother with his shoulder and grinned. “Yes. Better than all right. I’ve something to show you tomorrow.”
For the turn would come again, every sunset. They didn’t have to go back to Marrowdell for magic.
It had been here all along.