A Dragon for William Read online

  Julie E. Czerneda

  A Dragon for William

  A Story of Night’s Edge

  DAW BOOKS, INC.

  WWW.DAWBOOKS.COM

  The Finest in DAW Science Fiction and Fantasy by JULIE E. CZERNEDA:

  THE CLAN CHRONICLES:

  Stratification:

  REAP THE WILD WIND (#1)

  RIDERS OF THE STORM (#2)

  RIFT IN THE SKY (#3)

  The Trade Pact:

  A THOUSAND WORDS FOR STRANGER (#1)

  TIES OF POWER (#2)

  TO TRADE THE STARS (#3)

  Reunification:

  THIS GULF OF TIME AND STARS (#1)

  THE GATE TO FUTURES PAST (#2)

  TO GUARD AGAINST THE DARK (#3)

  TALES FROM PLEXIS

  * * *

  NIGHT’S EDGE:

  A TURN OF LIGHT (#1)

  A PLAY OF SHADOW (#2)

  * * *

  SPECIES IMPERATIVE:

  Omnibus Edition

  SURVIVAL | MIGRATION | REGENERATION

  * * *

  WEB SHIFTERS:

  BEHOLDER’S EYE (#1)

  CHANGING VISION (#2)

  HIDDEN IN SIGHT (#3)

  Web Shifter’s Library:

  SEARCH IMAGE (#1)

  MIRAGE (#2)*

  THE ONLY THING TO FEAR

  * * *

  IN THE COMPANY OF OTHERS

  THE GOSSAMER MAGE

  *Coming soon from DAW Books

  Copyright © 2019 by Julie E. Czerneda.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover design by Katie Anderson.

  Map by Julie E. Czerneda

  Cover elements courtesy of Shutterstock.

  Edited by Sheila E. Gilbert.

  Published by DAW Books, Inc.

  1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  The uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780756415594

  First Publication, December 2019

  DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED

  U.S. PAT. AND TM. OFF. AND FOREIGN COUNTRIES

  —MARCA REGISTRADA

  HECHO EN U.S.A.

  Version_1

  TO BROTHERS

  There is a real and wonderful William,

  with a real and wonderful brother,

  who isn’t named Simon,

  but just might be named Colin.

  This story’s for you both.

  Please share it with your real and wonderful parents,

  who just might be named Lauren and Mark.

  And if Lila reminds you,

  a wee bit of your mom?

  She has a story for you too.

  To those who aren’t William,

  but might just have a brother,

  and wish for a dragon,

  or long for some wonder?

  Why this story’s for you as well.

  However far we are apart,

  Keep Us Close.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Also by Julie E. Czerneda

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  William Had a Secret

  Three

  William’s Great Plan

  Four

  William Catches the Black Moustache

  Five

  The Dragon Sneaks In

  Six

  A Just Reward

  Seven

  Eight

  A Tasty Pursuit

  Nine

  Ten

  Time for a Duel

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Werfol and the Dragon

  Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Wishes Do Come True

  Concerning the Denizens of Marrowdell

  Concerning the Denizens of Vorkoun

  Concerning Others Mentioned

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  This Past Autumn, Within the World of Crows and Barons . . .

  “Hearts of my Ancestors, I wish you’d met with better, m’lord, upon your return from the capital.” Chancellor Rober Milne finished his bow and accepted Baron Emon Westietas’ hand in a warm clasp of his own. His usually composed and pleasant features were lined with distress as he invited his visitor to sit, then took his place behind the wide desk.

  Emon smiled at his old friend. “You’re too kind. ‘Return?’ By now, news of my disgrace and indefinite exile must have reached all ears.” He’d been tossed out of the House of Keys by Prince Ordo for his failure as an envoy to neighboring Mellynne. That their bitter trade dispute with Rhoth was over didn’t matter; his role had been secret and the result, it became clear, not what the prince expected. So be it. He’d done his duty to Rhoth and its people, if not to whatever goal the prince kept hidden.

  Milne leaned forward. “Our prince is worse than a fool. We need you there more than ever, m’lord.”

  “My family needs me here,” Emon replied. “The baroness and our sons have reached Weken on their journey south. Thanks to you, they’ll have a home.” For he’d arrived to the consequences of the prince’s new peace treaty with Ansnor. Yes, he’d known their beautiful city would be cut in two: the northern half to remain Vorkoun and part of Rhoth; the southern now Ansnan and called by a name so old few remembered it. Mondir.

  In the distant past, Rhothan and Ansnan had shared the wide valley of the Lilem River where it came through the mountains. Had lived in peace on their opposite shores, building bridges and more together. Their drift apart hadn’t come from conflict; the Rhothans loved living in their city and were good neighbors, but the Ansnans had turned more and more to their mountains, closer to the stars they worshipped and the wealth of their mines. They’d ultimately ceded Mondir to Vorkoun, blending their cities into one, living still in peace.

  No more. In his lifetime—since Ordo’s unlamented father’s tumultuous reign—the Rhothan border with Ansnor had slammed shut but for a trickle of smugglers and the soldiers sent to guard the disputed marches between.

  Now the Ansnans had moved back in, reestablishing Mondir. Among their acquisitions? The riverside tower housing the Westietas for four generations. Emon’s smile faded. “I don’t know how to thank you.” Somehow, the chancellor had had word in time to arrange for their possessions to be removed and stored, personal belongings and their remaining staff brought to the summer estate.

  “Do not.” Milne’s face crumbled. “Heart’s Blood, I wish we could have saved your home too. All the homes. But it’s done.” The chancellor lowered his face into the palm of one hand. “We’re done.” The other hand waved in midair. “Vorkoun.”

  Emon Westieta
s kept his expression composed, though the crow on his shoulder gave an impatient flutter. Scatterwit was right. Ancestors Desperate and Dire, they needed more than despair and grief from the person in charge of the city to survive this perilous folly of Ordo’s. More from them all. “Much will change—” he began.

  Milne dropped his hand to glare at him. “Baron Westietas, are you one to find beauty in ruin? The prince has given everything to our enemy—most of our homes and businesses, our holy places and schools—the blood in our veins and for what?! The Eld’s bloody train!”

  He let the echoes of the shout settle, granting Milne’s fury its due, then gave a little shrug, holding in his own. These first months would be crucial. It would be an uneasy partnership, if it worked at all.

  “A train which needs rails and bridges. People trained to operate and repair it.” He paused, cupped hand palm up. “And a train sent into Ansnor for minerals won’t travel there empty. Goods and people. Trade, Chancellor, every bit funneled through our city.”

  The official eased back in his chair. Aggrieved, yes, but listening. You didn’t administrate a city like Vorkoun without a certain flexibility of thought. “I’m well aware you study such mechanicals, Emon,” he replied at last. “You suggest we’ll see benefits but how, I ask you, with Ansnor moving to take ownership? Already, our streets fill with soldiers who don’t know what peace looks like. Each day, more residents pack to leave and I can’t blame them.”

  What had Lila said? Give Vorkoun a chance to survive. Find an option. A way to make peace work for all.

  Surprising words, from his most unpeaceful partner. Or unsurprising, given Lila’s other aspect: the mother of their sons, determined to carve them a future. Sons soon to be returned to him, a family restored.

  He’d be on the road to meet them, if he could, if politics cared about his heart, if this meeting didn’t matter more to their safety and everyone’s.

  Emon clicked his tongue softly. Scatterwit flapped into the open window and perched on the sill, a black shadow. A witness, that too.

  “That’s why I’m here, Rober.” The baron set his portfolio on the table. “I’ve an idea.”

  * * *

  Four Hundred and Seventy Years ago, Within the World of Toads and Dragons . . .

  There was magic, enough. Beings who used it, or were it, or both. There was sky and earth and seasons, of a sort, though it didn’t snow. How could it? Water stayed where it was summoned, in fountains and wells, and what rained from sky to earth in its seasons was mimrol. Silver and warm, mimrol carved rivers and filled lakes, spreading magic as it flowed.

  Dragons hunted the air, kruar the ground, and toads, though cousins, stayed out of sight. Terst farmed and built, bringing peace where it could flourish, and avoided dragons and kruar too. All had their place, whatever they thought of it, or if they even did.

  But there were those, the sei, who thought a great deal. Sei pondered what was beyond the ken of others, being as curious as they were powerful, and one fateful day the sei wondered . . . was there more?

  And one day wondered . . . could they touch it?

  And all would have remained as it was, with magic enough and peace, but on a day when the light of an unseen sun dimmed, on a day when anything seemed possible, one sei reached from the world of dragons and toads, into that of crows and barons . . .

  Tearing both worlds open.

  Making both worlds bleed.

  Spilling magic.

  The sei mended that tear, as best it could. Used itself like thread. Held on, accepting that penance.

  While dragons and toads, as well as kruar and terst, explored what the sei had wrought.

  * * *

  Today . . .

  There’s a world of crows and barons.

  There’s a world of dragons and toads.

  Writhing through both is the edge where they meet, for the sei holds, still.

  Magic, wild and potent, lives there.

  And the sei remain . . . curious.

  One

  The Northward Road squirmed its way south from the Barrens beyond the trees, where no one lived but myth and monsters, toward where people did, wiggling like a sneaky snake between forest-cloaked ridges, never quite lost.

  Never quite safe. Safety, Werfol Westietas knew beyond doubt, lay behind them in Marrowdell. Not on this road where they’d been pursued by unseen enemies, fleeing their home because that hadn’t been safe either, being full of liars.

  Nor was it safe yet. Momma, who sat up front of their sleigh beside Tir Half-face, had warned him and Semyn, his older brother and the heir.

  Marrowdell was, being full of good and kind people who mostly told the truth. Marrowdell was safe because Jenn Nalynn lived there. She was turn-born and magical and wouldn’t put up with anyone intent on harm. It was safe because Uncle Bannan was there too, and he was a truthseer like Werfol and had been a soldier. Most of all, Werfol thought, it was safe because of Wisp.

  Wisp, who was a dragon, fierce and wild and a particular friend of Jenn’s. Wisp had found and saved him and Semyn and Tir—who’d saved them until then, but was only a man—from freezing to death. Wisp had played games with them in the snow and taught them things. Wisp was—

  “Weed—did you see the fox?”

  By the time Werfol looked where his brother pointed, the kruar pulling their sleigh had taken them past it, being stronger and faster than horses. As well as bloodthirsty, so he thought it just as well the fox had been left behind. He slumped back. “Don’t call me ‘Weed,’” he grumbled. It was Poppa’s name for him, because he was growing like one, leaving clothes and shoes and gloves behind almost before they were used, but Poppa wasn’t here.

  Poppa hadn’t been, when they’d run from home without Momma, and taken this horrible road, and when Werfol remembered that, he got mad inside.

  As if she knew, Momma—Baroness Lila Westietas, sister to Uncle Bannan—turned her head to gaze down at him, the kruar well able to stay on a road bordered by rock and tree. He made himself smile and she nodded. “Stay warm,” she advised, though he and his brother couldn’t help but be rather toasty, sharing several blankets and wearing hats and mittens, all gifts from Marrowdell. “We’ll leave the snow behind soon. There’ll be a carriage and horses waiting in Endshere.”

  “Will we leave Dauntless and Spirit there?” Semyn asked hopefully, for the pair didn’t like him the way they did Werfol and Momma.

  Werfol kicked him under the blankets. “Of course not!”

  Momma chuckled. “I doubt we could,” she said, which Werfol understood but Semyn didn’t.

  His brother didn’t remember.

  He didn’t remember Wisp or dragons or house toads. He didn’t remember Jenn Nalynn, for she was magic and didn’t exist beyond Marrowdell, not even as a memory, except to a few. Werfol remembered, oh yes, as did Momma, for she’d drawn him aside to explain, but the kruar did not, becoming mute and acting like horses.

  Almost. They still ate rabbits.

  It was because they’d gone beyond the edge, the place where the magical Verge—home to dragons and kruar—tangled with their world, so there could be magic.

  Marrowdell being in the edge, it meant he couldn’t share Marrowdell, not the best and important parts of it, with his own brother. It was like sitting beside a stranger.

  It was the most terrible thing that had ever happened, but he wasn’t going to cry, not again.

  Werfol ran his hands over the satchel on his lap. Master Dusom had given it to him at Marrowdell’s Midwinter Beholding. The leather was soft and dark with use, having been someone else’s before and someone else’s before that, for Marrowdell wasn’t a rich place and its people shared what they had. The satchel contained more gifts. A notebook with well-worn edges from Master Jupp. His great-niece Riss had sewn new pages inside, for Werfol to write upon, though he wasn’t sure what. />
  He cradled the bag close. There was another gift inside, one hardly appropriate for a baron’s son who was almost six and past such things. Semyn, being polite, hadn’t cracked a smile but Werfol had seen the twinkle in his brother’s eye and knew the moment they were alone, the teasing would start. But how could he have refused little Loee, the toddler coming up to him, her round-cheeked face solemn, thrusting out her arms to give him Goosie?

  The stuffed toy only vaguely resembled a gosling though it had been yellow once upon a time. Having been a favorite, Loee’s mother said fondly, of her older sons, the color had long since faded to a brownish gold. Someone, perhaps a grown son, recently painted purple spots on Goosie’s belly and under the stubby wings, as well as restoring its large black eyes. It was the ugliest toy Werfol had ever seen and too small for any but a toddler to enjoy cuddling.

  Nonetheless, having it in the satchel, squeezing it in his arms as they raced along the bleak Northward Road, Goosie made the young truthseer feel a little less alone.

  * * *

  In summer, the Westietas’ mountain estate welcomed guests along a tree-shaded cobbled roadway that split around the wide fountain and pool to unite before the great front doors. The main building, of well-fitted stone, extended its arms on either side in greeting, windows sparkling and balconies full of flowers. It was in no sense a fortress.

  And not yet a home, Emon thought. This close to winter, the water had been drained from the fountain. Dried dead leaves filled the pool and scuttled across the cobblestones. The balconies stood bare and most windows were shuttered.

  Some were not, light pouring out as did smoke from the many chimneys, thanks to the chancellor and to the few staff who’d come, and the groundskeeper they shared with their closest neighbor, his Aunt Kinsel and her sons. Inside was warm—warmer—than without, the kitchen well stocked, and he’d managed to distract himself these past days in his workshop.