Dragonoak (28 page)

“I
didn't mean to be gone for so long,” I blurted out. “Really, I
didn't. Everything just...”

He
placed a cup of tea in front of me, and I stared down at it, biting
my lower lip.

“You had to leave home eventually,” he said gently, sitting
down opposite me. For as quiet as he'd always been, I could tell he
was straining to hold all his questions back. His eyes flickered
across me for the hundredth time, and he took in the sight of my
darkened skin and said, “Where
have
you been? Last I heard from you, you were at Isin
and, ah. And I know how that turned out.”

“Canth,”
I said, and it sounded ridiculous, even to me. “We were in Canth.
After the dragons came, we couldn't get past the soldiers and back
into Felheim. We ended up along the coast, and it was the only
place we could go. Honestly. I didn't think we'd be gone for so
long...”

I
wrapped my fingers around the cup, taking in the heat as though
cold air was causing me to shiver.

“What
happened here?”

“Nothing
so exciting as Canth,” he said, smiling quizzically at the thought.
“The plague reached us a few months after you'd left. It was
contained, for the first few weeks, and then we had three deaths in
a day. Houses were boarded up, businesses left behind. People took
what they could and spread out through the country. I chose to stay
here because... well, you and Michael needed somewhere to come back
to.”

I stared
down at the surface of the tea, at my blurred, bright reflection,
guilt sinking into my marrow. My father had been alone for more
than a year, waiting and waiting.

“Michael? Is he... ?”

“The
last I heard, he was in Kyrindval. This was before the business
with the dragons, of course,” my father said, sipping thoughtfully
on his tea. “Word rarely crosses the border, these days, unless in
an official capacity.”

I
nodded, though I'd been told nothing new. Michael's fate was
uncertain as it had ever been, but I had to believe the pane had
been spared.

“I'm
sorry for running away,” I said, pressing my hands to my face. My
father had stayed here for me, and yet I hadn't even been able to
bring myself to say goodbye. “I didn't know what I was doing. I
don't know why I just left, I—”

“I do,”
he said. He'd never cut me off before, and I took notice of what he
was saying. “It was clear enough how they were treating you. I
ought to have said something; ought to have done something years
ago, when they thought you were a healer, but you seemed so happy
to be helping people.

“I only
wish I'd acted sooner. Moved away when the village turned against
you. I should be the one apologising.”

I
scrunched up my face, eyes dry, temples throbbing, and shook my
head. Of course we couldn't have left. This was our home, our life;
we had the farm, dozens of animals to look after. We couldn't have
left that all behind because of me.

“It's
fine. It's fine, I don't... don't think anyone should know how to
deal with this,” I said. “It's just bad luck, having a necromancer
for a daughter, I guess.”

“It's
bad luck having a daughter born into a Kingdom that discriminates
against necromancers,” he hurried to correct me.

I looked
away, desperate to scrape together the right words to reply to
that, but could only get to my feet, and move over to wrap my arms
around his shoulders.

“I wasn't surprised when you left. I was glad to get your
letters,” he said, patting me against the back. “Sir Ightham's
abrupt departure had the village in a state for days. No one
thought to suggest that you'd somehow been involved for the better
part of a week. I'm glad you had good company on your journey.
This
we
you
mentioned...”

My arms
went slack around him and I stood back up straight, mumbling, “No,
Claire, she...”

“Ah,” he
said, brushing his fingers against his mouth. “I'm sorry to hear
that.”

I fell
back into my seat, determined not to let myself sink
further.

“My
friends are with me, though!” I said, “It's alright for them to
stay here, isn't it? Just for a while?”

“Of
course,” he said, answer matched by a knock at the door.

My
father rose to answer the door and I shuffled over on my seat so
that I could peer out into the corridor. The front door hadn't
swung shut all the way behind me, and I saw my father pull the door
to, saying, “Hello,” before he set his eyes on Kouris. If he'd ever
seen a pane in his life, I would've known about it. Kouris bowed
forward, ears folded back as she gave him her best smile. After a
moment of staring, my father said, “Ah. Mind your head.”

Kouris
ducked through the doorway, remaining hunched over once she was
inside.

“Cosy!”
she said, clapping her hands together, and met my gaze with a grin.
My chest tightened at the sight of how pleased she was for me, and
I silently thanked her for giving me and my father time alone.
“Look at that! It's just like you said it was.”

“Dad,
this is Kouris. Kouris, this is my dad,” I said, chin propped on
the back of the chair.

“It's
good to meet you. Now, let's see...” my father said, shaking
Kouris' hand and rushing off to find a chair sturdy enough for her.
He dragged it over to the table, patted the seat and said,
“Tea?”

The
three of us crowded around the table, mugs in hand. I never
expected Kouris to meet my father, or indeed for any pane to be in
our house, but he was as welcoming of her as he would've been to
anyone. Kouris busied herself with looking around the room and out
of the window, where the farm's remaining animals had been brought
closer to the house. With only my father in the village, there was
no need for fields of sheep and herds of cattle; no doubt the
villagers had taken plenty of them when they left, needing
something to pay their way with.

“Kouris...” my father mused, tapping his spoon against the
side of his mug once he'd mixed more sugar in. “Like the stories
Michael used to tell?”

Kouris
ducked her head sheepishly and said, “There are plenty of mistakes
in those, Dad.”

I almost
snorted my tea through my nose upon hearing her call him that, but
my father only lifted his brow, amused, and said, “You're certainly
more alive than those stories led me to believe.”

Holding
the seemingly tiny mug delicately between her claws, Kouris tilted
it back, tipped the whole lot in her mouth and said, “Might be an
idea for me to head back and meet up with the others. Sort out
living arrangements. Reckon we can use one of those abandoned
houses for anyone we don't want hanging around here.”

My
father's gaze narrowed at the suggestion of unwelcome guests, but
he said nothing. I nodded to Kouris, hoping she might shut Katja up
within one of those plague-ridden houses, and leave her to rot. I
stood in the doorway, and watched her sprint off down the dirt
path, up the sides of the valley and into the trees
beyond.

Lifting
his brow, impressed with how swiftly she moved, my father said,
“Well. I go all this time without company, and in one day I'm
graced by my daughter and a pane. Shall we prepare dinner? How many
more are coming?”

“Two,” I
said, wincing. “Three. But one of them... she's not allowed up
here, near you. No matter what.”

My
father's face fell as he look at me, and he placed a hand on my
cheek, holding his silence as though too many questions might cause
me to disappear again. Trusting my decision, he managed a smile,
and said, “I hope you haven't forgotten how to make
stew.”

We
passed the hours in amiable silence, peeling potatoes and washing
vegetables, preparing the meat and laying the table as we went. My
father always said he found it best to keep busy when something
weighed upon his mind, and he didn't stop moving for half a second.
After months of cooking for himself, he finally had a chance to
prepare something for others, and used the best of what he
had.

I
chopped carrots, light from my fingertips making the knife gleam,
still having trouble drawing it back in.

“You
haven't asked why I'm glowing,” I mumbled, “It's kind of
noticeable, but...”

“Do you
want to tell me why you're glowing?” he asked, tapping the chopping
board on the side of the pan, meat sliding into it.

“No. Not
really.”

“Then I
won't ask you. I'll wait until you want to tell me.”

Assuming
it was just a necromancer thing would have to do, for the time
being.

It was
early afternoon by the time Akela and Atthis arrived. The stew
simmered over a low flame, and I'd been knelt on an armchair,
looking out of the window for them. Kouris and Katja were nowhere
to be seen, and I wondered which dinner guest would be of more of a
shock to my father: a pane or a King.

“Northwood! Or perhaps I am saying
Northwoods
! I
t is us, we are here,” Akela called as she approached our
house. “I am hoping your father is having all sorts of embarrassing
tales to tell about you, Northwood!”

I rushed
to the front door, held it wide open for her, and saw how
shamelessly happy Akela was for me. She gripped my shoulders,
knocked her forehead against mine with no small amount of force,
and refused to jinx our luck by saying anything out loud. Atthis
was trailing behind, still at the foot of the hill, and I waited by
the door as Akela barrelled my father into a hug.

“Excellent! I am smelling stew, yes? Northwoods, both of you,
you are being far too kind,” Akela said, towering over my father
once she finally released him. “Yes, yes, and of course, it is good
to meet you. My name is Akela Ayad, and we are checking on this
stew.”

My father shook her hand, and with a breathy laugh said, “I
can't help but feel as though
something's
missing. Perhaps you'll
be able to help.”

They
disappeared into the kitchen, and the lively discourse that rushed
out into the hallway made it sound as though this was a regular
event; as though Akela came over for dinner once a week, and my
father already knew to trust her opinion, when it came to food. A
cool breeze drifted in as Atthis approached, not wont to rush ahead
as Akela was, and he stopped in the doorway, dropping his bags to
his feet.

“Kouris
told me the good news,” he said, beaming. “A day into our travels
and things are already going our way.”

“And we
don't even have to deal with my village,” I said, jerking my thumb
towards the valley.

Good
riddance to them, I'd decided. I hoped they'd moved on and found
themselves a home free of the stigma a necromancer brought with
it.

Atthis
laughed and shook his head at the same time, and leaving the stew
in Akela's hands, my father poked his head into the hallway to
greet the last of our guests. Atthis and my father nodded their
heads politely towards one another, and both paused in the same
moment, staring at each other, curious, searching.

“...
Atlas?” Atthis tried, a little hesitant, but my father's eyes lit
up, and he rushed forward, clasping his hand.

“Atthis
!
”
he said. “This really has been a most remarkable day.”

“I had assumed
Northwood
to be a common Felheimish name, so I'd never
thought... gods, man. How have you been?”

“Well,”
my father said, and Akela stepped out of the kitchen at the
good-natured commotion. “I hardly have the makings of a King, but
home is home.”

They
were still shaking one another's hands, caught up in something I
didn't understand, and when Akela caught my eye, I could only
shrug.

“Um,”
she said loudly. “What is happening here?”

“Atthis
here, he's an... not exactly an old friend, but certainly an
acquaintance,” my father said, and Atthis nodded his head in
enthusiastic agreement. “What has it been—thirty-five years? Back
when I was a soldier, I was stationed along the wall, close to what
was the southernmost territory. We were keeping watch, more than
anything else. Sometimes we shared supplies with the southern
soldiers.”

“I wasn't
always
a leader,” Atthis clarified. “My mother made sure I served as
the other soldiers did.”

And
there I was, thinking the fact that I'd travelled halfway across
the world with a King was remarkable, when my father had met him
decades before. Deciding it was delightfully absurd, Akela slapped
a hand against the door frame and chuckled to herself.

“Northwoods, if this continues, then tomorrow we are finding
out that you are cousins with the King of Felheim, yes, and we are
sorting this all out over tea,” she said, and headed back into the
kitchen.

Atthis and my father belatedly remembered to stop shaking
hands, and I tugged on my father's sleeve, saying, “How come you
never told me that you knew a
King
before he was a King?”