I'd known Stygian had been named for the beast who came from the underworld to gobble the souls of the dead who hadn't lived well enough to go dwell in the houses of the gods. Who'd have thought Uncle would take it so seriously? It occurred to me that the curse had already come to pass. Because the bones of the underground beast lay chained in a hidden cave under the keep, Hurog's riches were gone, and there were no dragons in the world.
Hurog didn't need the Stygian beast to destroy itself the rest of the way. My father was…had been a madman. My mother ate dreamroot and took little note of what went on about her. My sister was mute, though not a healer or magician could tell why. My brother had tried to take his own life.
"You do see?" Duraugh asked, obviously forgetting in his obsession that he was talking to the family idiot.
"I see very well," I replied to remind him. "But what does that have to do with the horse?"
My uncle was a good-looking man, better-looking than my father if not so handsome as his own sons. But anger took away from his looks; maybe that's why I enjoyed his reaction so much. The Brat buried her face against my back as he controlled himself with an effort.
"Stygian was your father's doom. If you don't see that, he'll be yours as well."
"He is a horse," I said doggedly. "And I changed his name. Stygian takes too long to say. Pansy. His name is Pansy." I liked the name better every time I said it.
Oreg, the boy from the dragon bone cave, came to me as I got ready for bed that night. I didn't see him come in the room, but when I dried my face after washing, he was sitting on the corner of my bed. I acknowledged him with a nod, sat on a stool placed near my bed, and began trimming my toenails over the empty chamber pot with my knife.
He watched me for a while. But watching someone trim their toenails is dull work, so finally he spoke.
"Do you know what the ring is for?"
I shook my head. There was a long silence during which I switched to my fingernails.
"Do you know who I am?"
I nodded my head this time. He stood up and began to pace, muttering to himself. Finally, he stopped in front of me and put his hand over my knife to still it. His hand was warm and solid, though in the bard's stories, ghosts always have icy, ephemeral touches.
"Who am I, then?" he said, frustrated anger in his voice. I wondered if he'd watched me when I wasn't pretending. Did he know my game?
"Don't you know who you are?" I asked, widening my eyes.
He dropped to the floor in a depressed sort of flop and buried his face in his hands. The back of his neck looked vulnerable. He reminded me of my brother Tosten.
I stared at him for a long moment. There was no one I trusted with my secret. Not even Ciarra really, though she might suspect.
"Who are you?" I asked crisply. "I don't know much more than a few ghost stories. And I don't believe you are a ghost."
His head jerked up at the difference in my voice. I put my knife away, kicked the chamber pot under the bed, and prepared to listen.
"It's true isn't it?" He whispered, more hope than certainty in his voice. "You've been pretending all these years. I thought it might be so. I couldn't tell earlier."
He watched me for a while, but I didn't know how to explain it so it didn't sound stupid and melodramatic.
"Do you know who built Hurog keep?" he asked finally.
His tone was wary. He'd already learned that asking questions was a risky business. But I'd decided he wasn't a player in the game. He was mine as Hurog was mine. I touched the platinum ring lightly with my thumb.
"No. I know he was given charge of the dragons here at the behest of the high king."
Oreg snorted bitterly. "Then you know nothing at all. The Hurog title came hundreds of years later. Hurog keep is old, built early in the age of the Empire by a true mage—not like that idiot of your father's. When the mage retired from court, he built his fortress here, where no one would bother him, because they were afraid of dragons."
He looked down and traced a pattern on the floor. "He wanted a house that would take care of itself, so he wouldn't be bothered by servants pottering about or soldiers practicing in the courtyard. He had two sons by his wife, a mundane woman who had the good sense to die when she was young. One son became a field commander and died in some war or other; the second was a wizard in his own right. I was born of a slave woman and sold to a nobleman's family, but when he gave them money, they sent me back to him here."
He stopped. I wasn't certain I wanted him to continue. I'd heard enough bards' tales to know where the story was going, or maybe I'd just had too much experience with my father to expect much of his.
"When I got here, he was alone; there were no servants. He gave me a bowl of soup from a pot he had brewing in the fireplace. I fell asleep. When I awoke, I was the keep."
I stared at him while I examined his last words. He was the keep, he said. I remembered the oddity of stepping through the hidden door into my room, though I knew we had been somewhere deep in the mound the keep sat upon. I weighed the possible responses I might make and in the end chose to make none at all.
"Thank you for taking care of the Brat today, Oreg." If you said something unexpected, I'd learned that you often got more answers than if you asked questions.
His head snapped up, and he looked at me, frowning. Whatever he thought to read in my face, I don't think he found it. "I try to watch out for her," he said. "It isn't much. A door that lets her escape to a quiet place where her father can't find her but her brothers can."
We sat for a bit in a companionable silence, while I thought about what he'd meant when he told me that he was the keep. I played idly with the unaccustomed ring on my finger.
"You can't take the ring off," Oreg said with a start, as if he'd just remembered what he'd come here to do. "It gives you control of the keep. Only if you are dying will it come off. Then you must give it to your heir."
"If I give it to someone else?" I asked, after trying to get the ring off and failing. I wished I'd known about that before I put it on. Rings weren't good to wear when you fight; they change your sword grip and catch on things. At the very least, I'd have put it on my left hand.
"Whomever you give it to becomes your heir."
"Ah," I said. "Tell me more about the spell, the ring, the keep, and yourself."
His face went curiously blank. I recognized the look.
After all, I'd practiced it in the polished shield on my wall until it was the expression I usually wore. I wondered if he'd watched me. If he'd had cow eyes like mine, he might have looked stupid, too. As it was, he just looked secretive.
"I am a slave," he said. "Your slave, Master, bound to your ring. Soul slave to you. Whatever you ask of me, I will do if I am able—and I have much power."
I thought of what that would have meant to some of the more disreputable of my ancestors. He was a pretty boy, like my brother. Poor slave.
"If I were to ask you to sit where you are without moving, what would happen?" I asked.
"I sit here without moving," he said with bleak truthfulness, "until you die or tell me differently. I must do whatever you tell me." There was tension in his body, though if he'd been here all this time, he should know that I didn't torment people in my power. But, I supposed, that like Stygian…Pansy, it would take him time to learn.
"When you said that you were the keep, did you mean that literally? Or that you are tied to it by magic?"
"I don't think there is much of a difference," he said, examining his hands.
"Do you know what's going on in the keep?"
The boy tilted his head, his eyes looking at something other than what was before them. "In the great hall, the fire is banked for the night. There's a rat sniffing in the corner for food. Your uncle is standing before the fireplace, hands behind his back, rocking a little on his heels—"