“That will do for now,” Lenardo said. Something else he had not given a thought to. Some sort of symbol. What would Wulfston choose, he wondered, since the wolf’s-head sign he had been named for belonged to Aradia?
Julia’s mother watched curiously as Lenardo wrote out the document. When he pressed the seal into the wax, the woman pointed to the brand on his arm. “Is that how ye mark your sworn men, me lord?”
Choking down the horror of the idea, he replied, “No indeed,” and lifted the seal, only to find himself facing the dragon’s head again, this time surmounting a tower, and beneath it the letter of the savage alphabet for the sound of “z.”
If I don’t do something about it soon, he thought, I’ll end up with the dragon as my symbol by default.
In the infirmary, he found Sandor just finishing with Bril, who was still painfully sore. “Can’t you help him any more than that?” he asked.
“I could, but do you want to have to flog him again tomorrow? I healed the cuts so he can’t get infected. Let his own body do the rest, while the pain reminds him of what will happen if he turns on you again.”
Lenardo said no more. Harsh physical punishment was the norm in the empire as well as here, but before he was branded and thrust beyond the pale, the worst that had ever happened to him personally was a sound thrashing the day he was caught kissing the innkeeper’s daughter, when he was twelve years old.
Rubbing the mark on his arm, he told Bril, “Report to Arkus, and don’t forget that it’s no longer possible to sneak away and hide. I can find you no matter where you go.”
Bril tried to look defiant, but the beating had taken most of the rebelliousness out of him. “You got a Reader working for you, like Drakonius had?”
“I am a Reader.” Lenardo allowed a moment for the shock to register and then added, “You were a wealthy man, Bril. If you’re clever and you work hard, you may be wealthy again—but it will be a long time before you earn back the right to be trusted.”
* * * * * * *
Emotionally exhausted, Lenardo walked the streets of his city the rest of that afternoon, with some new instinct prompting him to show himself as the word spread of what he was. To his relief, acceptance followed the first shock. It was not that he was nonAdept, like the legendary Wulfston the Red, but that his abilities were different from the ones they were used to...and equally powerful. He Read the fear that had been growing since his arrival beginning to give way. Their lord had his own powers with which to protect his people. They were not defenseless, as they had begun to think.
But there were new fears as well: fear that he knew their most secret thoughts, fear that his powers were inadequate to protect them against Adept attack, and just the vague anxiety generated by another shock to people whose lives had been shattered too many times.
I should have been Reading my people more carefully, he realized. Had he not been protecting their privacy, operating under the Readers’ Code, he might have discovered days ago that his not exhibiting special powers frightened them far more than if he had been a tyrant like Drakonius, arbitrarily setting examples to keep them in line.
At Northgate he climbed the tower, greeted the watchman, and then turned to stare out over the city. He could have Read it from the ground, but somehow he needed the physical exertion of the climb and the actual view.
It no longer stank. Close by the tower, he could see that the buildings were empty shells, but the basic structure of the city was intact. From here to the forum a main street ran straight and clean; the other streets radiating from the forum were all clear now to the east and south. The west-to-northwest sector, though, was rubble. There, most of the buildings had been of wood and had burned down completely.
For now, he was having that area cleared of flammable debris and left alone. One day, after he had forged the treaty with the Aventine Empire, a new Academy would rise there, a place where Readers and Adepts would study together, share their skills—
But if that were to happen, Lenardo must first learn to rule. The dragon’s-head brand on his arm seemed to glow in the late-afternoon sun. His people expected him to live up to that symbol. The empire, having seen it on the banners of those who attacked their walls for many generations, had deemed it the sign of the savage and used it to mark their exiles.
And here, thought Lenardo, I am failing because I am not savage enough. He wondered how Wulfston was faring—the young black man whom he had met as Aradia’s foster brother and apprentice and to whom she had given the lands west of Lenardo’s, to the sea. Was he managing to rule without the cruelty these people seemed to demand?
Cruelty? Or firmness? Firmness I can give them, Lenardo determined. I’m a Master Reader. I don’t have to invade people’s private thoughts to stop plots before they get as far as Bril’s poisoning the wine.
But Lenardo was only one Reader, and if his actions that day had made many of his people feel more secure, they had also made one implacable enemy and generated enough fear to provide him with henchmen.
* * * * * * *
It was Julia’s screaming that woke Lenardo well after midnight, just as Bril was poised to plunge a knife into his heart. Lenardo twisted, and the blade gashed his left shoulder. He hardly felt it, surging to his knees to drive his right shoulder into Bril’s midsection, knocking the man back against the wall with a howl at the pain in his injured back.
Bril’s knife clattered to the floor, but by that time another man had grabbed Lenardo from behind, seeking to cut his throat while two more reached for his arms. They could hardly see in the faint light from the window, but Lenardo could Read. He allowed the man behind him to get a grip and set his feet, grasped his knife hand so that he could not cut, and then used him for leverage, swinging his legs up to kick out sharply at the other two attackers. One he caught squarely on the point of the breastbone, full force, and the man dropped unconscious. The other he kicked in the diaphragm, leaving him only staggered, while Lenardo’s weight drove the man behind him down, with Lenardo on top of him.
Lenardo arched over, twisting the knife out of his attacker’s hand, bringing his full weight down on one knee on the man’s forearm to the satisfying crunch of broken bones.
There were footsteps coming, help on the way, but Lenardo still faced two armed men, for Bril had reclaimed his weapon, mad with hopeless fury. With the growl of an animal, he launched himself at Lenardo, knife raised high, exposing himself to Lenardo’s thrust between his ribs just as soldiers with swords and torches poured through the doorway.
Bril was falling at Lenardo’s feet, one man lay unconscious, one sat moaning with the pain of a broken arm, and the fourth turned, knife in hand, and was promptly dispatched by one of the soldiers. Lenardo, breathless, surveyed the scene of carnage, revealed in the torchlight to be spattered with blood: his own and Bril’s. His shoulder began to hurt in earnest.
The two men Lenardo had injured were still alive, and so was Bril, although he was bleeding badly. Lenardo’s blade had missed his heart. Arkus and Helmuth were both in the room now, and Julia scooted between people’s legs to Lenardo’s side, crying, “Oh, they hurt you! Don’t die, my lord—please don’t die!”
“I’m not going to die,” he said to reassure her.
At once, she pointed to his fallen attackers. “Kill them, my lord. Torture them to death.”
Lenardo looked over the child’s head to Arkus, who nodded, but it was Helmuth who said, “You must, my lord. This time you have no choice.”
The three surviving attackers were taken to the infirmary, where Sandor put them to sleep, doing no more for Bril than to stop his bleeding so that he would survive for his execution.
The gash across Lenardo’s shoulder was not deep. Sandor laid his hand over it, and the familiar heat of Adept healing spread through his shoulder as he sat on the edge of the infirmary table, talking with Helmuth