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Structure and discipline were as good for small boys as they were for soldiers. That was Ulder Ravengard’s view of the matter, and he governed the lives of himself, his soldiers, and his small son accordingly.
Unfortunately, the world was not always quite so consistent as the new Warden of Wyrm’s Rock would prefer it. An illness was cutting its way through much of the city, and now it had reached his garrison.
With a few apothecary’s concoctions to manage symptoms, fluids, and rest, most would be back on their feet in a matter of a few days. For the average healthy adult, this seasonal nuisance was relatively harmless—hardly worth the time or expense of divine healers.
Except that it had infected most of the staff responsible for Wyllyam’s routine, and the consequences of that had Ulder seriously rethinking his financial priorities.
It wasn’t that Wyll was a particularly unruly child. He was just… six. And if Ulder was being completely honest with himself, he still did not know what to do with a child too young to hold a sword. Which was why he had delegated much of Wyll’s day-to-day care to a retiring manip with four nearly grown children of her own.
But Manip Buckman was currently under the influence of enough reeking herbal cough syrup to fell a tarrasque and in no condition to deal with a willful child.
Wyll’s remaining tutors—a personal expense that made Ulder wince but which he hoped would pay dividends for the boy—had stepped in to fill the gaps throughout the day, allowing Ulder to maintain his busy schedule. But now it was bedtime, and Ulder was faced with performing the ritual steps of routine he was wholly unfamiliar with.
Which was how he found himself frowning at his son’s cluttered bookshelf, wondering where all this fanciful nonsense had come from. The practical, child-appropriate (or so the bookmonger had assured him) history and science books he’d purchased were still there, but shoved into a corner and obviously ignored in favor of frivolity. Ulder picked up a children’s chapbook and thumbed through the pages, his frown deepening with every inane word and ridiculous illustration.
“Angie reads this one.” Two small hands helpfully shoved a thicker, hardbound book up from under the chapbook, crumpling the softcover publication. Though it was no great loss in Ulder’s estimation, it was still no way to treat one’s belongings.
“Wyllyam,” Ulder said sternly, glaring down at the child’s small, upturned face. The boy’s dark brown eyes widened like saucers, and he shrank back, clutching the book to his chest.
“Sorry, sir,” he mumbled.
“Is that how we hand things to people?”
“No, sir,” the boy mumbled, hanging his head.
It was on the tip of Ulder’s tongue to tell him to stand up straight and speak up, but he bit it back. He was just a boy. Francesca would have known what to do with him. She would have spoiled him and filled his head with nonsense, of course, but…
“Would you like to try again?” Ulder asked, making a conscious effort to soften his tone.
Wyll visibly swallowed and nodded. Then he looked up with wet brown eyes and said, “Father?”
“Yes, Son?”
“Angie reads me this one,” Wyll said again, holding the book up.
“Who is Angie?” Ulder asked, realizing the biblio-vandalism had distracted him from the more important content of Wyll’s initial statement. Had his son developed an imaginary friend he was unaware of? Why hadn’t Manip Buckman informed him?
“Angie,” Wyll repeated, his little nose wrinkling in an expression that said he thought his father wasn’t on the up and up. He looked just like his uncle Uther when he did that, Ulder thought with a hint of amusement.
“Repetition of the same inadequate information is not a sufficient response to the query,” Ulder reminded him, shelving the bent chapbook.
“Angie,” Wyll repeated again, this time with more emphasis and a tone that implied Ulder was being intentionally obtuse. The boy was just toeing the line, dancing on the edge of insubordination.
Ulder stared at him impassively.
“She takes care of me,” Wyll finally added when it became clear that his father wouldn’t continue the conversation until he gave a satisfactory answer. “Like a mom, but she’s not my mom.”
“Manip Buckman,” Ulder corrected, half guessing that this must be what Wyll meant.
Wyll nodded and repeated the proper name with a slight, childish lisp. Was that something that would correct itself, Ulder wondered, or would the child require a special tutor?
“You must address people correctly.”
Wyll wilted again. “But Angie said I could.”
Ulder sighed. It seemed he would have to speak with Manip Buckman ahead of the usual monthly debriefing.
Examining the book that Wyll was still holding out for his inspection, Ulder decided to add unauthorized gifts to the topics of discussion. The title, spelled out in swirls of flaking faux gilding, read 101 Tales of Adventure. Various creatures, both real and fantastical, adorned the faded cover in a ridiculous menagerie.
Ulder took the book and began flipping through it, as he had the sad excuse for a chapbook. The stories in this book were as ridiculous as the other, though it was obvious that this volume had been well loved for many years before coming into Wyll’s possession. The binding felt loose in his hand, and Ulder turned the pages cautiously, lest they start falling out.
“The dragon is my favorite,” Wyll said with the bright enthusiasm that is the sole domain of children.
The word “dragon” did not appear in the table of contents, of course, leaving Ulder with little clue as to which story in particular Wyll was referring to. At least three sections of the book included woodcut illustrations of a dragon.
“Inspection time,” Ulder announced. “Teeth cleaned?”
Wyll drew back his lips in an exaggerated grimace, showing off his currently gap-toothed grin. Ulder wasn’t entirely sure what this was intended to prove, but he squatted down and grasped Wyll’s chin, turning his face from left to right in a show of inspecting the boy’s work, which made Wyll giggle.
“Soldiers don’t giggle at inspection,” Ulder scolded, but his own smile softened the reproof.
“Are your quarters in order?” Ulder asked next, though he already knew the answer. Wyll did, too, because he stared down at where his toes were peeping out from underneath his too-long sleep pants, refusing to meet Ulder’s gaze.
“No, sir,” he mumbled.
“A place for everything—” Ulder began.
“—and everything in its place,” Wyll finished.
They spent the next ten minutes putting away the ridiculous number of toys scattered across the floor of the tiny room—where had Wyllyam acquired so many things? Ulder wondered—before Wyll was finally able to crawl into bed.
There were no seats made for adults in the room, and Ulder found himself teetering precariously on the edge of a child-sized chair with his knees halfway to his chin. It was absolutely ridiculous, and it certainly would not do if someone where to discover the Warden of Wyrm’s Rock in such a state. It did not help that Wyll was giggling, one hand clasped over his mouth in a poor attempt to disguise his mirth.
“Angie sits on the edge of the bed so I can look at the pictures,” Wyll informed him, once this latest giggle fit had subsided. He scooched over, pulling the blankets with him to create a spot for Ulder to sit.
The ropes of the bedframe groaned ominously when Ulder eased himself onto the mattress, but it held. Wyll didn’t seem to notice the furniture’s protest and quickly squirmed into position under Ulder’s right elbow, snuggling against his father’s side easily, as if this were an every day occurrence.
Ulder flipped to the first story with an illustration of a dragon and settled the book into his lap.
“Once there was—”
A small brown hand slapped down in the middle of the page. “No, not that one.”
Beseeching Ilmater for patience, Ulder said, “Why don’t you show me which story you want?”
Wyll flipped through the pages without even hesitating, stopping on the third and final entry containing a woodcut dragon.
The story was silly, featuring a hapless adventurer who had fallen into a wily devil’s trap, only to be rescued by a benevolent golden dragon. There was no real lesson to the tale, as far as Ulder could tell, but Wyll was engrossed, his eyes growing wider and brighter with every flip of the page. The story seemed to have the opposite of the intended effect, as it certainly did not lull the child off to dreamland. In fact, it only seemed to elicit further demands.
“Your doing it wrong,” Wyll pouted. “You’re supposed to do a scary voice for the devil.”
A scary voice, eh?
“‘A deal is a deal, mortal,’” he read in the scariest voice he could think of—the one he used when issuing a sentence at a court martial. It was low. Cold. Unyielding.
“You do a better voice than Angie,” Wyll whispered, as if the absent Manip Buckman might somehow overhear him and be hurt by the frank assessment. And to his surprise, Ulder found himself preening a little at the praise.
By the time the story was finished, Wyll’s eyes had fluttered shut, his little body becoming a warm deadweight against Ulder’s chest.
“The End,” Ulder announced—more for his own benefit than Wyll’s he supposed with a small chuckle. He snapped the book shut and set it on the bedside table before beginning the arduous process of disentangling himself without undoing his hard-won victory.
Eventually, he managed to settle Wyll down onto the pillow and tuck the blanket up around the boy’s chin, lest he catch a chill in the night. The last thing Ulder needed was for the boy to fall ill along with all his caretakers.
He was just about to shut the door when Wyll whispered, “Father?”
Ulder suppressed a heavy sigh. “Yes, son?”
“Can you read my story from now on?”
The question was so quiet and spoken in such a drowsy slur that Ulder almost didn’t catch it. It was on the tip of his tongue to say no.
“Please?”
Structure and discipline were good for small boys, he reminded himself. And from the condition of Wyll’s room at the appointed hour, it was clear that Manip Buckman was providing neither in the evenings. Perhaps it was time that Ulder took a more active role in Wyll’s daily routines. They would solve this undesirable slovenliness, and Ulder could choose more educational material for his nocturnal narratives. Perhaps some fables for good moral fiber. Yes, that was excellent idea.