Dragon Rose (Tales of the Latter Kingdoms)

by Pope, Christine

  There was no way of latching the door, which did little to soothe my nerves. I settled for taking the little table that stood under the window and placing it up under the door handle. It seemed a fragile enough barrier, but it was better than nothing.

  And then I stepped out of my shoes and my stockings, and carefully removed my gown and chemise. Luckily, the gown laced up the sides instead of the back—my mother knew better than to have us wear gowns that required assistance to get in and out of them—so extricating myself from it was not difficult. I draped it over the cross-backed chair of mahogany that stood off to one side, and then lowered myself into the tub.

  It did feel good, to have the warm water surround me, washing away the dust of the trail and the sticky feeling from wearing too warm a gown on too hot a day. The heat did not seem as if it would be a problem up here in Black’s Keep. Indeed, I wondered what a winter here must feel like.

  If I lasted until winter, of course.

  I pushed that thought away and applied myself to scrubbing my limbs and back with the brush and soap provided, and washing my hair with a rinse that smelled of mint and something else, something sweet I couldn’t quite place. Truly, it was quite a luxury to have a bath so soon after my last one—which had only been the night before. At home I wouldn’t have had the opportunity for another two or three days.

  There was no clock in the chamber, and so I had no very good idea of the passage of time, but I tried to hurry things along as best I could. There were a number of towels provided, thick and very soft, and I dried myself off and went out into the bedchamber to retrieve the chemise and other underthings from where they had been laid out on the bed.

  None too soon, as it turned out, for I had just finished blotting my hair and adjusting the drawstring neckline of the chemise when Sar reappeared, carrying a tray with a number of mysterious-looking objects, along with a more prosaic hairbrush and comb.

  “Sit by the window,” she said. “The sun will help to dry your hair.”

  So I did as I was told and took a seat where she had instructed. She stood behind me and combed the snarls out of my hair, and then proceeded to brush it and brush it as it slowly dried. I wondered a little at her spending such a lengthy amount of time on this task—if she truly ran the household, wasn’t she needed elsewhere for more important things?—but I remained silent as she worked.

  “Well enough,” she said at length. “It will finish drying while I work on your face.”

  “My face?” I repeated, wondering what bizarre ritual the Dragon required of his Brides before they were presented to him.

  As it turned out, this “ritual” consisted of her refining my brows with a pair of bone tweezers, polishing my skin with silk, and then touching the faintest amount of some reddish powder to my lips and cheeks. I had heard that the ladies in the capital indulged in such practices, but we had little enough use of them in Lirinsholme. Each time Sar removed an errant hair from my eyebrows, I tried not to wince, and wondered why on earth the Dragon should care whether or not I looked like a court lady, when by all accounts I would be resting in his belly by the time the evening was over.

  No, that was not strictly true, or fair. No one really knew what happened to the Brides. But since they were never seen again, and dragons were known to have somewhat rapacious appetites, naturally everyone expected the worst.

  After she had seen to my face, Sar directed me over to the hearth, where she bade me sit as she took the last of her odd implements, a long metal tube with a wooden handle, and inserted it directly into the flames. I held my breath, wondering what tortures she planned to inflict with the device. It turned out, however, that she intended nothing more sinister than to wind my hair around it, creating a perfect series of long spiral curls. I recalled all the restless nights I’d had sleeping on rags to make my half-heartedly wavy hair curl, and decided this was a much more effective way of achieving that goal.

  “There,” Sar said at last, after propping the still-warm iron up against the fireplace shovel. “Now, it’s on with the gown.”

  I turned away from the hearth and stood, realizing as I did so just how long that entire procedure must have lasted. The sun had dipped almost out of sight behind the hills to the west, although dusk itself was still some time off. I also perceived a distinct hollowness in my stomach. It had been hours and hours since the breakfast of toasted bread and cheese I had consumed at home before setting out for the town square with Therella in tow. Up until that moment I hadn’t even considered such a thing, as feeding myself did not seem all that important when marriage to the Dragon loomed before me, but my body obviously had a different opinion on the matter.

  “Do I get any supper?” I asked, my tone perhaps a little too plaintive, as Sar had me step into the wine-colored gown.

  “You will eat…after.”

  That didn’t sound very appetizing. Was I to dine with the Dragon? Was I to be his dinner?

  Sar was busy with the lacings at the back of my dress, pulling it tight. It seemed its previous wearer had been more slender than I, or at least did not have quite as much bosom. I had no doubt that my mother would have highly disapproved of the expanse of rounded breasts exposed by the tight, low-cut bodice, but of course she was not there to comment. While Sar tied off the silk cord, I did my best to tug the chemise up a little higher.

  As she came around and began to tie on the heavily embroidered and jeweled sleeves, I found myself compelled to say, “The other Brides…”

  “What of them?” she asked, as she poked a ribbon through the loop attached to the shoulder seam of my bodice.

  “The Dragon doesn’t…he doesn’t eat them, does he?”

  At my question she paused and gave me an unbelieving stare. “Gods, no!” she replied, in tones of horror convincing enough that I thought she was most likely telling the truth. “Whatever put such an idea into your head?”

  “People talk.”

  “That they do, and mostly of things they know nothing about. No wonder you were looking so pale, despite the paint. Thought you were going to end up in the Dragon’s belly tonight?”

  Feeling foolish, I nodded.

  “Nothing so grim, I assure you. I’ll take you to the hall when the time comes, and a priest will marry you to his lordship. Afterward, you will take supper together.”

  “And after that?” I might have been a maiden, but I knew what passed between men and women. But the Dragon of Black’s Keep was no ordinary man.

  Sar did not quite meet my gaze. “You may have noticed that I said these were your rooms. Not his. The Dragon and his Bride always keep separate chambers.”

  I didn’t so much sigh as let out my breath slowly. My relief, however, was tempered by curiosity. So if he did not make a meal of them, and neither did he treat them as real wives, what exactly did the Dragon do with his Brides?

  Asking Sar did not seem to be the best plan of action. I barely knew her, of course, but what little I had seen spoke of a no-nonsense manner that nonetheless hid its own secrets. Very likely she would either ignore my questions or tell me to mind my own business. Then again, one would think the relationship with my future husband was my business…

  Years of training had taught me to hold my tongue when necessary, so I remained silent as Sar continued fussing with my sleeves. After she was apparently satisfied with every loop and puff, she went to a tall cabinet across the room, and from the top drawer she brought forth a flat box that contained what appeared, to my unschooled eyes at least, a very princess’s ransom of treasures. From the gleaming jewels within she selected a necklace of gold and garnets and matching earrings. The necklace she placed around my throat, but she handed the earrings to me, obviously intending that I should put them on myself.

  I did so without argument. No wonder the Dragon wished his Brides to come with no belongings of their own; he appeared quite able to provide them with whatever baubles they might require. Certainly the intricate drops of gold I slipped into my pierced
ears put the simple garnet earrings I’d worn earlier to shame.

  I noticed, however, that Sar gave me no rings to wear.

  Instead, she returned to the cabinet, and drew forth a large hand-held mirror. “I believe he will be pleased.”

  That seemed to be as close to praise as she got. I peered into the silvered glass and had to consciously prevent myself from gasping aloud in shock. Now, I was not one to deny my own prettiness—why should I, when it had very little to do with me and a great deal more to do with being lucky enough to have two handsome parents?—but even so I was not prepared for the reflection that stared back at me. My hair had been tamed into sleek curls that gleamed against the wine color of my bodice, and my lips were not far off from that same shade.

  Despite the tension that still lay coiled in my stomach, I couldn’t help being pleased by what I saw. I guessed that quite a few people might not have even recognized me in my current guise. Then I had to laugh at myself, for of course it was a good deal easier to be beautiful when one had the luxury of spending hours to achieve such a state.

  “Well enough,” I told Sar, and I thought I saw her lips quirk just a little.

  “Not one to sing your own praises, eh? Wise, probably.” She glanced out the window, as if to determine the position of the sun, and her mouth settled into far more sober lines. “It’s time to go. He will be waiting for you.”

  My mouth went dry then, and I wished I’d had the forethought to ask for some water or cider. Oh, well, I probably wouldn’t be the first of the Dragon’s Brides to utter her vows in a cracked whisper, if it came to that.

  Sar went to the door and opened it, obviously expecting me to follow her.

  I knew I had little choice. All I could do was follow this mad notion of mine to its conclusion…whatever that might be. So I lifted my chin and moved from the safety—however spurious it might be—of my chambers and into my unknown future.

  Chapter Four

  It seemed to me a bloody descent down the castle’s interminable stairs, but I knew that was only a trick of the sunset, which threw a carmine cast over everything. Still, the peculiar light only served to increase the sensation of foreboding that seeped slowly through me, like a dark flood. To make matters worse, I saw no one else during our descent, not one servant or other member of the household. I wondered then exactly how many people served the Dragon. Sar had made it sound as if there weren’t that many, a contrast to the bustling households of even the wealthy residents of Lirinsholme, which certainly was not known for its grand style. The lord of Black’s Keep liked his privacy, apparently.

  At last we reached what I thought was the ground floor. Sar led me down the enormous vaulted corridor that seemed to divide that level of the structure, until at last we stopped before a set of double doors barred with intricate black ironwork.

  “Go on,” she said, after opening the one to the right.

  I realized she intended me to enter on my own. Although I had only known her for a few short hours, it seemed to me then that she was the only familiar thing in my world. How could I possibly be expected to go forward to confront the Dragon alone, without a single friendly face to serve as my witness to this unnatural union?

  Her expression softened as she gazed at me, at my obvious hesitation. She said, in the gentlest tones I’d yet heard from her, “It will be all right. Be brave.”

  That did hearten me a little. After all, I’d had the courage to step forward and offer myself in Lilianth’s place. Now I must summon that same will to finish what I had started.

  So I stepped past her and moved inside the chamber.

  It, too, was constructed on a grand scale, the vaulted roof the height of a tall man several times over. The last traces of sunset painted the carved panels on the walls in flickering shades of russet and wine, the only light in the room, except for a pair of tall, thick candles, each sitting on its own waist-high pillar of dark marble. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I saw the figure of a man standing between the two pillars and started—until I realized he was quite elderly, and wearing the dark grey robes of a priest of Inyanna. Not my intended, then.

  The priest extended his arms. “Come forward, child.”

  For one wild instant I had the notion to turn and run, to bolt through those double doors and out of the castle as quickly as my feet could carry me. Then I realized how mad it would be to try to outrun an enraged dragon on foot. Besides, I had offered myself as the Dragon’s Bride. I could not back out now, even if my heart hammered in my chest and my hands felt like ice.

  I stepped meekly forward until I stood a pace away from the priest. “Father.”

  He didn’t respond, but seemed to stiffen.

  We were not alone in the room.

  Where he had come from, I couldn’t say, but I heard the soft hiss of his long cloak as it dragged across the stone floor. The very air seemed to sigh, as if displaced by something it knew was not natural.

  My heart lodged roughly midway up my throat, I turned.

  At first I almost laughed in relief. This was no scaled monster of legend, no overgrown serpent-beast with eyes of fire. I looked upon the figure of a man, tall and slender, although it was difficult to make out much more than that, as he wore a cloak that covered him from shoulder to heel. The garment’s cowled hood dropped low, concealing his face.

  “Rhianne.”

  That voice—it was the sort of voice a woman might dream of, rich and yet soft, the accents rounded and full. To hear it emanate from within that hood was surprise enough; I blinked at the realization that he knew my name. But that was foolish. Sar must have told him, or sent word to him somehow.

  “Yes,” I replied simply, hoping my own voice didn’t sound too hopelessly countrified.

  “The rose, I believe,” he went on. “At least, that is what your name meant in the language of old. Do you like roses?”

  “I, er, well, yes,” I said, and then cursed myself inwardly for my fumbling. What a fool he must think me.

  “We have a rather fine garden on the north side of the castle. You must visit it when you have the chance.”

  Not knowing what else to say, I only answered, “Of course, my lord.”

  Something that might have been a chuckle escaped from beneath the hood. He turned slightly, facing the priest. “You may begin.”

  The old man cleared his throat and lifted his hands. I saw that he now held the traditional length of white linen used in all the wedding ceremonies I had ever witnessed. “Rhianne Menyon.”

  I knew what to do. Ever since I was a young child I had attended these sorts of rites, and had even dreamed from time to time of what my own nuptials might be like. Never in any of those gauze-edged fantasies had I thought I would be standing next to the Dragon himself. Like every young woman in Lirinsholme, I had always believed that sort of thing would happen to someone else.

  Somehow I managed to raise my left hand, allowed him to wrap the linen around it.

  “Theran Blackmoor.”

  The Dragon lowered his hand so that it rested on mine. A black glove enclosed his fingers, but even through the leather I could feel the heat of him, as if his flesh burned with an inward fire. I tried not to flinch, to stand my ground and not let him know how it took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to pull my hand away.

  The priest wrapped the linen around the Dragon’s hand as well, binding us together.

  You will not shake, I told myself. Or tremble, or faint, or do anything else foolish. His hand is warm, true, but at least he is not some fearsome beast, some monster. It could have been so much worse.

  I was so intent on this inner monologue that I did not hear the priest’s next words. With a start I realized he had fallen silent and was waiting for me, the linen now unwrapped from our wrists and held outstretched in his hands. At once I reached out and took the linen from him and brought it to my lips in the ritual gesture, then let the Dragon take it from me so he might do the same. That is, I could only guess he ha
d brought the fabric to his mouth, for it disappeared within the recesses of his hood and then emerged a second or two later, when he handed it back to the priest.

  In silence the older man took the linen and folded it into the triangle custom required before placing it in a small brazier half-hidden behind one of the marble candle stands. With a chill I realized what was to come next.

  “Close your eyes,” Theran Blackmoor said.

  That was not part of the ritual, but I guessed it would be unwise in the extreme to disobey. So I shut my eyes and held my breath as I felt him move closer, the heavy fabric of his hood brushing against my loose hair before his mouth touched mine.

  Only for the briefest instant, and then he withdrew at once. But even in the space of that heartbeat or two I could feel something dreadfully wrong about the lips that had grazed mine, something rough and hard, as if they were not human skin at all.

  Once again I fought the urge to flinch. How many of those other Brides had recoiled? Surely it must be a dreadful thing to have the woman one married shrink at one’s very touch. An odd stirring of pity moved within me. For all that he had the outward shape of a man, it seemed there must be a very real reason for the hooded cloak, for the gloves.

  I opened my eyes and saw him staring down at me. That is, the hood was tilted downward. I could see nothing else.

  “Rhianne Blackmoor,” he said, and in that voice my name was somehow a caress. “You are now the mistress of Black’s Keep.”

  There being nothing witty or profound I could think of to say in reply, I merely curtsied. “My lord.”

  “Theran.”

  “Theran,” I repeated. Perhaps one day I might have the courage to address him thus.

  “And now—”

  “Now?”

  “Our wedding feast.”

  He offered me his arm. I forced myself not to hesitate, to settle my hand on top of his as if it were the most natural thing the world. Lifting my chin, I allowed him to lead me from the room.