Dragon Rose (Tales of the Latter Kingdoms)

by Pope, Christine

  A sudden commotion from the courtyard below made me stop and set down my paintbrush. The castle and the grounds surrounding it were not a place of hustle and bustle; it was clear Lord Blackmoor maintained only enough staff to keep the household running and not more than that. We had no strangers here. Whatever shipments of goods were necessary to the maintenance of the kitchens and the castle itself were brought here by its servants. Wandering traders and the like knew better than to approach the Dragon Lord’s doorstep, preferring the much more hospitable audience they might find in Lirinsholme.

  Curiosity awakened, I lifted the easel out of the way so I could better peer down into the courtyard to see who—or what—disturbed the peace of Black’s Keep. The window was open to the cool afternoon air, and so I had only to place my hands on the lintel and lean over to identify the cause of the commotion.

  “I will see her!”

  The voice was familiar. My gaze rested on him, just as I realized who it was.

  My father.

  He sat, somewhat clumsily, on the back of a large, ungainly brown horse—Traes Mackinrod’s Thunderer, if memory served. What my father had said to persuade the blacksmith to part with his prized horse, I did not know, but at the moment I thought the “how” was far less important than the “why.”

  I watched as Sar came bustling out into the courtyard, followed by Mat and two guardsmen whose names I did not know. She said something, in tones low enough that I could not hear her, but my father only shook his head and retorted,

  “I am her father, and it is her birthday! I will see her!”

  Strange enough that my normally mild father would have taken it into his head to come here, when such a thing was forbidden. Stranger still that he should roar and cause a clamor, as if he had borrowed some of Traes Mackinrod the blacksmith’s bluster along with his horse.

  I knew it was entirely possible for Mat and his two companions to remove my father bodily if need be, but I did not want things to come to such a pass. An impatient pause as I drew off my smock, and then I was running for the door, hurrying down all those interminable staircases as fast as my slipper-clad feet could take me.

  Although at that time of day Melynne and the other housemaids should have been preparing the dining chamber for dinner, I found them clustered around the great double doors which opened on the courtyard, peering out and whispering to each other as if they watched one of the puppet shows in Lirinsholme’s marketplace.

  Worry for my father made my tone far more curt than usual. “I daresay his lordship will be less than pleased when he learns you were spying on other people’s business rather than attending to your duties.”

  At my words all three of the maids snapped upright, eyes going wide. Melynne in particular looked startled; I daresay she had never heard me speak in such a fashion before.

  “I - I’m so sorry, my lady. Only we heard the noise and—”

  “ —And went to eavesdrop on something that is no concern of yours. Go on—you know you should not be here.”

  They went, scurrying away with nervous squeaks and chattering, sounding more like a trio of house mice than young women of my own age. Satisfied that I had reduced the audience somewhat, I stepped out into the courtyard.

  “Master Menyon,” Sar was saying, “you must come away. You know it is forbidden for you to come here.”

  “And why is that?” he replied. “A man forbidden to see his own daughter? Preposterous!”

  “Father,” I said quietly, having paused just beyond the bottom of the steps that led up into the castle.

  He stopped then and looked over Sar’s head. Our eyes met. Something of the wild expression that had overtaken his normally mild features ebbed away. Ignoring Sar, he dismounted clumsily and came toward me, hands outstretched.

  “Rhianne. Oh, Rhianne.” And he bowed his head, as if he did not want me to see the tears in his eyes.

  I almost wept, too, seeing his face and hearing his voice, when I had thought I would never do either of those things again. But I knew I must maintain my composure; although Sar had stepped back, as if in deference to the lady of the castle, her dark eyes were keen as she watched me. My response would tell her much of how I viewed my place here.

  “Father,” I said, quietly and firmly, “do not think I am not happy to see you, but you know you should not have come here.”

  “Or what?” he replied. “Will the Dragon come to strike me dead? I have set foot in this accursed place, and yet I still breathe.”

  “Yes…on his sufferance, no doubt. Do you not think he knows of your presence here?”

  “I care little for that.”

  I wondered whence came this false bravado. Was it that brush with death he’d had earlier in the summer, when his heart betrayed him so suddenly? I couldn’t begin to guess, but I supposed it did not matter one way or the other. What mattered was getting him safely on the way home again.

  “Well, then,” I said, in a voice I feared was a trifle too hearty. “You see me now. Do I not look healthy and well?”

  He surveyed me then, taking in my rich gown, the sapphire drops at my ears. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the paint stains on my fingers. “You are painting, then?”

  “Every day. His lordship has been most generous in providing me with supplies.”

  I had not meant the words to sting, but I saw my father flinch slightly. He said, “That is something we could not give you. Instead you painted pottery at your father’s whim, and took the brunt of the blame when the subterfuge was discovered.”

  At once I understood. The gods only knew what thoughts of guilt had assailed him in the weeks since my marriage to the Dragon. My poor father thought it all his fault, that I had given myself to the Dragon as the only way of saving my family. And perhaps at the time that had been part of my reasoning, but not all. I knew I couldn’t begin to explain to him how this place, odd as it might seem, had become home to me.

  “Dear Father,” I said, and took his hands in mine. “You mustn’t blame yourself. I took the risk willingly…as willingly as I came here to be the Dragon’s Bride. It was my decision to make. And I am happy here. Truly.”

  At those words he looked down at me in wonder, as if by studying my face he might find the answer to such an unfathomable riddle. “Happy?” he repeated at last.

  “Yes. Happy. It sounds strange, I know, and a month ago I would not have believed it myself. But, as I said, I have as much time as I would like, and the Dragon has been kind to me. Very kind…” I added, trailing off as I considered the odd lord of this castle, the man haunted by an evil curse, someone who should have had every reason to view the world with hatred and suspicion, and yet who somehow, inexplicably, had made me feel welcome here.

  My father was silent for a long moment, watching me. Perhaps he saw the truth in my features, or perhaps he’d only come to his senses enough to realize that, strange as it might seem, my existence was not the horror he had imagined. He cleared his throat. “I brought your presents.”

  “You needn’t have—”

  He cut me off. “I wished it. Your mother wished it.” And he turned from me and busied himself with one of the saddlebags, as Sar looked on with raised eyebrows and I prayed to whichever gods might be listening that the lord of the castle was occupied elsewhere.

  The gifts were very close to what I had imagined, although my mother’s gift was a fine ebony-backed hairbrush instead of a comb, and the bauble Therella had sent was a needle case for my chatelaine. Never mind that I avoided needlework like the plague. But my father had brought me some fine-tipped squirrel brushes, and Maeganne had made me a handkerchief with my initial clumsily embroidered in the corner, while Darlynne’s gift was a little bottle of water smelling of lavender.

  “They are lovely,” I said, as I fought against the choking sensation in my throat. “Tell Mother and Therella and Maeganne and Darlynne that they are just what I wished for.”

  My father nodded. “We think of you every day, Rhia
nne. Do not think you are forgotten.”

  “I hadn’t.” Then, after a quick glance at Sar, whose mouth tightened slightly, even as she nodded, “And how is Lilianth? Her wedding is three days hence, is it not?”

  “Yes. Some thought it ill-mannered of her, to go ahead with the wedding after she had been chosen and not gone—”

  “—Because I stepped in for her! What foolishness it would have been for her to have not gotten married after all that!”

  He said nothing at first. Then he nodded slowly. “You gave much for your friend.”

  I did not bother to say that she would have done the same for me, for in truth I did not think she would have, had our positions been reversed. I did not love her any less for that, but she and I were very different people. “And I have received much as well. Tell Lilianth that—and Mother, too.”

  Perhaps he caught the warning glance Sar shot him then, because he only replied, “I will,” before pulling me into a rough embrace, during which he wouldn’t quite meet my eyes. Still with his gaze averted, he climbed back up into the saddle with the over-caution of someone not accustomed to the task.

  “You will take care,” he said.

  I almost said I had no real need to, but then I recalled the dark shape of Theran’s dragon form, circling above the castle that was his prison. All had been calm enough since then, though I knew better than to trust things would go on in such a fashion. “I promise…if you promise as well. I hope you have not tried to haul your own clay lately!”

  “As for that,” he said frankly, “what with business the way it’s been…” He caught himself, but the damage was done.

  So the good people of Lirinsholme had not relented, even though the wayward daughter had sacrificed herself on the altar of Black’s Keep. Ah, well. Prejudices died hard, newly formed ones possibly even harder than old beliefs that had had a lifetime to mature. At least the Dragon’s bride price would ensure they did not want, although it was a difficult thing to have one’s life work discarded all because of a single ill-considered decision.

  “The ground will be too hard soon anyway,” I pointed out, and he even smiled a little. “But look, Father—the sun is beginning to set. You must be down the mountain before dark arrives.”

  He looked unhappy at those words, although he did not try to argue. There would have been no point—we both knew his skills on horseback were negligible at best.

  “Farewell, Rhianne,” he said simply.

  “Farewell, Father.” It must have been the newfound maturity of my twenty years that allowed me to keep my voice so calm, so level.

  He turned the horse around. I noticed he did not look back as he crossed the courtyard and went on through the castle gates. And then he was gone.

  Sar approached, and I held my breath, wondering what words of recrimination she would have for me. But she only gazed at me for a moment and said,

  “Come inside, my lady. It is almost time for dinner.”

  Chapter Seven

  “You should have told me it was your birthday,” Theran Blackmoor said.

  With my fork I pushed aside a fatty-looking piece of venison and instead tackled the compote of spiced apples that had accompanied it. “I didn’t think it mattered. You’ve already done so much for me—”

  He raised a hand. “All I’ve done is try to make you comfortable here. But a birthday…a birthday is special.”

  “Sar has prepared a wonderful meal.”

  A rueful shake of the hood, and he reached for his wine glass. At least, it seemed that small movement of his head was rather aggravated. I fancied that over the days and weeks I’d come to know his moods and gestures a little better, even if I could not see his face.

  “I am told that modesty is becoming in young women, but you might try a little less of it from time to time. It does not suit you all that well.”

  “What is modest about not drawing attention to one’s self?”

  He laughed outright then. “I would say avoiding attention is one of the basic characteristics of modesty. Come now—you are a woman of the world now, having left your girlhood behind. I would like to hear you say one praiseful thing about yourself.”

  At first I hesitated, thinking perhaps he meant to jest with me, but as he remained sitting there, watching me with his head cocked and the wine glass still in one hand, I realized he was in earnest. Good gods, what on earth was I to say?

  Stumbling over the words, I managed, “Well, I am—that is, I have been told that I am a rather good painter.”

  “You have been told you are a good painter. Do you need the words of others to convince you of this?”

  Of course I didn’t, not really. I knew I was good. Better than good, really, but it was difficult to shake off years of my mother admonishing me to never boast, to only nod meekly if someone commented on a sketch or the texture of a pudding or the sweetness of my smile.

  I lifted my head and looked directly into his unseen features. “I am an excellent painter.”

  “Much better. What else?”

  “What else?”

  “There is more to you than your paintbrushes, Rhianne. What would you say if I told you your beauty rivals that of any of the court ladies I have ever seen?”

  “I would say that it has been a long time since you were at court, my lord,” I replied tartly.

  Another laugh. “And I would say you are correct in that point, but my memory has not faded with the passage of years. I know whereof I speak.”

  I knew I should have come up with some rejoinder, some words that would have asserted my own ordinariness while not sounding contradictory. At least, that is what my mother would have wished of me. But she was not there, and, odd as it might sound, I found myself enjoying Lord Blackmoor’s approval. So I said, in meek tones I was sure did not fool him for a second, “As you say, my lord.”

  If I’d been able to see his eyes, it was very likely that they’d have had a wicked glint. But there was no mistaking the amusement in his voice when he spoke. “I do say, Rhianne. But since I have obviously discommoded you, let us move on to safer subjects. You say that your painting of Lirinsholme is almost complete. What next, then?”

  Relieved he’d abandoned the discussion of my charms, I went on to explain how the ivy on the castle walls had just begun to turn with the first frosts, and how I wanted to do several paintings—a triptych, I hoped—in which I could catch those elusive colors before they were gone. It did not take me much encouragement to hold forth at length about painting, and so I was able to fill up the rest of the meal’s discussion with commentary on my future projects.

  Upon reflection, I realized there was one good thing about that hood. At least with it concealing my husband’s face, I could not as easily tell if he were bored by me or not.

  That night Theran accompanied me to my rooms. I did not know precisely why; perhaps he thought it a gentlemanly gesture, as it was my birthday. At the door, I hesitated, wondering if I should ask him to come inside. Surely it would be a friendly gesture to ask him in to sit by the fire for a few minutes. I didn’t see the harm in that, as Sar or one of the maids always kept the door between the sitting room and my bedchamber closed—most likely to hide the clutter of my paints and easel.

  “Sar left the fire going, since the evening promised to be chilly,” I said, one hand resting on the doorknob.

  Theran seemed to pause as well, as if not entirely sure how best to respond. Then the hood dipped slightly. “You wish me to come inside?”

  “Just—just for a few minutes,” I faltered, wondering if he had interpreted my invitation as something else entirely.

  Again a brief silence. “I would enjoy that.”

  Not entirely sure whether I should be relieved or alarmed, I turned the knob and went inside, my husband following like a silent shadow. A fire did, indeed, crackle welcomingly in the hearth, and I saw on the low table in front of the divan a crystal decanter of some amber-colored liquid and a few small glasses. Well, Sar
had mentioned that she would leave me some of the local honey liqueur, proclaiming it to be just the thing to ward off the chill of autumn nights in the castle.

  “A drink?” I inquired, moving toward the table. At least the act of pouring us a few glasses would do something to fill up the silence.

  “I see that Sar has sent up some methlyn. A little, perhaps. It is very strong.”

  “So she warned me.” I lifted the decanter, which was heavier than it looked, and tipped a little of the liquid into each of the glasses.

  Theran approached and took one of the glasses. “Happy birthday.”

  I grasped the one remaining and raised it as well. “Thank you.”

  We both drank—that is, Theran managed a practiced sip of the liquid, which was much thicker than wine or cider, and far more searing. I swallowed a mouthful, gasped, then coughed quite inelegantly.

  “Sar didn’t warn you?”

  “She might have mentioned that it took some getting used to, but…” I blinked my watering eyes. “I see now what she meant about it keeping me warm—I feel as if someone just poured Keshiaari fire down my throat!”

  “Some water, perhaps?” A ceramic pitcher sat on one of the side tables, and he went to it and poured a measure into one of the pitcher’s matching goblets. I took it gratefully and drank, thus cooling my abused throat somewhat.

  “Thank you.”

  I couldn’t see his smile, but I guessed there might be one hidden under that hood. He retrieved his own glass and took another sip. “Practice, my dear Rhianne.”