Dragon Rose (Tales of the Latter Kingdoms)

by Pope, Christine

  Shaking, I set down the brush on the easel. A drop of paint had fallen before I did so, and it gleamed like a tear on the young man’s cheek. Without thinking, I lifted a piece of gauze from among the oddments on the table and blotted the errant drip away before it could do any further harm. It still left behind the palest of smudges, but I knew I could fix that.

  And I realized then I could never destroy the portrait. What it meant, I did not know, but I had already poured too much of my soul into it. Perhaps it would never be finished—perhaps it would stand as mute testimony to my obsession when I was gone from this place. But stand it would.

  With a sigh I turned and plucked my apron off its hook, then pushed up my sleeves. No point in dripping paint on my fine gown of green wool. I had not thought I would have any set occupation that morning, but obviously the portrait had other ideas.

  I hadn’t dreamed of him, and yet my brush moved with an alacrity I’d only seen before on those mornings when his face was still fresh in my mind. His hair filled in under its quick flashing strokes, painting in what had only been a sketch before, bringing to life the heavy dark waves as they flowed back from his high brow. Not black, but the deep, rich hue of earth new-turned in the spring, unlike my own hair, which gleamed with shades of mahogany in the sunlight. From there I moved on to his dark, straight brows, the lines of lashes that framed the gleaming blue-green eyes.

  Another brush, another tint, and this time I traced the light shadows under the high cheekbones, along the jaw line and the slightly pointed chin. I dipped my brush back into the paint, frowning as I studied my handiwork and tried to determine whether I had made those shadows too pronounced, whether I should go back and lighten them ever so slightly—

  “My lady?” came Sar’s voice from the outer room.

  I started and nearly dropped my paintbrush, but luckily none of the paint spattered. “I’m working,” I called out, even as I laid aside my brush and gathered up the portrait so she could not catch a glimpse of what I was doing. The canvas was far too wet for me to slide it between two other paintings, and so I had to settle for slipping it under the table. I could only hope Sar would not look too closely; she tended to avoid the alcove, as she still could not seem to abide the smell of the linseed oil.

  Perhaps that was why she did not come in immediately, but remained in the sitting chamber as she replied, “It’s past noon, my lady. I’ve brought you a tray.”

  “Oh,” I said vaguely, my gaze straying to the windows. The rain still beat down, so there was no sun to give an indication as to the passage of time. Had I really been consumed in my work for almost four hours?

  It came upon me like that sometimes, only not usually for quite so long. I wondered what had possessed me then. Perhaps I had only needed that moment of indecision, that brief space where I thought I would destroy the portrait, to rouse my passion and invest myself fully. Odd, because I had tossed aside sketches with impunity in the past. Perhaps it was only the value of the canvas that troubled me, although Lindell had told me he often painted over works he wasn’t pleased with, not exactly being overburdened with wealth himself.

  I didn’t have time to puzzle over the conundrum any longer, however, for I knew if I lingered much longer, Sar would be sure to come into my sleeping chamber, linseed smell or no. Better not to risk her sharp eyes seeing the portrait in its not-so-secret hiding place under my worktable. So I wiped my hands on the rag I kept for that purpose, then untied my apron before setting it aside and going out to meet her in the outer room.

  Sure enough, a tray with a large bowl of soup and a small loaf of bread waited for me there, accompanied by a flagon of cider. Usually it was Melynne who brought my luncheon, but perhaps she was occupied elsewhere.

  “Thank you, Sar.”

  Her dark eyes looked sharper than usual this morning, but perhaps that was just my guilty conscience. Why precisely I should feel so guilty, I couldn’t quite say. For some reason, the portrait felt so secret…so illicit, somehow…that I knew I would stumble over my words like an adulterer admitting a transgression if I ever had to explain its presence.

  “You can paint well enough, in this sort of light?” she inquired, with a lift of her shoulder toward the charcoal-colored skies outside.

  “Oh, yes,” I replied, grateful that she had broached a more or less neutral subject. The finer points of technique were always something I liked to discuss—and if she were inquiring about that, less likely that she would ask to see what precisely I had been working on. “Sometimes it’s almost better, you know…no glare to contend with, no harsh shadows.”

  “Hmph.”

  By this time I knew her well enough that I understood her non-reply as her way of saying she wouldn’t presume to contradict me, but that she also didn’t quite believe my statement. Well enough; I wasn’t going to bother explaining myself to her. I thought she liked me but also thought I might be a trifle touched in the head, at least when it came to my painting. I guessed none of my predecessors had quite the same all-consuming passion for any of their avocations…at least, mine were the only Bride-painted works hanging about the castle, unless Theran took them down whenever a new wife arrived.

  Deciding a new tack was probably wise, I asked, “Is that beef and barley soup? It smells wonderful.”

  No doubt she noticed the deflection, but she only nodded. “Cook made up a new batch this morning. Thought it might be a warming antidote to a gloomy day.”

  “It is.”

  Another nod, but this time I caught her giving me a searching look, as if she found something amiss in my expression or my manner. I tensed a little, even though I told myself I was being foolish. After all, I was the lady of the castle. It was not her place to question me. Never mind that her no-nonsense manner reminded me a little too much of my own mother. Even after several months in the castle, I had to school myself not to snap to Sar’s commands the way I would have if I still lived at home and they had been delivered by my mother instead of someone who was in fact one of my servants.

  A hesitation, and then she said, “Well, enjoy your luncheon, my lady. His lordship says you will be taking your dinner in his rooms again this evening?”

  “This evening, and for the rest of the winter, I don’t doubt, unless we have an unexpected warm snap.”

  “Very good, my lady.”

  And then she took her leave of me and went. I stood there, staring at the shut door for a long moment, wondering at the diffidence I had seen in her aspect. Truly it couldn’t have been that much of an imposition for Theran and me to dine in his chambers, as he must have his other meals brought there anyway. Perhaps it was just that Sar did not like to have her routines disturbed. Yes, that must be it.

  Satisfied that I had explained away any oddness I might have noticed in her manner, I sat down to my meal and ate hungrily enough. Painting can be hard work, even if that which one paints is seen only through the mind’s eye, and has no true substance in this world.

  I spent much of the rest of the afternoon in the same manner, working quickly and without stopping. This time I created nothing that I thought I might have to paint over later, and when I finally stopped a little after sunset—or at least what I guessed must be sunset, as I could see nothing of it through the sullen rainstorm that seemed to have descended on the castle—I was much farther along in the portrait than I had ever dreamed I would be. True, I was not done, and still some weeks off from being done, but for the first time I thought I might reasonably finish the portrait sometime this winter.

  What I would do with it then, I couldn’t imagine. Hide it under my bed, most likely. I couldn’t see Theran being terribly pleased with my hanging a picture of some unknown man in my rooms, even if I had conjured him from my own imagination and a combination of features I thought pleasing. Those sea-colored eyes I had seen the previous summer in a young man who’d come to Lirinsholme in the train of a traveling merchant from Purth, and the heavy fall of dark hair was quite similar to that of
Kellin Strathelme, who was apprentice to Master Mackinrod, the blacksmith. Not so odd, I supposed, to invent someone who combined qualities I found attractive, when I lived day to day with someone who refused to show me his face.

  With that thought I realized I should tidy myself up for dinner. Once again I set aside my apron, and washed my hands vigorously before brushing my hair. I had worn no jewelry while I was working, but I slid a pair of earrings with dark green stones I didn’t recognize into my ears, and fastened a matching necklace around my throat. I stood for a moment, regarding my own reflection, wondering if I might see something there that Sar had noticed.

  But I looked much the same as I always had, although perhaps there was just the slightest hint of darkness below my eyes—from my restless night, no doubt. I had heard that the ladies of the court used powder and paint to hide such things, but Sar had only used such subterfuges on my wedding day. They were not a permanent addition to my toiletries. Just as well; I shuddered to think what my mother might say if she ever discovered that her daughter had stooped to dabbing powder on her face or stain on her cheeks.

  As I left my chambers and headed for Theran’s quarters, I thought of the tale I had read the night before, of Alende and Allaire. She had been brave enough to love him despite his scars, and they had lived a happy life, even if he was never restored to his former self. Was this what the Dragon Lord wished to teach me? Would I have the courage of Allaire, who had looked into the baron’s face and seen only the man she loved, and not his deformity?

  The memory of those rough lips against mine returned to me, and I drew in a breath. Truly they had not felt human, and yet Theran seemed so much a man to me, from the measured woodwind tones of his voice to the spare elegance of his movements.

  And what would you know of a man? some part of me seemed to scoff. You, who have never even stolen a kiss in the alley behind your parents’ house, or caught the fancy of a single young man?

  To be fair, my experience was not large. In truth, it was nonexistent. Some might have thought this odd, since I had been deemed more than pretty by the standards of my town, and certainly my family was good enough. Perhaps it was simply my obsession with drawing and painting, which, though my parents tried to suppress talk of it as best they could, still made me the subject of some bemused speculation. Nor did it help that I had spent a good deal of my spare time learning what I could of the craft from Lindell. The gossips must have known that he had a longstanding understanding with Melisse, the keeper of the Dragon’s Head, but I suppose those same busybodies did not find that relationship salacious enough, instead preferring to manufacture some sordid explanation for his interest in me. That could do much to shred a girl’s reputation, even if there were no truth in it.

  If there had been talk, I never heard it, although that meant little. My parents did what they could to shelter me, and Lilianth did rather more. She would never hear one ill word spoken of me, and recalling that about her made me doubly glad I had stepped in to take her place here at Black’s Keep.

  I wondered then what on earth she would have made of Theran Blackmoor…or he of her.

  No doubt they could have gotten along well enough, once she got past the bitter disappointment over losing Adain. But I had a feeling they would have had very little to say to one another. Hers was a sunny disposition, but she was not one to think deeply on things, and I thought Theran might have become impatient with such a quality after a while. And whatever would she have done to keep herself occupied? True, she was very clever with a needle, but one can only do so much of that before it begins to pall. I had a sudden vision of Theran’s rooms with their delicate little pieces of machinery all covered in doilies made of the tatted lace Lilianth excelled at, and had to suppress a grin.

  Then I was at the door to his suite, and I hesitated before lifting my hand to knock. Should I mention the story, or only thank him for the loan of the book and perhaps attempt a white little lie…I was so tired last night that I only read the introduction…it was so big a book I didn’t know where to start…?

  I felt uncomfortable about lying to him, though, and the excuses sounded feeble even to me. If he had given me the book to provoke some sort of discussion, then I would discuss what I had found within its pages.

  That settled, I lifted my hand and rapped smartly on the door.

  Inside the fire blazed, and although the rain beat as heavily on the windows here as it did down in my rooms, somehow it seemed cozier, more welcoming. Perhaps it was only that the air held a toothsome smell, the source of which I discovered to be a small pot Theran had sitting over a brazier.

  “They do this in Purth,” he explained, directing me toward the table in front of the divan, where some cut-up bread and sausages awaited us. “It seemed like a good idea for a stormy night.”

  “What is it?”

  “Only melted cheese. Come—try some.”

  So I followed his lead and picked up one of the long bone-handled forks from the table, speared a chunk of bread with it, and dipped it in the pot. The cheese began to drip, and Theran laughed and quickly fetched a plate from the table, then held it beneath the chunk of bread. Steam wisped up and away from it, bringing with it a delectable aroma that reminded me it had been quite some time since the soup I’d consumed at noon.

  The taste of it was better than I had even imagined, sharp with the tang of pale wine and some other seasonings I couldn’t quite identify. “May we have this every rainy night?” I asked, this time choosing a piece of sausage to dip into the mixture.

  “I fear Sar might have something to say about that. She did not think it a proper meal, but I argued that it would amuse you, and so she relented. But I would not press my luck.”

  “One might think she is the true ruler of this house and not you, my lord.”

  “Ah, you have discovered our secret. I may hold the title, but it is she who sees how things are ordered around here…far more than I.”

  I smiled at him and watched as he expertly skewered a piece of the fine white bread with its chewy crust and dipped it into the pot. He was able to maneuver the morsel into his mouth without dripping a bit of cheese on the hearthstones, his cloak, or the rug, which seemed quite a good feat to me.

  We ate in companionable silence then for a while, bites of cheese and bread and sausage punctuated by sips of crisp white wine that might have been part of the original recipe for the dish. At length, though, I began to feel somewhat full from all the rich food and finally set down the long-handled fork.

  “I simply cannot eat any more,” I declared, and took a breath. I could have sworn my gown didn’t feel quite that tight when Melynne laced me into it that morning.

  “Not even the spiced peach compote Sar brought up?”

  “Oh, dear. Perhaps in a quarter-hour?”

  He nodded and poured me a little more wine. I had gotten used to it during my time here, and so several glasses didn’t make my head swim quite as much as they once had. Even so, I realized I had been a little intemperate in washing down all those delectable morsels of bread and sausage, and therefore took only the smallest of sips from the newly refilled glass.

  It was probably the wine, however, that prompted me to say, “Theran, why did you give me Tales of the Age of Magic to read?”

  The hooded head turned toward me. “I thought it might amuse you.”

  “And that is all?”

  “Why else?”

  His tone sounded casual enough, but I thought I caught a slight edge to his voice, as if he had not been expecting my question and was caught off-guard by it.

  I probably should have let it go. But I was weary and, perhaps, just the slightest bit tipsy, both factors which did nothing for my sense of discretion. So I said, “I read ‘The Tale of Alende and Allaire.’”

  “Indeed? I am surprised you got that far in a single evening.”

  “I skipped ahead.”

  In brittle accents he replied, “Do you always do that with the books you
read?”

  “I hardly know, as this is the first real book I’ve had a chance to read. But the foreword was so dusty dry that I felt I had to find something a bit more interesting to keep me awake.”

  “Ah.”

  That was all, just a single syllable which could have meant anything. Undeterred, I plowed ahead. “I found it very fascinating, my lord. In fact, I was up quite late finishing it.”

  He said nothing, instead staring at the fire as if something in its flickering depths intrigued him.

  “I found it compelling that Allaire could ignore what the mage had done to Alende, could instead admire him and care for him because of who he was and not what he looked like.”

  Still the silence stretched on, the hood facing forward and away from me, as if he could not bear to see my face. He shifted, and I saw the gloved hands tighten on the fine wool that covered his knee. Finally he said abruptly, “It is only a story.”

  “Indeed? For the title page of the book declares that it is ‘A True Account of the Birth of Magic.’”

  “Perhaps that much is true, but I doubt the entirety of it is ‘a true account.’ As with many other works of that nature, the author most likely gathered up what tales he could and published them all under that title, whether they were relevant or not.”

  “If that is your opinion, then I wonder at you giving it to me in the first place.”

  He did turn and regard me then; at least, the hood shifted in my direction. “I thought it might make for better reading than many of the volumes in my library, given your…limited opportunity for study.”

  “Oh, I see,” I replied, not bothering to hide the edge to my voice. “So you thought to give me silly fairy tales to read, as I am only a poor uneducated girl who couldn’t possibly comprehend anything more scholarly!”