Dragon Tree

by Canham, Marsha

  Odo de Langois was the prince’s man. His loyalties were as plain as the scarlet boar emblazoned across his surcoat. The iron gray eyes did not look to the walls and defenses of Taniere solely to search for an errant wife. He looked with a greedy eye and an ambitious desire to add to his holding of Belmane.

  He had likely already assessed the vaunted Dragonslayer as a threat and found him sadly wanting. Despite the breadth of his shoulders and the overbold contempt in his voice, Tamberlane’s reputation was founded upon past deeds. In recent years he had done nothing but sit at his table and drink mead. He was excommunicated by more than just the church. Here in the depths of the forest, he was also excommunicated from the outside world.

  At the same time, Odo had to acknowledge that such a man would not be inclined to draw attention down upon himself by breaking the laws over something so paltry as a runaway wife.

  Even so, he could not shake the feeling that something was not quite right. There were too many shadows, too many corners and de Langois could not shake the sensation of unseen eyes watching him. He had felt it since they had crossed the draw and blamed it first on the dragons guarding the gate, then on the eerie green eyes of his host. The hall was large, and there were shadows everywhere. There was a minstrel’s gallery high on the far wall, but so rarely used the beams and pilasters were spun with veils of cobwebs. Any movement there would stir them.

  He stared up into the blackness for a long moment, wondering at the cold prickles that rose across his nape. The source was not resolved until a finger of smoke, climbing from one of the brazier fires, led his gaze to the wall above the hearth. There he saw the same dragon tree as had been depicted on the front gates, the same entwined creatures with their jaws open and their tongues curling outward with ominously chilling realism. The carving was in polished oak this time, breathtakingly lifelike, from the scaled and twisted heads of the dragons to the six pairs of sightless eyes that seemed to be staring right into the skull of Odo de Langois.

  They were the kind of eyes that would follow a man whether he sat in the front of the hall or the rear, whether he walked or stood perfectly still.

  They were, he decided, the first thing he would dismantle and burn as soon as possession of Taniere Castle fell into his hands.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Marak was fairly certain Tamberlane would not betray Amaranth’s presence at Taniere Castle. At least not until he’d had a chance to speak to her further and learned the whys and wherefores.

  He was not so certain, however, that Amaranth would not betray herself.

  They had watched together from the gloom of the barbican as her husband and Tamberlane had met on the shore. They were too far away for their words to carry across the distance, but it seemed to be a surprisingly amiable exchange. At the end of it, when Tamberlane had led the other knights back across the draw, Marak had been more intent upon watching Amie’s face than studying the men as they filed past, and the changes he saw there surprised him more than Tamberlane’s civility with Odo de Langois. The look of the lost, fragile waif was gone and in its place was loathing in its purest form.

  She had not taken her eyes off her husband, and had been able to follow de Langois’ progress across the draw and beneath the barbican bridge, moving from arrow slit to arrow slit, studying him as long as she could before changing quickly to gain an unbroken view through another slot cut in the stone.

  When the horses and riders passed beneath the portcullis, she had stood over a murder hole and stared down at the tops of their heads. Watching her, seeing how the loathing had altered the landscape of her face, Marak had actually felt the hairs on his arms stand on end.

  He had been on a ship once, in the ominous moments before a thunderstorm struck, and had witnessed the lightening-like bursts of energy that flickered and danced across the yards and mast. He had felt as though he was in the presence of that same crackling tension, that same excruciating stillness as he watched Amie staring down through the murder hole. He saw her nostrils flare, as if she could smell her husband’s clothes, his hair, his body stench as he passed beneath and Marak suspected that if she'd had a pot of scalding oil at hand, she would have emptied it over his head without a qualm.

  When the last rider had passed beneath, she crossed to the opposite side of the tower and peered once again through the arrow slits, watching the men ride across the outer common toward the keep.

  “Are you still so willing to offer yourself up in sacrifice?” Marak asked softly. "Will you again ask Lord Tamberlane to give you back to your husband so that your conscience might be appeased?"

  He head gave a slight turn. Her hands were clutched into tight little fists and when she turned fully around, her eyes were flooded with bright tears, making the color so intense he found them almost painful to meet.

  “I don't know what else to do,” she said quietly. "I have already caused more hurt than I can bear to think about."

  “Will you not allow yourself to put a small measure of faith in Ciaran?”

  “Ciaran?”

  Marak smiled. “Even slayers of dragons are given human names at birth. His is Ciaran Richard Edward Tamberlane. Whereas yours is not Amaranth.” The statement was met with instant suspicion and his hand waved to dismiss it. “A small talent I possess for reading words on lips when distance prevents me from hearing them. But the fact your husband asked about you by another name allowed Lord Tamberlane to admit, truthfully, that he knew of no one by that name, for he would sooner pierce his own tongue with a wooden spike than twist it around a lie. It is a flaw that has cost him dearly many times in the past.”

  “Elizabeth,” she admitted on a soft sigh. “My name is Elizabeth, but my father did indeed call me Amaranth, that much was not a lie.”

  “Then I shall continue to call you Amaranth, though I suspect by the look on your face, your strength of purpose is beginning to fade a little."

  She blinked and a tear splashed over her lashes and trickled down her cheek. "I cannot go back and I cannot stay here. I will not be the cause of any more deaths, and death will surely come to Taniere if Odo even suspects I am within these walls."

  "Then we must give him no reason to suspect it.

  Whatever strength she had mustered had, indeed, begun to wane and the slope of Amie’s shoulders grew more pronounced. The color that had burnished her cheeks had ebbed and the shimmer in her eyes turned to fear and uncertainty.

  “You are safe so long as you stay out of sight,” he assured her quietly.

  “You do not know Odo de Langois. Or his men. They peek through crevices and listen at keyholes. If he suspects I am here he will find a way to search every room and question every man, woman, and child within the walls."

  "Then we shall have to make you invisible while he is here."

  “Invisible? You have that power?” she asked in a whisper that was partly disbelieving, but at the same time partly hopeful.

  Marak laughed. “Would that I did, Little One, then we could all go safely about our business. Alas, my powers extend only to making people see what they wish to see.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  It was the second time he had asked the question and Amie did not hesitate at all before nodding.

  “Then wait here. I need to fetch some things from the stables but will return upon the instant. Will you do this much for me?”

  She nodded again.

  He pulled his hood back up over his head and, with the silence of a wraith, he was gone leaving Amie alone with her thoughts. The fishy smell of the lake water combined with the scent of perpetually damp stone was suddenly oppressive and she sat on an overturned bucket before her legs gave way beneath her. Her heart was pounding like a drum and her wounded shoulder was throbbing. She felt physically ill. Her stomach was roiling even though it was empty enough to rub on her backbone. Leaning forward, she cradled her head in her hands, breathing slow and deep until the waves of nausea passed.


  This would not do. It would not do at all to turn into a quivering heap of fear now. From somewhere, nourished on tears and whiplashes, she had found the courage to survive ten months of hell as a whoremonger’s plaything. Surely she could survive a little while longer.

  Ciaran Richard Edward Tamberlane. The name popped into her mind unbidden. His expression had looked utterly unforgiving when she had confessed her duplicity and she did not expect it to improve over the next few hours. She suspected that he would be more than anxious himself to see her leave Taniere Castle. Nothing about his dark and brooding countenance suggested she would have any measure of success appealing to his sympathies... if, indeed, he had any. Marak had said he would sooner rip out his own tongue as tell a lie. Doubtless he thought very little of those who had no such qualms.

  Yet she had seen that harsh, chiselled face soften over something so trivial as returning a wooden horse to a child. At some time, in his training for the priesthood, he must have been capable of understanding and forgiving those with a weaker strength of will than he possessed. Sometimes lies and deception were the only means to survive.

  Marak reappeared on the stone landing. He carried a thick bundle under his arm, and in his hand a pair of doeskin boots still warm from their previous owner.

  “Your husband and his men will be keeping a keen eye on the gates, the wards, and the outbuildings The priest who helped you was a clever fellow by altering the color of your hair, but we will need to alter the rest of you.”

  He unwrapped the bundle and she watched as he produced a shirt, jerkin, and woolen leggings. None were particularly clean and to judge by the size, she suspected there was a young boy running about in stables with naught against his skin but sunlight.

  “‘Twas the best I could do upon the instant,” Marak said, catching the dubious look in her eye.

  She shook her head to dismiss his concerns and let the quilted blanket fall to the floor. The nightdress she wore was straight and shapeless and, at Marak’s suggestion, she left it on, ruched high around the waist to fatten her up with a ring of bulk around her mid-section. He helped her into the coarse woolen shirt and gave instructions for the leggings—a garment she had never worn before and one that required a thin leather belt to go about the waist to keep the crotch from sagging down to her knees. The boots fit the best of the lot, but were still several sizes too big, making her appear clumsy when she walked. When the jerkin was added Marak stood back to inspect and was satisfied with all but her hair, still a great and glorious cloud of rippling rusty blonde waves.

  She saw where his concern was focussed and reached up, gathering the flown lot into a single thick tail. With Marak watching, she divided the glossy mass into three equal parts and began to weave them into a plait, using her fingers to free the tangles as best she could.

  When she was finished, it was an improvement, and he said as much, but she could see the hesitation tainting his praise and knew she would not deceive anyone into believing she was a lad with a braid hanging down to her knees.

  “Do you have a knife?”

  The Saracen produced one from somewhere inside a voluminous sleeve. Thinking she meant only to sever the end of the braid, he was startled to see her grab it at its thickest point near the nape of her neck and saw the sharply honed edge of the blade back and forth. The skein was severed and in her hand before he could question the merit of the act, for a woman’s hair was her pride, a symbol of her station in life. Many a noblewoman went her entire adult life without ever cutting an inch.

  “Well!” he said. And then again, “Well.”

  "It would have been cut off in the convent anyway," she said, with a quiet little ferocity. "I have just saved the good sisters the trouble."

  She held out the braid and the knife, her lower lip held firmly between her teeth. He set the one aside, but took the knife and, after seeking permission with an apologetic gesture of his hands, tried to give her impulsiveness a more evenly trimmed appearance.

  This time, when he stood back to make his inspection, he was pleasantly shocked by the transformation. Her face was now surrounded by a scruffy mop of reddish waves, some already curling in the dampness against her neck. Her breasts were camouflaged by the bulky layers of sheath, shirt and jerkin, the latter long enough to hide the slimness of her hips. She looked much like the fourteen-year-old lad he had borrowed the clothing from and he dared to swear she could stand within ten paces of her own husband and he would not recognize her. If she kept her face down and her eyes averted, that is. The former was far too pale and smooth, the latter seemed to be twice the size as before, the shade of violet blue impossible to disguise.

  Nodding to himself, he unwrapped a final small parcel he had brought from the stable.

  “For this I do heartily apologize,” he said, “but the smell should turn the most persistent head away.”

  Amie held her breath as he smeared a clod of fresh horse dung down the front of her jerkin. It was ripe enough to make her eyes water, but she did not protest, not even when he cleaned his fingers on her sleeves and bent over again, carrying dirt up to smudge on her cheeks, forehead, and throat.

  “Not perfect, of course, but good enough to discourage anyone looking for a slender blonde-haired noblewoman.”

  "They will ask questions of the people here within the walls. They will inquire of knight and knave alike if any newcomers have been seen within the castle grounds."

  Marak smiled gently. "Most knights herein have come to Taniere to avoid having to answer too many questions about their own pasts and they resent being asked about others. Of the knaves, not one in a hundred would volunteer information to one of the Prince's men."

  "Odo's men are mercenaries and killers. As long as they have the taste of silver between their teeth, they will hold this castle under siege until there only skeletons manning the walls."

  “Having seen the look of the man as well as those he commands, I see no reason to doubt you. And unfortunately, though I have come to enjoy your company, I must agree that you should be away from this place—far away—as soon as possible.”

  She looked at him with the first signs of relief, acknowledging that at least one argument had drawn to a conclusion. The second, how to get off the island unnoticed by the ring of men watching the moat and draw, sent her to stare out one of the arrow slits again. "There must be a way to get ashore unseen. Castles were built to keep people out, not trap them inside."

  Marak smiled again. “There are catacombs beneath the castle, and tunnels which lead beneath the moat and exit in the forest. One needs to know which tunnel, of course, otherwise a person could wander for weeks in the darkness and never find their way out... or back in."

  Amie's next question was smothered to silence as they heard the sound of footsteps running up the stairs behind them. Marak raised a warning finger to his lips and moved discreetly to stand in front of her.

  It was Roland, his cheeks flushed from running.

  “My lord Tamberlane requests your presence in the hall,” he said to Marak. “He also said—and quite specifically, as he made me repeat the words twice—that you were to deal with the matter at hand as you saw fit, but to deal with it swiftly for if he remains alone in Lord Odo’s company overlong, he may be tempted to test the edge of his blade on the bastard’s throat. Those were my lord’s exact words.”

  “I gather he is enjoying his role of playing host?"

  Roland nodded at the sarcasm. "So much so that he wants extra guards on the towers and keen eyes watching the men left on shore."

  "I had best hasten back to the keep without further delay.” Marak turned to address Amie. “You may return to the stables, boy, and tend the new foal.”

  Amaranth tucked her chin to her chest and started to walk past but Roland reached out and grabbed her by a handful of the jerkin. “Nay, he can come with me. They are in need of more varlets to carry food and water to the tables.”

  “In the hall?" Amie gasped and gl
anced up at Marak. "Oh no. No, I think I should stay here—”

  Roland frowned and clouted her sharply across the ear. “Puling cur! How dare you question an order! Lord Marak should turn you into a blowfly for your insolence! If I say you are to go to the hall, you are to go to the hall, though by the look and stench of you, I’d not want you carrying any platter of food that might touch my lips.”

  Marak’s eyes narrowed. “You may be right about that, Roland. Aye, perhaps the boy should go up to the keep. The foal is fine, the mare is looking after it well enough. Rather than be alone in the stables, the lad can make himself useful tending the fires and turning the spits, where the smoke is thickest and will disguise the odor.”

  Amie tipped her head up to question the wisdom of Marak’s suggestion when Roland gave her another clout for good measure. This time it landed squarely over the tenderly healed wound. A cry broke from her lips and she half-flinched, half spun away to protect the shoulder from another blow, but the pain took hold of her breath and left her doubled over.

  Marak was instantly by her side. The look on his face rivalled that on Roland’s, who had caught sight of the severed rope of braided hair that lay like a glossy snake coiled on the stone. He looked from the braid, to Amie, back to the braid, and finally, with a slack-jawed look of surprise, to Marak.

  "Is that... Amaranth?" Roland’s mouth gaped wider. “My lord, I... I had no idea!”

  Marak raised an angry hand to silence him. His arm went around Amie’s waist to support her until the waves of pain subsided and she could straighten again.

  “Amaranth, I had no idea...!” Roland raked a hand through his hair, clearly devastated. "My most heartfelt apologies. All I saw was a humblie standing there, I had no idea..."