Dragon Rose (11 page)

Melynne came then with my breakfast tray. I was glad enough of the distraction, and gladder still that it was the maid who had come, and not Sar. Melynne, though a sweet enough girl, was not blessed with much in the way of discernment, while I worried that the much sharper Sar might have seen my distraction, and wondered at it.

I knew I could never begin to explain myself. How could I possibly tell that no-nonsense person I seemed to be obsessed with a man I had seen only in my dreams, a man who was most definitely not my husband? That, I feared, would not go over very well. By the time I descended the stairs to take my morning walk in the gardens, I should have had a respectable space in which to compose myself. Sar need never know something was amiss.

As for the rest, well, I could only hope the madness was temporary.

The days seemed to fly by. I awoke one morning some six weeks after my arrival in Black’s Keep and realized it was my birthday. I was twenty now, and if all had gone according to plan, I would have been safe from the Dragon, free to pursue my destiny. That is, free to pursue the destiny of being married to whatever man, young or not-so-young, whom my parents deemed suitable.

If I had been home, I would have been greeted in bed with my favorite seedcakes. There would have been presents—a finely carved hair comb from my mother, perhaps a new set of paintbrushes from my father, a clumsily stitched handkerchief from Maeganne, a little brass bauble for my neck chain from Therella.
 

I had been more or less successful at keeping the homesickness at bay, but the thought of my family, of those homely comforts that were now gone forever, brought stinging tears to my eyes. I told myself not to be foolish, that my life here was better than I could ever have hoped for, but such sensible advice did not seem to do me much good. For the first time in several weeks, I had no motivation to go to my hidden canvas, to continue my halting progress on the strange man’s portrait.

The painting of Lirinsholme, now almost complete, seemed to mock me from its position on the easel. What had I been thinking, to paint the one thing I could never have again? Oh, once upon a time I had scorned my provincial upbringing, wished I could go make my fortune in Lystare, or even brave the great journey to see
 
the capital of Sirlende, the great city of Iselfex, reputed to be one of the wonders of the world. Now, though, I thought I would give a great deal to see Lirinsholme’s narrow streets again, and to hear my mother’s voice or the laughter of my sisters.

But as there was little I could do to change my current situation, and because my mother had drummed into me the notion that sitting around and moping did no one any good and could actually do a great deal of harm, I made myself get out of bed. I dried my eyes on a handkerchief I retrieved from the top shelf of the wardrobe, and opened the windows and drew in deep breaths of the bracing morning air.
 

On an impulse, I pulled out the canvas of my unknown man and stared for a long moment into his eyes. They had been one of the first things I colored, and their elusive aquamarine depths seemed to look past me rather than at me. As much as I might have wanted to find answers there, I saw nothing but more questions. So I sighed and replaced the painting in its not-so-secret hiding place amongst my blank canvases…but not before I pressed two fingers to my lips and then laid them against the painted mouth of the stranger. Nothing in return, of course…no response save me shaking my head at my folly.

I had not bothered to tell Sar or Lord Blackmoor that it was my birthday. It appeared to me a foolish indulgence in a place where every dinner seemed to be a birthday feast, and where my every wish was granted.

Save, of course, my wish for freedom.

So it was a quiet day, and one in which I did not expect anything out of the ordinary to occur. I settled myself in my alcove and vowed that I would finish that damned painting of Lirinsholme. Autumn was fast approaching, the oaks and elms on the higher hillsides already beginning to be touched with bright color. I realized with a pang that somewhere down in the valley below, Lilianth would be wed to her betrothed very soon.

May she have more joy in her marriage than I have,
I thought then, and then chided myself for being so self-pitying. Perhaps Theran Blackmoor was not the sort of husband a young woman might dream of, but he had treated me very well, with kindness and respect, which was probably more than I would have had at the hands of Liat Marenson. That realization made me thank the Dragon Lord for his patience and his regard. Things could have been so much worse. And since I had been careful to guard my tongue and to be as amiable as possible when in his presence, we had had no repeats of that terrifying night when he circled the ramparts of Black’s Keep in his dragon form.
 

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, Rhianne. 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.