Dragon Rose (17 page)

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!”

“That is not what I said.”

“Perhaps, but I have a very good idea that it is what you meant.” The bread and sausage and cheese, which had tasted so wonderful only a short time ago, began to churn in my stomach. Indeed, I wondered if I might be sick. Perhaps it was the wine. Yes, that had to be it.

“Rhianne, don’t be foolish—”

“So now you think I am a fool,” I countered, and got to my feet, albeit rather unsteadily. “Well, don’t let me inflict my foolishness on you any longer!”

He stood as well, a rather ominous upheaval of dark robes. One edge of his cloak caught my wine glass, and it spilled to the rug, although he appeared to pay it no heed. “Rhianne, please—” He reached out toward me but then pulled up abruptly.

So he couldn’t bear to even lay his hand on my arm. So be it. An odd little ache rose inside me, a hard knot of tears just waiting to be shed. I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me dissolve before him, and so I turned and fled, running for the door, which I slammed with a satisfying bang behind me.

I ran then, feet slapping on the cold stone of the steps, the air frigid against my burning cheeks. The sickness seemed to fill my throat and I gulped, willing it to stay down until I reached the safety of my own chambers.

Once there, I ran for the chamber pot, thinking the rich food would surely come back up again. But instead I only choked and coughed, and realized the spasm of nausea had passed. That did little to reassure me, however. I stood and poured myself some water, then drank half of it without stopping. I almost expected the queasiness to return, but it did not. The knot inside me seemed to release, and I wept then, burying my face in my hands and giving in to the misery.

I could not even say why I was so forlorn, save that Theran and I had quarreled, and my hopes for how the evening might have gone were irretrievably dashed. It had seemed so simple to me before—we would discuss Alende and Allaire, and I would hint that I understood Allaire’s feelings completely, and then…

And then what?

If he had taken me in his arms, had pressed his lips to mine as a true lover should, and not with that light brush of mouth against mouth he had given me on our wedding day, would I have surrendered to him? Could I have looked past whatever destruction that long-ago mage had done to his face and person, and embraced him only as Theran?

I did not know, and now it seemed as if I never would. Oh, quarrels had their way of mending themselves, I supposed. That is, I had heard my parents raise their voices to one another on more than one occasion, but those rifts were never that deep, and seemed to pass as if they had never been. Whether it would be that way between Theran and myself, I could not say. I only knew I felt so weary as I readied myself for bed that I wondered if I would sleep the next day through.
 

Chapter Ten

He came to me in my dreams that night. The stranger, that is, not Theran.

I stood in a great wooden hall, surrounded by gaily dressed, chattering folk, and realized I was at Lilianth’s wedding party. The chamber appeared to be the large reception room of Lirinsholme’s Brecken Hall.

Truly it seemed as if almost everyone in the town was there, wearing their best and drinking ale and cider and mead—curious how my dream should be so detailed, as I knew neither Lilianth’s parents nor Adain could afford to serve wine at such an event. This seemed to matter little enough, for everyone appeared to be in fine spirits. The hall itself was bright with autumn leaves and garlands of berries, and the bride was resplendent in her gown of the silk and linen fabric we had picked out on that day which now seemed so long ago.