Read Dragon Rose Online

Authors: Christine Pope

Tags: #Fantasy, #Romance

Dragon Rose (7 page)

BOOK: Dragon Rose
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So I stepped past her and moved inside the chamber.

It, too, was constructed on a grand scale, the vaulted roof the height of a tall man several times over. The last traces of sunset painted the carved panels on the walls in flickering shades of russet and wine, the only light in the room, except for a pair of tall, thick candles, each sitting on its own waist-high pillar of dark marble. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I saw the figure of a man standing between the two pillars and started—until I realized he was quite elderly, and wearing the dark grey robes of a priest of Inyanna. Not my intended, then.

The priest extended his arms. “Come forward, child.”

For one wild instant I had the notion to turn and run, to bolt through those double doors and out of the castle as quickly as my feet could carry me. Then I realized how mad it would be to try to outrun an enraged dragon on foot. Besides, I had offered myself as the Dragon’s Bride. I could not back out now, even if my heart hammered in my chest and my hands felt like ice.

I stepped meekly forward until I stood a pace away from the priest. “Father.”

He didn’t respond, but seemed to stiffen.

We were not alone in the room.

Where he had come from, I couldn’t say, but I heard the soft hiss of his long cloak as it dragged across the stone floor. The very air seemed to sigh, as if displaced by something it knew was not natural.

My heart lodged roughly midway up my throat, I turned.

At first I almost laughed in relief. This was no scaled monster of legend, no overgrown serpent-beast with eyes of fire. I looked upon the figure of a man, tall and slender, although it was difficult to make out much more than that, as he wore a cloak that covered him from shoulder to heel. The garment’s cowled hood dropped low, concealing his face.

“Rhianne.”

That voice—it was the sort of voice a woman might dream of, rich and yet soft, the accents rounded and full. To hear it emanate from within that hood was surprise enough; I blinked at the realization that he knew my name. But that was foolish. Sar must have told him, or sent word to him somehow.

“Yes,” I replied simply, hoping my own voice didn’t sound too hopelessly countrified.

“The rose, I believe,” he went on. “At least, that is what your name meant in the language of old. Do you like roses?”

“I, er, well, yes,” I said, and then cursed myself inwardly for my fumbling. What a fool he must think me.

“We have a rather fine garden on the north side of the castle. You must visit it when you have the chance.”

Not knowing what else to say, I only answered, “Of course, my lord.”

Something that might have been a chuckle escaped from beneath the hood. He turned slightly, facing the priest. “You may begin.”

The old man cleared his throat and lifted his hands. I saw that he now held the traditional length of white linen used in all the wedding ceremonies I had ever witnessed. “Rhianne Menyon.”

I knew what to do. Ever since I was a young child I had attended these sorts of rites, and had even dreamed from time to time of what my own nuptials might be like. Never in any of those gauze-edged fantasies had I thought I would be standing next to the Dragon himself. Like every young woman in Lirinsholme, I had always believed that sort of thing would happen to someone else.

Somehow I managed to raise my left hand, allowed him to wrap the linen around it.

“Theran Blackmoor.”

The Dragon lowered his hand so that it rested on mine. A black glove enclosed his fingers, but even through the leather I could feel the heat of him, as if his flesh burned with an inward fire. I tried not to flinch, to stand my ground and not let him know how it took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to pull my hand away.

The priest wrapped the linen around the Dragon’s hand as well, binding us together.
 

You will not shake
, I told myself.
Or tremble, or faint, or do anything else foolish. His hand is warm, true, but at least he is not some fearsome beast, some monster. It could have been so much worse.

I was so intent on this inner monologue that I did not hear the priest’s next words. With a start I realized he had fallen silent and was waiting for me, the linen now unwrapped from our wrists and held outstretched in his hands. At once I reached out and took the linen from him and brought it to my lips in the ritual gesture, then let the Dragon take it from me so he might do the same. That is, I could only guess he had brought the fabric to his mouth, for it disappeared within the recesses of his hood and then emerged a second or two later, when he handed it back to the priest.

In silence the older man took the linen and folded it into the triangle custom required before placing it in a small brazier half-hidden behind one of the marble candle stands. With a chill I realized what was to come next.

“Close your eyes,” Theran Blackmoor said.

That was not part of the ritual, but I guessed it would be unwise in the extreme to disobey. So I shut my eyes and held my breath as I felt him move closer, the heavy fabric of his hood brushing against my loose hair before his mouth touched mine.

Only for the briefest instant, and then he withdrew at once. But even in the space of that heartbeat or two I could feel something dreadfully wrong about the lips that had grazed mine, something rough and hard, as if they were not human skin at all.

Once again I fought the urge to flinch. How many of those other Brides had recoiled? Surely it must be a dreadful thing to have the woman one married shrink at one’s very touch. An odd stirring of pity moved within me. For all that he had the outward shape of a man, it seemed there must be a very real reason for the hooded cloak, for the gloves.

I opened my eyes and saw him staring down at me. That is, the hood was tilted downward. I could see nothing else.

“Rhianne Blackmoor,” he said, and in that voice my name was somehow a caress. “You are now the mistress of Black’s Keep.”

There being nothing witty or profound I could think of to say in reply, I merely curtsied. “My lord.”

“Theran.”

“Theran,” I repeated. Perhaps one day I might have the courage to address him thus.

“And now—”

“Now?”
 

“Our wedding feast.”

He offered me his arm. I forced myself not to hesitate, to settle my hand on top of his as if it were the most natural thing the world. Lifting my chin, I allowed him to lead me from the room.

Truth be told, it was a very odd feast. Oh, the food was abundant enough, and uniformly excellent, although my hunger might have increased its charms. However, it was a feast for two, as only the Dragon and I sat at a long table that could have easily accommodated ten times our number.
 

Of the chamber in which we sat, I could make out very little, since the only illumination was a single candle located next to my place setting. The lord of Black’s Keep apparently had no need of such things…or perhaps it was more important to him that I have no chance of seeing what lay within the hood as he ate.

For he did eat, of roast waterfowl and wine-braised beef and a dish I had always loved, with apples and cinnamon and candied tubers, as well as salad of field greens and potatoes roasted with garlic. The bread was warm and fresh, the butter sweet and cool. With the meal came wine as well, as much, apparently, as I would like, and not the parsimonious half-glass my mother allowed me with my evening meal.

In the darkness I did not recognize the servant who brought us the food. It was not Sar, but a younger woman who somehow managed to safely negotiate the dim chamber as she brought in course after course. I for one was glad that I apparently was expected to stay in one place for some time, since I feared I might trip over the rug if I were required to move more than a few paces in the darkness.

At first we ate in silence, but then the Dragon asked, after pouring me a second goblet of wine with his own hands, “And what is it you do to amuse yourself, Rhianne?”

“To amuse myself?”

“Yes. I fear you may find it rather dull up here, if you do not have something with which to occupy yourself. Do you embroider, or sew, or—”

Perhaps it was the second glass of wine which emboldened me. “I paint.”

He paused, gloved fingers only a few inches away from his own glass of wine. “You what?”

“I paint. With oils,” I added recklessly. Let him know the worst. After all, what could he do? We were already married in the eyes of the goddess.

“How…extraordinary.” A brief hesitation, and he added, “I would imagine that requires a number of supplies. Tomorrow you shall make up a list, so that Sar can send out for the things you need.”

Was it possible? Had he just offered to get me whatever I needed? I let my fingers rest on the base of my wine goblet but did not pick it up. “They are not the sort of supplies one can procure in Lirinsholme. Lindell always had to send to Lystare for his pigments and canvas.”

It must have been my imagination, but somehow it seemed as if those smooth tones sharpened somewhat. “And who is Lindell?”

“A painter who taught me what he could,” I replied. “He is very good, but he made the Duke of Tralion look quite plump in his portrait, and so he has made Lirinsholme his refuge.”

To my surprise, the Dragon actually laughed at that confession. “Yes, I can imagine even his Grace would not bother pursuing a hapless portrait painter all the way here. You will not mind my saying that this is a rather unusual pastime for a young woman, however.”

“Do you mind?”

“Does it make you happy?”

I stared across the table at him, at the man-sized shape that was only a darker shadow in the dim room. No one had ever asked me such a thing. It was not usually a concern whether a young woman was happy or not, only that she did as her parents bade her and found some way to make peace with her lot in this life. And to have the Dragon of Black’s Keep, the devourer of Brides, ask such a question made me wonder exactly how much anyone really knew about him. Very little, it seemed.

“Yes,” I said firmly. “Very much so.”

“Well, then.”

Twenty years of being raised under my parents’ roof compelled me to say, “It’s all so very expensive, though. The canvas…the pigments…the linseed oil…”

“Do you think the expense concerns me?”

Oh, dear. Perhaps I had offended him. One had only to glance around the castle to know that the Dragon certainly did not lack for material wealth. I did not know him well enough—know him at all—or perhaps I would have tried to explain that my protests were not born of concern that he could not afford the supplies, but rather that one such as I did not really deserve them.

“No, my lord,” I replied, in tones so meek I’m sure they would have raised my mother’s eyebrows, had she been there to hear them.

“Theran,” he reminded me, and I nodded.

“I suppose I shall remember that one of these days.”

“We can only hope.”

I thought I heard an undercurrent of amusement in his words, and I found myself smiling. My heart seemed to lighten. Who would have thought that a day which began in such dread could end with such hope? For he sounded sincere enough. Possibly, just possibly, my tenure in Black’s Keep wouldn’t be quite as dreadful as I had imagined it would.

After dinner he walked me to my rooms, up all those endless stairs. I did not ask where his own chambers lay. And although Sar had told me the Dragon and his consort did not share a suite, still I wondered at him taking me all this way, when it would have been so much easier to bid me goodnight in the dining chamber and allow a servant to guide me back upstairs.

Outside my door we both paused. I had no idea what to do if he asked to accompany me inside. After all, as my husband he had every right to make such a request of me. The food I had eaten, which had seemed so excellent at the table, seemed to lie heavily in my stomach.
 

“You will begin to find your way around, after a time,” he told me. “But I thought it better to guide you here now, until you are more familiar with your new home.”

“Thank you,” I said, a little relieved at this statement. It seemed his motives for accompanying me here had been pure enough.
 

He lifted a hand. “And do not forget to give Sar that list. It will take some time to get the things you need, but I have riders who can make haste if need be.”

“They do not need to do such things for me—”

“Yes, they do. You are the mistress of Black’s Keep. Never forget that.”

There was such urgency in his words that I could only nod. “I’ll try.”

“Good.” He reached out then and took one of my hands in his gloved ones. I wondered if he would lift my fingers to his lips, and if I would feel that odd roughness—of scales?—once again. He did not, however, but only squeezed my hand gently before turning and going back the way he had come. A swirl of his dark cloak as he turned the corner, and then he was gone.

I stood there for a long moment, halfway wishing I had asked him to stay. His company at dinner had been pleasant, far more so than I had ever dreamed might be possible. But that was absurd. He was the Dragon, no normal man. I should be glad my first night in the castle had been so uneventful, and that I had successfully survived my first encounter with him.
 

With that thought to bolster me, I squared my shoulders and went inside.

My chambers were empty. I had halfway expected to see Sar waiting for me there, since she had been so attentive that afternoon. But perhaps with me now married to the Dragon, I was no longer deserving of such attention. However, it seemed someone had taken the time to prepare my bedroom. The heavy coverlet was turned back, and a vase of roses, crimson and pink and wine-tipped cream, sat on the table next to the bed. A nightgown of fine linen lay draped across the turned-back covers.

It was very quiet. In town one could always hear some sound from the streets, whether of a cart passing by or one neighbor calling to another, or even the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of the night watchman’s stick as he made his rounds. Here, though, there was only silence. Even the wind had died down to nothing. If it had been colder, perhaps a fire in the hearth would have made at least a gentle hiss, but it seemed Sar had let the fire grow cold, its service in curling my hair done for the day. Truly, it had been something of an extravagance. Even at these heights, the fire had not been needed. I knew back home my mother would not dream of lighting any fire other than that in the kitchen hearth until at least mid-Sevendre.

BOOK: Dragon Rose
10.72Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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