WYVERN (3 page)

"I'm a poor cook," she said. The shuttle cracked against the loom. "You miss nothing but burnt stew and hard bread."

Alaric shook his head. "Untrue. I miss the company of a fine woman I've admired since I came here." Her hand froze on the shuttle. "You may not reveal your true self to me, Beth, but I've watched you with others and heard you play your fiddle. You make magic with your music, and you've a smile like the sun after a gray rain." His voice deepened, the words rolling off his tongue as he coaxed her. "I want you to smile that way for me."

Again, that suntanned hand reached out to touch her. Elsbeth stiffened but didn't move away this time, too stunned by his words to do anything more than stare at the long finger tracing a delicate line down her arm.

"I'm not your enemy, Beth. Invite me to your table," he said.

She jerked out of his reach and scrambled to her feet. "Don't call me that. It's not my name."

Alaric remained seated and stared at her with eyes gone frosty. "My apologies, Mistress Weaver. I meant no disrespect."

Elsbeth huffed out a long breath. She was usually good-natured, possessing a ready laugh and an appreciation for a well-told joke. But something about Alaric brought the shrew out in her.

"You've a smile like the sun after a gray rain."

The man had a tongue coated in poisoned honey, and the sensible part of her mind warned her not to give in to such deadly charms. Still, Alaric's compliment warmed her. And it was only fair that she and Angus feed him at least once. Elsbeth ignored that internal sensible voice. It was only supper after all.

"I'm serving lentils and a bit of pork tonight. There's always more than my grandfather and I can eat."

Alaric's eyes warmed, and his delighted smile highlighted his prominent cheekbones.

Elsbeth frowned. "I'll serve at the sixth hour. If you're not here, we won't wait."

He rose gracefully. Elsbeth was a tall woman, but Alaric towered over her when he stood before her. She caught his scent, an intriguing combination of warm sunlight and a cool sharpness--pine, cedar or some other evergreen that grew on the shadowed slopes of Findley's Mountain. Her nostrils flared. He smelled as good as he looked.

She moved away, warning him with a narrowed gaze that he stood too close. Alaric raised his hands in surrender and stepped back a few paces. His smile widened to a grin, his gray eyes alight with pleasure at her invitation.

"I'll be there. And lentils are my favorite."

Elsbeth snorted in disbelief. "Oh, I'm sure they are, Master Alaric."

He laughed, a low vibrant sound. It caressed her ears and sent a tingle down her back. If she didn't escape into the house soon, he'd see the blush crawling up her chest to her face. She hurried to the door.

"Will you play your fiddle for me, Beth?"

She halted and looked over her shoulder. "Supper and music, storyteller? You ask a lot for a story or two."

The intensity darkening Alaric's eyes belied his casual smile. "Ah, Beth, I'd ask for much more if I thought you were inclined to give it."

A hot blush flooded her cheeks moments after she shut the door behind her. She closed her eyes, and tried to catch her breath. If this kept up, they'd have to eat in the dark so Alaric couldn't see her red face.

The pony's wuffling snapped Elsbeth out of her nostalgic musings. Tater, so named because of her rotund belly and dull brown coat, wandered closer to her, grazing on a thick carpet of grass near where she sat. She nudged Elsbeth none too gently out of her way.

Elsbeth rose and dusted the crumbs of her lunch off her hands and armor. "Idiot," she muttered. "Wasting good daylight mooning over a man long gone or long dead."

She repacked her supplies and harnessed Tater to her traces. The pony's ears suddenly flattened against her head. Her eyes rolled, and she stamped her hooves. Only Elsbeth's firm grip on her halter kept the diminutive mare from bolting as the cart rattled with her struggles.

The hairs on Elsbeth's nape rose. The fields, with their birdsong and the chittering music of insects had gone silent. From the corner of her eye she saw the shadow of great wings pass over the pond's glass surface. A concussion wave of air bowed the stalks of wheat and rippled the still waters. Tater squealed and lunged in her traces, nearly jerking Elsbeth off her feet. She held on to the halter with one hand and reached for her crossbow on the cart seat with the other. It wouldn't do her much good. Elsbeth couldn't nock the bolt and hold onto the pony at the same time, but it calmed her rising fears having the weapon in hand.

She looked skyward and saw nothing, only a blue emptiness broken by a scatter of drifting clouds. Whatever had flown above them and sent the pony into a panic had flown away or turned invisible by some arcane magic.

Elsbeth waited. Tater shivered and sweated, but made no further attempt to escape. Soon the first birdcalls resumed, and the fields came alive with sound once more.

A shadow of wings and the pressing weight of air. A dragon had flown over them, low and fast. Elsbeth had no doubt, though she had seen nothing as it flew by save a flicker of reflection in the pond. Magic. Surely it was. A beast so large would be a target for every spearman in the surrounding counties. It would employ a means to hide itself in plain sight for protection. She took a deep breath and said a heartfelt prayer. By some divine grace, the dragon had not noticed them, even when the pony squealed and shook the cart to its pins.

Maldoza, rising ahead of her in its jagged majesty of sparkling rock, no longer held a strange beauty for Elsbeth. It was merely a haven for a monster. Fear soured her stomach. Only the memory of the mob at her door and her grandfather wasting away in his sickbed kept her from leaping onto the cart seat and turning the pony homeward. Angus, who had loved and cared for her since she was a child, would have turned apoplectic if he knew of this insane plan she and Ireni had hatched. But Elsbeth adored her grandfather. He was worth any risk she might have to take in order to protect and ultimately save him.

She patted the pony's sweaty neck. "Come on, lass. Just a little farther and you'll be safe and sheltered with Master Grayson."

The remainder of the journey to the cliffs' base was uneventful. Elsbeth kept the crossbow in her lap and watched the skies. When she guided the cart to Donal Grayson's door, she found him waiting for her, flanked by a pair of sharp-eyed sheepdogs.

Short and bent by age and years of laboring in his fields, Donal was the last of the border farmers remaining on their homesteads. He'd resisted moving to Byderside once the dragon attacks started. "I'll not give up my farm over some lizard planting his fat ass in the cliffs and eating a stray cow or sheep. This is my land, and I'm staying on it." The village elders had finally given up, calling him stubborn and stupid for not listening to reason. Still, Donal had defied their dire predictions of becoming a dragon's next meal. He planted his fields, harvested his crops and kept a close watch on his sheep.

He helped Elsbeth from the cart and smiled at her from a lined face sun-cured to the patina of old saddle leather. "Well, if it isn't Angus's lass. What are you doing here at the ass-end of Byder County, Elsbeth?" He eyed her armor curiously.

Elsbeth hugged him. She liked Donal and always invited him to their house for a meal when he made the rare visit into Byderside. "Help me unhitch my pony, Master Donal, and I'll tell you my news."

She stayed only long enough to put Tater in one of Donal's paddocks, unload her supplies from the cart and recount the events of the previous night.

Donal scowled when she finished her tale. "Never could abide Malcolm Miller, or his da for that matter. I'd lay a harvest's worth of profit on it the boy killed his wife." He pointed a gnarled finger at her. "You watch yourself around him, Elsbeth. He's a nasty piece of work."

Elsbeth nodded and stayed silent when Donal continued. "I'd think Ireni gone daft, but her idea has merit. I've seen a parade of knights and their horses riding to the cliffs and never returning. Sometimes the beastie leaves their swords in my fields as payment for a sheep or two. You should see the ruby I pried out of one hilt."

Her eyes widened. "Wait. Are you saying you two bargain?"

The old farmer flashed her a black-toothed smile. "In our way. You notice my fields aren't scorched, my barn not burned. I'll put a ewe or two out in my south pasture for him. The beastie takes 'em, no trouble. And sometimes he drops a shiny stone at my door."

Elsbeth was stunned. Even though she'd agreed to Ireni's plan, it had been more out of desperation than faith. "Ireni was right."

"Of course she's right. Ireni knows a thing or two about dragons."

She eyed Donal. "That's what she said. How is it that a Byderside elder knows so much about dragons?"

He gave her the same knowing smile Ireni had. "That's Ireni's story to tell, lass. Now, let's get you back on the road. I'll show you a shortcut to the cliffs that's also easier to climb, especially with you being on foot and all."

Donal's shortcut was less steep and a quicker way to the cliff's upper levels, but the path was covered in a low-growing web of plains scrub vine sporting thorns as long as a man's finger. Elsbeth pushed her way through the twisting vine, grateful for the armor and its protective scale. Without it, she'd be stripped bloody by the clawing plants.

Another hour of walking, and she cleared the last of the clutching vine. The sun beat down on her, plastering the garments beneath her armor to her skin. Elsbeth stopped, panting from the heat and the steady uphill climb. Too bad she'd left the pony with Donal. Going by horseback was infinitely easier. She smiled and took a drink from her waterskin. Tater might pull a cart well enough, but she was no warhorse. The mare would bolt at the first scent of dragon and likely throw Elsbeth off the cliffs in the process. Above her, a hawk glided through the endless blue in hunting flight. Elsbeth wondered if the field mice and shrews hid in their burrows, away from their winged predator's sharp eyes. She was like one of those mice, small and weak against a much larger, deadlier opponent. Only she chose to confront this hunter.

"Nice, Elsbeth," she said. "You haven't the wits of a field mouse."

She continued her ascent, accompanied only by the suffocating heat and the droning chorus of cicadas. By the time the sun set, she was sticky with sweat and exhausted by the climb. But she'd made it to the middle face of the cliffs, where the largest caves punched dark holes into the sheer rock. She found a stony outcropping jutting upward from the parched ground. It split into a V shape, creating a shelter from the rising wind and a place to rest her back. The cicada chorus had faded, leaving only a stillness that almost breathed into Elsbeth's ears. She shrugged off her pack, sighing with relief at the sudden lightness against her back and shoulders. If only she could shed the armor, but that would have to wait.

Dry brush and scrub vine littered the ground surrounding her camping spot. Elsbeth carefully gathered an armful and built a small fire. It gave off comforting light and offered protection against nocturnal predators smaller than dragons. She settled back against the rock's niche and ate a supper of bread and dried beef. The water in her waterskin was tepid and stale, but felt good against her parched throat as she drank.

The moon rose, flooding the fields below in silver light. The cliffs cast a pointed crown of shadows against the backdrop of roads and the far candle-lit villages and towns. Haunted it might be, but Maldoza offered the most breathtaking and encompassing views of the countryside Elsbeth had ever seen. No wonder a dragon had chosen the cliffs for sanctuary.

The night held a waiting stillness, like the last breath before the onslaught of a storm. The few straggling clouds had vanished, leaving only a dark sky festooned in a thousand glittering stars. Elsbeth didn't like the quiet. Even at night, things rustled and whispered in the fields and forests. But here, on the bleak paths cut into the cliffs, nothing moved. Even the fabled haints didn't howl--a small thing for which she was glad.

Ireni had filled her ears with advice. "There's no sneaking up on the beast, Elsbeth. Walk as if you're off to visit a friend, not steal from him. Sing, speak loudly, even play your fiddle. Dragons are great lovers of music, and it will see you long before you see it. Give it cause to wonder, not attack."

Her nerves stretched beneath the unending silence. She'd take Ireni's words to heart. A little music would calm her and maybe draw the dragon out. She was here to bargain, not pilfer or kill. Elsbeth prayed the creature would be more curious than hungry when it spotted her, if it hadn't already done so.

She pulled her fiddle case from her pack. Inside the case nestled her most treasured possession. Her father's before it was hers, the fiddle was the only thing that connected her to her parents, dead these many years. Angus had taught her to play, just as he'd taught her to weave. Ever patient, ever encouraging, he'd smiled and hid his flinches as she snarled the threads on her loom and sawed her bow against the anguished strings.

The hush around her thickened, as if the cliffs themselves watched and waited to hear her play. Elsbeth stood against the rock, tucked the fiddle beneath her chin, and ran the bow hairs once across the strings. They answered her summons with a plaintive call, the sweet notes drifting into the silence. The night sighed.

Elsbeth paused. What to play? There were the old songs, tunes every fiddler learned at their teacher's knee. They played them at weddings, funerals, solstices, and child-blessings. She knew them by heart, could play them in her sleep and had set villagers to dancing into the wee hours in spinning kaleidoscopes of colorful skirts and garlanded hair. Still, such lively music seemed out of place here, beneath Maldoza's glimmering shadow and the wheel of stars above her.

She thought of Angus, slowly dying in a sickbed in Ireni's house. Her throat ached with unshed tears. No matter how much she might wish otherwise, her grandfather would not live much longer. Memories of his teaching her to play, the summers when he was the fiddler at the solstice celebrations in the barley fields, and she danced with the other village children beneath the bright sun, made her eyes water. Elsbeth again set the bow against the strings.