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 th
at in the kitchen hearth until at least mid-Sevendre.
But that thought only saddened me, as I wondered how they had fared this evening, sitting down to a table with an empty seat where I should have been. Had they wondered if I’d gone mad, or had they merely tried to see my precipitous decision as some sort of sideways retribution from the gods, a judgment brought down on their headstrong eldest child?
I truly couldn’t say. I knew my parents would mourn, and Darlynne and Maeganne as well. Of Therella’s reaction I was less certain. We had squabbled more often of late, possibly because she was impatient for me to be wed and out of the house so she could have her own turn as eldest, as the one who could bring honor to us through some advantageous marriage or other.
Well, I was wed now, albeit not in a manner even my sister had probably imagined. I wondered then where the Dragon had gone, whether he had returned to his own rooms, wherever they might be, or whether he roamed the castle’s corridors in darkness. Did he even need to sleep?
Then I yawned, the exertions of the day finally catching up with me. Perhaps the lord of Black’s Keep had no need of slumber, but his Bride did. I was safe for now at least, and I would worry about the morrow when it came. I washed my face and scrubbed my teeth, and clambered into the tall bed. It felt strange and far too large, but apparently even its strangeness was not enough to keep me from slumber. I closed my eyes, and let myself fall into the dark.
I dreamed again that night.
No nightmare visions of shadows swooping down from the heights, or even the commonplaces I might have hoped to see—my family, or Lilianth safe with her beloved Adain. In fact, I could hardly call it a dream at all, but instead just a snippet, a brief glimpse.
I had never seen the man before, or at least I did not think I had. And what I did see was little more than the outline of a fine jaw, a glint from eyes the color of the sea…or at least the sea as Lindell once described it to me, as I had never seen it with my own eyes. The stranger turned and walked away from me, dark hair blowing in an unseen wind, the ragged locks catching in the fine embroidery of his high collar.
And then he was gone.
I sat up in bed, blinking, and realized morning had come. Golden sunlight, tinted with the rosy hues of dawn, slanted in through the narrow windows on the wall opposite my bed. And with that light the image in my dream seemed to fade and disappear, just as the morning mists were burning away in the valley below.
A compulsion came on me then, a driving need to get down what I had seen before it left me completely. I pushed back the covers and climbed out of bed, rushing across the room to the small table under the windows. But its drawers were empty—no paper, no ink or pens.
I turned from the table and went into the main chamber, thinking furiously. No doubt the table out there would be as bereft of supplies as the one in my bedroom, but there were the remains of the fire from the day before. Surely there must be a lump of charcoal I could use for my purposes…
“What in the world are you doing, my lady?”
Sar’s astonished tones made me draw back from my mad scrabble through the spent ashes. I stood and turned away from the hearth. Without thinking, I reached down to smooth out the skirt of my nightgown. A large black smudge appeared at once, and I let go of the fabric immediately, although the damage was done.
She was too well-trained to chide me for my heedlessness, but I saw a pucker appear between her eyebrows as she took in the results of my carelessness.
“I was looking for a piece of charcoal,” I said.
“Whatever for, my lady?”
“So I could draw the—” I broke off then, for I knew if I tried to explain I wanted the charcoal to draw a picture of a man I had seen in my dreams, she would have thought me completely mad.
“His lordship said you were an artist.” She didn’t precisely sniff, but I could tell she was less than impressed with my avocation. “He said you had need of supplies, but I hadn’t realized your need was so desperate that you’d be digging in the ashes.”
“I—that is, I saw the sunrise and thought it might make a fine sketch.”
Another lift of the eyebrows. “Well, I’ll see that we bring you a pen and ink and some paper to start. No need for dirtying yourself, my lady.”
“Of course not. I am sorry.” I knew then that even the charcoal would have done me no good. The image was gone. I couldn’t even remember whether the man’s eyes had been blue or green. Besides, it would have been silly to waste my time on such a thing. Lindell had always told me the best paintings were those done from life, and not from the artist’s mind. Too much chance of embellishing, of drawing that which was not there, if one did not have the real person or object in front of them.
“No need for apologies, my lady, but I think I had better send for another bath. I had thought this morning we could go over your wardrobe, to see which gowns would suit you best. I’ll then store the rest.”
I nodded, and let her sweep me away into a series of commonplaces that managed to consume most of my morning. Better that way, really. Concentrating on the fit of a gown helped to dispel some of the odd ache that had lodged somewhere in my breast, like the gnawing pain of a hunger which couldn’t be satisfied. Where it had come from, I couldn’t say, but it seemed to follow me throughout most of the day, akin to the persistent dull nag of a toothache. I told myself it was homesickness, or unease in my new surroundings.
Somehow, though, I knew it was much more than that.
Chapter Five
The lord of Black’s Keep was as good as his word. As soon as I had given the list of my required supplies to Sar, Theran dispatched a man named Mat and a wagon to Lystare to bring back everything I needed. In the meantime, I was provided with a quantity of paper and enough ink and pens for a small army of sketchers.
No one seemed to raise an eyebrow at my pastime, or at least they did so out of my presence. The castle was mine to roam in as I pleased, save for the north tower, where his lordship kept his suite. As he had said, there was a very fine rose garden clustered at the base of the tower, and though the tower itself was off-limits, the garden was not. True, oils or watercolors would have suited their vibrant late-summer colors better than pen and ink, but it was still something to be able to sit there for hours, exploring the differences in their branches and blooms, and finding the delicate nuances that perhaps the broader strokes of a paintbrush might not have revealed.
This was a luxury I had not looked for. When I had spoken out in the town square, I had thought only of saving my friend. I hadn’t realized that offering myself as the Dragon’s Bride bought me the time I had always craved for my work. No one disturbed me, save to call me in to meals. And every night I sat down with my husband.
Husband. It seems an odd word for the man who dwelt in the castle with me, for certainly we were not husband and wife in any commonly accepted sense of the phrase. I saw him only after sunset. What he did with his days, I could not say, although there were times I thought I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, as if someone or something moved in the highest chambers of the tower that overlooked the rose garden. Whenever I turned to discover the source of that movement, however, I saw nothing.
Whether he watched me in secret, I did not know, and of course I had not the courage to ask him such a thing. Instead, when we sat at dinner, he would inquire about my drawings, or the weather, or my rooms, such commonplaces as a stranger might feel safe to discuss. I wished I had the courage to make the conversation somehow more personal, but I could never find a way to do so without sounding either abrupt or downright rude, and so I rattled on as best I could, sharing shallow intimacies with someone who apparently intended to always hold me at arm’s length.
The dream did not return.
Some ten days after my arrival at Black’s Peak, Mat returned with my wished-for supplies. Truly, although I had been careful when composing my list, I hadn’t realized what an impressive collection all those items would make when assemble
d in one place. I had to do some rearranging of the sitting area in my suite, and called for another table so I could properly set out all the jars of my pigments, along with the collection of fine brushes of squirrel and mink. The alcove that faced southward seemed the perfect place for my new easel, and I set it up there, intending to make the valley of Lirinsholme my first painting.
Sar seemed less than pleased with the havoc I created in my rooms, but as they were mine and not hers, she said nothing, instead settling for a few carefully timed raised eyebrows.
“And you don’t mind sleeping in here with the smell?” she asked, after I had opened one of the jars of linseed oil and began mixing the first of the pigments for my study of the valley. I would need a careful combination of verdigris and umber to get the correct tint for the warm hues of the late-summer grass.
I knew that was her way of criticizing the enterprise, and smothered a smile. I had been in the castle for less than a fortnight, but I already knew she thought of Black’s Keep as her place to rule, Dragon Lord or no. It wasn’t that far off from the truth; I had yet to see Theran Blackmoor order anything more than another flagon of wine for our dinner table.
“It smells sweet as roses to me,” I said. “Just having the pigments I need, and all that canvas! I daresay Mat brought back enough for me to make a hundred paintings.”
I had thought she might raise an eyebrow again, or perhaps smile at my grandiosity, but for some reason a shadow passed over her face at my words. Then she shook her head, as if to clear it of an unpleasant vision.
“Paint as many as you like. But be sure to have Mat make the canvases for you. I can only imagine what his lordship would say if he discovered you were out in the workshops, hammering nails together for a frame.”
“Well, I had to show Mat how to do it properly,” I protested.
No, Sar had not been exactly pleased to find me out in the workshop, sleeves untied and tossed to the side, as I showed Mat, who seemed to be the keep’s general handyman and dogsbody, how to stretch the canvas over the frame so it would be equally taut on all sides and not bunch or sag. But really, the best way to learn is by example. That was how Lindell had taught me to do it, and my first few attempts were quite pathetic. Mat did far better at it on his first try, but then, he had longer arms and was much stronger than I.
Dragon Rose (Tales of the Latter Kingdoms) Page 6
