“But can you smell them?” And I bent to breathe deeply of the rose blossom.
“Well enough.”
I could not be angry with him for being curt. Probably I should be glad that he agreed to see me at all. “I would like it if you would walk with me here sometimes.”
That seemed to take him aback; for the span of a few heartbeats he was silent, and it seemed as if the hood tilted slightly so he could regard me from a different angle. “You would wish that—to spend more time with me?”
“Yes,” I said simply, knowing as I gave him the answer that it was no more than the truth. I wanted to know more of him, this odd husband of mine. Our dinners together had taken on something of the air of a ritual, but surely there should be more contact than that.
“You are not frightened of me?”
“I was last night. I am not frightened now.”
“Because you face me in the daylight, and I appear to you as a man.”
“No.”
“No?”
It seemed the best gift I could give him was the truth. “Because last night you were not a man, and yet you did not hurt me. I angered you—unwittingly, that is true, but still I want to tell you how sorry I am for that. I should not have asked questions to which you did not want to give answers.”
It seemed he sucked in his breath then, and he turned away slightly, as if regarding the blue mountain peaks to the north of us. A breeze came from somewhere to tug at the edges of his cloak, but I noticed the heavy fabric around his face did not move at all. Perhaps it was weighted in some way to keep it from shifting.
At last he spoke. “You are a very unusual young woman, Rhianne Menyon.”
“Am I? I suppose one might think so, what with the painting—”
“That is not what I meant. You have every reason to fear me, and yet you stand there and do not shy away, even though you know I am not as other men.”
I laughed then. “Well, you just implied that I am not as other young women, so I think that means we are actually rather suited to one another.”
There seemed to be a ripple of laughter in his own voice as he replied, “Is that so?”
It seemed the most natural thing in the world for me to move closer to him, to reach out and take those gloved fingers in my own. Again, they seemed very warm to the touch, and I couldn’t help wondering what lay beneath them. But I wouldn’t think of that now. I had to let him know all was well between us.
At first his hand felt stiff, as if he was not sure I wouldn’t pull back as soon as I realized what I was doing. But then his fingers seemed to relax, and wrapped themselves around mine.
“Much better,” I said. “Shall we go in and see what Sar has planned for dinner?”
“Yes,” he replied. “Let us go in.”
Chapter Six
That meal had far more of the feel of a celebration about it than the feast which had greeted us after our nuptials. The fare was plain enough—roast pig, and wild rice, and some of the last of the summer’s squash—and yet we lingered over it as if a dozen courses had been laid before us.
I told him of my painting, and he spoke of the art which adorned the walls of the castle. “Some of it I chose myself, years ago, before I could not leave the castle.”
“So you…traveled?” It was on the tip of my tongue to ask, So you were not always as you are now? But I did not have the courage to give voice to the words.
Somehow he seemed to know what I was thinking. He poured another measure of wine into my goblet and then into his own before replying, “Once I was no different from other men.”
I didn’t quite know what to say to that, so I only drank a bit more of my wine and waited.
Again there seemed to be an undercurrent of amusement in his voice. “Does that surprise you? What is the current tale in Lirinsholme? That I was born in this inhuman form as a punishment to my parents for their harsh treatment of the townsfolk?”
“One of the tales,” I said frankly. “But the most prevalent one is that you were cursed by a sorcerer. It seems rather silly to me, as the last mage in this part of the world disappeared more than five hundred years ago.”
“Five hundred years.” His tone was musing. “Has it really been that long?”
I set down my goblet and stared at him, aghast. To be sure, that was the tale I had heard for most of my life, but I’d always thought it must be an exaggeration. Yes, the Dragon had reigned over Lirinsholme and its environs for time out of mind, but people’s recollections grew hazier as the years stretched on, and I really hadn’t thought it could have been that long in reality. Trapped in this castle, in an alien body, for half a millennium?
“You seem surprised,” he remarked. “So you did not think the legends had any truth to them?”
“Legends generally don’t.”
He chuckled. “So the dreamy artist actually has her feet planted firmly on the ground?”
“I’m the eldest of four daughters. I didn’t have much choice.”
Another laugh, and he lifted his goblet and drank. “I can see the truth in that.”
Emboldened by the lightness in his voice, I asked, “So what really did happen? I must say that it seems rather excessive, as curses go.”
At first he was silent, and I held my breath, worried that once again I had asked the wrong question, had broken the delicate rapport between us. When he spoke, however, he sounded more sad than angry. “I cannot speak of that.”
Cannot…or will not?
Still, my common sense hadn’t completely deserted me, and so I only nodded instead of asking yet more questions. I speared the last bit of roast pig with my fork and lifted it to my mouth, wondering what on earth I should say next. After I had swallowed the morsel, I ventured, “It must be a very great thing to be able to fly.”
“One might think so. I found that the novelty palled somewhat after the first century or two.”
I supposed it might. I tried to think of what he did to fill all those endless days and came up with nothing. If I had been trapped in the form of a monster for centuries, I thought I could have painted—the shape of his hands appeared human enough to hold a paintbrush—but I saw little evidence of such hobbies on the Dragon’s part. Then again, I had never seen his rooms. I didn’t know what might be hidden there.
He waved a hand. “But never mind that. Tell me more of this painting of yours.”
It was a diversion, I knew, but one I was willing to follow. And so I went into a detailed, and, I fear, rather dull description of all the pigments I was using in the painting, and how I had to work quickly, because autumn was swiftly approaching and the colors of the prospect would begin to shift and change any time now. But the Dragon seemed interested, and I was happy to leave more troubling topics behind us. I did not want a repeat of that dreadful night where he flew through the darkness, crying out his pain and wretchedness, as if only in the dragon’s form did he have the power to give voice to his sorrow.
By speaking of lighter things, I found it easier to pretend that all was well in his world.
Although it was true enough that I needed to complete the large painting soon, the next day I instead took my small easel and my palette to the rose garden, where I undertook to paint the roses I had noticed the day before. The canvas likewise was of modest proportions, not even a foot square, but within that small space I hoped to capture some of the beauty and the warmth of the flowers in their late-summer bloom. It would be my gift to him, some small part of me he could take back with him to his solitary rooms.
Again I thought I saw that watching shadow in the corner of my vision, but every time I glanced upward, the windows were empty of all onlookers. Very well. I had hoped for the painting to be a surprise, but if my lord wished to watch me as I worked, there was little enough I could do about it. I took care not to lay on the paint too thickly, for I wanted to give it to him that week, and even a piece of such a modest scale would take a few days to dry.
It was a go
od day’s work; I found myself satisfied enough with the shading of the flowers, the velvety texture of each petal. Perhaps I could see if Mat might build me a suitable frame for it, something simple but elegant. I thought I had seen some carved molding tucked away in a corner of the workshop, left over perhaps from an earlier refurbishment in the castle. It might suit, as it had only a simple carved beaded border, nothing too heavy.
Mind humming, I packed up my things and returned to my tower room. Little enough time remained before dinner, only enough for me to take off the smock I’d had Sar make for me, and to pull away the ribbon that held back my hair and arrange my wavy locks in a more or less becoming pattern over my shoulders.
I paused then in my primping, one hand still resting on my hair, the paint stains on my fingers somehow incongruous against the blue silk of my gown as it gleamed beneath the dark strands. My reflection stared back at me, one eyebrow lifted slightly.
All this, to meet a man who is not even a man? What should you care what he thinks of your appearance?
I turned away from the mirror and flung my hair back over my shoulders. Common courtesy, I told myself. No, my family was not fine enough to dress for dinner, but woe betide any of the Menyon daughters if she should arrive at the table without her hair brushed and her face and hands clean. Gods only knew what my mother would have said about the paint stains on my fingers. I had been careless lately, and the oil paints were far messier than the glazes I used for my father’s pottery.
Yes, it was common courtesy. Simple enough.
I wouldn’t let myself think it was anything else.
A few days after that, my rose painting was ready, the frame kindly put together by Mat, as my rough carpentry skills, while barely up to the task of building a canvas, certainly did not lend themselves to putting together a picture frame that was serviceable, let alone handsome.
Theran took it from me at dinner and turned it over in his hands. By this time, he had allowed somewhat more adequate lighting in the dining hall, and so at least I was assured that he could actually see some of the details of the painting. Then again, the lit sconces on the wall and the large candelabra in the center of the table might had been put there solely for my benefit. Perhaps his enchanted dragon eyes could see perfectly well in the dark.
“It’s beautiful,” he said, one gloved finger touching the glowing petal of a flower briefly. “I shall treasure it always.”
“It’s just a trifle, but I thought it might help you to remember the rose garden when the snows of winter come.”
“It is far more than a trifle, but yes, it will help to keep a bit of summer alive. I fear you will find the castle…rather gloomy in the wintertime.”
“I always rather liked winter,” I said. “Especially after a first snowfall. Everything always looks so white and clean.”
He did not reply at once, but instead stared down at the painting for a long moment, as if trying to commit the colors and shapes contained therein to memory. Then he said, his tone rough along the edges, as if touched by some previous pain, “You may find that winter here is not quite as much to your liking.”
What on earth was I to say to that? I fumbled for a reply that would be both noncommittal and yet breezy, to show that his words had not troubled me. But that would be a lie, because of course they had. What lay ahead for me, here in Black’s Keep? So far everyone had been most accommodating, and I’d found my tenure in the castle much more comfortable than I had any right to expect. What was to be the fly in this honey pot? I didn’t dare ask.
“Oh, I daresay it might be confining when the heavy snows come, but as long as I have my paints and my easel, I assure you that I shall be able to keep myself amused.”
He nodded then, and turned the conversation to other things. And although he sounded pleasant enough, I knew he was troubled. I also knew I dared not inquire as to the cause.
There were so many things I could not ask…
The dream came to me once more that night. This time I was better suited to meet it.
As soon as my eyes opened the next morning, I pushed myself out of bed and went to my easel, stumbling a little in the dim light before dawn. Setting aside my half-finished painting of the valley of Lirinsholme, I grasped another canvas of roughly the same size and set it in place. A pencil, then, to work out the rough lines of his features, the high brow, the mouth with lips thin but also beautifully shaped. I worked feverishly, desperate to get down every detail before they fled my traitor mind as they had done twice before.
The sun had just begun to peek over the hills to the east when I stopped, knowing that I would get no more from this sitting. Still, I had accomplished far more than I had previously, as the face of a man stared back at me from the canvas. Rough, of course, with far more detail that still needed to be filled in…if my chancy dreams would allow it. But now I had something to work with.
Driven by the same need for secrecy that had made me hide the first sketch I had made of him, I pulled the canvas from the easel and set it back behind several blank ones that had not yet been pressed into service. The valley of Lirinsholme returned to its previous position of honor, although I must admit my appetite for painting it had waned considerably.
Although his face was now hidden from view, this time his features seemed to haunt me, as if my putting their entirety in physical form had given them some sort of anchor in my mind. And even though I was nowhere near the stage where I would begin to apply paint to canvas, I found myself contemplating the mixture of azure and viridian I would need to compound to match their elusive sea-colored depths.
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.
Dragon Rose (Tales of the Latter Kingdoms) Page 8
