Dragon Rose (Tales of the Latter Kingdoms)

by Pope, Christine

  For the greater part of two months I’d been able to keep the fear at bay. It rose now, clawing at me, seeming to tighten my throat, and I forced myself to swallow.

  “It is not to your liking?” Theran asked.

  I blinked, and looked down at the book I held. “Tales of the Age of Magic,” I read aloud, and glanced up at him. “I thought such things were not to be written or spoken of.”

  “In some places, perhaps. We are moving into a more enlightened time. Men are beginning to understand the value of knowledge, of history. It is better to learn from our mistakes so that we do not repeat them.”

  Something in his voice, some sharp edge to the normally smooth accents, made me wonder if he spoke of his own mistakes rather than those of the long-ago mages whose hubris had brought about the near-collapse of our civilization. I could not ask, however. Somehow I knew he would not reply.

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way before,” I said.

  “Many haven’t. That does not make it untrue.”

  I clutched the book, flipped it open. The print was clear and very black; it was of the highest quality, and I found myself wondering where he’d gotten it. Then again, supplies came to us from the capital when necessary, and I supposed it would be no great task for Theran to send his agents to several booksellers to procure a batch of new titles at the same time they were gathering together cloth and tools and casks of wine and whatever else might be needed at Black’s Keep.

  “I will be very careful with it,” I told him, shutting the book once again. I did not think it would be polite to read it any more closely until I had returned to my chambers.

  “I trust you will.” It seemed as if he paused, staring down at me. Once again I felt that urge to reach out to him, to lay my hand on his arm and move closer, but something seemed to prevent me. And then the moment was gone. He turned away, saying, “It grows late. No doubt you wish to retire for the evening.”

  My mouth opened to make some protest, but I quickly shut it. Anything I might have said would have sounded unutterably foolish. I could stay and watch while you work…I could curl up on that divan before the fire…I could stay here through the long, dark night.

  There seemed little for me to do but nod, and clutch the book more tightly to myself.

  “And can you find your way down to your rooms, or would you like me to show you the path?”

  Perhaps if I asked him to guide me, I could spend a little more time in his company…but for what? So I could face another awkward farewell before the doors to my own suite?

  “Thank you, Theran, but I marked the path as you brought me here, and I think I know the way. Thank you for dinner, and for the book.”

  “You are most welcome,” he replied, although something in his tone sounded almost doubtful, as if he were now wishing he had not given me the option to decline his company.

  Since I had well and truly put my foot in it, as Sar might say, I could only nod and force myself to move toward the door, to open it and walk slowly out into the corridor. Even as I did so I halfway hoped he would ignore what I had said and follow after me.

  Of course he did not.

  Although it was, as Theran had said, quite late, I found myself restless when I returned to my rooms, not ready to retire meekly to my bed. The fire looked as if it had been stirred up recently; no doubt Sar had sent Melynne to check on things before she went to bed. Even though I was the lady of the castle, I did not receive nearly as much fussing-over as I had heard was the custom for high-ranking women. I was expected to undress myself and braid my hair for the night, and return my clothing to the wardrobe.

  I did all these things, and washed my face and scrubbed my teeth as well, but instead of climbing into bed, I gathered up my warm woolen dressing gown and returned to the sitting area with the book Theran had given me. The firelight was just bright enough to read by, and sitting close also helped to keep me warm.

  The book felt heavy and unfamiliar in my lap. Yes, I could read, but I had never done so for mere pleasure, as a way to pass the time. Well, I had plenty of time to pass now.

  Crisp paper crackled under my fingertips as I flipped past the first few leaves, which were blank. Then there was some sort of page acknowledging the printer—in Lystare, as I had suspected—and an illustration I suspected had originally been a woodcut, with its thick emphatic black lines. It depicted a high tower with lightning bolts shooting from the top, no doubt the artist’s idea of what a mage’s fortress must have looked like. Facing the illustration was a title page, which read, “Tales of the Age of Magic. Being a True Account of the Birth of Magic, and of the Manner in Which Mages Came to Power. With Knowledge Never Before Set Down by Men.”

  I almost laughed then. Nothing like a brazen declaration of one’s merits to get things started. I supposed the author or authors had to do something to make their book stand out from the rest and convince a browser in a bookshop to part with his hard-earned coin. No mention from whence this information had come, or whether its verity could be established. Best to approach its contents as mere tales for amusement, and not an actual history.

  The first section or story was titled “The Coming of the Althuri.” Who or what the Althuri were, I had no idea. Certainly I had never heard of them, although I would be the first to admit I was no scholar. No time for that in a place like Lirinsholme, where commerce was the order of the day. Not that I’d ever heard of a woman being a scholar, although I knew some women were admitted to the Order of the Golden Palm, where they were trained to be doctors. But even a doctor had a practical purpose, whereas a scholar seemed to have little.

  Frowning somewhat, I forced myself to focus on the page before me. “For generations the origin of magic has been the subject of debate. Whence came this scourge that laid men low? Was it an ill humor that arose from the ground and infected the minds of those susceptible, so they gained unholy powers? Was it an affliction with them from birth? No, none of these things, but instead a taint passed on by the Althuri, a race of great power who came to this world to spread their evil seed, to give us the means by which we might destroy one another…”

  I yawned then, and blinked my watering eyes. If the entire tome was to be this tedious, I thought it would take me a very long while to get through it. Oh, I knew the mage wars had been terrible, cataclysmic events that almost destroyed the world…but that was so very long ago. No need to tell me how evil magic was; I’d heard such things since I was in the cradle. And if I needed any additional proof, then Theran Blackmoor’s pitiable condition was more than enough.

  A thought struck me, and I flipped past the foreword, looking to see if my husband’s strange curse was mentioned in the book. It did not appear to be, but I did see a chapter titled “The Tale of Alende the Cursed and the Fair Allaire.”

  That sounded a bit more to my liking. After all, Theran was most definitely cursed, and he thought me fair. Perhaps I could glean some bits of wisdom from the old tale. I settled the book more comfortably in my lap and began to read.

  It seemed that Alende inherited a barony in the eastern reaches of Farendon. He was good and kind, and much loved by all he met. In those days even a baron would have a mage in his employ, but Alende did not follow the tradition, saying he had everything he needed in this world, and that a mage could do little to improve his lot. As one might have guessed, such pronouncements did not sit well with one Melarde, a mage of some renown in that part of the world, and who had thought to take service with the baron, as Melarde’s own lord had just passed away.

  The mage went to visit the baron, and sought to impress the young man with his powers. But Alende only laughed and said that while it was clear that Melarde had great skill, still the baron had no need of a mage, and bade Melarde find patronage in Lystare. This response angered the mage, who had thought to settle down in his old age in a comfortable position, rather than try to curry favor with the more demanding courtiers in the capital city. He approached the young man a last time, a
gain with a great show of his powers, but Alende was unmoved, saying, “No one doubts your skill, good sir, but I am content, and think I can do well enough without the aid of magic or mages.”

  This upset the old man, who scowled fiercely and replied, “You are content now, in your youth and beauty, but will that contentment last when all who look upon you cry out in fear?” And he spoke words of great, horrible power, and a grave disfigurement struck the handsome young man, twisting his features so that he appeared more as someone horribly burned, all traces of beauty gone.

  The young baron fell to his knees and wept, and his people cried out in horror. Then Melarde was gone, vanished in the manner that mages had, leaving poor Alende to his pain and his grief. And so he spent many years alone, his face and form covered in a heavy hooded cloak, so that none could see his disfigurement.

  I paused then, for the tale sounded eerily familiar, although the young man in the story did not seem to have been turned into a dragon. But his isolation certainly was an echo of Theran’s. Was that why my husband had given me the book, so I might see this tale and understand his own pain a little better?

  A log fell with a soft thump in the hearth, and I jumped, then shook my head at myself. I had no idea how late it was, but I had a feeling I would regret this late night the next morning. The reasonable thing would have been for me to shut the book and return to it when I awoke. That idea seemed quite unappealing, however, so I flipped my braid back over my shoulder and bent toward the closely printed page once again.

  The years passed, and Alende came to uneasy terms with his condition. He tried to be a good and just lord, but he felt his loneliness, felt time slipping away. He was the only son, and his estates had no heir. But he knew he could not expect any woman to marry him, to bear his child, when he was so unutterably ugly.

  On Midwinter Eve a traveler came to the gates of his castle, seeking shelter from the bitter cold. The traveler was a young woman. Her train had been attacked by brigands, and she had fled in the night, and had seen the lights of the castle through the darkness.

  Alende welcomed her, and found himself moved by her beauty, but he knew better than to expect anything of her save a few moments of companionship before she went on her way again the next day. The snows were deep, though, and she could not be expected to travel again before the weather cleared. And so she stayed on, fearing the hooded lord at first, then coming to see his gentleness and his quiet good humor. They spoke for long hours, and a rapport grew between them, even though Alende dared not hope that she would see him as anything but a friendly companion at best.

  But although Alende was wise in the ways of many things, the heart of a woman could not be counted among them. He did not see how Allaire sought out his company, or lingered for days in his castle when she could have safely returned to the road. The curse had placed a barrier between him and the world, and his vision was trapped within it.

  Then came a day when the snow was all melted away, and the birds sang in the trees, and the first buds began to show on the flowers that lined the walkways of the castle grounds. Alende went to Allaire and said, “The thaw is truly upon us. It is safe now for you to return to your family and friends.”

  She turned wide eyes upon him and said, “Do you weary of my company, my lord?”

  He replied, “Of course I do not. But I had thought you must have tired of mine.”

  Her laughter was sweeter than the birdsong outside the window. “All this time spent together, and yet you know so little of me?”

  And she went to him, and pushed back the hood, and smiled, seemingly untroubled by the ruin of his face. Then she kissed him, and kissed him again. Alende was so startled he made no protest at first, but at length he took her hands and pushed her away, saying she must be mad to do such a thing.

  In reply she only laughed, and told him it was the madness of love, that she had grown to love him without knowing what his face looked like, so what difference could it possibly make now? He stared down at her in wonder, and realized she spoke only the truth, and cared little for his disfigurement. Joy filled his heart, and he drew her to him and kissed her back, before asking if she would stay with him forever, and be his wife.

  They lived a long and happy life together after that, and although her love did not cure what the curse had done to his face, it did heal the blight in his soul, for he had found someone who could look past his scars to see him as he truly was. And their love became a beacon for all around them…

  I closed the book. Was this what Theran was trying to tell me? Did he want me to see the story of Alende and Allaire so I might learn from her courage?

  It seemed odd to me, though, that I had already tried to reach out to him, and had been rebuffed. Theran’s did not seem to be the actions of a man inviting a woman to love him.

  A puzzle, and one for which I appeared to have no answers. My common sense told me I should go to bed and think on it anew the next morning. The world’s troubles could not be solved in a day, as my mother used to say. So I got to my feet and set the book down on the low table next to the divan, then put myself to bed.

  Even as I did so, I thought of Theran, alone in his rooms, tinkering with those lovely little instruments he had devised as a way of filling the empty hours. What would he do if I arose from my bed and went to him now, asked to stay? Would he laugh, or would he let me in?

  I feared I wasn’t quite brave enough for that yet. I closed my eyes, and willed myself to an uneasy sleep.

  Chapter Nine

  Perhaps it was simply because I had kept myself up so late, and was so much wearier than usual, that my sleep that night was black and dreamless. When I awoke, however, I felt curiously unrefreshed, as if I had not really slept at all.

  The pot of bracing tea Melynne brought up for me in the morning helped a little, although my mood was not improved by the view I caught of the lowering day outside my windows. I’d had some notion that perhaps a walk in the garden might help to clear my head, but the storm clouds I saw told a different story. I was barely into my second cup of tea before the rain had begun to stream down the glass.

  Melynne seemed quieter than normal that morning; perhaps she had caught something of my ill humor. At any rate, she laid out my clothes in silence, and was equally quiet as she gathered up my breakfast dishes and prepared to leave.

  “Do you like it here?” I asked abruptly, and she paused on the threshold, brown eyes wide. She seemed alert and wary, rather like a young doe perched to flee.

  “Like it, milady?”

  “Does it suit you, being in service here? Or would you rather have stayed in Greyton?”

  Once I had put the question in those terms, she seemed to relax a little. “Oh, it’s much better here than in Greyton, milady.”

  “How so? Isn’t your family in the hamlet? Your friends?”

  “My ma died when I was born, milady, and my da a few years after. I lived with my aunt until I was old enough to come here. I think they were glad of having one less mouth to feed.”

  She spoke simply, with no apparent design of eliciting my sympathy, and yet my heart went out to her. How hard to be left alone, and with relatives who saw you only as a burden. I thought then how lucky I had been in my own family, despite their little faults and foibles.

  “I see. But your friends?”

  “I have all the friends I need here, milady. Besides, Mat and I—” And she broke off, blushing a little. No doubt the servants were not supposed to admit their liaisons to their masters.

  “That’s good to hear,” I said, smiling so she would know I did not disapprove of her relationship with Mat, whatever it might be. “Having someone special makes the day go by more quickly, I would expect.”

  She answered only with another blush, and some downcast eyes. I began to understand why Sar sometimes complained about Melynne not being quite as quick to answer the bell as she should…no doubt she was stealing a few moments with her young man.

  Since it seem
ed clear that she did not wish to reveal any more than that, I thanked Melynne and let her make her escape before I could embarrass her any further. After she had gone, my smile faded. Yes, there might be a bit of romance hiding in Black’s Keep…but not for me, apparently.

  My mother would have told me that self-pity was a most unattractive quality in a young lady, but she was not there to scold me. And although I had begun to develop some sort of rapport with Sar, I guessed she would be properly horrified if I tried to discuss anything of my nascent feelings for Theran Blackmoor with her.

  I knew I should shake off my dark mood and go back to my easel, but the paints and brushes oddly held no allure for me that day. And although I did go to my painting alcove, I ignored the tame landscape that was my “public” work in progress. Instead, I pulled out my half-finished portrait of the strange young man, then sat there, staring at it for a long while.

  The sea-colored eyes seemed to gaze back at me, holding their own secrets. I had neglected the painting for several days, although at that moment it scarcely seemed to matter. It was only a diversion, a foolish fancy. A waste of good canvas, really, for a portrait of someone who lived only in my own fevered dreams. Didn’t I have enough to worry about without allowing myself to be consumed by visions of a man who didn’t even exist?

  A strange humor possessed me, and I set the painting down on my worktable and seized my largest brush, then mixed up a quantity of paint, pale as new cream. A fitting tint to cover his enigmatic features, to blot out the knowing eyes and the mouth with its quirk in the corner, to make the canvas blank again so it could hold a more worthy subject.

  I held the brush over the canvas for a long moment. My hand began to tremble.

  No.

  The voice was as clear in my mind as if the speaker were in the room with me, although I was quite alone. I even glanced over my shoulder, thinking perhaps Theran had entered the suite while I was preoccupied, but of course I saw no one. He had never come to my rooms during the daylight hours.