“That is not what I said.”
“Perhaps, but I have a very good idea that it is what you meant.” The bread and sausage and cheese, which had tasted so wonderful only a short time ago, began to churn in my stomach. Indeed, I wondered if I might be sick. Perhaps it was the wine. Yes, that had to be it.
“Rhianne, don’t be foolish—”
“So now you think I am a fool,” I countered, and got to my feet, albeit rather unsteadily. “Well, don’t let me inflict my foolishness on you any longer!”
He stood as well, a rather ominous upheaval of dark robes. One edge of his cloak caught my wine glass, and it spilled to the rug, although he appeared to pay it no heed. “Rhianne, please—” He reached out toward me but then pulled up abruptly.
So he couldn’t bear to even lay his hand on my arm. So be it. An odd little ache rose inside me, a hard knot of tears just waiting to be shed. I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me dissolve before him, and so I turned and fled, running for the door, which I slammed with a satisfying bang behind me.
I ran then, feet slapping on the cold stone of the steps, the air frigid against my burning cheeks. The sickness seemed to fill my throat and I gulped, willing it to stay down until I reached the safety of my own chambers.
Once there, I ran for the chamber pot, thinking the rich food would surely come back up again. But instead I only choked and coughed, and realized the spasm of nausea had passed. That did little to reassure me, however. I stood and poured myself some water, then drank half of it without stopping. I almost expected the queasiness to return, but it did not. The knot inside me seemed to release, and I wept then, burying my face in my hands and giving in to the misery.
I could not even say why I was so forlorn, save that Theran and I had quarreled, and my hopes for how the evening might have gone were irretrievably dashed. It had seemed so simple to me before—we would discuss Alende and Allaire, and I would hint that I understood Allaire’s feelings completely, and then…
And then what?
If he had taken me in his arms, had pressed his lips to mine as a true lover should, and not with that light brush of mouth against mouth he had given me on our wedding day, would I have surrendered to him? Could I have looked past whatever destruction that long-ago mage had done to his face and person, and embraced him only as Theran?
I did not know, and now it seemed as if I never would. Oh, quarrels had their way of mending themselves, I supposed. That is, I had heard my parents raise their voices to one another on more than one occasion, but those rifts were never that deep, and seemed to pass as if they had never been. Whether it would be that way between Theran and myself, I could not say. I only knew I felt so weary as I readied myself for bed that I wondered if I would sleep the next day through.
Chapter Ten
He came to me in my dreams that night. The stranger, that is, not Theran.
I stood in a great wooden hall, surrounded by gaily dressed, chattering folk, and realized I was at Lilianth’s wedding party. The chamber appeared to be the large reception room of Lirinsholme’s Brecken Hall.
Truly it seemed as if almost everyone in the town was there, wearing their best and drinking ale and cider and mead—curious how my dream should be so detailed, as I knew neither Lilianth’s parents nor Adain could afford to serve wine at such an event. This seemed to matter little enough, for everyone appeared to be in fine spirits. The hall itself was bright with autumn leaves and garlands of berries, and the bride was resplendent in her gown of the silk and linen fabric we had picked out on that day which now seemed so long ago.
I looked down and realized I was wearing the finest gown from the wardrobe Theran had given me, the wine-colored damask with the gold braid on the neck and sleeves, the trim gleaming with the dark blood color of uncut garnets. More of the sanguine gems gleamed at my throat and on my fingers, although waking I wore no rings.
Music filled the hall, and I found myself going time after time to the dance floor, this time with Lindell as my partner, the next with Adain’s younger brother Mikhel, even once, improbably, with the Elder Drewson, who proved to be quite light on his feet, and who bestowed upon me an admiring glance that I thought odd, even though we danced only in a dream.
But then I saw him.
He made his way through the crowds, dark head held high. And though everyone wore their best to honor Lilianth on her bridal day, he outshone them all. His doublet was of dark green velvet, and a heavy necklace of gold and onyx hung from his shoulders and and dropped across his chest.
This was the first time I could recall seeing all of him, seeing his entire form instead of only his face. Somehow I hadn’t thought how tall he would be, how elegantly he would wear his garments.
We might have been alone in the hall. He moved through the revelers as if they were shadows, and came straight for me. Closer, closer, and then he was so near I could have reached out and touched him…if I’d only had the courage to be so forward.
He bowed, a gesture worthy of the king’s hall. “May I have the honor?”
So courtly, and so out of place in his velvet and gold. The forest shade of the doublet seemed to reflect in his sea-colored eyes, turning them almost green.
Somehow I found my voice to reply. “Of course.”
He took my hand and led me to join the other dancers, where we all faced one another in a long line. A pang went through me as he released my fingers so we might perform our honors to one another before the dance began. I had never thought that I would touch him, never thought I would feel the warmth of his hand against mine, and I only wanted him to hold my fingers tightly in his for as long as possible. True, we would touch one another throughout the dance, but it was not the same thing.
The music began, however, and I had no time for regrets. This dance, called “Grey Mare,” was one I usually enjoyed. But in my dream I could only curse its lively nature, which meant there would be only limited contact between my dream man and myself. How I longed for musicians to play a Sirlendian verdralle, so he might take me in his arms. But the dance was still deemed quite scandalous, especially out here in the hinterlands. Quite possibly it was danced every day in the king’s court in Lystare…but we were very far from there.
The stranger did not speak, not even to offer his name. We only traced our steps around one another, down the set and back up again, until at last the song ended and everyone applauded.
Then he did say, “Something to drink?” to which I nodded and followed him to the refreshment table. He poured a cup of cider for me but did not immediately hand it over, instead leading me away from the crowd and up a narrow flight of steps until we emerged onto a small balcony which, I realized, was the same spot where the elders had drawn the name of the Bride from a polished urn.
I saw no urn this night, and the air was fine and mild, just as it would have been on that day in early Sevendre when Lilianth’s wedding took place. The stars glittered overhead, so close it seemed I could reach out and touch them. Neither of the moons had risen yet, but I knew Taleron would be full, and Charis waxing past three-quarters. An auspicious day for Lilianth, or so the lore of such things went. I wasn’t sure I believed the moons and the stars really had that much bearing on our lives here on solid ground.
The stranger handed me the cup and I drank, letting the cool sweetness of the cider slip over my tongue and down my dry throat. He stood quite close, and once again I was struck by his height. In my dream I thought I could even feel the heat coming from his body after the exertions of our dance, although I saw no sheen of sweat on his brow.
“Thank you for the dance,” he said, a commonplace, but still I thrilled to hear him speak. Something about his voice sounded oddly familiar, as if I had heard him once in passing in Lirinsholme, although certainly I did not know his face.
“You are most welcome,” I replied, feeling—strange as it might seem in a dream—oddly shy now that we stood alone and face to face, with no one else to note our ex
change. He only nodded, and I hesitated, unsure as to what I should say next. Casting about for something safe and polite, I ventured, “Lilianth looks very lovely, does she not?”
“Yes, she does.” His tone was almost too warm for my liking, but then he added, “She is very lovely indeed, but she does not hold a candle to you, Rhianne.”
I opened my mouth to protest, for I had always thought Lilianth much prettier than I, with her pink cheeks and dimples and forget-me-not eyes. Whatever words I might have been about to say were smothered, however, as the stranger pulled me toward him and pressed his lips to mine.
A dream kiss should not count, I suppose, and yet nothing in my life had ever felt as real as that. His mouth was warm, and he tasted of sweet cider. Sweet, too, was the scent that seemed to cling to his dark hair, something fresh and herbal I couldn’t identify. I’d never realized how solid a man would feel, pressed up against me like that, how my whole world could shrink down to just the taste and smell and feel of him.
The cup of cider fell from my hand and clattered against the wooden balcony. The stranger jerked backward at the sound. “Oh, no…”
“What?” I asked, for I clearly heard the distress in his voice. “What is wrong?”
“Goodbye, Rhianne,” he said, and he began to grow hazy and indistinct, as if he were made of mist and was blowing away with the morning breeze.
“No!” I cried, and reached for him, but it was too late. He was gone.
I sat up then, my breath coming in great heaving gasps, and I realized I was in my own bed, with the hangings drawn about me and three heavy blankets below the silken coverlet to provide extra warmth. No one else here to keep away the chill of the early winter night; I was all alone.
A wave of despair hit me then, blacker than the night in which I had found myself. I pulled in a dragging breath, trying to keep the tears at bay, but it was no good. He was gone, had never been there at all. The first sob out of my throat seemed to pierce the very air itself, and then I was weeping, the tears on my cheeks the only warmth in the chamber.
How real he had seemed, but I knew now he was only fancy, something I had conjured to provide some comfort, here in this place where I was so very alone. Never mind Sar’s little kindnesses or Melynne’s chatter—I was not here for them, but for the Dragon Lord, and whatever he had expected of me, it was clear I had fallen far, far short.
Although I knew it was foolish to get out of bed, I somehow couldn’t remain there. A candlestick and a little wooden box of matches sat on the table next to my bed, and I seized a match and lit the candle. It gave enough light for me to reach under my worktable and pull out the portrait.
Ah, yes, so very, very close. The laugh lines around his eyes were more pronounced in person, and his mouth just a tiny bit wider, but nevertheless the likeness was remarkable. One would have thought I’d had him sit for me.
Then I shook my head, realizing how mad that all sounded. How could I refer to seeing him in a dream as “seeing him in person”? One was no more real than the other. Perhaps the dream felt more real, simply because he moved about and spoke…and kissed me…but he still lived only in my mind. He was a specter, a ghost, a combination of qualities my mind had assembled as its ideal man. And in my mind was the only place where he would ever exist.
My hands shook as I poured myself a cup of water. If my mother were here, no doubt she would blame all of this on a surfeit of cheese. At that thought I almost smiled. What I wouldn’t have done to have her with me, to have her soothe and scold and tell me I was being silly and that it would all be better in the morning.
But she was down in Lirinsholme, snug in her own bed with my father snoring softly beside her, and I had no one to come and push away the darkness. The tears returned, even though they had begun to lessen, and this time I had no more will to fight them. I only returned to my bed and buried my face in the pillows, so that my sobs might be known to no one but me.
“Rhianne.”
I made some sort of incoherent sound and pulled the covers more closely over my head.
“My lady.”
Since it was Sar, I knew she would not go away, but that didn’t mean I had to give her any encouragement. “I don’t feel well.”
“Ah,” she said, and I could have sworn I heard satisfaction in her voice, even muffled as it was by the heavy coverlet and blankets. “I told his lordship no good would come of eating all that cheese. I don’t care what they might do in Purth, but—”
“That’s it,” I said from behind the blanket. “Definitely the cheese. I think I would like to go back to sleep.”
“Of course, my lady.” The sound of her footsteps on the wooden floor was clear enough, even buried in linen and wool as I was.
Then I froze, still burrowed into the bedclothes. Had I, in my abandonment of despair last night, left the portrait of the stranger sitting out in plain sight? I honestly could not recall, and of course I could not get up to check, not with Sar standing right there.
Hardly daring to breathe, I lay in my bed, listening as she set down what sounded like a fresh pitcher of water next to the bed, followed by the hollow clank of a pewter plate being placed next to it.
“I’ve left you a roll and butter, in case you feel like eating later,” she told me.
“Mm-hmm,” was all I could manage, but apparently that was enough for her. Her footsteps moved away, and the door closed behind her with a solid thunk.
I forced myself to lie in bed for a minute or two more, just in case she had forgotten something and decided to come back into my bedroom. However, I heard nothing except the anxious beating of my own heart, and so I judged it safe enough to emerge.
After pushing back the bedclothes, I climbed out of bed and surveyed the chamber with some trepidation. The portrait was nowhere in sight. What had I done with the blasted thing? I hoped I wasn’t so far gone the night before that I had shoved the still-damp canvas between other paintings, where I might damage its surface. But no, it wasn’t in the stack of canvases in the alcove, and neither was it stashed beneath my worktable.
Somewhat flummoxed, I stood and planted my hands on my hips and gave the room another careful inspection. Had my dream presented some truth I hadn’t wanted to recognize? Had the impossible happened, and the stranger in the portrait somehow taken on life and walked away?
Put so baldly, even in the privacy of my own thoughts, the notion seemed ludicrous. Then again, I supposed a person might think a man being turned into a dragon was a ludicrous notion, and yet here I was, living in that very dragon’s castle.
“Damn,” I said aloud.
I racked my brains, but I could recall nothing very clearly of the moments before I went to bed, save that I was feeling nauseated, yet not enough so to be physically ill. Had I even touched the portrait? I couldn’t remember.
In desperation, I dropped to my hands and knees to search under the bed. A pair of blue-green eyes gazed back at me, and I gave a little gasp before realizing it was only the stranger’s painted eyes meeting mine, due to the angle at which the canvas lay.
“You have been a very naughty boy,” I remarked, and grasped the painting by the edges so I could extricate it without touching the painted section and thereby risk damaging it.
In response he only watched me, still with that hint of a secret smile in the corner of his mouth.
“Laugh if you must,” I said sternly, and got carefully to my feet. “I suppose you think me a very great fool, and perhaps I am. Still, you are going safely back here for now, until I decide what on earth I should do with you.”
His features were so lifelike, so close to my recollection of the dream from the night before, that I halfway expected him to respond, for the painted mouth to open and tell me what a silly young woman I was. But of course nothing of the sort happened, and so I only tucked him away in his special hiding place, in a corner behind the canvases that angled in such a fashion so it could fit neatly without touching any of my other half-finished
paintings.
I supposed I should work on one of those, but the thought did not appeal at all. Or perhaps I should simply crawl back into bed and languish there the rest of the day. That appealed to me even less. What I really wanted, I realized, was some fresh air. The storm of the night before had quite blown itself out, and now the sky outside my windows was a deep, calm blue, overlaid with clouds so thick and fluffy they looked as if they had been sheared right off one of Master Marenson’s sheep.
How I would explain venturing outside, when I had just claimed I wasn’t feeling well, I had no idea. But the freshly washed world outside beckoned, and besides, I knew it would not be long before the first snows came and I would be trapped in this castle all winter, lucky if I could make a circuit or two of the rose gardens before the next storm swept in.
That seemed to decide things. I braided my hair back into a thick plait, and donned one of my simplest gowns, the dark blue wool one with the wheat-colored embroidery about the neckline. The rest of it was quite unadorned, however, so it seemed the best choice for tromping around outside. That reminded me there would most likely be mud, and so I put on a pair of calf-high boots instead of my usual slippers, and drew out the wine-colored cloak of heavy wool that I had worn only once so far, when I had walked with Theran in the gardens not three days ago. The wind had blown from the north that afternoon, promising storms. Well, they had come…both inside and outside the castle, unfortunately.
One advantage of the small staff Theran kept at Black’s Keep was that no one seemed to pay much mind to my comings and goings. Not that I came and went all that often, as I spent most of my days painting away in my own rooms. Still, it was a relief to know I could slip outside my chambers once I was dressed, and drift down the stairs to the northern exit with no one apparently the wiser.
Even if someone were to see me, it was the same route I would have taken to go to the rose gardens, and no one would have made much note of my presence there. Sar, perhaps, would have made a comment about the mud and how it was not a good day to go outside, but I did not see her or anyone else, and so made my escape easily enough.
Dragon Rose (Tales of the Latter Kingdoms) Page 14
