“He doesn’t want to care for me,” I told Lilianth. “Not when I’m going to die like all the rest of them.”
“How do you know that you’re going to die?”
“Because they all died.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to.”
I knew there had to be some way to point out the flaw in her logic, but somehow it escaped me at the moment. Frowning, I said, “Perhaps it’s my fate.”
“I’ve never heard you talk about fate before.”
“I never lived in a cursed castle before.”
She lifted her shoulders and gave a little chuckle, as if conceding my point. “All right, then. Look at it this way. Perhaps you are going to die. Would you not rather he knew the truth before you were gone? We always regret the things we have not done, not the ones we actually had the courage to try.”
“I don’t know about that,” I said slowly. “I’m still regretting those boiled sprouts your mother made last spring.”
“That is not what I meant, and you know it.”
Somehow I didn’t recall Lilianth being quite this wise in real life. But that was how dreams went, I supposed. We saw things in them as we wanted them to be, not as they really were. Why else would I have dreamt of kissing the stranger in the portrait?
Perhaps that was not completely accurate. Once upon a time, I did have dreams that were true, that showed things as they happened, or were about to happen. It seemed I had not had one, though, since I arrived in the castle. Was it because I had nothing left to see of any importance, or because something in the castle was blocking the visions from appearing to me?
Abruptly I asked, “Who was that man at your wedding?”
“Which man? There were many in attendance.”
“I don’t see how you could have overlooked him. He was tall, and wore a green velvet doublet with a heavy gold chain across his shoulders.”
Her fine brows drew together in a frown. “I saw no one like that.”
“He and I danced ‘Grey Mare’ together, and then…we stepped outside.”
“Did you?” Her eyes glinted. “And what precisely did you do outside?”
I said nothing, but instead pretended to be interested in a collection of pewter plates at the stall where we had paused.
She laughed then. “Ah, I see. So you went outside to kiss this stranger, and now you don’t know how you feel about the Dragon Lord of Black’s Keep.”
That seemed to sum it up neatly. Never mind that the stranger was no more real than the conversation I was presently having with Lilianth. But perhaps she had the right of it. Perhaps this inner obsession with someone I had never actually met or seen with my own eyes was somehow preventing me from admitting that I had come to care for Theran, more than I wanted to say.
Had any of the rest of them loved him, those women who lay sleeping in that secret clearing? And had he loved any of them back?
“Perhaps they all died of a broken heart,” I said, echoing my musings of some days earlier.
In my dream I had made no mention of the place where all of the Dragon’s Brides took their final rest, but Lilianth only nodded as if she knew exactly what I was talking about. Then she tilted her head and gave me a searching look. “People don’t really die of a broken heart,” she said. “That sort of thing is just for stories. Something else killed them, Rhianne, and you need to find out what it was.”
“Before or after I tell my husband I’m in love with him?” I asked, in semi-teasing tones, but she appeared to take me seriously, considering my question before replying,
“Afterward. You are both so busy building walls right now. If you don’t stop soon, you’ll never be able to tear them down.”
I was about to comment on her sudden sagacity, but she seemed to grow insubstantial before my eyes, to waver and then blow away like mist on the morning breeze. All around her, the familiar streets of Lirinsholme likewise began to disappear, the buildings and people and smells and sounds dissolving into nothing. A bright light touched my eyes, and I awoke.
The sun streamed through curtains I had forgotten to close the night before. Unlike the previous storm, this one seemed to have been short-lived.
I blinked, and just as they had done in my dream, the words from my conversation with Lilianth blew away, leaving my mind as if they had never been there. Such was the way with dreams, but this time I had the impression I was forgetting something vitally important, if I could only recall what it was.
However, the harder I tried to hold on to those wisps of memory, the more they slipped away. My head ached, and I found myself feeling disinclined to get out of bed. Well, Sar had told me to get my rest. What did it matter whether I slept the day away or not? Even the thought of getting up so I might paint more was not appealing, and so I rolled over in bed, pulled the covers more tightly around me, and drifted off back to sleep.
No dreams greeted me that time, nothing but oblivion unbroken until I heard Sar’s voice from somewhere above me.
“My lady!”
I rolled over, noting vaguely that the bright sunlight had quite gone. Sar held a tray in both hands; behind her broad silhouette I could see the dim traces of a sullen sunset through one of the windows. Had I really slept the day through?
It seemed so.
“I thought you might like some supper,” she said, her tone uncharacteristically hesitant. “Or do you still feel ill?”
I paused to consider. The ache had gone from my head, though I still felt oddly listless. But my stomach apparently decided that it had had enough of lethargy, and growled.
Something that might have been the beginnings of a smile touched Sar’s mouth. “Not so ill you couldn’t eat, I wager.”
“I could try something,” I admitted.
Suddenly brisk, she set a clever little four-legged tray down on my lap. It was the sort of meal an invalid would be likely to enjoy—potato soup thick with cheese, a fresh wheaten roll, a mug of cider. I set to with more energy than I’d thought I would be able to muster, demolishing the roll and most of the soup before I’d even stopped to decide whether I was all that hungry.
“You seem to be on the mend,” was all she said, but a certain gleam in her eye told me she was almost amused by my wolfish appetite.
“It would appear so.”
I didn’t wish to waste time on speaking then, not while I still had some of that delicious soup to eat. Perhaps I could be excused; it had been a very long time since my dinner the previous night. And although I had not forgotten the shocks of the day before, they’d already begun to take on a hazy, dreamlike quality, as if they had happened to someone else.
Sar bustled about, putting away the clothing I had dropped across a chair, placing my boots on the floor of the wardrobe, even condescending to straighten the brushes and little jars of pigment I’d left sitting on my worktable. I thanked the goddess I’d retained enough presence of mind to hide the portrait of the stranger where it could not be easily spotted. I did not wish to have that conversation this evening…or ever, if possible.
Luckily, enough of the scent of linseed oil hung about my workspace that Sar had no wish to linger there, or perhaps it was just that I had finished all of my supper, giving her an excuse to return to me. Whatever the case, she stepped back toward the bed and retrieved the empty tray.
“Very good, my lady. It is probably best if you sleep some more, to regain your strength.”
“I’ve already slept the day through,” I protested.
“True enough, but rest is the best thing when you’re not feeling well.”
I supposed so; I hadn’t been ill enough in my short life to know for sure. We Menyon girls had always been a robust lot, soldiering on when most of our acquaintances sniffled and coughed their way through the long winter season. At any rate, this hadn’t been that sort of illness.
Assuming it had been an illness at all. If I were the sort to find drama in everyday occurrences, I would have said it was simply the sting of
Theran’s cold words, followed by that gruesome discovery. Such things might be enough to send some girls to their beds. I’d never been the sort to suffer the megrims…and besides, my mother wouldn’t have allowed such a thing for even two minutes.
Curiously, though, I found I was weary after eating, and probably could sleep again. So I said, knowing it would make Sar happy, “I do think I will shut my eyes for a while.”
“Very good.”
I did close my eyes, but not all the way, watching her through my lashes as she set the tray down on my bedside table for a moment so she could move the bowl and cup closer to the center where they’d be less likely to fall. Her expression was more troubled than I would have expected, given that I had done as she wished, and promised to sleep some more. She shot me a troubled little frown, her forehead puckering, before she shook her head and picked up the tray, then went out.
She hadn’t shut the door to my bedchamber, most likely so the heat from the hearth in the other room could penetrate to where I slept. I found myself wanting to dream, but as sleep overtook me this time, it was deep and black, depthless as the ocean, taking me with it.
And so it went. I slept that night, and the day after, and the next night, rousing myself only to take a little food and attend to such necessities of hygiene as were required. Sar did manage to coax me into a hot bath the morning of the third day, and braided my hair herself as I tried not to let my face crack from yawning. It seemed I could not get enough sleep, no matter what I did. The line of worry between Sar’s brows only appeared to deepen as time passed, and I wished I had the strength to tell her I was fine. Somehow I lacked even that motivation, however.
That evening came a diffident knock at the door to my bedchamber. I rolled over in bed, blinking. How long had I been asleep this time? It seemed only a few hours had gone by since Sar last checked in on me.
“Yes?” I managed, pushing myself up against the pillows.
“Rhianne.”
His voice, but hesitant, as if I were the master here, not he.
Oh, good gods. I knew I must look a mess, my disarray something that could not be cured by a hurried primping. Still, I reached up to run my fingers through my hair and arrange it more or less neatly over my shoulders. The covers I pulled up more tightly about myself, although truly the heavy linen of my sleep chemise revealed very little.
“Come in,” I said. My own voice sounded rusty and dry. I should have poured myself some water before asking him to enter.
Too late, though, as immediately the door to my bedchamber opened and he stepped through. So many days had passed since I’d last seen him that his height and the sweep of his dark robes startled me a little. My breath caught, and I looked down at my hands where they were knotted in my lap.
“Sar said you have been sleeping a great deal,” he said. Although the words were calm enough, I thought I caught an edge of tension to his tone. “Perhaps it is time I called in a physician to see you.”
“Oh, no,” I replied at once. “Surely that isn’t necessary.”
“You are not ill after all?”
“No—I, well, that is, I was. Or I think I was.” How on earth could I describe the lassitude that had overtaken me, the utter weariness which had no connection to any actual exertion? “But I think I am getting better.”
“I am glad to hear that.”
Surprising myself, I asked, “Are you?”
The hood turned toward me. “Of course I am. Do you think it pleases me that you have been ill?”
“No, of course not.” I found myself ashamed of the implication in my previous words. Then it came out in a rush, perhaps driven by the days I had spent not knowing if he were angry with me, “Only that I thought you were displeased with me, and perhaps if I had angered you, then you would not be as bothered by my being ill.”
“Oh, no.” He moved toward me and reached out with one gloved hand, as if to touch my arm where it lay on top of the coverlet. As always, though, something stopped him, and he paused, irresolute. “I have been very worried about you.”
I hadn’t known until then how much it mattered to me what he thought, how he felt. Relief coursed through me, with the return of an energy I had not felt for several days. His hand was only a few inches from mine, and I grasped his fingers, feeling the soft, warm leather like a caress against my skin.
Barely a whisper as he asked, “You do not fear me?”
I didn’t even have to stop to think. “Of course not,” I replied. “You have given me no reason to fear you.”
He made no reply, but only tightened his fingers around mine. I felt again the heat of his flesh through the thin leather, the force of his being. How I wished it could be more than this, but at least it was a start.
“Stay with me,” I said.
“Of course. Would you like me to read to you?”
“Very much.” Anything to hear more of that mellow, mahogany voice.
With apparent reluctance he released my hand and went into the other room, where I had left Tales of the Age of Magic sitting on the table in front of the divan. I couldn’t help but wonder whether he would read me “The Tale of Alende and Allaire,” but of course he was far too circumspect for that. No, he drew a chair up to my bedside and opened the book to its proper beginning, “Of the Coming of the Althuri.”
I must confess that I was rather more interested now I had Theran reading the story to me, rather than trying to slog through it myself. Truly, it seemed fantastic beyond belief, that beings from a world other than ours would come here and fall in love with our women, thus bringing the gift—or curse—of magic to their offspring. But that is how it was put forth in the book, and I was so caught up in Theran’s reading of the tale that I did not want to stop him and ask questions.
At length he came to the end of that particular tale, with the last of the Althuri driven into hiding and those who carried the strain of magic going out into the world and selling their services to whatever kings and lords had the means to pay their prices. Theran closed the book and said, “It grows quite late, Rhianne. I think it is time for you to sleep.”
“Sleep? When that is all I have done for the past three days?”
“Yes. It’s true that you have spent much time abed, but you should sleep now, and try to rise in the morning at your usual time, so you are back in the same rhythm as the rest of the household.”
These words were so sensible, and so like something Sar or my mother would have said, that I could hardly gainsay them. So I merely nodded and said, “Yes, Theran.”
“That is very meek, and quite unlike you. You do promise not to get up in the middle of the night and paint a portrait of Sar, or some such?”
I laughed then, as much from relief at the teasing note in his voice as from the image of me being driven enough to paint Sar in the wee hours of the morning. Of course, there was no way I could confess to him that I’d had more than one of those nighttime painting sessions, not when the subject was someone he might conceivably see as a rival, ridiculous as that might sound.
“I promise. I shall sleep the night through and then eat all my porridge in the morning.”
“Sar actually brings that to you? I shall have to speak to her.”
“No—no. I was only teasing. Sar brings me proper breakfasts of bacon and bread and eggs. No gruel, I assure you.”
“Ah, that is a relief.” He stood, and this time I saw no hesitation as he reached over and touched my hand. “Sleep well, Rhianne.”
“I will.”
The dark hood bent perilously close to the candle flames as he blew out the tapers in the candelabra one by one, but he rose without having suffered any harm. “Perhaps a walk in the rose garden tomorrow, if the weather allows?”
“I would like that very much.”
He nodded and went out, leaving me alone in the dark. I didn’t mind it as much this time, though. A soft wash of dim light still came in through the doorway from the last of the fire in the hearth, an
d it heartened me somehow. His footsteps sounded across the stone floor, and then I heard him shut the outer door.
A deep breath, then another. I should sleep, so I could walk in the gardens with my husband the next day.
And darkness claimed me.
Chapter Twelve
“Oh, well,” Sar said, as I looked in despair at the snow falling outside. “It’s come this early before, and I daresay it will again.”
“But Ther—but his lordship and I had planned to walk in the gardens today!”
“No reason why you still shouldn’t, if you’re feeling well enough and bundle up. It’s a dry, light snow, by the looks of it. You should have no trouble walking, as long as it doesn’t get any worse.”
These sturdy, no-nonsense words did something to hearten me, but still I found myself angry, frustrated that the snow couldn’t have held off for just another day. Foolish, of course. The weather did what it willed, and all of my cursing would do very little to change it.
“You will—you will tell his lordship that I fully intend to still walk with him after I have eaten and dressed?”
“Of course, my lady. Don’t fret about that. Now, finish the rest of your breakfast, and see how you feel then.”
There being little else I could do, I ate the last of the cold chicken and biscuits on my plate, my eyes fixed on the grey skies outside. Was the snow letting up a little? It seemed to be coming in brief flurries, rather than in the steady veils of white I had spied when I first woke up.
“And you are doing better today?” she asked as I pushed the plate away and set it back on the tray.
She should have been comforted on that point, since I had taken my meal sitting in a chair and with the tray on the table beside me rather than while still in bed should have told her that much. But just in case she needed extra reassurance, I nodded and replied, “Very much so. Whatever it was, it seems to have gone now.”
“Good,” she replied, but I noticed that she still frowned a little, absently, as if she didn’t quite realize what she was doing.
Dragon Rose (Tales of the Latter Kingdoms) Page 16
