Dragon Rose (Tales of the Latter Kingdoms)

by Pope, Christine

  Stockings, chemise, gown…I struggled with all of it as if I had never dressed myself before, never tied a garter or struggled with the lacings on a dress. This one at least fastened up the sides and not the back, so I could get myself into it without having to ring for help.

  Once I was more or less decently attired, I went to the outer chamber and pulled on the bell in the far corner. Usually I did not have to resort to these summons, as Melynne and Sar seemed to know instinctively when I needed assistance. Now, though, they had absented my chamber, almost as if they were fearful of catching some sort of dread disease from me. Perhaps I was ill, although I did not feel particularly unwell. Tired, and the darkness had only retreated to the corners of my mind and not disappeared entirely. But that was not the same thing as being physically sick.

  Sar appeared within a few minutes, obviously surprised to see me up and about. She cleared her throat. “What is it you wish, my lady?”

  “Some food, I think…and a bath before I retire this evening. What time is it?”

  A quick, uncertain glance at the window, where the familiar grey snow light showed beyond the diamond-shaped panes. “Just past the third hour of the afternoon.”

  Too late for luncheon, and early for supper, but my stomach had turned into a ravenous beast, awake now that I had roused myself. I could not bend to convention. “Something solid, I think. No soup. And bread. I would like some bread.”

  “Of course, my lady.”

  I moved toward the casement and observed the familiar contours of the garden, all blanketed in snow. Then again, what had I expected to see? The snow seemed to have stopped for the moment, but the skies were so low it appeared they touched the tops of the towers, and I guessed snowflakes would begin to fall within the hour. “And what is the day?”

  Her hesitation was obvious this time. “The second of Decevre, my lady.”

  Perhaps my sudden faintness could have been attributed to my hunger, as I had not eaten for longer than I could recall. I doubted it, though. The second of Decevre? Had I really spent the greater part of a fortnight drifting in and out of darkness, noting little of the world around me, eating and drinking only enough to keep myself from fading entirely away?

  I had thought my gown felt a little loose, but so many of the gowns in my wardrobe did not fit me precisely, hand-me-downs that they were, that I hadn’t thought anything of it. But if I had eaten little for the past two weeks, then it only stood to reason the dress would have enough slack in it that I would have to pull the laces so tight they almost overlapped.

  Somehow I managed to gather myself and remark lightly, “No wonder I feel so ravenous I could eat a boar!”

  “Then let me see to that at once, my lady. His lord—that is, there was smoked pheasant last night, and there is a goodly portion left over. I’ll bring it up directly.”

  I thanked her and she left, clearly relieved to be given the errand. For myself, I still had a hard time believing her words, though of course she had no reason to give me anything but the truth. Two weeks? A fortnight gone, slipped by while I had drifted in and out of darkness, knowing nothing of the world.

  A sudden impulse made me rush to the portrait and retrieve it from its hiding place. I touched the surface gingerly; it felt dry enough, with none of the tackiness of freshly laid pigments. Clearly I had not set paintbrush to the thing for quite some time.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” I murmured, though why I felt it necessary to apologize to the portrait, I couldn’t say. Perhaps he had begun to appear a little too real to me, as if he deserved some sort of explanation for being neglected for so long. Certainly such a rationalization seemed no less illogical to me than anything else I had experienced lately. “I’ll return to you this evening, just as soon as I’ve had something to eat.” And I ran a finger along one edge of the canvas, as if in a caress, before I set it back in its hidey hole.

  Sar appeared soon after, bearing a tray positively brimming with food. Not just the pheasant she’d promised, but whipped turnips with butter and cunning little rolls studded with currants, and spiced apple compote, and peas covered in more butter.

  How I would ever eat it all, even in my current deprived state, I couldn’t have begun to guess. It seemed a feast fit for Midwinter. When I sat down to eat, though, I found I was able to devour an alarming portion of the meal, so much so that all I left behind was a bit of the turnips and half a roll.

  “Good,” Sar said, and it appeared she was somewhat relieved to witness my ravenous appetite. “And you will sleep again now?” She sounded dubious, as if she did not want me to curl up in bed again so soon but knew she would be overstepping her role as my subordinate if she advised against it.

  “I think not, actually.” I dabbed my mouth with a napkin and set it down. “A bath, I believe, and then I plan to read by the fire.” This was only a partial lie; I did desire a bath very much, but after that I planned to return to the painting. I could not make up for two weeks of neglect, of course. Still, a good evening’s work would make me feel better about the whole situation.

  “I’ll have a bath sent up directly.” And with that she gathered up the denuded plates and stacked them on the tray before whisking them away.

  Knowing her efficiency, I guessed it would not be long before the bath arrived. They would not even have to pump water, but could gather fresh snow from the courtyard and melt that instead. So I did not return to the portrait, but instead drew a chair up to the window and gazed outside, considering.

  Two weeks. What had happened during that time? All here at Black’s Keep seemed very much as it always had been. Then again, it was a place cut off from the world, keeping much to itself. The weather only served to increase its isolation. Sar had not mentioned the Dragon Lord, and I had not asked. We’d parted on such bad terms, and yet I know it was his voice I had heard through the darkness. No one else had a voice like that, one which seemed to caress every syllable as it was spoken. So obviously he had cared enough to check on me, even if he had not come in to visit my bedside.

  I wished I had the courage to go to him, although even if I had possessed such fortitude, I would have waited until the promised bath arrived and I was fit for company once again. But I found myself quailing at the thought of seeing him again, knowing I did not have the words to put right what was between us.

  In the storybooks, the words “I love you” held a charm, could act as a cure for any misunderstanding, any slight. But they could not heal the rift between Theran Blackmoor and myself, not if I repeated them a hundred times. And how does one recover from such an admission? I could not take the words back. They would always linger, staining whatever relationship we might salvage after this.

  Thankfully, I was saved from further brooding by the arrival of the bath. As wretched as I felt, I could not help but be a little revived by the touch of the warm water against my skin, the scent of the lavender oil reminding me of summer gardens and happier times. I stayed in the bath until the water turned lukewarm, and then reluctantly climbed out and dried myself off in front of the fire. The heat of the flames soothed my bare skin, and I wondered what it would be like to have the warmth of Theran’s hands on my naked flesh, to have him touch me as a husband touches his wife.

  That cramping need came again, and I clutched the linen towel against my body even as I grasped the mantel with my other hand, seeking to steady myself. I must stop reaching for things I could not have. It was foolish and would only upset the fragile calm I appeared to have reclaimed.

  With those admonishments fresh in my mind, I went to the bedchamber and pulled on a clean chemise, followed by my heavy quilted dressing gown. I saw no point in putting on yet another dress when I only planned to stay here in my rooms and paint. My feet went into a pair of fur-lined slippers, and then I was quite ready, save for my hair.

  I returned to the hearth and stood in front of the fire, combing out my damp locks, hoping the heat would dry them sufficiently so I could return to the painting so
on. It was then that Sar came to check on me and have the bath removed. Once more I watched as the guarded expression on her face softened somewhat when I thanked her for the bath and told her of my plans to do some painting.

  She told me that sounded like an excellent notion and went back out, now that the tub had been removed by the two burly servants whose sole job it seemed to be to move the thing from place to place within the castle. I found myself wondering then if Theran used the same tub…but no. That way only lay more tortured imaginings, and I had had quite enough of those.

  Better to go into my bedchamber and retrieve the painting, now that I knew myself to be truly alone. The preparation took more time than it usually did, simply because all the pigments on my palette had quite cracked and dried, and I had to carefully measure out a good batch of new ones. Perhaps it was a blessing, for in doing so I had to focus on the task at hand and nothing else.

  At length, however, they were ready, and I picked up my paintbrush, surveying the portrait with care. Truly, I had so very little left to do—enhance the shading of the fabric on his right shoulder, to evoke more of the velvet’s nap, and perhaps the lightest touch at the crown of his head, to bring out the slightest hint of deep brown in those otherwise raven tresses. But I knew I must keep going until I was satisfied, until I thought the man’s image was truly complete.

  Even those small things took longer than I had thought, and I paused at one point to light all the candles in the room. Their flickering illumination was oddly comforting, as if the dancing flames were a series of delicate little companions, something to help me believe I was not quite so alone. With them to guide me, I returned to my work.

  I did not note the hours passing, and no one came to look in on me. Finally, though, I stepped away from the painting, and realized I was done.

  Nothing to add, nothing to change. Nothing to do but stand there and gaze at him, and have those painted eyes regard me in return.

  What had I expected? I honestly did not know. My mind had been a stranger lately, slipping from one fancy to another, dwelling in darkness. Perhaps I had thought once the painting was done, the man within it would step forth to rescue me from my solitude.

  Of course he did not.

  I realized I still held the paintbrush clenched in my fist. Very gently I set it down on the worktable. I knew I should lift up the portrait, set it back in its hiding place, put myself to bed. It had to be very late, even though I had dined early.

  I didn’t know where the thought came from. It echoed in my mind, soft and insidious, oddly compelling.

  She will tell you what to do next.

  Perhaps once I might have paused to question it. However, in that moment, in my emptiness and despair, I knew where I must go.

  Dark and silent the corridors of the castle, only a candle in its sconce from time to time to light my way. I slipped through the dim hallways, moving silent as a shadow, heading back to the place where I had thought I would never return.

  Even colder now than it had been, my breath like shards of crystal here in the abandoned chambers. Of course these rooms had no candles, but a full moon poured its icy light through the tall, narrow windows. Somehow I knew where to go.

  The book had several loose sheets tucked within its pages. They drifted to the ground like withered leaves, and I knelt to retrieve them. The same scrawling hand, although it seemed slightly clearer than in the note with its five words repeated over and over. More than five words here, too, at least as far as I could tell. I moved to the window, ignoring the chill air that seeped around the frame. I was far colder than that by now; my heart had turned to ice.

  There is only one way out. It seems so simple, now that I understand. A moment of pain, perhaps, but then I will be free of this place. I will fall, and drift on the wind.

  I will be free of him.

  It seemed so clear to me then. I had finished my painting. What else did I have to hold me to this place? I could go, and there would be a new grave for the snow to drift upon, and then in five or seven years the Dragon would summon another Bride. My heart ached for her, but I knew I could not warn her. Whatever doom came upon her, it must be hers alone.

  The latch was stiff, the wood swollen with damp and neglect. I felt a fingernail break upon it, and yet I still struggled with the stubborn piece, somehow telling myself that it must be here. It must be this window, for from here I would drop quickly, with nothing to break my fall. It must be here, for the tower was quite desolate, and no one would mark what I had planned to do until it was too late.

  Finally the latch lifted out of its housing, and I tossed it away into a corner before pushing the window open. A rush of freezing night air blew in, lifting my hair away from my face, penetrating my dressing gown as if it were not there. Well, it did not matter. In a few minutes, I would feel nothing at all.

  I grasped the casement with both hands, steeling myself for what would come next. As she had said, it would be only a moment of pain. Only a moment.

  “Rhianne!”

  His voice cut like a whip crack through the empty rooms.

  No. I would not allow him to stop me.

  Fingers tightening against the rough stone, I pushed myself outward, letting the night wind embrace me.

  “No!”

  His voice fell behind me, dropped away as I let myself drift into the cold air. White swirls of snowflakes followed me down, wrapping around me. Their touch was gentle, as if in welcome. Why, this would not hurt at all…

  But then a rush of movement, the glint of gleaming scales beneath the harsh moon. Clawed hands reached out to grasp me, to pluck me from the wind’s embrace and gather me into his own. I struggled, but those inhuman arms were too strong. He held me close to him, and I felt the heat of him go through me, heard the thudding of his heart as it echoed the beating of his mighty wings.

  We came to rest in the snow-covered courtyard, and he set me down before the castle’s front entrance. A shiver of those enormous wings, and then he was himself again, black robes forever hiding the evidence of his curse.

  At another time, in another life, I might have still marveled at what it had felt like to be held in a dragon’s embrace. At the moment, though, I only ached with thwarted fury. I should have been free. I had not asked for him to save me.

  “Let me alone!” I cried, and ran up the steps into the keep.

  What I was thinking precisely, I could not say, except that the one tortured Bride’s tower was not the only one in the castle. My own rooms were quite high enough. They would serve.

  I heard Theran’s heavy boots behind me and knew he had not given up the pursuit. Very well. He was taller and stronger, but I was lighter of foot. And I guessed he did not have room in the narrow tower stairwell to safely change into his dragon form.

  So I fled up the steps, taking some of them two at a time, nothing in me but the pounding fear that he might catch me and stop me again before the deed was done. Why he should care whether I ended it, I did not know, but I could not let such concerns slow me down. Not now.

  I burst into the corridor only a pace or two ahead of him. It was enough. It would have to be enough. I grasped my door and flung it open, but that small pause proved disastrous, for then he was there, pulling me into his arms, holding me close even though I set my hands against his chest and pushed, attempting with all my strength to free myself from his grasp.

  “No, Rhianne,” he exclaimed, and his arms tightened around me. “Fight it. You must fight it, my darling.”

  Once I would have thrilled with joy to hear him address me thus. Now I could only whimper and push against him, writhing like a cornered cat. “You don’t need me!” I cried. “You don’t want me. Let me go. Let me be free of you!”

  Whether he relaxed his hold slightly in shock at my words, or whether I had found just the right angle to slip out of his arms, I did not know, but somehow I found myself sliding away, running once more to my bedchamber, where the windows were set lower and I thought
I might have a better chance at flinging myself from them before he could stop me.

  But I had not counted on his speed, or perhaps his desperation. I had only gone a few paces before I felt his hands on me again. This time we both crashed to the floor, his weight almost fully on me. Still I pushed forward, crawling on my hands and knees. Not the most dignified way to go to one’s doom, perhaps, but in my maddened state I was hardly thinking clearly. I dragged myself a few inches, and kicked backward, catching him in the midsection. He let out a muffled grunt of pain, and I took advantage of his momentary disability to push myself up to a standing position and stagger forward. Only a few more yards…

  Behind me I heard him climb to his own feet, his breathing ragged and hoarse. I fully expected him to continue his pursuit, and so I continued to totter toward the window.

  He did not, however. He stood rooted in place, staring at the portrait, which I in my unthinking haste had left exposed on its easel.

  “Gods,” he breathed.

  Something in his tone penetrated the fog of madness in my brain. I stopped and turned toward him, watched as one gloved hand reached to his throat. The hood shook slightly, as if he could not believe the evidence of his own eyes.

  He said, the words seeming to reverberate throughout the room, “She will see you as you truly are.”

  I did not know what the words meant, but something about them transfixed me, kept me from pursuing my headlong flight to destruction.

  The tower trembled, as if some giant’s blow had shaken it to its very core. I stumbled and put out a hand to grasp one of the bedposts, clung to it as the shuddering increased. Behind me I heard a tinkle of broken glass as the goblet on my bedside table crashed to the floor. Theran fell to his knees, hand still clutched at his throat. Even through the commotion I could hear his labored breaths.

  Then he let out a wordless cry, piercing as the dragon’s keening I had heard before, only this time somehow worse because it emanated from a human throat. At once the shaking eased, and all went still again. I remained clinging to the bedpost, unsure as to whether the earthquake or whatever it was would begin again.