by Deanna Chase
The cuelebre slithered around Daman, the tip of its tail flicking back and forth behind it as he inspected Daman’s form. Daman bristled as the shining black eyes took in his mostly human torso and followed it down to his waist where thick scales cascaded down the muscled coil that constituted the lower half of his body. The cuelebre tilted its head.
“You are a dragon,” it observed. “A wyvern, to be precise, yes?”
“Descended from wyverns,” Daman corrected stiffly. “I’m a naga.”
“Nagasss have human formsss asss well asss ssserpent and half-ssserpent. Do you alwaysss ssspend your time in half human-half ssserpent form?”
Daman clenched his hands into fists, ignoring the sharp points of pain as his claws dug into his palms. He sucked in deep breaths of blood-scented air through his nose, trying to remember the meditations he’d been performing in an attempt to hold on to his rapidly fraying temper. This was his first interaction with another flesh and blood being in nearly a year, perhaps the gods were offering him a test.
Remember your humanity. More man than beast. Humanity cannot be taken away, it can only be given up.
“Did she send you here to torment me?” he bit out. “Have you come to remind me of what she did, perhaps offer to lift the curse if I meet her demands?” Daman lashed against the floor with his tail, twining his body in a sharp circle that brought him around the cuelebre faster than the creature could follow. He snatched its tiny body from the floor and clutched it in his fist, closing his fingers until he could feel bones beneath scales and muscle.
“Ssshe?” the cuelebre gasped. “Who isss ssshe?” A strangled sound escaped its throat and its tail thrashed wildly as it struggled in Daman’s grip. “Let go!”
“Unlessss you want me to crussh you, you will tell me what you are doing here.” The sibilance coming from his own lips further reminded Daman of how far she’d pushed him. She sent me a cuelebre—a serpent to remind me of all she’s taken from me. Cold-hearted witch.
“I’m here to help you with your guessst.” The cuelebre writhed in his fist, tiny face stabbing up into the air as it tried to slip from his grasp.
“I have no guesst. I haven’t had a guesst ssincce sshe curssed me.” The sibilance of his voice grew thicker, his forked tongue flicking out of his mouth to taste the air. The cuelebre wasn’t afraid, the sickly sweet flavor of fear was absent. Daman closed his eyes for a moment, trying to rein himself in, but it was like clutching a boulder in the center of a raging river.
“Open your eyesss. Look outssside. You have a guessst.”
Without releasing the cuelebre, Daman threw the heavy coils of his lower body over the ground, powerful muscles propelling him to the window. His silver scales grated on the stone floor. The sound echoed in the air around him, adding to the cuelebre’s presence and fueling memories of the woman who’d cursed him to remain in this form. The reason he had to meditate every day, the reason he’d had to send away everyone he’d ever cared about.
The cuelebre gagged and Daman relaxed his grip as he realized he’d nearly crushed the delicate creature. The cuelebre took advantage of his moment of distraction, shooting out of his grip and zipping across the room like a horizontal bolt of lightning.
A noise outside caught Daman’s attention and he gaped, disbelieving, down at the path leading up to his front door. A figure stumbled toward the manor, body hunched against the frigid early morning spring air. The kiss of winter was still fresh in nature’s memory, the wind still smelling of ice and melting snow despite the green grass and blossoming trees. The ragged garments the man wore would give him next to no protection against the bite of such a morning. It was barely past first light, too early for the man to have come from any inns nearby. Leaves and small twigs clung to the creases in his clothing and the wisps of graying brown hair sticking out from underneath his hat. Dirt coated half of his body like some sort of mangled pelt.
He must have slept in the woods.
“Who is that?” Daman demanded, keeping his eyes on the approaching figure even as he spoke to the cuelebre.
“I don’t know.”
Daman slammed a hand down on the windowsill, rattling the glass in its pane. “What do you mean you don’t know? You’re the one who told me I had a visitor, you said you’re here to help me with him.”
A visitor. Human by all appearances. A delicate human. Here.
The air around Daman grew thicker, harder to breathe. His lungs ached and his vision tunneled. He examined his hands, the white claws curving out from his fingertips like bleached sickles. An image of the old man helpless and terrified in his grip flew into Daman’s head. He winced, closing his hands into fists.
“He can’t be here. It isn’t safe.”
“I am here to help,” the cuelebre reminded him.
“What good are you?” Daman pressed the tight knuckles of one fist to the window frame. “What good will you be to him if—”
The knock at the front door should have been muffled from this distance, but the sound thudded in Daman’s ears like a manic heartbeat. A visitor. He didn’t have visitors, couldn’t have visitors. He couldn’t even have servants.
“Anssswer the door.”
“No.” Daman backed away from the window. He gritted his teeth. “No, he can’t stay here.”
“Isss your control ssso poor? Isss that why you sssent everyone away?”
Daman’s fingers tingled with the urge to catch the cuelebre again and puncture its skinny body with his claws. “Who are you?”
“If you ever want them to come back, then you mussst ssstart sssomewhere. Let the old man in, let your human ssside have a sssay.”
Daman shot forward, his face burning as his blood boiled and he grabbed for the cuelebre. This time, though, the serpent was ready for him and with a flick of its wings, it zipped along the ceiling, careful to stay beyond Daman’s grasp.
“Who ssent you here?” Daman choked out, blinking past the red haze growing in front of his eyes.
“He isss cold and hungry,” the serpent pressed. “Will you truly turn him away?”
“You would rather I go down and frighten him to death?” Daman rose up to his full height, stretching the muscles of his serpentine lower body until his human half rose to the next best thing to eight feet tall. His wide, plated scales glowed dully in the firelight, pale blues and greens, like a glittering stream flowing from a snow-covered mountain peak.
The human flesh of his upper body was too pale to be fully human, the same blue-green hue of his scales tinting his skin until he nearly glowed in the dim light. Thick scaled ridges crept down his forehead on each side, falling from his hairline, coiling along his brow ridge and curling to the side of either eye. The sides of his neck were pinched into scaled ridges as well, tracing down over his shoulders. The scales bled out from the ridges, fading so they barely marked the flesh of his throat. His upper body was human enough, but his draconic heritage left no doubt that he was anything but. And if the dragon ancestry made apparent by the scales didn’t scare the beggar to death, Daman suspected his curved serpentine canines and slitted reptilian eyes would finish the job.
“You are not ssscary during the timesss your temper isss not controlling you.” The cuelebre settled on a wall sconce, settling in as though his life weren’t in jeopardy. “You can be a graciousss hossst. Many of your friendsss would have ssstayed if you’d let them.”
Daman pushed away the images the intruder’s words threatened to drag to the forefront of his mind. He didn’t want to think about the friends that had once surrounded him, didn’t have to remember how he’d sent them away. There’d been no choice, not after what had been done to him. Better they left than remained behind with him and his pathetic control.
Groping for anything to distract him from his own miserable past, Daman allowed an image of the beggar sitting down to a decent meal to fill his head. His heart warmed, chasing away some of the fear, making it a little easier to breathe. It had been a long tim
e since he’d had the satisfaction of helping someone in need, feeling that warm sensation that came from aiding another. Perhaps this was a sign from the gods, a way for him to reconnect with his humanity—to remember who he’d once been.
This could be a gift.
Slowly, he smoothed a hand over his scales, claws dancing over the shimmering surface. “Very well. I will help him.” He fixed the cuelebre with a hard stare. “But I will remain unseen. Go open the door for him. Lead him around the manor to give me time to set out a meal.”
He rushed from the room without giving the tiny serpent an opportunity to offer its opinion, having no doubt that the cuelebre had an opinion about everything. It took no time at all to arrive at the kitchen, and since there were no servants in the manor, Daman was free to fix a meal as he usually did for himself. Though he would have liked to offer the man a hot meal, it would take too long to cook anything, and his skills with food were limited. If only Moira were still here. Moira with her warm smile and her gods-given gift of making the most sumptuous meals any mortal being could ever hope to enjoy.
Bittersweet memories threatened to pour over him and he shoved them away, concentrating on the meal he was preparing for his guest. The brownies that cleaned his home often left him food, but mostly they provided ingredients and left the actual preparations for Daman to do himself. A loaf of hard-crusted bread and a generous helping of fresh butter, a small bowl of ripe strawberries, and a plate of cold beef. The meat was somewhat undercooked, and haphazardly seasoned, but it would fill an empty belly well enough.
He put a pot of black tea to boil and set out a cup along with a bowl of sugar and a small dish of lemons. It was perhaps not the grand feast of roast duck and glazed potatoes Moira might have managed, but surely for a man half-frozen and fresh from a night on the forest floor, it would be a blessing?
“You’re thinking of Moira, aren’t you, master?”
Daman didn’t bother looking at the speaker. The talking teapot had stopped seeming strange long ago.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Your mouth is watering,” the faded crockery pointed out. It swung a bit on the hook where it hung over the dark embers of the last kitchen fire, the flames casting a glow over its cloudy white surface with chipped blue flowers. “A bit early for lunch, isn’t it?”
“This isn’t for me.”
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Daman regretted them. The teapot stilled immediately, and if it’d had a face, Daman was sure its mouth and eyes would both be wide open.
“Master, this is… This is wonderful.”
“Silence yourself.” Daman spoke through clenched teeth, trying to hold on to the warm feeling he’d had while preparing the food. “It is nothing.”
“How can you say that?” The teapot swung gently as if in deep contemplation. “Is it Jacque? I hope it’s Jacque. He was so hurt when you sent him away.”
Daman gripped the tabletop, claws digging into the wood. “Be. Silent.”
“I know he tried to hide it, and goodness knows the man had a face like stone at the best of times. Apropos for a captain of the guard, I suppose.”
“Do not speak of Jacque.” Wood creaked and groaned as Daman’s grip on the table tightened.
“He cared for you like a brother. And I agreed with him, you know, you could easily have continued your noble duties even after what the witch did. I know you don’t think so, but you’re really not that scary.”
A split second later, Daman had snatched the teapot from the hook, and stood blinking at it through a red haze.
“Another word,” he said hoarsely, “and I will shatter you into dust.”
The teapot was silent, completely still. As always, Daman had a moment where reality wavered, where he wondered if he’d gone insane. Perhaps the teapot hadn’t been talking. Perhaps it had never talked. Perhaps his mind had grown addled in his isolation and talking crockery was merely a symptom of his growing madness.
Footsteps echoed on the stairs leading down to the kitchen. Daman hastily put the teapot down on the table and rushed to hide in the hallway beyond the small eating area. His temper died as he held his breath, waiting for the first glimpse he’d have of another person in over a year.
From his shadowed position behind the partial wall, he watched as the beggar wandered in, led by a flicker of light that must have been the cuelebre moving too quickly for his eyes to follow. The man’s knitted brows parted as he spotted the meal, his pupils dilating and an audible rumble coming from his stomach. A small prayer of thanks fell from his lips as he practically collapsed into the chair at the table.
A pleasant warmth spread over Daman as the man consumed the meager feast with the gusto of someone who hadn’t eaten in days. It had been a long time since he’d brought happiness to someone else, and he allowed himself to cherish the feeling, holding the moment to him so he could use it in meditations later.
“I don’t know who set this meal out,” the man said aloud after he’d finally slowed down. He pulled his tattered hat from his head. “If truth be told, I can’t even be certain it was for me. But whoever you are, wherever you are, please know that I am grateful.”
Daman leaned against the wall, allowing himself a flare of pride. Hope rose like a rare bird inside of him, delicate, but welcome.
Perhaps…
“Go out and ssspeak with him.”
Daman snatched the cuelebre from the air beside him and held him solidly against his chest, using his other hand to cover its mouth. Given the disparity in their sizes, his hand practically encased the cuelebre’s entire head and he held the miserable creature still, holding his own breath as he waited to see if the old man had heard.
Blessedly unaware that he wasn’t alone, the beggar stood from the table and wandered out of the kitchen. Shoulders sagging in relief, Daman followed at a safe distance, keeping the squirming cuelebre firmly in his grip. Every once in a while the man would call out, asking if anyone was home, and the cuelebre would renew his struggles, but Daman remained silent. It was a strange feeling, having someone in his home again. A living thing that wasn’t…well, a thing.
“All right,” the man finally called out. “Whoever you are, it seems you prefer to remain anonymous. Please know that you will forever have my gratitude.”
Something in Daman’s chest eased, and he took a deeper breath than he had in a long time. The cuelebre renewed its struggle in his grip and Daman glanced down. The cuelebre stared hard at him and Daman could feel the creature willing him to talk to his visitor. Daman hesitated, but shook his head. He would rather keep the pleasant memory he had than risk poisoning it with the man’s fear should he see exactly who—or what—he was thanking.
Remaining silent, Daman stayed with him as the man meandered through the garden. He trailed a hand over some of the new buds, green leaves barely parting to reveal the brilliant pinks, yellows, and blues that would soon light up the garden. The air was already perfumed with the promise of new life and Daman couldn’t help but draw in the spring air, filling his lungs. He’d been spending so much time inside, so much time meditating, trying to slow the progress of the curse, that he hadn’t appreciated nature’s fresh bounty. He sketched a mental note to start practicing his meditation outdoors.
“Hello!” a voice called out.
The man shouted, one hand flying to his chest as if to stop his heart from escaping. Daman winced in sympathy. He’d had a similar reaction the first time he’d wandered through this garden after the witch’s curse. The amount of raw magic the foolish magic user had poured over the land had not only affected things like crockery. It had also seeped into the soil of the garden—with similarly odd results.
“Who… Who’s there?” the old man gasped finally. He swiveled his head in all directions, gaze scanning his surroundings.
It won’t help to look, Daman mused. You’ll never guess.
“I’m here!” came the same voice.
“What…?”
Daman waited for the man’s eyes to follow the voice down. A small purple bloom bounced its petals, tiny green leaves along its stem waving merrily in greeting.
“Hi!” it said excitedly.
The old man blinked. Daman settled closer to the ground, his amusement tempered by sympathy. It was hard to stay confident in one’s sanity when first confronted by a talking plant.
“You… You’re a talking…flower?”
“Yes!”
Daman rolled his eyes. Of course it would be the violet. The seedling was always shouting.
“But…how?”
“I don’t know!” The plant tilted its head, its leaves stilling for a moment. “Are you going to stay here? Are there others?”
“No, I… It’s only me.” The old man paused. “Is there anyone else here?”
The flower swiveled its petals in a complete circle, slowly surveying the garden. “No.”
Daman snorted. The stranger should have asked the petal if anyone lived here. The loud weed wasn’t the brightest color in the garden, and it tended to take questions rather literally.
“Oh.”
The violet fell silent and for a few long moments, it and the old man just stared at one another. Suddenly the old man brightened.
“Hey, perhaps you could help me.”
“I’d love to!”
The old man’s face creased in amusement as he hunkered down next to the plant, old leather boots creaking with the movement. “I’m searching for a certain flower. A rose.”
“The roses are closer to the manor, on the trellis,” the violet supplied graciously.
The man glanced back at the house. “No, I’m talking about a special rose. A Rose of the Mist.”
Daman’s muscles seized, shock singing through his body in crackling waves, followed by a hot flood of rage as realization dawned. Fool! Idiot! He threw the cuelebre through the air, the need for secrecy forgotten as he shot over the stone path. He slammed into the intruder, knocking him to the ground with enough force to make the beggar’s body bounce off the cobblestones of the path.
