Dragon Rose (12 page)

I almost said I had no real need to, but then I recalled the dark shape of Theran’s dragon form, circling above the castle that was his prison. All had been calm enough since then, though I knew better than to trust things would go on in such a fashion. “I promise…if you promise as well. I hope you have not tried to haul your own clay lately!”

“As for that,” he said frankly, “what with business the way it’s been…” He caught himself, but the damage was done.

So the good people of Lirinsholme had not relented, even though the wayward daughter had sacrificed herself on the altar of Black’s Keep. Ah, well. Prejudices died hard, newly formed ones possibly even harder than old beliefs that had had a lifetime to mature. At least the Dragon’s bride price would ensure they did not want, although it was a difficult thing to have one’s life work discarded all because of a single ill-considered decision.

“The ground will be too hard soon anyway,” I pointed out, and he even smiled a little. “But look, Father—the sun is beginning to set. You must be down the mountain before dark arrives.”

He looked unhappy at those words, although he did not try to argue. There would have been no point—we both knew his skills on horseback were negligible at best.

“Farewell, Rhianne,” he said simply.
 

“Farewell, Father.” It must have been the newfound maturity of my twenty years that allowed me to keep my voice so calm, so level.

He turned the horse around. I noticed he did not look back as he crossed the courtyard and went on through the castle gates. And then he was gone.

Sar approached, and I held my breath, wondering what words of recrimination she would have for me. But she only gazed at me for a moment and said,

“Come inside, my lady. It is almost time for dinner.”

Chapter Seven

“You should have told me it was your birthday,” Theran Blackmoor said.

With my fork I pushed aside a fatty-looking piece of venison and instead tackled the compote of spiced apples that had accompanied it. “I didn’t think it mattered. You’ve already done so much for me—”

He raised a hand. “All I’ve done is try to make you comfortable here. But a birthday…a birthday is special.”

“Sar has prepared a wonderful meal.”

A rueful shake of the hood, and he reached for his wine glass. At least, it seemed that small movement of his head was rather aggravated. I fancied that over the days and weeks I’d come to know his moods and gestures a little better, even if I could not see his face.
 

“I am told that modesty is becoming in young women, but you might try a little less of it from time to time. It does not suit you all that well.”

“What is modest about not drawing attention to one’s self?”

He laughed outright then. “I would say avoiding attention is one of the basic characteristics of modesty. Come now—you are a woman of the world now, having left your girlhood behind. I would like to hear you say one praiseful thing about yourself.”

At first I hesitated, thinking perhaps he meant to jest with me, but as he remained sitting there, watching me with his head cocked and the wine glass still in one hand, I realized he was in earnest. Good gods, what on earth was I to say?

Stumbling over the words, I managed, “Well, I am—that is, I have been told that I am a rather good painter.”

“You have been told you are a good painter. Do you need the words of others to convince you of this?”

Of course I didn’t, not really. I knew I was good. Better than good, really, but it was difficult to shake off years of my mother admonishing me to never boast, to only nod meekly if someone commented on a sketch or the texture of a pudding or the sweetness of my smile.
 

I lifted my head and looked directly into his unseen features. “I am an
excellent
painter.”

“Much better. What else?”

“What else?”

“There is more to you than your paintbrushes, Rhianne. What would you say if I told you your beauty rivals that of any of the court ladies I have ever seen?”

“I would say that it has been a long time since you were at court, my lord,” I replied tartly.

Another laugh. “And I would say you are correct in that point, but my memory has not faded with the passage of years. I know whereof I speak.”

I knew I should have come up with some rejoinder, some words that would have asserted my own ordinariness while not sounding contradictory. At least, that is what my mother would have wished of me. But she was not there, and, odd as it might sound, I found myself enjoying Lord Blackmoor’s approval. So I said, in meek tones I was sure did not fool him for a second, “As you say, my lord.”

If I’d been able to see his eyes, it was very likely that they’d have had a wicked glint. But there was no mistaking the amusement in his voice when he spoke. “I do say, Rhianne. But since I have obviously discommoded you, let us move on to safer subjects. You say that your painting of Lirinsholme is almost complete. What next, then?”

Relieved he’d abandoned the discussion of my charms, I went on to explain how the ivy on the castle walls had just begun to turn with the first frosts, and how I wanted to do several paintings—a triptych, I hoped—in which I could catch those elusive colors before they were gone. It did not take me much encouragement to hold forth at length about painting, and so I was able to fill up the rest of the meal’s discussion with commentary on my future projects.

Upon reflection, I realized there was one good thing about that hood. At least with it concealing my husband’s face, I could not as easily tell if he were bored by me or not.

That night Theran accompanied me to my rooms. I did not know precisely why; perhaps he thought it a gentlemanly gesture, as it was my birthday. At the door, I hesitated, wondering if I should ask him to come inside. Surely it would be a friendly gesture to ask him in to sit by the fire for a few minutes. I didn’t see the harm in that, as Sar or one of the maids always kept the door between the sitting room and my bedchamber closed—most likely to hide the clutter of my paints and easel.

“Sar left the fire going, since the evening promised to be chilly,” I said, one hand resting on the doorknob.

Theran seemed to pause as well, as if not entirely sure how best to respond. Then the hood dipped slightly. “You wish me to come inside?”

“Just—just for a few minutes,” I faltered, wondering if he had interpreted my invitation as something else entirely.

Again a brief silence. “I would enjoy that.”

Not entirely sure whether I should be relieved or alarmed, I turned the knob and went inside, my husband following like a silent shadow. A fire did, indeed, crackle welcomingly in the hearth, and I saw on the low table in front of the divan a crystal decanter of some amber-colored liquid and a few small glasses. Well, Sar had mentioned that she would leave me some of the local honey liqueur, proclaiming it to be just the thing to ward off the chill of autumn nights in the castle.

“A drink?” I inquired, moving toward the table. At least the act of pouring us a few glasses would do something to fill up the silence.

“I see that Sar has sent up some
methlyn
. A little, perhaps. It is very strong.”

“So she warned me.” I lifted the decanter, which was heavier than it looked, and tipped a little of the liquid into each of the glasses.
 

Theran approached and took one of the glasses. “Happy birthday.”

I grasped the one remaining and raised it as well. “Thank you.”

We both drank—that is, Theran managed a practiced sip of the liquid, which was much thicker than wine or cider, and far more searing. I swallowed a mouthful, gasped, then coughed quite inelegantly.
 

“Sar didn’t warn you?”

“She might have mentioned that it took some getting used to, but…” I blinked my watering eyes. “I see now what she meant about it keeping me warm—I feel as if someone just poured Keshiaari fire down my throat!”

“Some water, perhaps?” A ceramic pitcher sat on one of the side tables, and he went to it and poured a measure into one of the pitcher’s matching goblets. I took it gratefully and drank, thus cooling my abused throat somewhat.

“Thank you.”

I couldn’t see his smile, but I guessed there might be one hidden under that hood. He retrieved his own glass and took another sip. “Practice, my dear Rhianne.”

The last thing I wanted was to swallow any more of that searing stuff, but I also didn’t want him to think me a coward. So I went and picked up the glass I had abandoned on the table, and forced myself to take the merest of sips, barely more than an exhalation of fumes over my palate. That seemed a little more manageable; this time the liquid going down my throat had the warmth of a welcome fire, and not the searing heat of a dragon’s breath.

“Better?”

“Much.”

A silence descended, but this time it somehow felt companionable rather than awkward. Theran stepped away from me, going to stand only a few feet from the hearth. His robes looked very black in contrast with the golds and reds and ochres of the flames. He drank from his glass again, draining it. I wondered at him being able to stand that much, although perhaps his body was more suited to such heat than mine.

He spoke then. “Your father loves you very much.”

His words took me aback. There had been a questioning note to the remark, as if he were not entirely sure of the answer.
 

“Well…of course. I am sorry he came here, though. I know that it isn’t done.”

Theran turned toward me, empty glass dangling from between his black-clad fingers. “It isn’t done, Rhianne, because no one has done it in the past five hundred years. Until now.”

His tone was so neutral I could not tell whether he was angry or not. “He only wanted to make sure I was well…”

“There is no need to make excuses for him.” The Dragon Lord paused, as if checking himself. “That is, it is understandable why he came. You should not worry on his account.”

“You won’t—you won’t retaliate?”

“Of course not!”

There was no mistaking the vehemence of those words. Again I had misjudged him, this odd husband of mine. “But there must be some reason why family members are forbidden to visit the Brides…”

“‘And go forth, taking that which is his, and leaving behind the things of your childhood,’” Theran said. “Do you know what that is from?”

It sounded familiar, but although I had been taught to read and write, books were a luxury in my household. I could not place the phrase.

He seemed to take my silence as tacit admission that I did not, in fact, recognize the passage. “It is from the
Book of Inyanna
, where it discusses how a young woman must leave her family and make a new one with her husband. A tenet which is perhaps adhered to more strictly here than elsewhere, I am sure. And it is not always wise to come here, because the family may find—” And then he paused, possibly recalling at the last instant that some things were better left unsaid.
 

May find what?
I wanted to ask. But if he had stopped himself, I guessed he would not confide in me.

“So it has become something of a tradition,” I ventured, and he nodded, as if relieved that I had not pressed the issue.

 
“Precisely.” He moved back to the table and poured himself another glass of the
methlyn
.
 

I might have sucked in my breath slightly at the thought of two such glasses drunk so closely in succession. Whatever the cause, Theran turned back toward me.

“No fears, Rhianne. It does not affect me in quite the same way it does you.”

Unfortunate that I had been so transparent. I managed a smile and replied, “I imagine not, or you would be doubled over coughing right now.”

A chuckle. “Quite right…although it seems you’ve acclimated yourself to it somewhat.”

“Perhaps.” To be sure, I had essayed one or two more careful swallows, but I thought it was safe to say that the
methlyn
would never replace wine as my drink of choice.
 

His air seemed to change then; somehow he appeared taller, as if he had straightened within the enveloping robes, and the hood was tilted down toward me. “And it never occurred to you to leave?”

“Leave?” I repeated, unsure of what he was asking me.

“With your father. I was not there—it is possible you would not have been stopped.”

“I would never—” I burst out. Then, in somewhat calmer tones, “That is, such a thing would never have occurred to me.”

“And why not?”

“It would not be the honorable thing to do,” I replied calmly. That sounded very noble, but I knew there was far more to it than that. “I mean…that is to say…”

He said nothing, as if content to watch my verbal floundering.

Damn it. Perhaps it would have been better to say nothing, but I did not want him to think that he had bested me. “Why should I leave?” I asked. “I have everything I need here.”

At that he went very still. The dark robes could have been carved from basalt, so unmoving were they. Finally, “You do?”

My cheeks flushed with sudden heat, although whether my blush was from the
methlyn
or something else entirely, I could not say. I thought I was being careful with the heady liquor, but perhaps it had loosened my tongue more than I had guessed, although more than three-quarters of what I had first poured still remained in the glass I held.
 

“Well, I can paint as much as I want, and Sar has been very kind, and—”

“And?”

Oh, it was too much. I had not been raised to know what it was like to carry on this sort of a conversation with a man. If one could even call Theran Blackmoor a man. Be that as it may, while I’d had long discussions on painting techniques with Lindell, and of course interacted with my father on a daily basis, I had no real experience of what it was like to speak of anything save the weather or the most mundane inanities with someone of the opposite sex. So far I had skirted my inexperience by speaking of my paintings and other such commonplaces with Theran, but I realized we had crossed some sort of threshold here. Once again, it would have been far wiser to keep my mouth shut.