Dragon Rose(16)

I stepped meekly forward until I stood a pace away from the priest. “Father.”

He didn’t respond, but seemed to stiffen.

We were not alone in the room.

Where he had come from, I couldn’t say, but I heard the soft hiss of his long cloak as it dragged across the stone floor. The very air seemed to sigh, as if displaced by something it knew was not natural.

My heart lodged roughly midway up my throat, I turned.

At first I almost laughed in relief. This was no scaled monster of legend, no overgrown serpent-beast with eyes of fire. I looked upon the figure of a man, tall and slender, although it was difficult to make out much more than that, as he wore a cloak that covered him from shoulder to heel. The garment’s cowled hood dropped low, concealing his face.

“Rhianne.”

That voice—it was the sort of voice a woman might dream of, rich and yet soft, the accents rounded and full. To hear it emanate from within that hood was surprise enough; I blinked at the realization that he knew my name. But that was foolish. Sar must have told him, or sent word to him somehow.

“Yes,” I replied simply, hoping my own voice didn’t sound too hopelessly countrified.

“The rose, I believe,” he went on. “At least, that is what your name meant in the language of old. Do you like roses?”

“I, er, well, yes,” I said, and then cursed myself inwardly for my fumbling. What a fool he must think me.

“We have a rather fine garden on the north side of the castle. You must visit it when you have the chance.”

Not knowing what else to say, I only answered, “Of course, my lord.”

Something that might have been a chuckle escaped from beneath the hood. He turned slightly, facing the priest. “You may begin.”

The old man cleared his throat and lifted his hands. I saw that he now held the traditional length of white linen used in all the wedding ceremonies I had ever witnessed. “Rhianne Menyon.”

I knew what to do. Ever since I was a young child I had attended these sorts of rites, and had even dreamed from time to time of what my own nuptials might be like. Never in any of those gauze-edged fantasies had I thought I would be standing next to the Dragon himself. Like every young woman in Lirinsholme, I had always believed that sort of thing would happen to someone else.

Somehow I managed to raise my left hand, allowed him to wrap the linen around it.

“Theran Blackmoor.”

The Dragon lowered his hand so that it rested on mine. A black glove enclosed his fingers, but even through the leather I could feel the heat of him, as if his flesh burned with an inward fire. I tried not to flinch, to stand my ground and not let him know how it took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to pull my hand away.

The priest wrapped the linen around the Dragon’s hand as well, binding us together.

You will not shake, I told myself. Or tremble, or faint, or do anything else foolish. His hand is warm, true, but at least he is not some fearsome beast, some monster. It could have been so much worse.

I was so intent on this inner monologue that I did not hear the priest’s next words. With a start I realized he had fallen silent and was waiting for me, the linen now unwrapped from our wrists and held outstretched in his hands. At once I reached out and took the linen from him and brought it to my lips in the ritual gesture, then let the Dragon take it from me so he might do the same. That is, I could only guess he had brought the fabric to his mouth, for it disappeared within the recesses of his hood and then emerged a second or two later, when he handed it back to the priest.

In silence the older man took the linen and folded it into the triangle custom required before placing it in a small brazier half-hidden behind one of the marble candle stands. With a chill I realized what was to come next.

“Close your eyes,” Theran Blackmoor said.

That was not part of the ritual, but I guessed it would be unwise in the extreme to disobey. So I shut my eyes and held my breath as I felt him move closer, the heavy fabric of his hood brushing against my loose hair before his mouth touched mine.

Only for the briefest instant, and then he withdrew at once. But even in the space of that heartbeat or two I could feel something dreadfully wrong about the lips that had grazed mine, something rough and hard, as if they were not human skin at all.

Once again I fought the urge to flinch. How many of those other Brides had recoiled? Surely it must be a dreadful thing to have the woman one married shrink at one’s very touch. An odd stirring of pity moved within me. For all that he had the outward shape of a man, it seemed there must be a very real reason for the hooded cloak, for the gloves.

I opened my eyes and saw him staring down at me. That is, the hood was tilted downward. I could see nothing else.

“Rhianne Blackmoor,” he said, and in that voice my name was somehow a caress. “You are now the mistress of Black’s Keep.”

There being nothing witty or profound I could think of to say in reply, I merely curtsied. “My lord.”

“Theran.”

“Theran,” I repeated. Perhaps one day I might have the courage to address him thus.

“And now—”

“Now?”

“Our wedding feast.”

He offered me his arm. I forced myself not to hesitate, to settle my hand on top of his as if it were the most natural thing the world. Lifting my chin, I allowed him to lead me from the room.