Dragon Rose(24)

At first his hand felt stiff, as if he was not sure I wouldn’t pull back as soon as I realized what I was doing. But then his fingers seemed to relax, and wrapped themselves around mine.

“Much better,” I said. “Shall we go in and see what Sar has planned for dinner?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Let us go in.”





Chapter Six





That meal had far more of the feel of a celebration about it than the feast which had greeted us after our nuptials. The fare was plain enough—roast pig, and wild rice, and some of the last of the summer’s squash—and yet we lingered over it as if a dozen courses had been laid before us.

I told him of my painting, and he spoke of the art which adorned the walls of the castle. “Some of it I chose myself, years ago, before I could not leave the castle.”

“So you…traveled?” It was on the tip of my tongue to ask, So you were not always as you are now? But I did not have the courage to give voice to the words.

Somehow he seemed to know what I was thinking. He poured another measure of wine into my goblet and then into his own before replying, “Once I was no different from other men.”

I didn’t quite know what to say to that, so I only drank a bit more of my wine and waited.

Again there seemed to be an undercurrent of amusement in his voice. “Does that surprise you? What is the current tale in Lirinsholme? That I was born in this inhuman form as a punishment to my parents for their harsh treatment of the townsfolk?”

“One of the tales,” I said frankly. “But the most prevalent one is that you were cursed by a sorcerer. It seems rather silly to me, as the last mage in this part of the world disappeared more than five hundred years ago.”

“Five hundred years.” His tone was musing. “Has it really been that long?”

I set down my goblet and stared at him, aghast. To be sure, that was the tale I had heard for most of my life, but I’d always thought it must be an exaggeration. Yes, the Dragon had reigned over Lirinsholme and its environs for time out of mind, but people’s recollections grew hazier as the years stretched on, and I really hadn’t thought it could have been that long in reality. Trapped in this castle, in an alien body, for half a millennium?

“You seem surprised,” he remarked. “So you did not think the legends had any truth to them?”

“Legends generally don’t.”

He chuckled. “So the dreamy artist actually has her feet planted firmly on the ground?”

“I’m the eldest of four daughters. I didn’t have much choice.”

Another laugh, and he lifted his goblet and drank. “I can see the truth in that.”

Emboldened by the lightness in his voice, I asked, “So what really did happen? I must say that it seems rather excessive, as curses go.”

At first he was silent, and I held my breath, worried that once again I had asked the wrong question, had broken the delicate rapport between us. When he spoke, however, he sounded more sad than angry. “I cannot speak of that.”

Cannot…or will not?

Still, my common sense hadn’t completely deserted me, and so I only nodded instead of asking yet more questions. I speared the last bit of roast pig with my fork and lifted it to my mouth, wondering what on earth I should say next. After I had swallowed the morsel, I ventured, “It must be a very great thing to be able to fly.”

“One might think so. I found that the novelty palled somewhat after the first century or two.”

I supposed it might. I tried to think of what he did to fill all those endless days and came up with nothing. If I had been trapped in the form of a monster for centuries, I thought I could have painted—the shape of his hands appeared human enough to hold a paintbrush—but I saw little evidence of such hobbies on the Dragon’s part. Then again, I had never seen his rooms. I didn’t know what might be hidden there.

He waved a hand. “But never mind that. Tell me more of this painting of yours.”

It was a diversion, I knew, but one I was willing to follow. And so I went into a detailed, and, I fear, rather dull description of all the pigments I was using in the painting, and how I had to work quickly, because autumn was swiftly approaching and the colors of the prospect would begin to shift and change any time now. But the Dragon seemed interested, and I was happy to leave more troubling topics behind us. I did not want a repeat of that dreadful night where he flew through the darkness, crying out his pain and wretchedness, as if only in the dragon’s form did he have the power to give voice to his sorrow.

By speaking of lighter things, I found it easier to pretend that all was well in his world.





Although it was true enough that I needed to complete the large painting soon, the next day I instead took my small easel and my palette to the rose garden, where I undertook to paint the roses I had noticed the day before. The canvas likewise was of modest proportions, not even a foot square, but within that small space I hoped to capture some of the beauty and the warmth of the flowers in their late-summer bloom. It would be my gift to him, some small part of me he could take back with him to his solitary rooms.

Again I thought I saw that watching shadow in the corner of my vision, but every time I glanced upward, the windows were empty of all onlookers. Very well. I had hoped for the painting to be a surprise, but if my lord wished to watch me as I worked, there was little enough I could do about it. I took care not to lay on the paint too thickly, for I wanted to give it to him that week, and even a piece of such a modest scale would take a few days to dry.