Dragon Rose(27)

“I will see her!”

The voice was familiar. My gaze rested on him, just as I realized who it was.

My father.

He sat, somewhat clumsily, on the back of a large, ungainly brown horse—Traes Mackinrod’s Thunderer, if memory served. What my father had said to persuade the blacksmith to part with his prized horse, I did not know, but at the moment I thought the “how” was far less important than the “why.”

I watched as Sar came bustling out into the courtyard, followed by Mat and two guardsmen whose names I did not know. She said something, in tones low enough that I could not hear her, but my father only shook his head and retorted,

“I am her father, and it is her birthday! I will see her!”

Strange enough that my normally mild father would have taken it into his head to come here, when such a thing was forbidden. Stranger still that he should roar and cause a clamor, as if he had borrowed some of Traes Mackinrod the blacksmith’s bluster along with his horse.

I knew it was entirely possible for Mat and his two companions to remove my father bodily if need be, but I did not want things to come to such a pass. An impatient pause as I drew off my smock, and then I was running for the door, hurrying down all those interminable staircases as fast as my slipper-clad feet could take me.

Although at that time of day Melynne and the other housemaids should have been preparing the dining chamber for dinner, I found them clustered around the great double doors which opened on the courtyard, peering out and whispering to each other as if they watched one of the puppet shows in Lirinsholme’s marketplace.

Worry for my father made my tone far more curt than usual. “I daresay his lordship will be less than pleased when he learns you were spying on other people’s business rather than attending to your duties.”

At my words all three of the maids snapped upright, eyes going wide. Melynne in particular looked startled; I daresay she had never heard me speak in such a fashion before.

“I - I’m so sorry, my lady. Only we heard the noise and—”

“ —And went to eavesdrop on something that is no concern of yours. Go on—you know you should not be here.”

They went, scurrying away with nervous squeaks and chattering, sounding more like a trio of house mice than young women of my own age. Satisfied that I had reduced the audience somewhat, I stepped out into the courtyard.

“Master Menyon,” Sar was saying, “you must come away. You know it is forbidden for you to come here.”

“And why is that?” he replied. “A man forbidden to see his own daughter? Preposterous!”

“Father,” I said quietly, having paused just beyond the bottom of the steps that led up into the castle.

He stopped then and looked over Sar’s head. Our eyes met. Something of the wild expression that had overtaken his normally mild features ebbed away. Ignoring Sar, he dismounted clumsily and came toward me, hands outstretched.

“Rhianne. Oh, Rhianne.” And he bowed his head, as if he did not want me to see the tears in his eyes.

I almost wept, too, seeing his face and hearing his voice, when I had thought I would never do either of those things again. But I knew I must maintain my composure; although Sar had stepped back, as if in deference to the lady of the castle, her dark eyes were keen as she watched me. My response would tell her much of how I viewed my place here.

“Father,” I said, quietly and firmly, “do not think I am not happy to see you, but you know you should not have come here.”

“Or what?” he replied. “Will the Dragon come to strike me dead? I have set foot in this accursed place, and yet I still breathe.”

“Yes…on his sufferance, no doubt. Do you not think he knows of your presence here?”

“I care little for that.”

I wondered whence came this false bravado. Was it that brush with death he’d had earlier in the summer, when his heart betrayed him so suddenly? I couldn’t begin to guess, but I supposed it did not matter one way or the other. What mattered was getting him safely on the way home again.

“Well, then,” I said, in a voice I feared was a trifle too hearty. “You see me now. Do I not look healthy and well?”

He surveyed me then, taking in my rich gown, the sapphire drops at my ears. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the paint stains on my fingers. “You are painting, then?”

“Every day. His lordship has been most generous in providing me with supplies.”

I had not meant the words to sting, but I saw my father flinch slightly. He said, “That is something we could not give you. Instead you painted pottery at your father’s whim, and took the brunt of the blame when the subterfuge was discovered.”

At once I understood. The gods only knew what thoughts of guilt had assailed him in the weeks since my marriage to the Dragon. My poor father thought it all his fault, that I had given myself to the Dragon as the only way of saving my family. And perhaps at the time that had been part of my reasoning, but not all. I knew I couldn’t begin to explain to him how this place, odd as it might seem, had become home to me.

“Dear Father,” I said, and took his hands in mine. “You mustn’t blame yourself. I took the risk willingly…as willingly as I came here to be the Dragon’s Bride. It was my decision to make. And I am happy here. Truly.”

At those words he looked down at me in wonder, as if by studying my face he might find the answer to such an unfathomable riddle. “Happy?” he repeated at last.