Dragon Rose(57)

Little by little, though, the fire worked its magic, bringing the feeling back to my numb fingers, to my trembling legs. Just the cheerful crackle of the flames and the soft hiss of a log as it split apart seemed to guide me back to myself. I was back in my rooms. I was safe.

Or was I?

I got to my feet and unwrapped the scarf from my throat. With it gone, I seemed to breathe a little easier.

Had that all been a vision, some kind of waking dream? Perhaps, but I had never experienced such a thing before, and it all seemed too clear to me, unlike my dreams. Even the true ones had a bit of fuzziness around the edges. But everything in that desolate room had been all too real, from the chill air leaking around the badly sealed windows to the mouse-chewed edges of the book bindings. The scent of mildew seemed to rise in the air and I choked, fleeing to my bedchamber so I could pour myself some water from the pitcher that always sat at my bedside.

What did it mean, “it has all turned black”? Had one of my predecessors written those words, seized by some dark madness I couldn’t begin to comprehend?

To tell the truth, I could not understand any of it…and I somehow doubted illumination would come any time soon.





Chapter Thirteen





As much as I had looked forward to seeing Theran again, climbing the stairs to his chambers after my exertions of that afternoon seemed to take every last ounce of strength I possessed. At least I had changed out of my dusty garments and brushed my hair. I knew I looked presentable enough, even though I felt as if I’d been dragged behind a pack of wild horses for several miles.

Theran seemed to notice at once; almost as soon as I had stepped into his suite he asked, “Are you sure you’re feeling quite well?”

“Yes,” I said automatically, although that was far from the truth.

“Then let me fetch you some hot wine.”

That sounded good, for several reasons. I was chilled again, and I knew the warmth of the wine would help to dispel some of the icy sensations from my fingers and toes. Also, if I drank enough wine, perhaps I could forget that forlorn room, and the wave of black despair that had threatened to engulf me, although I knew it was not of my own making.

“Thank you,” I told Theran, since it seemed he expected some response.

He went from me and busied himself with pouring a good measure of wine into a goblet. I noticed he had already prepared a glass for himself; it sat on the low table in front of the divan. When he handed the wine to me, I took it gratefully and swallowed perhaps more at once than was wise. It was warmer than I had thought, too, and I gasped a little as it went down.

“Slower, perhaps,” he said. “There is plenty more.”

“I am sorry. It is just so very cold…”

Cold as night…cold as death...

I blinked, wondering where that had come from, and said hurriedly, “That is, I suppose I am still not quite used to how cold a stone castle can be. Our house in town is made of wood.”

“As is most of the town. Yes. I suppose it will take some getting used to. But you have a whole winter for that.”

“I suppose I do.”

He made no answer, but instead indicated the small chamber with its round dining table where we always took our meals together. I took my goblet and went to sit down.

In silence I watched as he ladled something that appeared to be venison stew onto my plate. What possessed me then, I could not say. Perhaps it was merely that I had collected yet another secret to keep from him, and the one evil seemed lesser than the other. I blurted out, “I found the graveyard.”

No reply, although I thought I saw a tremor go through the hand holding the ladle before he replaced it in the tureen that dominated the center of the table. Then, “I know.”

“You do? But Sar—”

“Yes, I suppose Sar told you that your secret was safe, and that I need never be told. I am the master here, Rhianne. Do you really believe I do not know when my wife goes afield and has to be fetched back by one of my servants?”

The words sounded calm enough, but I heard the flicker of anger along the edge of those smooth tones.

“I—I am sorry,” I faltered, and he lifted a hand.

“Spare me your apologies. I have no need of them. It is unfortunate, I suppose, but you have a questing spirit, one that seeks answers. I would have been more surprised if you had not found it.”

Unsure of what to say, I spooned a portion of venison stew into my mouth, though I confess I barely tasted it. After I had swallowed, I said, “I did not seek it out, Theran. Truly.”

“I believe you. That doesn’t change the fact that it is dangerous for you to venture forth alone. There are boars and bears in the forest, as well as hidden gorges and ravines. You could have been hurt. You will not do such a thing again.”

“You—you care whether I am hurt?”

The hood shifted toward me. “Of course I care. I may be a monster, but I am not that much of one.”

“I don’t think you are a monster.”

He seemed unable to reply to that, instead using his own spoon to shift the food around on his plate. At length he said, “You might think differently, if you knew the truth.”

“What truth? The truth as you see it, or as I do? I came to you willingly enough this morning, did I not? Are those the actions of someone who believes her husband is a monster?”