The Dragon's Lover (6 page)

“Very well, then,” Raine said, then let out another
thin whistle. This time an entire pack of wolves came from the
forest. Raine gestured toward the corpses. “I would be grateful if
you would take care of that.”

There were several growls of protest and Raine
clarified. “You don't have to eat it,” she said, “just get rid of
it.”

Somehow the wolves adopted an air of both relief and
understanding. They began dragging the carcasses away, shredding
the larger bodies into smaller pieces to facilitate the
removal.

To Weynild's surprise and appreciation, Raine
stripped on the spot and began ambling toward the stream.

“I'm going to wash this filth from my body,” she said
over her shoulder, indicating the blackened bloodstains on her
skin. Weynild watched the perfect form step away, controlling the
urge to take her to the ground on the spot. She cared nothing about
the bloodstains. But she knew that within minutes they would be
back in the cottage, starting anew from where they had been
interrupted.

Hours later, Raine lay in her lover's arms. It seemed
the vast majority of their time was consumed with either sexual
activity or recovering from sexual activity. She thought back to
the skirmish from earlier in the day and a shadow passed over her
features. That was likely to change very soon.

Weynild sensed the shift in her lover's mood, as well
as the cause. She shared both the belief and the melancholy it
brought. It did not seem possible that in such a short time she
should feel so utterly connected to this one. Unlike the girl, she
had slept with hundreds, if not thousands over the centuries. The
engagements had ranged from the laughably brief to the tumultuously
too long. She had even conceived several children, a few who had
actually survived. But she had never felt such an intense desire
for anyone, nor ever experienced such satisfaction. She tangled her
fingers in Raine's hair.

“So you asked me my true name, now I must know
yours.”

“My true name is Raine, and my surname, the name of
the father, is Estania.”

It was Weynild's turn to pause at the revelation. “So
you are royalty as well.”

Raine rolled on to her side, propping herself up on
her elbow. “Not exactly. Scinterians do not have kings, they have
only generals.”

“And your father, Garik, was one of their
greatest.”

“You knew my father?” Raine said in surprise.

Weynild shook her head. “Not really. But I knew of
him. His prowess in battle was legendary and I see now where your
skill comes from.” Weynild examined the deep violet eyes, then
added as an after-thought. “I am glad I did not meet your
mother.”

That statement could have had multiple meanings but
Raine shrewdly guessed the correct one. “You have been with an
Arlanian before.”

“Yes,” Weynild said with just a hint of regret, “it
did not end well.”

Raine eyed her, and Weynild continued. “He was a
young male, rather strapping for an Arlanian, but even so, such a
fragile creature. Arlanians are uniquely tragic in that their
desire far outpaces their ability to withstand the consequences. He
did not survive.”

Weynild was curious how Raine would handle such an
admission, but the dragon would not lie to her.

For her part, Raine had long ago accepted the
self-destructive tendencies of her mother's people. What they did
of their own accord was not her business. Rather it was the
indignities and violence that had been thrust upon them that filled
her with rage.

“Was the act consensual?”

“Oh yes,” Weynild replied. “There was no force or
coercion involved.”

Raine shifted onto her back once more, resting her
head in the crook of Weynild's arm.

“Then I will not judge.”

Weynild wrapped her arms around her and the two fell
into a dreamless sleep.

They settled into their pattern of domestic bliss
once more but it was only a few days before they were again
disturbed. Raine eyed the cloud of dust approaching from the north.
Her eyesight was exceptionally acute and she could make out the
form of horses in the dust. When they got a little closer, she
could make out the forms on top of the beasts. Although she could
not yet differentiate them into man, elf, or dwarf, at least she
could tell they were not Hyr'rok'kin.

They were men, human men, as well as a few women.
Imperial troops accompanied by a priest, a bard, and a scout. Raine
assessed them as they neared and determined they were little if any
threat. She felt Weynild's presence at her side and turned to
glance at her, doing a quick double-take.

Weynild had disguised herself as a very old woman,
inconspicuously and drably dressed. She would have attracted no
attention in any slum in the hold.

“Well that's a new look for you,” Raine said
sardonically.

“Shut up,” Weynild said.

The band neared and the leader of the group signaled
for them to hold up. He eyed the woman standing in front of the
cottage. My god she was a beauty, with gorgeous blue eyes and hair
the color of wheat. He glanced to the crone, startled that such a
supple branch could spring from such gnarled roots. He pulled
himself from the distraction.

“Tell me miss, have you or your mother seen any
Hyr'rok'kin about?”

Raine muffled laughter. “Oh, I assure you, she is far
too old to be my mother.”

This seemed to be some great private joke between the
two of them, but the soldier on horseback did not understand the
humor. “Even so,” he said uneasily, “have you seen any of the
beasts round about?”

“Yes,” Raine replied, “there were a dozen here but a
few days ago, chasing a woman from Havershire.”

The soldier was shocked. So the rumors were true that
they had come this far east. Raine confirmed his thoughts.

“It was an advance party, a small group out scouting.
But they are unusually far east.”

The soldier was troubled and in his distraction did
not think to ask the obvious. His scout, on the other hand, was
troubled more by the unseen than by that which was spoken. She was
particularly attuned to the ebb and flow of magic which permeated
all things. But there was something distinctly wrong with both the
individuals standing in front of her.

The old crone was clearly in disguise and magic
hummed and throbbed in the air about her, but the scout could not
get a sense of the magnitude of that power. That could mean two
things, that the power was insignificant and merely
uncontrolled.

Or, the scout thought, eying the crone, that the
power was enormous and skillfully hidden. And when the crone turned
glowing gold eyes upon her, she leaned decidedly toward the
latter.

The second figure, in her own way, was just as
disturbing. Outwardly, the scout saw what the others in the troop
saw, a strikingly beautiful young woman. But beyond that, the scout
could feel nothing, which was quite impossible. Every creature had
its own field of magic which could be directed outward by the being
or inward against it. But this woman seemed to exist in absolute
emptiness, in a solid field of nothingness where no magic entered
or exited.

Raine's eyes drifted over to the scout, apprising
her. The fair-haired young woman had a sudden sense of the absolute
lethality of the blue-eyed one examining her, although she knew
there was no danger to her personally.

“What is your name?” Raine asked the scout.

“Isolde,” the woman answered.

“Isolde,” Raine said, trying out the name on her
tongue as one would try an unfamiliar drink. The woman was a
Tavinter, a nomadic people known for their stealth and scouting
abilities. She wore the nondescript leather armor of her people,
but Raine had the impression she was far more important than her
companions knew her to be. And she was a mage, or perhaps not, but
by choice and not out of lack of ability. Magical power surrounded
her, another fact her companions were oblivious to. Raine’s gaze
slowly, deliberately drifted downward, settled briefly on the
scout’s midsection, then flitted away.

Isolde nearly started but controlled her reaction. No
one knew of her unborn child, not even her husband, yet impossibly
it seemed this stranger had just divined its presence. Her heart
quickened but it seemed the woman had no intention of doing
anything with the knowledge she had gleaned.

“Your scout is quite skilled,” Raine said, addressing
the troop leader once more.

The comment seemed very random to the leader and the
whole exchange was making him a little uneasy. “Right,” he said,
baffled. The previously ignored “obvious” finally made its
ponderous presence known.

“So what happened to the Hyr'rok'kin?”

“I slaughtered them” Raine said simply.

Such a claim would have provoked laughter under any
other circumstances. Even their heavily armed band would have
struggled against a dozen Hyr'rok'kin. But something in the
nonchalance of the words and demeanor of the speaker gave the claim
a verity that the boldest bravado could not.

“Right,” the soldier again repeated. He struggled for
words beneath the unwavering gaze of the two cottagers and came up
empty. “Right. Well, we will be off then.”

The band wheeled about and after one last lingering
look from the battle scout, she joined them and the troop
disappeared into the valley.

Later that evening, long after a blood red sun had
melted into the horizon and the stars had appeared in the moonless
sky, Raine was curled about her lover once more. A fire crackled in
the hearth and other than the occasional howl of a wolf or hoot of
an owl, it was utterly quiet. She was just about to drift off to
sleep when she felt a change in Weynild. It was brief, fleeting,
and was less a movement than a shadow passing over the two of them.
The light itself in the cottage, however, had not changed.

“What is it?” Raine asked quietly.

Weynild paused, sensing, assessing. She was silent
for a long moment before answering in what was clearly a lie.

“Nothing,” she said.

Raine raised her head to look at Weynild. Her silver
hair and gold eyes gleamed in the firelight, and it gave her skin a
luminous quality. The lie was so obvious it was not meant to
deceive and Raine accepted its intended deflection.

“Mmmm,” was her only response, and she lowered her
head back down.

The dragon was grateful for her lover's
understanding, but could not prevent the deep sigh that
followed.

CHAPTER 4

It was less than a fortnight before the events that
Weynild foresaw began to unfold. The day had begun typically enough
with Weynild transforming and launching herself into the sky to
hunt. Raine watched with pleasure, the spectacle never failing to
impress her. Off in the distance, a herd of deer bolted into a
stampede as the enormous shadow passed over them, but Weynild was
not in the mood for venison and instead began flying low over the
forest, her leathery wings skimming the tops of the trees. She
wheeled in a hard right and disappeared from view.

Raine returned to her task. Shortly she would work on
her weapons and armor, maintenance she did every day, but for the
moment she was happy to till the small garden next to the house.
Her efforts had yielded results in the small patch as the earth was
moist and fecund. They already had carrots, potatoes, leeks, and
squash. Raine was considering asking Weynild for a ride to the
south to see if she could find and transplant some of the berry
bushes that grew there. This thought brought a warm smile to her
face as she thought of the potential flight. It was not too far, so
possibly she could make it without succumbing to the ecstasy
Weynild's flight invariably provoked.

Raine paused. A figure was coming up the path. It was
a woman, a rather voluptuous one to judge by her gait. Raine leaned
on her spade as the figure came nearer. She had dark hair and brown
eyes, possessing a smoldering beauty to accompany the seductive
lilt in her walk. Her gaze held suspicion tinged with uncertainty
as she took in the unlikely prospect of someone farming this land
in the middle of nowhere. Her shirt was open nearly to her navel,
barely covering the breasts that threatened to spill forth. It was
warm this day, but not sufficiently so for that attire. Raine gave
her a cursory once over, her eyes lingering not at all.

“You must be Idonea,” Raine said.

This pronouncement caused a hitch in the perfect
swing of those hips because it was both surprising and
accurate.

“And you are?” the woman asked with annoyed
arrogance.

Raine stuck the spade into the dirt. “I am a friend
of your mother's.”

Idonea laughed. “Then I know you are lying. My mother
does not have friends.”

“Quite right, my dear,” Weynild said, coming around
the corner of the cottage, once again in human form. She brushed by
Raine so close their lips nearly touched, “We are far more than
friends.”

Idonea could not hide her astonishment at her
mother's pronouncement, nor at the obvious intimacy between the
two. Her mother was not known to openly display affection, and
actually was not known for much affection at all. The girl, for
that was all she appeared to be, seemed as enamored with Weynild as
the woman was with her and did not seek to hide it in any way.

“Close your mouth, Idonea,” Weynild ordered, “you'll
attract dragon flies from the stream.”

Idonea's mouth snapped shut, but it did not have the
discipline to remain in that state. “Don't you think she's a little
young for you?” she whispered furiously at a volume sufficient to
be overhead by everyone as intended.

Weynild reached her and gave her a peck on the cheek,
a gesture far colder and more mechanical than the mere brushing of
Raine's sleeve. “In theory,” Weynild replied, unperturbed,
“everyone is too young for me.” She turned back to Raine who was
leaning on the shovel, an amused look on her face. “But I assure
you, she is older than you are.”