There Be Dragons (8 page)

“There’s someone coming,” the falcon said, her head cocked at an angle.

“Someone coming?” Marina spun around, anxious to put distance between herself and the falcon, lest it be Carlo, and he decide for some reason he needed to dispose of the magical creature.

To her surprise, she saw Armand on the hill, leading his horse and patting Arabella.

“Armand?”

He started at the sound of her voice and swung around quickly. Seeing her, he let out a sigh of relief.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was worried about you. After the excitement in the hall last night … you didn’t appear in the least happy.”

“I certainly wasn’t in the least happy,” she agreed, and smiled at him wistfully. “But, Armand, did you notice? Daphne looked absolutely … ashen! She isn’t happy, either.”

“Do you think she even knows that I exist?” Armand asked. He shook his head then, looking down. “I spend my days tilting with straw mannequins, praying …”

Since Marina still wasn’t entirely convinced that she wasn’t totally delusional herself, she’d worried about mentioning the falcon to anyone. But Armand was her cousin, and her dearest friend. “Armand … come with me.”

He followed her back to the rock plateau, where the falcon stood, watching him warily.

Armand looked at Marina. “It’s a falcon!” he said.

“Yes, I know. Her wing was wounded.”

“A beautiful falcon!” he mused. “Poor thing! Injured. I’ll have a look.”

“She was struck by an arrow,” Marina murmured.

“Carlo!” he exclaimed angrily.

He strode to the falcon, gently moving the bandage, tenderly touching the wing by the wound. He looked up. “Fine work,” he told Marina.

“She can talk,” Marina said.

“Indeed, I often think they communicate, falcons are such fine and intelligent animals,” Armand said.

“No, I mean, seriously, she can talk.”

“Certain cries and calls can mimic words, I suppose,” Armand said, striving to be patient and understanding, since they were all under so much stress.

Marina sighed. “Thomasina, talk to him, please.”

The falcon angled her head, staring at her, then at Armand.

“He’s my cousin; it’s all right!” Marina insisted.

“Be still!” Armand murmured suddenly, and he, too, cocked his head at an angle, rather like the falcon’s. “There’s someone else … nearby,” he said.

Marina moved protectively to the falcon’s side.

“It’s all right,” Armand told her. “If it’s Carlo, I’ll lead him away, somehow.” He hesitated. “You can go on, care for your falcon … talk to it.”

Armand, ever her champion, hurried away to help her in whatever way he might.

Daphne didn’t like to admit to it, in any way, but she knew that she was jealous.

Oh, she was the apple of her father’s eye, all right! And so … day after day, every day, there was something.

And usually something wretched.

Math lessons with the tedious Baldini.

Art with Signora Tuscanianni.

There was the class in which she had to spend hours walking across a room with a book on her head, and needlepoint, and dance, and music …

Well, the dance and music were not so horrible. Serafina was wonderful; she was Daphne’s one insight into the world around their own lands, for Serafina had traveled and entertained great kings and queens across the world. Daphne had often thought that Serafina was secretly in love with her father, Pietro, but if so, Serafina kept her own council. Once, Serafina had told her that Pietro certainly seemed to be intrigued
by—if not entirely in love with—Geovana.

“Only because she casts spells!” Daphne had assured her.

Yet, despite her affection for her tutor, Daphne resented the endless hours she was forced to give over to the proper classes. She knew that Serafina herself was puzzled that Marina—destined to marry Carlo—was not forced into the same endless round of learning. “It’s most odd!” Serafina had said, “when she is to be Carlo’s countess, unless …”

“Unless what?” Daphne had queried.

“No, no, that would be … far too horrid,” Serafina had murmured, and would say no more.

So Daphne continued to envy Armand and her stepsister, Marina.

They were always free. Well, there were always numerous chores for them, but they both seemed to take that in stride. Day after day, she watched as they did their work, and disappeared. And sometimes, she would come upon Armand as he sat at a garden bench writing, and he would flush, and hide his poems, except for every so often when he would read one to her, and she would look into his eyes and marvel at the words, and the way he looked at her, at just the sound of his voice …

Then, someone would call her back to a class, remind her she was intended to be the wife of the son of the Great Duke Fiorelli, and Armand would be gone. Oh, yes, she was the child of privilege. And she envied the stepsister who was asked to see to the table settings, the linens, and even, sometimes, the ashes in the hearth. Marina moved quickly, and didn’t mind working in the castle or in the village, giving the castle scraps to the poor, clothing the beggars. She was free when she left the castle. Daphne was never free.

Daphne often wondered why Geovana might not demand her son’s wife be so accomplished—rather than skilled at the dispersal of laundry—but there was simply no understanding the Countess. Especially since it so often seemed that
she
ruled Lendo, rather than Daphne’s father, Pietro, who, taken alone, could be quite a pleasant man. She did love her father.

This morning, he had stopped by her bedroom, concerned by her illness of the night before. And so she had pleaded she was still weak and would remain abed, but did not need the doctor, just a day’s rest.

And she had watched when first Marina, and then Armand, had hurried away from the castle, and up
into the cliffs.

And she had followed.

And now … she hadn’t even gotten to see what they were up to—and someone was coming!

In a panic, Daphne turned to run back down the hill.

Tripping on a rock, she lost a shoe. She tried to come to a quick halt and run back for it, but she froze instead. Armand had come into view, and was looking down at her quizzically.

“Well, hello!” she called cheerfully, her heart thundering.

“Daphne! Are you all right? Is something wrong? You … your father … ?”

“No, no, nothing is wrong!” she said quickly. She waved a hand toward her horse where it lazily ate grass, just twenty feet down the slope. “I …”

Words failed her. She shook her head.

“I had to get away for a bit,” she said simply.

“Does your father know you’re out?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I needed to get away,” she said.

“I’d better get you back,” he told her.

He whistled, and his horse came down the cliff, then followed him to where Daphne stood. Every animal obeyed him, she thought. He never used a whip, or an angry word, and all creatures seemed willing to follow his lead.

“My lady?” he said, offering her a boost up to her saddle.

She thanked him, and thought about his closeness to her as he performed the simple task. And when she was seated, she saw that he looked up at her, and the light in his eyes was so beautiful, so stirring.

“I would do anything, you know,” he said very softly.

“Pardon?”

“I wake early daily, and train at arms. I will gladly go off to the wars, and prove myself. I would do anything to convince your father that I am the right man for you. And yet, I know … I know that I am the falcon master, and you are to wed the man who will be duke.”

She was amazed at the tears that formed in her eyes, the tears she blinked back so quickly. “There’s no way,” she said softly, shaking her head. “There’s no way … the wedding is in two weeks’ time. At
Christmas.
It’s too late.”

“I would die for you,” he said.

She reached down, curling her fingers around his. “And I will live, with this memory always. I will go through the years, knowing I had this moment, that you loved me.”

She pulled her hand back and turned her horse.

Because there was no hope. And if her father knew about Armand’s love …

If Geovana knew …

Then she would fear for his life.

Michelo awoke with a groan. He stared up at the sky, and saw that it was beautiful and blue, dotted with white clouds, and a glorious sun.

But at that moment, the sun only hurt his eyes. He closed them. As he did so, he heard a gasp. He tried to shade his eyes and open them again.

And when he did, he was dazzled.

Her hair, caught in the light, was the color of spun gold. She had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. They rivaled the sky, the sea, the heavens.

And within those eyes … care, compassion, concern … tenderness.

“Are you all right?” A gentle hand touched his forehead, something cool. She had ripped her hem to dunk a piece of the fabric from her gown in the stream he could hear bubbling somewhere nearby. Her touch was smooth and soothing, ever so light upon his brow.

“Sir? No, of course, you’re not all right. There’s a gash on your temple, but …” She moved closer. He inhaled her scent. He saw the clean, classic lines of her face, and she might have been an angel, an ice
princess, too lovely for the real world. “It’s really not so bad. A surface wound. You’re a warrior … you’ve been off to the borders?” she asked. “Wait, please, I’m so sorry. You needn’t answer any questions. Let me help you … see if you’ve any other injuries. Can you rise, with my help?”

He looked at her solemnly. “I will definitely need your help.”

“I’m here, and quite strong, actually,” she assured him.

He put his arm around her shoulder. If he staggered as he rose, it would be because he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her eyes.

“It’s all right. Honestly. I have you.” She flashed him a smile. He gained his balance, and yet did not want to let her slip from his hold. “Just a few steps … the brook is here. With clear, fresh, water. You must be very thirsty. I haven’t a cup or anything to offer you.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “Thank you.”

At the brook, she helped him down to his knees. He bent over, splashing his face with the water, then drinking it in. It was refreshing, wonderful, cool, bathing away the confusion of the night, even the pain in his head.

No … it wasn’t the water that had done that. The pain had faded, disappeared, the moment he had seen her eyes.

His thirst sated, his head cleared, he sat back by the water’s edge, looking at her, marveling at her, wondering if she wasn’t just an invention of his subconscious mind, a sprite to wake him gently after his fall. But she was there before him, those eyes still so brilliant, still so kind. And her hair! The wealth of it, touched by the sun.

“Thank you so much,” he said.

“If you’re a warrior returning, I can help get you home. Now, you are on one of the bluffs above the valley at the base of the castle at Lendo. Baristo is to the west, and to the northeast, the lands of the great Fiorelli. But you needn’t fear if you are lost at all; I will gladly help you back.”

“I’m not lost,” he said, but then he wondered if he was. Not in place, not here, on these familiar bluffs. But lost in his future, and his purpose.