~ Draegon's Lair ~

by

Linda Ciletti

Had she died? Had Death claimed her?

If so, was she in heaven--or hell?

She peered about the chamber, a dark void illuminated only by the muted glow of a struggling fire. Cryptic shadows and ghostly illuminations danced on the ceiling and hearth, holding her in morbid fascination of the frivolous play of dark and light. Fear trickled up her spine, prompting her to pull the downy covers tight about her.

Easing into a sitting position, she discovered that she no longer wore her gown of creamy silk but rather a tunic large enough to clothe her twice over. Her head began to throb all the more.

What was this place?

A dark silhouette flashed across the play of light on her covers. Startled, she shuffled back against the massive headboard of her bed, her eyes darting from one obscure corner of the room to the other, fearfully searching for the shadow’s source. “Wh--who goes there?” she called into the darkness.

No answer came, but she knew something or someone was there. She could sense it watching her, could smell leather, forest and--Death.

Her heart raced. Her throat clenched. She knew that scent as it carried across the room, its pleasing yet disconcerting familiarity. It filled her through, caused her head to spin. How strange, she thought, to fear yet not to fear. Was she losing her senses?

Again she tried remembering what had brought her to this place. Again a sharp pain shot through her temples, fiercer still as a soft shuffling sounded in the far corner of the room. Staring into the shadows, she pleaded once more for an answer, afraid to know but more afraid not to. “Who goes there? Pray answer me, for your silence is frightening.”

When the shadows shifted and Death stepped forward into the fading light of the fire, she hugged the bedcovers tight against her breasts.

Death wore a great cloak of dark brown wool with forest green lining peeking out about its edges. The massive garment spilled over every inch of whatever hid beneath, its huge hood pulled so low that only darkness could be seen beneath its rim.

She caught her breath then, pulling forth what courage she could, spoke with feigned confidence. “If you have come to claim me, Death, then be merciful and do so quickly.” She lifted her chin despite her fear.

“My lady.” The shadowed silhouette moved as if to approach her then stilled. “Be assured, I am not Death.”

Alys gasped. Her heart pounded at the gravelly voice. Though she could not recall from where, she had heard that voice before. It was a voice she feared above all else, a voice that had left its scars upon her. Sudden terror raked through her. Drawing back, she raised her bedcovers higher still as she stared wide-eyed into the dark obscurity beneath the massive hood.

~ * ~

Draegon sensed the maiden’s fear rise the moment he spoke. There was no mistaking it. There was just enough glow about the room to light the terrified expression on her face. It was an expression that turned his blood to ice, an expression that confirmed his deepest fear. It was the reason he hid beneath hood and helm, the reason he was known as the Shadow Lord. What he didn’t understand was why she feared what she could not see, as he kept his back to the hearth so that even the smallest flicker of light couldn’t find its way beneath his hood.

Could she sense the demon in him? Did the accursed glimmer of his eyes pierce the darkness of his concealment? Was it his voice?

God’s blood! Draegon cursed in silent recognition. It was his voice. He was sure of it, for her fear had heightened at his first utterance. And if the mere sound of his voice terrified her, God’s blood, how would she react should she see the darkness of his soul mirrored in the frosty glow of demonic eyes?

Nay, she must never see his face.

Head bent and hood pulled low, he dropped to one knee before her. He knew she must be of high standing by the silk garment she had worn the day he’d found her in the wood, and by the fact that it was Knighthawk who sought her out. He hoped, by paying her honor, he would lessen her fears.

“My lady,” he assured her as he stood, “No harm shall befall you as long as you stay within these walls.” Moving back into the comfort of the shadows, he reached out from beneath his cloak and gestured toward a trencher and goblet that rested on a small table beside her bed. “Pray, eat. It will serve you well, as you have slept nigh on two days.”

“I hunger not,” Alys lied, but she lowered the covers just a fraction to peer at the food--cheese, sweetmeats and orange slivers.

Draegon studied the woman pressed against the head of the bed. He knew she spoke false as a low rumble of hunger sounded from beneath her covers. But he had to admire her. Stubborn, willful, and brave. Aye, brave, he affirmed. For to run from the infamous Knighthawk took raw courage. Surely her reason must be great.

His brow furrowed in thought, if her reason for escaping Knighthawk was as great as he feared, how long before the malevolent lord tracked her to the modest demesne of Greystone? Draegon sighed low, pushing the troublesome thought aside. He would concern himself with that later. For the moment, he needed her to eat. Two days without food would take its toll. He nearly laughed aloud at the thought, knowing that he himself fared unwell for not having properly slept in so long a time.

“I believe not that you lack of hunger,” he replied, his voice husky and drained. “But no matter if you feel the need to eat or nay, your body requires food to regain its former strength.”

“’Haps so, but my head spins furiously. I fear to eat may sicken me.”

At her obstinance, Draegon felt a smile tug at his lips. Sure that she was starved but would not take a bite of food as long as he stood over her, he decided to take his leave. “Then rest, my lady, and ’haps when you again awaken you will feel differently.” He moved across the room in long confident strides, his cloak a dark billowing cloud swirling about his boots. When he reached the door that led to the outer hall, Alys called out to him.

“Good sire?”

“Yea, my lady?” He paused in the open doorframe.

“Pray, what do you call yourself?”

Draegon glanced at her over his shoulder. “What do you call yourself?” he asked.

“I am--” she said then hesitated. Her brows knit in deep concentration. “I-I am--” Alys sputtered again.

Draegon turned fully to study her, his massive cloak and the cover of night hiding him from her view. For a long moment, he simply stared at her, regarding the soft illumination of her profile from the safe refuge of his hood. Did she truly not remember her name or did she play him for a fool? Lifting a hand from beneath his cloak, he pointed to a small silver bell next to the trencher at her bedside. “Rest, my lady. Should you have need of any kind, you have but to ring and my steward shall see that it is met.”

Alys looked at the bell then turned her sights back to the dark silhouette. “Milord,” she replied, sure now that the gravelly voice of the man before her couldn’t possibly be the one that had struck terror in her heart. Nay. He who bore the voice that filled her with such dreaded fear would not have shown such kindness, such compassion, would never have paid her honor.

But the voice was similar. So very similar.

A shiver traced her back. With a deep breath, she forced a calm. “You have been most kind, and I thank you heartily.”

“’Twas naught,” Draegon replied, his voice taut as his thoughts rested on the soft and subtle curves that had pressed against him two days past. Warm and intoxicating, she had smelled of lavender and had stirred in him a desire he’d believed long ago purged.

Desire. He felt it in his heart, in his head, in the ache of his loins.

It was a curse.

To feel desire and know it would never be returned was a punishment far worse than self-chosen solitude. Draegon ground his jaw as he weighed his options. To permit her to stay was folly, to send her on her way, cruel.

Hands braced on either side of the doorframe, Draegon dropped his head and pondered his dilemma. He sighed heavily. How he wished now that he had never stolen from the manor that fateful eve, that he had never felt the need to revel in the storm. Change hovered on the horizon and there was naught he could do to stop it.

“Milord, does aught trouble you?”

Her concerned tone drew him out from sullen thoughts. He tensed then stood to full height, filling the doorframe as his large cloak fell from broad shoulders. Turning slightly, he peered back at her from beneath his hood. Like a wren defending itself against the hawk, she pressed her back warily against the head of the bed then straightened in feigned bravado. Fearful and fiery at once. Again, he felt a stirring in his loins--in the core of him--a tightness in his chest that walled a wounded heart. “Nay,” he lied.

He stepped into the hall.

“Milord.” Again her voice sounded at his retreat, giving him pause. “Will you be returning?”

A weary sigh blew across his lips, her soft query tempting him to stay. “Do you wish it so?” he asked, daring not to look back.

“Yea, milord,” she replied then swallowed, clearing the nervousness from her throat. “For I have acted most unseemly and I beg your forgiveness. ’Tis just so strange. For I have heard your voice before, yet I know the voice I have heard could not be yours. And to speak to a shadow and know not its face--”

“And never shall you.”