Chapter 2.33 The Meeting
I am on my feet at once, heart pounding.
I feel my dragon form push to the surface, but I hold it back, scanning the grounds, the air.
The cry came from the other side of the castle, in Cherry's voice.
I can imagine her with perfect clarity, leaning out of the tower window, impatient at how long it has taken for me to return.
I always let her know when I'm going hunting or will for other reasons be away a long time. And after an enemy has been here, I always return quickly to assure her of our safety.
"Tarah!" The shout comes again.
I glance at Marton, and he is on his feet as well, eyes wide as he listens to what he must know is the princess's voice. I growl at him. Can't help it. It is a territorial sound. "Stay here."
He barely has time to nod before I rip my dress over my head and shift.
I launch into the air, leaving Marton's gaping form behind me.
I've circled the castle in no time, and I see Cherry's head out the window, just as I pictured, her long reddish blond hair tumbling in the wind. She is scowling at me.
I circle the tower, dropping down into the gaping hole I exited through earlier—was it only minutes ago?—an hour? Shifting to my human form, I pad across the rough stone to reclaim my nightgown.
I slip it over my head at the same moment I hear hurried footsteps coming down the stairs. Cherry sails into the room, her pinkish hair in tangled waves down to her waist.
"Where have you been?" she glares, planting her feet and bracing her hands on her hips. Oh, she's in a fine foul mood today.
"I was just checking the—"
"If you say one word about the sky-cursed perimeter—" she seethes.
"I was going to say I smelled a human on the air," I return, crossing my own arms to mimic her posture.
Cherry's arms drop to her sides, hands hanging loose.
"Oh." She clears her throat. Swallows. Won't meet my eyes.
"So he's gone now?" It isn't really a question, though she asks it like one.
And the mixture of disappointment, resignation, and deep, deep sadness in her eyes decides me on a very stupid course of action.
"No," I say slowly. "He's downstairs."
Cherry stares. Shakes her head. Stares some more. All blue eyes in a pale, pretty face. Finally, she barks a false laugh and turns away from me, strawberry hair whipping out behind her. "Your sense of humor needs some work."
I catch her wrist as she goes to leave the room.
Her bones are birdlike, her skin soft and delicate under my rougher hand.
"It isn't a joke, Cherry. There's a man downstairs, and.
..you can meet him, if you like. I think he's harmless.
" It's strange, how much I believe those words.
They should feel wrong coming out, but they don't.
Cherry turns to face me in open disbelief, the faintest bit of hope trying to gather in her eyes. "Not really?" she guesses, still trying to make this into a cruel joke on my part.
I sigh. "If you don't want to see him, I suppose I'll just go down and tell him to dust off." I pretend to start for the ledge, and Cherry clutches at my arm with both hands, her fingers digging in as fiercely as they can, which is barely enough to make me blink.
"Terror," she breathes my old nickname. It was a game between us once, naming each other.
I called her Cherry for the color of her hair and the sound of her true name, Shireen.
And she, a girl of eleven at the time, called me Terror, for the sound of my name, and my.
.. Well, it hardly needs much explanation.
"Don't jest with me in this way. Speak plainly. Is he—is there—can I—"
"Shireen," I whisper her real name now so she knows I'm serious.
I squeeze her hand with the lightest pressure.
"There is a man downstairs who is gentle and mild.
He says he did not come here for you, and I trust him, as much as I can.
If you would like to meet him, I will take you down.
But you should know that if he tries anything. .."
Cherry releases me, stepping back. She nods, straightening her dress.
She has put on her day clothes already, which are less tattered than mine, though not very fine themselves.
She was younger than me when we came here, and grown as she is now, she's had to take all her old clothes apart to sew new ones from the fabric.
"I know what you will have to do," says Cherry.
"I want to go. To see him. Let's go, please. "
I know her desire is intense, because Cherry hardly ever says please, even when she's begging me for something.
Princesses don't learn manners in the same way that peasants or even other nobles do.
I take several steps away from her, once again removing my night dress.
I shift before it has even fallen to the floor.
Cherry hesitates a moment. It has been a while since she's ridden on my back, but I lower my upper body as much as I can, and she remembers herself. She climbs up my foreleg and settles herself in the divot between my shoulder blades, arms wrapped around my neck, careful to avoid the spikes.
I step to the ledge, giving Cherry time to acclimate to the heights as I spread my wings.
I wait for a good updraft before I gently ease us out into the air, letting the wind catch and carry me as I flap a few times to direct us.
Then we're swooping around the castle grounds, and Cherry's arms are tightening around my neck.
Not in fear, I don't think, but in the same old amazement she used to feel at travelling this way.
My raptor vision spots Marton right where I left him, though he's pacing the old stone courtyard now, scanning the skies with worry. Even with his poorer vision, he spots me instantly. I'm hard to miss, being the largest thing in the skies.
I dive down to him, and Cherry doesn't make a peep as we descend. She used to cry out in exultation at a good plummet, but perhaps she's wound too tightly just now for such a joyous display.
I land with care, and lower myself to let Cherry slip off my back. She gets down clumsily, and I stay in dragon form for a moment as I watch Marton's response to the princess. But he hardly looks at her before his eyes are locked on me again.
I shift on my feet. I suppose a dragon is a more interesting sight than a human girl in most cases, but he must know this human girl to be the princess of all Ithyma.
Surely that counts for something. But he just stares at me, at my scales—a deep, iridescent green in the morning light—at my jugular-shredding claws gleaming against the stone.
Then he looks at my eyes, and I can hardly help but stare back.
I narrow my vision on him, trying to look closer, trying to see straight through his head to find out why he looks at me that way.
A dragon is an incredible sight if you've never seen one, sure enough, but most people don't respond with such unabashed interest. They respond with vomiting and tears, or murderous rage.
But all my focus on him accomplishes is gaining me a closer view of his smooth, human, pinkish-brown skin.
His eyes flecked with a thousand shades of green and brown, gold and verdant, like the forest shining in the sunlight after rainfall.
His deep golden hair, falling around his face almost to his jaw.
It looks very soft and thick, and I wonder what it would feel like to touch.
Probably like hair, Tarah. Get a grip.
Huffing a smoky breath, I turn my attention to watch Cherry's response to the scholar. Cherry takes a step forward, her eyes fixed on Marton with surprise and curiosity, a little bit of worry.
She looks, I note, not unlike Marton did when he first saw me in dragon form.
Someone facing down a creature that they never thought to see in real life.
As Cherry moves, Marton glances at her, and I watch as his expression changes to a polite smile.
"Hello." He extends a hand as if to shake, but drops it just as quickly when I growl at him.
He tucks the hand behind his back, cheeks reddening as his eyes flit to me.
"Sorry." Marton looks back at Shireen. "I'm Marton. It's a pleasure to meet you."
I watch him carefully, but he doesn't advance, doesn't gaze at her with lecherous intent.
He appears just as anyone might while meeting someone they have no particular interest in.
Polite, detached. His eyes glance over her face and dress for a moment, focusing with some curiosity on her exceptionally long, unbound hair. Then he looks at me again.
"I'm Shireen." Cherry steps forward again, as if wanting to recapture his attention. "Princess of Ithyma and firstborn heir to the throne."
I can't help snorting again at that, although I feel like I should possibly growl. Who introduces themself like that? But I'm also annoyed at the perfect unconcern with which she gives away such information. For a princess who is supposed to be in hiding, she isn't being very circumspect.
But I'll make allowances today. She's excited.
"Yes, I thought as much." Marton smiles. "It's an honor to meet you," he correct his earlier expression, giving a slight bow. As he straightens up, his eyes are drawn to me again, as if he can't help it.
I try not to enjoy that. Cherry sighs. Spotting my dress on the ground, she goes to retrieve it, and I keep my eyes on them both as she passes within a few feet of Marton.
He hardly looks at her. Cherry snatches up the dress and carries it back to me, holding it out with a significant look.
"Perhaps it would be less distracting if you changed back.
"
If I could roll my eyes in dragon form, I would.
With mocking daintiness, I take the fabric in my claws, careful not to puncture through.
I shift back in a blink, standing behind Cherry as a screen while I dress.
When I'm covered, I step up beside her. Although I'm massive in my dragon form, her willowy build towers over me like this, and she looks almost gloatingly down at me.
I'm the impressive one now, her eyes seem to laugh.
Now I do roll my eyes. She's all pink and cream and bright personality beside my murk and strangeness.
I hardly think a bit of height is going to make the difference.
I pass her, moving deeper into the ring of stone. Marton looks different from this height too. I wasn't paying attention to it before, but he's tall and broad and shiny gold. He and Cherry make a delightful picture together, and I'm like a greenish splotch ruining the ambience.
An awkward moment passes in which no one speaks.
Marton looks as if he wants to, his eyes flitting between the two of us, but he keeps his lips sealed, probably unsure of what subjects are allowed.
Cherry looks like she wants to say something darling and clever, but is out of practice with entertaining strangers. The slight pink flush to her cheeks combined with the haughty tilt to her chin give her away.
I just want to hear more about the legends of the protectorkin, but I'm trying to let Cherry have her moment. With that aim, I search my brain for something to say to prompt a conversation forward. But I come up blank.
"What brought you up the mountain?" Cherry finally speaks, the question overloud and rushed as she looks at Marton.
"Oh," Marton straightens, giving me a cursory glance before answering. "I'm a scholar of the Dawn Academy, studying ancient legends. I came chasing rumors of dragons." His smile is sheepish.
"Oh." Cherry seems to deflate slightly. "So you came for Tarah."
I fight a grumble. I told her he wasn't here for her, which is supposed to be a good thing, but she acts like it's a personal slight to herself.
"Ah, well," Marton stammers. "I had wondered—" he checks with me again, and I shrug, "—if the dragon and the princess were one and the same. But I've since found out the truth." He beams at Cherry, who frowns.
"You thought I was a dragon shifter?" she asks, twisting a stand of her hair in both hands.
"I thought it possible."
"And you're only here for the dragon."
"That's...right." Marton seems unsure, looking from Cherry to me in concern.
"I find you very interesting as well," Marton amends quickly, at Cherry's downcast look.
"You're a royal princess, of course, and very lovely, and I'm sure very.
..kind and interesting?" He seems half-desperate to end on something mollifying.
And it works. Cherry smiles slightly, her eyes lighting.
"Thank you," she says primly. "I'm sure you are as well." It's clear from her tone and expression that she thinks her vague compliment was the height of noble generosity.
I contain a sigh. "Marton was just telling me some very interesting stories," I begin.
"Stories!" Cherry perks up at once, all pretenses forgotten. "I dearly love stories. You must tell them to me at once!"
"Oh—ah—but of course," stammers Marton. His eyes go to me. "I was sharing the legends of your ancestors, the protectorkin."
Now Cherry pouts. "I've already heard those stories. My father told them to me as a girl."
I gape at her. "He—what? You've never mentioned it!"
"Why would I? There just a bunch of stuffy old tales of men sitting on thrones, waiting in case someone attacked their land, only no one ever did."
"But your ancestors had dragon forms?" I cry. "Like mine?"
Cherry frowns. "I suppose. I never saw it, of course, but that's what father said."
"And you didn't think I'd want to know that!?"
Her forehead wrinkles at me in consternation. I've raised my voice at her, I realize, which she always scolds me about. I wince, and Cherry smiles. "You never asked me anything about dragons. I didn't know you were interested."