Chapter Four

I used the pot to heat water over the fire and emptied the treasure filled bowl into the cave before using it to wash the dishes. Then I returned to the labour of sorting the treasure.

There were crowns, tiaras, strands of pearls, necklaces, and rings amongst the treasure. I wondered if they were worth as much dented and tarnished as they were from the dragon’s treatment, or whether the dragon only valued them for the material they were made from, rather than the beauty of the object wrought.

“It is a pity you have such a dismal education,” the golden-haired man observed from his throne. “I would not mind the company of someone educated.”

I pushed back my instinctual bristle at the insult. I was considerably more educated, I knew, than many in my kingdom, and certainly more so than most princesses. He was lonely, however, I thought, and wanting conversation, but disdainful of starting one with someone he considered beneath him.

“What are you reading about?” I prompted.

“I am reading the epic poems by the Fae Sage Yric of Cynraed, most particularly the Paragon of Theodghar and the Deceit of Elovyn.”

“Poetry,” I sat back on my heels and regarded him in bemusement. The beautiful golden-haired man was absorbed in reading poetry, or all the unusual things for him to possibly be reading in a dragon’s cave, poetry had not even entered my speculative list. “I did not imagine you would read poetry.”

“What did you think I would be reading?” he asked me, haughtily.

“I don’t know. Spell books, I guess.”

His lips quirked, as if he were not sure whether to grimace, or laugh. “I am not a mage.”

“What are the poems about?” I returned to my task.

“The Paragon of Theodghar is set during a fabled war and tells of the battles and events during its last weeks. Its themes include fate, the glory of heroic battle, homecomings, rage and the downfall of pride.”

“And the other?”

“The Deceit of Elovyn is also about the downfall of pride, but in a different way. In it two noble Fae men talk pridefully about the beauty and virtues of their wives. One becomes envious of the other, and upon meeting the wife, is enamoured of her. He arranges it so that he has access to her bedchamber when her husband is away and threatens to kill her if she will not… hmm,” he paused. “Perhaps not a suitable poem for a princess.”

I stood, lifting the heavy bucket. “I know what sex is.”

He sneered. “You think you know what sex is. Very well,” he continued. “Elovyn is threatened that if she will not submit, Ferandis will kill her and one of her servants, and place them together in the bed, making it seem that her husband discovered them together upon his return, and killed them both in a rage.”

“Ferandis was not a very nice man.”

“No,” he was amused. “He is most likely fictional, but nonetheless.”

“What happens next? Does she submit?”

“She is a Fae woman,” he replied with amusement. “She pretends to submit but draws a dagger from her pillow and kills Ferandis. She has her servants parade his body through the streets of their city declaring his attempted crime.”

“I like Elovyn. Why is it titled the Deceit of Elovyn, then?”

“Ah, because of the way the poem is written,” he was the most animated I had seen him. “It implies that perhaps Elovyn was not entirely truthful about the event, and scholars have argued that the implication is that her declaration of his attempt to rape her was in fact covering up her crime of passion upon discovering her lover to have no intention to leave his wife for her.

“You have to understand Fae culture to understand the poetry,” he explained. “The Fae do not lie, but they can omit, avoid and mislead. The poetry is written in such a way that it implies that Elovyn’s account is unreliable. The Fae language is fascinating for its nuances.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, there are words within Fae that when combined with a certain inflexion can imply deceit,” he had set the book to the side and leaned forward on his chair, his golden hair sweeping forward over his shoulder. “For example…” he spoke a phrase and then repeated it with a very subtle difference in the pronunciation. “The first is straight Fae, but the second implies there is a hidden deceit.”

“Why would they have a language that is designed to tell you that they’re being deceitful?” I wondered.

“Nuances,” he smiled with genuine enjoyment, his face lighting with the expression. “Fae cannot lie, but if their language tells you that they’re not telling the truth, is it really a lie? The language of deceit was initially developed as a literary device. It was their way of saying, this is an imagined story, and not a true event. When the cataclysm of mankind began, they evolved that language into one they use with man.” 

“And the Deceit of Elovyn is written in the language of deceit?” I puzzled it out. “So, it could be implying that Elovyn is lying, or just that the poem is a creation and not a true event?”

“Exactly, or,” he leaned back into the seat. “Could it be that the poet deceives the reader by recounting a true event, but implying it is not? The Deceit of Elovyn has kept scholars debating for centuries.”

I rose to empty the treasure into the hidden caves.

When I returned, he still had not taken up his book. He regarded me with a frown pulling his golden brows together. “What is your name, princess?” he asked.

“Liera,” I told him. “Well, it’s Diandreliera, but that’s a bit of a mouthful, and I don’t think anyone has ever called me by my full name.”

“Diandreliera,” he repeated, raising his eyebrows. “That is an Elvish name.”

“Yes, my father was of Elvish descent. I think I am named for his great grandmother,” I resumed sorting. “Can I know your name?”

“Aurien,” he said thoughtfully. “Or that is close enough.”

I pushed the hair back from my face and wiped the sweat off my brow onto my sleeve and wondered what that meant. Was Aurien a shortened version of his name, as Liera was of mine? What language was Aurien part of? “It’s nice to meet you, Aurien.”

He arched an eyebrow and picked up his book again, but I caught him watching me over its edge several times as I continued to sort through the treasure. Did he watch me to ensure that I did not steal from the dragon? Or out of curiosity?

Aurien left the cave as the afternoon edged into evening. He did not tell me he was going, he simply disappeared during one of my trips into the side caves to empty my bucket of gold. The throne was suddenly bereft its gilded decoration, and was lesser for his absence, I thought, with amusement.

I checked the smaller caves, and the ledge, and there was no sign of him. Perhaps he was of some mythical nature and had simply turned to smoke, fading like a ghost. He had seemed a very substantial ghost, and I had not thought ghosts would eat, sleep, or smell so divinely.

I continued to sort and move the treasure as the sky darkened outside. The piles in the smaller caves were growing, but I seemed to have made very little difference to the main hoard. My whole body ached from the unaccustomed labour, and I was filthier than I had ever been before in my entire life.

Eventually, the golden-haired man returned, carrying over his shoulders a sheep carcass. He went into the kitchen and proceeded to deftly butcher the meat, hanging the cuts he did not intend to use off hooks hung from the roof of the cave. He heated a pan over the fire and fried several strips of meat over it. He served this upon a bed of greens.

“Wash your hands, and come eat,” he instructed as he opened a bottle of wine and poured it into two gold goblets.

I washed my hands gladly. Gold and gemstones were, surprisingly, filthy. “Why is the gold so dirty?” I asked him as I joined him at the table.

“Coins pass through many hands,” he replied. “Before they enter a dragon’s hoard.”

“Being left lying around on the floor probably doesn’t help, either.” I sliced a piece of the meat. “It’s almost as if the dragon finds no value in it. His books are in pristine order in the library, but the precious gems are crushed underfoot.” I had discretely removed the shards of the two stones I had destroyed underfoot and had been relieved to find they were not the only two to experience that manner of damage. It was a surprise that the golden-haired man did not continually have splinters of gemstones embedded in his bare feet.

“Dragons have no use for gold and gems,” he replied. “It is mankind that places value on these things. They are just stones, with less use than most, for all their facets polish up nicely.”

“Then why do dragons amass a hoard?”

“Dragons have learnt that lands and castles are less mobile and easily lost. We collect what mankind values and respects as through its collection, mankind values and respects us.”

“It attracts dragon hunters,” I pointed out. “They come for the hoards.”

“Some, yes,” he agreed. “Others come for the glory of killing a dragon.”

“Is your dragon often away?” I asked him, hesitantly trying to edge the conversation towards the errant dragon and his expected return. “Are you worried about him?”

“My dragon,” his lips curled in a lopsided smirk. “Is fine.”

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” I prompted. He finished his meal and took his wine with him, returning to the throne and ignoring my question.

I sighed and washed the dishes. When I was finished, I could see through the open cave doorway that he had somehow heated the water in the bowl carved by the dragon and steam curled up in fragrant twists. He removed his clothing without embarrassment and stepped into the bowl, a breath-taking vision of muscle and skin, and his golden hair snaking out in the flow of the water as he slowly submerged.

I swallowed hard on the sudden heat that surged through me, and hurriedly resumed sorting the treasure so as to be occupied in other pursuits than spying lustfully upon him. I had not been wrong, I thought. The dragon’s reading and wine drinking companions bathed in the water. I watched out of the corner of my eye in voyeuristic fascination as the beautiful man washed his hair and rubbed oil through it and across his skin. The soap and oil he used carried the mysterious scent of incense on it.

For all I tried not to watch, the angle was precisely right that I caught a tantalising glimpse here and there. He took his time, soaking and removing the stubble from his face, before stepping out of the water and drying himself on a length of cloth that had been meant for grander things… or had it? I amended. What grander aspiration could a cloth have than to rub against the skin of such a man?

He dressed again and walked into the cave with the bolts and chests of cloth. When he returned, he dropped a dress upon me.

“Wash,” he commanded and sat upon his throne, taking a comb to his hair.

I chewed my lip as I went to the bowl, knowing exactly how visible the bathing pool was to the main chamber, and I watched the beautiful man nervously. Aurien remained in the throne, his back to me, and showed no interest as I undressed and submerged into the water. It was hot enough to steal my breath and scented by the soaps and oils he had left floating in it. As I washed my hair, I noted that the water fell cold from the cave wall, heated in the pool, and washed out through a hole beneath the surface, creating a continuous flow.

Magic, I thought. For all Aurien’s statement that he was not a mage, only magic could heat the water. I rubbed the oil through my hair and along my limbs as he had done before rinsing it back off. I dried on the slightly damp fabric he had left behind and dressed in the unfamiliar dress. Without the undergarments and corset, it was both softer and lighter than my normal clothing, and it felt indecent to have so little between me and the world.

He continued to comb his hair as I re-joined him. “You can finish my hair,” he announced. “And braid it, before using the comb yourself. Don’t braid it tightly, it will give me a headache.” He turned on the throne, draping himself over it so his hair hung over the arm and his head rested upon it.

I took the comb from his hand. It was stone and elaborately carved. I recognised the workmanship as Fae in origin. I sat on the floor and spread the gilded and heavy silk of his hair out over my lap so I could run the comb through it. By the time I had worked my way to the crown of his head, it was almost dry.

“You have never cut your hair,” I commented as I laid the comb to the side and rose onto my knees in order to begin to braid the golden tresses.

His eyes were closed, and he was so still that I thought perhaps he slept. “It is our ancient tradition not to,” he replied eventually, his voice quiet. Near sleep, I decided as my fingers worked their way through his hair, lulled by my fingers in his hair. It gave me an odd feeling of empowerment, to render so mighty a man almost to sleep through the simple act of combing and braiding his hair.

“I have never done my own hair,” I told him with amusement. “But when I was young, a maid showed me how to braid my doll’s hair. My favourite doll had real golden hair, but it was not quite of this shade.”

“I imagine not,” he was amused. “Unless they took the hair from one of my people.”

“Who are your people, Aurien?” I asked him, intrigued. I had woven my way to the base of his head, and he put his elbows on the arm of the chair, pushing himself up, the muscles of his arms stretching the fine fabric of his shirt, so that I could braid to the nape of his neck. Once I wove down a length of hair, he sat up, swinging his legs around the chair, so that the braid formed over his shoulder and I moved closer, leaning over him, and then kneeling at his feet, in order to complete it.

He watched my face as I braided, frowning, his violet eyes clouded. When I reached the end, he tied it off with a length of gold wire, winding it tightly around the hair.

It took less time to comb and braid my hair and he leaned forward to wind the wire around the tail of my braid, his cheek close enough that if I inclined slightly forward, I could brush my lips across the skin. “Are you Fae?” I asked him.

He turned his head slightly and arched a brow with a sneer. “No.” He turned back to winding the wire around my hair, twisting it to break it off the body of the coil and tucking the two ends so they were invisible to the eye. He leaned back into his seat. “You should go to bed,” he decided. “If you are to make yourself useful for another day.”

He took up a book and began to read.