Deven and the Dragon - Eliot Grayson Page 0,4
rare, and tend to prefer more remote locales, as you know better than anyone. A dragon bearing a —” At Fiora’s growl, Andrei quickly changed directions: “A magical inconvenience. Would be an even more potent source of concern. What if your…issue affected the town? It’s quite possible they want someone here, in the castle, to learn more of your affliction.”
Well, Fiora couldn’t say Andrei didn’t have a way with euphemisms. And he also couldn’t deny that Andrei had a point. He slumped down in his chair, wishing his coffee cup held brandy instead. It was cold, anyway. Ugh.
“What should we do?” If the town council did suspect the…oh, fuck it, the curse, he supposed they might want to investigate. Curses could be simple and tailored to the individual — as Fiora’s was, in fact. But they could also be far broader in their scope. What if he was cursed to lose his reason and try to kill everyone, or what if the curse could spread to others and turn them all into frogs, or somesuch? Well. He supposed he could understand their curiosity, if they’d heard a rumor. “Ought I to simply let them send their maiden, and then watch her carefully to ensure she isn’t up to mischief? After a time, when nothing awful happens and she hasn’t found my strongboxes, I can send her home again, I suppose, without much harm done. But what an inconvenience.”
Andrei frowned. “I think if you refuse their sacrifice they’ll be offended. Even complain to the king, claiming that you’re behaving suspiciously by turning down their traditional gesture. You know your father corresponded with King Harold when you chose this place to live. He’d be displeased if you made trouble after he went to the effort of writing letters, which you know he hates.” Well, that was a convincing argument. Fiora’s father was, bluntly, lazy, and nothing annoyed him more than wasted effort. “And if nothing else, if the merchants here take against you, the quality of your wine might decrease.”
Oh, there was a dreadful thought. “Would they really sink so low as that, do you think?”
“No one has yet plumbed the depths of man’s iniquity, I’m afraid,” Andrei opined. And then, in a more normal tone, he added, “And I think we can do better than simply ignoring her until she goes away, my lord. We will need to give it some thought, but if we were to, let’s say, mislead the young woman? We could allow her to learn that gold isn’t your primary hoard — not the real thing,” he added quickly, as Fiora’s eyes widened in panic. “Something else. You have a splendid art collection. That would make a believable red herring. Valuable enough to be convincing to those who don’t know much about dragons, but not important enough to you to be much of a loss if she manages to take something away with her.”
Fiora considered this, and then nodded. Yes, that would do nicely. He passed over Andrei’s implication that his hoard, his true hoard, wasn’t valuable. Humans simply didn’t understand, and Fiora had long since accepted that. “Very well. I’m with you so far.”
“Good,” Andrei said, nodding in his turn. “And as for the…other thing, in case they’ve heard of it. We could think of an innocuous, simple magical problem — something that would, when she reported back, perhaps even inspire sympathy. You can’t eat cheese, for example, without agonizing pain.”
“Cheese?” Fiora stood, slowly, leaning his hands on his desk and glaring at Andrei. “Cheese. You want them to think I’m cursed by cheese? You think that’d inspire sympathy? Inspire raucous laughter, more like! I’m a creature of terror and darkness, doomed to be forever alone. I’m not going to set myself up to be the laughingstock of a town full of bloody shopkeepers! I have dignity, Andrei, and no one respects a dragon whose weakness is cheese!”
“It was the first thing that came to mind, my lord,” Andrei said with a shrug, entirely unmoved by Fiora’s rage. “I missed lunch. And, you know, there are many people unable to tolerate even a taste of cheese, without feeling a certain amount of discom—”
“Not another word,” Fiora shouted, completely out of patience. “Not one more bloody word out of you! I’m going out. I need to spread my wings. You, you can write this miserable letter all by yourself. And if you so much as mention any product made from milk, I’ll hang you from the top