Chapter 9
966 Words
“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.
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