Then he waited for questions or disagreement, watched the old man—half my age, he always had to remind himself now, his brain as likely as any mortal’s to be swayed by gray hair and a bent back—for skepticism, and got none. What Niall actually did was make a clicking sound with his tongue, expressing general disapproval to the universe regarding this sort of messing about, and then start in on his usual list: so many cords of wood, less grain than he’d have liked, and so on.
Cathal listened carefully, forcing the figures into a mind still unused to remembering such things or relating them to the lives in his care, but all the time slightly amazed, even though he realized he shouldn’t be. Niall had been his father’s steward for forty years, and his predecessors had doubtless passed on certain bits of knowledge along with the books of accounts, little tidbits likeOh, and the lord knows the future now and again. Prophecy firsthand wasn’t part of Niall’s life. Secondhand, it was just another fact of Loch Arach, like keeping horses away from the MacAlasdairs.
Such a calm reaction should have been reassuring, and yet—
—and yet there was a whole world here that Cathal barely knew, and his experience was almost all from outside.
“I’ll go hunting today,” he said when he’d forced a picture from the tallies: not as much food or fuel as he’d have liked, particularly if the storm lasted, and he’d no notion of how long that would be. “And I’ll bring back wood as well. Send messengers to the village. Tell the folk they’re welcome up here and to prepare if they’ll stay in their homes.”
“Aye,” said Niall. “Three days hence?”
“Aye,” said Cathal, a startled echo. Yes, the map had always showed three days in the future, never more and rarely fewer. He knew that. He hadn’t expected that knowledge from Niall.
He didn’t, it seemed, expect half of the things he should.
As the day progressed, Cathal found that feeling growing stronger and stronger. The stable hands and smiths, the folk of the castle, even his guards reacted much as Niall had. Some showed their displeasure more, some were surprised, and a few even looked doubtful for a second or two, but everyone accepted the news. Even Father Lachlann, whose place in the Church would have let him voice doubts to Loch Arach’s temporary lord, spoke no word of contradiction or even question.
They all assumed Cathal knew whereof he spoke. He did, so that trust should have been at worst a pleasant surprise, but it merely bore down on him like the walls themselves until he could escape into the air and then the forest.
Hunting offered relief, as it always did. The cold air streaking past him cleared his mind; the challenge of sighting and diving occupied him; and the dragon’s shape was largely a creature of instinct and impulse. The human side of him remained, but it was easy to let it lie dormant for a time, to give over doubts and let the ever-turning wheel of thought give way to a creature at once of the moment and of centuries. All would settle itself in enough time. Meanwhile, there were clear skies above and prey below.
As usual when he wasn’t hunting for himself, he touched the stag as lightly as possible, breaking its neck with one swift blow and keeping claws and teeth out of the matter. The folk of the castle all knew what Cathal was. Still, none but the men who’d fought with him had been close when he was in dragon form. Most pretended not to see. Artair had believed in making that easy for them, and Cathal agreed with his father on that score.
For similar reasons, he always landed, on his return from the hunt, in a small clearing just outside the castle walls. From there he would transform and carry in his quarry if it was manageable, or send out some of the men if he’d brought down an elk or a boar. Nobody asked how it had happened, and he always looked human by the time he saw anyone.
He was human, barely, when Sophia stepped out from between the trees.
Seven
She was too late to see anything—a pity, even though she hadn’t come out with that intent. Spotting the dragon in flight, Sophia had caught her breath and stared at the vast greenish-blue form, taking in the outstretched wings and the lashing tail, unable to believe that anything so immense and so far from human could spend most days as a man. Then, seeing the creature descend, she’d followed. Who wouldn’t have?
What she’d found was Cathal standing above a dead stag. He looked just as he had that morning, clothes all in place, sword hanging at his side, and even his hair only slightly disheveled, but when Sophia walked out into his view, he drew his head and chest back in surprise, not a motion she’d seen from him or from any human being. Snakes acted so, startled and ready to strike. She stopped in her tracks.
“Satisfying your curiosity?” he asked, watching her with narrowed eyes.
His voice sounded deeper than usual, though Sophia wasn’t sure whether to credit that to transformation or anger. Now was not the time to ask.
Now might have been the time to lie, but she couldn’t think of anything plausible. “Yes, but no.” She raised a hand. “I saw you land and came over to watch…but I’d come out to go to the village and then realized that I’d no hope of making my way there without a guide. I hadn’t known you were…out. Hunting.”
Cathal regarded her silently. One hand went to the fastening of his cloak, which Sophia now noticed was a silver dragon’s head. His was a family powerful enough to hint at their true nature. She would do well to remember that.
She would also, said her conscience, do well to remember that Cathal was not a salamander nor a griffin nor a two-headed calf, but a man and her host.
“I’m sorry,” she said, dropping her eyes. “I shouldn’t have intruded. I saw nothing. I give you my word on it.”
Honestly meaning apology and reassurance, she realized too late how suggestive the last sentence sounded. The winter air wasn’t nearly frigid enough to chill her blush in that moment, and she couldn’t make herself look up at Cathal.
Not until she heard him laugh.
“Well,” he said, and she lifted her eyes to discover his face open with mirth and his hair ruffling in the slight breeze as if it shared the joke. “I’ll cherish my modesty yet, then. And I’ll not faint just now.”
“Please don’t,” she said, measuring the length and breadth of him with her eyes. “I could no more carry you back than I could that deer.”
“Come now, lass,” Cathal chided her, shaking his head. “If I’m more than half its weight, I’m either the worst glutton in the world or a far worse hunter than I’d thought.”
“And you both weigh less than the mountain. After a certain point…” Sophia spread her gloved hands, illustrating helplessness. She glanced back to the stag. “It is a very large animal. Especially for winter, I think?”
“Aye, it’ll do. I hope.” Cathal followed her gaze, then looked back to her, studying her face. It was a gentler kind of assessment than the sort he’d given her in his solar, Sophia thought. “Will you be able to eat it?”
