Rhiana. Michele Hauf

pleased or put off that she was attempting to aid him.

      “Very well, my lady. But I never get to turn anyone—”

      “Rudolph!” She gave another brute kick to the door and it started to rise on squeaky ropes and pulleys. With a grin to Macarius, she strode inside.

      Macarius Fleche rode into St. Rénan upon his sixteen-hand white destrier displaying all the posture of a great and mighty knight. He was a great knight. He’d earned his spurs from Charles VII himself in the unending battle against the Burgundians to rule Paris. His battle sword, Dragonsbane, worked for the good of many. It erased a scourge mere men could never dream to vanquish. As the last of the legendary dragon hunters he had traveled to this particular walled city after hearing tales from Amandine of the female who slayed dragons.

      A female slayer? Nonsense. No woman had such fortitude.

      Macarius had been determined to see her with his own eyes, to judge if Amandine were merely making a tale or if he had dreamed a woman in his aging thoughts. Surely the old man had a penchant for a well-rounded woman. But Amandine had generally tupped them, not trained them to slay fire-breathing dragons.

      And what to think now he’d looked upon the woman?

      Rain pouring upon their heads, she’d stood defiantly at forest’s edge, solid steel crossbow aimed at him. At him! For a moment Macarius had little doubt, if prompted, she’d touch the trigger. Fright tended to make females goosey and irrational. And then to boldly refuse a ride? And wearing armor that looked as if it were fashioned from dragon scales. She had no right to wear the scales without the kill!

      The air inside the battlement walls bustled with an odd tumescence. His mount taking the dirt road in careful clops, Macarius inspected the buildings and houses. Most were two or three stories, very large and spacious. All of stone, even the rooftops were slate or tile. No thatching or wood structures. Interesting. All of stone? Rather smart, he mused, for a village that must be frequently set upon by fire-breathing dragons.

      Meows from a gather of mangy cats sang a wretched tune beneath a dripping slate tiled roof. Shop fronts were closed, wooden boards pulled down and tied for the evening. Macarius neared the castle courtyard and noticed the blazing iron torches shaped like dragons. Banners swayed in the minimal breeze. Distant pipes called to revelry. Indeed, merrymaking stirred behind the castle walls.

      There were almost a dozen dragons nesting but a league to the north. Did the village fête in the shadow of such danger?

      Were they aware? But surely their female slayer must have alerted them? Else, why ever would she be so quick with him at the gate if she had not rushed to warn them all?

      Amandine had not given him details of his stay in St. Rénan, only that it was a happy summer. He did never elaborate; so many secrets he kept to his breast. But Macarius knew the old man had likely a woman, or two, reason enough to stay a while in any city. But he could not imagine Amandine taking the young woman he had met as a lover. He did possess decency. So what had called him to the woman?

      Whistling to direct his mount to the left, Macarius spied a thin young man doddling outside a cart stacked with firewood.

      Upon question, the squire in ragged green hosen—but a spit-spot clean tunic—informed Macarius the villagers had gathered in the castle keep to celebrate the kill. A dragon had been slain in the courtyard this afternoon. Lord Guiscard invited all to celebrate and drink and eat for days. Dragon meat would be passed around until all had filled their bellies.

      Mayhap the woman had slain a dragon. And this day? Hmm… Of course, Macarius required proof of the act. Likely the village men had rallied and taken down the beast.

      “And,” the squire added, “it be much safer than walking about outside. The dragons will swoop down and bite you right out of your boots.”

      Macarius had noted the boots sitting just outside the battlement walls.

      “So, boy,” he leaned down from his high mount, “you know there are other dragons?”

      “To be sure! They fly the sky waiting for a man to forget his caution.”

      Macarius nodded in agreement. He straightened in the saddle. That familiar surge of adventure teased his muscles. Such fortune to arrive at a dragon infested city.

      Nine dragons, the woman had said. And how had she counted?

      “My thanks,” he said to the young squire. “Will you lead me to your lord?”

      “Indeed, sir.”

      Alive with merriment, music and much ale and smoking meat, the keep was crowded from wall to wall with most every resident of St. Rénan. Dragon meat was tender and savory when cooked right, Lydia had once told Rhiana. Still, no amount of cajoling would convince Rhiana to taste the meat. It was difficult enough to account herself for the sin of killing. And it wasn’t as if dragons were bred for consumption, like a lamb or even cattle. But she did not discount others for joining in the feast.

      Rudolph skipped by her, a hunk of dark meat on a stick clasped in one hand and a giggling female’s derriere in the other. Rhiana returned his wink and then found herself sliding her palms over the pale ocher tunic and braies she wore.

      All about her couples were dancing and whispering in each other’s ears and some even kissing. Dulcimers decorated the air with lively rhythms that enticed women’s hips to swivel and the men to circle about them. The women wore their hair in braids and curls and crowned their temples with delicate flower garlands. No wonder they attracted a curious suitor, Rhiana decided, the sway of their skirts and the tinkle in their laughter was an entrancing thing. So utterly female and beguiling.

      And here she stood, being passed by, almost as if a ghost, by every male in the room. A hard lump at the back of her throat made a swallow difficult. “I…” Want, she thought. What they have. To be fancied by a man. To know a man’s regard.

      Should have changed to a gown—

      The sudden gush of fire close behind Rhiana made her spin. There, near the hearth, stood Sebastien de Feu, the fire juggler. Wearing brown leather braies—he never wore a shirt; fire hazard—the dancing fire tricked across his muscled chest, drawing Rhiana’s interest. In each hand he held a five-pronged torch that resembled a dragon’s claw, glittering with flames at each of the five talons. Swishing the torches before him painted brilliant white dashes and circles and zigs in the air to delight all. Children danced around him, unsuccessfully held back by their mothers.

      Sending a charming smile to Rhiana, he then breathed upon one of the torches and sent the flames gushing over heads and toward the center of the keep.

      Compelled by the beauty of the flame, Rhiana stepped closer. She forgot her masculine attire. Why, she forgot the festivities. All that mattered was the flame dancing through the air, swishing hot breaths across her face as she moved even closer, until she stood so close a child called out for her to mind her distance.

      Sebastien’s grin defied the difficulty of his stunt. Though he wore a steel helmet fashioned with bronze laurel leaves around the perimeter to protect his long black hair, Rhiana had noticed previously he also wore many a scar from burns. The most prominent on his left forearm, which stretched to a thin pink sheen, because his muscles were so bold and tight.

      “You are entranced, douce et belle?”

      Shaking her head out of its tizzy, Rhiana realized Sebastien spoke to her. Douce et belle. Too pretty a moniker to place to her, but he was ever kind to her, and always willing to talk.

      He leaned in toward her. She could hear the fire torches hissing behind his back. The scent of the oil he used to keep the torches burning sizzled in the air. And the scent of him, oil mixed with his intense and dark presence, almost overwhelmed Rhiana.

      It could be the smoke and flame; they always disturbed her senses.

      She touched a stone in the nearby hearth wall, for balance. Consciously tugging the hem of her tunic, she could not meet the man’s dark eyes. Dark like the lava stones