Margaret Weis - Love and War

If Seron was an underappreciated painter, the same could not be said of the pretty picture known as Curly Kyra. Every unmarried man — and plenty of the married ones — had hopes of bedding her. She had alabaster skin, bright brown eyes, and full lips that seemed created expressly for kissing. Even more inviting than her lips, however, was the purely feminine shape of her figure; since coming of age this summer, she had to slap men's hands more often than she had to slap at bugs.

It was different, though, with Seron. Oh, he wanted to bed her and made no pretense about it, but he truly cared for her and made that clear in a thousand different ways. He helped patch the roof of her family's cottage without asking for so much as a cup of water in return. He gave her painting lessons, teaching her everything from mixing colors to the techniques of his brushstroke. And when she was terribly sick with an unknown disease — and looked like a particularly ugly dwarf he had once painted — Seron risked his own health to help care for her.

The two of them leaned over the bar near each other, the sea-faring picture between them. "You're wasting your time working in this tavern," Seron said earnestly. "I've said it from the very beginning — you're smart, talented, perceptive; you can do more with your life than just serve ale."

"You're only saying I'm smart," teased Kyra, "because I like your work."

He smiled, but shook his head. "I really mean it," he insisted.

Involved in their intimate discussion, Kyra paid no attention to the growing clamor of angry voices calling out for service.

As for Seron, he hadn't yet tried to sell his latest painting, but he saw that Kyra was so enamored of the picture (and he was so enamored of her) that he suddenly blurted, "I want you to have it. It's a gift."

Kyra was stunned by his offer. Her face turned red, and it looked as if she couldn't breathe.

"Are you all right?" he asked worriedly.

She answered by throwing her arms around him and kissing him on the lips.

That night Kyra lost her job but found a husband.

Her belief in Seron's talents was not misplaced;

soon after they were married, he finally began to sell some of his paintings. He didn't receive much for them, but at least it was a beginning. He supplemented their meager income by painting family portraits for the local tradesmen. Still, it wasn't enough.

"Why don't you give art lessons?" asked Kyra one late afternoon as she took down the wash that had dried on the line.

"What? And create my own competition?" he said, laughing as he folded the clothes she handed him.

"You have a wonderful talent," she continued, ignoring him. "You could give classes. I know the kender would love it; they couldn't possibly pass up a chance to try their hand at drawing."

"What makes you think I'd be any good as a teacher?" he asked.

"Because you were so good at teaching me."

"I was good at teaching you," he said, "because you were an excellent student. You could do anything you set your mind to," he continued. "You settle for too little from yourself. If only you — »

"Please! Not that speech again," she complained.

"But you could be so much more if only you tried," he insisted, touching his fingers to the palm of her hand.

"Isn't that the same thing your brother always says to YOU?" she countered. "Doesn't he always say that you're wasting yourself on all these pictures?"

He scowled. "Don't change the subject. We're talking about you — and you know I'm right. You're capable of doing all sorts of things; you're too easily content."

"Content? Me?" she laughed seductively. "Never." And with that, she dropped the sheet she had been holding and began unbuttoning her blouse.

"No one stops an argument like you," he chuckled, removing his own shirt.

Their bed was a sheet on the soft grass, their roof was the afternoon sky, and their souls were one soul long after their passion was spent.

As the afternoon light faded, Kyra felt a chill. She snuggled up close to her husband, who tenderly embraced her. She felt safe in his arms, protected. When he held her like that, she knew both the strength and the tenderness of his love. For her, there was nothing in all of Krynn to match that feeling. Nothing.

Dutifully, Seron gave art lessons to the kender, and anyone else who was willing to pay. Not that anything valuable ever changed hands. Despite their enthusiasm, the kender were inattentive students, and they generally walked off with the paint, the brushes, and half of tomorrow's lunch.

To better provide for his wife, Seron took a job during the evenings as a cook at the Sea Master Inn. Kyra didn't want him to take the time away from his art, but he couldn't bear to see her go hungry. He promised her he would work at the inn only until his paintings brought in more money.

He hoped that would happen soon, for he had chanced upon an entirely new and exciting subject when he met his very first dragon…

"Do you have a red blanket?" asked the young male brass dragon standing at the edge of a clearing in the forest.

Seron could hardly believe his eyes, let alone his ears; the dragon was talking to him!

"Are… are you real?" stammered the painter.

"That doesn't seem like an appropriate answer to the question, 'Do you have a red blanket?' Would you like to try again?"

Seron's curiosity was greater than his fear. He stepped closer and touched the dragon's wing. "You are real," he mumbled, astonished. He quickly stepped back again.

"I seem to have this effect on everybody," the dragon said, shaking his head sadly. "Have you never seen or heard of my kind before?"

"Only — only in legends," replied Seron as he carefully examined the tall, majestic dragon standing before him. He didn't want to forget any detail for the picture that he knew he must paint. Finally, he thought, I'll be able to succeed for Kyra. This painting will be worth a fortune!

"It's terrible," complained the dragon. "Wherever I go, people stop and gawk at me. And really," he continued, "I don't understand it. It's not as if I'm wearing flashy colors. Which, by the way, brings me back to the question of the red blanket. Do you have one or not?"

Seron didn't want the dragon to leave. Not yet. He needed more time to study this wonderful creature. "I'll get you a red blanket," he promised. "Just wait right here."

The painter raced to the hut.

"Kyra, where are you?" he cried when he found their home empty.

"I'm in the back… in the vegetable garden."

Not wanting to waste any time, he quickly looked through their trunk and closet. He was sure they had some sort of red blanket — a strange request, come to think of it — but he couldn't find it.

"Any luck?" called out the dragon, who was now standing at the front door.

"You were supposed to stay where you were," said Seron nervously, stepping out to meet the creature. He was afraid the dragon might harm his wife.

"Is someone there?" Kyra called out gaily, walking around the side of the hut. "I thought I heard another voice and — »

She stopped in her tracks with a look of wonder on her face.

"A red blanket!" cried the animal happily, gesturing toward the red shawl Kyra wore around her shoulders.

Seron blinked. That's what he had been looking for.

Kyra smiled at the dragon. She had grown up on tales of these magical beasts. To Seron's surprise, she wasn't afraid of the creature. "Do you like this?" she asked, sweeping the shawl off her shoulders and holding it before her.

"Very much," replied the dragon.

"Then it's yours," she said. "I think you'll look wonderful in it. Much better than I."

"Now, you're a human I could grow to like," the dragon said. "What's your name?"

"Kyra," she replied with a warm smile. "What's yours?"