Down in the towns, there's always work guarding the trade wagons for a second son and swordsman from Woodbridge. When the merchants hiring men ask where I'm from, I say, "Oh, it's one of the tiny hamlets up in the hills. We've got a wooden bridge we're very proud of."

And they laugh, and ask where I came by the sword I carry. It's not a peasant's weapon and no minor lord's second son in this province has the funds for a gold-bound hilt and a jeweled pommel.

"It's under the Amnesty," I assure them. "But I don't show it off where the dragon might see, if you know what I mean."

They chuckle, and we all bless the wisdom of the current king's great-great-grandmother who brokered an agreement with the dragon who lives under the hills that nobody would bother his hoard and he'd forgive all the thieves who had dragon-cursed bits and baubles. He's slept peacefully ever since.

Their only remaining question is whether or not I can use the fancy sword. By the end of the trade route, I've more than earned every bonus they offer.

I've had variations on that sort of hiring conversation over the last hundred years.

This time, the man passing me an ale in a town tavern is from Woodbridge.

Reggie is twenty years older than when I saw him last. His straw blond hair has gray in it and he's finally grown that patchy beard out into something worthy of a hamlet's headman. He looks like a rube next to the more brightly dyed townsfolk, but he'd seen me and known me for who I was immediately.

He said, "We've been expecting your lordship any season now."

"I'm told it's something of a family tradition," I said.

He favored me with a grim look. "Afraid not, your lordship. I knew your father. You're the spitting image of him, for all that you favor southern clothes and beads in your hair instead of his northern furs. You'll rule fairly and justly for ten years. You'll reap in the good harvests and lighten our burden in the hard ones. All we can ask for."

"There are worse family traditions..."

"And in ten years, just like your father, you'll wander to the towns again to find a bride and never come back. And in twenty years, your son will come back to Woodbridge. The spitting image of you and your father before you."

We both looked at the sword belted to my side. Sure, the Amnesty says that all is forgiven...

"Lad, your family's cursed."

"Maybe," I suggested hesitantly, "I shouldn't go up to Woodbridge at all."

"And disappoint all the folk waiting for you?" He asked. "I knew your father. I liked him. He was the sort of lord who'd throw a proper party in his hall and then turn out on a cold spring night to help with the calving. Come to Woodbridge, your lordship. The challenge is keeping you there."

..............

We had ten years to come up with something clever, but it didn't take nearly that long. The cure for the curse was pretty obvious: take the sword back to the dragon, fall on my knees, and beg forgiveness for my forefathers' thieving ways.

If only it were that easy.

I tossed the fancy sword back in the pile with the rest of them, shed my human form like a snake's skin, and curled up on my hoard to think.

It had been a rather clever plan to stave off boredom as long as it lasted. I'd be Woodbridge's good lord for ten years, then wander off on the trade routes long enough for the next generation to grow up. Far to the south, there was another tiny hamlet who hadn't yet figured out the connection to the dragon's hoard. Far to the north, my isolated tribe of wanderers would probably blame the local enchantress for my curse (but she'd seen through my disguise immediately and would call on me if something went wrong.)

Unfortunately, I was now stuck in a morass of my own making. If I lifted the curse, then Woodbridge was going to ask some very suspicious questions in twenty years when I didn't age at all. If I refused to lift the curse, I was going to create a diplomatic incident, and the last thing I wanted to do was explain myself to the king. And if I told the truth, nobody was going to trust the dragon they'd thought was safely asleep.

I chewed it over. Literally. Gem-encrusted scepters make excellent chew sticks and I picked out the emeralds between my teeth with my fancy sword afterward.

.................

I walked out of the dragon's lair wide-eyed, dazed, and stumbling like I was drunk. Reggie lent me his shoulder all the way over the wooden bridge back into the hamlet and to my small hall. The hall easily held everyone who lived here, and they all waited to find out if we were throwing a party or singing a dirge. "I take it you saw the dragon," he said as his wife plied me with ale.

I drank deeply. "He's gone back to sleep. Thank the gods. I never want to do that again."

"Did he lift the curse on your family?"

"Maybe?"

I looked around the hall. They were good, simple folk. I couldn't stay here decade after decade. But I could be their good lord for ten years of every thirty, and trust their own headmen to look after them for the rest. "The dragon lifted the curse. And for my honesty, he gave me eternal youth."

I looked around at those good, simple folk living in the shadow of a dragon who slept under the hills and said, "You know we can't ever tell anyone, right?"

Slowly the realization spread. If we told anyone the secret to my youth, we'd have amnestied thieves rolling up to beg for forgiveness (and Eternal Youth). Idiots would be dumb enough to steal from the hoard in order to beg forgiveness. The king would be furious we'd poked the sleeping dragon.

And, well, I was a dragon. I really hoped I wouldn't have to prove again why we all blessed the king's great-great-grandmother's wisdom.

Reggie sighed his acceptance. I said, "Hey, looks like I'm upholding the family tradition after all," and he chuckled.

................

Ten years later when I left Woodbridge and followed the trade routes north, the enchantress fixed me with a gimlet stare. "How many lies are you going to tangle yourself in before you tell the truth?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," I admitted. "But nobody trusts a bored dragon."