Dragon and the Princess (3 page)

When the spiraling stairs took her to the other side of the rock, a wind made everything worse. It flapped her skirts and whipped her veil around her face.

Her father gripped it from behind. He meant well, but her hair screamed a protest. She carried on up the stairs, tears springing from the pain, from the general, impossible awfulness of this, which was not mentioned at all in the Princess Way.

When she reached the top she stopped in blessed relief, but also because the handrails ended.

Her father nudged her. “Move on, Zlinda.”

She didn’t want to step out onto the rough, flat top without support. The wind was whipping her veil so hard that she’d already had to put a hand to her crown for some relief. If it got under her skirts, she felt she might fly away.

It had to be done, however, so she picked her way forward over the uneven ground. Her father took her arm and patted her hand. “Not much more now, pet, and Reverend Elawin is waiting.”

She nodded, wishing the priest wasn’t waiting so close to the edge. One hand on her crown, she let her father guide her, but kept her eyes on the tricky ground. She noted that the large dents in the rocky surface were grooved.

“Are those . . .”

“Marks of dragon teeth, yes, Princess,” the priest said, and she looked up to find she’d arrived at the spot. “The dragon took a particularly large bite last time. A good omen.”

He fell silent, doubtless remembering that last time had been Aurora’s dragon.

Rozlinda stared at a huge, crescent bite. She’d known that the dragon bit off the part of the rock that had virgin blood on it, but . . .

“If your highness would kneel?” the priest prompted. He had the blade ready in his hand.

Rozlinda wasn’t sure if her sudden quaking was because of the size of a dragon’s bite, the wind or the knife. Other men had followed up here—princes of the blood, the royal council, and the male elders of Castletown. All watched her, eyes implacable. If she tried to run, they’d stop her.

“It’s the wind,” she said, trying to excuse her shivers.

“Aye, it’s sharp today,” her father said, pushing her down into the kneeling position, “but we’ve not lost a princess yet.”

It was a joke, but Rozlinda couldn’t wrench her mind from the dark, distant days when the king had brought a daughter to Dragon’s Rock to truly sacrifice her to the beast. She glanced at the iron stake to which she’d be chained. Despite every attempt of will, her throat glued itself with dryness and her heart began to panic.

“Highness?”

She looked back at the priest and found he was offering a goblet. The traditional hralla tea. She took it, drank and could breathe again. Blessed hralla. She’d only had sips before when ill, but now she drained the cup.

All cares drifted away, yet her senses expanded. She fancied she could pick out faces down below and almost catch quiet comments made there. She heard music on the wind, perhaps even the song of distant birds. The few flowers still clinging to her gown gave off perfume.

There was another aroma, as well, neither noxious nor sweet. It came from the very rock.

The priest cut the ribbons that cinched in her enormous sleeve and pushed it up to expose her arm, to rub a cream there. To numb it.

Her father held her arm while the priest gripped her wrist. Compelling her, but she didn’t mind.

Here came the knife. How beautifully the light played on the long blade. How prettily her blood shone as it swelled and then dripped. Big, glossy drips that the rock drank in, turning black.

Her veil swirled and picked up a touch of blood, as if licking it. She caught it in her free hand. Mustn’t steal any from the dragon.

The dragon she could sense. She looked toward the horizon. Nothing there yet, but she knew where it was just as it knew her, knew her blood. Was drawn to it. She’d wondered sometimes if she really had the blood; how anyone could tell. Now, she was sure.

“There, highness. A goodly amount.”

Rozlinda looked back to see the priest wrapping a bandage around her arm. It quickly showed a line of red. The dark stain on the rock was quite large, but it didn’t seem enough to appease a hungry dragon.

Enough to make her lightheaded, however.

She staggered slightly as her father helped her up, making jolly, soothing remarks. Around her and below, the crowd roared. She supposed it was a cheer, but it sounded wild. Or perhaps the wildness in the air was a thrumming that she recognized as dragon.

As her father guided her to the stake, Rozlinda’s mind continued to explore realms beyond her ordinary senses. How funny, she thought, with a real temptation to giggle, if the dragons were drawn not to her blood but to the enormous amount of hralla in it.

But that made no sense. Hralla came from Dorn. Hralla, dragon eyes, versuli, mother stone. Hralla, dragon eyes, versuli, mother stone. It became a song in her mind. . . .

“The dragon!” The call rose all around like a flock of startled birds.

“That’s quick,” said her father. “Let’s get you chained up, love. Don’t want anything to go amiss at this stage.”

Jerrott had the long chain already threaded through the loop at the top of the stake, and he and her father wrapped it round and around, lightly binding her arms to her body and her body to the iron.

Not a real chain
, she reminded herself. It was as delicate as one she might wear around her neck. Just a symbol. But as a distant shadow took fluid shape, so like a bird but not, Rozlinda strained against her bonds.

“Courage, Princess.” It was the merest whisper, but it came from Jerrott. A break with protocol, but so welcome. She met his eyes.

Thank you. Soon.

The lock clicked. Her father and Jerrott retreated. All the men retreated to be as far away from the dragon’s bite as possible. But she saw Jerrott pick up his spear. If the dragon tried to eat her, he’d defend her. Even so, as the beat of mighty wings pulsed through the air, ghosts of princesses past, princesses chained here in truth, shrieked warnings.

The horns!

The scales!

The vicious teeth!

Rozlinda clenched her hands. She would not shame herself.

But the beast grew larger and larger. Could a bit of blood be enough? She could see that horned head now, and the crimson-and-gold eyes, fixed hungrily not on the bloodstained rock, but on her! Rozlinda tried to break free then, and found she couldn’t. Even such fine chains held tight.

She clutched the iron rod behind her as the beast circled over-head, blotting out the light and beating down stifling, acrid air. Dust swirled to choke her, to sting her eyes. She closed them, screaming in her mind.
Eat and be gone! Go away! Go away!

She heard the crunch. Felt it in the rod as if the whole rock trembled. Perhaps she heard distant cheers and trumpets of delight, and then the air calmed.

She let go, blinking dust from her eyes. The dragon still circled but up high, as if waiting for something. For more?

Please go.

As if obeying, it beat its wings and soared, but then curved back, flying lower—heading straight for her!

Spears arced up from below, but the knights and men down there were too far away. Jerrott was braced to throw, but waiting.

Throw now
, she screamed in her mind.
Throw now!

The dragon’s mouth was a crimson maw, its gray teeth curving blades. Rozlinda fought the chains again, but knew she was about to die.

Then the dragon collapsed across the top of the rock with a thud that shook the earth. Coughing in the storm of dust, Rozlinda stared at wicked talons only feet away, then up at a small mountain of crimson, green and gold scales.

She was saved.

Jerrott had saved her!

She turned to thank him, but he stood, frozen, spear still in hand.

Who, then? Who?

Who, she suddenly realized, would she have to marry?

A man appeared on the fallen dragon’s neck. It was the man from her vision—the one with the bone-white hair and the pale amber eyes.

His voice rang out in the suddenly silent air. “I claim my princess bride.”

Chapter 3

The king silenced the hubbub with a grim roar. Amid settling noise and dust, he asked, “Who are you, sir, and what are you doing?”

The man climbed nimbly up to the peak of the dragon mountain. “What does it matter who I am?” he called out in a strong voice, meaning to be heard by all. “Am I not the savior of the Virgin Princess?”

He spoke in a slightly guttural accent, using complex vowels where simple ones would do.

It must be the remnants of hralla in her that made this seem so unreal, Rozlinda thought. This couldn’t truly be happening. Where had he come from, just like that?

Then she knew.

He’d ridden the beast—as a Dornaan warrior would. A pale-haired Dornaan warrior . . . but the Dornae didn’t
kill
dragons. They revered and adored them. This had to all be a hralla dream.

The man turned on his gold-and-crimson hill, looking like a dream himself. His bare, dark arms were outstretched and glinted with gold as he addressed the Saragondans, but especially the powerful men up here on the summit.

“Does not your sacred tradition say that any man who can lay low the dragon and put his foot upon its neck may claim the sacrificial princess as his bride? I claim that right in recompense for the dragon stolen from us seven years ago, against all rules of harmony and honor between our peoples.”

“Sir,” called her father, “we apologize most sincerely for that and assure you it will never happen again. But there must be some other recompense.”

The Dornaan turned to face Rozlinda. To her, he said, “None.”

Jerrott cried out, “May I not challenge this rogue, sire?”

“Be silent.”

Her father’s tone made Rozlinda quake. This was all real, and she suddenly understood her situation.

The royal family of Saragond existed because the princess blood was essential to peace, harmony and prosperity. Aurora’s selfishness had threatened disaster. To refuse this man now could ruin their house.

Nor did she think her father was moved solely by that. He truly believed this ritual was essential. And so, she realized, did she. Despite internal rebellion, she had faithfully followed the Princess Way for seven long years because she believed.

Stillness hovered over rock and plain as everyone waited for her father to speak. In this, his word was law. At last he said, “Captain, give this man the key.”

The Dornaan ran down the dragon’s leg and strolled toward Rozlinda. She remembered that easy walk. She remembered that enormous dragon eye on his chest. Up close, it seethed in the sun like a bubble of molten rock.

It was real.

He was real.

This was really happening.

Perhaps this was another ritual, Rozlinda thought frantically. A symbolic marriage important to his people?

Or perhaps the dragon needed more blood.

She could do that.

A cup or two more wouldn’t kill her.

As he came closer, those cold eyes stole her breath.

I’ll give you some fingers and toes, even
, she desperately thought.

He extended a hand, and Jerrott stiffly put the key in it. When the Dornaan reached for the padlock, Rozlinda couldn’t help but flinch away. Heat beat out from him, as if a fire burned within his dusky skin. Or perhaps the heat came from that dragon eye. She felt that if she were to touch it, it would not be cold like a stone, but hot enough to char her skin.

He turned the key, tossed the lock aside and loosened her chains, unwinding them until they tinkled to the ground. Then he took her hand and led her away—toward the dragon.

She jerked back. “Don’t. Please don’t feed me to it!” It came out as a pathetic squeak.

“I won’t.”

Of course not. The dragon was dead.

“Not here, at least,” he added, with a touch of grim humor.

Other dragons. Thousands of dragons. In Dorn.

“Come.” He tugged and she had to follow, for no one was making a move to help her. It was as she’d thought. In the end, these men would sacrifice her if it suited their own ends.

She stumbled along, one hand holding up her overlong skirts, her veil blowing around her face and trying to smother her. The wind shifted and cleared her face, seeming to clear her mind. She twisted back to look at her father, at Jerrott, at the councilors and lords. “Help me!” she screamed.

Some twitched, but then they looked away.

What could anyone do? Even Jerrott couldn’t save her by killing the dragon. The dragon was dead. They could kill the man, but that, she was sure, would mean war. Abruptly hopeless, Rozlinda let him take her to the corpse, as accepting as a dumb animal to the slaughter.

The fallen dragon still gave off heat and a pungent odor of burnt rock and blood, but its fate touched her.

“I can’t believe you killed it. You, a man of Dorn.”

“You like dragons, Princess?”

“No, but you should.”

“I do.”

She turned on him. If no man would fight for her, she would fight for herself. “Then why? You can’t want to marry me, sir. You must prefer women of your own type.”

“You, Princess, are the bride I want.”

“
Why?
”

“Your blood is highly valued in Dorn.”

She thrust out her bandaged arm. “If it’s blood you want, take more.” When he didn’t respond, she protested, “You can’t drag me off to a foreign land that I know nothing of! I don’t speak your language. I know nothing of your customs. How can I make you a good wife?”

He looked down briefly, so briefly that she might have missed it if she hadn’t been staring so fixedly at his face.

“I regret any discomfort, Princess, but it must be so. Some of the Dornae speak Saragondan, and you will learn our language as you learn our ways. Seven years ago, the conditions of peace were broken. This is the only means to mend them.”

The words reduced her rebellion to dust.
Refuse
, he said,
and there will be war.
Armies of dragons will again stream over the Shield to wreak disaster on Saragond.

Desperately, she looked to her father for help.

He looked older by a decade, but said, “He’s right, Zlinda. If he insists on this, by our own laws, there’s nothing to be done.” He turned from her to the Dornae. “Sir, do you promise to treat my daughter well?”

“Your Majesty, she will have all honor and respect in my land, as the vessel of the blood and as my wife.”

“And who are you in your land, sir? I must know that.”

The demand was bluster, but the Dornaan answered. “I am Rouar, Guardian of the Queen, third maj of the second council, Seyer of the Dragon’s Womb.”

For all that meant, Rozlinda thought. She knew they had a queen, but the queen didn’t seem to rule. Instead there were tribes and councils, partly elected and partly appointed, perhaps by inheritance, and everything seemed to be connected to dragons one way or another.

It made no sense to normal people, and his name, with its rolled
r
at the beginning and end, sounded like a multisyllabic roar. At least he obviously held high rank. She couldn’t help being glad that she wasn’t being snatched up by some vagrant.

She couldn’t tell if this Rouar’s words meant more to her father than they did to her, but he seemed to have no further resistance to offer.

“Very well, Seyer Rouar. We must agree. We will all return to the White Castle so arrangements can be made—”

“We will be married here. The Priest of the Blood has the spiritual power, and you, Your Majesty, along with your council, have the right of approval.”

Now her father flushed red. “Come, come, you must allow my daughter time. Court her a little. Let her gather her bridal chest.”

“Alas, I cannot. We must return to Dorn immediately. My wife may return to visit her family later, if she still wishes to.”

“If I still wish to! Of course I will. When will this ‘later’ be?”

“Let us say a half year.”

“
A half year?
I’m to be a prisoner until then?”

“No. You are to be a wife. A wife stays with her husband.”

“You could accompany me back here.”

“I have duties.”

“All the time?”

“For the next half year.”

Rozlinda wanted to snap that she did, too, but in truth her only duty was to be the Sacrificial Virgin Princess and that was over. Except for marrying the dragon slayer.

And presumably ceasing to be a virgin with him. She shivered in a deeper way and cast a frantic glance at Jerrott. He was staring grimly at the horizon.

“How can you be so heartless?” she demanded, hating to be reduced to pleading.

“Princess, I can be as heartless as I must.” It was a flat warning that denied any hope of escape. “Are you a child to cling to your home so?”

“It is not childish to value family, sir. I pity you if you do not!”

“Oh, I do, Princess. This is all about family, as you will learn. Priest, pray thee, do your work.”

Pray thee.
The first word he’d used that wasn’t quite right. How did he know Saragondan so well when Saragond and Dorn never interacted beyond this one ceremony?

A sense of not knowing, of not understanding, swept through Rozlinda like a cold draft. Uneasy men rustled all around. Below, silent faces stared up. Had they any idea what was happening?

The priest stepped forward. “Er . . . do you assent to use the Saragondan ceremony, sir?”

“Of course.”

Reverend Elawin looked around as if hoping someone would intervene, but then raised his practiced, sonorous voice. “Then I declare that all present are witness to the wish of these two, Seyer Rouar of—”

“Just Rouar,” the Dornaan interrupted.

The priest gaped, but picked up. “Of these two—Rouar of Dorn and Rozlinda of Saragond, princess of the royal house, Sacrificial Virgin of the blood, revered sacrifice to the dragon . . .”

Rozlinda listened numbly as her attributes rolled out and the ceremony began. When asked if she willingly and joyfully chose Rouar of Dorn as her husband, she looked from face to face to face. “How can I say yes?”

“Leave out the joyfully,” the Dornaan said. “I assume the princess is willing to do her duty for her people.”

“Do you, Rozlinda, willingly choose Rouar of Dorn as your husband?”

Rozlinda delayed, sure that something, someone, had to intervene. Nothing did. She whispered, “Yes.”

When the priest put the same question to the Dornaan, his answer was firm.

Reverend Elawin produced his knife. Rozlinda muttered, “More blood,” but she didn’t protest as he jabbed the fine point into the pad of her hand and then into the pad of the Dornaan’s, nor as her wound was pressed to his.

“Thus you become one,” the priest intoned. “May blessings rain upon you, bringing prosperity and fertility in your home and in your land. And,” he added hesitantly, “may the blood continue through you.”

That phrase was used only at the wedding of a princess of the blood. “Is that what this is about?” Rozlinda asked. “You want princesses of the blood for yourselves?”

“Something like that.”

She had to admit that made sense. “Will that mean your dragons won’t invade?”

“I cannot say, Rozlinda.”

It was the first time he’d said her name, but his doing so didn’t help because the word came strangely from his mouth, with a throat-rolled
r
and the
i
stretched almost to an
ee.

He spoke a foreign language. His people spoke a foreign language. They probably all looked as peculiar as he did, and had strange, even offensive smells and customs. She looked around frantically again, but he hissed something like, “
Zupsisi.
”

And the dragon moved.

Rozlinda yelped and backed away, but the man locked her against him as the dragon heaved onto its front, got its legs under it and then rose.

“It’s alive!” she protested, yanking against the imprisoning arms. She twisted to face her father and the knights. “He tricked us! That has to invalidate the ceremony.”

Her father was slack-jawed, but said, “A wedding is a wedding. . . .”

“It
can’t
be.”

“There is nothing,” the Dornaan’s deep, emotionless voice said, “that says the dragon must be dead. Only that the man must lay it low and place his foot upon its neck.”

“All the same . . .” But then she yelled, “Stop it!”

She was shouting at the dragon, which had circled its long neck to point its huge, red, flaring nostrils right at her face. The point of its long tongue flickered in and out. No one could doubt that deep in its dragon-beast mind it was thinking,
Yum, yum. More princess blood.
It was even drooling a viscous yellow and pink stuff.

The man wasn’t controlling her anymore. She was clutching his arms for protection.

“Seesee, behave,” he said.

If a dragon could pout, this one did, but it moved its head away, circling it on the long, flexible neck as if inspecting king, knight, priest and councilors. They all flinched back. Then it poked its head off the hill and breathed at the crowd below. Horses reared.

“Seesee!”

The head coiled back to be tucked on the beast’s back, perhaps chastened, perhaps sulking. By the blood, the monster behaved like a poorly trained puppy.

“You see, wife, we must go. This is too difficult for her.”

The Dornaan said something and then picked Rozlinda up in his arms. The dragon had already lowered its neck, and he ran up it to a crest of horn at its shoulders, to place her sideways in a dip behind. She clutched the horn, looking down, stunned, at the equally stunned watchers. The Dornaan slid astride behind her and said, “Go.”

The dragon leapt, beating its enormous wings and stirring a stormlike rumble. Rozlinda couldn’t believe it could raise its mass, but then it soared like paper on a breeze. Below, Dragon’s Rock, father, knights and all she’d ever known shrank smaller and smaller in her horrified vision.

When she saw her home, turrets shining in the sun, pennants bright and lively in a breeze, she burst into tears, sobbing against the velvety warmth of the dragon’s bony crest.