Dragon and the Princess (4 page)

Chapter 4

Rozlinda’s tears ended as tears must, even when the cause persists. She simply rested there, limp and exhausted. What calm she felt was probably from hralla tea. That must explain why she hadn’t thrown a fit earlier, and all in all she was glad of it. It wouldn’t have done her any good.

No one could afford to break protocol again. If this was her fate, she would be brave.

She swallowed and straightened—and became aware of being in a man’s lap, of his hot hard presence down her left side. She was finally touching a man, in many places, and he was her
husband.
She shied away from that thought, fixing instead on a simpler problem—her runny nose.

“The costume of the Sacrificial Virgin Princess doesn’t include a handkerchief.”

“The clothing of the seyer of the dragon’s womb doesn’t include one, either. Use the bandage on your arm.”

Teeth gritted at his tone, she did as he suggested, taking in the state of her gown for the first time. When she’d put it on, it had been stained only around the hem. Now green dust covered it, smeared deep in places by her dirty hands. With a grimace, she wiped them as clean as she could on the silk. The dress was ruined beyond hope, anyway.

Yet it was all she possessed. She was leaving home without money and with only the clothes she wore—ruined, impractical clothing that hadn’t fit her well in the first place.

She would not cry again. Presumably, a husband would provide clothing for his wife. And she had done her duty. A harder one than she’d expected, yet still she had done it. For her people and her family. Legends would be woven about Princess Rozlinda of Saragond.

“Mother stone,” she said, still looking at her gown for fear of looking anywhere else. “You will send it this time?”

“Of course.”

She felt his voice as well as heard it, which was perhaps why his tone seemed softer, even kinder.

“Everything will now be as it should be, Princess. I promise.”

She turned her head to look at him, but he was too close and everything about him was too strange. When she looked away, she saw the ground far, far below. And realized it didn’t bother her.

“How peculiar not to mind flying.”

“A blessing.”

“I suppose so. Cold, though.”

He put his arms around her, sharing his startling warmth. With that added to the heat of the dragon, she wasn’t unbearably cold. What’s more, riding a dragon could be seen as a privilege. Had any other Saragondan ever seen their country from this elevation?

She’d almost persuaded herself that she was content with her situation when the dragon tilted in flight. Sitting sideways in silk, Rozlinda began to slide. She clutched the man’s arm, hoping his seat was secure. She breathed again, but then the dragon tilted forward, tucked its wings, and dove downward.

Rozlinda shrieked, and kept on shrieking all the way down, blank with terror. She only breathed again when the dragon opened its wings and leveled out. She was still panting when it landed delicately in a field.

She was inhaling to yell her outrage when the Dornaan rose with her still in his arms, put her down, took her hand, and tugged her at a run down shoulder and leg to the ground. The footing was rough, which helped, but she squealed as she went and then crashed against him.

She thumped him with her fists, spitting out pent fury. “You beast. You
monster.
I could have broken my neck.”

Then she stared. For the briefest moment, humor had lit his eyes. It disappeared as if a door had been slammed, but at least he wasn’t dead to emotions. She was scrabbling for scraps and she knew it, but her unwanted husband’s ability to smile, maybe, was a comfort.

But then she grew wary. “Why have we stopped here? So far from Dorn.”

“Seesee can’t carry us for long periods, especially without eating.”

“Eating?” Rozlinda’s voice squeaked with fear, because, of course, if this man wanted to feed her to his dragon, it would hardly have been diplomatic to do it in front of her people. How to get her away to this isolated spot? Marry her.

Hot, acrid breath made her whirl. The dragon’s tongue was flickering toward her. She edged away, but the dragon stretched its neck and its glistening tongue grew longer and longer. She looked wildly toward the man, but of course he wouldn’t help. Even so, she whispered, “Please?”

“Seesee.” He went to pound on the dragon’s nose, but sounded indulgent. “She’s only being friendly,” he said to Rozlinda.

“No, she isn’t. She wants to
eat
me.”

“Don’t be silly. Seesee, stop.”

The tongue slurped back in.

It wasn’t that so much as the word
silly
that calmed Rozlinda’s terror to mere fright. Surely he wouldn’t call her silly if her fears were true. She inhaled and exhaled, making herself calm.

The Dornaan had taken a forked stick off his belt and was scratching the beast’s eye ridges with it. The dragon seemed almost to purr.

“So your dragon—”

“
Our
dragon—if anyone possesses one, which no one does.”

“Ours?”

“Is it not Saragondan law, too, that in marriage all is shared?”

“More or less.” Saragondan marital property law was complex, especially for princesses, but if he wanted to share everything, she wasn’t going to argue. Talk of such practicalities eased her fears even more. Her heartbeat settled.

She wasn’t about to be eaten.

To show she wasn’t afraid—much—she walked closer. She ended up near an enormous nostril, assailed by dragon breath, so she turned her head away—to find herself looking into a huge, red-gold shimmering eye. It blinked a dark gray eyelid and then dazzled her again.

“Is that where dragon-eye jewels come from? From their eyes?”

“Their eyes are eyes and decay when they die. Dragon-eye stones are so called because they resemble them.”

For some reason that calmed her, too. It appeared she had no escape from this situation, so she needed information. Lots of it.

“There’s no pupil. How does she see?”

“Seesee, show your eye.”

A gold layer slid upward, revealing red centered with a darker red pupil. Then the golden membrane dropped again.

Rozlinda turned to the Dornaan. “Does she speak Saragondan, then?”

“She doesn’t speak at all.”

“Very well, does she
understand
Saragondan? And if so, why?”

“She probably only understands my inner voice. My thoughts, if you like. It works better if I speak at the same time, but the language doesn’t matter. I use your language out of courtesy to you.”

Rozlinda considered this. It helped to concentrate on practical things.

Not on being snatched from her home and family.

Not on being taken to a land of strangers.

Not on being this man’s
wife
—with all that implied.

Seesee butted up against her, almost as if in comfort.

Rozlinda flinched away. “Does she understand
my
thoughts?”

“I don’t know.”

She backed away. “This is intolerable. I can’t bear it.
Ow!
” She clutched her crown, turning to find the dragon nibbling at her veil. “Stop it!”

A bit more veil went into the mouth, forcing her to step closer or lose some hair. Then the dragon sucked. Rozlinda staggered hard against its nose, trying to save her scalp. “Do something!” she yelled.

“
Tak!
”

The dragon spat out the veil. The end was a lump of yellowy slime.

“Ugh, ugh, ugh!” Rozlinda exclaimed, staggering away. “It’s
disgusting.
”

A moment later, she was buffeted by dust and wind as the dragon launched into flight.

“You’ve upset her.”

She turned slowly to the man. “
I’ve
upset
her?
Be she toddler or puppy, she should be trained not to damage things. My veil is ruined, my dress is ruined, and in case you haven’t noticed, because you insisted on dragging me away like this,
I—have—no—other—clothes!
”

She was shrieking like a hawker in the marketplace, but she wanted her home, she wanted her mother, she even wanted Mistress Arcelsia and Lady Petrulla. And above all, she wanted a hot bath and some ordinary, clean clothes.

“Is this how you treat a woman, a princess of the blood, even, in Dorn? Is this how you treat a
wife?
Then, sir, I pity all Dornaan women.”

He was like a rock buffeted by a breeze. “I truly am sorry, Princess, but it had to be. I cannot amend it, but I do have clothes for you.”

Deflated, she watched him shift a pile of stones and pull out the bag she’d seen in her vision. Then he extracted a second one, carried it over to her, and took out clothing.

Rozlinda stared, unable to believe the final indignity. “I cannot wear those.”

He looked at the bright yellow hose, then back at her. “Why not?”

“They’ll show my legs.”

“Yes?”

“In Saragond, a lady of any degree of respectability does not show her legs above the calf. Or do they go under a gown?”

He held up the green tunic, which she had to admit was very prettily embroidered with flowers.

“If that reaches mid
thigh
, I’ll be surprised.”

“You may have mine if you wish.”

“Which will reach no lower than my knees.” She truly wasn’t intending to be difficult, and he appeared to be trying to help, so she said, “Thank you, Sir Rouar, but I’ll put up with slime until you can find me something decent.”

“That can’t be until we reach Dorn, so I recommend the boots at least. Those shoes aren’t suitable for walking.”

“Walking?”

“Seesee cannot carry us all the time.”

She took a deep breath. “You expect me to
walk
to Dorn?”

“Only now and then.”

She desperately wanted to hit him. “And then climb the Shield, perhaps?”

“No, she’ll carry us over there.”

What would happen if she set off to walk back home? Surely no one would expect a princess of the blood to put up with this. That was one reason to change into the low, green boots.

“If they fit, I’ll wear them,” she conceded.

After a moment, it became clear that he wasn’t going to remove her slippers and help her with the boots. Seething, she found a rock and sat to do it herself, trying to calculate how far it was back to the castle.

This rough, uninhabited moorland was nowhere near her home, and the dragon had probably covered a great distance. It had been a long day, and she was weary. . . .

And she couldn’t unknot the ribbons. She struggled, making the knot worse and worse as she accepted that she couldn’t walk home, anyway.

Even if the Dornaan allowed it, it was too far.

Even if she made it there, her people would send her back.

Even if they didn’t, the pattern would remain broken. No tribute would be sent. Aurora’s baby would die in her womb. No woman of the blood, including herself, would ever bear a live child. And there would probably be war.

She was simply sitting there, misery a rock in her heart, when he knelt beside her, a sharp knife in his hand. “You would permit me to cut your ribbons?”

She almost felt as if she’d permit him to cut her throat.

“Very well.”

He slid his fingers beneath the ribbon, a warm contact she wasn’t prepared for, and the knife parted the silk as if it were air.

He pulled off the dirty slipper, then did the same with the other one. He kept hold of that foot, brushed off some dust, and pushed on the boot.

“It’s a perfect fit,” she said, wriggling her toes.

“The cobbler who makes the royal shoes provided the measurements.”

She considered that as he slid on the other boot. It had been obvious that today’s events had been carefully planned, but it startled her to learn that the Dornae had been making arrangements within Saragond.

In fact, it frightened her. What else did they get up to, sneaking around? And if they were able to sneak around, they couldn’t all look like him. She was churning with alarm, but with excitement, too. She might be the first Saragondan to explore Dorn. Might she be able to find ways to create harmony between the two peoples? She could keep a journal and one day write a book.

He was still kneeling, looking at her as if he’d like to read her mind.

“Thank you,” she said, rising to try the boots, revived by purpose. But then a gust of wind caught her hair, tugging at her crown again. “Now take off my veil.”

He rose. “Rozlinda, I don’t take orders. A
pray thee
will sweeten it.”

“
Pray thee
, then, Sir Rouar, take off my veil.”

A brow twitched at her tone, but he bowed, hand to the dragon-eye stone on his chest, and walked to her back. He released the veil from its many hooks, and managed it with little pain. Then he tugged at the crown.

She clutched and yelled, “Don’t! It’s glued on.”

“Whatever for?”

“How else would it stay on?”

He came round to face her. “You have to wear it forever?”

“Of course not. Until the glue can be washed out with hot water. Which, I assume, is not available.”

“Not here, no. Again, my apologies.”

The words were polite, but he looked as if he thought all Saragondans idiots. He put the veil in her hands and walked away. With no purpose that she could see, he simply moved to stand a few rooms’ lengths away from her. Was this some requirement of Dornaan propriety, or blatant rudeness?

Oh, she hated this! If nothing else, she’d always been certain of the correct thing to do and say in every situation. She was expert at reading nuances of behavior, but he was an enigma.

And only look at the veil. In meant nothing to her, but she had so few possessions that its state could break her heart. One end was heavy with dragon goop, most of it was streaked with green dust and there was even the smear of her blood from the ritual that now seemed so long ago.

She couldn’t bear to throw it away, but it was too messy to put in the bag. With a shrug, she tied it around her waist like a bulky sash, which reminded her of the bunched-up skirt beneath the bodice, and the breast cups stuffed with silk.