He glances at the spot I swatted. “Did you touch me, or was that a gentle breeze ruffling my shirt?”
“You are lucky I left my staff in the house, because you are asking for a beating!”
We pass King Marrkul’s stables; they are bigger than his house, and at least three times as large as the royal Faodarian stables. And then we stop at a fence separating the yard from a field of knee-high green grass. Dozens of horses are cropping the grass. Beyond them, the sun is glinting on the gray ocean, and I instantly know how the ocean sounds, feels, tastes, moves, and smells. It is as if I am the one remembering the briny water sliding through my fingertips, though I have never seen the ocean up close. I shove the memory aside.
Golmarr hops over the fence in one swift, graceful move. I gather my skirt in my hands and follow. When we are on the other side, he puts his fingers to his lips and whistles, and the ground starts to vibrate beneath my feet as horses gallop toward us. Placing his hand on the small of my back, Golmarr pulls me close as dozens of horses press against us, nipping at him, whinnying, and pawing the ground.
“You missed me,” Golmarr says, taking a moment to touch every single horse that is within his reach. “I missed you, too. I thought I might never see you again.” He examines the horses and frowns. “Where is Dewdrop?” he calls. A pale gray horse with a white diamond on its forehead presses its way past the others and nuzzles Golmarr’s shoulder. “There you are, Dewdrop.”
“Dewdrop?” I ask. “You are an Antharian warrior, and you named your horse Dewdrop? Is it battle trained?”
Golmarr nods. “She is. She’s the best horse I have ever trained—gentle, yet fierce and strong, smarter than most, and incredibly swift. But she is not mine.”
“Whose horse is she?”
He puts his finger under my chin and tilts my face up. “She is yours. My betrothal gift to you.”
I stare at him, and my heart feels so full that I cannot speak. Instead, I give him the Anthar hand signal for I love you.
He smiles and shakes his head in wonderment. “You’re going to fit right in here with me and my family. Do you want to try riding Dewdrop?”
I nod, and he kneels at my feet and cups his hands. “I don’t know how to ride bareback, Golmarr.”
He peers up at me, squinting against the sun. “Surely there is at least one memory in your head of someone riding bareback.”
I smile and put my foot into his hands and mount Dewdrop. The ample fabric of my skirt spreads over the horse’s back and stays modestly around my ankles.
Golmarr mounts a black horse, and I know it is the same horse he rode to stop me from stealing his father’s stallion back in Faodara. “This is Tanyani,” he says. “That is the ancient Antharian word for the energy that vibrates the air when two armies collide on the battlefield.” He pats Tanyani’s neck. “Remember, Antharian horses are trained to respond to your movements. Lean forward to make Dewdrop run; lean back to slow down or stop. If you press against her with your right leg and lean to the right, she turns right. Same with the left. There are other things I will teach you about riding her, but not today.” With that, Golmarr leans forward and Tanyani breaks into a gallop, the pound of his hooves sounding like the low rumble of thunder.
I wind my hands in Dewdrop’s mane and lean forward. She doesn’t start slow—simply goes from standing still to a full-out gallop, and the green field starts speeding past. The wind blows my hair from my face and presses my tunic against my chest. I feel like I am flying, and that is when the realization that I am blissfully, ridiculously happy settles over me.
The grass tapers off into sand, and Golmarr is waiting at the spot where sand and ocean meet, watching me. I lean back, and Dewdrop instantly slows, trotting up beside Golmarr.
“You are an incredibly graceful rider,” he says. “Do you suppose it is because of the dragon’s treasure, or are you naturally good at physical things?”
“Both, I think. I could learn a dance after seeing it done once, but my sisters always had to practice the steps over and over before they could remember them.”
Golmarr dismounts and holds his hands up to me to help me down. When I am standing in front of him, he tightens his hold on my waist and says, “There is something I need to tell you.” He frowns and fiddles with my belt, and I can feel tension oozing off of his taut body.
“What? Is it bad news?”
“No, nothing bad. At least, I don’t think you will consider it bad news.” He clears his throat. “Part of the Mountain Binding says that if the Antharian prince chooses to marry a Faodarian princess at the ceremony, he is instantly moved into the position of heir. But…” He studies my face, watching for a reaction. “Since the fire dragon was killed, we no longer have to follow the rules of the Mountain Binding. Tonight at the feast, I am going to formally request that I not be the Antharian heir. There are two reasons behind my choice. First, I would rather focus on protecting you from the dragons than be burdened with the duties of heir. Second, I believe some people will think that I chose to be wed to you simply to gain the throne. This is my way of proving to you and them that in no way was my choice influenced by any desire for power. How do you feel about that?”
Again, my heart does that expanding that makes it hard for me to talk. I tap my chin and try to put my thoughts into words. “If you are not the heir, does that alter our betrothal in any way?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then I think what you just said makes me love you even more,” I say. Relief washes over him, softening his entire body. “Did you think I agreed to marry you because you were going to be king one day?”
“No, it never occurred to me, but Ingvar brought it up last night while you were sleeping. I wanted to talk to you before I made my decision formal, in case you did care. And if you did, I would have rethought my decision.”
“If I were not a princess, would you still want to marry me?” I ask.
He laughs. “I would marry you if you were a lowly Trevonan fishmonger’s youngest daughter.”
“Aren’t you and the Trevonans enemies?”
“Yes, we are. That is the point.” He turns and faces the ocean. “What do you think? This is the first time you have seen the ocean, right?”
I crouch and run my fingers through the damp yellow sand. “I feel like I have seen it hundreds of times before. I feel as if I have lived on its shores and fallen asleep to the constant lullaby of crashing waves.” I stand and breathe in the damp, briny scent. “It is spectacular.”
Golmarr abruptly turns his back to the ocean and shades his eyes with his left hand. His right hand is on his sword hilt. Two horses are approaching at a gallop. One rider has long, dark hair flowing out behind him. The other has short, dark hair.
“It is Enzio and Yerengul,” I say, and Golmarr’s hand falls away from his sword. Their horses’ hooves throw sprays of sand behind them as they gallop to us and pull to a hard stop.
“What is wrong?” Golmarr asks.
“Nayadi is receiving a vision, but refuses to speak of it until we are all gathered,” Yerengul says. “Father has called an urgent council meeting. You and Sorrowlynn are to attend. He asks that you come with all haste and let Enzio accompany Sorrowlynn at her leisure.”
“At my leisure?” I ask, looking between Yerengul and Enzio.
“They think that since you are a northern princess, you cannot ride as swiftly as a horse lord,” Enzio says with a gleam in his eyes. “I told them I did not think my assistance would be needed, but I would come in case I was mistaken.”
“She can keep up with us,” Golmarr says.
Yerengul glances at Dewdrop. “Even riding bareback?”
“Believe me or not, Yerengul,” I say, “but I know just about everything there is to know about riding.”
Yerengul glares at Golmarr. “You are so lucky,” he says, and then he turns and rides away.
I step through the door leading from the yard to the kitchen and pause. For the second
time this day, Golmarr’s family is gathered in the great kitchen, minus the children. This time, I am met by heavy silence and worried glances.
King Marrkul sits at the head of the table. On his right is Nayadi. Her eyes are closed, she is swaying from side to side, and her lips are moving. Evay is there as well, seated on one of the benches lining the wall with several other people I have never seen before. Yerengul sits beside her, but she hardly takes notice, instead watching as Golmarr and I cross the room to two empty chairs at the great wooden table.
Golmarr must notice who has caught my attention, because he whispers, “Evay leads our archers when we go to battle.”
I look at him. “We are going to battle?”
He presses a finger to his lips. “We are about to find out.” He speaks no louder than an exhaled breath. “When Nayadi is seeing visions, we have to remain silent unless she addresses us. Otherwise we might interfere with what she is seeing.” He pulls a chair out for me.
The exact second I lower myself into the chair, Nayadi’s milky eyes pop open and stare right at me. I press my spine against the chair back in an effort to get as far away from her as possible.
She points at me, and the sleeve of her tattered brown tunic conforms around an arm as thin as bare bones. “You are bringing darkness to us,” Nayadi hisses. Every person in the room looks at me, and I can feel the weight of their eyes as if it were a physical burden.
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I say.
“You lie. You know!” she says. “I can see his aura all over you! Because of you, they are all waking up again!”
The room suddenly feels too warm, and while my fingers continue to be plagued with cold, the rest of my body overheats. Sweat breaks out along my hairline and between my shoulder blades. I wait for Golmarr to say something, or for King Marrkul to explain why his witch is verbally attacking me, but everyone sits still and silent, watching, waiting. “Who is waking up again?” I finally ask.
Nayadi thumps her frail hands on the table, and I jump. “You already know.” She leans closer and swings her hand in front of my chest, pulling my air toward her.
“Enough,” Golmarr says, standing and glaring at the hag. There is a collective gasp.
“You are not to interrupt!” Nayadi growls. “You will stifle my sight if you do!”
Golmarr visibly bristles, but he balls his hands into fists and sits back down. “What vision have you seen?” he asks.
Nayadi grins, and her bald gums gleam with saliva. “They are coming for the northern princess.” She swipes at the air around me again and sucks it in through her nostrils. The room remains tensely silent as everyone stares at the old hag, waiting for her to elaborate. People begin shifting in their chairs and looking at King Marrkul, but no one utters a word.
“They are coming, and they’re going to get you,” Nayadi says, and grins. She is binging on the emotional suspense filling the room. It is filling her up. She takes a deep breath of air and starts laughing.
There is a loud thunk, and Nayadi’s laughter stops abruptly. A black stone knife is embedded in the headrest of her chair, pinning a lock of her greasy hair to the wood beside her ear. “Tell Princess Sorrowlynn who is coming, when, where, and why, you filthy old witch, or my next knife will find your heart,” Enzio says. He is holding another black stone blade in his hand, and his gaze is riveted on Nayadi’s chest.
Nayadi smacks her lips closed over her gums and slouches in her chair. “You Satari have always been prejudiced against the wielding of magic,” she grumbles. “So now you spoil my fun?” She yanks the knife from her chair, and a tuft of severed yellow hair falls to her shoulder. Quick as the blink of an eye, Nayadi throws the knife at Enzio. It thunks into the headrest of his chair, right beside his ear. “An army comes. From the Glass Forest. Mercenaries and Trevonan renegades. The largest army that has ever come from that forest.”
King Marrkul scratches his chin through his beard. “Why are they coming? How many men strong?”
Nayadi waves a dismissive hand at me. “Smaller than your army. They have been sent to kill her.”
“Sent by whom?” Golmarr asks.
Nayadi huffs. “How should I know? You interrupted me while I was receiving my vision. But they will reach Kreeose shortly before sunset tomorrow.” Nayadi stands, and Ingvar hops to his feet, pulling the crone’s chair out. “Hopefully I have seen enough to spare this people from slaughter.” She steps from the table and shuffles away, leaving the kitchen without a backward glance.
King Marrkul rests his elbows on the table and frowns. “So we are going to battle.” The wrinkles around his eyes seem deeper than I remember, and he looks exhausted. “We will postpone the feast until after the fighting. For now, we need to prepare to defend our land and our people.” He looks at me. “And my son’s betrothed.”
Battle. The single word opens so many memories inside of my brain that my head begins to hurt. It hurts all day, so by the time the sun sets, I take my leave and retire to Golmarr’s room, alone, in hopes that sleep will ease the pain.
I open my eyes to a battle on the side of a sun-drenched hill—men slaughtering men. With perfect clarity, I can see the strategy of the battle. I know who is winning, and why. Blinking, I open my eyes to another battle being fought in the courtyard of my mother’s castle and again know the inner workings of battle strategy. I blink and see another battle, with rain-sodden soldiers and the ground awash with blood. I blink again and open my eyes to more fighting. Again, fighting. Again, fighting. Again, fighting, until I have witnessed every single battle of every single person whose memories live in my head, and all I want to do is close my eyes forever!
And then I blink and see the great green dragon, the dragon of the Glass Forest, sitting in its cave made of tree boughs, vines, and dirt. Thoughts are flowing out of the beast, rippling through the misty forest air, and settling in the dreams of sleeping men. I reach my mind out to the thoughts, and when I touch one, I hear what the dragon is communicating: Attack the horse clan. Kill any who oppose you. Take their land for your own. Accompanying the thoughts is the fierce, yearning desire to obey them.
The dragon’s thoughts shift as it grows aware of me, and I realize this dragon is female. With that knowledge comes a name: Corritha. Something sharp clamps down on my mind and wraps around it, stifling it, smothering my ability to think. Everything is stripped from my brain until all that is left is a dull gray void, and then something darker than the gray is forced into my head. Corritha’s treasure. The thing she craves above everything else. The weapon she has hoarded for a more than a millennium—hatred: the weapon that gives her the ability to kill and hate and terrorize without remorse. Her hatred is so intense, I want to take my own life—because her abhorrence feels like my own self-loathing. Her treasure of hatred once focused on a jewel prized above all others: the fire dragon. And since I killed him, all of that hatred has been transferred onto me. I am the new jewel.
I lash out at the glass dragon’s blackness with thoughts of my own, thoughts in opposition to the creature’s all-consuming hatred: I summon up every good memory I have, every single kindness I can recall, every type of love that exists in my hundreds of memories, and shove it at the black space devouring my conscience.
The glass dragon recoils, and I can feel the blackness dissipating from my brain like hissing steam. But my victory is only temporary.
Corritha spreads her wings, and I feel her wicked anticipation, for tomorrow she will eat me.
I sit up, throw the covers from me, and press my fingertips against my eyes, trying to remove the horrible things I have seen. I force my eyes open and stare at a square of light on the bedroom floor, from the moon shining in through the window, and then I get up. More than mercenaries and renegades are coming tomorrow, and King Marrkul needs to know. I glance at my nightgown and consider changing clothes, but what I have to say is too important to delay.
The hallway outside is dark, the wood floor cold on my
bare feet. Beside my door is a black lump. I crouch and put my hands on it and discover something warm and firm and snoring, so I give it a gentle shake.
“Sorrowlynn?” I recognize Enzio’s voice. “Is everything all right?” He sits up, and I can barely make out his face.
“Why are you sleeping on the floor? Do you not know that there are twelve bedrooms in this house?” I ask.
“I could not sleep, knowing that witch was in the same house as you,” he says, his voice cold. “I was afraid, after the way she looked at you like she was going to eat you…”
Warmth fills my breast despite the chill left from the battles I witnessed in my dreams. “You are protecting me.”
“I was thinking tonight might be the night I repay the debt I owe you.”
“Thank you, Enzio,” I whisper. I reach out and clasp his hand, wrapping my frigid fingers around it. “If you want, sleep in the bed I was in. I won’t be sleeping anymore tonight. And Nayadi won’t be able to sneak up on me now that I’m awake.”
“Do you know how to throw a knife?”
When he asks, I can feel in my fingers and wrist the precise muscles and technique used to throw a knife. “Yes.”
Enzio stands. “If she comes anywhere near you, aim for her heart. Do not let her get close enough to touch you.”
“All right. Do you know where Golmarr is sleeping?”
He scratches his head. “His father insisted he sleep somewhere you were not, to protect your honor, but I do not know where,” he explains, and stumbles into Golmarr’s room.
The low rumble of deep voices penetrates the quiet house. I press my hand to the wall and wander down the dark hall, toward the stairs and the voices. The stairwell flickers and glimmers with orange light.
At the bottom of the stairs is a big room with a giant hearth at one end, surrounded by three sofas, which make three sides of a square. A small fire is burning in the hearth, giving off just enough light to illuminate King Marrkul, Jessen, Ingvar, and a horse lord I do not know sitting on two of the sofas, their stocking feet propped up on a table, their backs to me.
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