I exhaled a relieved breath. “That’s a good point.”
“Are you ready?” Father asked.
I nodded.
He placed an arm around my waist and escorted me off the carriage. I closed my eyes, inhaling his camphorwood scent. Father was far more affectionate when he wasn’t fixated with Aunt Cendrilla. I pushed aside the dark thoughts and focused on our closeness.
We stepped into the warm, dry heat of the day and onto the red carpet. General Thornicroft’s brows rose at the sight of my true appearance. “I take it that the Princess will perform Her Majesty’s duties?”
“I will return her in time for lessons,” said Father.
My stomach lurched, and I ducked my head to hide a flush. Walking around in a floor-length skirt was bad enough, but to be seen by someone who knew me as a boy was mortifying.
We walked down the red carpet with Master Fosco and General Thornicroft at our heels.
“Prince Regent!” one of the Witch General’s lieutenants chased after us. In her hands, she held a mahogany box. “Her Majesty’s crown.”
I stepped back. “I couldn’t wear that!”
Father flipped open the box and pulled out a delicate, gold headpiece. “This is the official Princess’s tiara. It belonged to Cendrilla when her mother was still the Queen of Steppe.”
“Oh.”
Father placed it on my head, and I cringed under its awkward weight.
“Stand up straight,” said Fyrian. “You deserve this.”
In all my seventeen years, I’d never felt like a Princess, and very few people had ever referred to me as such. A sigh slid from my lips. I would endure the outfit and the crown for the duration of the ceremony, but from now on, Father would have to take care of official duties by himself. I took his arm, and we walked through the side entrance, and up a set of stone stairs.
The sounds of cheers mingled with roars from the dragons watching the entertainment.
Father lowered his head to my ear and murmured, “Your aunt did not get the chance to tell you about her guest.”
“Is someone else going to be in the royal box?”
“Yes, and you will be on your best behavior.”
“Why?” I stopped in the middle of the staircase. “Who is it?”
Father gave me the kind of irritated glare he’d used on me whenever he trained me in swordsmanship. Despite the feeling of ants crawling over the lining of my stomach, I stared right back.
“I’ve just looked,” said Fyrian. “It’s four little witches and a Princeling.”
“What makes you think he’s a Prince?”
“He’s young and wearing a crown.”
My stomach stilled. The only Princes I knew were Aunt Cendrilla’s sons, but Fyrian knew them all by name. It couldn’t be King Magnar, the warlord from the Savannah Empire, because he looked even older than Father in his portrait. And a mighty warrior like him would travel with full-grown witches. I narrowed my eyes. Father was probably in negotiations to marry me off to a spoiled Prince.
“Will you comport yourself like a Princess?” Father growled.
“As long as you tell me who is up there. This had better not be an ambush betrothal.”
He bared his teeth. “We thought you would sit with your classmates.”
My heart jumped. That implied the Princeling was someone he knew I didn’t want to meet. “Will you at least tell me who’s in the royal box?”
Father ascended the rest of the stairs, pushed the door open, and stepped through. Cheers from the arena filled the stairwell, and my heart thundered in my chest. I couldn’t face all those people looking like a Princess, and I certainly couldn’t face the Princeling in the royal box.
I would have bolted down the stairs, but Master Fosco and General Finback both blocked my way.
Master Fosco scowled, but General Finback was the one to speak. “The Dragon Defense Division is no place for those who cannot perform their duties.”
My mouth fell open. “B-but he’s trying to set me up with—”
“Then you walk up the stairs, declare the Academy open and refuse the advances of your royal suitor,” he barked.
My teeth clacked together, holding me back from making a retort. Things were different for eight-foot-tall dragon mages who happened to be quarter giants. Even Aunt Cendrilla, one of the strongest beings in the Known World, had been pursued by King Magnar of Savannah who had threatened to declare war if she refused his proposal. What chance did I have of making my refusal heard?
“Be grateful it’s someone other than King Magnar waiting for you up there,” muttered Fyrian.
I huffed out a breath. She was right. Since Neither General Thornicroft nor Master Fosco would move out of my way, I turned around and walked up the rest of the stairs. If this young Prince was someone Father wanted me to marry, I’d just have to convince him I would make a terrible wife.
I pushed the door open, letting in a gust of dusty air and the ear-splitting roars of the crowd. A procession of rapier red dragons raced around the arena, their wing beats disturbing the dry ground. It looked like every single dragon in Mount Fornax was perched in the seating tiers opposite. There were so many, I couldn’t even see Fyrian in the crowd.
“Over here.” Father stepped out from behind the door, his large hand pressing into the small of my back. He steered me toward the thrones at the front of the royal box.
A young man about the same age as me stood. His short, blond hair shone as brightly as the golden circlet on his head, complementing tanned skin and turquoise eyes that shimmered like pools of spring water. A flush colored his cheeks, making him seem shyer than I’d have expected on someone so handsome. I suppose this was the Princeling Father had wanted me to impress.
My mouth dried, and my heart leaped into my throat. I stared at his outstretched hand, my mind going blank.
A sharp nudge from Father broke my stupor, and I took the hand of the handsome and mysterious Prince.
“It is an honor to finally meet Cendrilla the Great.” He pressed his lips onto my knuckles. “I am Magnar, ruler of the Savannah Empire.”
Chapter 3
It took several seconds for the words to sink into my brain. The young man still bent in front of me holding my hand was not the King Magnar of the betrothal portrait. That monarch had been a scowling, bearded man around the same age and build as Father. There had to be a mistake. Maybe the original King Magnar had died and left the throne to his son or nephew.
I stared into his turquoise eyes. It was a feature he shared with the brutish King in the painting, as was the blond hair.
“They’re waiting for you to say something,” hissed Fyrian.
I flinched and snatched my hand away, ignoring Father’s snarl of disapproval. On my left, a huge plume of fire flared, and a cheer filled the crowd. I didn’t dare avert my gaze to see what was happening in the arena.
His features fell. “Are you well?”
“I’ve seen King Magnar’s betrothal portrait, and you’re not him!”
Giggles erupted from a quartet of young witches seated behind the thrones of the royal box. They ranged in age from nine to fifteen, and each held a full-sized, crystal-tipped staff. From their similar blonde-haired and blue-eyed features, they were obviously sisters. And the smiling suns etched on the brass breastplates of their tan leather uniforms indicated that they served the Savannah empire.
“Alba!” Father hissed.
The young man’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then his features hardened into a glare. Straightening, he released my hand as though it was diseased. “Princess Alba? I came to meet Queen Cendrilla.”
“My wife is indisposed, Your Majesty,” Father used the term of address with the same tone of voice he used to call me a little brat. “You are free to return to Steppe once she has given birth to my sons.”
King Magnar’s lips thinned, jaw flexed, and I wondered if he would challenge Father to a duel. My own pulse pounded in my ears, drowning out
the cheers and roars of the crowd.
King Magnar turned a cold gaze onto me. “I intend to stay and enjoy the rest of the ceremony. Princess…” He wrinkled his nose. “Alba will sit at my side.”
I shot Father a pleading look, but he walked over to the silver throne in front of the quartet of witches, leaving the two golden thrones free for the young King and me.
King Magnar stuck his nose in the air and flounced over to his throne.
My insides shriveled. This was precisely why I had run away in the first place. I’d known that Father’s plan to marry me off to King Magnar would end in a humiliating rejection.
“Actually, you thought King Magnar would kill you,” said Fyrian.
My gaze slid to the glaring monarch. “He looks like he’d behead me if Father wasn’t sitting right there with his Sword of Lightning.”
“You’d better sit,” said Fyrian. “Everyone’s looking at you.”
I turned around. On the left, Master Fosco and General Thornicroft had positioned themselves in front of wooden seats next to Father, and on the right, King Magnar stood in front of his golden throne. The entire arena fell silent, and even the dragons perched on the sandstone seating tiers turned their gazes to the royal box.
Nausea swirled in my belly and my palms itched with sweat. I’d never before been the focus of so much attention. “They’re waiting for me to sit first, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” replied Fyrian.
“Right.” I swallowed my disgust. Disgust at Father for bringing me up here to meet King Magnar while claiming that his presence at the royal box was no ambush. Disgust at the blond man who glared at me like I was an unwanted consolation companion, and disgust at myself, for stupidly agreeing to open the Academy.
“They’re annoyed,” said Fyrian.
“Thanks for pointing out the obvious.”
Fyrian sniffed. “I was about to fly over and rescue you, but now I won’t bother.”
I clenched my teeth and sent her a silent apology. She didn’t respond, and I could only guess she was waiting for me to grovel. It served me right for being angry with the only party innocent in this awful scenario. Heart plummeting, I shuffled over to Aunt Cendrilla’s throne.
“I knew you were illegitimate,” King Magnar murmured into my ear, “but that does not excuse you from being an uncouth, ill-mannered dolt. Sit down!”
The words were a lance through the heart. Not because he’d called me uncouth or implied that I was stupid. Those were just the opinions of a man who had killed thousands in a spate of wars to expand his empire. What hurt was the reminder that I was a bastard.
Father had never introduced us to any nobles because he’d been ashamed of his concubine and illegitimate daughter.
My fists clenched hard enough to snap King Magnar’s neck, and a dozen cutting replies battled their way to the tip of my tongue. I pursed my lips, holding them back. The young monarch looked the type to scream himself hoarse if I mocked his use of a misleading betrothal portrait.
“Alba.” Father’s rumbling warning was a reminder to comport myself like a Princess.
I lowered myself onto the plush, velvet seat and folded my hands across my lap with as much grace and dignity as I could muster.
All the males in the front row of the royal box sat, and unseen musicians played the national anthem of Steppe over the excited roar of the crowd. I swallowed hard. Father hadn’t explained what I needed to do to open the Academy’s academic year.
King Magnar leaned into me and murmured into my ear. “My spies tell me you failed the Magical Militia Academy.”
“Does Queen Cendrilla know you’re spying on her?” I asked through gritted teeth.
He huffed. “I suppose it’s too much to expect a no-hoper to understand anything of matters of the state.”
Blood rushed through my eardrums, and I clenched my knees, digging my fingertips into the enchanted, leather skirt. Breathing hard, I tried to tamp down the bitterness roiling in my belly. A few of the nastier witches at the Magical Militia Academy had whispered such words within earshot when I’d failed to perform spells. They’d compared my magic to Aunt Cendrilla’s and found me lacking.
“Ignore him,” said Fyrian. “You know you’re not powerless, and no one cares what he thinks. In an hour or so, he’ll go back over the border, and you’ll never see him again.”
King Magnar turned to the quartet of witches and whispered something at them, eliciting fits of giggles.
Simmering anger filled my veins, pumping heat to my face. Out loud, I said, “You’re right.”
“Of course, I am.” He chuckled, looking over his shoulder at his audience of admiring little girls.
“My power’s more like Queen Cendrilla’s.” I straightened in my throne, affecting a regal posture. “Neither of us possesses the magic of a witch.”
His brows rose. “You’re a mage?”
“Of sorts.” Lifting my chin, I stuck my nose in the air. He didn’t need to know I was only a dragon mage cadet. Let him think I was a natural mage like Aunt Cendrilla.
He rubbed his chin. “I see…”
Master Fosco stood at the podium and bellowed in an unnaturally loud voice, “Noble ogres and ogresses, honored dragons, welcome to the fifteenth opening ceremony of the Mount Fornax Dragon Academy!”
A round of applause broke out, accompanied by roars and plumes of flames. I leaned forward in my seat, marveling at the sight of so many dragons. Dragons came in seven colors: red, gray, black, blue, green, yellow, and purple. Yet each of them had scales of varying shades. I’d seen them every day while walking the terraces, and my bedroom window overlooked their dwelling in the mountain’s interior, but the sight of so many in a small space was breathtaking.
I scanned the crowd of warriors and found a section of males wearing brown uniforms. They were too far, and I couldn’t tell where my classmates sat. Maybe that was for the best. If Stafford couldn’t get a good look at my true form, our friendship wouldn’t change.
Master Fosco gave what sounded like a well-practiced speech about the history of Mount Fornax, and how dragonkind had helped Aunt Cendrilla win the Great Dragon Revolution in exchange for a home and deliverance from persecution. He explained how Aunt Cendrilla, with the help of the Magical Militia and her three husbands built Mount Fornax with their own magic and provided a place where male ogre-hybrids could learn to become dragon warriors.
I sat up, chest swelling with pride at the thought of her and Father creating this beautiful oasis within the ruins of the final battleground of the Great Dragon Revolution.
“Queen Cendrilla is unable to attend today.” Master Fosco raised his hands, silencing the roars of outrage. “Settle down, everybody! In her place is a promising young lady who has a natural affinity with dragons. Allow me to welcome Her Highness, Princess Alba of Steppe!”
Father clapped me between the shoulder blades, shoving me out of my seat.
“That was no accident,” muttered Fyrian.
Grunting with annoyance, I straightened, pulling my lips into what I hoped would be a dazzling smile. I strode past Father and General Thornicroft to the end of the royal box where Master Fosco stood in front of the podium. Behind them stood Madam Maritimus, the Witch General and half a dozen security witches.
Master Fosco beamed and handed me a cudgel with a bulbous tip.
“What do I do with it?” I whispered.
His large hand landed on the small of my back. Between clenched teeth, he said, “Set its tip alight with your magic, and don’t overpower it.”
General Thornicroft snorted with laughter. As my Magecraft instructor, he was well aware of my magical accidents.
“A-all right.” I pushed my power through the wood, and a ball of fire shot out from its tip.
The force made me stagger back, but Master Fosco’s hand on the small of my back kept me upright. Cheers broke out among the crowds.
“Now you have to say, ‘by royal proclamation, I declare the Dragon Ac
ademy open!’ Then set the railing alight.” said Fyrian.
She must have attended the ceremony numerous times during her duty as Aunt Cendrilla’s messenger dragonet. I repeated her words and placed the fireball on the wooden railing.
Tiny balls of fire shot out from the wood, exploding into clouds of colored smoke, each representing the seven types of dragon. Thunderous booms filled the sky, each accompanied by flashes of light that brightened the display.
“Well done,” said Master Fosco.
“Can I leave and join my classmates now?” I asked.
He flashed me a malicious grin. “Not until you have kissed your Father goodbye.”
The wind blew long, platinum strands of hair into my face, and I glanced down at my skirt. Of course. The block on my magical disguise was still in place. Father probably wouldn’t break it until I’d sat out the entire opening ceremony.
I trudged across the royal box, back to where King Magnar watched me like I was an interesting specimen of dragon dung.
“That torch you just lit.” His gaze flickered to my hands. “How do I know it was powered by your magic and not anyone else’s?”
“You don’t.” I turned back to the arena.
The colored smoke cleared, leaving behind a flaming ball of fire about the size of a giant watermelon. Then a dozen dragons flew into the arena through the amphitheater’s high arches, each carrying riders wielding two-pronged spears. They chased after the ball of fire, batting it with weapons that looked like tridents but had only two prongs.
“What’s this, then?” asked King Magnar.
“Drogott,” I replied. “It’s the sport of dragons.”
I swiveled in my seat, turning my back to the annoying monarch. Father gave my knees a gentle push to put me back into position.
“Something tells me he hasn’t given up on marrying you off to Magnar,” said Fyrian.
She was right, of course, but I didn’t feel like acknowledging this. Instead, I focused on the drogott match. One team wore the burgundy piping on their uniform of dragon mages and the other the red of dragon riders. Each was trying to move the fireball toward goals on the east and west of the amphitheater.
Dragon Mage Academy Box Set Page 24
