by Serena Rose
“You’re freezing,” he said, taking both of her hands in his. The heat of his skin was so pleasant that she leaned into him without thinking about it, and he didn’t pull away. His breath warmed her face. “Let’s go back upstairs,” he said in a low voice. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder as they went up the stairs and didn’t release her even when they emerged into his room. She turned her face toward his in question. “Sorry I didn’t come to see you this morning,” he said. Neither of them moved. “Did you sleep well?”
“As well as can be expected,” she replied with a half-smile. Her heart was racing. She didn’t want to pull away but felt that she should. Because she hadn’t made her decision yet, had she? “And you?” she asked, somewhat breathless.
“I was… fine,” he said, but Alaia thought she saw something in his eyes, words he hadn’t dared to speak. “I suppose we should go check on the children.” He dropped his arm from her shoulder with obvious reluctance, and though the room wasn’t cold, she missed his warmth.
“Yes, I guess we should,” she agreed, but everything was fine. The triplets were asleep, and Galena was watching over them while knitting something that may have been a tiny sock. Lorea immediately wanted to talk to Zorion about the ceremony, now only two days away, and she dragged him off at once. For the first time in what felt like forever, Alaia had nothing to do. She found a book in the bookshelf that looked interesting, but nearly the moment she had sat down to read it, she fell asleep.
****************************************
The next two days passed quickly, and it was morning on the day of the ceremony. Alaia nursed the children and helped Galena to dress them, and then Lorea breezed into the room like a sudden squall. “Alaia, I just realized, you don’t have anything to wear!”
“I beg your pardon?” Alaia asked, blinking, because she really had no idea what Lorea was talking about. She had two good dresses, which was probably far less than a princess was used to, but there was no way for her to have known that. And besides, what would it matter?
“I mean, I know you have your own clothes,” Lorea continued, “and there’s nothing wrong with them, really, but you’ll be coming to the ceremony tonight; at least, I assume you will. Zorion would want you to come, but you’d look a bit out of place dressed in the style of the village. Some other nobles will be there, and it would probably best if you looked like you belonged among them.”
“You’re sure Zorion wants me there? I thought he was interested in keeping everything… secret,” Alaia said, though she couldn’t deny that she was curious. What was the power of the dragon, exactly? Zorion had said it wasn’t just a symbol; did that mean it was some sort of magic? Alaia had been taught that magic came from the gods, but she’d never seen any, and she was a practical sort of person. She wasn’t sure what to expect.
Lorea laughed. “Of course, he wants you there. This is the most important ceremony of his life. I know you want time to make a decision, but surely you can see he adores you.” Alaia couldn’t speak; it was all she could do to shake her head with her cheeks on fire. “In any case, Maude says she can alter one of my gowns to fit you by tonight, but you have to decide which one you’d like.”
And without further ado, Alaia was whisked away to Lorea’s room with her head still reeling from the assessment of Zorion’s affections. Surely Lorea was overestimating things. She was quite young after all, but on the other hand, she must know her brother well…
“Here we are,” Lorea said, opening the door to a bright and cheerful room decorated in light yellows and blues. Daisies and rabbits seemed to be a popular theme, which Alaia thought a bit childish for a girl of Lorea’s age. Perhaps it hadn’t been changed since they’d moved in.
“Now, I was thinking, with your hair, green would really be the best color but Maude says violet, so let’s just take out these…” A pile of gowns appeared on the bed and grew to an alarming height as Alaia watched, goggle-eyed, and then Maude came in the room with the tea cart.
“My goodness, Lorea, you’ll have her in here till sundown. Surely, we can narrow the field a bit.”
A few minutes later, there were only three dresses left on the bed, one of green velvet, another of deep blue silk, and a rich purple that was mostly tulle. Each of them was beautiful in their own way, made with finer fabric than Alaia had ever seen before and cut much more elegantly than anything from the village.
They fit as well as could be expected, since she was both taller and more buxom than Lorea, but Alaia couldn't say she loved any of them in particular. The other two women seemed to agree.
“This one is all right,” Lorea said, “but I feel like there's something missing.”
“None of them seem to suit her, do they?” Maude said, tapping her finger on her chin. Alaia thought it was likely that no gown this fancy would ever look right on her. She was only a simple village girl after all.
“Hang on,” Lorea said. “I have an idea. Get that one off.” Maude helped Alaia pull the purple gown back over her head and heard Lorea approaching behind her. Maude gasped.
“Are you sure that's a wise choice?” she asked, not in an unkind way. Alaia turned to see what the fuss was about. Lorea was holding a new gown, green and gold with red accents. On the face of it, this dress wasn’t so much different from the others, though perhaps slightly less ostentatious in style.
“I know it might be more of a statement than he intends to make right now, but there’s no harm in letting her try it on,” Lorea replied in a wheedling tone. “Maybe it’ll give us some ideas. I have a good feeling.”
“I suppose it can’t hurt,” Maude agreed, and the dress was dropped over Alaia’s head, slithering over her skin with a muted hiss and rustle of fabric. It fit better than the other ones had; the fabric was loose around her hips and chest and reached nearly to the floor.
“Is there some problem with this dress?” Alaia asked as Maude tied up the laces.
“I wouldn’t call it a problem,” she replied in a thoughtful tone. “This was the Queen’s gown, Zorion’s mother. She wore it several times during the beginning of her reign, so it’s a bit outdated and quite recognizable.”
Alaia understood why that might be an issue. She didn’t much care whether she was out of style or not, but wearing one of the Queen’s old dresses probably would send a signal whose consequences she wasn’t ready for. “Still, it does look lovely on you,” Maude said, stepping back with a sigh.
“Oh, let me see!” Lorea squealed. “Come out into the light.” Alaia stepped forward, the fabric swirling around her and swishing against the floor in a way her skirts did not, light and airy, almost alive. “Gods, it’s perfect. You’d think the dress was made for you,” Lorea said, walking a slow circle around Alaia and sighing.
She wished she had a mirror, just to fix the image of herself in her mind, wearing such a gown as this one. It was difficult to imagine that she looked anything but ridiculous. She started to speak, to ask for said mirror, and then the door opened. All three women turned with identical attitudes of having been caught doing something they shouldn’t.
Zorion stood in the doorway, frozen in place. The gaze that met Alaia’s was round-eyed with astonishment but soon changed into something she couldn't quite identify. He strode into the room with purpose. “Is that one of Mother’s dresses?” he asked, his voice a little hoarse.
“I'm sorry,” she said, ducking her head. What must he think of her now, putting on his dead mother’s clothes?
“No, it was my idea, Zorion,” Lorea said, stepping between them. “It was just an experiment. I thought it would fit better than my things. I…” Zorion pushed his sister impatiently to the side. Lorea frowned with a mixture of confusion and annoyance.
“No apology necessary,” he said, resting his hands lightly on Alaia’s shoulders. “The gown suits you. I hope you’ll wear it at the ceremony tonight.” His eyes were warm. Alaia was rooted to the spot.
“I will,” she somehow managed
to say past her suddenly clumsy and overlarge tongue. The moment lasted for a breath too long. She could feel the warmth of his fingers, and her eyes were drawn quite inexplicably to his mouth. Her mind flashed back to Heartfire, to the way his lips had felt against hers. Her face was hot.
“Now that we have your approval, I think we all have a ceremony to get ready for,” Lorea said, making shooing motions at her brother.
“Right,” he said sheepishly. “I, uh, I’ll see you tonight.” Alaia nodded, and when the door finally closed after his retreating back, she let out an explosive breath.
Lorea shook her head, lips pursed. “You two… I don’t even know what to say. But we’d better get to work if we’re going to be ready for tonight.”
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Zorion sat in the darkness, staring into the fire. He was supposed to be mediating on the power of dragons, on what it meant to him, or what he would do with it; he wasn’t sure which. But even with the hypnotic dance of the flames to steady his mind, his thoughts returned to Alaia, again and again. Seeing her wearing his mother’s dress had been a surprise. Not because he’d been offended or anything like that, but because of how amazing she had looked. He’d always thought her beautiful, but in that gown, she had been regal, a goddess come down to earth.
She had taken his breath away. He had wanted to give her space, to let her make her own decision without pressuring her, but now he wondered if he should have been more honest. Maybe if he’d told her how he felt, that he dreamed of her, that every night it took a supreme effort of will to pass by her door without knocking… maybe then she’d feel less unsure. After the ceremony… A knock on the doorframe ended his train of thought.
“It’s time,” Itzal said, and Zorion got to his feet. In the temple, they had pools specifically made for ritual bathing. Here, they would have to make do. He was only wearing a thin silk robe, and as he followed Itzal down the stairs into the tunnels below the house, he shivered. They took a side passage lit by a single torch and entered a room that was empty but for two copper washtubs.
The water in the first one was steaming and smelled of herbs; Zorion recognized some of them by scent, lavender and chamomile for relaxation. He wasn’t sure why he needed to be calm, but perhaps it had to do with whatever else was in the bath, something bitter and tannic. He slipped the robe off his shoulders and climbed into the tub.
“What’s the purpose of this one?” he asked. Osane had kept much of the details of the ritual secret, possibly to keep him from thinking about it too much.
“Osane said this bath is to attune you to the realm of magic and open your inner eye.” Itzal wasn’t a particularly devout follower of the temple, but he kept his voice neutral. “She said you should soak in the bath and try to empty your mind.”
Zorion let out a deep breath and closed his eyes. It was difficult not to let his mind wander, and as the tension faded from his muscles, he was afraid he might fall asleep. He thought of Alaia and the children… the three lives they had made together. What would become of them? Did he really believe in the prophecy? In his mind, he saw the three children as adults. Izar had her mother’s hair, and Zuzen had his eyes. They were linked by an unbreakable chain of light.
“Time for your next bath, sleeping beauty. This one is supposed to bring clarity to your mind. Osane said you have to dunk your head, but you don’t have to stay in it.” Zorion stood and his legs wobbled underneath him. The edges of his vision fractured into rainbows. Something in the bath had made his head feel disconnected from his body, and he was only half paying attention to what Itzal was saying. Zorion stepped into the tub and barely refrained from shrieking.
“It’s cold!” he gasped. Itzal laughed.
“That's why I said you don't have to stay. Just duck under the water and be done with it.” Zorion took a deep breath and plunged into the water, so icy he worried his heart might stop. He jumped out of the tub, yanking the towel from Itzal's hands, and every fiber of the fabric seemed to scratch against his skin. His heartbeat was loud in his ears, his breath a harsh rasp. Itzal draped a cloak over his shoulders; it was all he would wear for the ceremony. “Ready?”
His insides churned. No, he was not ready. He didn't think he'd ever be ready, but he knew everyone was out there waiting for them. Alaia was out there, and the mental image of her, looking radiant in a dress made for a queen, was steadying. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” They went up the stairs.
CHAPTER FIVE
Moonlight shone silver on the circle of crypts where Alaia stood next to Lorea, fists clenched. The children are safe, she told herself. They were asleep in their crib and guarded by Galena and Maude and a few men that Zorion trusted. But the anxiety wouldn't leave her, and it wasn't only for the triplets.
No one would explain this ceremony, except to say that it was important, and the secrecy made her fearful. Not so much for herself but for Zorion. What were they were asking him to do? He’d said it wasn't dangerous, but what would happen if he failed to awaken this power, whatever it was?
It shouldn't have mattered to her. Probably she'd be better off, safer, if he didn’t. Overthrowing Imanol wasn't a trivial thing, after all. But she could no longer deny that she cared for Zorion. She had been half in love with him after Heartfire, and those feelings hadn't gone away. She wanted him to succeed, for the people who were suffering and for himself. So, she waited, the whispers of the other spectators a hum at the edge of her thoughts, and finally, Osane lit a candle, throwing strange shadows over her aged face. Silence fell as she began to speak.
“Bright Ehki, beloved Mari, and all the other gods and spirits who have aided our people since the beginning of time: The hour has come to remember our covenant. A boy comes before you today to become a man, but also to receive the power that is his birth right. Prince Zorion, the twenty-third of the line of Kemen, bears the blood of the dragon through his mother, the late Queen Aintza. Tonight, the dragon will rise again!”
The people around the fire gave a ragged cheer, and two shadowed figures emerged from one of the crypts, likely through another one of those underground passages. One of the newcomers lit another candle, and Alaia could see that it was Itzal. By the process of elimination, the other person, concealed by a cloak, could only be Zorion. Osane handed him something that gleamed in the moonlight. “Drink the draft of fire and blood and be renewed.”
Zorion lifted the goblet to his mouth, and there was a long moment where it seemed the whole world was holding its breath. The cup fell to the ground with a muted thunk, and he doubled over, as if in pain. Alaia gasped as she saw one bare arm braced against the ground, held taut with strain.
There was a sound of cracking and popping and a scream that at first sounded like a man before edging into something inhuman and terrifying. She was frozen to the spot, torn between running to his side and fleeing in terror. A shadow loomed overhead, blocking the moon, and something made a noise like the bellows for a giant’s fireplace.
“Light the fire so all may behold your new power,” Osane said from somewhere in the darkness. It didn't make sense to Alaia, in her paralysis of terror and confusion, but at the words of the priestess, there was a great rustling sound.
With a roaring whoosh of heat, a gout of flame hit the pile of logs and kindling that had been waiting for this moment. Firelight spilled out over the graveyard, revealing the wide eyes of the other spectators all centered on the spot where the huge shadow had appeared.
There was a dragon crouched next to the fire, as large as a house, its dark scales glittering and its wings half unfurled. One amber eye fixed itself on Alaia and she understood. The power of the dragon was the power to become one.
Now you know, said a voice in her mind, like Zorion's but deeper, almost smoky. I'm sorry for not telling you before. She might have reassured him, but Osane was calling the ritual to a close, thanking the gods for their presence.
It was over much more quickly than Alaia had expected, and all the while,
the dragon that was Zorion sat unmoving in the half-light. Was that his heartbeat she could feel pulsing through her shoes?
“There's a feast in the house if you’ll follow me,” Lorea said, beckoning to the others. It seemed to break the spell of silence over the graveyard, and the small crowd of onlookers drifted away from the fire. Alaia knew she should follow, but she felt glued to the spot by Zorion’s gaze. They stared at each other for a long moment, until the last of the spectators was out of earshot. I suppose you must find me frightening, came Zorion's voice again.
“No,” she said, lifting her chin and taking a step forward. “Not once I realized it was you. I was afraid for you, not of you.”
You were worried about me? he said in a tone of surprise.
“Of course, I was,” she replied, pursing her lips. “You never told me anything about this ritual, so I didn't know what to expect, and you sounded like you were in pain.”
The transformation was uncomfortable, he admitted. I am sorry for making you worry, but I didn't expect… well, you were so angry when I showed up in the village. I thought you hated me, and now… I confess I cannot even begin to guess what you are thinking.
“I never hated you,” she said fiercely, moving forward until she could lay her hand on his nose. His scales were warm. In the firelight it was difficult to see color, but she thought they might be dark blue or green. “I care about you, Zorion, but after waiting so long, I suppose I had given up hope that you would ever return, and when you did… it was a bit more than I had bargained for.”
I'm sorry. I seem to always be apologizing to you. He huffed out a breath that whipped her hair like a strong breeze. I wanted to keep you safe. I thought about you every day, but my memories could not compare to how beautiful and kind and brave and strong you truly are.
