Dragon and the Princess

by Jo Beverley

  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.

  Had it only been this afternoon that she’d dressed? Only hours since she’d approached the Dragon’s Rock, expecting giving some blood to be the full extent of her sacrifice? If all had gone as it should, she’d be back home now, enjoying a leisurely bath before the Princess Ball. She gazed sadly in the direction she thought home might be.

  Would they still hold the ball? It wouldn’t be fair to Izzy not to celebrate her ascendance, and it was part of tradition. Tradition must be upheld. When the mother stone and other tribute arrived, would they build a bonfire even though there was no dress to burn?

  That settled one thing. She’d send the regalia back with the tribute. They’d certainly want the crown back. Yes, that way, everything would be just as it should be.

  Heartened, she looked to see what else was in her bag. A smaller bag contained soap, cloth, comb, brush, toothbrush and powder. She tried the comb in her hair, but the crown made it painful to comb anywhere.

  Three identical garments confused her until she realized that they were tiny pantalettes that would fit snugly and come down only inches on her thigh. She supposed that under the yellow, waist-high hose her full, loose undergarments would bump and bulge all over the place. Another reason not to wear the hose.

  She glanced over at the Dornaan, wondering what he wore under his shameless hose. Even active men of Saragond didn’t expose their legs above the knee. It was disgusting—but she had to make herself look away.

  Face hot, she dug out the remaining contents of her bag. Two . . . shifts? Too short to be shifts. They were a thin underbodice. She looked down at her chest and was confronted again by the two mounds shaped for Aurora’s munificence.

  She hated these clothes.

  She hated the ones he’d brought for her.

  And there were no spare stockings.

  She checked again, but no. Because she was supposed to wear those obscene hose.

  She looked at him again—he as good as naked in his formfitting clothes. Tall, slim hipped and broad shouldered. As graceful in repose as in movement. Her mouth dried and her skin tingled.

  He was too dark skinned, she told herself. He wore his hair like a woman’s and it was as faded as an old man’s.

  No, it wasn’t. It was almost beautiful.

  He wasn’t going to get away with ignoring her, whether it was the Dornaan way or not. She hitched the front of her skirt higher into the belt, then marched over to him. “When will we reach Dorn?”

  He turned to her. “In three days.”

  She stared. “Three days?”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to change?”

  “Of course I do, but you haven’t provided any suitable clothes.”

  He shrugged. “Then we should be on our way.” He returned to the bags.

  Rozlinda remembered. Walking. Rolling her eyes, she followed him. “What about the dragon?”

  “She’ll find us.” He picked up both bags and passed one to her.

  She looked from it to him. “You expect me to carry that?”

  “It’s not heavy.”

  To say that princesses did not carry bags would be true, but clearly irrelevant. She was no longer a princess. She was a Dornaan wife, which apparently meant beast of burden.

  So. This was the adventure she’d never been allowed to have and she would embrace it. She took the bag and got the strap over her shoulder. Then suddenly, she laughed.

  He looked a question at her.

  “I’m trying to imagine what I look like, princess gown billowing, crown sparkling, and booted and bagged like a wandering laborer. Onward, sir, to the Shield, to Dorn, and to my new life!”

  Simply to show him, she set off in the lead.

  Chapter 5

  Rouar of the Dragon’s Womb followed his wife along a rough track, cursing fate. This was the only way, and he’d never expected it to be easy. But he’d never dreamed that he would like a princess of Saragond.

  She was soft, pampered and arrogant, but she was al
so brave, high-spirited and resilient. Even Seesee seemed drawn to her, and it couldn’t only be because of the special blood that pulsed in her veins. The blood that could save the dragons, and thus his world.

  “You’ll have to bear with me if I’m slow,” she said without turning her head. “An SVP’s life doesn’t involve much walking.”

  A statement of fact rather than a complaint.

  “SVP?” he asked.

  “Sacrificial Virgin Princess.”

  Shockingly accurate. “When Seesee’s fed, she’ll carry us to where we can camp for the night.”

  “Camp?” she asked, dismay escaping, but then shrugged and marched on with a jaunty step.

  By the womb, he wanted, needed, cold distance, but he should give this remarkable young woman as much as he could. He moved to walk beside her. “So, what does an SVP’s life involve?”

  “Routine. First thing in the morning, correspondence, which also, of course, includes penmanship and etiquette. Then history and archives before lunch with my parents, and discussion of important events. After lunch, magic.”

  “You can do magic?” He kept his voice calm, but he’d never imagined that problem.

  “No. I’m not convinced that anyone truly can, but the study is part of the Princess Way. Then there’s dancing, castle management and inspection of my guard.”

  “The shining knights on their white steeds.”

  “Don’t sneer. If you hadn’t had the law on your side, I’m sure they’d have fought you off. After all, Galian killed the last dragon.”

  Every muscle in his body tensed. That she could speak so lightly of such a terrible deed.

  It was as if she sensed something. “I’m sorry. I’m sure that was upsetting.”

  Upsetting.

  A cataclysmic disaster that threatened their whole world . . .

  He made himself speak. “It was the cause of your situation.”

  “I understand that. Someone had to pay for Aurora’s willfulness, and it seems to be me.”

  “Aurora?” He knew who that was, but he wanted the princess’s version of the story. He wanted to truly understand.

  “My older sister, the last SVP. She wanted to marry Galian of Gar, but Galian doesn’t have the blood. We princesses have to marry into the blood to make sure it continues. But what Aurora wants, Aurora gets, so she used the tradition that the man who slays the dragon gets the princess as reward. Which you clearly know.”

  “Let us say, we learned.”

  From her wary look, she’d heard the ice in his voice. “It’s obvious that Dorn and Saragond don’t know enough about each other. I’m hoping that I can learn enough to amend that, to explain each side to the other. To be a bridge, you see. A route to peace. That’s a worthy life, don’t you think?”

  A shocking urge to weep rose up in him. He hid it behind stony indifference that dulled her enthusiasm and made her sigh.

  Good. He couldn’t bear anything else.

  She also stopped talking, which was a blessing. He let her get a little ahead again.

  She would be the route to war, not peace. When Saragond learned the truth, it would attack and Dorn would defend. Many would die, people and dragons, but even war was better than annihilation.

  Until now he hadn’t truly understood why Cheelus had died. He’d studied Saragondan ways, looking for the deep meaning, but now he knew the truth. It had happened because two people had fallen in love, and the man was considered too lowborn for a princess of the blood.

  For that a trusting queen had been slaughtered and her guardian had killed himself. For that the whole of Dorn had pulsed for revenge, maddened by grief and by the knowledge that their world must soon die.

  The Dornae had been restrained only by this plan, by the hope that Virgin Princess blood could amend all. They’d hoped to wait the full eight years, to preserve tradition as much as possible and not to alert the Saragondans to trouble, but Seesee had indicated that it must be now.

  The plan had worked. All that remained was the deed.

  Representatives from all the tribes were gathering at the womb, gathering to see Seyer Rouar slit Princess Rozlinda open so that her blood poured out. To watch Seesee consume every drop of blood so that she could miraculously lay eggs again and the dragons would survive.

  * * *

  Rozlinda’s brisk step dwindled to a trudge and she felt weepy again, but mostly from exhaustion. It seemed a week rather than hours since she’d risen this morning, and her stomach didn’t remember her light lunch. Her feet were comfortable enough in the boots, but her legs ached, her back ached and her hair pulled, pulled, pulled.

  In the end, she had to plead. “When can we stop?”

  It was as if he’d forgotten her existence. “My apologies.” He looked around and pointed across a scrubby field to some low trees. “There’s water over there.”

  He set off in the lead. Sighing, she scrambled down a rough ditch and up again, clutching her massive skirts in front, then followed him doggedly.

  He stopped short of the trees and put down his bag. “Pray thee, Princess, make yourself at ease. I will collect wood for a fire.”

  He walked away, and she looked around in weary disbelief. What in this rocky landscape could he imagine offered ease? She simply sat in a thistle-free spot. With the merest hint of shelter and a bed, she could go to sleep now, hungry as she was.

  He returned with an armful of branches and quickly made a fire. The process was new to her, so it stirred a scrap of interest. He took out a tube and squeezed it. Fire shot out to light the tinder.

  “That’s clever. How does it work?”

  “A combination of rocks.”

  “You could sell that to us.”

  “We have no need to.”

  He sounded as if trade were a disgusting thing. “You must be in need of some things in return.”

  “Only the blood.”

  “Then why not include one of those fire things in the tribute to make us even more eager to provide it?”

  He looked up. “Tribute?”

  “The dragon eyes, the mother stone and the rest.”

  His expression chilled to ice. “Tribute implies subordination. We send gifts to thank the Virgin, as prescribed in the ancient treaty.”

  Rozlinda sighed. She’d been trying to make conversation, and he sounded as if he were chewing lemons. The fire was leaping now, but it only made their surroundings more gloomy.

  “Do you have food? I’m faint with hunger.”

  “We’ll have a meal soon, but if you please, enjoy these.” He opened his bag and passed her a wooden box. She found cherries and a cake and had to stop herself from gobbling them. She ate three cherries in a rush, and then made herself slow.

  “Thank you. These are good.” But then she asked, “What?”

  He was staring at her, and his expression was no longer indifferent. She didn’t know what it was—angry, confused, alarmed?—but he surged to his feet and grabbed a leather bucket.

  “We need water,” he said and strode toward the shadowy trees.

  He’d left her alone on a rocky plain with night chilling the air and the fire creating shadows all around. She considered following him, but was far too tired.

  She dozed where she sat, and started at a clank. Her unwanted husband was back and arranging a metal kettle over the fire. For tea, perhaps, but tea wouldn’t satisfy her aching stomach. Where was the food?

  He suddenly looked to the horizon. “She comes.”

  Rozlinda couldn’t see anything, but then the dragon was circling and settling at a distance. Rozlinda was shocked anew at Seesee’s size—and hit by the dusty wind and the smell of burning rocks. Along with another smell.

  Fresh blood.

  As the dragon waddled closer, she saw its snout was smeared with gore. Rozlinda looked away
, but the snout appeared nearby and spat a bloody lump into Rouar’s waiting hands.

  “Thank you, Seesee. A nice bit of leg.”

  Bile rose in Rozlinda’s throat. “I am not eating that.”

  “Stop hurting her feelings.”

  She set her mouth, but a princess should always be grateful for a gift, no matter how inappropriate. She swiveled to face the beast and said, “Thank you, Seesee.”

  It was almost as if the dragon sighed with disappointment before turning and waddling into the trees. Splintering noises told of trees knocked over, and then a splash said it had reached the water.

  Rouar was slicing the bloody meat thinly and threading it onto metal skewers.

  “Aren’t you going to wash it? It’s straight from her mouth.”

  “It’ll be delicious. Trust me.”

  A “ha!” escaped before manners could prevent it. Rozlinda took a big bite of the cake. If she ate it all, it would serve him right. He could have his slimy, disgusting meat all to himself.

  “I believe cooks in Saragond rub meat with many strange things,” he said.

  “Not with dragon drool.”

  “They would if they knew it tenderizes and adds a delicious flavor. You’ll see.”

  She ate the last piece of cake.

  “All meat is disconcerting if you think about where it comes from.”

  “It does not come out of a dragon’s slimy mouth.”

  “How else is she to carry it? If she carried it in a claw, it would get dirty when she landed. And besides, if she were startled, she might drop it on the way. I like my dinner.”

  A smell from the sizzling meat made Rozlinda’s stomach rumble. The aroma was slightly sweet, slightly spicy and, yes, delicious. Her mouth started to water. She looked away and hairs pulled.

  “I wish I could get this crown off!” she snapped, as if that, too, were his fault. And it was. If things had gone as they should, she’d be crown-free. Bathed. Properly fed. Dancing at her Princess Ball. With Sir Jerrott.

  He knelt beside her. “Pray thee, let me try.”