The Dragon's Curse by Bethany Wiggins
I fight against the hands holding me. “Let me go!” I demand.
“Sorrowlynn, stop it,” Yerengul growls in my ear, his hands tightening on my biceps. “I am only trying to keep you safe.”
“Don’t hurt him!” I command and stop struggling.
Ornald raises his hands. “They’re not going to hurt me. They are simply protecting you.” A small smile touches his mouth despite the fact that he is being stripped of the belt and short sword hanging at his waist.
My father’s companion, at sword point also, slowly releases his horse’s reins and puts his hands up in the air while he is disarmed. I gasp when his eyes meet mine. “Hello, Princess Sorrowlynn,” he says. His attention moves beyond me to Enzio. “Hello, son.”
“I am Ingvar of Anthar, heir to the Antharian throne. Who are you?” Ingvar asks, taking the man’s measure.
I know exactly who he is. I sat at this man’s table eating porridge with Golmarr half a year ago. It was in this man’s wagon camp in the Glass Forest that Golmarr first gave me the Antharian hand signal for “I love you.” I can still see Golmarr, the dappled sunlight glinting off his black hair, his pale eyes solemn as he put a fist to his chest and then crossed his index fingers. I love you. The memory brings with it two emotions: a flicker of joy followed by deep sorrow.
“I am Edemond, patriarch of the Black Blades of the Glass Forest,” the other man says, drawing me out of my memory. “My people were formerly known as the people of Satar, who were driven from their stone home one hundred years ago by a dragon. I am Enzio’s father.” I’d never imagined I would lay eyes on the leader of the Black Blades again. He winks and adds, “Sorrowlynn is my niece.”
The word he called me, niece, rattles around in my brain for a moment as I try to figure out where it belongs in the relationship I have with the patriarch of the Black Blades. Confused, I peer into Edemond’s eyes, and my heart speeds up. His eyes are the exact shade of green as my father’s. Edemond grins and chuckles. “Who knew, when I married you to the young horse lord Golmarr, I was officiating over the wedding of my own niece! How unfortunate that it was a pretend wedding.”
My attention moves from Edemond to Ornald, and I wonder how I didn’t notice the resemblance the first time I met Edemond: the curly dark hair, green eyes, expressive eyebrows. They are brothers. Turning, I study Enzio, my closest friend and guardian these last months, and my eyes grow as wide as his. If Edemond is my father’s brother, Enzio is my cousin. A wide grin splits his face, and he steps up beside me and bumps my hip with his. “No wonder we get along so well. We share the same blood,” he says. I laugh and throw my arm around his shoulders.
“Come inside and refresh yourselves,” Ingvar says. He raises his left hand and flicks his littlest finger, and the men holding my father and Edemond at sword point back away. “As we eat, you must tell me about the approaching army.” Turning, Ingvar holds his arm out. “Princess?” he says.
Squaring my shoulders, I lift my chin and place my hand below Ingvar’s elbow, allowing him to escort me inside the fortress. Ornald and Edemond follow, along with the armed guard.
We walk through a dark foyer decorated with antique armor and weapons, and enter the great hall. The rows of wooden tables are still occupied by the youngest warriors-in-training, as they finish the last of their breakfast. When we enter, an immediate hush falls over the hall. As if on cue, every person in the hall quickly stands, picks up his or her plate and cup, and leaves the room.
Ingvar pulls out a chair. “Princess Sorrowlynn? Will this suit you?”
Startled at his formality, I nod. “Yes, thank you.” Reaching to lift my skirt so that I don’t trip on it when I sit, my fingers close on stiff leather pants. I ball my hands into fists and sit, startled at how easily I slip back into the role I used to play.
Ingvar sits on my left, Yerengul on my right. An older woman carrying a pitcher and a tray weaves her way around the tables and stops at ours. She places a basket of bread and cheese on the table, and then sets a tankard in front of each of us. Instead of filling the tankards, she leaves the pitcher and Ingvar fills everyone’s cups.
When the cups have all been filled, Ingvar sits and crosses his arms on the table, staring directly at my father. With his thick shoulders and long braided hair, his scarred knuckles and the worry lending a pensive gleam to his eyes, he fits the part of future warrior king. “How long do we have before the army arrives, and how large is it?”
My father takes a sip from his cup and sets it on the table. “We rode out from Faodara four days ago. For one man, riding hard, it takes three days to get here. I left the Faodarian army on the morning of the second day, as soon as I had the cover of the Glass Forest to hide my retreat, but I did not travel as swiftly as I would have liked.” He carefully stands and lifts his shirt, showing a pale, broad chest covered with dark brown hair, and just below his ribs, on the side of his stomach, is a bloodstained bandage. He gingerly lifts the bandage, exposing a swollen, oozing hole in his flesh—an arrow wound on the brink of festering. “Lord Damar had his archers shoot at me when I fled. One hit his mark.” He grits his teeth and cringes, as if experiencing being shot again. “I do not know how far behind me the army is, but no more than one day—if that.”
“And what is their destination?”
“Kreeose, the capital city of Anthar. Rumors say that is where Princess Sorrowlynn is staying.” He cautiously touches his stomach and grimaces. “It is only because of the wound in my side that we stopped here in hopes that you could dispatch a faster warning. We did not know my daughter was here.”
My daughter. His words send a flurry of emotions through me.
Yerengul leans forward, elbows on the table, and looks past me to Ingvar. His eyes hold none of their normal lightness. “They left four days ago. They will reach the city tomorrow, and pass by here either at last light, or dawn.”
“How many men?” Ingvar growls.
Ornald’s face hardens. “Three hundred, but Lord Damar has been housing a foreigner at the palace since shortly after the winter solstice, and I believe this foreigner might be aiding him somehow.”
Yerengul slaps the table and barks a laugh. “Three hundred soldiers and a foreigner? So few? They hope to defeat us with a mere three hundred?”
My father’s green eyes meet mine a moment before they shift to Yerengul. “They have no wish to fight you. They are coming to retrieve what they see as rightfully theirs.” He nods his head at me, and for an instant I feel like I am falling, but don’t know from how high.
“Regardless of whether or not they have the aid of a foreigner, they have only sent three hundred,” Ingvar says, voice disbelieving. “They have come to retrieve their princess with a mere three hundred? I do not understand.”
I understand and close my eyes against a sudden wave of shame.
“Do they think we will simply give her to them if they ask nicely?” Ingvar’s voice has grown in volume, and if I hadn’t learned not to fear him during the past months, I would cower under the sheer power of it.
“No,” Ornald says. Surprised, I open my eyes and look at him. “Lord Damar doesn’t think you will hand her over to him if he asks you.” He clears his throat. “We all heard the rumors that Sorrowlynn’s betrothed tried to kill her before fleeing and never returning. It has been almost six months and still Prince Golmarr has not come for her.” My father pauses and looks at me, and there is compassion in his expression. “It is obvious that her betrothed does not want her,” he continues quietly, “so Lord Damar assumes you will be glad to be rid of her.”
Yerengul barks a disbelieving laugh. Ingvar lifts his massive fists and pounds them on the wooden table so hard that the tankards bounce. “Insufferable, heartless miscreant!” He looks at me, and his dark eyes are so full of fury, they would be his deadliest weapon if they could draw blood. His gaze shifts above my head, to Yer
I whip around and grip Yerengul’s arm. “You know where Golmarr is? You said this morning that you had not heard from him!”
Yerengul presses a hand to his heart and glares. “You wound me. Are you implying that I lied to you?”
“I hope you have not.”
“I have not heard from Golmarr, Sorrowlynn. That is the truth. Golmarr has sent one letter to Kreeose—to Ingvar and my father. Seeing how I have been here with you, and have not visited the city of Kreeose for months, I was not informed of the letter until they brought it with them this morning.”
Again, I think of Golmarr’s parting letter: Every time I touched you, I savored it like it might be the last. Every word you spoke, I memorized for when we would be apart.
I turn to Ingvar. “Where is he? Did he ask about me?”
Ingvar puts a hand on my shoulder. “The first thing he wrote was to ask about you, Sorrowlynn.”
“Does he still…” Does he still hate me? Does he still love me? That is what I want to know, but I cannot ask it.
Ingvar nods. “He does.”
“Which one? Love or hate?” I whisper.
A gentle smile softens Ingvar’s concerned face. “Knowing Golmarr, both probably. Be patient. Be strong.” He squeezes my shoulder and then looks at Yerengul. “He is at the Royal Library of Trevon. Make haste. Tell him he is needed.”
Yerengul stands and gives his brother a formal bow, then strides away from the table, but stops before he has crossed half of the great hall. A boy in his early teens has entered the hall. He sees us and sprints across the room and slides to a stop beside me, gripping the table’s edge to keep from crashing into it. Sweat plasters his black hair to his head, and the dust of hard travel covers his golden skin. His dark eyes are alive with excitement as he looks to Ingvar. I know this boy. He is thirteen years old and the eldest son of Ingvar. His skill with a sword is good, but his aim with a bow is as perfect as anyone’s I have ever seen.
“Father,” he gasps, and wavers from side to side.
Ingvar stands and strides to the boy, gripping his shoulders to keep him from toppling to the ground. “What is it, son? Speak.”
The boy swallows and pulls air in and out of his lungs so fast, he cannot speak. Yerengul takes his tankard from the table and presses it into the boy’s hands. The boy takes a single sip before he gasps for more air. After a moment, his breathing has slowed enough for him to say, “An army approaches.”
Ingvar nods. “We know, Gilliam. Three hundred strong.”
Gilliam’s black brows jerk together. “No. Not three hundred strong. Uncle Olenn says they are closer to one thousand.”
Ingvar’s face flushes with anger and he turns his smoldering gaze to Ornald and Edemond. “You said the Faodarian army is only three hundred strong.”
All the color drains from my father’s face as he slowly stands. “The Faodarian army is only three hundred strong.” He turns his guarded gaze to Gilliam. “From which watchtower do you come?”
“The south tower,” Ingvar states before his son can respond. “He is stationed there with my brother Olenn.”
Gilliam nods. “Yes, sir. From the south. The Trevonan army approaches, not the Faodarian.” Gilliam sinks into Yerengul’s empty chair and leans back. “They will reach the border of Anthar by sundown.”
Unbidden, Nayadi’s words from earlier echo in my mind. The blood of three kingdoms will be on your head. Three kingdoms—Anthar, Faodara, and Trevon—are ready to start a war.
There is a long moment of uncomfortable silence. Finally, Ingvar says, “Yerengul, instead of riding to find Golmarr, send riders to the other two towers. Tell them what danger approaches, and then tend to Ornald’s wound. I will dispatch another messenger to Golmarr. You…” He turns his steely gaze on me. “You need to prepare to meet Lord Damar.” He looks at my sweaty, dusty clothing. “Do you have a dress?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think you will be better received by your Faodarian people if you wear it?”
A deep sigh escapes me. “Yes.” The Faodarians do not feel like my people. They would be horrified to see me dressed in pants and wielding weapons.
“Then prepare yourself to meet Lord Damar. I will send riders out to intercept him and have him direct his army here. When he arrives, we will request an audience.” He looks at his son. “Gilliam?”
“Yes, Father?”
“Go to the stables. Tell them to prepare twenty horses. We will ride out and intercept the Faodarian army.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Enzio?” Ingvar says. “I need to speak to you alone.”
After I have forced myself to eat a very late breakfast, Enzio returns from his meeting with Ingvar and accompanies me to my quarters. I am grateful for his friendship. At my door, he unsheathes his sword before stepping in and surveying the room. “I am making sure the witch is gone,” he announces, poking my covers with his blade even though it is obvious Nayadi is not beneath the flat blanket. Falling to his knees, Enzio peers under the bed. “Definitely gone,” he says, yet he glares at the table and washbasin in the corner as if she might be hiding there. Convinced we are safe, he puts his sword away. “We need to talk,” Enzio says, closing the door and leaning against it.
“Yes, we do. How are we going to leave tomorrow if two armies are approaching?”
Enzio pulls the black knife from his sleeve. He puts the tip on his outstretched middle finger and balances the blade upright. He only fiddles with his knife when he is either trying to impress pretty girls, or he is worried. Now I know he has bad news. “Leaving tomorrow is not our biggest concern, cousin. Nayadi has seen a dragon approaching,” he says without taking his focus from the blade.
My insides turn to jelly and I sit down hard on the side of the bed. “What? When did she see that?”
He tosses the knife up and catches it by the hilt. His eyes meet mine. “Ingvar had her removed from your bed after we left, and she threw a fit. She screamed something about hoping the dragon eats you before you can kill it.”
I remember the feel of dragon teeth on my flesh, and then I see walls made of ice, and something moving behind. “So that is what she saw in her vision…what she didn’t want to tell me.” I frown. “Why did Ingvar not tell me himself?”
“He thought if you knew you would be too upset to eat breakfast, and a warrior’s body is her most important weapon. We were going to inform you after you’d had a chance to eat, but he needed to ride out with his men to see how far away Lord Damar is.” Enzio scowls and starts pacing my tiny room. “I do not know if we should trust Nayadi. There is a certain…hungry attention about her when you are around. I don’t like it.”
“I don’t like it, either,” I admit, glancing at my disheveled bed and wondering who to ask to get the bedding changed out.
Enzio grunts. “I have met some incredibly unsavory people in the glass forest, but none have repulsed me quite like Nayadi. I wish you had asked me to kill her this morning.” He stops pacing. “Do you need anything?”
“I need nothing.”
He puts his hand on my arm. “Tomorrow, we will leave and find Golmarr. All will be well. Do not worry…cousin.” He smiles. “I like the sound of that.”
Despite everything, I smile, too. “So do I, Enzio.” Without another word, he lets himself out of the room, quietly shutting the door.
Kneeling at the foot of my bed, I open the small trunk that holds my meager belongings and take out a wide-hemmed light blue skirt, black tunic, and pair of embossed gray boots—the clothing Golmarr gave me to wear on the first day I spent in Anthar. I remember the way he’d studied me and said: “Tell me this is real…You. Here. Betrothed to me. Wearing the clothing of my people and looking at me in a way that makes my heart start pounding like I’ve just fought
I undress quickly. With hardly a second thought, I pull the lace bloomers on and wish I had a camisole to wear beneath the black tunic; its sleeves are short, made for summer and warm weather, not the final weeks of winter and biting cold. I slip the shirt on, and as my arms come out of the sleeves, I notice the lean muscles beneath my skin. I pull the skirt on and lace it up the back, then thrust my feet into the gray boots.
My gaze wanders to my soiled tunic and the discarded leather pants and weapon belt, and I can’t help but wonder if I should wear the pants instead of the skirt to meet Lord Damar. I will freeze in the clothes I am wearing. But to arrive in pants—leather pants—will give him such a shock, he will probably try to throw me across his knee and spank the living daylights out of me.
“That will not happen,” I whisper to myself. I am betrothed to a horse lord, which makes me part of their clan. I no longer need to follow Faodarian rules. The man I grew up thinking of as my father, Lord Damar, has no power over me anymore. Even so, I do not put the leather pants back on.
My attention lingers on my belt, which holds my sword and hunting knife. My waist feels too light without it, too exposed. I reach for the belt but ball my hand into a fist. To arrive armed when noblewomen of my kingdom loathe even the sight of weapons would be too much. Crouching down, I strap my black stone knife to my calf, right above my boot. When I drop the wide hem of my skirt, it is impossible to tell I am wearing a weapon.
I wash my face in the basin of water on the table, and then unbraid my hair. It is still damp from sweat. As I run my fingers through the light brown length of it, I expect to feel the kinky, frizzy curls I was born with, but since the fire dragon’s death, when the great beast’s blood circulated through my body and I was engulfed in its death fire, my hair has changed. It is smooth and sleek in my fingers, hardly ever tangled, with loose waves running through it. My skin also changed. Every scar that marked my flesh has been erased.