The Dragon's Price

by Bethany Wiggins

  “Melchior gave that to you? After what he predicted at your birth, that’s a pretty sadistic gift. Maybe he didn’t vanish. Maybe Mother found out about that knife and had him secretly beheaded.” Diamanta puts her hands on her hips and smirks. “You don’t need to wear that dagger because you won’t need to protect yourself. That is what the guards are for.” A gleam flashes in her blue eyes. “And it’s not like you’re going to be able to use it without undressing first. I can see it now. Please don’t try to kill me yet! I have to strip so that I can get my dagger and defend myself!” She puts a hand to her chest and starts giggling.

  I shrug and try to sigh, but I can’t get enough air into my lungs. “And if I die from lack of oxygen? Nona didn’t get my corset nearly this tight yesterday.”

  Diamanta smiles her perfect, practiced smile. “Nona is too lenient with you. That is why Mother sent me to dress you. That is why I volunteered to dress you when Mother asked Gloriana and me for help.” Her smile turns from perfect to devious as she examines me.

  I look into the mirror and study myself. The dress beneath the corset is bright, sunset red, and goes up to my neck. The corset is a deep bloodred velvet with black stitching. If I look hard enough I can barely make out the bulge of the dagger above my hip. Diamanta steps up to me and places a tiny diamond tiara atop my head. It nearly disappears in the brown curls. “Well. You look surprisingly good for your first ball ever,” she says. “And if you don’t return to Anthar as a bride, you get to start looking for a Faodarian husband. Shall we go down to the dining hall and consort with the horse lords and the nobles?”

  All three of my sisters were married to handsome young noblemen shortly after they turned sixteen and were refused by the horse clan. I have never even spoken to a boy close to my age.

  We step out into the corridor. The air is slightly moist and heavy with the smells of roasted meat and fresh-baked bread. As we approach the great hall, Diamanta asks, “Are you ready for your big debut?” I shake my head and she laughs. “I was counting the days until I was old enough to be out in society. Once you get past your first-ball jitters, you’ll love having a social life.”

  When we get to the great hall, my steps slow. Inside of the door, they stop altogether. Candles burn in the chandeliers, and garlands of flowers held together with ruby-red ribbons have been hung on the stark gray stone walls. I have never seen the hall look so beautiful. The leather-clad Antharians are easy to spot. They stand out like peasants among the flamboyantly dressed Faodarian nobles. The women, dressed in brown leather vests, with hunting knives belted above their bright skirts, look as barbaric as the men. And the way they laugh—mouths wide open and their heads thrown back, with no regard for manners or sophistication—has me gaping at them.

  Someone steps up to me and holds out his arm. “Princess Sorrowlynn,” he says, and I can feel his eyes on me. His voice is deep and has a slight accent. I stare at his glossy leather vest and the white shirt beneath it, which is unbuttoned enough to show a bit of golden chest, and my knees threaten to buckle. Is this my possible future husband Ingvar? My body freezes, and I cannot find the courage to look at his face.

  “Don’t be rude,” Diamanta whispers into my ear, poking my ribs. “Take his arm!”

  I nod and force myself to lift my hand and place it just above his wrist. Beneath his loose white shirt, his skin is firm and warm. Like a gentleman, he escorts me to the queen’s table, centered on a raised dais at the farthest end of the room, and pulls out my chair before taking his place beside me.

  “I guess they wanted the two babies of the family to keep each other company,” my escort says. If I am by the baby of the horse clan, I am not sitting beside Ingvar. I try to sag with relief, but the corset digs into my armpits, forcing me to sit like there is a metal rod in my spine.

  I look at the head of the table. King Marrkul sits on my mother’s left, with his oldest son, the future king Ingvar, beside him. On Ingvar’s left sits a woman. She is chugging wine like it is water. When she puts down her empty cup, she twines Ingvar’s long hair around her fingers and pulls his face to hers, kissing him on the mouth. I gasp. To show affection like that in public is astonishing, especially for a woman to initiate it. All of my life I have been taught that men always initiate intimacy of any sort, and nobility always remains formal. When she’s done kissing him, she looks right at me and winks.

  “My brother’s wife makes a spectacle of herself when she is in your castle,” the horse lord beside me says with a chuckle. “She likes how shocked you all are.”

  I finally look at the face of my escort. He is young, and his skin is like caramel-colored silk, except for the long gash on his right cheek. “You mean he’s already married? If I marry him, I will be his second wife?” I ask. Visions of being a second wife hit me like a physical blow, and I think I might be sick.

  The horse lord grins. “If you marry Ingvar, you will definitely be his second wife, because there is no way Jayah will sit back and let you have him all to yourself. She’s the jealous type. She will probably treat you more like a servant if you are her sister wife, and if she ever finds you in Ingvar’s bed, she’ll kill you.”

  I press my hand against the hidden dagger at my hip and for the first time in my life wonder if I will die at my own hand, because I will kill myself before I become a second wife.

  “It has happened only once before,” the horse lord says.

  “She’s only killed a sister wife once before?” I stare at Jayah. Her hands are like clubs, and her neck is as thick as a man’s.

  He laughs as if what I said is the funniest thing he has ever heard. “No, the heir to the throne has taken a second wife from your family only once before, and that was because his first wife died. My great-great-grandmother was a Faodarian princess, and she was a second wife. That is where I get my hazel eyes,” he explains. “From your bloodline. See?”

  I don’t look at his eyes. I stare at the food on my plate and try not to hyperventilate at the utter disgust of being a sister wife.

  “My name is Golmarr,” he says. Even his name is harsh and savage. Still, I stare at my food. I have lost the will to speak, so Golmarr talks and talks while he eats, telling me of the skirmish they had on their way here with the ruffians who live in the Glass Forest, and the extensive combat training he has received since he was big enough to hold a sword. He tells me stories about how his eight older brothers used to beat him up until he got big enough to fight back, and now not a single one of them can best him at swords. When he finishes his plate of food, he eats mine without asking. As the night wears on, a string quartet takes its place beside the royal table and starts to play a waltz.

  “Would you like to dance, Princess Sorrowlynn?” Golmarr asks, standing. I would not like to dance. I have never danced with anyone but my three older sisters and my elderly dance instructor. I don’t want my first official dance to be with a barbarian. Before I can say no, he is pulling out my chair and taking my wrist in his big, callused hand, and leading me past my frowning father and disapproving mother. I can already hear the lecture I will receive: You are too good for a mere barbarian prince, and the youngest, no less! He will amount to nothing. The heir to Anthar is the only man worthy of a Faodarian princess’s attention!

  I dare a look at Ingvar. He folds his arms over his wide chest and glares at Golmarr and me. I really, really don’t want to be his wife. I hurry ahead of Golmarr and drag him onto the dance floor, away from my mother and father, away from his brother. Putting one hand on his bicep, I grab his free hand in the other, and we start to waltz.

  He studies me with narrowed eyes as we move around the dance floor, dodging the other lords and ladies who have started to waltz. “I don’t know how they do it in your kingdom, Princess,” he says, “but in mine, the man typically leads.”

  “Deal with it or find a different partner,” I retort, guiding us as far away from the royal table as I can. He quietly chuckles and lets me keep leading. My lungs strain again
st the corset, but I don’t slow down.

  “I saw you studying our horses when we arrived yesterday. Do you ride?”

  I look up into his eyes and flash him my practiced smile. “Ladies are only allowed to ride sidesaddle, so we are given slow, docile beasts.”

  “You don’t sound too happy about that.” He adjusts his hand against the small of my back, and I realize I have stopped leading and he’s taken over.

  I shrug. “No. It’s boring and unfair.”

  “I agree.” He spins me around twice and then pulls me back into his arms, and I am surprised to realize dancing with him is fun. He holds me firmer and closer than Roderick, my dance teacher, and he smells surprisingly nice, like soap and cedar and leather. Roderick smells like olives and cloves, and his breath stinks. I find myself leaning a little bit closer to Golmarr and inhaling. “Have you ever ridden astride?”

  I glance at the dais, at my father, Lord Damar, in his customary seat of respect at the queen’s right hand. “I rode my father’s horse once.”

  “And?” Golmarr asks, a twinkle in his fierce eyes—as if he knows how the story ends. He thinks I am going to say how much I loved riding.

  “I was thirteen. Lord Damar sent five guards after me, and when they brought me back, he beat my bare legs with a willow switch in front of them.” I lift my skirt just enough to show him one pale scar that still streaks my ankle.

  Golmarr stares at me with wide eyes and steps on my foot. “I’m sorry,” he blurts, deftly spinning me away from him and then back into his arms. “Are you all right? Did I break your toes?” He looks down at our feet.

  A smile touches my mouth—just a hint of one, and not the practiced smile. “It didn’t hurt.”

  “In my land, women ride horses, not docile beasts. If you want…” He clears his throat, and his eyes grow uncertain as they look into mine. For some reason I can’t comprehend, my smile widens and my cheeks grow warm. “That is to say…” He glances at the dais. “Do you think the queen would allow you to go riding with me tomorrow morning before the ceremony?”

  At mention of the ceremony, my stomach ties in a knot. If the horse clan takes me tomorrow, not only will I be forced to marry their heir, I will be a sister wife, which is one hundred times worse than just being a wife to an old, mean-looking barbarian.

  “My family’s horses are the fastest in the land,” Golmarr says, snapping me back to the present. “They can outrun every other horse. We breed them for speed and endurance. You could ride astride.”

  His words echo in my head. Fastest in the land. Outrun every other horse. Speed and endurance. I swallow and look up into his face, forcing my expression to remain placid. He has just handed me a plan, and he doesn’t even know it. My heart starts pounding, and my breathing accelerates. At least, my need for oxygen increases, but with the corset squeezing me so tight, I feel like I am about to pass out. “I can’t breathe,” I blurt, taking my hand from his bicep and tugging on the top edge of the stiff corset.

  “Can I do anything to help?”

  I almost laugh. “If you attempt to remove my corset, sir, my father might try to kill you.”

  His eyes narrow and he studies me. “Your father might try? Or you?”

  I blink at him and try to step away, but his powerful hand is on my lower back, guiding me through the dance moves with tight, flawless precision. “What do you mean?”

  He puts his free hand on my hip, right over the hidden dagger. “Is that why you wear this?” My heart starts thumping against my ribs, and I put both my hands against his chest and push away from him as my face begins to burn.

  “I can’t breathe, and I do not feel like dancing anymore. I will watch the ball from the dais,” I say, and turn away, weaving through the dancing horse lords and nobles. Suicide Sorrow, they whisper as I pass, giving me a wide berth.

  “Princess Sorrowlynn,” someone calls. I turn and look at the young horse lord over my shoulder. His black eyebrows are drawn together in a frown, but there is a hint of a smile on his mouth. His gaze travels over my body and back up my face. “You are a surprisingly good dancer. I hope I have the pleasure of holding you in my arms another time,” he calls, dipping me a respectful bow. I curtsy and retreat to the dais and spend the rest of the evening watching the ball rather than participating in it.

  I don’t sleep. When the night sky starts to pale, I take off my nightdress and pull on a simple hand-me-down dress, followed by a soft pink cloak. I shove my feet into hardly used riding boots and quickly pull my hair into a bun without bothering to run a brush through it.

  Shoving all the jewelry and coins I own into a bag, followed by a flask of water and a heel of bread I managed to steal from the ball the night before, I quietly leave my bedroom.

  The castle is silent, except for the low chatter of two guards keeping watch in the passage. I walk past them and they nod good morning at me, neither of them asking what I am doing up so early without my customary escort.

  The stables are connected to the castle, just beyond the kitchens. Two more guards are standing at the doors leading out to the stables. My palms start to sweat as I approach them. Before they can ask what I am doing, I open the door leading out and blurt, “At the queen’s request, I am checking on the horses that will be pulling our carriage to the fire dragon’s lair,” and stride past them with my nose in the air.

  “Isn’t that what the grooms are for, my lady?” one of them asks.

  “That’s what I said to the queen. If one of you would like to bring it up with her…” I slam the door before I can finish my sentence.

  As I had hoped, the grooms haven’t risen yet, and no one is in the stables. I sprint to the tack room and get a bridle and bit, a blanket, and a man’s saddle—no sidesaddle for me today—and carry them to the horses.

  The horse lords’ animals are stabled with the royal family’s docile beasts. In the dim light, I pick the horse closest to the exit and quickly start saddling it. It stomps its foot and looks at me, its nostrils flaring. “It’s okay,” I quietly croon. “You’re going to take me to freedom.”

  Everything I know about saddling a horse, I learned in a book when I was thirteen so I could steal a ride on my father’s horse. That was three years ago. It takes an excruciatingly long time to remember where all the straps and belts and padding go, and as I cinch the saddle into place, I hope I have done it properly. When the horse is ready, I lead it out of the stable and into the dim light of predawn.

  I have picked a stallion—a huge, muscular, glossy tan stallion who is studying me as warily as I am studying him. I guide him over to the mounting stump because there is no way I will be able to mount without a little help. He nods his head and nearly pulls the reins from me as I climb onto the stump. With trembling hands, I grab the pommel of the saddle and slither onto the horse, belly first, until I can get my leg over his hind end. My skirt crawls up to my knees. I grip the fabric and force it down to the tops of my riding boots. Slipping my feet into the stirrups, I lean forward to pat the creature on the neck, but before I can, he puts his head down and sprints, tearing through the courtyard, trampling the azaleas in my mother’s prize flower bed, and past the guards keeping watch at the open front gates.

  The momentum throws me backward. I grapple for the reins and wrap them around one hand, using them to pull myself upright again, and then give a firm backward yank to slow the stallion’s pace. But he doesn’t slow. He whips his head from side to side, nearly wrenching my shoulder out of socket, and runs faster. I squeeze my knees together hard and lean forward, pressing my cheek against the animal’s neck. The wind catches my hair and unravels the bun. The horse’s mane whips my face and sticks in my open mouth, so I shut it and pray I don’t fall off.

  We are tearing down the main thoroughfare through the city, the stallion’s hooves echoing against the cobbles. There are vendors on the sides of the street, setting up their wares. When I pass, they stop and stare, some of them shaking their fists and yelling at me, but
I can’t hear what they’re saying over the sound of the wind rushing past me and the ringing hoofbeats.

  A slow smile spreads across my face. I am riding a horse lord’s stallion, astride, careening toward the outskirts of the city. I am going to be free. I will not have to humbly submit to marrying King Marrkul’s heir or risk being fed to the fire dragon. We thunder over the wide stone bridge spanning the Glacier River, and pass from cobblestone to a hard-packed dirt road, from stone buildings and houses to farms and fields. The very air seems to grow brighter, and my body lightens as the stress of my choices lifts from me.

  Still crouching low against the horse’s neck, I look south at the rolling hills and green fields that eventually turn into the massive, snowcapped mountains that separate Faodara from Anthar. Southeast, the Glass Forest looks like a distant patch of dark clouds hugging the horizon. I peer over my shoulder for one last look at the castle, squeezed at the base of the dark gray Wolf Cliffs, and almost fall out of the saddle. A black horse is galloping full speed behind me, so close its nose is practically on my horse’s flank. Golmarr glares at me from the animal’s back, his long, dark hair streaming out behind him.

  Within seconds he’s beside me, maneuvering his steed so close to mine that our knees bump. He is riding without saddle or stirrups. “Your mother’s men,” he calls, nodding back toward the city. “They’re probably five minutes behind us.” My hands go cold and my legs sting with the memory of being whipped. Golmarr reaches over and pries the reins from my fingers. “Don’t use those,” he yells. “We train them to respond to our bodies instead of bits. The bit just makes him mad.”

  I wrap my hands in the horse’s mane.

  “You need to stop,” Golmarr says.

  Stopping is the last thing I want to do, so I lean forward and silently urge my horse to run faster, reveling in the wind speeding past my face and streaming through my loose hair, in my racing heart and pumping blood. If Golmarr wants me to stop, he’s going to have to make me. Otherwise, I will ride this stallion as far as it will take me.