The Dragon's Price

by Bethany Wiggins

  She puts her hands on her hips and pulls her lips tight against her teeth, contemplating me. “If you don’t get in and stay in,” she says, voice low and menacing, “I am calling that young man of yours over here to help me put you in. What did you say his name was?”

  I swallow and fold my arms over my naked chest. “Ornald.”

  She puts a finger over her mouth and shakes her head. “No, that is not the name you shrieked when he was fighting the dragon. You called him Golmarr. Do you know what Golmarr means?”

  Shivering, I shake my head.

  “Gol means dragon, and Marr means destroyer. Do you know what language that is?”

  I shake my head again and wish I weren’t naked. I want to run from this woman.

  “That, my girl, is the ancient language of Anthar. In fact…” She takes a small step closer to me, and I back up until the backs of my legs are pressed against the side of the tub. “In fact, King Marrkul’s youngest son, who disappeared with the reputedly beautiful Princess Sorrowlynn of Faodara not seven days ago, is named Golmarr. What do you think of that?”

  “I think I’m ready to bathe,” I say, and gingerly step over the side of the tub. The water sears my calves so intensely that I can’t help but compare it to the whippings I got as a child. I whimper and grit my teeth. Slowly, millimeter by millimeter, I lower the rest of my body into the tub. The heat from the water scalds my skin, warms my blood, and finally seeps into my bones. I close my eyes and let the water lap at my chin.

  “Something else noteworthy,” Melisande says, and my eyes pop open, “is the way you stood there and let me, a perfect stranger, undress you. Most women would balk at having someone strip them down to their bare skin.” She kneels beside the tub and dunks me under the water. When I come up, she starts talking again. “It is said that Faodarian royalty are waited on hand and foot, even when dressing and undressing.” She wrinkles her nose and runs a cake of soap over my head. I blink at her. “I know you had a sponge bath before your wedding, yet still you stink like you’ve been rolling in coals and old blood,” she explains. “But you don’t stink quite as badly as the young horse lord Golmarr, son of King Marrkul of Anthar. He smells like melted hair, burned leather, and fire. That should be some consolation, Princess Sorrowlynn.”

  My eyes grow guarded, and she smiles and nods her satisfaction. “How is his head?” I ask.

  “He’s been tended to, and he is soaking in a bath, just like you, only we call the place where the men bathe a cold stream. Tell me.” She holds up the filthy lace bloomers. “Did he get to see you in these?” I shake my head and she dunks them in the bathwater and rubs them with soap. “In that case, I will wash them for you. You can still use them for your honeymoon.”

  I shake my head and sink down into the water until it is lapping against my earlobes. “I don’t think he truly wants to marry me. Last night, that was just our way of trying not to get killed by…your people.” I cringe.

  “That kiss was fake?” she asks with a laugh. Her hands pause in their washing, and she looks at me. A smile softens her face. “Would you marry him? Do you love him?”

  My heart starts to pound, and my stomach turns. “He has a woman waiting for him at home,” I whisper. The words physically hurt.

  “She might be waiting for him, but I don’t think he is waiting for her. Maybe he was before he went to Faodara, but not anymore.” She vigorously scrubs the bloomers and then rinses them and wrings them out. Without a thought for modesty, she hangs them up on top of one of the blankets forming the walls to my outdoor room, where the whole camp can see them. When she sees my stricken face, she laughs. “What, Princess? Every woman dreams of wearing lace bloomers on her honeymoon, and every man dreams of seeing his wife in a pair. Only, lace costs a fortune, so we don’t have that pleasure. Let’s give my people something to fantasize about!”

  “Since you know who we are, are you going to try to kill us?” I say try because I won’t go down without a fight, and neither will Golmarr.

  She studies me for a moment. “Not today,” she says, and then she dunks me under the water again and rinses the soap from my hair.

  When my hair is clean, I run the bar of soap over my body and cringe as I scrub my ribs. They stick out like I am a half-starved peasant.

  When I am done bathing, Melisande wraps me in a scratchy wool blanket and hurries me, dripping and embarrassed, through the bustling camp. Everyone stops what they are doing to stare wide-eyed at me. “I know you’ve never seen a princess before—especially a naked one,” Melisande howls, “but for the sake of all that is virtuous in this world, will you at least wait until she is dressed to gawk at her?” No one stops staring, and Melisande throws her arms up. “Ignore me, then.”

  We enter the big wagon I was carried to earlier, and Melisande rifles through the drawers of a wooden chest until she finds a long purple skirt, a yellow shirt, a red camisole, and a pair of soft red leather shoes. Without asking, she dresses me, and I do not protest. I wouldn’t know how to lace the skirt up the back without her help. She pulls the camisole over my head before the yellow shirt and then shows me how to weave the leather laces up the front to close it enough that the red camisole still shows.

  When I am dressed, she holds a wide, worn leather belt out to me. I wrinkle my nose at it and do not take it from her. Aside from shoes, leather clothing is for peasants, barbarians, and warriors. “This is for your knife,” she explains. “So you don’t have to tuck it in your waistband.” I still don’t take it from her. Melisande rolls her eyes and wraps it around my waist, cinching it tight just below my ribs. She thrusts the sheathed hunting knife into a loop on the side and glares at me.

  With no gentleness whatsoever, she yanks a comb through my hair until it is smooth, and then braids it at the nape of my neck and ties the end with a red ribbon, like a commoner. She hands me a gold-framed mirror. “What do you think of yourself?”

  I peer at my face and turn it from side to side. It is thinner than it was on my sixteenth birthday. My eyes are solemn and guarded, and through them I can see the weight of the dragon’s treasure. Nothing about me looks like a princess, except for my long neck. I nod and force a smile to my lips. “Thank you.”

  Someone knocks at the wagon door, and I spin around, hoping to see Golmarr. “Enter,” Melisande calls. The door swings wide, and Edemond strides in. My heart sinks. A moment later Golmarr steps inside. His hair is cut even shorter than before and is still wet from his bath. His face is clean-shaven, and he is wearing the brown garb of the Satari men—a loose light brown tunic that laces only halfway up his chest, leaving a bold V of naked skin exposed beneath his neck, with a pair of plain brown trousers. He stops in the doorway, and his gaze moves over every inch of my body, pausing on the leather belt. “You look more at home in Satari clothing than you did in Faodarian gowns,” he says with a smile.

  I blush and catch my bottom lip in my teeth, and the smile leaves Golmarr’s face as he studies my mouth. He wets his lips with his tongue and looks away. “Would you mind feeding us once more, Edemond? We need to leave as soon as possible. Before the glass dragon comes back.”

  “Of course,” Edemond says, running his thumb and finger over his goatee. “It is a rare honor to bestow food on a prince and a princess, and we are in your debt. But I warn you, our food is simple.”

  “Thank you, Edemond. Simple food is a feast to a starving soul,” Golmarr says humbly, and then he touches his forehead and crosses his fingers. Edemond chuckles and nods. He puts his hands on Melisande’s shoulders, and they leave.

  Golmarr pulls a chair out for me to sit at a small square table built into the side of the wagon. “May I look at your ankles?” he asks, his voice tentative.

  I laugh. “I have nothing to hide from you, sir, since you stared at my bare legs for days.” He grins and kneels at my feet, but when he lifts my skirt and drapes it over my knees, then takes my calf in his hand, running his fingers gingerly over my skin, all mirth is instantly drai
ned from me. My cheeks flare at his touch, and my skin prickles with goose bumps. My mind and my heart start to battle. My heart desperately wants me to lean down and kiss the crease between Golmarr’s brows, but my mind tells me I should throw my skirt back over my legs and tell him to stop touching me.

  Golmarr takes my other leg in his hands and clears his throat. I stare at him while he is intent on my healthy skin and wonder how I could ever have thought that he was a wild, ferocious-looking barbarian. He is the handsomest man I have ever seen. My gaze moves to his mouth, to the tension tightening his lips, and all I can think about is how he kissed me last night. My cheeks warm further at the thought, so I close my eyes and try to push Golmarr out of my mind before I embarrass myself by yanking my legs away from him and accusing him of making me think indecent thoughts. Because they’re not indecent. They’re…normal.

  After another moment, I feel my skirt dropped back around my ankles and hear a chair scrape against the wooden floor. I open my eyes to find Golmarr sitting at the other side of the table. “Are you still cold?” he asks. “Your legs look good, but they’re covered with goose bumps.”

  I take a deep breath of air and slowly blow it out. The goose bumps had nothing to do with being cold. “The chill from the glass dragon is gone,” I say. “But not the chill from when I healed you. It is in my hands, mostly.”

  He reaches across the table and takes my hands, pressing my palms together. With his hands, he covers the outside of mine, encasing them in warmth. “Why did you scream at me not to kill the glass dragon?” he asks.

  I shudder and try to pull away from him, but he holds me tight. “You would have inherited its treasure if you killed it,” I whisper.

  “What is its treasure?” Golmarr asks in a quiet voice, leaning closer to me. “Gold? Riches? Knowledge?”

  I shake my head. “What use does a dragon have for gold and riches? Honestly, think about it. All the legends say dragons hoard their treasures, and as human beings we always assume a dragon would treasure the same things we do. But they don’t. They are beasts. They kill when they are hungry. They sleep on rock. They do not buy and sell like we do, take no pleasure in comfort or possessions. They do not need gold. The glass dragon,” I whisper, “treasures hatred of man above everything else, and of all the people living right now, it hates me more than any other. If you killed it, you would have inherited a hatred so intense, it would have driven you mad, or driven you to murder to satisfy your hatred. And I would have been the first person you killed.”

  All the warmth leaves Golmarr’s hands and he lets go of me. He leans back and folds his arms over his chest. Frowning, he asks, “What do we do when it comes back for you, Sorrowlynn, if we can’t kill it?”

  My throat seems to close at his question, because it will be back. I know this in my heart. I stand and start trying to suck air into my lungs, but can’t. Turning to the front door, I throw it open and thrust my head out and let the damp forest air wash over my panic. A strong hand grips my shoulder and pulls me back inside of the wagon. “Are you sick?” Golmarr asks, gently turning me to face him. His eyes are tight with worry.

  “No,” I gasp. “I can’t breathe.”

  One of his eyebrows arches. “I’ve heard that one before. Right about the time you decided to steal my father’s horse.” Despite everything, I laugh, and all of a sudden I can breathe again, as if Golmarr has broken my anxiety in two and taken half of it.

  The wagon stairs creak, and Melisande steps inside carrying a tray of food. She places it on the table. “Porridge,” she announces, her eyes defiant, as if daring us to refuse such a modest meal. “Porridge for the young lovers to celebrate their honeymoon morning.” She winks at me and turns to leave, but stops. “Princess, I almost forgot.” She pulls a brown-and-white bundle from her pocket and holds it up. My face starts to burn so brightly it hurts. I snatch my lace bloomers from her, and she and Golmarr instantaneously burst into laughter. I have no pockets on my skirt, so I wad up the bloomers and shove them down the front of my shirt. When their laughter increases, I bristle and square my shoulders and put my nose up in the air, forcing my face into an expression of regal indifference. “Now I see the princess,” Melisande says, wiping tears of laughter from her cheeks. “Oh, I almost forgot one more thing.”

  I cringe with dread as she opens the wagon door, wondering what else she can do to embarrass me. She steps back inside with my staff, and I gasp. I take it from her hands and run my fingers over it. Instead of prickly pine bark coating it, it is covered with a slick, polished wood that has hair-thin veins of silver. I almost hand it back to the woman, thinking she is mistaken, until I recognize the narrow spot near the top where I hacked the rough bark away with my hunting knife.

  Melisande leaves, and I lay the staff across the table and sit studying the wood. Taking the spoon from my bowl of porridge, I try to gouge the staff’s surface but cannot. “What happened to it?”

  “Don’t you know?” Golmarr asks. I shake my head. “I saw you throw it at the dragon when it blew its breath on you. It went into the dragon’s mouth and lodged in its throat until it coughed it out.” The color drains from his face. “I thought it killed you with its breath.”

  “So did I.” I shiver at the memory and lean my staff against the wall. Scooting my chair up to the table, I look at the lumpy, pale porridge—a peasant’s meal—and frown. Leaning over the bowl, I sniff, and my mouth starts to water.

  “Have you never eaten porridge?” Golmarr asks. I shake my head. “This is how you do it.” He puts his spoon into his bowl and lifts a glob of the sticky food to his mouth and swallows without chewing. “It’s good,” he says, watching me with amusement.

  I put my spoon into the bowl and lift a smidgen of porridge to my mouth. It is soft, and warm, and salty, and mixed with cream and cinnamon. I dig my spoon in again and lift a mountain of porridge to my mouth and proceed to devour it, savoring the feel of it sliding down my throat and into my hollow belly. When I have finished eating, I lean back and look into Golmarr’s surprised face. “I know your education was sorely lacking in certain areas—like self-defense, and what is and is not proper—but were you not taught table manners?” Golmarr asks, laughing. His bowl is still half-full.

  “Are you going to finish that, sir?” I ask. He puts one finger on the lip of the bowl and slides it across the table to me. I laugh. “I was just joking. I’ve had—”

  From outside, a bell starts clanging, and then another, and another. Golmarr and I lock eyes for a heartbeat, and then we are both on our feet, I with my staff and him with his sword.

  We rush outside, and I look immediately to the stark blue sky, expecting to see the dragon appear above the broken trees. Golmarr slams into me and wraps his arm around my waist, and as we tip forward, I feel a gust of air swipe against my cheek as an arrow flies past. It lodges into the wagon behind us.

  With a grunt, I land belly-down on the damp ground, and Golmarr lands on top of me. “Are you okay?” he asks. I nod. “We’re being attacked by renegades. Get back inside of the wagon!” With those words, he leaps up and starts running toward a group of fighting men, his sword held high.

  I lay on the ground and watch as armed men with red bands tied around their biceps pour into the clearing from between the wagons. Edemond’s people are rushing to get children out of the fighting zone, or are running to wagons to arm themselves more fully. And while they do this, their unarmed people are not protected. I can see it all so clearly, how with the men running for their weapons, and the women trying to protect the children, the attackers have a moment to take or kill whatever they want.

  To my left, a woman screams. Melisande is running with a toddler in her arms, but a man has caught her by her braid. He kicks her in the small of her back, and she lets the child down with a command to get inside of a wagon. Whirling around, Melisande pulls a dagger from her belt and slashes at her attacker. Her weapon clangs against a sword and is knocked from her grasp. The man kicks her aga
in, a boot to her stomach, and she crumples to the ground. He lifts his sword and grits his teeth, and I am already running, my staff gripped in my hands like a weapon. His sword swings downward, and Melisande screams, struggling to pull herself out of the way. Just as the weapon comes flush with her body, I thrust my staff in the way and knock it aside, and Melisande crawls away.

  I do not wait for the man to recover from the shock of my attack. Using both of my hands, I swing the staff in a fast circle and slam it into the side of his chin, then thrust it forward into the soft space just below his ribs. He grunts and hunches forward, and I put all of my body weight into swinging the staff at the back of his knees and knock him off his feet.

  As soon as he is down, another man with a red scarf tied to his arm takes his place. This man is younger and has thicker shoulders than the first man, and his biceps bulge against his sleeves. He’s holding a short sword and wearing leather armor. Our eyes meet, and the man grins, motioning me forward with one hand. “Here, pretty girl, fight me and I will teach you how to deal with a real man.”

  I thrust my staff forward once and watch to see how this man fights. In spite of his large size, he is quick, his movements precise, and I know enough to realize that without strength to equal his, I am at a major disadvantage. A twinge of fear travels down my spine, but before I can run, the man lunges at me, but not with his sword. He reaches for my staff, and I can tell by the predatory way he is looking at me, he doesn’t want to kill me. He wants to keep me.

  Before he can wrap his fingers around my weapon, I swing hard and knock it against his knuckles. I pivot and thrust, aiming for his neck, but his sword is up and blocking me before I make contact. The metal clangs against my staff, and sparks fly. I attack again, our weapons meet, and he bears down on my staff with his sword. My arms tremble beneath the power of this man. Lower and lower he pushes me, his sweaty face mere inches from mine. When my knees are about to buckle, he grins, and I can see the lust in his eyes. I dive to the side and twist my staff so it catches his short sword, and the blade is yanked from his hand. As I try to spring to my feet to run, my red shoes tangle in my skirt. With a thud, I fall to the forest floor, landing on my back.