by Jo Beverley
At least she could wash her feet. She rolled off her silk stockings and when she’d washed her feet, she washed the stockings, too. When her feet were dry, she put the boots back on, wondering if the stockings would dry overnight. Perhaps she could spread them on the hot dragon. Anything was possible in this peculiar new world.
When she emerged from the wood, she saw her husband leaning on the dragon, close to Seesee’s head, looking dejected. Probably disappointed in his bride. After all, what did she know about men and their ways, never mind Dornaan ones? She wanted to escape, and sleep seemed the best refuge to hand.
She cleared her throat. “I’m ready.”
He straightened and offered a hand up onto the dragon. She relished that, clinging a little as she climbed. But then worry trickled in. “Is this safe?”
“Of course. Why?”
Something—a dragon thought?—had reminded Rozlinda that dragons liked SVP blood. She was certainly still V.
“She . . . she doesn’t like midnight snacks?”
Something twitched his lips. “You’re completely safe here, I promise. And dragon sleeping is cozy. With that and hralla, you’ll be off like a baby. Slide down beneath the wing.”
Rozlinda considered the situation dubiously, but what choice did she have? She spread the stockings over the dragon’s back and then sat down, gathered her skirts, and wriggled under the wing.
He was right. It was surprisingly comfortable. The scales were smooth here, and the dragon was slightly soft and delightfully warm. The big body rose and fell gently with each breath. She’d get used to the smell in time.
“Will you sleep nearby?” she asked, peering up at the black silhouette against the deep blue sky.
“Not yet. Go to sleep.”
Rozlinda lay on the warm, breathing dragon, looking up at the densely starred sky, trying to come to terms with her situation, but fighting tears. She believed in duty and even in sacrifice, but why did her path have to be so very hard?
Chapter 7
She woke in daylight, screaming, fighting a choking, stinking monster. By the time she’d realized she was knotted up in her dress, the Dornaan had dragged her from under the dragon’s wing. She was panting with panic and her bodice wasn’t helping. It had twisted in the night to compress her chest. As soon as she was on the ground, she cried, “Get me out of this thing!” When he didn’t seem to understand, she added, “The bodice, idiot!”
His brows shot up, but he took out his knife, turned her, and cut her free. She dragged it off and stamped on it. Jumped on it, both feet at once. “I am never wearing one of those things again.”
“You don’t—”
“I know I don’t need one. That’s the point! I have nothing to confine.”
She realized she had her hands clutched to her meager bumps and let go, face dragon-hot. “Now you know the truth.”
His eyes flickered between the stuffed cups of the corset-bodice and her. “So I do. It is of no importance, Zlinda.”
“So you say.”
“So I say. However, I must insist that you change your clothes. You cannot go on like this.”
“I cannot wear the ones you brought.”
“I could command you.”
His tone sent a shiver through her, but she raised her chin. “A princess of the blood is commanded only by the queen.”
“But you’re not the SVP anymore, are you?”
She shook her head. “That’s irrelevant.”
“Then explain.”
She grimaced and sought the right words. “The women of the blood are above all others. Within the blood, princesses who have made the sacrifice have the eminence, oldest being highest. The princess on the Way is least among us. But no man can command us. It is different in Dorn?”
“We have no princesses in Dorn. A husband may command a wife for her own good. As she may command him to his.”
“I don’t see how that can possibly work.”
“We shall see. Now, your clothes.”
“I can manage.”
He looked down. When she followed his gaze, she saw that six inches or more of skirt dragged on the ground. When he’d cut the lacing, he’d cut the belt, as well. Remembering how she’d looked in the mirror, she struggled with tears, but she pulled herself together. “May I request”—she tried for courtesy to use his word—“pray thee, that you cut a few inches off?”
“It will ruin it.”
“It’s already ruined. Besides, the virgin’s dress is ritually burned. This one was only available because”—quickly she switched to—“because things were irregular last time.”
“How short?”
If dragons gave off heat, this man could give off ice. Rozlinda blinked to clear blurry eyes. “Perhaps six inches?”
He slit quickly through the silk as she rotated. When he’d finished, she looked down at a neat edge circling just above her ankles.
“Thank you. That’s much better.”
He didn’t thaw. Last night might never have happened. She reached for the strip of dirty silk in his hand, but his hands tightened. “This is part of the death of Cheelus.”
“That wasn’t my fault!”
Nothing in his icy face changed.
Rozlinda pulled on her boots, picked up her small bag, and took refuge by the stream. This was all so unfair. She couldn’t go on. She was aching from yesterday’s walking, and the water was icy.
She had a horrible thought. What if this was the way the Dornae lived—wandering homeless through a rocky world with all their possessions in a bag, sleeping on their dragons, washing in streams? Surely Seyer Rouar of the Dragon’s Womb, or whatever his titles were, must live in a castle.
Seyer Rouar of the plain clothes and scruffy bag?
“Zlinda?”
She turned and saw her captor in the trees.
“If you want breakfast, you need to come and eat.”
If starving would spite him, she might, but she gathered her things and returned to the fire. He had the kettle boiling, slices of bread on plates, and something liquid in a pot. Boiled drool?
Rozlinda looked around. “Where’s Seesee?”
“Gone to feed.”
Rozlinda stared into the blank sky, stabbed by a new loss. There went her stockings. The delicate silk might have survived a night on the dragon’s back, but they wouldn’t survive flight. For some absurd reason, that loss seemed tragic.
“Sit and eat.”
She sat down and picked up a slice of bread. It was heavy and hard.
He offered her the pot.
“What is it?”
“Honey.”
Distrustfully, she tasted it. It was indeed honey, so she spread it thickly and ate, savoring the familiar sweetness. Even this had a strange taste, however. The bees of Dorn must feed off different plants. Strange plants, strange place, strange people . . .
He put a steaming cup near her hand.
“Is that hralla?”
“In the morning?”
She wanted to snap that it wasn’t her fault if she understood nothing about Dorn and its ways. That if they’d been planning this capture as carefully as it seemed, they should have sent lesson books to prepare her. And known to bring her suitable clothing! But what was the point?
She didn’t recognize the taste of the tea, but it was pleasant enough, especially as he’d added honey. She ate, drank and was wiping honey off her fingers with the washcloth when she felt a thrum in the air. She looked to see Seesee swooping down on them, and watched the way the dragon seemed to gather herself in order to land neatly, stirring as little dust as possible.
“She’s good at that,” she said, trying to be pleasant.
“Dragons try to be considerate.”
“So,” she said coldly, “do princesses.” Unlike Dornaan men.
The dragon waddled off to the stream, and the man gathered their cups and plates and followed, presumably to wash them. Rozlinda deliberately did nothing to help. When he returned, he began to pack things away.
“What do you want to do with the strip of cloth?” he asked.
The piece cut from her gown was neatly folded, but it was brown from recent dirt, green from dragon rock, and smeared where Seesee had sucked at it. She should send everything back home, but what would they think of its condition? He’d extinguished the fire, or she might burn it.
Then she “heard” a vague yum? and saw the dragon emerging from the woods.
“Perhaps Seesee would like it.”
“She’s not a puppy to be given a toy.”
Rozlinda picked up the silk and walked over to the dragon. “If you would like it, I am most happy to offer it.”
For a moment, she thought she’d made a fool of herself, but then the dragon’s tongue slid out and snagged it, slurping it into her mouth, where she chewed or sucked with obvious delight.
Rozlinda turned to smirk—and caught affectionate humor in Rouar’s eyes again. For the dragon, of course, but it gave her hope. He immediately turned blank. “There’s no understanding dragons.”
“Or a Dornaan.” But Rozlinda returned to help gather their belongings, saying, “Ro, we need to learn each other’s ways. Tell me about Dorn. You’re organized into tribes, aren’t you? By trade?”
He was assembling plates, cups and utensils into a tidy bundle. “More or less.”
“And your tribe is?”
“The dragoners, of course.”
His tone implied she was stupid to ask, but she would not become irritated. “The clan devoted to caring for the dragons?”
“All people of Dorn care for the dragons.”
Patience, patience. Rozlinda stuffed her bodice and belt into her bag, though it could hardly hold them. “So what does that mean—to be a dragoner?”
He grimaced, but she thought it was frustration over having to explain something difficult rather than irritation at her. “We are family with the dragons,” he said at last.
“So you are the families that look after the dragons.” She wanted to ask, Isn’t that what I said? but someone had to stay calm in this conversation.
“They look after themselves.”
“Then what do you do?” So much for calm.
He put his kettle in the leather bucket and the bucket in the bag. “Farm, build, make things, buy, sell. Everything people generally do.”
She was ready to bash his head with a rock, but then something clicked. He’d said, “We are family with the dragons.” Did that mean “We are the family with the dragons,” or “Dragons and dragoners are one family”?
“You mean that the dragons are part of the dragoner clan?”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
Breath seemed painful. “So the dragon . . . it, she, wasn’t . . .” She’d been about to say an animal or a pet. “She was like a sister, a mother or an aunt?”
It sounded ridiculous, but he said, “More or less.”
She looked at the dragon who was contentedly chewing. Already she’d learned that Seesee was more than an animal. Person didn’t seem the right term, but it was the closest she could come to.
She turned back. “I’m so very sorry. How can I apologize enough for Cheelus’s death?”
“You can’t. It’s done. Forget it.”
“Can you?”
“Never.”
Hopeless beyond words, Rozlinda ran back down to the stream. Galian and Aurora had done a terrible thing, but they hadn’t known. None of them had known. And none of it was her fault!
But she knew now that she was the representative of all that he hated. What was to become of her in his strange, inhospitable land if her husband hated her? If his people hated her.
She tried to find solace from last night, from beautiful passion, but whatever had pulled him to her had battled his loathing, and loathing had won. She hugged her knees and wept.
* * *
Rouar halted by the last tree.
He’d come after the princess to apologize, but she was crying, the sort of steady tears that should go with a wail. She, however, sobbed almost silently.
And she still didn’t know.
He put an arm around a slender tree, gripping its rough bark.
He couldn’t do this.
He must do this.
What did one life matter in such a cause? He’d willingly offer his own—but he wasn’t a vessel of the necessary blood. He wished they’d snared her sister. It might be easier to gut that selfish piece. But no. She’d still be an innocent.
At least there was hralla. With enough hralla, by the time he let poor Zlinda’s blood drain into the womb, she’d think it the most wonderful thing ever to happen to her.
Could he drink enough before the sacrifice to gain the same bliss? He leaned his head against the bark, fighting tears of his own.
He didn’t want Princess Rozlinda to die. He wanted, with ferocity, to step into her reality, where they arrived in Dorn as man and wife; where she set to learning all about her new family and the dragons; where they set up home together, talked together, laughed together, made love and babies together.
And in daylight, that wasn’t queen drool speaking.
He choked tears in the back of his throat and bashed his forehead against the tree to try to knock sense into his brain.
“Ro?”
He turned to see her looking at him, lovely eyes concerned. He staggered away, half-blind and panting, to seek the dragon warmth, the smell, the something in the mind that had been his cradle since birth. Seesee was one of his family’s dragons and had been a hatchling the year of his birth. Playmate, sister, ward and guide.
Sad thing you think of, Seesee said when he flung himself at her.
Yes. His throat was too tight for speech.
Why is it so sad to you?
That she could pose such a question about a blood sacrifice of someone she’d said she liked showed the gulf between human and dragon minds.
“You won’t think it sad?”
No.
“I don’t think I can do it. Give you Zlinda’s blood.”
Then don’t.
“You don’t need it to lay eggs?”
Again he saw, with insistence, the bleeding princess chained to the rock.
“But . . .” He shook his head. There was no point in arguing with a dragon. But in that vivid, awful image, a dragon claw was slitting open the victim.
“You could do it?” he asked, expecting a negative, even shock.
Yes.
Oh, for such a calm and distant mind.
Heart torn with grief, he said, “Then, Seesee, let it be so.”
Chapter 8
If the stream had been deeper, Rozlinda might have thrown herself into it. She’d not swum since becoming SVP, so she’d probably drown. As it was, she had to return to the man and his dragon and fly onward to Dorn.
She packed lingering items in her bag, only then remembering the bandage. When Ro had done such a good job of tidying up she didn’t want to leave a mess, but she didn’t remember it by the stream. She looked at the dragon.
Yum.
It made her smile a little, but she wondered. This fondness for her blood was worrying, especially when the dragon, too, must grieve the death of Cheelus. She sensed, all the time, something unsaid.
At least her husband had thawed. He carried her overstuffed bag to the dragon and wedged it in place. When he gave her a hand into her seat, he might even have tried to smile, and when he sat behind her, his arm came around her strongly. She could imagine it was caring, except that she sensed the strain behind it.
With a roaring sound, the dragon lifted into
flight, throwing her back against him. Despite her will, parts of her enjoyed it.
The tunic he now wore covered his arm down to his elbow, but that still left his strong forearm to admire, shimmering with pale hair and a narrow gold band.
Perhaps he didn’t hate her after all. Perhaps the strain was because he wanted to make love to her and couldn’t yet, for whatever reason. She certainly knew how unreasonable rituals and traditions could be.
This morning’s flight covered a long distance. The land beneath became rougher and the Shield closer, but that border of Dorn was still far away when they landed so Seesee could feed.
“What will she find here?” Rozlinda asked, looking at scrubby woodland.
“Deer, goat, wild pigs, even, if they venture out of the trees. Ready?”
Yesterday’s walking had left some of her very unready, but she wouldn’t complain. She shouldered her bag and said, “Of course.” But she couldn’t help adding, “Do you normally walk a lot?”
“If I want to get anywhere.”
“What of the dragons?”
“They’re not beasts of burden.”
“What about horses, donkeys and such?”
“We have none.”
“Why not?”
“Because the dragons would eat them.”
“If you bred enough, the dragons could eat some and you’d still have some to ride.”
“There is no ‘some’ with dragons and blood. They probably ate all the large animals in Dorn before my ancestors arrived. The settlers introduced draft and riding animals, and the dragons gobbled them up. People and dragons fought over it, but then the people discovered the advantages the dragons provided, so they tried your idea—they bred extra. The dragons ate as much as there was. More food meant more eggs, more dragons, more eating. A few animals could be preserved inside stone buildings, but apart from that . . .”
“They didn’t eat the people?”
“No.” But she heard a slight hesitation.
She said it for him. “Except Virgins of the Blood, of course.”