Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
Briannis made it to the end of the short line of women still waiting to ascend and let out a heavy sigh. Finally.
She’d just started to pat her frizzy hair back into submission when her relief evaporated.
Finola, oldest daughter of the Lord Provost, whose family had been head of the city for generations, stalked her way with a scowl on her narrow, pinched face.
Unlike the other women, she hadn’t been in line, but had lingered near the record keeper at the base of the stairs, probably hoping to be the last one up and make some sort of grand show of her bravery as she joined the others.
“You were just speaking to Ian,” Finola started in without preamble the moment she reached Briannis at the end of the line. She leaned in entirely too close. “What did he say?” The words flew out in a rush.
Every young woman had to go through the Choosing at least once, even the Lord Provost’s daughters.
At just two and twenty, Finola would have another Choosing in her future if she didn’t marry, not that she’d ever let it come to that.
Unfortunately, she’d gotten her mind set on the only man who didn’t appear to be interested in her.
“Nothing much,” Briannis lied smoothly. “Just wished me luck today.”
Finola huffed, her chin jutting as she crossed her arms. “You know he’s going to marry me, right? He’ll propose the moment this is over.”
Briannis did her best not to let her exasperation show as the line advanced and Finola stood, blocking her way.
“I’m sure he will.” She didn’t mean for her voice to be laden with skepticism, but it flowed out anyway.
Maybe he would propose, but not to Finola.
A pity he didn’t like her instead. It would have saved them all some trouble.
“And I wish you all the happiness together when he does,” she added with full sincerity.
The comment seemed to take the younger woman aback and her arms loosened a little. But she couldn’t just leave things alone. Sliding into line in front of Briannis, she added. “Well, good, because it’d be a shame if you got the wrong idea about him and ended up with your heart broken.”
Briannis bit her tongue to keep her smirk hidden. She managed to wait until Finola gave another huff and turned around before she shook her head and rolled her eyes.
Finally, Briannis reached the record keeper. “Briannis Andrews.”
The elderly woman scanned the long roll of parchment in her weathered hands, clicked her tongue when she found Briannis’ name, and added a mark beside it. “Good. Up with you now.”
She’d barely lifted her foot to ascend the handful of stairs when cries erupted from the stage. A stiff burst of wind had Briannis squinting her eyes and glancing up as the dragon swooped overhead before turning skyward toward the blazing sun.
It was truly beautiful when light shimmered across the prismatic sheen of his green scales. Something so beautiful shouldn’t be so deadly…or demanding of innocent lives.
A few of the women had dropped to the stage and were picking themselves up again, brushing off their white sheath dresses.
The Lord Provost’s voice boomed as he tried to ease the nerves of the crowd, mentioning something about the dragon being eager for his bride and how they must get on with it without delay.
He lifted a fine leather sack cinched tight at the top.
“Each of these lovely young women will select a stone from the bag. They have all been painted in various colors. Only one will indicate who the Fates have bestowed the honor of becoming the dragon’s bride and granting us all safety and security for years to come. ”
“An honor,” Briannis muttered to herself. The phrasing always sat a little bitterly on her tongue.
The Lord Provost turned toward the older woman who had been collecting names. With a single, tight-lipped nod she conveyed everything he needed to know. All the expected young women were accounted for.
And so it began. One by one, women reached their hand into the bag and withdrew a stone. They must be small, as each kept her fist closed tightly around it. Painful quiet settled in. What color signaled doom? They hadn’t said yet. Even if a woman peeked, she had no way to know if she was safe.
It felt like ages before the Lord Provost finally closed in on her at the end of the line. Her feet ached from the too-tight fancy shoes her aunt had insisted on—no woman under her care would dare wear boots with their dress, as Briannis had planned.
The Lord Provost stopped in front of his daughter. Rather than show worry or fear, he beamed at her and she at him. A show of courage for the crowd? Still, something about it picked at her as Finola thrust her fist into the bag and then drew it out a moment later.
Finally, it was her turn.
“Last one,” the Lord Provost said with a now tight-lipped smile as he held out the bag between them.
Briannis reached in, easily finding the last stone, and closed her fist around it before withdrawing.
The selection complete, he walked back to the front of the stage and began speaking again about the legacy of the city, the selection of brides, and how the sacrifice had protected them for generations. But all Briannis really wanted to know was what color?
The little stone felt like a boulder, the sun overhead was too hot, and though she kept panning the crowd looking for familiar faces, they all blurred and she couldn’t see her family anywhere.
“The bride of our guardian dragon shall be the one who presents a stone in his color—green! Now, ladies,”—the Provost turned toward them—“reveal your stones.”
Briannis turned up her palm and unfurled her fingers.
Finola screamed. A horrible, shrill sound that made Briannis jolt and nearly drop her stone.
But the other woman wasn’t staring at her own stone, a pearly white ball in her outstretched hand. Instead, her wide brown eyes were glued to Briannis’ open palm.
She hadn’t even looked. There hadn’t been time. But sitting there, gleaming in the light, was a smooth, oval stone that was unmistakably green. Not the bluish tint like mold on cheese, nor the deep shade of fir trees in the mountains, but a bright glimmering green like the dragon’s scales.
A buzzing hum filled her ears, drowning out whatever the Lord Provost said. Her legs wobbled.
It couldn’t be. There was no way. Surely the Fates would have warned her, given her some hint. Figures closed in around her, blocking her view of the crowd, one she was suddenly desperate for. She had to find her aunt and uncle—had to.
Sound returned. Distantly, she heard someone screaming her name.
Her heart rate jumped even higher as the elders closed in, the Lord Provost directly in front of her.
Everything in her said to run, to flee, but they’d already ringed her in, the other women falling back—some sobbing, others celebrating.
“It’s a mistake. I can’t—” Her gaze darted, searching for an escape, a way out. She had so much to do, so many plans.
“I’m really sorry about this.” The Lord Provost shoved a dark cloth toward her face. A sharp scent stung her nose. And before she could even gather her wits to pull it off, the world slipped away.