Chapter 5
Rosie
Three guardsmen wait in the gloomy passage outside, ready to protect me from leaping shadows and the occasional bat, I suppose.
Though each fellow is formidable enough in his own way, not one of them boasts the height and breadth of the lone guard I encountered in the alcove above the stairs.
Their faces are likewise devoid of rakish scars, and their lips don’t strike one as unexpectedly soft and kissable.
Not that I’m standing here staring at their lips.
“And how are you this evening, Captain Norlan?” I ask as I step from my chamber. “I trust you and your men are feeling better?”
The captain flushes and doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “Aye, Princess. The flux has passed, and we’re all none the worse for it in the end,” he growls.
“And have you tried a brew of gingerroot and skullcap seeds?” I ask, the apothecary in me unable to resist offering a remedy to any malady that may cross my path. “It will soothe the ache, and skullcap is known for its restorative properties—”
A pointed clearing of the throat interrupts my eagerness.
Glancing over my shoulder, I catch Philippa’s eye.
She motions imperiously with one hand. I press my lips together, stifling my words, and step into the midst of the armored trio, matching my pace to theirs as we march down the passage.
The tramp of their boots is the only sound to be heard throughout the echoing stone palace.
I glimpse no sign of another living soul.
If I didn’t know any better, I would think I was being marched through my own lonely tomb.
Which is strangely fitting. After all, Rosie Harpwood is dead and gone…
why should she not end up buried as well?
I clench my fists, manicured nails digging into the palms of my hands.
I’m not done for. Not by a long shot. If my little act of rebellion earlier today proved anything, it was that the powers seeking to control me do not yet rule me.
I’ll find a way out of this yet, gods help me.
Escape might seem impossible at the moment, but there’s always a way if one is quick and brave enough to take it. My own history has taught me that much.
Much sooner than I’m prepared for, we stand at a pair of large double doors, carved in an elaborate frieze of cavorting monsters.
Light from the nearest scintil catches each fanged face, making the various chimeras, ogres, and even the occasional dragon seem much too lifelike for comfort.
They tell me this whole palace was carved out of the mountain stone by dwarves long ago.
They built it as a gift for some human princess, who, fleeing her evil stepmother, took refuge among the dwarf tribe.
She fell in love with a dwarfish prince, who ordered the palace built in her honor.
This is why, while the craftsmanship is distinctly dwarfish, the ceilings and doorways are all comfortable heights for humans.
I crane my ears, listening for sounds of life and movement on the other side of those doors.
All is very still, but how much sound could carry through such thick slabs of rock in any case?
I draw a deep breath and glance back at my guards.
They stare blankly straight ahead; no sympathy to be had from that quarter.
Biting my lower lip, I face the doors once more.
With a little inhale and a firm set to my shoulders, I grasp the heavy doorknobs and push the doors open.
A blast of light, sound, and movement bursts across my senses, shocking as a lightning bolt. An enormous space yawns before me. For a moment, I cannot make any sense of it. I simply stand where I am, gawping like a landed trout.
Slowly, my senses return to me. First my sense of smell.
A vivid array of enticing aromas assaults me like a series of blows: roasted meats, rich spices, sparkling wines, all coming from one end of the massive hall where a banquet table offers up its magnificent spread.
Next, my ears open to the strains of delicate music, lilting as though from heaven itself, though a more rational thought suggests it might actually come from the musicians’ gallery on my right.
Finally, my dazzled eyes begin to clear, taking in the sea of faces before me.
So many faces, far more than I expected.
And all adorned in jewels and plumes and silks, which glow in the light of the clustered scintils strung from the high ceiling above.
I recognize the colors and standards of the various Kingdoms of Belanor.
Apparently, each champion brought with him a small entourage.
They cluster in groups of green, black, crimson, saffron, blue, and gold.
Mostly men, but some women too. All beautiful.
All terrifying. All part of a world that should have nothing to do with me.
A sort of hushed stillness holds the room captive.
Then a low murmur of voices ripples across the chamber as courtiers turn to one another, hands over their mouths as though to disguise their words.
But while I cannot hear what they say, I feel their questions and confusion hitting me like so many pebbles:
Is this her?
Could this be the Dragon Princess?
She’s not much of a thing, is she?
Perhaps there’s been some mistake.
The real Dragon Princess will emerge any moment.
Surely, she can’t be what all the fuss is about!
I want to shout in response: No! No, I’m not what all the fuss is about, because this is all one big, ridiculous misunderstanding! Instead, I stand there, stupidly. Gaping at them as they gape at me.
“Princess?” Captain Norlan’s voice rumbles at my elbow. I startle and turn to catch his somber gaze. “This way,” he says.
Without the captain’s presence at my side, I don’t think I’d have the courage to enter that echoing chamber.
I’d turn and simply flee into the darkness, losing myself in the twisting caverns of this subterranean realm, never to be heard from again.
As it is, I allow Norlan and the other two members of my escort to guide me across the smooth floor beneath that enormous vaulted ceiling.
The courtiers make way, parting to create a path between them leading to the dais on the far side of the hall where the High King stands, awaiting my arrival.
In many ways, King Alderin is much like his nephew: golden haired, broad shouldered, upright, and almost painfully handsome.
But there is much silver threaded with the gold of his hair, particularly around the temples.
Hard lines deepen his brow and frame his mouth, giving him the look of a man who has been carved into existence by forces beyond the scope of mortal comprehension.
He is a legend, about whom more stories have been told than any other hero, either living or dead.
The only man who could and did unite the six Kingdoms of Belanor.
The only man who has dared enter the Dragon Queen’s domain and escaped with one of her eggs. Or so the stories tell.
“Welcome, Roselle,” he says, looking down at me with that oh-so-knowing gaze of his.
The gaze that looks as though he knows I got up this morning and put my drawers on backward.
I hastily offer what I hope is a graceful curtsy.
Something tells me I don’t get low enough, but my knees simply aren’t used to such deep genuflection, damn it.
“Come,” says he, beckoning. “Join me here.”
Tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth, I mount the dais steps then drop another curtsy, a little deeper than the one before.
There’s probably some protocol, some correct form of greeting I should make.
No doubt Philippa tried to drive it into my head at some point, but if so, it’s flitted away, evicted by the pound of my own throbbing pulse.
So I remain where I am, sunk low into the circle of my skirts, hoping my knees won’t simply give way under the strain.
The king extends a hand. I hesitate a moment before resting my fingers on his. He firms his grip and draws me back to standing, gazing deeply into my eyes as he does so. “You look radiant tonight, my dear,” he says. “The gown suits you admirably. Are you ready for the Presentation?”
No. “Yes, Your Majesty,” I breathe.
“Good. The champions are eager to make your acquaintance. Come, sit here.” With those words, he turns me toward a chair positioned in the center of the dais.
To call it a chair doesn’t quite do it justice, however.
It’s every inch a throne, complete with elaborate gilding, inset gemstones, and a pair of carved angelic wings arching from the top.
I want to protest. Surely such a seat wasn’t made for someone like me!
But one doesn’t argue with one’s king, and Alderin’s grip on my hand is firm.
I sit as commanded, perched on the edge of that great seat.
When the king releases my fingers, I fold both hands tightly in my lap and stare at them hard.
“Courage, child,” the king murmurs, taking a step back from me. “It will all be over soon.”
His smile is gentle. The smile of a man who orders abductions for the good of the nation. I try to return it, my lips twisting at the corners in an expression I suspect is rather ghastly. Alderin does not seem to care. He turns from me and addresses the gathering.
“Friends, brothers, countrymen,” he says, his voice filling the whole of that echoing chamber with ease.
“By the grace of the gods, we have gathered here so that we may seek to discern their will. Dark days surround us, and darker days lie before us. But hope has come to us at last, an ember burning in the depths of night.”