Chapter 3
Alinore
ALINORE STOOD ON the battlements of Syonno Castle, peering down at the thickening crowd below.
It was a raucous, swelling mass that filled the cobbled square, pressing against the gates of the castle in the warm spring sunshine.
Guards patrolled its edges, their livery dashes of purple in the surge of murkiness.
Occasionally a sword was drawn to threaten a particularly disorderly cluster of revellers.
‘It’s horrible, isn’t it?’ said a voice from behind her.
Alinore jumped.
‘Father says they’re all from the lower parts of the city – the Pits. On the day of the Maiden Sacrifice they start drinking from the break of dawn and don’t stop until the sun sets.’
Prince Ottone rested his elbows in the crenel beside her. He was dressed in pearl-studded velvet which she guessed must be in preparation for the midday parade. The garment was very fine yet somehow looked tight and awkward on him.
‘Peace be with Your Highness, Prince Ottone Donolaino of Calestra,’ said Alinore, hurriedly bending into one of her flouncy curtseys.
‘Don’t bother with that if it’s just me.’
Alinore was not sure what her father would think of such familiarities. It had been a moon since he had left to fight in the High King’s army and in his first letter, received a few days ago, he had reminded her that she was a guest at Syonno Castle and must behave accordingly.
‘I like your curtsey,’ Prince Ottone added. ‘I’ve never seen anyone do it like that.’
‘Thank you. My maid keeps trying to stop me. She says it’s unseemly. But she’s leaving soon so I suppose I don’t have to listen to her.’
‘She’s returning to your home?’
Alinore nodded. ‘She only stayed here to settle me in.’
It would be nice not to have someone always picking and snipping at her, but without her maid, Alinore worried that she would feel lost. So far, she had spent her days at Syonno Castle at the edges of the Queen’s household, trailing the fine ladies from room to room, mostly idle, or penned up in the guest quarters under the supervision of a lady-in-waiting, badly embroidering cushions.
‘Would you like to return home too?’ asked Prince Ottone.
Yes, Alinore longed to reply, but she knew that was not what her father would want her to say.
It had been exciting at first, travelling north and staying in a royal castle.
But then her father had left to fight with Lord Lassiaro against the Journian rebels, and now she was stuck here alone until he returned.
‘It’s an honour to be a guest of His Majesty King Borto,’ she parroted.
Prince Ottone tilted his head and a slight breeze ruffled the black curls that sprang like a mane around his face. ‘I thought I should check on you because yesterday during service in the Sanctuary it looked like—’
‘The incense got in my eyes!’ said Alinore quickly. ‘That’s all.’
But she could feel tears threatening the back of her throat even now.
She missed her home, a neat villa flanked by olive trees and lavender bushes, filled with pretty decorations from her father’s travels.
She did not know how long she would be staying at Syonno Castle.
Before he left, her father had said that she could not live at home while he was away this time; she was too old and needed experience of courtly life.
Her mother had died from a sickness shortly after Alinore was born, and she had not been brought up under a woman’s supervision – which her maid frequently pointed out.
But Alinore did not care. So far, her experience of courtly life was disorientating and tedious with too many manners, pointless ceremonies and silly chatter.
There was nothing interesting to be learnt from it as far as she could see.
At least she had finally become used to the fast, clipped accent of the region; she had spent the first few days in Tormale barely understanding what everyone was saying.
‘Has Cress shown you her collection of ribbons?’ asked Prince Ottone. ‘I told her she should.’
Alinore shook her head.
Princess Cressyda had pointedly ignored her since she arrived. Occasionally, when they were milling about the Queen’s chambers with the ladies-in-waiting, Alinore caught the Princess watching her with an intense, hostile expression.
‘She’s very proud of the ribbons; she has one in every colour.’
‘I don’t really care for ribbons.’
Prince Ottone laughed, a deep, warm sound.
Alinore had often studied Prince Samsel, the firstborn Prince of Calestra, who was tall and slight, with taut features and flinted eyes, but she had not paid much attention to his younger brother.
Prince Ottone always seemed to be lingering in the background of royal occasions, biting his nails or shuffling his feet.
‘Ottone!’ called a voice behind them. ‘Ottone, what’re you doing out here?’
They turned to see Princess Cressyda hurrying towards them.
She was also dressed finely in an embellished blue dress and jacket with layers of ruffles and coordinated bows braided into her black, shining hair.
Alinore expected the Queen would be wearing a matching outfit; they were always dressed the same.
‘Mother wants to check you’re respectably turned out and …’
The Princess caught sight of Alinore and her step faltered.
‘Cress, I found Lady Alinore up here all alone,’ said Prince Ottone, beckoning to his sister. ‘It’s her first Maiden Sacrifice.’
Princess Cressyda folded her arms and did not reply.
The sound of shattering glass rang out below them, followed by deep bellows. They turned to see guards running to one corner of the square where a brawl had broken out.
‘Why does a girl need to be sacrificed?’ asked Alinore.
She had heard of Calestra’s spring tradition before she arrived, of course, but it had always sounded like a macabre fairytale from a faraway land.
She had never paid it much attention. Then, a few days ago, King Borto had announced the upcoming Maiden Sacrifice, and it was met with grave, accepting expressions from his court.
Since then, Alinore had observed the preparations with queasy bemusement.
‘It’s an ancient treaty between the Mountain folk and the Great Dragon,’ said Prince Ottone. ‘It means the dragons leave us all alone.’
‘How does it work?’ Alinore had seen Mountain folk around the castle – men and women who spoke in breathy accents and wore cloches over their heads: a pale, bell-shaped bonnet that fell low over the brow. They were all servants.
‘A girl with Mountain blood who is eighteen winters old is chosen by lot and sent to the Great Dragon. The Mountain folk are descended from the first people of this land and they formed a treaty with the Great Dragon to protect them when the armies from the Diaspass Kingdom first invaded. Otherwise our ancestors would’ve wiped them out when the United Kingdoms of Galasque were formed. ’
‘And this chosen girl gets … eaten?’
‘Probably. They never return.’
Alinore grimaced. ‘If I was a girl from a Mountain village then I’d just move somewhere else.’
‘It wouldn’t matter if you did,’ replied Prince Ottone with a wry smile. ‘Any girl with Mountain blood is included no matter where they are in Calestra.’
Alinore glanced over her shoulder at the soaring, jagged peaks in the distance. Behind Syonno Castle lay walled gardens that turned into the royal farmland, which eventually faded into the slopes of the mountains.
‘Will we get to see a dragon at the ceremony?’ she asked.
‘Of course not!’ snapped Princess Cressyda, her amber eyes flashing. She had looked increasingly uncomfortable throughout Alinore’s questioning. ‘The dragons are dangerous. We do all of this to keep them away.’
Alinore pursed her lips.
‘Guards take the girl into the mountains,’ explained Prince Ottone after a pause. ‘And leave her to walk the rest.’
Alinore tried to imagine ascending into that lofty wilderness, waiting to be set upon by a mighty, fierce beast. She shuddered. ‘So no one ever sees the dragons?’
‘Not on the day of the Maiden Sacrifice, but I’ve seen dragons before. Sometimes you can spot them in the distance.’
‘And do they breathe fire?’ asked Alinore.
There were paintings of dragons in the castle gallery and she enjoyed seeking them out whenever she could slip away from her maid.
The dragons depicted were all different: some stocky and crouching, others lithe and looming; some the dark greens and browns of the mountains, others brightly coloured and ornate.
Alinore was not sure what was real and what was mere embellishment.
‘Do they have long fangs?’ she added. ‘And spikes on their tails?’
Before he could answer, Princess Cressyda stepped forward and said, ‘Ottone, our mother is waiting for you. She’s unwell this morning.’
A knowing look passed between them.
Alinore had never wished she had siblings – she enjoyed having her father’s full attention on the rare occasions he was home – but she thought now that she would quite like an older brother like Prince Ottone. Someone kind and knowing.
‘All right,’ he sighed. ‘Let’s get this over with.
’ He pushed himself off the battlements and stretched.
He was only one winter older, but a whole head and shoulders taller than Alinore and almost three times as broad.
‘The Maiden Sacrifice is grim for everyone,’ he added.
‘I’m sorry, Lady Alinore, I can’t imagine how it’ll seem if you’ve never experienced it before.
I hope today isn’t too difficult for you. ’
Alinore stooped into one of her elaborate curtseys as Prince Ottone walked away.
The Princess fell into step behind him, without a backward glance, and they drifted across the battlements together, dark heads bent, jewelled clothes gleaming in the sunlight.
By the time Alinore had straightened again, they were gone.
She turned back to the scene below, stepping closer to the edge, placing her hands against the warm stone.
Guards were stringing flags from the colonnades on the left side of the main square, while attendants hammered the bones of a stage into the centre, all watched over by a rowdy crowd.
They were a loud, wine-flushed gaggle, laughing, pressed shoulder to shoulder as though they were awaiting a festival rather than a rite of death.
Alinore pursed her lips. A strange churn of anticipation and anxiousness rolled around her stomach.
She tried to picture the chosen girl – the Maiden Sacrifice.
Eighteen winters old, at the very cusp of life beginning, only to have it cut short.
She wondered what it would feel like to stand on that stage below, knowing you were being sentenced to death.
She imagined the ride into the mountains later, the dark procession winding upwards into mist, towards the lair of something ancient and merciless.
She imagined the cold. The fear. And then the dragon.
A real dragon. Not something from a painting or tapestry, not a monster from a tale or ballad, but something alive and seething with fire.
She wondered how it felt, in those final moments. Not just to die, but to burn.