Chapter 63
Cressyda
THE INTENSE HEAT of the torches burned Cressyda’s cheeks red raw.
Their flames danced, licking and spitting as they swung in rusted sconces suspended from the canopy of her carriage.
The smoke coiled upwards, tendrils twisting into the bright blaze of the afternoon sunshine, where it vanished into the pale blue sky.
All around her, the crowd surged like a tide, pressing against the barricades that barely held them back.
Faces warped in rage and fervour, eyes wild with hatred, mouths stretched open in furious exultation.
‘Send her to the Great Dragon!’
‘Let her burn!’
‘She must die!’
Spittle flew from shouting mouths, flecking the cobblestones and the armour of the nearby guards. The cries of the crowd mingled with the roaring of the bonfires blazing at the corners of Tormale’s main square, columns of black smoke rising like towers, casting long, shuddering shadows.
Cressyda had watched plenty of Maiden Sacrifices parade towards the royal dais.
She knew what she looked like: a slight figure decked in blood-red robes, face painted in flames that curled over her cheeks and brows, her hair woven tightly into braids that coiled atop her head like a black crown.
The sight of the maiden was a familiar one that Cressyda had always observed from the safety of the royal party – she had never imagined that she would be here.
She had never imagined what it would feel like to be the maiden, with the weight of robes tugging on her shoulders, and the itch of paint drying and cracking across her skin.
Just another girl about to die like the many who had gone before her.
Another name that would vanish like smoke, swallowed by legend and fire.
Ahead of her, Samsel waited, smiling.
He stood on the royal platform at the centre of the square, Calestran flags fluttering from its canopy and sconces burning at its corners.
Swathed in purple robes emblazoned with leaping, golden dragons, he cut a tall, imposing figure against the coppery buildings around him.
To his left, lingering at his shoulder, was Pataso, the new Royal Master.
Cressyda wondered if Pataso had readily agreed to all of this or if he had tried to resist at all.
She doubted the latter. There were not many who would dare to oppose a new king.
Her gaze drifted behind Samsel and the Royal Master, to the favoured councilmen and highborn courtiers in silken robes who flanked the royal dais.
Theirs were the practised faces of men and women accustomed to the theatre of ceremony, schooled in watching without blinking.
Their expressions were attentive, their complexions flushed from the roaring flames or perhaps from excitement.
No one appeared concerned or remorseful on her behalf.
Eyes darted towards her occasionally: curious, impersonal and cold.
Her death was the price of peace, they would say.
The necessary offering to keep the Great Dragon sated.
She looked from one courtier to the next, holding her breath for the figure that she did not think she could bear to see – but the Queen was not there.
She scanned again, behind the courtiers, behind the guards, as if Queen Flavria might be tucked away in shadow.
But no. The seat reserved for her at the edge of the platform sat empty, its cushion untouched.
Cressyda breathed out in relief.
She hoped the woman she had called ‘Mother’ these past eighteen winters knew nothing about what was happening.
She hoped that Queen Flavria had been kept away from talk of the ceremony, that she had been shielded from the brutal truth of what was to come.
Because if the Queen had known and done nothing – if she had allowed this to happen – then Cressyda would not be able to bear it.
The burning carriage juddered to a halt in front of the royal platform.
Smoke billowed from its corners, curling up around the bars, clinging to Cressyda’s robes, her skin, her throat.
The crowd had fallen into a tense silence.
Then, with a sudden, coordinated fury, the drums that encircled the main square began to thunder.
The cadence grew faster, harder. Cressyda could feel it reverberating through her, rattling her ribs and chattering her teeth.
A final, shattering crescendo rang out, then it stopped.
Pataso stepped forward into the quiet. The sun caught the gold rings that adorned his hands and arms, flashing like sparks as he raised them skywards.
His voice was low at first, nearly lost to the crackle of the torches, but it rose quickly, shaped by ancient syllables that carried power.
The language of magic. His eyes grew wide and bright, and the spell unfurled from his mouth.
The air seemed to shift, as if inhaling in anticipation.
Then a sudden gust surged through the square: something thick and charged.
Magic. It crackled, rippling through the banners and shaking the cobblestones.
Fires exploded into the sky in a blast of searing white, and heat swept through the crowd, forcing gasps. The very air screamed with brightness.
Then all was still.
Samsel tipped his head, the jewels of his crown shimmering like flames, his small brown eyes so dark they were almost black.
He opened his mouth, his thin lips pulled into a smirk, and when he spoke, his voice rang out clear and practised, rising with the confidence of a man born to speak above silence.
‘We gather here on the day of the three-hundredth Maiden Sacrifice, the first in the reign of your new King …’
Cressyda let his address roll over her. She had heard it all before: fine words wrapped in sacred language that sanctified slaughter.
Instead, she turned her thoughts inwards, away from the square, away from the crowd, away from the blazing fires.
She focused on the path that lay ahead, the upcoming journey that would lead her into the steep cliffs and craggy outcrops of the mountains – and what she might do when she got there.
She had a plan.
A desperate plan.
Whether the creature that had visited her bedchamber earlier had intended to help her or not, it had left her with something more potent than warning.
It had given her an idea, a whisper dropped into the waters of her thoughts.
The ripples had spread quickly, and soon the idea had begun to grow.
As the attendants had arrived that morning to prepare her, she had cradled the thought, turning it over and over in her mind.
While they painted sweeping flames across her cheeks, she plotted.
As they wound her hair into its ceremonial braids – threading it with strands of orange, yellow and red – she refined it.
By the time they had finished dressing her and had ushered her towards the waiting carriage, the idea had taken shape.
It was uncertain, risky, but possible. Just possible enough to try.
It was not hope she felt, exactly. Hope was too soft, too clean.
What she had was something sharper. A defiant flicker of intent.
The knowledge that maybe she could change the ending.
‘This spring we have a special Sacrifice …’ boomed Samsel’s voice.
He paused and looked directly at her, his inky eyes glittering in the firelight.
‘The former Princess Cressyda. This woman has Mountain blood; she is one of the Mountain folk, and therefore must be included in the ballot like everyone else. It is a tragedy to lose a member of the royal household, of course, but a sacrifice I am willing to make for the good of my people, the good of my kingdom. A necessary evil.’
Master Pataso raised his hands and the crowd cheered.
‘The role of the Maiden Sacrifice is a privilege,’ Samsel continued. ‘It is the foundation of a treaty between the Mountain folk and the Great Dragon during the founding of Calestra. We honour it this spring as we do every spring and always will …’
Cressyda waited.
She had to choose the right moment. She knew that Samsel would expect her to be weak and pliable. To him, she would always be the feeble girl hiding in the shadow of the Queen. The Little Pet forever trying to be good. The success of her plan depended on it.
‘Now let us feed the fires,’ he began. ‘People of Calestra, bring forward your—’
‘Your Majesty, I have a request of you.’
Her voice was sharp, cutting through the crackle of the fires, the snorts of the horses and the general hubbub of the crowd.
Samsel stopped, his mouth slightly open.
Many heads turned in her direction.
‘It is your first Maiden Sacrifice as King, Your Majesty,’ Cressyda continued. ‘You should escort me to the mountains to mark such an occasion.’
Those close by who had heard her speak began murmuring to their neighbours. What she had said swelled through the crowd until everyone knew.
They all waited.
‘An interesting proposition,’ said Samsel slowly.
Cressyda could see that he was about to refuse. She quickly added, ‘I ask it as this spring’s honoured maiden.’
She raised one hand to her neck and felt beneath the ruffled collar of the robes.
Her fingertips brushed against a velvety soft, worn scrap nestled in the hollow of her collarbone: her treasured pink ribbon.
Before leaving her bedchamber, while the attendants beckoned her out of the door with strained, urgent expressions, she had fastened it around her neck.
It was an anchor, a token. Samsel had said that her mother was dead, and perhaps Cressyda would never know any more about that woman, but at least she had this ribbon.
Pressing her nails into the knot, she drew strength from it, willing herself to face the dangerous uncertainty of what lay ahead.
‘I also ask this as the former Princess of Calestra,’ she continued, raising her voice until it rang out across the crowd. ‘Please grant me this wish.’
Samsel glared. Rage and suspicion clouded his features.
Cressyda hastily lowered her gaze and hunched her shoulders. She made herself appear small, and she waited.
A buzz of interest rippled through the crowd. A smatter of applause broke out and a few whoops of support.
‘Why should I …’ Samsel began, before trailing off, his gaze drifting to the expectant Calestran faces gazing up at him. He could not bring himself to deny her outright before so many eyes. To do so would look petty, even weak.
It was just as Cressyda had hoped.
Samsel cleared his throat, trying to smooth his expression. ‘Since it is my first Maiden Sacrifice, I shall grant your wish,’ he finally replied. ‘I will lead you to the Great Dragon myself.’
She ducked into a curtsey, lowering her head so as not to show her delighted relief. Around her, the crowd applauded.
‘Now without any more interruptions, let us continue …’ said Samsel, clearly keen to move the ceremony on.
He gestured to the musicians, who began beating the drums and blasting the trumpets in a steady rhythm.
‘People of Calestra,’ he cried. ‘Feed the flames!’
Children rushed forward, throwing felt dragon figurines into the bonfires, which surged and roared. The crowd cheered.
Cressyda watched it all, smoke stinging her eyes.