Chapter 49 The Princess
One month later.
"D'you know what I think about?" asks Cherry, stuffing a forkful of braised pheasant in her mouth while using the armrest of the Ithymian throne as a dinner tray.
I am busy watching the last of the afternoon petitioners file out of the room under the watchful eye of the newly appointed guards.
The first week after the death of the king was spent cleaning up the capital, sweeping it of the king's followers and trying to repair trust with the people of the palace and city who had woken to realize their minds had been tampered with.
Cherry's ascension to and coronation as queen was hasty but looked upon favorably by all.
Anyone other than the basilisk king was the cry of most, while anyone human was a sentiment unfortunately echoed by many.
Still, Cherry has made no secret of the fact that she plans to open the kingdom to any protectorkin who would reside here peacefully.
It has garnered her an obscene amount of loyalty from the guards who were once bullied into serving by the king.
Many of the guards whose minds were not outright controlled claim they served out of necessity, because they knew of nowhere else they could be safe, even if they had no love for the king.
Cherry has given them an official place in her palace guard and promises to do more for all of their kind, and they love her for it.
Trials have been held for most of the king's followers, with handfuls of pardons dispensed, several executions ordered, and a few banishments sentenced.
Still, many of the king's followers remain locked up in the dungeon to this day.
All of the basilisks, of which only three survive.
Several of the gorgons. And one dragon.
Yroa has refused to leave the dungeon, despite my insistence and the entreaties of many of the other guards.
The stubborn dragon woman has even been officially pardoned by the queen, and yet she will not budge.
I almost understand her reasoning, her fears, now that I know the situation better.
Yroa was a solitary dragon for many years.
She roamed the nation, remaining undetected by the human populace.
According to those who have heard her stories, she prided herself on her control, on how successfully she was able to blend in.
She was a portrait of harmlessness, a dragon who interacted so seamlessly with humans they never even frowned at her.
And then she met the basilisk king, and he made her into a weapon.
The king used sly words and tricky promises, lying dreams and bribery, to turn Yroa from the person she had been into a leader of his guard.
Someone who didn't mind seeing other people hurt and controlled for little cause.
All for the sake of being with her own kind.
Apparently, the king had been big on promises about the worth of the kin, Dragomira in particular.
He taught that humans despised us and deserved to be treated as cattle, weak as they were compared to our strength.
Cherry had gone very pale when she heard this, thinking, no doubt, how her father must have despised her when he realized she would never shift into another form.
How he must have sent her away not long after that.
Eight years old, not much older than I was after my first shift.
I think about it, too. And I wonder why the king never tried to recruit me into his guard, why he sent me away to guard his daughter instead.
All for the story? To make humans hate us more so that he could manipulate the kin with that hatred more easily?
Or was there some part of him that actually cared about her all along, even as he wanted her out of his sight?
I suppose we will never know all of the king's motivations and reasons.
It doesn't matter now. And that is a good thing.
"What do you think about?
" I ask Cherry. This week marks the first the public has been allowed into the palace to pay homage to their queen.
And today is the first day the palace has been open to petitioners seeking the queen's favor.
It has been a long day of petitioner after petitioner spouting problems ranging from grave to petty, and this is the first chance Cherry has had to eat.
It is not a pretty sight.
She dabs the corner of her mouth with a cloth napkin, though it does nothing to remove the slice of mushroom stuck to her chin.
I reach out a finger to flick it off.
Cherry frowns down at it in her lap, unexpectedly serious.
Her gaze goes distant, mushroom forgotten.
"I think...what if all of this is a dream?
What if the king has had control of our minds this whole time, and everything since setting foot in the palace has been a lie?
What if we didn't win?"
Though the sentiment is grim, the words do not make me afraid.
They don't make me doubt.
"We are awake, Cherry.
" I tweak her crown, a grand creation of branching gold and black scales.
Dragon scales, I once thought, but I suppose they could be basilisk scales just as easily.
All told, the crown is rather severe, and I imagine Cherry will have something more to her tastes made after things have settled down.
"How can you be sure?"
How can I be sure we are awake? I think about it.
I think about Marton's scent and Vakhrin's startled laugh.
I think about Cherry and how well I know her, how sometimes I can look at her sitting on her throne, listening to the words of the courtiers, and I can tell exactly what she's thinking just from a twitch at the corner of her mouth.
I know I'm awake because this life and the idiosyncrasies of the people I love are not things the basilisk king would ever be able to replicate.
I know I'm alive because I feel alive, and I don't think the king ever knew how to make people feel that way.
He could only hurt. Only crush.
And I've been crushed.
I know this isn't that.
I try to communicate this to Cherry in an eloquent shrug.
"I could pinch you, if you think it would help?
" I offer.
She rolls her eyes at me.
It's not very queenly, but I let it slide.
Cherry has done a marvelous job of stepping into her role this past month.
She has been firm when needed, generous when possible, wise beyond her years at all times and always graceful and put together.
She was born for this, I think, and even better than that, she has chosen it, grown into it, and worked tirelessly for it.
She will never be a queen who takes her crown or her people for granted.
I am proud of her with a growing fervor that is hard to contain sometimes.
She will be dispensing royal justice from on high and I'll get the inappropriate urge to ruffle her hair.
She hates it.
"Do you know what else I think about?
" says Cherry, a semi-vindictive amusement in her eyes that makes me nervous where threats of basilisk mind control did not.
"Uh..."
"How the courtiers keep calling you the Queen's Dragon.
" It's true, I have overheard various courtiers and even some of the commoner visitors to the palace refer to me as such.
It stems from the fact that I am almost always by the queen's side and yet I do not wear the livery of a guard or the finery of a lady in waiting.
And of course, I am visibly a dragon. Somehow, I am never able to hide that fact unless Marton is around.
"Not a very creative nickname," I agree, uncertain why Cherry has brought it up.
"It's not a very official title," Cherry counters.
A moment of hesitation on my part.
"Title?"
"Yes," she nearly grins.
"Lately I have been thinking how you ought to have a title.
How you should have some kind of official claim to power here, some kind of recognition for who and what you are to me.
"
"Do you...mean to make me a guard?
"
"No." She leans forward.
"You aren't my guard, Tarah."
She waits, as if expecting me to fill in the rest.
And then it strikes me.
The word Chery always uses to describe me and the relationship between us.
"No," I say at once.
She cackles.
"Cherry, this is serious.
This not like appointing a new captain of the guard.
It's permanent."
"We're permanent.
We're family."
"Cherry, you can't—"
She speaks over me.
"I'm going to make you the Princess of Ithyma. As my sister should be."