CHAPTER 4
The biggest change was my dreams. I had always dreamt of things from my past, but now I also dreamt of a past that was not mine. I dreamt of a waking world that was like a dream, where nothing was as it should be, but everything felt right. And then there was the flying.
—Entry from the private diary of Jerris, Dragonbound
SERAE
I woke with a groan. Soreness attacked my back and legs. I hissed in a breath as I rolled my hips and massaged my tight inner thighs. Clearly, short sprints around the manor had not prepared me for real travel.
Gerta was already up—washed, dressed, and humming while she prepared a steaming bath. My body ached to sink into it. My head was bleary, as if I’d spent the night drinking, and Gerta’s tune was shrill in my ears.
“How on Jaeda are they heating the water?” I asked just to get her to stop.
“By campfire, milady,” she said. “It’s an interesting setup, I’ll give them that. I’ll go collect a fresh bucket now that you’re awake.”
Standing was harder than I expected on wobbly legs.
I slipped out of my clothes and hobbled into the tub.
It was cramped compared to my tub at home, but after Gerta added the last bucket, the heat worked wonders on my legs.
My spirits perked up with each minute spent soaking. Even my appetite started to bloom.
I was loath to leave the warmth of the water, but Gerta produced a thick linen from the chest to wrap myself in while I dried.
Just as she finished dressing me in a blue cote—this dress had a slightly shorter hem, better for walking the countryside—a man came in and laid a breakfast tray on the table.
He bowed and waited just inside the tent flap.
“Thank you, sir,” Gerta said with a short curtsey.
“Have you any other needs, my lady? I am at your disposal until my reálton returns.” He flashed a bright, roguish smile. It was the first one I’d seen on a Rihtlonder that was halfway genuine.
“Your what?” I asked, not sure what to make of this man or the unfamiliar word.
“My reálton, Marr Wep.”
More words I didn’t recognize. Gerta and I exchanged glances, and I gave a little shrug.
“We have been able to see to our own needs. Thank you, sir,” she repeated.
He bowed a honey-blond head, and I was struck by the similarity in color to Merria’s. “Do enjoy your meal!”
I harrumphed in reply as he withdrew from the tent. My stomach growled, but my nose wrinkled at the smell. “Fish! Who eats fish for breakfast?”
Apparently, I did—well, choked it down, really. And though I would’ve killed for an egg or a slice of bread, I did enjoy the salty greens served on the side. Gerta ate her meal beside me, groaning in delight.
“You can’t be serious,” I spat. “You’re enjoying that?”
“Mmm, I love fish. Even for breakfast.” She winked.
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Won’t catch me turning away a good meal, milady. I know what it’s like to go without.”
When finished, I shook out my hair, still slightly damp from my soak. “I suppose we ought to wander about today, however dreadful that sounds.”
“As you wish, milady.” Gerta gathered our plates into a neat stack, then retrieved our walking sollars. “Shall we?”
“Maybe we’ll see something interesting while we walk, like a better breakfast than a slab of fish!”
That earned me a chuckle. I slipped into my shoes, but at the tent flap, I paused.
“Milady?”
“I’m fine,” I said, clenching my fists. I couldn’t get my feet to move.
Gerta’s arm slid into mine. “Are you ready?”
No. How could I be? I was meant to find a place amongst these barbarians and somehow pretend that I belonged. I had to gain their trust and convince them to accept me.
Will they see right through me? Will they somehow know?
There were no satisfying answers, so I squared my shoulders and adjusted my glasses. Gerta remained locked to my side. We exited the tent like two women going to battle. In a camp full of female warriors, the irony was not lost on me.
In the light of day, my estimate of the encampment proved to be woefully short.
Campfires and tents sprawled across a massive clearing, easily numbering double my guess from last night.
How had I never known this place existed?
Grass had begun to grow around the posts, and the thick fabric siding of each tent was weather-stained.
“How long have they been here, milady?” Gerta whispered out the side of her mouth.
“The Creator knows,” I whispered back, making a mental note to share the location with my father the first chance I got.
Our tent sat in the middle of the encampment—close enough to be watched.
We wove our way slowly around the tents.
Most were simple green canvas, though the larger ones like ours were adorned with geometric patterns and variegated colors.
People avoided us, showing no interest beyond the scowls and many looks at my hair.
If red locks were as uncommon in Rihtlond as at home, I’d be in for a lot more gawking.
The air smelled of wet dirt, campfire smoke, and occasional wafts of roasting vegetables. Beside each fire, especially the larger ones cooking communal meals, stood a contraption for heating water. We paused beside one for Gerta to examine the metal drum and connected spigot.
“Efficient,” she muttered, and I rolled my eyes.
The warriors around us were hard at work—pulling down tents, chopping wood, carting fresh water, and gutting enormous fish.
Most were tall with muscular builds. And every one of them was some shade of blond.
Their hair was tightly braided, mostly long, and many had stripes shaved on one or both sides of their heads.
The braids were shiny and intricate, some adorned with silver or gold clips.
Their leathers and gear were worn but clearly cared for—well-oiled and free from cracks or holes—much like the furnishings in our tent.
It all spoke of a very different people than what I had conjured in my head of Rihtlond.
What will the townsfolk look like? Or the nobility? My ignorance of these people and their ways was painfully obvious the more I thought about it.
After walking a full circuit of the encampment, we paused to watch a group of warriors in the midst of some dance-like practice drills.
They were aligned in neat rows, all facing the same direction and moving in sync.
A woman nearest us caught my eye. She was tall and curvy, yet she moved with strength and surety.
Each sharp slash of her arms and each pivot of her stance was mesmerizing.
In an instant, I understood how Rihtlondish women could be viable warriors.
I doubted a single woman in all of Inra could do the same.
Yet, here I was, expected to live among these people and prepare to marry their prince.
They will never accept me. Another flaw in my father’s ill-conceived plan.
“It’s called a dowsa.”
I jumped at the rough voice in my ear. The dane was behind me, eyeing me over the brim of a large goblet of mead. He wore the same tunic and trousers as the night before, but his hair had been re-braided.
“I’m sorry?” I squeaked, detesting the shrill edge to my voice.
“A dowsa. D’you Inraens have proper training, or are you complete savages?”
“Us, savages?” I rounded on him. How dare he? “Inra is the peak of civilization! Our soldiers are highly trained and have many ways of practicing—”
“But you wouldn’t know, would you?” The dane scoffed.
“I’ve seen my share of training drills. The Cavendaffe lands are hardly unguarded.”
“Bah.”
“We are not the savages! Our cities are clean and well-built. We have established trade routes and highways. Our women are highly skilled in—”
The dane slurped loudly from his goblet. “There is nothing worthwhile your women know.”
“If that’s the case, then why am I here? Why would you want an Inraen to marry your son?” It was a dangerous question, but in that moment, I was raring for a fight.
“Any woman can birth a child,” the dane said with a lopsided grin. “You don’t have to know anything for that.”
A rush of heat bloomed over my cheeks. Curse my flaming face.
The dane laughed, pitiless. “Worry not, Daughter. You’ll be learning our ways all the same.
” He clomped away on his uneven legs, a slight limp on one side—something I hadn’t noticed before.
His braided blond hair swung in a long tail across his back.
A glint of silver flashed in the sunlight from a clip that gathered the hair at the base of his skull.
It was shaped like a dragon, though it was not the Creator.
It struck me again how little I knew of these people.
“And a man like that gets allegiance from all of Rihtlond,” Gerta spat. “What your father was thinking when he made this match, I’ll never know. Dane or not, he’d better be careful how he speaks to you in the future, or I won’t be so courteous as to hold my tongue!”
I placed a hand on Gerta’s arm. We were among enemies, showing any emotion put us at their mercy.
A horn sounded, slicing through the air and my thoughts. In an instant, everyone around us moved into action.
“What’s happening?” I shouted, hoping anyone might answer, but no one did.
Gerta grabbed my wrist and hauled me off in the same direction as the crowd.
She pushed through a throng of braided and leather-clad Rihtlonders toward what we had discovered was the front of the encampment.
An army nearly as large as the already gathered warriors dismounted and flooded the clearing, doubling their numbers.
Men and women clasped arms and embraced while horses were led away and horns of water and mead were pressed into hands.
“The prince,” Gerta hissed.