The Dragon's Price (Transference #1)(11)

“She is King Marrkul’s witch. She was in attendance at my ceremony, remember?” Diamanta says.

“No, she was at my ceremony,” Gloriana insists. Looking at her handsome young husband, she asks, “Don’t you remember, Hans?” He frowns and looks at the old lady.

Harmony shakes her head. “She was only at mine. I would have remembered if she was at any of yours.” I study my sisters and their husbands as they continue to argue about whose ceremony the withered old woman attended. I don’t remember the crone from any of their ceremonies, and the woman is utterly unforgettable.

Without a word, I am escorted by my father to stand before the horse lords and their crone. She stares at the dragon scale flask, and her foggy eyes light up. When her gaze meets mine, she smiles a toothless smile, and despite her empty eyes, I know without a doubt that this woman is not blind. She leans toward me and sniffs, and all the hair on my body stands on end.

“She is different from her sisters,” the crone says to the horse king, without taking her eyes from me. She sniffs again and licks her gums. “She is…doughty.” I’m what? I don’t know what doughty means, but the way she is looking at me makes me think the word must mean tasty, and the crone is hungry. “It was for her that your wizard disappeared, no?” she asks my father. I blink at the crone. She spoke to my father without adding on the customary my lord. Men and women have been put in the stocks for a day for such an offense. I turn to him and see the familiar fury turning his face crimson.

“Unfortunately, yes,” he says, his voice tight with anger.

“She scared him away,” she adds.

Lord Damar looks at me. “She scares all of us at times.”

The crone hoots with laughter, and then, quick as a coiled snake, her hand darts out and clutches mine. I freeze as the woman pries my fingers open and looks at my palm. “Our fates intertwine,” she whispers, running a brittle yellow nail over my fingertips. “But I, unlike Melchior, am not scared of you.” She drops my hand and I lean as far from her as I can without taking a step back. “I am ready to proceed with the ceremony when you are,” the crone says, addressing my father and the Antharian king.

As she says those words, a flash of memory comes back, of this very woman presiding over all three of my older sisters’ ceremonies, and I wonder how I could have forgotten.

King Marrkul steps up beside me so I am centered between him and my father, and the three of us turn to face the gathered crowd with the sun at our backs. My father smoothes his pale hair and adjusts the sword hanging at his side, and starts speaking, welcoming the nobles and thanking them for coming. I can hardly follow what he is saying; my head is spinning, and I can barely breathe.

After a few long minutes of formalities, I jump at the sound of hissing steel as King Marrkul unsheathes his sword. He holds it high over his head so it gleams in the sun. It is well worn, and so polished that half of the designs on the blade have been rubbed off. It is a sword that has seen many battles. “I, King Marrkul of Anthar,” he says, “swear to uphold and respect the binding of my kingdom to Faodara. What say you, Lord Damar?”

My father unsheathes his sword, a weapon he has never used, and holds it up. “I, Lord Damar of Faodara, speaking as proxy for Queen Felicitia, swear to uphold and respect the binding of my kingdom to Anthar.” He looks at me. “What say you, Princess Sorrowlynn of Faodara?”

I fight the urge to wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt and swallow. The air is heavy, and I feel like it is going to make me snap in two. “I, Princess Sorrowlynn of Faodara…” The words falter as I think of my three choices: marriage, home, dragon. Marriage, home, dragon. All the while, the air seems to be getting thicker and thicker.

The people gathered to witness the ceremony start whispering. My mother is staring at me, her sparkling blue eyes eager, as if she can make me speak by sheer force of will. My three sisters, standing beside their husbands, look at each other when I don’t continue. Gloriana pales and grips her husband’s arm. Harmony wrings her hands. Diamanta takes a tiny step forward and whispers loud enough so I can hear, “humbly submit to give my life…humbly submit to give my life!”

I clear my throat. “I, Princess Sorrowlynn of Faodara…” I look at my father, at the anger burning behind his pale blue eyes, then turn and look at the nine sons of King Marrkul. My eyes pause on Golmarr’s worried face and then stop on Ingvar, and all I can think of are his massive hands touching me moments after they have been on his wife. With that thought, I know which fate I shall choose. “I, Princess Sorrowlynn of Faodara, humbly submit to give my life,” I say, my voice strong, “to the fire dragon instead of giving it to the Antharian heir.”

“What?” my father retorts, grabbing my upper arm so hard it hurts.

Somehow, looking into his furious eyes, all the strength leaves my voice. “I choose the dragon,” I whisper. The air is pushing on me so hard I can barely stand.

“What are you doing?” he growls through gritted teeth. His hand tightens so his nails dig between my bones, and I cry out. “When we get home, I am going to whip you until you can’t cry anymore,” he whispers.

My blood starts to burn. I jerk my arm out of his grasp and match his stare with my own overwhelming anger. “I choose the fire dragon over going home with you,” I say, and my voice is strong, pushing back on the stifling air.