The Dragon's Price (Transference #1)(2)

The nobles turn and face the open gates leading from the courtyard to the rest of the world. The commoners quickly copy them. My heart starts thundering in my ears, louder than the horses’ hooves, as the king of Anthar and his party gallop into the yard and part the crowd with their animals. They stop directly in front of the dais and the smells of leather, horse, and sweat compete against my mother’s perfume for supremacy. The horse clan has arrived.

Their animals are sleek and beautiful: rippling muscles, glossy bodies, strong legs. Ribbons and beads and flowers have been braided into their manes, like something I would do to my dolls when I was a child. A smile forms on my lips as I look from the horses to their riders—and then it falters. These dark-haired, strapping men and women are examining me from their saddles like I am for sale. At that thought, my face starts to burn, because I am for sale, in a manner of speaking.

I stare back at them, trying to guess which man I will be offered to, but they all look the same, with long black hair and skin as golden as toasted bread. More disturbing are their women, sitting astride their horses instead of sidesaddle, and dressed no differently from the men: brown leather pants and chain mail that has been shined until it looks like sparkling silver. Curved swords hang at their hips, and strung bows at their backs. Out of the whole group, only one person stands out. He is at the back of the party, and a cut on his cheek has bled trails of red all the way down to his jawline. I shudder at the thought of associating with these barbarians.

“For three centuries you and your sons have been our honored guests. That tradition still holds strong,” my mother, the queen, bellows, practically in my ear. I try not to flinch and take a small step away from her. “I bid you and your family welcome, King Marrkul.”

The biggest man, the one at the front of the group, nods to my mother. He has gray streaks in his dark hair, and a beard that looks like a bird’s nest hangs halfway down his chest.

I shift my gaze from the king to the man on his right. He looks powerful and stern, and at least two decades older than me. When our eyes meet his jaw clenches and he glares, so I lift one eyebrow and look at the next man. He, too, looks powerful and stern and way too old for me to marry. He flashes his white teeth in a grin, and my father hisses into my ear, “Smile, Sorrow!” So I turn to my father and smile. “Not at me. At them.” He rolls his eyes in the direction of the horse clan, and I can see how desperate he is for me to make a good impression. So I do as he wants and turn my practiced smile toward them, the smile that doesn’t show my teeth, that makes me look soft and regal, like my mother.

“I thank you, Queen Felicitia,” the Antharian king says, his accent thick. “May I present my oldest son and heir, Ingvar,” he adds, holding his hand out to the man on his right. My three older sisters all were offered in marriage to this brute, but he turned them down. Now, standing in the exact same place they all stood, and meeting the Antharian heir for the first time, I realize how lucky my sisters are to be married to Faodarian noblemen.

Ingvar looks at me again, his eyes moving up my body, and the smile slowly fades from my face. I can’t smile because a hollow ache has opened up in me, stealing every emotion I have been feeling, but one. For the first time since birth, my name fits. I fight to keep the tears at bay.





This baby will die by her own hand. That is the fate Melchior, the royal wizard, glimpsed when I was born. It caused my mother such distress that she locked herself in her chambers and cried for days. She refused to touch me, look at me, or speak, even name me. I was given to Nona, a scullery maid who’d lost her own baby, and she was told to never take me out of the nursery. Finally, after I had been called girl for a year, my father named me Sorrowlynn on behalf of the heartache my existence caused, and I have been called Sorrow ever since.

My three older sisters fared much better with their fate blessings. Melchior glimpsed Diamanta, the future queen of Faodara, outliving three husbands, and at age twenty-one, she’s already outlived one. Harmony was seen making peace wherever she went. The Antharians should have chosen her for their queen, as it is rumored they are always fighting among themselves when they are not fighting their neighbors to the west, the Trevonan. My third sister, Gloriana, would bring joy to all who met her, and it is true. I can think of nothing bad to say about her.

I, though, would die by my own hand. I stare at my soft, narrow hands and wish the old wizard were still alive so I could slap him across the face for that fate blessing. And then I remember how kind he was, and take it back. Before he disappeared, Melchior would spend hours in my chambers with me and Nona. He always wore the same faded green tunic over tan hose and had his graying hair tied in a tail at the nape of his neck. When I asked him why he dressed like a peasant, he said, “When you are as old as me, clothing no longer holds much pleasure. It simply becomes a necessity.” We would spend hours piecing puzzles together while he would tell stories of the eight dragons he’d seen with his own eyes. He always compared the fate of the dragons, or Faodara, or Anthar to the puzzles. Every single time we finished one, he would say, “It isn’t until all the pieces come together that we see the whole picture, Sorrowlynn.”

Diamanta yanks the laces of my corset hard, and I grab on to the bedpost to keep from toppling backward. I gasp as deep a breath of air as I can before she gets it any tighter.

“Sorrow,” she snaps, “it is obvious you’ve never worn one of these the right way before. You’re supposed to breathe out when I pull, not in.” I grit my teeth and breathe in even deeper, making my ribs as big as possible. She huffs and slaps my butt, but it hardly hurts through the layers of petticoats. “Please, for the love of Faodara, let me at least give you the semblance of a womanly figure,” she growls, putting a foot up onto the bedpost to get more leverage. “The horse king is going to be looking to see if you’ve got the body for grandchildren.”