Dragon Rose(8)

The sun shone through the stained-glass windows on either side of the front door, tracing elegant patterns in blue and green and red on the gleaming wood floor beneath. The air smelt of the beeswax we rubbed into the molding to make it shine. I glanced around me, and wondered if this might be the last time I ever stood here.

But I knew better than to speak such words aloud.





The town square was not large enough to accommodate all of Lirinsholme’s citizens; the candidates had first priority, of course, and stood closest to Brecken Hall and the balcony where even now the three elders stood, the silver urn containing all our names sitting on a small table off to one side. Ranged beyond the uneasy crowd of young women were their families, and beyond that the merely curious, the onlookers who wanted to see firsthand the Dragon’s doom fall on yet another unlucky candidate.

My sister Therella did not seem overly concerned with sisterly fellowship and left my side almost as soon as we joined the throng. From a few paces away I had spied her friend Gilly’s bright red hair and guessed her destination was the other girl’s side. At another time I might have been offended by her desertion, but almost at once I saw Lilianth pushing through the crowd to join me. Her face was white with worry, the usual pretty pink in her cheeks having deserted her this morning.

At once I reached out and took her hand, and she grasped mine with such force she might have been a drowning woman grabbing for a rescuer’s outstretched fingers. “Oh, gods,” she said, blue eyes apparently locked on the silver urn that held all our names. “How can this be happening? Why now? I am supposed to marry Adain!”

“And you will,” I told her, in what I hoped were soothing tones. Despite the size of the crowd, it was oddly quiet, everyone speaking in low murmurs or whispers…or not at all. The young women, their faces as known to me as my own, stood silent, watching the balcony with its ominous urn. “There must be at least a hundred of us here. What are the chances that they’ll pull your name?”

This didn’t seem to reassure her as I had hoped it would. Instead, she only clenched my hand more tightly and bit her lip. Despite the warm late-morning sun—far too strong for my good blue gown of heavy damask linen—her fingers were ice-cold against mine, fragile as tatting needles.

And truly, though my words had been measured enough, I felt her doubt and fear almost as if they were my own. It wasn’t fair. Why should she—or any of the young women standing around us—have to put her life at risk, merely to serve the whim of some unseen monster?

I knew better than to ask…not that anyone would have been willing to inquire. It seemed the time for questions was long gone, because a stir went through the crowd as the first of the three elders, Elder Macon, appeared, followed by Elder Drewson and Elder Dahlish. My own heart began to beat a little faster, despite my resolution to stay calm, no matter what happened. I had already done enough to draw attention to myself.

The three elders clustered around the urn and cast disapproving glances at one another. Even though they more or less ruled Lirinsholme, they all distrusted one another mightily. I suppose in a way that was good, as it reduced the risk of any two of them colluding against the other. On the other hand, it did make for some highly contentious town meetings, or so my father said.

Elder Drewson stepped forward and cleared his throat. Despite his title, he was not so elderly at all, a little more than two-score years. If he had been the one paying suit to my parents, rather than Liat Marenson, I might not have protested so strongly, as Marr Drewson was a well-looking enough man, with a fine chin and heavy dark hair. However, as he was not looking for a wife, despite being a widower of more than five years, his personal charms did not matter much.

“The Dragon has spoken,” Elder Drewson said, with a brief flicker of his gaze over his left shoulder, toward Black’s Keep and the baleful red pennant that flew from its highest battlements. “One will go to him to be his Bride, to keep Lirinsholme safe. She has our gratitude, whoever she is.”

He sounded almost sincere, unlike Elder Macon, who had performed this task last. He had spoken the ritual words in a dry tone that made it sound as if he were reciting off a list for the butcher.

Elder Drewson nodded. “Elder Dahlish?”

The third elder stepped forward. He was quite old, having held his post for longer than I had been alive. His hand shook a little as he reached into the urn, but whether that was from nerves or some sort of palsy, I couldn’t be sure.

Lilianth’s fingers tightened around mine, pushing the silver band I wore on the middle finger of my right hand uncomfortably into the flesh on either side. I did not bother to move my hand, or tell her to stop. It would be over soon enough, and then we could both relax.

Elder Dahlish withdrew a narrow piece of paper, looked at it, and seemed to shake his head slightly. Then he handed it over to Elder Macon.

The third elder squinted at the words on the paper, then said, “Lilianth Fortens.”

My entire body went cold, even though I could feel sweat trickling down the back of my neck from the warm midsummer sun. Lilianth let out a little cry, the crushing pressure on my fingers abruptly ceasing as she lifted both hands to her mouth. From behind them I could hear her saying, “No, no, no, no…”

The girls who surrounded us stepped back a few paces, their faces bright with relief, although in a few I also saw pity. Lilianth’s love for Adain was well-known.