Seraphina(18)

Princess Glisselda rose from her window seat and flounced after me. She was fifteen, a year younger than me, which made me feel odd about teaching her; she was petite for her age, which made me feel like a gawky giantess. She loved pearl-studded brocade and was possessed of more confidence than I could imagine having. “Phina,” she chirped, “meet Lady Miliphrene. She is, like you, encumbered with an unnecessarily long name, so I call her Millie.”

I nodded acknowledgment to Millie but held my tongue about the silliness of that comment, coming from someone named Glisselda.

“I have reached a decision,” the princess announced. “I shall perform at the Treaty Eve concert, that galliard and pavano. Not Viridius’s suite: the one by Tertius.”

I had been placing music upon the stand; I paused, book in hand, weighing my next words. “The arpeggios in the Tertius were a challenge to you, if you recall—”

“Do you imply my skill is insufficient?” Glisselda lifted her chin dangerously.

“No. I merely remind you that you called Tertius a ‘poxy cankered toad’ and threw the music across the room.” Here both girls burst out laughing. I added, as gingerly as one stepping onto an unstable bridge, “If you practice and take my advice about the fingerings, you ought to be able to work it up sufficiently well.” Sufficiently well not to embarrass yourself, I might’ve added, but it seemed imprudent to do so.

“I want to show Viridius that Tertius played badly is better than his piddling tunes played well,” she said, wagging a finger. “Can I attain that level of petty vindictiveness?”

“Undoubtedly,” I said, and then wondered whether I should have replied so quickly. Both girls were laughing again, however, so I took it that I was safe.

Glisselda seated herself on the bench, stretched her elegant fingers, and launched into the Tertius. Viridius had once proclaimed her “as musical as a boiled cabbage”—loudly and in front of the entire court—but I’d found her diligent and interested when treated respectfully. We hammered at those arpeggios for more than an hour. Her hands were small—this wouldn’t be easy—but she neither complained nor flagged.

My stomach ended the lesson by growling. Trust my very body to be rude!

“We should let your poor teacher go to lunch,” said Millie.

“Was that your stomach?” asked the princess brightly. “I’d have sworn there was a dragon in the room. St. Ogdo preserve us, lest she decide to crunch our bones!”

I ran a tongue over my teeth, delaying until I could speak without scolding. “I know deriding dragons is something of a national sport for us Goreddis, but Ardmagar Comonot is coming soon, and I do not think he would be amused by that kind of talk.”

Saints’ dogs. I was prickly, even when I tried not to be. She hadn’t been exaggerating.

“Dragons are never amused by anything,” said Glisselda, arching an eyebrow.

“But she’s right,” said Millie. “Rudeness is rudeness, even if unperceived.”

Glisselda rolled her eyes. “You know what Lady Corongi would say. We must show them we’re superior and put them in their place. Dominate or be dominated. Dragons know no other way.”

That sounded to me like an extremely dangerous way to interact with dragons. I hesitated, uncertain whether it would be within bounds for me to correct Lady Corongi, Glisselda’s governess, who outranked me in every possible way.

“Why do you think they finally surrendered?” Glisselda said. “It’s because they recognized our superiority—militarily, intellectually, morally.”

“That’s what Lady Corongi says?” I said, alarmed but struggling not to show it.

“That’s what everybody says,” sniffed Glisselda. “It’s obvious. Dragons envy us; that’s why they take our shape whenever they can.”

I gaped at her. Blue St. Prue, Glisselda was going to be queen someday! She needed to understand the truth of things. “We didn’t defeat them, whatever you may have been told. Our dracomachia gave us approximate parity; they couldn’t win without taking unacceptable losses. It’s not a surrender so much as a truce.”

Glisselda wrinkled her nose. “You imply that we haven’t dominated them at all.”

“We haven’t—fortunately!” I said, rising and trying to cover my agitation by rearranging the music on the stand. “They wouldn’t stand for it; they’d bide their time until we let our guard down.”

Glisselda looked profoundly disturbed. “But if we’re weaker than they are …”

I leaned against the harpsichord. “It’s not about strength or weakness, Princess. Why do you imagine our peoples fought for so long?”

Glisselda put her hands together, as if delivering a little sermon. “Dragons hate us because we are just and favored by the Saints. Evil always seeks to destroy the good that stands against it.”


“No.” I nearly smacked the harpsichord lid but recalled myself in time, slowing my hand and tapping twice. Nevertheless, the girls stared at me round-eyed in anticipation of my astonishing opinions. I tried to moderate that with a gentle tone. “The dragons wanted these lands back. Goredd, Ninys, and Samsam used to be their hunting ground. Big game ran here—elk, aurochs, felldeer—in herds stretching to the horizon, before our kind moved in and plowed it under.”