A blast of light, sound, and movement bursts across my senses, shocking as a lightning bolt. An enormous space yawns before me. For a moment, I cannot make any sense of it. I simply stand where I am, gawping like a landed trout.
Slowly, my senses return to me. First my sense of smell. A vivid array of enticing aromas assaults me like a series of blows: roasted meats, rich spices, sparkling wines, all coming from one end of the massive hall where a banquet table offers up its magnificent spread. Next, my ears open to the strains of delicate music, lilting as though from heaven itself, though a more rational thought suggests it might actually come from the musicians’ gallery on my right.
Finally, my dazzled eyes begin to clear, taking in the sea of faces before me. So many faces, far more than I expected. And all adorned in jewels and plumes and silks, which glow in the light of the clusteredscintilsstrung from the high ceiling above. I recognize the colors and standards of the various Kingdoms of Belanor. Apparently, each champion brought with him a small entourage. They cluster in groups of green, black, crimson, saffron, blue, and gold. Mostly men, but some women too. All beautiful. All terrifying. All part of a world that should have nothing to do with me.
A sort of hushed stillness holds the room captive. Then a low murmur of voices ripples across the chamber as courtiers turn to one another, hands over their mouths as though to disguise theirwords. But while I cannot hear what they say, Ifeeltheir questions and confusion hitting me like so many pebbles:
Is this her?
Could this be the Dragon Princess?
She’s not much of a thing, is she?
Perhaps there’s been some mistake.
The real Dragon Princess will emerge any moment.
Surely, she can’t be what all the fuss is about!
I want to shout in response:No! No, I’m not what all the fuss is about, because this is all one big, ridiculous misunderstanding!Instead, I stand there, stupidly. Gaping at them as they gape at me.
“Princess?” Captain Norlan’s voice rumbles at my elbow. I startle and turn to catch his somber gaze. “This way,” he says.
Without the captain’s presence at my side, I don’t think I’d have the courage to enter that echoing chamber. I’d turn and simply flee into the darkness, losing myself in the twisting caverns of this subterranean realm, never to be heard from again. As it is, I allow Norlan and the other two members of my escort to guide me across the smooth floor beneath that enormous vaulted ceiling. The courtiers make way, parting to create a path between them leading to the dais on the far side of the hall where the High King stands, awaiting my arrival.
In many ways, King Alderin is much like his nephew: golden haired, broad shouldered, upright, and almost painfully handsome. But there is much silver threaded with the gold of his hair, particularly around the temples. Hard lines deepen his brow and frame his mouth, giving him the look of a man who has been carved into existence by forces beyond the scope of mortal comprehension. He is a legend, about whom more stories have been told than any other hero, either living or dead. The only man who could and did unite the six Kingdoms of Belanor.
The only man who has dared enter the Dragon Queen’s domain and escaped with one of her eggs. Or so the stories tell.
“Welcome, Roselle,” he says, looking down at me with that oh-so-knowing gaze of his. The gaze that looks as though he knows I got up this morning and put my drawers on backward. I hastily offer what I hope is a graceful curtsy. Something tells me I don’t get low enough, but my knees simply aren’t used to such deep genuflection, damn it.
“Come,” says he, beckoning. “Join me here.”
Tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth, I mount the dais steps then drop another curtsy, a little deeper than the one before. There’s probably some protocol, some correct form of greeting I should make. No doubt Philippa tried to drive it into my head at some point, but if so, it’s flitted away, evicted by the pound of my own throbbing pulse. So I remain where I am, sunk low into the circle of my skirts, hoping my knees won’t simply give way under the strain.
The king extends a hand. I hesitate a moment before resting my fingers on his. He firms his grip and draws me back to standing, gazing deeply into my eyes as he does so. “You look radiant tonight, my dear,” he says. “The gown suits you admirably. Are you ready for the Presentation?”
No.“Yes, Your Majesty,” I breathe.
“Good. The champions are eager to make your acquaintance. Come, sit here.” With those words, he turns me toward a chair positioned in the center of the dais. To call it a chair doesn’t quite do it justice, however. It’s every inch a throne, complete with elaborate gilding, inset gemstones, and a pair of carved angelic wings arching from the top. I want to protest. Surely such a seat wasn’t made for someone like me! But one doesn’t argue with one’s king, and Alderin’s grip on my hand is firm. I sit ascommanded, perched on the edge of that great seat. When the king releases my fingers, I fold both hands tightly in my lap and stare at them hard.
“Courage, child,” the king murmurs, taking a step back from me. “It will all be over soon.”
His smile is gentle. The smile of a man who orders abductions for the good of the nation. I try to return it, my lips twisting at the corners in an expression I suspect is rather ghastly. Alderin does not seem to care. He turns from me and addresses the gathering.
“Friends, brothers, countrymen,” he says, his voice filling the whole of that echoing chamber with ease. “By the grace of the gods, we have gathered here so that we may seek to discern their will. Dark days surround us, and darker days lie before us. But hope has come to us at last, an ember burning in the depths of night.”
I swallow back the lump in my throat, gazing out beyond the tall figure of the king to the solemn people gathered below. The great hall is so huge, thescintillights cannot possibly fill it, so the men and women of each kingdom gather in isolated groups with large swaths of shadow separating them. Even my eyes, which see better in the dark than most, struggle to take them in.
“Very soon,” Alderin continues, “Princess Roselle will begin her perilous journey across the sea into the Khylmira Continent. She will face foes the likes of which we cannot imagine. She will traverse the Rothomir Wastes, cross the Sarzana Desert, and make her way at last to the very heart of Mhoryga’s realm, a land scorched with dracori flame.”
I close my eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out.
They’ve been telling me this plan of theirs since my first arrival at Stromin Palace a week ago. This lunatic plan, this heroicquest. It makes no sense, no matter how I look at it. None of this can possibly have anything to do with me, and yet…here I sit. Clad in this gown, perched on this throne, listening to this man.
But it only gets worse. I bite down on both lips, bracing for what I know comes next.
“There at last,” the king says, “she will find the Shrine of Drathoridan, where the Dracor Flame burns without ceasing. Entering into that fire, she will purge away the last vestiges of this mortal frame she now wears and assume at last her true form.”
