My throat is dry and tight, and my body trembles with a sudden chill, though it is warm here under the glow of thescintils. This is what they expect of me—manifestation. Transformation. They don’t just want a princess, oh no! They want a gods-damned fire-breathing monster.
Alderin turns to me once more, his face alight with passion. “You, Roselle,” he declares, “are our last hope. The living daughter of Mhoryga—spawned of a demon but blessed with human blood and, therefore, human compassion. Long have we fought to protect you from her, to keep you safe as you grew to maturity. Now you are of age, you may survive the fires of Drathoridan and become what you were born to be. Only then can you make your stand against Mhoryga and save us all.”
And save us all.The words echo inside my head, like the toll of chapel bells.Save. Us. All.
I struggle to draw breath. All the same old protests choke in my throat:I don’twantto stand against Mhoryga. I don’twantto be anyone’s last hope. I don’t want to be a dragon, and I sure as hells don’t want to step into any flame, ancient or otherwise.
I’m not who you think I am.
I can’t be.
There’s been some mistake.
But nothing I say, nothing I do, makes any difference. It never did; it never will.
“We shall not send our brave princess to face the perils of Khylmira on her own,” Alderin continues relentlessly. “Thus, in the days to come, a champion must be chosen. A man worthy of the mighty task before him, a man ready and willing to brave the blessed journey alongside Princess Roselle. He shall guide her on the way to the Shrine of Drathoridan. He shall protect her, shield her from harm, and see to it that she achieves her destiny at last.”
With those words, he turns to a little table I had not noticed before and plucks up something that glints in thescintillight. At first, I assume it is some treasure, wrought by dwarf craftsmanship perhaps. But when the king approaches me, I realize that it is alive: a perfect, shining, living rose of pure gold.
“Tonight, Roselle,” Alderin says, “you meet the men who will compete for the honor of your hand. Princes and heirs of each of the six Kingdoms of Belanor—the best offerings we have to make at the feet of the gods. Learn their names, learn their faces, but most of all, learn their hearts. For among them is your husband and true champion.” He holds out the rose. “Before evening’s end, you may offer this gift to he who pleases you best, so that all may see where your favor lies.”
Six champions—it would seem Philippa was right, and there is no seventh champion from Inithana after all. Strange, for the guardsman had seemed so sure, so confident. I stare at the rose, the flurry of delicate petals, the stem, so exquisite it hardly looks real. Slowly, I lift my eyes to meet the king’s earnest gaze. “Is there any point in naming a favorite?” I ask, speaking low so that my voice will not carry across the echoing chamber. “Am I not tobe married off to whoever knocks the others down in the timeliest manner?”
A chuckle rumbles in the king’s chest. It’s such an unexpectedly warm sound, the kind that could almost make one forget all about being kidnapped and forced into an unwanted future. “A gods-sworn championship is about so much more than mere brute force, my dear. These men compete in the name of sacred honor, knowing the gods themselves will move in them according to divine will.”
I chew the inside of my cheek. This whole husband business still strikes me as absurd to begin with. But everyone is so confident, like they’ve got some direct line to the gods I could never hope to understand. Still, in a last small effort of protest, I murmur: “I still don’t see that picking a favorite can matter if it’s up to the gods anyway.”
“Even the gods may be swayed by the prayers of the faithful.” Alderin takes one of my hands and presses the rose into it, squeezing my fingers encouragingly. “Rest assured, Princess, your preferences will count in the end. So, think long and hard about where you bestow either favor or feeling.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” I murmur without conviction.
With a last gentle squeeze, the king releases my hand then turns to the gathering once more. He raises both arms above his head, the sleeves of his long white robe rolling back to his elbows. “Let the gods themselves determine which of our sons, by virtue of strength, cunning, wisdom, and resolve, may best serve as the princess’s guide.”
“So let it be,” the courtiers intone, like some sort of funeral prayer.
“Now,” says the king, “let the champions be brought forth.”
A trumpet blasts, startling me so hard, I nearly bite my tongue.The huge double doors at the end of the hall burst open once more, and an imposing figure steps into the doorway. The crowd parts, as it did for me, creating an aisle down the center of the hall, directly to the dais where I sit.
“Prince Bryon Krysira of Ulyon,” declares King Alderin, beckoning. “I bid you welcome. Approach, Sixth Champion, and meet your princess.”
Obeying the king’s command, the big man strides swiftly forward into the light. He is certainly an impressive fellow. With every step he takes, he seems to grow right before my eyes, until I’m quite certain he’s the size and breadth of a bear. He’s clad in the traditional garb of his people, all leather and silver studs, with a cape of white fur flowing from his shoulders. His torso is bare. Very bare. And there’s such a lot of it! Muscle upon muscle, and all decorated in wild, swirling tattoos, which, according to Ulyon tradition, tell the story of his journey to manhood.
He draws near to the dais, mounts the steps, and drops to his knees before me. His head bows, presenting me with a clear view of the intricate bone decorations woven through the thick golden braids adorning his scalp. After a moment of silent reverence, he lifts his face. Eyes like two chips of ice pierce my soul.
“Princess,” he says in a voice that matches his bearlike hugeness, “it is my honor to present myself as champion for your hand.”
I swallow. There have been few times in my life when I would describe myself as lost for words, but all I can manage in this moment is a breathless “Th-thank you!”
He rises, graceful despite his bulk, and retreats down the dais backward, his gaze never leaving mine. Gods spare me, how could any of the subsequent champions possibly equal this man for sheer intimidation?
“Prince Joro Ravenhead of Rassumen,” Alderin’s voice thunders next. “Come forward, Fifth Champion.”
I look up, interested to catch my first glimpse of the ginger-haired prince Philippa had warned me about earlier, curious to see whether his gingerness ought to be held against him. I’ve never paid much attention to the world beyond Gartsworth Village, but my recent lessons in the palace library have brought me up to date on the current state of Unified Belanor. Rassumen is known as the Pirate Kingdom, under the rule of Mad Melarue, the Pirate Queen. A murderous brigand, she’s hardly royalty in the traditional sense, and Joro, her son, is not exactly a prince. But the looming threat of Mhoryga has driven King Alderin to forge an alliance with Melarue, whose fleets offer a much-needed defense between the mainland and dracori warships.
Joro strides down the center of the hall with the distinctive, rolling gait of a seafarer. His red hair is pulled back from his face with a leather cord, revealing brilliant green eyes, which stand out startlingly from his deeply browned skin. It’s difficult to tell if his complexion is natural or simply the result of a life lived under the sun. He’s dressed in finery that would befit a prince, save that it’s all just a little extravagant—too much pearl trimming, too many gold buckles, too much fine lace. It gives the impression of a man who knows he doesn’t truly belong in this exalted setting.
Still, he bounds up the dais steps and drops to his knees before my throne. “Princess Roselle,” he says, his voice bright, his accent thick. “We meet at last.”
