12
Rosie
I don’t know how the rest of the trial played out. There was some final challenge, I believe…I glimpsed a black pit without bridge or other means of crossing, yawning into an abyss of nothing. Maybe the contestants found some sort of invisible bridge. Maybe they spontaneously learned to fly. Who can say?
All I remember is the blood.
Through the mirror, I couldn’t see detail. Just blood. So much blood. And the lady from Ulyon screaming her brother’s name over and over: “Bryon! Bryon!” between prayers of pleading with the gods.
She should have saved her breath. No one could have survived that. For his sake, I’m glad he didn’t.
As far as I know, each of the five remaining champions made it to the end of the challenge in one piece. I seem to remember subdued cheers of celebration, and I believe someone was presented to me as the winner of the first trial. It’s all a blur of noiseand confusion, accompanied by a grinding crunch in my head, like the sound of those turning stones as they crush living bone.
When I come to myself again, I’m seated before the mirror in my own bedchamber. The gold-and-black gown is gone, and Philippa is pulling pins from my hair, allowing my curls to fall about my shoulders. Her face very solemn, she sets to work with a brush—long, even strokes. Soothing.
As though finally drawing breath after suffocating for hours, my body gives a jolt of life. I lift my head and shake it hard, pulling free of Philippa’s grasp. Then, in a breathless voice, I say, “King Alderin must put a stop to this.”
Philippa looks at me levelly in the glass. After a moment, she takes a hank of hair in her hand and begins to brush it once more. “What do you mean?” she asks, her voice carefully mild.
I swallow painfully, afraid a sudden rise of tears will prevent my next words. “A man died, Philippa,” I manage. “Hedied.”
She nods, blinking once, slowly. “Yes. Men do that in war. Women too. And children.”
“But this isn’t war! This is just…silly games.”
Her eyes flash, catching mine once more. For a moment, one might think it was she who was possessed of inner flame. “Is that what you think?” she demands, fingers tightening around the hairbrush like it’s the hilt of a sword.
I breathe a shuddering exhale through my nostrils. “It’s sport, Philippa,” I say. “It’s nonsense. And I am the prize, and I…” Dropping my head, I bury my face in my hands. My whole body shudders, a wave of horror quaking me from the inside out. “I want no part of this.”
For ten long heartbeats, Philippa stands silently behind me. I can hear her soft breathing and nothing more. Then she moves, setting aside the brush with a clatter, and kneels in front of me.Taking hold of my wrists, she firmly pries my hands away from my face, forcing me to look at her. “I want no part of this either,” she says, her voice low but all mildness gone. Heat simmers in every syllable. “I never have. When the dracori invasion first arrived on the shores of Albhia, I was quite adamant that this was not what I wanted and would like for the world to go back to the way it was before, thank you very much.” Her lip curls, revealing the edge of a hard grimace. “But it didn’t. And it won’t. Not even if we bury our heads as deep in the sand as we can manage. The world will never go back to the way it was. It will only move forward.”
She lets go of me then, and her hands drop into her lap. But her eyes continue to hold mine fast. “I have seen a lot of people die. And it has always seemed pointless to me. Such a lot of lives wasted! But these ‘silly games’ as you call them?” She moves one arm in an all-encompassing gesture, as though to take in the palace, the court, the tournament, and the champions all at once. “These matter. These might actually make a difference.” She tips her head, looking at me hard beneath the stern line of her brow. “You are that difference, Princess.”
Scalding tears race down my cheeks. I dash them away with the back of my hand. “What if I’m not what you think I am?” I ask softly. “What if I can’t be?” In my mind’s eye, I see again tongues of green flame licking up cottage walls. I hear again the screams of the dying mingled with my own screams of pain.
Philippa shakes her head, her jaw set and determined. “Youarethe Dragon Princess. Youareour great hope. And if you aren’t…well, then you will become it. Just as all of us have fought to become what we are to make this happen.”
She rises then, smoothing out her skirts and looking down her aquiline nose at me. “Do you think it was easy to leave myfamily behind in the middle of war? To come here to safety, knowing they are even now besieged in flame? Were I a warrior, I would man the battlements of my father’s castle and sell my life dearly, killing as many dracori as I could before they burned me to cinders. But I am no warrior,” she continues, her voice heavy with sorrow yet strong with resolve. “I am a lady. So, I will do what I can. If that means fixing your hair and mending your gowns and teaching you how to be a princess, doing everything I must to ensure that you are ready for the role the gods have ordained for you…so be it. We don’t get to choose. The gods do.”
With that, she takes up her brush again and returns to her labors. I sit quietly under her ministrations, my mind numb, my thoughts momentarily halted. It isn’t until she begins to pin a sparkling headpiece into place that I look up again and ask, “What are you preparing me for now?”
The stern lines of my lady’s face soften somewhat. “You are to meet with the winner of today’s trial, of course. To extend your congratulations and offer him a token of your favor, if you so choose.”
“What token of favor?”
“Your colors to wear in the next trial.” Philippa steps to the wardrobe and returns a moment later with a rose-hued silk scarf in hand. She offers it to me and adds, “Only if your champion pleases you, of course.”
One of myregular guards stands beside the pulley lift door. I’ve seen him before: a spotty-faced fellow with a rock-hard jaw who refuses to make eye contact whenever I pass. I offer him a timid sort of smile, but it’s like trying to interact with a statue. He simply turns, opens the door for me, and faces forward once more.
Swallowing hard, I step into the lift. It’s illuminated by a singlescintilhung from the ceiling, filling the space with cold light. The guard points to a lever set into the wall, angled so that I may pull it either up or down. He doesn’t say which way I am to pull, so I take a guess and choose up.
The door shuts. It feels rather too much like being closed into my own coffin. The gears clank, and the box begins to rise. I brace my feet, heart fluttering nervously in my stomach. Squeezing my eyes tight, I breathe in the close, suffocating air, trying to calm my racing nerves. While the High King may have arranged a private audience between me and the winning champion,privateis rather a flexible term, considering there will be numerous armed guards just out of sight at all times.
Still, I cannot help the knot of dread twisting my stomach. The last time I interacted with my champions, I ended up with fingers wrapped around my neck and blood spattered in my eyes. Presumably this encounter will be rather less violent, but who’s to say? Nothing about this whole bizarre circumstance has gone the way I expected. Not that I had any clear expectations in the first place.
The lift comes to a stop; the door slides open. Before me, I see ascintil-lit walkway leading to what looks like some sort of balcony up ahead—not unlike the gallery from which I observed the trial, though on a much smaller scale. We are still within the palace proper, or so I gather based on the smoothness of the floor and walls. Two guards stand unobtrusively in alcoves up ahead. Philippa has assured me that protocol demands I ignore their presence entirely. Nevertheless, I can’t help the sinking feeling that they are posted to keep me in as much as to keep anyone else out.
I focus my eyes forward as I make my way down that walkway. My peripheral vision catches glimpses of elaborate carvingson the walls. The dwarves who built this palace couldn’t seem to help themselves from adding elegant finishes to everything they touched, even the humblest of hallways. A roar of rushing water echoes against the stone, and the air is unexpectedly humid. I’m not exactly surprised when I reach the balcony to find myself overlooking a subterranean waterfall.
