Then she saw them. There were a dozen or more dragons approaching, their silhouettes tiny as they crossed the sun.
Idris followed the direction of her pointing finger, staring for a long moment before he could see them too.
“That’s Ceri out front. You can barely see her against the clouds.”
Rinka hadn’t noticed the white dragon until Idris pointed her out. The others, in shades of red, black, blue, and green, stood out better against the sky.
The crowd had noticed them now. There were scattered cheers that joined together into a continuous yell as the flying party approached.
The dragons grouped into formation as they began their descent. They formed a great vee in the sky, a large dragon that was such a dark red it was nearly black at the front.
King Derkomai. Idris’s father.
The king led the others down to the manor grounds so suddenly that some of the crowd in the stands moved out of the way to avoid them. The dragons swept low, performing a closepass over the crowd before ascending once more to make one final circle.
One by one, the members of the royal family landed on the open lawn to the north.
“My aunts and uncles. That little one there is my cousin, Nik. He’s only nine,” said Idris. “He’s the last in the line of succession that’s allowed to change form.”
“I don’t understand,” said Rinka. “What do you mean ‘allowed’ to?”
“Descendants from dragons can change form for generations, but the rules of the monarchy prevent anyone further from the throne than the twelfth in line for succession from doing so. It’s an attempt to prevent civil war, although as you might remember from your history lessons, it hasn’t been entirely successful.”
Rinka did vaguely remember learning something along those lines in school, now that he mentioned it. Not that she ever imagined she’d be close enough to the monarchy to need to retain the knowledge of their rules.
“Here comes Ceri, showing off as usual,” said Idris.
The white dragon dove sharply and then did a somersault before rolling down to land. The crowd cheered even louder, with a number of high-pitched screams from the younger ladies present.
Idris rolled his eyes.
The last dragon to land was the king. He circled overhead, closing on a large wooden figure in the shape of a man at the northern end of the lawn.
“What’s that?” asked Rinka.
“I’m not sure,” said Idris.
“It’s called a wicker man. A local tradition to ward off foul spirits and protect the crops for the upcoming harvest,” said aman who had walked up beside them while their attention was distracted. “How do you do, your highness?”
Though Rinka had never seen him before, she recognized him at once: this must be Lord Ainsley, Keir’s father. Their resemblance was uncanny—the same brown eyes, the same strong jaw.
Rinka had heard a lot about this man from Alison in her letters, and none of it was good.
“We are well, Merelor. Did I see you arrive by motor carriage?” asked Idris.
“Yes, your highness. Would you like to see it later? I could take you for a drive.”
“Perhaps another time. I have already promised this evening to Lady Rinka.” Idris looked at her meaningfully, and she had to turn away to conceal her blush.
“How do you do, my lady? I’ve heard that you’re staying with us as well. So great of you to come, and from as far as Paistos.”
Rinka had forgotten to ask Idris for any information about Paistos.
But she was also in a playful mood, and she remembered Idris’s advice: speak confidently and few would dare to question you. Especially in the company of the crown prince.
“It was quite a journey,” she said, “but I’m grateful to stay in such a lovely and quaint estate.”
Lord Ainsley’s eyebrow twitched at the word “quaint.” “Are the estates somewhat grander in Paistos?” he asked, attempting to conceal his doubt.
