The rocking of the carriage sways his face perilously close to mine. I lean away as his nostrils flare.
Is he…smelling me, too?
A bead of sweat trickles down my back. What if I smell terrible, and he’s frozen by my stench? That’s ridiculous. Before the ship landed, I was bathed, powdered, and perfumed as much as one could be without risking suffocation.
Then why does he keep standing there?
I clasp my hands together in my lap, my panic growing. Again, the king inhales, the sound loud even with the rumbling of the wheels. A low growl rolls up his throat.
With great trepidation, I realize I am about to be eaten.
6
The idea is ludicrous, and yet I can’t simply bat it away. He looks like a man, yes, and men don’t eat people; yet he is a man with horns, and who knows what he drools over. I continue to lean back, but I can only lean so far.
“I’ve never been in a carriage,” I blurt, the words tumbling out by necessity.
The king’s face angles slowly toward me. My heart hitches higher at the sight of his eyes. The pupils are dilated, like a beast catching the scent of blood. I wet my lips.
“It’s warmer than I expected,” I add.
Just as I was taught, I imagine myself as I hope to be seen. A picture of poise. Calm and serene. Not a girl suddenly pondering which of her bones will be chewed on first.
What the king sees, I don’t know, but finally—mercifully—he blinks, and blinking once more, he looks away.
“Indeed,” he says, in a husky voice that sends a chill rushing over my skin.
Then he sits.
Propping an elbow on the edge of an open window, he rests his chin in one hand and taps out a rhythm on his knee with the other. I watch his fingers, too afraid to take my eyes off him entirely.
“You don’t have carriages in Vasna?” he asks.
My eyes dart to his face, but he remains calm. “No, Your Majesty.”
He doesn’t respond. Normally, I would be more than happy to let an awkward conversation die its inevitable death. Right now, I’m eager not to fall back into the eerie display of before.
“Vasna is a tropical island,” I continue. “As I’m sure you know. The landscape is not conducive for carriages. The root system is too extensive.”
“Carts, then?” the king asks, still peering out the window.
Did my sisters talk of carriages and carts when they first met their future husbands? It seems a strange conversation, yet I cling to it like a barnacle on an old boat.
“We do occasionally use carts, though we tend to move goods or supplies with boats or packs worn on the back. We also train goats.”
“Goats?”
He doesn’t look at me, but the interest he gives this single word makes me gulp. Could a dragon eat an entire goat in one swallow? I think of my own small herd that I’d said a very painful goodbye to—Stella and Loopy, Gin and Butter. A few dragon bites would make short work of them…
I rein in my thoughts and come back to the present.
“Yes, Your Majesty. We train them to carry packs as well.” Should I tell him I have my own herd? No, bad enough I sound like a yokel already, yet I can’t seem to stop talking. “They’re very hardy creatures. Practical for long excursions into the forest.”
“And you?” The king pins me with an iron gaze. “You are royalty. How are you transported from one area to another?”
With effort, I lift my chin and answer in a steady voice.
“I walk.”
