Then all was still.
Samsel tipped his head, the jewels of his crown shimmering like flames, his small brown eyes so dark they were almost black. He opened his mouth, his thin lips pulled into a smirk, and when he spoke, his voice rang out clear and practised, rising with the confidence of a man born to speak above silence. ‘We gather here on the day of the three-hundredth Maiden Sacrifice, the first in the reign of your new King …’
Cressyda let his address roll over her. She had heard it all before: fine words wrapped in sacred language that sanctified slaughter. Instead, she turned her thoughts inwards, away from the square, away from the crowd, away from the blazing fires. She focused on the path that lay ahead, the upcoming journey that would lead her into the steep cliffs and craggy outcrops of the mountains – and what she might do when she got there.
She had a plan.
A desperate plan.
Whether the creature that had visited her bedchamber earlier had intended to help her or not, it had left her with something more potent than warning. It had given her an idea, a whisper dropped into the waters of her thoughts. The ripples had spread quickly, and soon the idea had begun to grow. As the attendants had arrived that morning to prepare her, she had cradled the thought, turning it over and over in her mind. While they painted sweepingflames across her cheeks, she plotted. As they wound her hair into its ceremonial braids – threading it with strands of orange, yellow and red – she refined it. By the time they had finished dressing her and had ushered her towards the waiting carriage, the idea had taken shape. It was uncertain, risky, but possible. Just possible enough to try. It was not hope she felt, exactly. Hope was too soft, too clean. What she had was something sharper. A defiant flicker of intent. The knowledge that maybe she could change the ending.
‘This spring we have a special Sacrifice …’ boomed Samsel’s voice. He paused and looked directly at her, his inky eyes glittering in the firelight. ‘The former Princess Cressyda. This woman has Mountain blood; she is one of the Mountain folk, and therefore must be included in the ballot like everyone else. It is a tragedy to lose a member of the royal household, of course, but a sacrifice I am willing to make for the good of my people, the good of my kingdom. A necessary evil.’
Master Pataso raised his hands and the crowd cheered.
‘The role of the Maiden Sacrifice is a privilege,’ Samsel continued. ‘It is the foundation of a treaty between the Mountain folk and the Great Dragon during the founding of Calestra. We honour it this spring as we do every spring and always will …’
Cressyda waited.
She had to choose the right moment. She knew that Samsel would expect her to be weak and pliable. To him, she would always be the feeble girl hiding in the shadow of the Queen. The Little Pet forever trying to be good. The success of her plan depended on it.
‘Now let us feed the fires,’ he began. ‘People of Calestra, bring forward your—’
‘Your Majesty, I have a request of you.’
Her voice was sharp, cutting through the crackle of the fires, the snorts of the horses and the general hubbub of the crowd.
Samsel stopped, his mouth slightly open.
Many heads turned in her direction.
‘It is your first Maiden Sacrifice as King, Your Majesty,’ Cressyda continued. ‘You should escort me to the mountains to mark such an occasion.’
Those close by who had heard her speak began murmuring to their neighbours. What she had said swelled through the crowd until everyone knew.
They all waited.
‘An interesting proposition,’ said Samsel slowly.
Cressyda could see that he was about to refuse. She quickly added, ‘I ask it as this spring’s honoured maiden.’
She raised one hand to her neck and felt beneath the ruffled collar of the robes. Her fingertips brushed against a velvety soft, worn scrap nestled in the hollow of her collarbone: her treasured pink ribbon. Before leaving her bedchamber, while the attendants beckoned her out of the door with strained, urgent expressions, she had fastened it around her neck. It was an anchor, a token. Samsel had said that her mother was dead, and perhaps Cressyda would never know any more about that woman, but at least she had this ribbon. Pressing her nails into the knot, she drew strength from it, willing herself to face the dangerous uncertainty of what lay ahead.
‘I also ask this as the former Princess of Calestra,’ she continued, raising her voice until it rang out across the crowd. ‘Please grant me this wish.’
Samsel glared. Rage and suspicion clouded his features.
Cressyda hastily lowered her gaze and hunched her shoulders. She made herself appear small, and she waited.
A buzz of interest rippled through the crowd. A smatter of applause broke out and a few whoops of support.
‘Why should I …’ Samsel began, before trailing off, his gaze drifting to the expectant Calestran faces gazing up at him. He could not bring himself to deny her outright before so many eyes. To do so would look petty, even weak.
It was just as Cressyda had hoped.
Samsel cleared his throat, trying to smooth his expression. ‘Since it is my first Maiden Sacrifice, I shall grant your wish,’ he finally replied. ‘I will lead you to the Great Dragon myself.’
She ducked into a curtsey, lowering her head so as not to show her delighted relief. Around her, the crowd applauded.
