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“Who the hell do they think they are?” he demands.
Stesha has been ferociously busy leading battles and caring for the dragons, and he hasn’t had time to glimpse Isavelle or even hear of her.
“My Omega.”
A myriad of emotions flicker over Stesha’s face. Shock. Yearning. Resentment.
Jealousy.
“An Omega?Youhave an Omega?” Stesha’s fists tighten as he bites out, “A forthcoming coronation and an Omega. You must be a busy man, Zabriel.” He turns on his heel and strides away, leaving only his scent in his wake.
A wave of it hits me, blown by a gust of wind. I recognize Stesha’s familiar scent of sulfur and fine ash. White winter crocuses. The crispness of the wind at the highest breathable reaches of the skies. His pride in our dragons is a strong fragrance, as is his outrage at the idea that their liberty must be curtailed in any way, but one emotion in particular dominates his scent.
Despair.
My former riding master reeks of it.
9
Isavelle
Red dragon silhouettes on white backgrounds, all fluttering in the breeze.
Half a dozen seamstresses are sitting in a patch of winter sunshine with banners spread over their laps, needles moving in and out of the fabric. I just finished my breakfast of split pea porridge with blackberries when I emerged into one of the inner courtyards to find a group of women I’ve never seen before, working and chattering away.
“Are these for the coronation?” I ask, and all the women stop sewing and look up in surprise. I give them a smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
A red-headed woman squints at me through the sunshine. “These banners are to be hung in the Great Hall. Are you a castle maid? I’ve not seen your face before.”
I glance down at myself and realize I’m wearing the same dress as they are.
“Oh, no I’m not. One of the soldiers found this for me to wear. I was a Veiled Virgin at the Fliesch Monastery, and I’m from Amriste, near Gunster. Have any of you talked to anyone from over that way lately?”
The seamstresses all glance at each other and shake their heads. It was worth a try. I won’t stop trying, though my hopes are becoming more desperate day by day.
An old woman with a mole on her chin tuts sadly, shaking her head. “Those poor girls, and you as well, dearie. Taken from your homes and locked up in the cloisters. You only have to look at those whimpering little things huddled over in that courtyard to know they were put through something terrible.” She nods toward where the Veiled Virgins have been sheltering these past few days. Everyone looks at me expectantly.
There are plenty of gruesome things I could tell these curious women, but instead I ask them, “Did you all work here under the last king?”
“Stumble-headed Alaster?” asks the redhead. “We did. I heard he was burned to a crisp by a dragon. I wouldn’t be surprised if he walked right into his mouth.”
The others all laugh.
“He was stomped into the dust by a dragon,” I tell them. “Well, his funeral pyre was. I don’t know how he died.”
The old woman sniffs. “It was probably his own fault, for he was a coward as well as a fool. The next one can’t be worse.”
Maybe. Maybe not. I wonder who he’ll be.
“We don’t know what we’re getting with this new king,” I point out. “He could be much worse.”
“Worse,” a raven-haired woman mutters with scorn. “You’re not from these parts, so let me tell you that we knew tyrants here. My husband was imprisoned in the dungeons going on two years for the crime of missing church to care for his sick mother. I don’t care for dragons, but this new lot let him come home to me, so I’ll sew their banners and drink to the new king’s health.”
“So far they haven’t beaten anyone,” adds the redhead, and she asks me, “Have you seen anyone being beaten?”
I shake my head. The bruises on my body are fading for the first time in over a year. Not being beaten makes a wonderful change, though I won’t be drinking to this new king’s health just yet. He could have worse torments in store for us.
The youngest of the seamstresses gives the others a mischievous smile. “These new soldiers are striking men and women. So big and handsome in their armor.”
