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That nightI dream that Scourge is hunting me.
I’m in the middle of the dragongrounds, and there’s nowhere to hide. I’m running and running toward the stone bridge, but it never gets any closer. I feel rather than see the dark shape above me, and then the dragon opens his jaws and unleashes a stream of dragonfire, burning me to a crisp.
I wake up with doom flooding my body. I lay there sweating for some time, wishing that it were morning already, and then fall back into the same terrifying dream.
As the first shades of dawn light my room, I sit up and rub the nape of my neck. It’s aching like I’ve been bitten, and I’m covered in sweat. My lower belly and back hurt like I’ve been throwing bags of wheat onto carts for market. I didn’t even do that much yesterday, just worked with the refugees’ mounts, watched the coronation, and then ate with Zabriel at the high table before he carried me back to this room.
I get out of bed, dip a washcloth in cool water, and press it over my suddenly burning cheeks. Zabriel. What a spectacle we must have looked to everyone at the feast, the seven-foot-tall newly crowned king with red eyes and a dragon, pulling a short, fat little nobody into his lap so he can feed her and squeeze her and whisper things into her ear.
I don’t need to persuade you to melt for me because it’s going to happen anyway. Soon I’ll be all you can think about.
I seem to be all he can think about, but stars know why. I’m perfectly content with the way I look, and I’m grateful for two strong legs and a pair of hands that allow me to work hard, but I have no illusions about the kind of beauty that inspires a king to declare again and again that he must marry you. That kind of beauty I just don’t have. Not one girl in ten thousand has that kind of beauty, tall or short, fat or skinny. Not one girl in a million.
Maybe being buried alive beneath the Bodan Mountains for five hundred years has addled Zabriel’s brain.
My gaze falls upon his gold cloak on the floor, and I have the strangest urge to snatch it up and bury my face in it. I even take half a step toward it, my hand reaching for the soft satin.
Absolutely not.
I’m not here to melt for the new king.
Today, I’m going to go everywhere, speak to everyone, look in every place within the castle walls. Someone must know something about the fate of the people to the west. I’m redoubling my efforts.
I start in the Great Hall as I have a few bites of breakfast, asking the wingrunners and the soldiers if they’ve heard any news, and then talk to Posette and Santha as they lay out loaves on the tables. Both of them look relaxed, rosy-cheeked, and happier than I’ve ever seen them before, but they haven’t got any news for me.
For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, I walk from courtyard to courtyard, hunting down every last refugee and emissary from the villages. There are fewer refugees now, and I’m pleased about that for their sake. They’re all from the north of the country, or the east or the south. None from the west. It’s the same for the emissaries, though they’re the most difficult to engage in conversation when they’re more interested in being heard than listening to anyone else.
Who’s going to pay for my burned-down barn, that’s what I want to know.
There’s the spring planting to think of, I can’t be wasting time in the capital.
My lambs are going to be lost in the snow if I don’t get back home right away.
Who knows what tithes and taxes this new king shall levy. We could all starve in the streets next winter. Or be eaten by dragons.
I can understand their anxieties because I have plenty of my own, and they grow and grow as the sun continues its journey through the sky. I’m deep in conversation with a woman from an eastern town, and I walk with her and her fellow villagers as she tells me in detail about the injured wyvern that crash-landed through her runner bean frames.
“Broke the whole lot of them,” she snaps, filled with righteous indignation. “I’ve been compensated, but it’s not as if I don’t have a hundred other things to do before the spring.”
I commiserate with her, then find a way to steer the conversation toward Amriste. She’s never heard of the place or crossed paths with my family. I swallow my sigh. It was worth a try.
A moment later, I notice we’re about to pass through a huge stone archway with a raised portcullis. I realize with a jolt that I’ve been so absorbed by our conversation that I’ve walked a considerable distance with the woman and stop dead.
“Wait, what are these gates? Are we leaving the castle?”
The woman shakes her head. “These are the city gates, girl. I told you I’m going home.”
I watch with an open mouth as she and the rest of the refugees pour out the city gates and head down the road into the open fields beyond, before wheeling around and staring in shock at the castle all the way back up the hill. I’ve escaped by accident.
My captor isn’t going to believe that.
I dither on the cobbles, wondering whether I feel elated or terrified. Does a songbird feel relieved when her cage door is left open, or does she huddle in a corner hoping someone will slam it closed again?
Beyond the city walls are fields with cottages dotted here and there. It’s a long walk to my village, and with no money or food, I probably won’t make it. I have no desire to relive those freezing, hungry days on the run.
Turning around, I take in the city.
