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“Yes,” she says. “I know.”
I glance down at my fingers, which are once again twisting together.
“It’s an elected position, really,” I say. “The Queen, that is. It’s mostly ceremonial, and it’s not hereditary or anything, like some human s do. Like Valgros, I mean.”
Rayne’s frown deepens. A line appears between her eyes, one that makes me think perhaps I’m approaching this from the wrong angle.
“After, uh. After you destroyed the Throne of Claws,” I start, as Rayne winces. “What do you remember after that?”
Rayne runs her fingers gingerly across her left arm, where fresh red gashes mar the scars from the curse that once kept her trapped in her human form.
“Not much,” she says. “I remember telling the dragons that Rensivar had King Donovan’s signet ring, that he commanded the Army of Valgros. And then? The white dragon, I guess. And you carrying me.”
Her cheeks darken, and she glances down at her skirt, flicking invisible dust off the velvet.
Great. So she remembers nothing. I take a deep breath.
“Well,” I say. “After Rensivar and the throne vanished, and the rift closed, the Queensmoot continued.”
Rayne looks up, her eyes flashing. “Really?”
“I know,” I say, barely suppressing my eye roll. Our stupid insistence on following protocol is one of the things that I most strongly dislike about living in the Iron Mountains.
“Who did they pick to be the next Queen?” she asks. “Wendolyn?”
I suck in a breath, then sit down next to her.
“No,” I say.
Rayne exhales in a huff. “I’m sure Wendolyn was happy about that,” she mutters.
I rub my hand across the back of my neck.
“Wendolyn is fine,” I say. “She’s offered to be the new queen’s Champion, actually. She said the new queen impressed her.”
Rayne snorts.
“Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Champions are often chosen to be the next queen, once the current queen’s tenure expires,” I add. “My mother was the Queen’s Champion for years.”
“So, who did they choose?” Rayne asks.
I rub my hands together, remembering the Queensmoot. Dragons shouting at each other as dawn spilled across the mountain cirque, turning the stones golden. The healer dragon assuring me, over and over, that Rayne was going to be just fine, even as time stretched on interminably. And then the very last person I’d expected to speak at the Queensmoot stepped onto the grass.
My father.
“This is a delicate time for the Iron Mountains,” I say, roughly paraphrasing what my father had said and omitting his more colorful language. “Some of the dragons in the Iron Mountains supported Rensivar, of course. He never would have made it so far without inside help. And now those dragons have a choice, to either return to serving the Council of the Iron Mountains or to seek out Rensivar, wherever he is.”
I pause, remembering the volley of screams that had followed that declaration.
“Not everyone agreed that Rensivar’s followers should be able to return to the Iron Mountains,” I continue. “But, as my father pointed out, how can we tell who supported him and who didn’t?”
Rayne’s teeth sink into her lower lip. “I suppose you could have some sort of an investigation,” she says.
“Or a war,” I finish.
Rayne shivers against the stone. “But, a war between dragons could destroy the Iron Mountains,” she says.
“It would do exactly that,” I reply. “Which is why the dragons decided to choose someone from outside the Iron Mountains to serve as Queen. Someone free from prejudice, and someone who’d already shown more courage than any other dragon at that Queensmoot.”
