![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
abc prompts; k+s: medieval fantasy
The guards' hands on her were rough and irreverent, and it made her want to scream. Of course she'd grown accustomed to unkind touches in the years after her parents had died, but those were different. On the battlefield, she was a warrior; here and now, she was a queen. A disgraced queen, a defeated queen, but a queen all the same, and she'd be damned if she'd let these savages manhandle her the way they were.
So she swore, but in any case, her hands and feet were shackled, her movement so hobbled as to force them to nearly drag her down the corridor. When the blurriness of exhaustion and blood in her eyes resolved, she could make out the coat of arms above the throne room doors. The sight of the fierce dragon crest made her heart sink. It was everywhere here, in the black flags and the gold gild of the decor. She felt more surrounded by the dragon than the four guards who flanked her.
(Four guards, she reflected with a very small satisfaction. They'd sent no fewer than four grown men to take her to their king, for fear she might overpower only three. They still feared her, even stripped of her armor and her dignity.)
The carpet in the throne room was lush under her aching bare feet, and under her knees as well, when the guards thrust her down before the king. She didn't stay there long. As soon as her agony would let her, she stumbled gracelessly back to her feet and tossed her hair from her eyes, staring defiantly up at her captor.
He was barely older than she was, she realized. She'd known it before; they called him the Boy King of Dragonfell, just as they called her the Girl Queen when she wasn't there to hear it. His parents had died in this war as well — killed on the battlefield by her father's best men, nearly a year before hers had been assassinated. Since her inauguration, she had often wished her parents had been warriors as well. She felt alone in her initiative as the first warrior queen of Rosemead. The people of Dragonfell had loved their warrior queen.
As had her son, she imagined, and felt an unmistakable and unwelcome pang of sympathy. She'd been inconsolable when her parents had died, and had only ceased crying when she'd taken up the sword because she had no other choice. She wondered if the Boy King had cried for his parents.
He didn't look as though he ever had. His expression showed no trace of sympathy for her, and it helped to harden her heart against him.
"Has the court been occupied?" he asked.
A guard was quick to drop to one knee. "Sire, the court and surrounding villages have been occupied. We're sending men to take up posts at the outlying villages as well. The entire Rosemead army is slain or captured."
The girl queen felt her blood run cold. Slain or captured. She wondered which was the fate of the knights she knew best, the ones who had welcomed her into their fold and taught her all they could when she was newly-crowned and freshly wounded by the war. She hoped they had died valiantly, that they would not be subjected to the humiliation that she surely would.
The king's eyes ran over her, and her back straightened, her head rose. Let him look. She was beautiful, even covered in mud and the blood of his men.
"Send for a physician," the boy king said, "and leave us."
A physician? She wondered at his motives. Perhaps he wanted to ensure she'd stay alive for the torture he had planned. He had nothing to worry about. She'd fared much worse and she'd hold fast to every last bit of life that she could. He would have to try his damndest if he wanted her dead.
The room emptied swiftly, leaving her standing alone under the king's attention, her body aching and her wounds stinging. He watched her quietly, impassive, evidently untroubled by the temerarious set of her jaw.
When she could stand the silence no longer, she spoke, and was proud to find her voice strong and imperious as ever. "Does the Boy King of Dragonfell need tending to before he beats a woman? I didn't know Dragonfell bred men with such weak constitutions."
The sound he made was inelegant at best, a scoffing noise in the back of his throat. His posture shifted, unwound as he answered, "I thought the Girl Queen of Rosemead might need some tending to before she was shown to her quarters."
Quarters? Did he find it amusing to mock her status as his prisoner? Her face betrayed her disgust and anger at the prospect, she was sure, but perhaps it was best not to leave any doubt. She spit at his feet, blood and grit and saliva.
He didn't so much as move his boot. "I might also call a governess to refinish you before you're allowed in the court. The Warrior Queen of Dragonfell should not spit."
Her splitting head couldn't wrap around what he was saying. Was he calling her his queen? Did he think she would marry him? The edges of her vision darkened dangerously, and she felt a flash of fever sweep over her.
When the wave of darkness and heat cleared, she found herself crumpled on the carpet, on her knees and — to her surprise — in the arms of the king, who looked much less disagreeable at this scant distance. In fact, he looked concerned, if only mildly. The expression dissolved as soon as she comprehended it.
"Don't touch me," she said, but the venom was gone from her voice. "I'm not your queen, and I'd sooner die than sit beside you on that throne."
"I thought you might," he answered. Taking hold of her, he stood and replaced her on her feet. His hands stayed firm on her sides until she was holding her weight, and he did not return to his throne. He stood close, looking down at her with something in his eyes she couldn't make sense of. Displeasure? Unhappiness? Or was it regret?
"But whatever else they say about the Warrior Queen of Rosemead, they do say she's devoted to her people."
The Warrior Queen of Rosemead. The words overcame her like the hot flash had. No one had called her that before; Rosemead didn't have warrior queens. She was so absorbed in the sound of it that she almost missed what he said next.
"She might sooner die than marry a king of Dragonfell, but I'm sure she won't sacrifice her people for the sake of her pride."
Her head snapped back up when his meaning sunk in. Regret. That was what was on his face. He didn't want to do this. She might have understood it better if she weren't so suddenly arrested by fury and fear.
"You would kill thousands to secure yourself a wife?" she spat. Lances of pain shot through her wrists; she'd forgotten her restraints and tried to gesture angrily. "Is Dragonfell's king so reprehensible a man that his own women will not marry him for his riches?"
She saw the muscles in his jaw tighten, but he still did not raise his voice. His patience was frightening her. A man like this could be a monster behind closed doors. "I never said I'd kill them," he said levelly. "But if their queen dies, so does Rosemead. There won't be any people of Rosemead. Only people of Dragonfell."
No more Rosemead.
She closed her eyes and she could see it — the halls of the castle bedecked in black and gold, dragons adorning every doorway. The beautiful gardens of the court would be razed to make way for dragonneries. The livestock of the countryside would be hunted.
"If I marry you," she said finally, "you will leave Rosemead." It wasn't a question, despite her defeated tone.
"Rosemead will be an annex of Dragonfell," he said. "My men will leave your people to live in peace, but they'll pay their taxes to me."
For a fleeting moment, the girl queen allowed herself to regret. She'd once planned to marry a knight of Rosemead, a charming, chivalrous nobleman with a heart of gold and eyes like the ocean. She would have been a happy wife. She'd have gone to bed gladly and she would've made him a king someday.
Now she would be a queen of Dragonfell, married to a man who was a stranger to her, and she thought he always would be. She would go to bed and she would make him fight to take her. She would be a cold-hearted warrior queen.
"I concede," she said, her voice breaking under the weight of the words. She could say no more.
The doors were hauled open, and an elderly man came in, bag in hand. The boy king — her king — retreated to his throne as the physician approached and knelt.
"Tend to my wife," he said quietly.
Bathed and bandaged and dressed in fresh clothing, the Girl Queen of Dragonfell sat in her new chambers. The window overlooked a beautiful garden, heavy with ivy and arranged around a massive weeping willow, whose branches touched the ground on all sides. Through a gap in the tendrils, she could see a small pool of water in the rocks, where a tiny, brightly-colored dragonlet drank.
She was exhausted, but she refused to sleep. She had demanded of the guards who escorted her here that she be informed as to which of her knights remained alive, and in what condition. They would be returning with that information soon, if they knew what was good for them, and she would not be caught unawares.
When the knock sounded at the door, she started out of a doze, despite her best efforts.
"Enter," she called, with as much disdain as she could muster. The door creaked open softly, but the footsteps that entered were weighted with boots and chainmail.
"You were asking after your knights?"
The voice was unexpectedly familiar. She turned from the window to face the king, who stood at the edge of the table, beyond the foot of the bed.
"Wouldn't you be?" she asked. "I suppose your men have forgotten how to follow a woman's orders."
"They don't know you're their queen," he said, resting a gauntleted hand on the tabletop. "I won't be announcing our wedding until the aftermath of this war has been dealt with."
She looked at his hand, looked him over. He was more armored than he'd been an hour ago. She found herself feeling apprehensive at the thought that he might leave. As he'd just said, his men didn't know her as their queen. Who knew what sort of treatment she might be subjected to in the absence of her soon-to-be-husband?
"Where are you going?"
The silence that followed was long and heavy. At last, he answered, "Rosemead's court. I need to see that it's been secured, and that it is settled safely under its new lord."
Her heart sank, twisting its way down to the murky bottoms of her gut. "And who will that be?"
This pause was briefer, and it didn't end in an answer. Instead, he said, "The guards are taking stock of your remaining men. They'll be held prisoner until the ceremony, and then given the chance to be knighted under Dragonfell's banner."
"They'll sooner die," she warned him. The image of her men in stark black Dragonfell capes was unwelcome.
"That seems to be the way of the warriors of Rosemead," the king remarked lightly. "I should return in three days."
When he turned to leave, the breeze from the window caught his own black cape and flipped it aside. The queen's stomach twisted as well.
"Wait," she said, and hated it. "Please—" She gritted her teeth against the request as the king looked back.
"Please... ?" he prompted.
Feeling like she might be sick, the queen managed the words, "Don't leave."
His turn back toward her was slow, uncertain. She knew how it must seem; she'd made her hatred for him clear, and here she was, asking him to stay.
"You said yourself that they don't know me as their queen," she said. "Can you assure me they won't mistreat me in your absence?"
She could see the answer he wanted to give, but he hesitated. Then he said, "I'll send for one of your knights to stay with you."
It was her turn to be surprised. The king continued to show her these flashes of mercy, of sympathy and understanding, and she didn't know how to react, except with gratitude that was hard to express.
So for the moment, she dipped her head in acknowledgement and sat back into the high-backed chair, facing the window again. She could see the king from the corner of her eye as he lingered, watching her.
"I should return in three days' time," he said once more. "Take this chance to rest."
The door closed behind him with a heavy finality, like the thunk of a guillotine blade.
The knight who was brought to her was a young man named Nicolas, who had been freshly knighted before their final battle. She remembered the ceremony; so many young faces, and she'd felt, suddenly, like they were a kingdom of children, playing at war. He could be barely fifteen.
He was in good condition, and attributed it to the competence of Sir Christian, Rosemead's Knight-Commander and the queen's closest confidante. She hesitated to inquire after him, but Nicolas spared her the trouble.
"He told us to put down our blades and surrender," he said, "and then he asked Dragonfell's men to fetch their best knight for a duel to decide who would be taken prisoner."
She felt the realization descend onto her head, her shoulders, like an impossibly heavy yoke. Sir Christian had died, trying to spare as many lives — Rosemead's and Dragonfell's — as he could. He'd always regretted the bloodshed this war had brought.
Knowing he was gone left her feeling hollow, and she remained at the window, quiet, until she could no longer hold up her head. When she found herself leaning against the sill, eyes half-closed in the evening breeze, Sir Nicolas said timidly, "Your Majesty, I do not presume to command you, but you seem tired. If you sleep, I will guard you 'til you wake."
She pried her eyes open, stared at the garden where the dragonlet was dozing on the rocks, tail fishing idly in the water. She had asked for a guard to feel safe, hadn't she? It was ridiculous of her to fight to remain awake.
Slowly, she stood, and was surprised to see Sir Nicolas on one knee by the door. He wore his mail, but was divested of armor and sword.
"Have you been there all this time?" she asked, and, head bowed, he nodded.
"Yes, Majesty."
Pleased and perhaps touched, she murmured, "Stand, and face the door. I will undress, and do not think that because my knights are now so few, I will not have you flogged for looking."
The knight's face colored deeply, and he stood, turning to face the door and lacing his hands behind his back. The queen watched him for a moment before she reached her arms behind her to begin unlacing her dress.
It was a slow and painful process, aggravating nearly every wound she knew she possessed, but she remained quiet throughout, not wanting to alarm Sir Nicolas or draw his attention and embarrass them both.
When she wore only the simple tunic that had been beneath her dress, she lay the other clothing gently aside at the foot of the bed, and slid beneath the blankets. It was comfortable, and the softness of the bedclothes threatened to lull her immediately to sleep.
"You may turn around, Sir Nicolas," she said. He did so cautiously. "If any man but the King of Dragonfell enters this room while I sleep," she began, and while she searched for the proper epithet, Sir Nicolas supplied a better answer.
"I shall disarm them and cut them down," he said, "or die trying, Majesty."
Her smile was a weary one, but it seemed to satisfy Sir Nicolas, who took up his post beside the door with a smile of his own.
The queen and her knight passed the days in conversation, which grew more comfortable with every word. They talked of Dragonfell, of the rumors of its barbaric traditions, of the dragons themselves, which never descended into the valley where Rosemead lay. Sir Nicolas said that his brother once found a pygmy dragon in the forest on the mountainside, and that he kept it in the stables until it escaped one day and alarmed all the horses. They laughed together until the pain in her ribs threatened to make her faint.
"What will become of Rosemead?" the young knight asked. It was the third afternoon, and the queen sat at the window again, feeling strong and spirited. Sound sleep and good meals had done wonders, and this morning, she had taken up a post by the door, herself, and allowed Sir Nicholas to sleep at the table. The poor boy had gone out like a candle and snored for hours.
"It will continue," the queen said, watching the dragonlet in the garden pluck leaves from the willow, "as all things do. The people of Rosemead will live in peace for the first time in years."
She could feel Sir Nicolas watching her in turn. "And what will become of you?" he asked then.
'You,' he said, not 'us.' The queen felt an unmistakable affection for this courageous boy.
For several moments, she was silent. The dragonlet scurried out of sight and re-emerged with a bird crumpled in its small jaws. At last, she said, "I will become Dragonfell's greatest warrior queen. I will make my people proud to be a part of this nation of savages and brutes."
"You will marry the king?" he asked. His astonishment showed in his voice.
She turned in her chair, and he took his eyes off of her instantly, staring straight ahead and struggling to resolve his expression into something less telling.
"Look at me, Sir Nicolas," she instructed. He complied. "I will do whatever I must to preserve what is left of my kingdom," she said levelly. "If I must marry the Barbarian King of Dragonfell, I will tame him as a dragon himself."
Slowly, Sir Nicolas nodded, and he lowered himself to one knee. "Then I pledge my allegiance to the Warrior Queen of Dragonfell," he said, "and no one else."
The queen wondered, looking at his slight shoulders and soft face, if Dragonfell had ever had such a young First Knight.
It was evening when a knock sounded at the door of the queen's chambers, and as always, Sir Nicolas turned to the sound, standing at the ready.
"Who calls?" the queen asked. It was long past supper; the bowls had been reclaimed by the maids already. She could think of only one visitor she should be expecting.
And rather than answer, the king simply opened the door. Sir Nicolas watched him like a hawk until the queen said, "Please step outside, Sir Nicolas, and ensure that we are left alone."
With a dubious backward glance, the knight did as he was told.
Once the door had closed behind him, the king said, "He volunteered himself when I asked who would guard their queen."
It seemed right; she could picture the scene. What she could not picture was the other men — twenty-four, she was told — abstaining from volunteering, themselves.
"So did the rest of them," the king observed. "Twenty-four men clamoring to get into your bedchambers. Was it that way in Rosemead as well?"
She drew up her posture, affronted, but couldn't help a smirk. "There were many more men in Rosemead," she answered. "Why did you choose Sir Nicolas?"
"Because he looked honest," said the king, "and young enough to be trusted with a sleeping woman."
She had to scoff. "Any of my men could have been trusted with a sleeping woman, were the sleeping woman their queen. But I suppose I appreciate your consideration."
She was surprised to find how easily the words came, I appreciate your consideration, with little hint of rancor and only a touch of sarcasm. Perhaps these few days had helped to heal more of her wounds than she'd realized.
The king took a seat at the table, removing his gauntlets. He was still armored, and must have come straight from the stables. She wondered again at his attentiveness.
"Rosemead is settled," he said, "and its people addressed. They have submitted to Dragonfell rule."
"Congratulations," she replied, tone clipped and dry.
"Dragonfell knights are leaving the outer villages. Within two days, your people will be left alone, save Duke Weston at the court." He lay his gauntlets on the tabletop. "Duke Weston is a kind man, with a great love for the gardens of Rosemead. He will see to it that the castle is well cared for."
His reassurances were all hitting their targets, but the queen looked out the window and feigned indifference. From the corner of her eye, she could still watch him as he rubbed a hand over his face. He was exhausted; he'd probably been riding for days on little sleep. He looked older, somehow. She wondered if she did, too.
"Your knights will be released after the wedding is announced," he continued, "and allowed to live in the inner village. You may knight any or all of them after the coronation."
"I may do a great many things after the coronation," she remarked, arching a brow.
"But before the coronation," he said, as if continuing her sentence, "you must tell me your name."
Slowly, she turned in her chair to face him. "You proposed marriage to a woman whose name you didn't know?" she marveled, caught between mocking amusement and indignation.
"What is my name, girl queen?"
Now she paused, searching her memory. Surely she'd heard the name before. She'd certainly heard his parents': Christopher Trenowyth, Warrior King of Dragonfell and Slayer of Norsemen, Son of the Old North Kingdoms; Marion Trenowyth, Warrior Queen of Dragonfell and Princess of Faircoast, Feller of the Great Ocean Wyvern — and their son... the Boy King of Dragonfell.
He must have seen on her face that she had no answer, because he folded his arms on the table, leaning forward, and said, "Shayne Trenowyth, Warrior King of Dragonfell, Son of Faircoast and Rider of the Golden Wyvern. And you are?"
She was the Warrior Queen of Rosemead. It was all she'd been for some time now: a woman, however young, fierce of heart and willful of disposition, courageous and righteous and never-faltering, a queen her people could believe in, could look to in this time of death and loss. She'd needed no name, not since her parents were lost to her. She was only 'Your Majesty.'
Being 'Your Majesty' made it much simpler to kill and be killed. When you were a queen, your every breath was for the good of the kingdom.
When you were a girl, you could make mistakes, be hurt, grow lost. The girl who became the Warrior Queen of Rosemead was long buried. Her shortcomings could not be afforded.
But the war was over, and here was the king — her king, Shayne, with a name and a face and a heart that she was already (frightfully) coming to know — and he wanted to know the name of the girl he would marry.
In a low, resigned tone, she answered. "Kiersten Harte, First Warrior Queen of Rosemead, Daughter of Blackmere." Her own name sounded foreign to her ears; it had been so long since she'd owned it.
"Kiersten Harte," he repeated, and it sounded just as strange from his mouth. "Warrior Queen of Dragonfell, Daughter of Blackmere, Princess and Savior of Rosemead. Rider of whatever you like," he added, "after the coronation."
Savior of Rosemead. The title at once warmed her heart and sank it. She supposed it was true enough that she had saved what was left of her kingdom, but she wasn't sure they saw it that way. Perhaps they would begrudge the queen her new title. She would shed it if they did.
Rather than dwell on the resentment of her people, she asked, "I will ride a dragon?"
"All of Dragonfell's warriors do," he answered, as if she needed the reminder. The memory of the armored beasts swooping out of the sky to snatch horses and men off their feet was burned into her after her time on the battlefield.
"What did your mother ride?" she asked next, watching his face as she spoke.
As she expected, Shayne's expression shifted, receded, darkened, but he did not shy from the question. "A blusang lindwyrm," he replied, voice low and reflective. "She brought it with her from Faircoast when she married my father. It was the only one of its kind in Dragonfell."
"It's dead?" she pressed, turning fully toward him.
"When she died, it threw away its own life." He raised his eyes from the dark wood of the table to look at her. "It took fifty or more of Rosemead's men with it."
She faintly remembered it — Sir Esmour had been lauded for his slaying of the massive dragon, until he had been killed on the field only days later. Understanding it as she did now, she suspected he was killed by the king, in retribution for the death of his wife's noble mount. The dragon itself had killed the knight who slay the queen; this vengeance was all the king could do. The people of Dragonfell had always revered their dragons.
"It must have loved her," Kiersten said finally, her voice soft. She met Shayne's eyes.
"We all did." He was still for a moment longer, then stood, picking up his gauntlets. "Rest. You'll dine with me in the morning; we have business to discuss."
She took breakfast with the king in his chambers the next morning; she in a lovely violet and gold gown brought to her by a chambermaid, and he in a dark blue tunic that showed just enough of his chest to draw her eyes, if she wasn't careful.
They spoke almost solely of Rosemead — of trade and alliances, of finances and taxes, and Kiersten was surprised at how swiftly the king took to it. Her father had always said that Dragonfell won wars with their monarchs, and ran the kingdom with their advisors, but Shayne, at least, seemed to have as much of a mind for the finer details of maintaining a kingdom as she did, herself.
Rosemead's alliance with Blackmere, formed by her parents' marriage, would be allowed to stand. Their peace and open trade with Drachedge, however, would not. Drachedge and Dragonfell had a long-standing history of bad blood, which Shayne explained stemmed from Drachedge's hunting and poaching of dragons. By the end of the meal, Kiersten was not so fond of them, herself.
"Have you ever had occasion to meet a dragon?" he asked as the table was cleared. She nodded, brows arched high.
"I met a great black dragon once on the battlefield, ridden by a Dragonfell knight." She rested a hand on her side. "They left me with a lovely set of scars."
A remark like that would have earned her a shocked look from anyone in Rosemead. Women in Rosemead did not fight, and they did not boast scars. (Kiersten was proud of hers.) Dragonfell's king simply nodded. She imagined that his mother must have had her share. It was said that the Warrior Queen of Dragonfell was exotic and beautiful; her son seemed to favor her in that way.
"Would you come to the dragonnery with me?" he asked. It was such a politely-phrased request that it took her off-guard. Their conversations so far had not been without barbs and sharp edges.
"Now?" she said, though his meaning was clear. When he nodded, she clarified, "In this gown?"
He seemed to notice her gown for the first time, then, looking her over as if startled to see she was wearing anything at all. "No, I suppose you should change. We can meet in the garden."
She was pleased at the prospect of seeing the garden up close, having watched it for days from her window. It was nothing, of course, compared to the labyrinth gardens of Rosemead — overflowing with flowering trees and beds of blossoms and blooming ivy on every wall, fragrances so sweet and thick as to make a person sick, were they not accustomed — but it was a garden, and the green of the trees and ivy drew her, as did the little dragonlet she'd grown inexplicably fond of in these few days. She wondered if it would come to her hand.
At the door to his chambers, she looked quizzically at the guards, but they showed no sign of following, and she was left to make her own way back to her room.
Of course it crossed her mind to run. She wouldn't make it far, but she would have her pride when they caught her. What, though, was the purpose? Her people were captured, her castle claimed. The repercussions could be too drastic to bear.
So she walked to her quarters and disappeared inside, where a chambermaid found her shortly thereafter. She was put into a tunic and pants, boots and gloves, and was sent on her way, again without an escort. The winding halls of Dragonfell's castle were still more easily navigable than the architectural marvel that was the castle of Rosemead, and she found her way to the garden in short order.
Shayne stood at the edge of the willow's curtain, the dragonlet on his shoulder. It perched there quite comfortably, but she could see its claws threatening to tear his tunic as he scratched its throat.
Approaching slowly from behind, she asked, "What is it?"
He didn't turn his head, and it occurred to her that he was very trusting, with a battle-ready queen at his back who had been his enemy just days before.
"A bog pygmy," he said. "This one came from a marsh just outside Northwood. Her name is Annosa."
"Will she bite me?"
He did turn, then, coming to face her, and beckoned for her to come closer. "She's very friendly." When she came within reach, he pulled her in by the wrist, but the contact was brief. "Lift her beneath her forelegs," he said, "as you would a puppy."
Cautious, watching the occasional flash of teeth she could see in the dragon's dark face, Kiersten picked up the creature from the king's shoulder. He took her hands again, then, bringing one arm beneath the dragon's body until she was cradling it there, and it settled in quite happily without much mention of claws.
Fearsome though its larger cousins were, Kiersten found herself charmed by the bog pygmy, and she held it to her chest for several minutes, stroking its scales and the spines along its back, until it spotted a lizard on the rocks near the pool, sneaking a drink, and then quick as you like, the dragon was out of Kiersten's arms and on the hunt.
Shayne chuckled, reminding her that she wasn't alone, and drawing a warmth into her face.
"She keeps the vermin out," he said, gesturing to the pygmy as it overturned a small stone that was hiding its prey. "Every castle should have a few pygmies."
"We got along without them," Kiersten replied, and fell into step with the king as he led the way down the stone path. The garden was cool, misty from the tiny waterfalls routed through it, and though it was nothing like home, it was pleasant. She looked over her shoulder at the mossy rocks and clear pools as they emerged out into an open field.
Not far away was the practice pitch for the knights, where several young men and women were being instructed by an older fellow in chainmail. New recruits, she realized, to replace the knights lost in the last battle.
Beyond that stood a massive building of stone, so vast and sprawling as to make its considerable height look slight. The windows were long and narrow, set up high, and the doors were small, meant for people. In the center of the roof was a large opening, where, as Kiersten watched, a large violet dragon with trailing gold whiskers emerged, ridden by a woman in clothing not unlike Kiersten's own.
"One of our midwives," Shayne explained as they made their way across the field. "They ride rose and violet dragons; their magic has many properties that are of value to them."
Kiersten could think of nothing a dragon could do to assist with childbirth. "Such as?" she inquired, and received a brief silence in response, as a rich color crept into Shayne's cheeks.
"You'd do better to ask them," he said, the words quick and clipped, and then he stopped, raised his hand to his mouth and whistled, a sharp sound that cut through the air and the clamor of the nearby pitch.
Before Kiersten could protest his obvious avoidance, there was a commotion at the dragonnery: a few shouts, and then the low whump, whump, whump of beating wings as a dragon emerged.
It was sizeable, though not much larger than the black dragons that Dragonfell's armies rode. What was truly remarkable was the way its scales shimmered in the morning light — gold and glittering, catching the sun and throwing it in every direction. Its spines were a dull, gleaming silver, and the spread of its fins and wings were a rich black.
Once in the air, it tossed back its head and made a sound that Kiersten might have described as a 'shriek' or a 'squawk,' except that it rattled her bones. Beside her, Shayne whistled again, the piercing noise reduced to nothing in the wake of the dragon's call.
Were she the princess she once had been, she would certainly have screamed and hidden behind him when the dragon wheeled in the air and dove toward them, but the Warrior Queen (of Rosemead, of Dragonfell) stood her ground, even as the gusts from the dragon's wings tousled her hair.
The earth shook when it landed, and it lowered its head before them, resting it on the ground before Shayne, who appeared content to rub the scales between its eyes.
"Meet Sorien," he said, "the only golden wyvern tamed in Dragonfell in hundreds of years."
"Sorien," Kiersten repeated, and was glad to hear her voice steady. "A pleasure." She reached out to place a hand on the dragon's head as well, and one massive black eye opened, making her hesitate.
"She won't harm you unless I direct her to," Shayne reassured her. The words were more effective than they had any right to be.
She brushed a hand over the smooth scales of Sorien's jaw, and the eye closed again, a low rumble passing through first the dragon, then the ground. "She's beautiful," Kiersten admitted. Shayne made no attempt to hide his satisfaction.
"She is."
The dragon walked beside them as they continued to the dragonnery, stopping only periodically when the short-legged humans fell too far behind. Once arrived, she leapt onto the roof and disappeared inside, while Shayne held the door for Kiersten.
"Dragonfell has raised a gentleman or two in its time," she remarked as she brushed past him. She heard him scoff.
"Has Rosemead ever raised a lady?" he asked.
"Rosemead raises only ladies," she clarified. Sorien was easy to spot, the only gold-scaled beast in a stable largely full of black dragons. There were a few exceptions — a pair of rose-colored mounts curled together, a single pristine white dragon, and a flight of fearsome-looking red dragons, isolated in a large space by themselves.
Feeling bold, she crossed the dragonnery to where Sorien sat, waiting, her wings on the dusty floor. She paid Kiersten no mind until Shayne joined her, now holding a bridle (if a large one) and a complex-looking harness of some sort. She recognized stirrups and buckles, but the rest was a mess of straps she couldn't decipher.
Whatever it was, Sorien certainly knew it, and hunkered down on the floor to allow Shayne to fasten it onto her. It attached to the spines on her shoulders and hung down around her chest, leaving the stirrups one on each side. When it was affixed, the bridle went on, and Shayne patted Sorien's head and led Kiersten away.
On the other side of the structure, a stablehand was tacking up the white dragon she'd seen earlier. The equipment was much more familiar here, like a saddle that fastened around the base of the dragon's neck, with straps around its forelegs and across its chest. The stirrups were still present, and the bridle was the same. Suddenly, this all seemed much more surmountable. Kiersten had ridden horses all of her life. Could this be so much more challenging?
"Tiarann," Shayne explained, "is a healing dragon. He belongs to the court physician, but he is very gentle, and should prove an easy ride for a beginner."
With a disparaging glance, Kiersten stepped up to the dragon's head. He had feathered wings, was smaller than Sorien, and bowed his bridled head in the same way. She rubbed the scales behind his headcrest and watched him close his eyes in what she imagined was contentment.
"I'm quite certain I can manage," she said to Shayne. He looked about to protest, but in the end, simply shrugged, smiled, and returned to his own mount.
Taking hold of Tiarann's headcrest, Kiersten gave it an experimental tug. The dragon showed no sign of discomfort, so she used the headcrest as a handhold while she slipped a foot in a stirrup and swung herself astride the beast.
The saddle was thick, shaped to allow a rider to sit comfortably and tuck in their knees. The reins on the bridle were long and looped around a saddle horn in front of her. Picking them up, she took a moment to stroke the dragon's neck, then squeezed gently with her knees.
As expected, her mount lumbered to his feet and stretched his limbs. Then he stopped, standing still.
What now? On a horse, she would repeat the command again, she supposed. She squeezed her knees, and the dragon moved forward, out of his stall; she teased the right rein to guide him to the center of the room, then tugged evenly on both reins to stop him.
Beautiful. This was just like riding a horse.
A glance told her Shayne was watching, with a stablehand nearby who seemed greatly concerned. She could imagine what he might be saying. 'How can you let the prisoner ride? She may escape, sire!'
She could imagine, too, what the cocky boy king might be saying. 'She can't outfly me.'
Perhaps there was nowhere for her to run, but she would make him think twice about assuming her trapped.
Shifting her feet in the stirrups, she nudged with her heels where Tiarann's neck met his wings and felt him gather himself beneath her, like a horse about to jump.
Then he jumped.
Her world was in freefall for a moment, her weight thrown back with the sudden upward motion, and she pitched herself onto the dragon's neck, knuckles white on the reins. Her feet were firm in the stirrups, but that didn't stop her from sliding back in the saddle, and at the first hurricane beat of Tiarran's wings, her rear end slipped right off.
She tumbled down the his long back and onto the hard-packed earth below. The impact shot through her back, her ribs suddenly exploding in pain, and the breath was knocked from her chest. While she struggled for air, she opened her eyes in time to see her mount's tail clear the ceiling as he disappeared out into the sky.
The first thing she became aware of after that was the attention of a pair of stablehands, leaning over her in the dirt. One was the man who had been talking to Shayne just moments ago; the other was a younger boy, who asked three times, "Are you all right, milady?" in an accent that she would later identify as Faircoastal.
The second thing she became aware of, as she sucked air into her lungs and the spinning in her head began to clear, was laughter.
Shayne was leaning on Sorien's side, holding his own side as if in pain, and he was laughing so hard, Kiersten thought he might pass out.
She dearly hoped he did.
Over the course of the following days, the queen was granted increasing freedom without guard, most often under the supervision of the king, but occasionally, for a spell, on her own: seated in the garden to play with Annosa, in the dining hall to take lunch while her husband-to-be was otherwise occupied. She stole away once to pay a visit to the dungeons, the way to which she pressed from an unsuspecting young squire who either didn't recognize her or was too taken in by her smile to mind.
The cells were spacious, well-kept. Whoever had said the people of Dragonfell were barbarians had clearly never been a guest of their prisons. She walked between the rows of prisoners and was gratified to see her men rise to their knees, cling to the bars to watch her pass. When she'd gathered the attention of all of them (quiet, reverent), she spoke.
"My brave knights," she murmured, and the warmth in her voice echoed in the chamber. "I am proud to see so many of you survived this war. A proper guard, I should say — twenty-four of my best men."
Their heads bowed lower as she addressed them. She could see shame on some faces, guilt on others, and quiet resignation on a few. Surely many of them wished they had died on the field with honor, as their commander had. She could hardly blame them.
"I would that you continue to survive," she went on, "that you may join me in our new kingdom."
Startled, some of them looked up. Some looked immediately back down, but a few brave men — her father's men, each of them twice her age or more — kept their eyes on her, awaiting an explanation. She did not tarry.
"I am to marry the Warrior King of Dragonfell," she said. "I will become your queen once again, and you will all be knighted under Dragonfell's banner, should you so choose. Those who do not take up the sword will be granted amnesty nonetheless."
"Majesty," said the gravelled voice of Sir Morys. He was the eldest surviving knight, she was sure; older even than her father would be, were he alive today. He spoke respectfully, but he looked her in the eye. She appreciated both.
"Speak, Sir Morys."
"Your parents, God rest their souls, would turn in their graves to know you spoke so proudly of marrying a barbarian king."
His words shocked her. Proudly? Had she spoken with pride? Surely not; she was simply resigned to her fate.
"I am not proud," she began, with no sense of the words that would follow, "to be marrying Dragonfell's king. I am proud that we have survived to see the end of this war, and I am proud to be in such a position as to bring honor to Dragonfell, just as I have brought honor to Rosemead in my time."
It was enough of an answer to silence Sir Morys, though he looked no more satisfied. The queen swept her eyes over the rest of the men, and the remaining few turned their eyes to the dirt and straw below them.
"This kingdom has done a great many terrible things," she continued, watching each of them in turn, "but those things were not done under my rule. As the Warrior Queen of Dragonfell, I will see to it that this throne is one I can be proud to sit upon. I will make this black and gold livery a privilege to wear. I will shape this kingdom with my own hands, with or without the allowance of my king.
"Those of you that would follow me are welcome; those of you who would not will be free to go the moment I am crowned."
To her alarm, a slow applause rang off the stone walls. She turned her eyes to the doorway, where there leaned the increasingly-familiar figure of her king.
"A moving speech, to be sure," he said, and his voice sounded as it ever did: dry and sarcastic and mocking. "The Savior of Rosemead is as gallant as she is foolish."
A coldness seized her heart as the king came forward. He reached out to grab her and she stood her ground, bracing herself for the roughness of his hands, but they never came.
He stopped short, apprehended by the hands of the knights on either side of him. They had reached through the bars, four of them, and taken hold of his arms, his wrists. The look he turned on them flashed hot with anger, but he did not lash out, and he did not speak.
"Sire," said one of the knights, and she could not see his face, but she knew his voice instantly — Sir Michael, another young one, just a year her junior. "So much as we are your prisoners, we are, too, Her Majesty's sworn knights, and we would not have you harm her, so long as we draw breath."
A lesser king, Kiersten would think later, in the privacy of her chambers, would simply have arranged for all two dozen of them to be slaughtered. The King of Dragonfell simply looked the boy in the eye and said levelly, "Take your hands from me, that I might see my betrothed to her chambers."
He did not sound angry, as she felt he should have, but his words had their intended effect: slowly, watchfully, each man withdrew his hands. Now freed, Shayne reached out, his hand startlingly gentle at her elbow, and turned to lead her away.
She followed with a pounding and uncertain heart at her throat. His calm must be a ruse, she thought, to placate her knights. He would take her to his quarters and make her bleed. There was no need to be gentle with a warrior queen.
But he stopped at the door to her chambers and held it open for her as she entered, wary of his presence at her back. She heard him step in as well, and the door shut soundly.
So he would teach her of her place now, here in her own room, where he could leave her to nurse her own wounds when he was finished. She spun to face him and was met by surprise on his face.
"It was quite a speech," he said, coming no closer. "I meant that."
Belligerent and uneasy, she answered, "And I suppose I shall receive a punishment of equal caliber."
"I see nothing meriting punishment."
Again, Shayne escaped her. Should she not be punished for sneaking into the dungeon? For proclaiming her intent to do as she pleased, regardless of her king's opinion? Her confusion must have shown on her face.
"True enough that you should not have been in the dungeons, but you were." He moved slowly, easing himself into a chair and folding his hands on the table. "And yet, your men remained imprisoned, and you promised them freedom only by the terms that we agreed upon.
"True, too, that you spoke treason by declaring your intent to defy me, should it be necessary. But your goals are the same as mine, and I will not stand in your way, if it is the glory of Dragonfell you seek."
He opened his hands, spread them palm-up on the tabletop, and looked up at her, expression mild. "You are a great many things, Your Majesty; some of them atrocious and some simply trying."
Kiersten felt her face heat, but she remained silent, for the moment struck speechless by Shayne's words.
"You are also a much better queen than I ever recognized," he said after a long pause, and though it sounded like the words were ground out beneath a millstone, they seemed to be sincere. Another several heartbeats passed before he added, so quietly as to almost go unheard, "My mother would have adored you."
Abruptly, Kiersten's eyes burned with the threat of tears. Raising her head, she fixed her eyes on the wood beams above and set her jaw, waiting for the urgency to pass. When it had, she spoke softly as well, with none of her usual aplomb.
"My father would have approved of you." She lowered her gaze to him and found him watching her. His face was indecipherable. "You are, after all," she added, her voice perilously close to betraying her emotions, "exactly the sort of man he would have liked me to marry, had I the luxury of choice."
Her vision blurred, and she turned away, stepping to the window to look down at the garden as the tears finally fell. She missed her father and his guidance, his strong hand; her mother's hands on her face and even her overbearing constant concern. She missed being a princess, with the world at her feet, but there was no turning back now. She was far too removed from a time when she could live without care.
She felt Shayne at her back, standing close enough to touch, but not reaching out. Somehow, she thought that if she could see his face, he might look concerned, and she thought that for the first time in her captivity, she understood why.
Where she played at being a warrior queen, he must have seen no more than a girl in battle armor. She had never fooled him at all, had she? She had even fooled herself, but she had never fooled him.
"I wish you would leave," she whispered, not daring to raise her voice any further. His presence remained, so she carried on. "I think it not so proper for even you to see me like this."
"Like this?" he echoed, almost as quietly.
"If I am to be your queen, you should see me as a queen, should you not?"
There was silence behind her. She might have thought that he had left, but she could still feel him there — tall, solid, unmoving, just within reach.
Finally, he said, "You are to be my wife, as well. I should see you, however you are."
The resolve dropped from her shoulders, and she turned to him, the breeze painting cool trails onto her face where her tears had fallen. She searched his face, and was by now unsurprised to find sympathy there.
"My family is gone," she murmured, lips barely moving. "My home is no longer my own. I am but sixteen years grown, and I have no father to turn to for guidance, no mother to dry my tears." There were more of them now, making new damp tracks down her cheeks. "All I will have is a husband," she finished. "I suppose you will have to do both."
Shayne regarded her uneasily, but he raised a hesitant hand to her face. She closed her eyes. His fingers were sword-calloused, like her own, but rougher, and his touch was gentle as he brushed the tears from her lashes, from her cheeks. When he stopped, he rested his fingertips at the side of her face and — haltingly — cradled his palm against it.
Kiersten breathed softly into the silence before she opened her eyes. Their gazes locked. Shayne looked as though he wanted to turn away, but he remained, holding her eyes.
Raising a hand to cover his on her face, she spoke in a stronger voice. "With no family between us, we have no choice but to become a family, ourselves."
His thumb moved against her cheekbone as if in response. "Perhaps," he ventured, one eyebrow rising, "we should wait for your coronation, first."
She laughed unwillingly and pulled his hand away, stepping back. He smiled as she turned to the window again.
"I should like to wait for the King of Dragonfell to learn his manners, as well, but I fear we would first grow old and die," she declared to the garden. It was his turn to laugh.
"Then we shall not await that," he answered, moving away. "The coronation will be in four days' time. You will be fitted for a gown tomorrow, and in five days' time, you will be taming a dragon."
Kiersten had not seen so much promise as she did in the coming days.
So she swore, but in any case, her hands and feet were shackled, her movement so hobbled as to force them to nearly drag her down the corridor. When the blurriness of exhaustion and blood in her eyes resolved, she could make out the coat of arms above the throne room doors. The sight of the fierce dragon crest made her heart sink. It was everywhere here, in the black flags and the gold gild of the decor. She felt more surrounded by the dragon than the four guards who flanked her.
(Four guards, she reflected with a very small satisfaction. They'd sent no fewer than four grown men to take her to their king, for fear she might overpower only three. They still feared her, even stripped of her armor and her dignity.)
The carpet in the throne room was lush under her aching bare feet, and under her knees as well, when the guards thrust her down before the king. She didn't stay there long. As soon as her agony would let her, she stumbled gracelessly back to her feet and tossed her hair from her eyes, staring defiantly up at her captor.
He was barely older than she was, she realized. She'd known it before; they called him the Boy King of Dragonfell, just as they called her the Girl Queen when she wasn't there to hear it. His parents had died in this war as well — killed on the battlefield by her father's best men, nearly a year before hers had been assassinated. Since her inauguration, she had often wished her parents had been warriors as well. She felt alone in her initiative as the first warrior queen of Rosemead. The people of Dragonfell had loved their warrior queen.
As had her son, she imagined, and felt an unmistakable and unwelcome pang of sympathy. She'd been inconsolable when her parents had died, and had only ceased crying when she'd taken up the sword because she had no other choice. She wondered if the Boy King had cried for his parents.
He didn't look as though he ever had. His expression showed no trace of sympathy for her, and it helped to harden her heart against him.
"Has the court been occupied?" he asked.
A guard was quick to drop to one knee. "Sire, the court and surrounding villages have been occupied. We're sending men to take up posts at the outlying villages as well. The entire Rosemead army is slain or captured."
The girl queen felt her blood run cold. Slain or captured. She wondered which was the fate of the knights she knew best, the ones who had welcomed her into their fold and taught her all they could when she was newly-crowned and freshly wounded by the war. She hoped they had died valiantly, that they would not be subjected to the humiliation that she surely would.
The king's eyes ran over her, and her back straightened, her head rose. Let him look. She was beautiful, even covered in mud and the blood of his men.
"Send for a physician," the boy king said, "and leave us."
A physician? She wondered at his motives. Perhaps he wanted to ensure she'd stay alive for the torture he had planned. He had nothing to worry about. She'd fared much worse and she'd hold fast to every last bit of life that she could. He would have to try his damndest if he wanted her dead.
The room emptied swiftly, leaving her standing alone under the king's attention, her body aching and her wounds stinging. He watched her quietly, impassive, evidently untroubled by the temerarious set of her jaw.
When she could stand the silence no longer, she spoke, and was proud to find her voice strong and imperious as ever. "Does the Boy King of Dragonfell need tending to before he beats a woman? I didn't know Dragonfell bred men with such weak constitutions."
The sound he made was inelegant at best, a scoffing noise in the back of his throat. His posture shifted, unwound as he answered, "I thought the Girl Queen of Rosemead might need some tending to before she was shown to her quarters."
Quarters? Did he find it amusing to mock her status as his prisoner? Her face betrayed her disgust and anger at the prospect, she was sure, but perhaps it was best not to leave any doubt. She spit at his feet, blood and grit and saliva.
He didn't so much as move his boot. "I might also call a governess to refinish you before you're allowed in the court. The Warrior Queen of Dragonfell should not spit."
Her splitting head couldn't wrap around what he was saying. Was he calling her his queen? Did he think she would marry him? The edges of her vision darkened dangerously, and she felt a flash of fever sweep over her.
When the wave of darkness and heat cleared, she found herself crumpled on the carpet, on her knees and — to her surprise — in the arms of the king, who looked much less disagreeable at this scant distance. In fact, he looked concerned, if only mildly. The expression dissolved as soon as she comprehended it.
"Don't touch me," she said, but the venom was gone from her voice. "I'm not your queen, and I'd sooner die than sit beside you on that throne."
"I thought you might," he answered. Taking hold of her, he stood and replaced her on her feet. His hands stayed firm on her sides until she was holding her weight, and he did not return to his throne. He stood close, looking down at her with something in his eyes she couldn't make sense of. Displeasure? Unhappiness? Or was it regret?
"But whatever else they say about the Warrior Queen of Rosemead, they do say she's devoted to her people."
The Warrior Queen of Rosemead. The words overcame her like the hot flash had. No one had called her that before; Rosemead didn't have warrior queens. She was so absorbed in the sound of it that she almost missed what he said next.
"She might sooner die than marry a king of Dragonfell, but I'm sure she won't sacrifice her people for the sake of her pride."
Her head snapped back up when his meaning sunk in. Regret. That was what was on his face. He didn't want to do this. She might have understood it better if she weren't so suddenly arrested by fury and fear.
"You would kill thousands to secure yourself a wife?" she spat. Lances of pain shot through her wrists; she'd forgotten her restraints and tried to gesture angrily. "Is Dragonfell's king so reprehensible a man that his own women will not marry him for his riches?"
She saw the muscles in his jaw tighten, but he still did not raise his voice. His patience was frightening her. A man like this could be a monster behind closed doors. "I never said I'd kill them," he said levelly. "But if their queen dies, so does Rosemead. There won't be any people of Rosemead. Only people of Dragonfell."
No more Rosemead.
She closed her eyes and she could see it — the halls of the castle bedecked in black and gold, dragons adorning every doorway. The beautiful gardens of the court would be razed to make way for dragonneries. The livestock of the countryside would be hunted.
"If I marry you," she said finally, "you will leave Rosemead." It wasn't a question, despite her defeated tone.
"Rosemead will be an annex of Dragonfell," he said. "My men will leave your people to live in peace, but they'll pay their taxes to me."
For a fleeting moment, the girl queen allowed herself to regret. She'd once planned to marry a knight of Rosemead, a charming, chivalrous nobleman with a heart of gold and eyes like the ocean. She would have been a happy wife. She'd have gone to bed gladly and she would've made him a king someday.
Now she would be a queen of Dragonfell, married to a man who was a stranger to her, and she thought he always would be. She would go to bed and she would make him fight to take her. She would be a cold-hearted warrior queen.
"I concede," she said, her voice breaking under the weight of the words. She could say no more.
The doors were hauled open, and an elderly man came in, bag in hand. The boy king — her king — retreated to his throne as the physician approached and knelt.
"Tend to my wife," he said quietly.
Bathed and bandaged and dressed in fresh clothing, the Girl Queen of Dragonfell sat in her new chambers. The window overlooked a beautiful garden, heavy with ivy and arranged around a massive weeping willow, whose branches touched the ground on all sides. Through a gap in the tendrils, she could see a small pool of water in the rocks, where a tiny, brightly-colored dragonlet drank.
She was exhausted, but she refused to sleep. She had demanded of the guards who escorted her here that she be informed as to which of her knights remained alive, and in what condition. They would be returning with that information soon, if they knew what was good for them, and she would not be caught unawares.
When the knock sounded at the door, she started out of a doze, despite her best efforts.
"Enter," she called, with as much disdain as she could muster. The door creaked open softly, but the footsteps that entered were weighted with boots and chainmail.
"You were asking after your knights?"
The voice was unexpectedly familiar. She turned from the window to face the king, who stood at the edge of the table, beyond the foot of the bed.
"Wouldn't you be?" she asked. "I suppose your men have forgotten how to follow a woman's orders."
"They don't know you're their queen," he said, resting a gauntleted hand on the tabletop. "I won't be announcing our wedding until the aftermath of this war has been dealt with."
She looked at his hand, looked him over. He was more armored than he'd been an hour ago. She found herself feeling apprehensive at the thought that he might leave. As he'd just said, his men didn't know her as their queen. Who knew what sort of treatment she might be subjected to in the absence of her soon-to-be-husband?
"Where are you going?"
The silence that followed was long and heavy. At last, he answered, "Rosemead's court. I need to see that it's been secured, and that it is settled safely under its new lord."
Her heart sank, twisting its way down to the murky bottoms of her gut. "And who will that be?"
This pause was briefer, and it didn't end in an answer. Instead, he said, "The guards are taking stock of your remaining men. They'll be held prisoner until the ceremony, and then given the chance to be knighted under Dragonfell's banner."
"They'll sooner die," she warned him. The image of her men in stark black Dragonfell capes was unwelcome.
"That seems to be the way of the warriors of Rosemead," the king remarked lightly. "I should return in three days."
When he turned to leave, the breeze from the window caught his own black cape and flipped it aside. The queen's stomach twisted as well.
"Wait," she said, and hated it. "Please—" She gritted her teeth against the request as the king looked back.
"Please... ?" he prompted.
Feeling like she might be sick, the queen managed the words, "Don't leave."
His turn back toward her was slow, uncertain. She knew how it must seem; she'd made her hatred for him clear, and here she was, asking him to stay.
"You said yourself that they don't know me as their queen," she said. "Can you assure me they won't mistreat me in your absence?"
She could see the answer he wanted to give, but he hesitated. Then he said, "I'll send for one of your knights to stay with you."
It was her turn to be surprised. The king continued to show her these flashes of mercy, of sympathy and understanding, and she didn't know how to react, except with gratitude that was hard to express.
So for the moment, she dipped her head in acknowledgement and sat back into the high-backed chair, facing the window again. She could see the king from the corner of her eye as he lingered, watching her.
"I should return in three days' time," he said once more. "Take this chance to rest."
The door closed behind him with a heavy finality, like the thunk of a guillotine blade.
The knight who was brought to her was a young man named Nicolas, who had been freshly knighted before their final battle. She remembered the ceremony; so many young faces, and she'd felt, suddenly, like they were a kingdom of children, playing at war. He could be barely fifteen.
He was in good condition, and attributed it to the competence of Sir Christian, Rosemead's Knight-Commander and the queen's closest confidante. She hesitated to inquire after him, but Nicolas spared her the trouble.
"He told us to put down our blades and surrender," he said, "and then he asked Dragonfell's men to fetch their best knight for a duel to decide who would be taken prisoner."
She felt the realization descend onto her head, her shoulders, like an impossibly heavy yoke. Sir Christian had died, trying to spare as many lives — Rosemead's and Dragonfell's — as he could. He'd always regretted the bloodshed this war had brought.
Knowing he was gone left her feeling hollow, and she remained at the window, quiet, until she could no longer hold up her head. When she found herself leaning against the sill, eyes half-closed in the evening breeze, Sir Nicolas said timidly, "Your Majesty, I do not presume to command you, but you seem tired. If you sleep, I will guard you 'til you wake."
She pried her eyes open, stared at the garden where the dragonlet was dozing on the rocks, tail fishing idly in the water. She had asked for a guard to feel safe, hadn't she? It was ridiculous of her to fight to remain awake.
Slowly, she stood, and was surprised to see Sir Nicolas on one knee by the door. He wore his mail, but was divested of armor and sword.
"Have you been there all this time?" she asked, and, head bowed, he nodded.
"Yes, Majesty."
Pleased and perhaps touched, she murmured, "Stand, and face the door. I will undress, and do not think that because my knights are now so few, I will not have you flogged for looking."
The knight's face colored deeply, and he stood, turning to face the door and lacing his hands behind his back. The queen watched him for a moment before she reached her arms behind her to begin unlacing her dress.
It was a slow and painful process, aggravating nearly every wound she knew she possessed, but she remained quiet throughout, not wanting to alarm Sir Nicolas or draw his attention and embarrass them both.
When she wore only the simple tunic that had been beneath her dress, she lay the other clothing gently aside at the foot of the bed, and slid beneath the blankets. It was comfortable, and the softness of the bedclothes threatened to lull her immediately to sleep.
"You may turn around, Sir Nicolas," she said. He did so cautiously. "If any man but the King of Dragonfell enters this room while I sleep," she began, and while she searched for the proper epithet, Sir Nicolas supplied a better answer.
"I shall disarm them and cut them down," he said, "or die trying, Majesty."
Her smile was a weary one, but it seemed to satisfy Sir Nicolas, who took up his post beside the door with a smile of his own.
The queen and her knight passed the days in conversation, which grew more comfortable with every word. They talked of Dragonfell, of the rumors of its barbaric traditions, of the dragons themselves, which never descended into the valley where Rosemead lay. Sir Nicolas said that his brother once found a pygmy dragon in the forest on the mountainside, and that he kept it in the stables until it escaped one day and alarmed all the horses. They laughed together until the pain in her ribs threatened to make her faint.
"What will become of Rosemead?" the young knight asked. It was the third afternoon, and the queen sat at the window again, feeling strong and spirited. Sound sleep and good meals had done wonders, and this morning, she had taken up a post by the door, herself, and allowed Sir Nicholas to sleep at the table. The poor boy had gone out like a candle and snored for hours.
"It will continue," the queen said, watching the dragonlet in the garden pluck leaves from the willow, "as all things do. The people of Rosemead will live in peace for the first time in years."
She could feel Sir Nicolas watching her in turn. "And what will become of you?" he asked then.
'You,' he said, not 'us.' The queen felt an unmistakable affection for this courageous boy.
For several moments, she was silent. The dragonlet scurried out of sight and re-emerged with a bird crumpled in its small jaws. At last, she said, "I will become Dragonfell's greatest warrior queen. I will make my people proud to be a part of this nation of savages and brutes."
"You will marry the king?" he asked. His astonishment showed in his voice.
She turned in her chair, and he took his eyes off of her instantly, staring straight ahead and struggling to resolve his expression into something less telling.
"Look at me, Sir Nicolas," she instructed. He complied. "I will do whatever I must to preserve what is left of my kingdom," she said levelly. "If I must marry the Barbarian King of Dragonfell, I will tame him as a dragon himself."
Slowly, Sir Nicolas nodded, and he lowered himself to one knee. "Then I pledge my allegiance to the Warrior Queen of Dragonfell," he said, "and no one else."
The queen wondered, looking at his slight shoulders and soft face, if Dragonfell had ever had such a young First Knight.
It was evening when a knock sounded at the door of the queen's chambers, and as always, Sir Nicolas turned to the sound, standing at the ready.
"Who calls?" the queen asked. It was long past supper; the bowls had been reclaimed by the maids already. She could think of only one visitor she should be expecting.
And rather than answer, the king simply opened the door. Sir Nicolas watched him like a hawk until the queen said, "Please step outside, Sir Nicolas, and ensure that we are left alone."
With a dubious backward glance, the knight did as he was told.
Once the door had closed behind him, the king said, "He volunteered himself when I asked who would guard their queen."
It seemed right; she could picture the scene. What she could not picture was the other men — twenty-four, she was told — abstaining from volunteering, themselves.
"So did the rest of them," the king observed. "Twenty-four men clamoring to get into your bedchambers. Was it that way in Rosemead as well?"
She drew up her posture, affronted, but couldn't help a smirk. "There were many more men in Rosemead," she answered. "Why did you choose Sir Nicolas?"
"Because he looked honest," said the king, "and young enough to be trusted with a sleeping woman."
She had to scoff. "Any of my men could have been trusted with a sleeping woman, were the sleeping woman their queen. But I suppose I appreciate your consideration."
She was surprised to find how easily the words came, I appreciate your consideration, with little hint of rancor and only a touch of sarcasm. Perhaps these few days had helped to heal more of her wounds than she'd realized.
The king took a seat at the table, removing his gauntlets. He was still armored, and must have come straight from the stables. She wondered again at his attentiveness.
"Rosemead is settled," he said, "and its people addressed. They have submitted to Dragonfell rule."
"Congratulations," she replied, tone clipped and dry.
"Dragonfell knights are leaving the outer villages. Within two days, your people will be left alone, save Duke Weston at the court." He lay his gauntlets on the tabletop. "Duke Weston is a kind man, with a great love for the gardens of Rosemead. He will see to it that the castle is well cared for."
His reassurances were all hitting their targets, but the queen looked out the window and feigned indifference. From the corner of her eye, she could still watch him as he rubbed a hand over his face. He was exhausted; he'd probably been riding for days on little sleep. He looked older, somehow. She wondered if she did, too.
"Your knights will be released after the wedding is announced," he continued, "and allowed to live in the inner village. You may knight any or all of them after the coronation."
"I may do a great many things after the coronation," she remarked, arching a brow.
"But before the coronation," he said, as if continuing her sentence, "you must tell me your name."
Slowly, she turned in her chair to face him. "You proposed marriage to a woman whose name you didn't know?" she marveled, caught between mocking amusement and indignation.
"What is my name, girl queen?"
Now she paused, searching her memory. Surely she'd heard the name before. She'd certainly heard his parents': Christopher Trenowyth, Warrior King of Dragonfell and Slayer of Norsemen, Son of the Old North Kingdoms; Marion Trenowyth, Warrior Queen of Dragonfell and Princess of Faircoast, Feller of the Great Ocean Wyvern — and their son... the Boy King of Dragonfell.
He must have seen on her face that she had no answer, because he folded his arms on the table, leaning forward, and said, "Shayne Trenowyth, Warrior King of Dragonfell, Son of Faircoast and Rider of the Golden Wyvern. And you are?"
She was the Warrior Queen of Rosemead. It was all she'd been for some time now: a woman, however young, fierce of heart and willful of disposition, courageous and righteous and never-faltering, a queen her people could believe in, could look to in this time of death and loss. She'd needed no name, not since her parents were lost to her. She was only 'Your Majesty.'
Being 'Your Majesty' made it much simpler to kill and be killed. When you were a queen, your every breath was for the good of the kingdom.
When you were a girl, you could make mistakes, be hurt, grow lost. The girl who became the Warrior Queen of Rosemead was long buried. Her shortcomings could not be afforded.
But the war was over, and here was the king — her king, Shayne, with a name and a face and a heart that she was already (frightfully) coming to know — and he wanted to know the name of the girl he would marry.
In a low, resigned tone, she answered. "Kiersten Harte, First Warrior Queen of Rosemead, Daughter of Blackmere." Her own name sounded foreign to her ears; it had been so long since she'd owned it.
"Kiersten Harte," he repeated, and it sounded just as strange from his mouth. "Warrior Queen of Dragonfell, Daughter of Blackmere, Princess and Savior of Rosemead. Rider of whatever you like," he added, "after the coronation."
Savior of Rosemead. The title at once warmed her heart and sank it. She supposed it was true enough that she had saved what was left of her kingdom, but she wasn't sure they saw it that way. Perhaps they would begrudge the queen her new title. She would shed it if they did.
Rather than dwell on the resentment of her people, she asked, "I will ride a dragon?"
"All of Dragonfell's warriors do," he answered, as if she needed the reminder. The memory of the armored beasts swooping out of the sky to snatch horses and men off their feet was burned into her after her time on the battlefield.
"What did your mother ride?" she asked next, watching his face as she spoke.
As she expected, Shayne's expression shifted, receded, darkened, but he did not shy from the question. "A blusang lindwyrm," he replied, voice low and reflective. "She brought it with her from Faircoast when she married my father. It was the only one of its kind in Dragonfell."
"It's dead?" she pressed, turning fully toward him.
"When she died, it threw away its own life." He raised his eyes from the dark wood of the table to look at her. "It took fifty or more of Rosemead's men with it."
She faintly remembered it — Sir Esmour had been lauded for his slaying of the massive dragon, until he had been killed on the field only days later. Understanding it as she did now, she suspected he was killed by the king, in retribution for the death of his wife's noble mount. The dragon itself had killed the knight who slay the queen; this vengeance was all the king could do. The people of Dragonfell had always revered their dragons.
"It must have loved her," Kiersten said finally, her voice soft. She met Shayne's eyes.
"We all did." He was still for a moment longer, then stood, picking up his gauntlets. "Rest. You'll dine with me in the morning; we have business to discuss."
She took breakfast with the king in his chambers the next morning; she in a lovely violet and gold gown brought to her by a chambermaid, and he in a dark blue tunic that showed just enough of his chest to draw her eyes, if she wasn't careful.
They spoke almost solely of Rosemead — of trade and alliances, of finances and taxes, and Kiersten was surprised at how swiftly the king took to it. Her father had always said that Dragonfell won wars with their monarchs, and ran the kingdom with their advisors, but Shayne, at least, seemed to have as much of a mind for the finer details of maintaining a kingdom as she did, herself.
Rosemead's alliance with Blackmere, formed by her parents' marriage, would be allowed to stand. Their peace and open trade with Drachedge, however, would not. Drachedge and Dragonfell had a long-standing history of bad blood, which Shayne explained stemmed from Drachedge's hunting and poaching of dragons. By the end of the meal, Kiersten was not so fond of them, herself.
"Have you ever had occasion to meet a dragon?" he asked as the table was cleared. She nodded, brows arched high.
"I met a great black dragon once on the battlefield, ridden by a Dragonfell knight." She rested a hand on her side. "They left me with a lovely set of scars."
A remark like that would have earned her a shocked look from anyone in Rosemead. Women in Rosemead did not fight, and they did not boast scars. (Kiersten was proud of hers.) Dragonfell's king simply nodded. She imagined that his mother must have had her share. It was said that the Warrior Queen of Dragonfell was exotic and beautiful; her son seemed to favor her in that way.
"Would you come to the dragonnery with me?" he asked. It was such a politely-phrased request that it took her off-guard. Their conversations so far had not been without barbs and sharp edges.
"Now?" she said, though his meaning was clear. When he nodded, she clarified, "In this gown?"
He seemed to notice her gown for the first time, then, looking her over as if startled to see she was wearing anything at all. "No, I suppose you should change. We can meet in the garden."
She was pleased at the prospect of seeing the garden up close, having watched it for days from her window. It was nothing, of course, compared to the labyrinth gardens of Rosemead — overflowing with flowering trees and beds of blossoms and blooming ivy on every wall, fragrances so sweet and thick as to make a person sick, were they not accustomed — but it was a garden, and the green of the trees and ivy drew her, as did the little dragonlet she'd grown inexplicably fond of in these few days. She wondered if it would come to her hand.
At the door to his chambers, she looked quizzically at the guards, but they showed no sign of following, and she was left to make her own way back to her room.
Of course it crossed her mind to run. She wouldn't make it far, but she would have her pride when they caught her. What, though, was the purpose? Her people were captured, her castle claimed. The repercussions could be too drastic to bear.
So she walked to her quarters and disappeared inside, where a chambermaid found her shortly thereafter. She was put into a tunic and pants, boots and gloves, and was sent on her way, again without an escort. The winding halls of Dragonfell's castle were still more easily navigable than the architectural marvel that was the castle of Rosemead, and she found her way to the garden in short order.
Shayne stood at the edge of the willow's curtain, the dragonlet on his shoulder. It perched there quite comfortably, but she could see its claws threatening to tear his tunic as he scratched its throat.
Approaching slowly from behind, she asked, "What is it?"
He didn't turn his head, and it occurred to her that he was very trusting, with a battle-ready queen at his back who had been his enemy just days before.
"A bog pygmy," he said. "This one came from a marsh just outside Northwood. Her name is Annosa."
"Will she bite me?"
He did turn, then, coming to face her, and beckoned for her to come closer. "She's very friendly." When she came within reach, he pulled her in by the wrist, but the contact was brief. "Lift her beneath her forelegs," he said, "as you would a puppy."
Cautious, watching the occasional flash of teeth she could see in the dragon's dark face, Kiersten picked up the creature from the king's shoulder. He took her hands again, then, bringing one arm beneath the dragon's body until she was cradling it there, and it settled in quite happily without much mention of claws.
Fearsome though its larger cousins were, Kiersten found herself charmed by the bog pygmy, and she held it to her chest for several minutes, stroking its scales and the spines along its back, until it spotted a lizard on the rocks near the pool, sneaking a drink, and then quick as you like, the dragon was out of Kiersten's arms and on the hunt.
Shayne chuckled, reminding her that she wasn't alone, and drawing a warmth into her face.
"She keeps the vermin out," he said, gesturing to the pygmy as it overturned a small stone that was hiding its prey. "Every castle should have a few pygmies."
"We got along without them," Kiersten replied, and fell into step with the king as he led the way down the stone path. The garden was cool, misty from the tiny waterfalls routed through it, and though it was nothing like home, it was pleasant. She looked over her shoulder at the mossy rocks and clear pools as they emerged out into an open field.
Not far away was the practice pitch for the knights, where several young men and women were being instructed by an older fellow in chainmail. New recruits, she realized, to replace the knights lost in the last battle.
Beyond that stood a massive building of stone, so vast and sprawling as to make its considerable height look slight. The windows were long and narrow, set up high, and the doors were small, meant for people. In the center of the roof was a large opening, where, as Kiersten watched, a large violet dragon with trailing gold whiskers emerged, ridden by a woman in clothing not unlike Kiersten's own.
"One of our midwives," Shayne explained as they made their way across the field. "They ride rose and violet dragons; their magic has many properties that are of value to them."
Kiersten could think of nothing a dragon could do to assist with childbirth. "Such as?" she inquired, and received a brief silence in response, as a rich color crept into Shayne's cheeks.
"You'd do better to ask them," he said, the words quick and clipped, and then he stopped, raised his hand to his mouth and whistled, a sharp sound that cut through the air and the clamor of the nearby pitch.
Before Kiersten could protest his obvious avoidance, there was a commotion at the dragonnery: a few shouts, and then the low whump, whump, whump of beating wings as a dragon emerged.
It was sizeable, though not much larger than the black dragons that Dragonfell's armies rode. What was truly remarkable was the way its scales shimmered in the morning light — gold and glittering, catching the sun and throwing it in every direction. Its spines were a dull, gleaming silver, and the spread of its fins and wings were a rich black.
Once in the air, it tossed back its head and made a sound that Kiersten might have described as a 'shriek' or a 'squawk,' except that it rattled her bones. Beside her, Shayne whistled again, the piercing noise reduced to nothing in the wake of the dragon's call.
Were she the princess she once had been, she would certainly have screamed and hidden behind him when the dragon wheeled in the air and dove toward them, but the Warrior Queen (of Rosemead, of Dragonfell) stood her ground, even as the gusts from the dragon's wings tousled her hair.
The earth shook when it landed, and it lowered its head before them, resting it on the ground before Shayne, who appeared content to rub the scales between its eyes.
"Meet Sorien," he said, "the only golden wyvern tamed in Dragonfell in hundreds of years."
"Sorien," Kiersten repeated, and was glad to hear her voice steady. "A pleasure." She reached out to place a hand on the dragon's head as well, and one massive black eye opened, making her hesitate.
"She won't harm you unless I direct her to," Shayne reassured her. The words were more effective than they had any right to be.
She brushed a hand over the smooth scales of Sorien's jaw, and the eye closed again, a low rumble passing through first the dragon, then the ground. "She's beautiful," Kiersten admitted. Shayne made no attempt to hide his satisfaction.
"She is."
The dragon walked beside them as they continued to the dragonnery, stopping only periodically when the short-legged humans fell too far behind. Once arrived, she leapt onto the roof and disappeared inside, while Shayne held the door for Kiersten.
"Dragonfell has raised a gentleman or two in its time," she remarked as she brushed past him. She heard him scoff.
"Has Rosemead ever raised a lady?" he asked.
"Rosemead raises only ladies," she clarified. Sorien was easy to spot, the only gold-scaled beast in a stable largely full of black dragons. There were a few exceptions — a pair of rose-colored mounts curled together, a single pristine white dragon, and a flight of fearsome-looking red dragons, isolated in a large space by themselves.
Feeling bold, she crossed the dragonnery to where Sorien sat, waiting, her wings on the dusty floor. She paid Kiersten no mind until Shayne joined her, now holding a bridle (if a large one) and a complex-looking harness of some sort. She recognized stirrups and buckles, but the rest was a mess of straps she couldn't decipher.
Whatever it was, Sorien certainly knew it, and hunkered down on the floor to allow Shayne to fasten it onto her. It attached to the spines on her shoulders and hung down around her chest, leaving the stirrups one on each side. When it was affixed, the bridle went on, and Shayne patted Sorien's head and led Kiersten away.
On the other side of the structure, a stablehand was tacking up the white dragon she'd seen earlier. The equipment was much more familiar here, like a saddle that fastened around the base of the dragon's neck, with straps around its forelegs and across its chest. The stirrups were still present, and the bridle was the same. Suddenly, this all seemed much more surmountable. Kiersten had ridden horses all of her life. Could this be so much more challenging?
"Tiarann," Shayne explained, "is a healing dragon. He belongs to the court physician, but he is very gentle, and should prove an easy ride for a beginner."
With a disparaging glance, Kiersten stepped up to the dragon's head. He had feathered wings, was smaller than Sorien, and bowed his bridled head in the same way. She rubbed the scales behind his headcrest and watched him close his eyes in what she imagined was contentment.
"I'm quite certain I can manage," she said to Shayne. He looked about to protest, but in the end, simply shrugged, smiled, and returned to his own mount.
Taking hold of Tiarann's headcrest, Kiersten gave it an experimental tug. The dragon showed no sign of discomfort, so she used the headcrest as a handhold while she slipped a foot in a stirrup and swung herself astride the beast.
The saddle was thick, shaped to allow a rider to sit comfortably and tuck in their knees. The reins on the bridle were long and looped around a saddle horn in front of her. Picking them up, she took a moment to stroke the dragon's neck, then squeezed gently with her knees.
As expected, her mount lumbered to his feet and stretched his limbs. Then he stopped, standing still.
What now? On a horse, she would repeat the command again, she supposed. She squeezed her knees, and the dragon moved forward, out of his stall; she teased the right rein to guide him to the center of the room, then tugged evenly on both reins to stop him.
Beautiful. This was just like riding a horse.
A glance told her Shayne was watching, with a stablehand nearby who seemed greatly concerned. She could imagine what he might be saying. 'How can you let the prisoner ride? She may escape, sire!'
She could imagine, too, what the cocky boy king might be saying. 'She can't outfly me.'
Perhaps there was nowhere for her to run, but she would make him think twice about assuming her trapped.
Shifting her feet in the stirrups, she nudged with her heels where Tiarann's neck met his wings and felt him gather himself beneath her, like a horse about to jump.
Then he jumped.
Her world was in freefall for a moment, her weight thrown back with the sudden upward motion, and she pitched herself onto the dragon's neck, knuckles white on the reins. Her feet were firm in the stirrups, but that didn't stop her from sliding back in the saddle, and at the first hurricane beat of Tiarran's wings, her rear end slipped right off.
She tumbled down the his long back and onto the hard-packed earth below. The impact shot through her back, her ribs suddenly exploding in pain, and the breath was knocked from her chest. While she struggled for air, she opened her eyes in time to see her mount's tail clear the ceiling as he disappeared out into the sky.
The first thing she became aware of after that was the attention of a pair of stablehands, leaning over her in the dirt. One was the man who had been talking to Shayne just moments ago; the other was a younger boy, who asked three times, "Are you all right, milady?" in an accent that she would later identify as Faircoastal.
The second thing she became aware of, as she sucked air into her lungs and the spinning in her head began to clear, was laughter.
Shayne was leaning on Sorien's side, holding his own side as if in pain, and he was laughing so hard, Kiersten thought he might pass out.
She dearly hoped he did.
Over the course of the following days, the queen was granted increasing freedom without guard, most often under the supervision of the king, but occasionally, for a spell, on her own: seated in the garden to play with Annosa, in the dining hall to take lunch while her husband-to-be was otherwise occupied. She stole away once to pay a visit to the dungeons, the way to which she pressed from an unsuspecting young squire who either didn't recognize her or was too taken in by her smile to mind.
The cells were spacious, well-kept. Whoever had said the people of Dragonfell were barbarians had clearly never been a guest of their prisons. She walked between the rows of prisoners and was gratified to see her men rise to their knees, cling to the bars to watch her pass. When she'd gathered the attention of all of them (quiet, reverent), she spoke.
"My brave knights," she murmured, and the warmth in her voice echoed in the chamber. "I am proud to see so many of you survived this war. A proper guard, I should say — twenty-four of my best men."
Their heads bowed lower as she addressed them. She could see shame on some faces, guilt on others, and quiet resignation on a few. Surely many of them wished they had died on the field with honor, as their commander had. She could hardly blame them.
"I would that you continue to survive," she went on, "that you may join me in our new kingdom."
Startled, some of them looked up. Some looked immediately back down, but a few brave men — her father's men, each of them twice her age or more — kept their eyes on her, awaiting an explanation. She did not tarry.
"I am to marry the Warrior King of Dragonfell," she said. "I will become your queen once again, and you will all be knighted under Dragonfell's banner, should you so choose. Those who do not take up the sword will be granted amnesty nonetheless."
"Majesty," said the gravelled voice of Sir Morys. He was the eldest surviving knight, she was sure; older even than her father would be, were he alive today. He spoke respectfully, but he looked her in the eye. She appreciated both.
"Speak, Sir Morys."
"Your parents, God rest their souls, would turn in their graves to know you spoke so proudly of marrying a barbarian king."
His words shocked her. Proudly? Had she spoken with pride? Surely not; she was simply resigned to her fate.
"I am not proud," she began, with no sense of the words that would follow, "to be marrying Dragonfell's king. I am proud that we have survived to see the end of this war, and I am proud to be in such a position as to bring honor to Dragonfell, just as I have brought honor to Rosemead in my time."
It was enough of an answer to silence Sir Morys, though he looked no more satisfied. The queen swept her eyes over the rest of the men, and the remaining few turned their eyes to the dirt and straw below them.
"This kingdom has done a great many terrible things," she continued, watching each of them in turn, "but those things were not done under my rule. As the Warrior Queen of Dragonfell, I will see to it that this throne is one I can be proud to sit upon. I will make this black and gold livery a privilege to wear. I will shape this kingdom with my own hands, with or without the allowance of my king.
"Those of you that would follow me are welcome; those of you who would not will be free to go the moment I am crowned."
To her alarm, a slow applause rang off the stone walls. She turned her eyes to the doorway, where there leaned the increasingly-familiar figure of her king.
"A moving speech, to be sure," he said, and his voice sounded as it ever did: dry and sarcastic and mocking. "The Savior of Rosemead is as gallant as she is foolish."
A coldness seized her heart as the king came forward. He reached out to grab her and she stood her ground, bracing herself for the roughness of his hands, but they never came.
He stopped short, apprehended by the hands of the knights on either side of him. They had reached through the bars, four of them, and taken hold of his arms, his wrists. The look he turned on them flashed hot with anger, but he did not lash out, and he did not speak.
"Sire," said one of the knights, and she could not see his face, but she knew his voice instantly — Sir Michael, another young one, just a year her junior. "So much as we are your prisoners, we are, too, Her Majesty's sworn knights, and we would not have you harm her, so long as we draw breath."
A lesser king, Kiersten would think later, in the privacy of her chambers, would simply have arranged for all two dozen of them to be slaughtered. The King of Dragonfell simply looked the boy in the eye and said levelly, "Take your hands from me, that I might see my betrothed to her chambers."
He did not sound angry, as she felt he should have, but his words had their intended effect: slowly, watchfully, each man withdrew his hands. Now freed, Shayne reached out, his hand startlingly gentle at her elbow, and turned to lead her away.
She followed with a pounding and uncertain heart at her throat. His calm must be a ruse, she thought, to placate her knights. He would take her to his quarters and make her bleed. There was no need to be gentle with a warrior queen.
But he stopped at the door to her chambers and held it open for her as she entered, wary of his presence at her back. She heard him step in as well, and the door shut soundly.
So he would teach her of her place now, here in her own room, where he could leave her to nurse her own wounds when he was finished. She spun to face him and was met by surprise on his face.
"It was quite a speech," he said, coming no closer. "I meant that."
Belligerent and uneasy, she answered, "And I suppose I shall receive a punishment of equal caliber."
"I see nothing meriting punishment."
Again, Shayne escaped her. Should she not be punished for sneaking into the dungeon? For proclaiming her intent to do as she pleased, regardless of her king's opinion? Her confusion must have shown on her face.
"True enough that you should not have been in the dungeons, but you were." He moved slowly, easing himself into a chair and folding his hands on the table. "And yet, your men remained imprisoned, and you promised them freedom only by the terms that we agreed upon.
"True, too, that you spoke treason by declaring your intent to defy me, should it be necessary. But your goals are the same as mine, and I will not stand in your way, if it is the glory of Dragonfell you seek."
He opened his hands, spread them palm-up on the tabletop, and looked up at her, expression mild. "You are a great many things, Your Majesty; some of them atrocious and some simply trying."
Kiersten felt her face heat, but she remained silent, for the moment struck speechless by Shayne's words.
"You are also a much better queen than I ever recognized," he said after a long pause, and though it sounded like the words were ground out beneath a millstone, they seemed to be sincere. Another several heartbeats passed before he added, so quietly as to almost go unheard, "My mother would have adored you."
Abruptly, Kiersten's eyes burned with the threat of tears. Raising her head, she fixed her eyes on the wood beams above and set her jaw, waiting for the urgency to pass. When it had, she spoke softly as well, with none of her usual aplomb.
"My father would have approved of you." She lowered her gaze to him and found him watching her. His face was indecipherable. "You are, after all," she added, her voice perilously close to betraying her emotions, "exactly the sort of man he would have liked me to marry, had I the luxury of choice."
Her vision blurred, and she turned away, stepping to the window to look down at the garden as the tears finally fell. She missed her father and his guidance, his strong hand; her mother's hands on her face and even her overbearing constant concern. She missed being a princess, with the world at her feet, but there was no turning back now. She was far too removed from a time when she could live without care.
She felt Shayne at her back, standing close enough to touch, but not reaching out. Somehow, she thought that if she could see his face, he might look concerned, and she thought that for the first time in her captivity, she understood why.
Where she played at being a warrior queen, he must have seen no more than a girl in battle armor. She had never fooled him at all, had she? She had even fooled herself, but she had never fooled him.
"I wish you would leave," she whispered, not daring to raise her voice any further. His presence remained, so she carried on. "I think it not so proper for even you to see me like this."
"Like this?" he echoed, almost as quietly.
"If I am to be your queen, you should see me as a queen, should you not?"
There was silence behind her. She might have thought that he had left, but she could still feel him there — tall, solid, unmoving, just within reach.
Finally, he said, "You are to be my wife, as well. I should see you, however you are."
The resolve dropped from her shoulders, and she turned to him, the breeze painting cool trails onto her face where her tears had fallen. She searched his face, and was by now unsurprised to find sympathy there.
"My family is gone," she murmured, lips barely moving. "My home is no longer my own. I am but sixteen years grown, and I have no father to turn to for guidance, no mother to dry my tears." There were more of them now, making new damp tracks down her cheeks. "All I will have is a husband," she finished. "I suppose you will have to do both."
Shayne regarded her uneasily, but he raised a hesitant hand to her face. She closed her eyes. His fingers were sword-calloused, like her own, but rougher, and his touch was gentle as he brushed the tears from her lashes, from her cheeks. When he stopped, he rested his fingertips at the side of her face and — haltingly — cradled his palm against it.
Kiersten breathed softly into the silence before she opened her eyes. Their gazes locked. Shayne looked as though he wanted to turn away, but he remained, holding her eyes.
Raising a hand to cover his on her face, she spoke in a stronger voice. "With no family between us, we have no choice but to become a family, ourselves."
His thumb moved against her cheekbone as if in response. "Perhaps," he ventured, one eyebrow rising, "we should wait for your coronation, first."
She laughed unwillingly and pulled his hand away, stepping back. He smiled as she turned to the window again.
"I should like to wait for the King of Dragonfell to learn his manners, as well, but I fear we would first grow old and die," she declared to the garden. It was his turn to laugh.
"Then we shall not await that," he answered, moving away. "The coronation will be in four days' time. You will be fitted for a gown tomorrow, and in five days' time, you will be taming a dragon."
Kiersten had not seen so much promise as she did in the coming days.