The wagon is dark inside compared to the firelit clearing. It smells like tea leaves and spices, and the wooden floor groans and creaks beneath our feet. After a moment, another woman enters carrying an oil lamp, and light fills the small wagon. Dried herbs and plants hang from the wagon’s walls. There is a single, intricately carved stone chair in one corner of the wagon, and a very small bed beside it.
“Sit here, child,” the old woman says, tapping the chair. She dips a cloth in a basin of water and hands it to me. “For your hands and face,” she explains. I scrub my skin, and when the cloth comes away, it is filthy. She rinses it and hands it to me again, and I wash a second time.
Next, she takes a brush to my hair and starts humming as she quickly, but painfully, brushes the tangles from it. When that is done, she gathers the hair around my forehead and above my ears and pulls it back, braiding it behind my head so most of my hair still falls long and thick to my waist. “A traditional Satari wedding braid,” she says. “You have nice, thick hair.”
The woman who brought the lamp steps in front of me and wrinkles her nose. “Take that shirt off so we can dress you in something a little bit…less smoky,” she says. My cold, weak fingers fiddle with the buttons on my shirt. When it is off and I am wearing only my stained camisole, the woman says, “Lift your arms.” I do, and a soft, pale yellow dress is pulled over my arms and head. It has very short sleeves, so my shoulders are mostly bare, and it is too short, reaching just below the middle of my shins. “Slip that ruined skirt off,” the woman says, and I let my skirt and petticoats fall around my ankles.
Finally, the old woman places a crown of dried yellow flowers around my head, so it rests just above my eyebrows. “Beautiful. Now you look like a proper Satari bride,” she says, standing on her toes to kiss my cheek. “You don’t even look like the same girl you did when you wandered into camp.”
I smile. “Thank you…” I do not know their names.
“Call me Mama,” the elderly lady says with a smile. “I am the only living person left from the first generation of children born in the forest after Grinndoar, the stone dragon, forced my people to leave the kingdom of Satar. That makes me the oldest woman in this camp, so I am everyone’s designated grandmamma.”
“And I am Vivienne,” the other woman says, and she kisses my cheek.
Mama leads me from the wagon to the side of a fire encircled by wide, flat logs for chairs. Golmarr is already sitting. His hair is wet and has been brushed away from his clean face, and he is wearing a fresh gray shirt and pair of brown pants. As I approach, his eyes slowly travel from my makeshift leather shoes to the flowers in my hair. When his eyes meet mine, a hint of a smile softens his mouth, and I find myself blushing, so I press my hands to my cheeks.
“Food for these lovers!” Edemond bellows, walking over to us, and a moment later a child holds a carved stone plate heaped with meat, onions, and singed flatbread out to me. The plate is warm on my fingers, which have never warmed up from the caves. “We are short on plates and seats,” Edemond says when Golmarr isn’t given anything to eat. “So sit on Ornald’s lap, lass, and share that food with him.”
Before I can inform Edemond that sitting on Golmarr’s lap would most definitely not be proper, Golmarr’s hands dart up and grasp my hips, pulling me down onto his lap. I open my mouth to ask for utensils just as Golmarr’s freshly scrubbed fingers grab a slice of meat. He puts it into his mouth and his head falls forward so he is leaning against my arm and chewing as if he is so exhausted he can’t even hold his head up anymore. Licking my lips, I grab a piece of flatbread and put it into my mouth.
Tears flood my eyes as I chew the hot, salty bread, and before I can swallow, they stream down my cheeks. Using a torn piece of flatbread like a spoon, I scoop up a mound of onions and cram them and the bread into my mouth. I do not touch the fire-crisped pork. Golmarr eats silently, devouring the food so fast I wonder if he chews before he swallows it. By the time I have taken four bites, my stomach feels like it is going to burst, and I force myself to stop eating.
“Are you done?” Golmarr asks. I nod and he devours the rest of the food so quickly, with such apparent need, I wonder how he’s survived as long as he has on what little we’ve eaten. When the plate is empty, he wraps his arms around my waist and leans his head against my shoulder.
Three men sit beside the biggest fire and start playing flutes carved from pale stone. I sit in the firelit glade and listen to the music, and blush every time anyone looks at me, for it is beyond scandalous to sit on a young man’s lap.
By the time full darkness has settled over the forest, Edemond wanders over to us. He has changed into a crimson shirt and matching trousers, and has a braided cloth belt woven with gold thread at his waist. “I am ready to perform your wedding. Are you finished eating?” he asks, a knowing smile on his face. Golmarr and I both nod. “Then let us marry you!” Edemond hollers so everyone in the camp can hear. The musicians stop playing, and men start moving log seats away from the biggest fire, clearing an open space in front of it. Women bring stone oil lamps to the cleared space and place them around its edges, making a circle of light.
“Golmarr!” I whisper. “We aren’t truly going to be married, are we?”
He looks at me with heavy eyes. “Don’t you want to marry me?” he asks. When I do not answer, a slow smile spreads over his sleepy face. “He won’t be using our real names, so it won’t be binding.” This information sends an unexpected pang of regret through me, and I frown. Golmarr’s smile grows wider. “Although I’m pretty sure you’re finally going to have to give in to that carnal nature you’ve been fighting and kiss me.”
I look around and swallow down a surge of panic. “In front of all of these people?”
He laughs and nods. “Yes. So make it convincing, or they might kill us yet.”
I glance at his upturned mouth and feel woozy at the thought of finally putting my lips to it. If the price for kissing him is a fake wedding and Satari witnesses, then I am ready to get married. I take his hand in mine, pull him to his feet, and practically drag him to the space the Satari have cleared for us. When we are inside of the glowing ring of lamps, the forest grows quiet as the Satari settle down to watch a wedding.
I face Golmarr, with the Satari to my left, and the fire and Edemond to my right. The orange firelight glows on half of Golmarr’s face, shading and highlighting his square chin and cheekbones and lips. He reaches forward and takes my hands in his, and stares at me, eyes intense. His hands are like ice in my chilled hands.
“As the direct descendant and heir of King Haggoth, the final ruler of the kingdom of Satar before Grinndoar the dragon forced us from it, I have the authority to marry these two people, by their own free will, in front of these witnesses.” He clears his throat. “Ornald, repeat after me,” Edemond says to Golmarr. “I, Ornald, vow to love, protect, and care for you, Jayah, until the day I die.”
“I, Ornald,” Golmarr says, “vow to love, protect, and care for you, Jayah, until the day I die.” His hands tighten on mine, and he smiles a hint of a smile.
“Jayah, repeat after me,” Edemond says. “I, Jayah, vow to love, protect, and care for you, Ornald, until the day I die.”
“I, Jayah, vow to love—” My voice catches on the word love, and tears fill my eyes and stream down my cheeks for the second time that night, even though the words I am repeating are not truly binding. I clear my throat and say, “I vow to love, protect, and care for you, Ornald, until the day I die.”
Sniffles fill the quiet forest. The women are dabbing their eyes with bright, multicolored handkerchiefs.
“Very good,” Edemond says. “I, Edemond ap Haggoth, rightful king of Satar and patriarch of the Black Blades, pronounce you husband and wife. Now kiss three times to bind it.”
I stop breathing and stare at Golmarr. He tightens his grip on my hands and pulls me closer, and his eyes narrow. And then he waits. Reaching up, I put my trembling hands on his shoulders. I stand o
n my toes, tilt my chin up, and lean into him. Our lips barely touch, and as I breathe in, I inhale his breath. After a moment, he pulls away and raises his eyebrows.
More convincing, I think, and all the kisses that were passed to me when I inherited the fire dragon’s treasure come flooding into my mind. I slide one hand behind Golmarr’s neck and pull him toward me a second time. When his lips touch mine, I press my mouth more firmly to his, and my blood seems to fill with fire. I close my eyes and slide my hand into his hair, and then I slowly move my lips against his.
He gasps and breaks the seal of our lips and leans his forehead against mine, staring into my eyes. Grabbing my face in both his hands, he pulls me possessively to him, and his mouth finds mine. His lips part and coax mine open, and he kisses me with the same urgent hunger with which he just ate his meal. I twine my hands in his hair and get lost in the taste of him, in the feel of his body against mine, in the way—
“All right! To the wagon with you lovebirds, before we have to cover the children’s eyes!” Edemond calls, and Golmarr gently pushes me away. He stares at me, eyes filled with wonder and want, and I know my eyes look the same. “Unless you’d care to join us in some dancing?”
Golmarr wraps his arm around my shoulders and presses his mouth to my ear. “As much as I would love to dance with you again,” he whispers, “I don’t think I have the energy.”
I shake my head. “I don’t, either.”
“The wagon, please,” Golmarr says, and the spectators start to hoot and holler as the musicians begin playing their flutes once more.
“This way,” Edemond says, and starts walking to the wagon ring that encircles the camp. Golmarr grabs my hand in his, palm to palm, weaving our fingers together, and we follow the man who should be a king to a sunset-pink wagon. “I wish you a good night,” Edemond says with a wink, leaving us at the door.
Next to the door hangs a copper bell that has turned turquoise with tarnish. Inside, a stone oil lamp is burning, and someone has brought my staff to the wagon. A beautifully carved stone basin with water and soap is at one end of the wagon, a small table is in the middle, and at the other end, a narrow bed barely big enough for two people. Golmarr shuts the door and sinks into a chair at the table and starts unlacing his boots.
“When I said to make the kiss convincing, I meant for the Satari. Not for me,” he says, eyes guarded. I blush and thrust my hands into the basin. The water is hot!
“What did I convince you of?” I ask with my back to him.
He stands. “You convinced me that…” I lift my hands from the water and turn to him. He steps up to me and puts his hands on either side of my face and runs his thumbs down my cheeks. “Even though that ceremony wasn’t real, your crying was real when you spoke your vows,” he whispers, and then he kisses both of my cheeks. My eyes flutter shut at the feel of his soft lips on my skin, and I lay my hands flat against his chest. He kisses my forehead, letting his lips linger there for a moment, and then turns from me. “I will sit with my back to you while you get clean.”
Quickly, I soap and splash my face and neck, then wet one of the rags beside the basin and rub it in the soap. I scrub and rinse my body as much as I can without taking my clothes off.
When I am done, my damp skin is covered with goose bumps, and Golmarr is snoring in the chair, his long arms dangling limp at his sides. I gently shake him awake, and he stumbles to the basin as I slide the hunting knife from my waistband and put it on the table. Barely able to keep my eyes open, I crawl into the bed, curl up beneath the smoke-scented blankets, and listen to the music and laughter ringing through the forest.
As I am drifting to sleep, I feel Golmarr climb onto the bed beside me. I turn to face him and rest my head on his bare shoulder. He’s not wearing his shirt, and for a heartbeat I consider sleeping on the floor. But he is warm, and I am too weary to worry about following rules of etiquette….I want to sleep curled up against him—want to sleep nestled in his arms. I lift my cold hands to his chest and press them to his skin, and he shudders. “Your hands are like ice,” he whispers, and wraps his arms tightly around me. I sigh with contentment. Before I can tell him he smells nice, I am asleep.
I jolt awake and find myself in darkness, and for a heartbeat I think I am back in the caves until I realize I can see the first hint of dawn shining through two small windows. Holding my breath, I listen for what woke me. The wagon is still and quiet. Outside, the faint sounds of frogs and crickets fill the night, but nothing more. I settle back down against the warmth of Golmarr and stare into the darkness as I wait for my pounding heart to slow.
“What’s wrong?” Golmarr asks, voice deep with sleep.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
Golmarr runs his warm fingers across my bare arm, and my skin prickles with goose bumps. He pulls the covers up over my shoulder and tucks them under my chin. “I know you are from a much cooler climate than I, but are you always this cold?” he asks.
I burrow closer to him and put my freezing nose against his neck. “I didn’t used to be. It started in the cave. Wading in the water made me cold. And when I healed you, it was like all the warmth went out of me and never came back.”
Golmarr’s body stiffens and he lifts his head. “That doesn’t sound good. How, exactly, did you heal me? Maybe if we can figure that out, we can figure out how to warm you up again.”
“I don’t know how I did it, exactly. I think healing is part of the dragon’s treasure.”
“Tell me how it happened,” Golmarr says, clasping my hand in his and holding it over his heart.
“Every time you took a breath, I could hear fluid bubbling in your lungs. Your chest looked like the wild boar that the Satari were roasting.” I cringe at the memory. “You were moments from death, but when I touched your face, I knew how to heal you. I felt all the things inside of me that were good, and then they came out of my mouth and went into yours. When you breathed them in, your body healed.”
“I took part of your life,” Golmarr whispers. Beneath my hand, I feel his heart speed up. “Sorrowlynn, what if healing me kills you? What if you slowly get colder and colder until you die?” Golmarr curses under his breath and runs his hand through his hair. “How can you restore your life?” he asks.
An answer surfaces in my thoughts, and I frown, for it seems too simple. “I need to warm up with fire.”
“That’s it?” Golmarr asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know. We stood by the bonfire last night, and it didn’t help.”
He puts his finger under my chin and turns my face up to his. “Do you realize you are now magical? You are a witch, like Nayadi. A seer. A healer. A sorcerer. The ability to do magic is so rare and so coveted, if anyone finds out, kings will wage wars to own you.”
“I don’t feel magical.” I close my eyes. “All I want is to be warm again, and to never worry about where I am going to live, or what I am going to eat. I don’t want to be a witch. I do not want wars waged over me.”
“Let’s keep it secret. I swear I will never tell anyone. If no one finds out, you will be safe. Was magic part of the fire dragon’s treasure?”
As he asks the question, I immediately know the answer. “No. When he ate my arm, my elbow was a bloody stump, and when I stabbed his eye, his blood mixed with mine. Zhun’s blood contained his magic, and the magic he stole from Melchior.” I still remember the burning of his blood on my wound, and the heat that spread from my arm to my heart, until it was pulsing through my entire body. “A dragon’s magic is in its blood. If it mixes with human blood, that person becomes a magical being,” I whisper as the realization takes hold of my thoughts.
Yes, a soft, lilting voice says in my head. And it is a truth that must be silenced.
I gasp and sit up. That voice echoing in my head is what woke me. It is the way a dragon communicates. “The glass dragon is coming!”
“How close?” Golmarr snaps.
“I don’t know.”
Golmarr throws o
ff the covers and leaps for the wagon door, slamming it open. Reaching out, he rings the copper bell. “Dragon!” he yells. “The glass dragon is coming!” I sit up and hang my legs over the side of the bed. Golmarr grabs my staff and my knife and presses them into my hands. Sitting on the chair, he fumbles in the dark for his shirt and boots.
Outside, other bells start ringing, filling the dawn with clanging. Men are yelling, women are barking orders, and children start crying. Our wagon door opens, and a barefoot Edemond steps inside holding a smoking lantern. “You sounded the alarm?” he asks, his eyes bleary with sleep.
Golmarr nods. “The glass dragon is coming. How do we survive its breath?” he asks.
“Stay indoors. Shut all the wagon windows. Don’t let it breathe its icy breath on you. If you have shelter, the ice won’t suffocate you. But”—he looks out the door at the lightening forest and rubs his goatee—“there hasn’t been a sighting of the glass dragon in more than five years, since the last time it froze the forest.”
I shake my head. “No, that’s not true. I saw the glass dragon flying over the forest yesterday.”
Edemond scoffs. “The good thing about the forest is it is so dense, you can hide anywhere. The bad thing is you can’t see the glass dragon when it is flying because the trees are too thick. The forest keeps it hidden. So how, pray tell, did you see the glass dragon yesterday?” He is giving me a condescending look, as if I am a child caught in a lie.
“I was on the side of the mountain,” I snap.
“You were on the side of the mountain? But that is Gol Mountain—the fire dragon’s mountain. Anyone who sets foot on that mountain is killed by little black dragons and dragged belowground.” Edemond looks from me to Golmarr, and then his eyes rest on Golmarr’s sword hilt. His forehead creases, and he holds up his lamp and looks at Golmarr again, leaning toward him and scrutinizing his face. “How do you know the glass dragon is coming?”