The Dragon's Curse

  Incredulous, I try to find my voice. “No, we didn’t. I was in Anthar four days ago.”

  Lord Damar laughs. “It was a proxy marriage, Sorrowlynn. Diamanta stood in for you and spoke your vows.”

  “No! Why? The Trevonans are known for their mistreatment of women. Why would you ever agree to give me to a man like…” At a loss for words, I swing my hand toward Treyose. The very air around him seems to radiate violence. He shifts beneath my scrutiny. “Why would a man like you want to wed me?” I ask Treyose, my voice too loud. “You don’t even know me.”

  Treyose clears his throat. “You will be a strength to my kingdom, my lady.” His guarded eyes gleam in the light of the lamp, the golden reflection of fire shining against them, and a wave of understanding settles over me. It is not me he wants. He knows about my magic. That is what he wants.

  Lord Damar thinks by marrying me to Treyose, he is hurting me. Causing me pain and sorrow are his motivation. I was wrong about him wanting me for my magic—in fact, I do not believe he knows I possess the ability to wield it. “You don’t know, do you?” I ask Lord Damar, shaking my head in disgust.

  “Know what?” he asks, his words heavy with derision.

  “You are too stupid to even wonder why the heir of Trevon wants to marry me—the youngest Faodarian princess who has a ‘sullied reputation.’ You have no clue.”

  Lord Damar leans close and lowers his voice to a whisper. “He wants you so we can make an alliance and together conquer Anthar, absorbing half their land into Faodara, and half into Trevon.”

  Ingvar growls and steps forward, and Lord Damar quickly leans away. I hold out my hand and Ingvar stops. “Lord Damar, that might be what Prince Treyose told you, and he probably is planning on attacking Anthar once he has me.” I glare at Treyose. “If you ever have me.” I swallow the bitter fear of being wed to him and look back at Lord Damar. “You are a fool to think he is your ally. An alliance is not why he wants me.”

  “Well, he certainly doesn’t want you for your disrespectful tongue and belligerent disposition.” His eyes narrow. “And you’re not even half as beautiful as your sisters. What other reason could there be for him to marry you?”

  A flood of anger sets my blood boiling. “I am strong, and brave, and smart, and kind,” I say, letting the anger fill my words with power. I focus my energy on the flame in the lamp and hold my unsteady hands out, palms up. “But despite those qualities, this is why Treyose wants me.” I call to the flame with my mind. Half of the fire lifts off the oily wick and splits in two, landing in a walnut-sized ball on each of my upturned palms.

  Lord Damar stands so abruptly, his chair overturns and clatters to the ground. “You are a witch!” He looks from me to Treyose. “Did you know she could do this?”

  Treyose hesitates a moment, and then gives a firm nod.

  “You lied about why you wanted her,” Lord Damar growls through gritted teeth, and fury darkens his pale eyes.

  “No, I did not,” Treyose says. “You are the one who assumed I wanted her to create an alliance between our kingdoms. The only thing I misled you about was joining our armies and conquering Anthar. I do not want the grasslands, so I used your greed for them to get what I needed, which is your daughter.”

  Lord Damar’s face flares crimson. “I am returning to Faodara and taking Sorrowlynn with me. When I get there, the marriage will be annulled by the queen.”

  “I refuse to go with you.” My voice is barely louder than a whisper, but it catches Lord Damar’s attention as surely as if I’d slapped him across the face.

  He points at me and shouts, “Acting in the name of Queen Felicitia of Faodara, and with the rights and power granted to me as her husband and your father, I hereby command you to submit to my will and return home with me. If you refuse, or use any type of magic against me, it will be considered an act of high treason, and thereby punishable by death. And so help me, if you so much as lift a finger against me, I will knock you unconscious and carry you back to your mother in a box!”

  My fingers close around the flames burning on my palms, and the fire winks out, plunging us into shadow barely brightened by the tiny flame left spluttering in the lamp. “I will go nowhere with you.”

  Lord Damar reaches across the table and grabs the bun at the crown of my head, yanking me to my feet and pulling me around to his side of the table. Treyose takes a step forward, but Ingvar stands still and watches; he knows I can beat Lord Damar in a fight. I bend my right arm, prepared to ram my elbow into Lord Damar’s ribs, but freeze. Something cold and sharp is pressing against my temple. Treyose halts in midstride, and Ingvar reaches for his missing sword. From the corner of my eye I see a long, silver needle, much like a knitting needle, clutched in Lord Damar’s soft hand, its tip held firmly to the skin beside my eye. A bitter scent wafts from the needle, and I recognize the odor of poison even though I have never smelled it with my own nose.

  “It is poisoned,” I breathe out, my voice calm. As I stand there, every possible scenario to get away from Lord Damar flashes through my head in the blink of an eye. And every one of them includes the likelihood of my being poisoned. Depending on the type of poison in the needle, even a single drop on my skin could be deadly.

  “She is leaving with me, or she dies here,” Lord Damar warns, winding his hand so tightly in my hair my eyelids stretch toward my hairline and my scalp feels like it is on fire.

  “I do not like either of those options,” Treyose says, and pulls a metal throwing star from his sleeve. With a flick of his wrist, he throws it. The small weapon passes so close to my ear it brushes it. Lord Damar jolts and the poisoned needle catches on my skin. I slam my elbow into his ribs in the same moment Ingvar reaches for me. Ingvar shoves me to the side a breath before Lord Damar thrusts the needle forward. The sharp tip barely misses my back and instead slides between the chain links of Ingvar’s armor and plunges into his stomach.

  “Bloody Faodarian pig!” Ingvar yells. He reaches for his attacker but misses as Lord Damar stumbles backward clutching his throat, the silver throwing star visible between his fingers. Ingvar falls to his knees beside me and pulls the needle from his stomach. He looks at it for a moment, where the blood has turned the silver crimson, and then sways sideways.

  “No!” I cry, lunging for him. Before I can grab him, hands close around my arms, and I am pulled away. Ingvar falls to the ground, his face pressing against the sharp blades of broken grass. His skin is ashen and covered with sweat, and his mouth is open. “Ingvar? Can you hear me?” I ask. The silver needle slips out of his fingers and falls silently to the trampled grass. “No! Ingvar!” I fight against Treyose’s hold on me, trying to wrench my arms from his grasp. “I can help him!” I cry. When Golmarr was on the brink of death, I healed him. I might be able to heal Ingvar.

  The tent flap is thrown aside. Enzio takes a step in and freezes, his eyes sweeping the chaos. “Help Ingvar,” I plead. Enzio hesitates, studying Treyose’s hold on me, and then falls to his knees beside Ingvar. He presses two fingers to his neck, and then looks like he is on the verge of being sick. “He is dead.” My stomach roils, and I wonder if I am going to be sick.

  Treyose cinches one arm around my neck, the other around my waist, pinning my arms at my sides. “If you make a single move against me, the princess dies,” he warns Enzio. “Why did you have to do that?” he asks me and curses under his breath.

  “Do what?” I growl, struggling against his hold.

  “Why couldn’t you have simply agreed to come with me like a meek Faodarian bride?” I pull one arm free and ram my elbow into his ribs, making him grunt. His hold only tightens. “Why did you have to put up a fight?” I ram my elbow into his ribs a second time and wish I could get my knife out from under my skirt. Enzio is patiently watching us, waiting for the perfect moment to come to my aid.

  “Why?” I ask and stomp on his foot. “B
ecause I will choose my own destiny!” I reach my free hand toward the tiny flame still flickering in the lamp, prepared to use it to burn him to a crisp.

  “Won’t work,” Treyose says, tightening his hold on my neck until I can barely breathe. “I am wearing an amulet that protects me from magic—fire, to be more specific. I came prepared for you, Princess Sorrowlynn.”

  I clamp my teeth down on the side of Treyose’s hand. He yelps but still does not release me.

  Enzio uses the distraction to step toward me, but Treyose has already dropped his arm from my waist and is holding another silver throwing star. As he lets it fly at Enzio, I shove his arm upward and ram my elbow into his ribs as hard as I can. The star sinks into Enzio’s arm instead of his chest.

  Treyose tightens his hold on my neck, completely cutting off my air. Focusing my strength into my arm, I ram my elbow into his ribs three times in a row, as hard and fast as I can. His hold on my neck loosens enough for me to slide out from under his arm. I grab the lamp from the table, and with the copper handle clutched in both my hands like a sword hilt, I swing with every ounce of strength I possess.

  He throws his arm up to block, and the lamp collides with the side of Treyose’s head and arm. Glass shatters. Oil splatters Treyose and fire flares on his face. He screams and tears off his tunic, extinguishing the fire and plunging the tent into stifling blackness. I kick the blackness in front of me, feeling the satisfying impact of my foot against Treyose’s stomach. There is a grunt and a thud as he lands on the ground. My hands wave through the dark until they contact the solid warmth of Enzio. Gripping his hand in mine, I pull him out of the tent and we sprint to the horses.

  “How much are you bleeding?” I ask. My words sound wrong—thick and slow, as if my tongue is too big.

  It takes him a moment to answer. “Not enough to kill me.”

  I run my hands along his arm and find the star still embedded in his biceps. His clothes around the weapon are barely damp with blood. “Don’t pull this out until you are back at the fortress and have someone to sew it up,” I instruct. “Did you read the letter from Golmarr?” I am talking too fast now, and my skin feels like it is on fire.

  “Yes. He’s in Arkhavan. At the Royal Library of Trevon, looking for something called the Infinite Vessel,” Enzio says.

  Something black buzzes by my face, and I swat my hand at it. “Did you see that?”

  Enzio leans closer. “See what? You don’t look well. Are you all right?”

  I nod, but my blood feels like it has turned to liquid fire beneath my skin, bursting with so much energy and so many emotions, my flesh can barely contain it. My head is throbbing, too. The ground tilts, and I grip Enzio’s tunic to keep from stumbling. I take a deep breath, trying to gather my wits about me and say, “Treyose killed Lord Damar, and Lord Damar killed Ingvar. You need to tell the horse clan. Damar killed…” My voice cracks with emotion and I cannot speak.

  Enzio sniffles and wraps his arms around me. “I am so sorry. I will tell them.” My body, suddenly freezing, shudders against his, and I grip him more tightly to keep from falling. Enzio helps me regain my balance and studies me. “Are you injured?” he asks. I shake my head, so he presses his hand to my forehead. “Are you sick? You feel too warm.” I push his hand away and stumble toward Dewdrop.

  “I need to go.”

  “Come back to the fortress. Let the horse clan protect you.”

  “No! I will not have the Faodarian and Trevonan armies wage war on Anthar just to get me.” Even in the dark, my foot slips effortlessly into the stirrup, and I swing my leg over Dewdrop’s back.

  “Then I will come with you.”

  “Please get your arm tended to first. I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you, Enzio. And someone needs to tell the Antharians that Ingvar is dead.” I do not wait for his reply. As I ride alone into the night, icy wind rushes against my face.

  The grassland blurs as tears fill my eyes, and I bury my face in the warmth of Dewdrop’s mane. Using the darkness to hide my retreat, I head south at a slow, quiet canter, between the two lines of opposing armies camouflaged by the night—the Antharians on my right, the Faodarians on my left. Before long, the night is filled with the clamor and wailing of the Antharian army. They have learned Ingvar, their future king, has been murdered.

  “I’m sorry, Ingvar. I’m sorry, Golmarr. I’m sorry, King Marrkul,” I whisper, and shudder at the thought of Golmarr learning that it is my fault his brother was killed. He already hates me because he inherited the glass dragon’s hatred. Now he will have a reason of his own. Taking a deep, steadying breath, I sit back up. The world is a wavering blur of silver moonlight against the deeply shadowed grass, and I feel as if I am riding through rising and falling water. I blink hard, and tears stream down my cheeks, but the land doesn’t stop moving. Giving my head a firm shake, I lean forward and signal Dewdrop to a gallop.

  When I have ridden several miles south, I slow to a trot and turn west toward Trevon and Treyose’s approaching army of one thousand, toward the city of Arkhavan and the Royal Library of Trevon: the biggest and oldest library in the world. Before I reach the army, I will veer north again and cross into Trevon that way.

  Dewdrop continues cantering across grassland swelling and dipping like ocean waves. “I never knew the grasslands had hills,” I whisper. No maps of Anthar show hills, and none of my inherited grassland memories ever have hills. We crest a swell as tall as a mountain, and as we start down the other side, the ground grows steeper and steeper, until I have to cling to the pommel of the saddle to keep from falling out of it. And then, though there is not a single visible cloud blocking the starry sky, the night darkens.

  I signal Dewdrop to stop and look up. Darkness drops from above, and a moment later I am surrounded by a black cloud of bugs. Their noisy drone scatters my thoughts. I swat at the bugs, but it does nothing to stop the buzzing. Dewdrop flicks an ear and peers at me, and I wonder why she isn’t swishing her tail and shaking her mane to scatter the swarming insects. The air grows darker as the bugs become so numerous they completely hide the moon. Their buzzing grows deeper and unbearably loud, rattling my teeth and vibrating my very bones. As if oblivious, Dewdrop lowers her head and starts grazing.

  I press my hands to my ears and insects land on my bare arms. Their tiny feet are covered with spines that stick into my flesh as they walk. I try to brush them off, but they cling to me. They crawl up my neck and into my ears and nostrils, and climb on the slick, wet skin of my eyeballs. My eyelids slam shut, trapping bugs beneath them. I scratch at my ears, my nose, start clawing at my flesh, digging at the bugs burrowing into it. The insects pour down my shirt and find my delicate skin, and I open my mouth to scream, but they fill it with blackness that wedges into my throat so firmly, I cannot draw breath, and Dewdrop keeps calmly eating grass.

  Above the vibration of bugs, the rhythmic pounding of galloping reaches me. With my eyes still closed tight, I topple from Dewdrop and land hard on the side of the hill. I cram my fingers into my throat, trying to claw out the bugs so I can breathe. So I can scream to the rider for help.

  The ground shudders as a horse trots to my side and stops. I open my eyes to see who has come, but the bugs have crawled inside of my eyeballs and are swimming through my vision: little black dots whirling slowly in front of the moon.

  A dark figure crouches beside me. I open my mouth to beg for help, but still can’t breathe, so I cram my fingers down my throat again, trying to clear it, trying to make myself vomit. Rock hard hands clamp my wrists and pin them to the ground beside my head.

  “I can’t breathe,” I whimper. “There are bugs in my throat.”

  “If you can talk, you can breathe,” a deep voice says.

  I thrash against the man, trying to break his grasp so I can remove the bugs. “Get them off me!” I wail, shocked I can speak around the insects crawling i
n my mouth.

  “What? Get what off you?” he asks, holding my wrists more securely.

  “The bugs! They are everywhere! In my eyes, in my ears.” I open my mouth, suck in a breath of air that draws hundreds of tiny bodies into my lungs, and scream. A warm, solid hand slaps my face and my head jerks to the side.

  “Princess Sorrowlynn, you need to get up.” He tightens his hold on my wrists and pulls me to my feet. The ground tilts so steeply, I tip into the man’s arms before I can gain my balance.

  “We’re going to fall off!” I throw my arms around his neck.

  Warm fingers probe my neck, my ear, and slowly make their way to my temple. When they press against my hairline, the world snaps, flattening out beneath my feet like a sheet whipped straight atop a mattress. I am standing upright, and the ground is flat as far as the eye can see; the starry sky once again is overhead. In a unison burst, the bugs fly away, but I hear them close by, waiting.

  “Your father’s needle nicked you. You should be dead,” the deep voice says. Fingers wipe something sticky from my temple, and I smell blood. “I think you are hallucinating from the poison.”

  “No, I’m not hallucinating. The bugs.” I lean closer to him and pull his head down so my lips are by his ear. “Can’t you hear them?” I whisper.

  Gently, he pushes me away. “I hear nothing, Sorrowlynn.”

  The man’s voice is not familiar. I try to make out his face, illuminated by the moon and stars, but black spots are still swimming against my sight. I press the balls of my hands against my eyes. When I remove them, the man in front of me becomes clear as the sun rises in the north and shines on his face. He studies me with familiar hazel eyes framed by black lashes, and a bright smile pulls his lips away from white teeth. It is the smile I have been longing to see. At the sight of it, the sorrow that has been my constant companion these last months is replaced with joy. I hear Golmarr’s voice in my head, from a long-ago day in the Glass Forest, as he placed my hand on his chest, directly above his heart. I could feel his heart beating, slow and steady. When I asked him what he was doing, he replied, “I want you to feel what you do to my heart when I kiss you, Sorrowlynn.”