Page 111 of Pippa of Lauramore
The one face I’m looking for isn’t here, not that I expected him to be. If he was being promised to another, I couldn’t watch either.
It’s warm in here—too warm. The garden maids have picked flowers, and they are in large vases near where we stand. There are spices infused in the air—an aroma I remember from my visits to Vernow. The scent is overpowering.
Father steps in front of us. “Lionel, you are the rightful winner of the tournament, and as such, it is your right to have Princess Pippa’s hand in marriage. Do you wish to take her as your wife?”
For a moment, just one heartbeat of a moment, I hope he might say no.
Lionel turns toward me, his eyes flashing in the sunlight streaming in from the glass skylight above us. “I do.”
Father turns to me and says, his voice soft, “Pippa, do you agree to wed Prince Lionel in a month’s time, as was promised to the winner of the tournament?”
There’s no air in the room. It’s too hot and too crowded. Spots dot my vision, and I hear an anxious pause in the music. Before I can answer, a dark shadow blocks the light above us, and it’s startling enough I catch my breath. In a moment, the sunlight streams through again. I blink several times, wondering if I imagined it, but no—others are standing, startled by the interruption.
“What was that?” Percival asks, and already his hand is on the hilt of the sword at his side. There’s a scream from one of the villagers outside, and through the windows, I see many women and children flee to the sides and around the chapel’s back.
Without thinking, I run down the steps. Lionel yells for me to come back, but I ignore him. I burst into the sunlight, and my heart leaps to my throat.
The ground trembles as a red dragon lands in front of the crowd. He’s massive—as tall as three men—and as beautiful as he is terrifying. His eyes are black ebony, and wisps of gray smoke drift from his huge, scaled nostrils.
“King Ewan!” the animal roars, fire licking from his mouth. “I demand to see the king!”
The men standing before me step back and away from the flames. The breeze shifts and sends the great animal’s metallic scent our way.
“I am here, Noble Beast.” Father steps past me.
Black eyes narrow as they focus on Father. “You have violated the treaty.”
A chill runs down my spine, and the crowds begin to chatter in fear. The dragon steps toward my father, and I feel the movement through the ground.
“My mate was slaughtered during your tournament,” the dragon says. “And now I am saddled with the burden of searching for a new one.”
My father is temporarily speechless. Who would dare break the dragon treaty?
“If you refuse to find the man responsible, I will destroy your village. After the village is burned, and yourpeople are nothing but memories to the waste that is your kind, I will move to the next town and then the next.”
Rigel. It must have been.
I search the crowds, frantically looking for the dark-haired Errintonian. I find him leaning against the chapel, seemingly unconcerned except for the hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Sensing my accusing gaze, his eyes flick my way. He shakes his head as if to say it wasn’t him.
“Sir Rigel.” Father obviously has the same thought as me. “Do you know anything of this?”
Rigel steps forward, his hand still on his sword. “I paid for my treasure with sheep,” he answers, and then he turns to the dragon. “Fifty ewes to Malgonith, the great winged serpent.”
The dragon snorts and flames lick from his mouth. “I know of this bargain. It was not this man.”
“Galinor?” Father asks.
“I didn’t kill his mate.” An honest, if evasive, answer. He shakes his head, looking pale.
The dragon peers at Galinor, and his reptilian tail twitches back and forth. “King Ewan, how many returned with treasure?”
“Three men,” Father answers.
“Line them up,” the beast demands.
Father bristles at the command, but it would not do well to argue with the dragon. I’m anxious as I wait for his decision. “Yes, fine.”
Rigel comes forward, as does Galinor. Lionel joins them. He’s as white as fleece, and there is the sheen of nervous sweat on his brow.
