This baby will die by her own hand. That is the fate Melchior, the royal wizard, glimpsed when I was born. It caused my mother such distress that she locked herself in her chambers and cried for days. She refused to touch me, look at me, or speak, even name me. I was given to Nona, a scullery maid who’d lost her own baby, and she was told to never take me out of the nursery. Finally, after I had been called girl for a year, my father named me Sorrowlynn on behalf of the heartache my existence caused, and I have been called Sorrow ever since.
My three older sisters fared much better with their fate blessings. Melchior glimpsed Diamanta, the future queen of Faodara, outliving three husbands, and at age twenty-one, she’s already outlived one. Harmony was seen making peace wherever she went. The Antharians should have chosen her for their queen, as it is rumored they are always fighting among themselves when they are not fighting their neighbors to the west, the Trevonan. My third sister, Gloriana, would bring joy to all who met her, and it is true. I can think of nothing bad to say about her.
I, though, would die by my own hand. I stare at my soft, narrow hands and wish the old wizard were still alive so I could slap him across the face for that fate blessing. And then I remember how kind he was, and take it back. Before he disappeared, Melchior would spend hours in my chambers with me and Nona. He always wore the same faded green tunic over tan hose and had his graying hair tied in a tail at the nape of his neck. When I asked him why he dressed like a peasant, he said, “When you are as old as me, clothing no longer holds much pleasure. It simply becomes a necessity.” We would spend hours piecing puzzles together while he would tell stories of the eight dragons he’d seen with his own eyes. He always compared the fate of the dragons, or Faodara, or Anthar to the puzzles. Every single time we finished one, he would say, “It isn’t until all the pieces come together that we see the whole picture, Sorrowlynn.”
Diamanta yanks the laces of my corset hard, and I grab on to the bedpost to keep from toppling backward. I gasp as deep a breath of air as I can before she gets it any tighter.
“Sorrow,” she snaps, “it is obvious you’ve never worn one of these the right way before. You’re supposed to breathe out when I pull, not in.” I grit my teeth and breathe in even deeper, making my ribs as big as possible. She huffs and slaps my butt, but it hardly hurts through the layers of petticoats. “Please, for the love of Faodara, let me at least give you the semblance of a womanly figure,” she growls, putting a foot up onto the bedpost to get more leverage. “The horse king is going to be looking to see if you’ve got the body for grandchildren.”
I shudder at the memory of Ingvar’s eyes examining my body, at the thought of bearing his children. “That’s the point,” I say, keeping my ribs as wide as possible. “The worse I look, the less likely I am to be picked for the heir’s future bride. And besides, I think it is ridiculous that we still do this horrendous, ancient Mountain Binding ceremony. I do not see how my agreeing to marry a scruffy old brute will have the power to keep a fire-breathing dragon locked beneath a mountain. And if I don’t agree to marry him, will I truly be fed to the dragon? That is savage, and inhumane, and crazy.”
“Did you learn nothing from our history tutors?” Diamanta asks, glaring at me. “Three centuries ago, the Antharian king woke the dragon with the intent to have it destroy Faodara, but it didn’t follow the king’s orders. The beast nearly destroyed both of our countries before a wizard’s binding spell was able to imprison the vile creature. Unfortunately, the spell requires an ongoing sacrifice to work, which—”
“Is dependent on me sacrificing myself to the Antharian heir in order to keep the dragon locked away,” I blurt. “I listened to our tutors.”
“You’re not exactly sacrificing yourself, just offering yourself in marriage. It’s only if you refuse to offer yourself in marriage that you are sacrificed to the fire dragon. But the Antharians haven’t picked anyone from our line for three generations. I doubt they will change that for you, considering they turned down Gloriana two years ago. She’s more pleasant and more pretty than you. And so are Harmony and I, and they didn’t take any of us. If they didn’t want us, they’re definitely not going to pick you.”
I glower at her, but she’s right. My three older sisters have thick, golden blond hair, blue eyes, and gentle curves. I have unruly brown hair and green eyes, and not quite as many curves, not to mention I stand half a head taller than all three of them. If they didn’t pick any of my sisters, what makes me think they will pick me? All the air swooshes out of my lungs. Diamanta uses the opportunity to cinch the corset into place before I can take another breath, and I can feel my ribs compacting.
“It’s just a silly tradition. For all we know, the fire dragon is long dead,” she says.