The Dragon's Price (Transference #1)

“Outside? But isn’t that…improper?” I think of Golmarr watching me bathe, and heat floods my cheeks. “What if…someone…sees?”


The woman laughs. “We might be forest dwellers, but we aren’t ill-mannered. I have already had the men tie up a barrier of blankets around the tub. Let’s go.”

I follow her out of the wagon, into the filtered green light of the forest. Only, not all of it is filtered. In the middle of the camp, where the dragon shattered the trees, golden sunlight is rippling through. Right in the middle of the sunlight is a circle of colorful blankets fluttering in a gentle breeze and hanging from ropes tied to tree trunks.

The ground is wet beneath my bare feet, and water seeps between the cracks of my toes every time I step. One spot I step on, the water gushes up pink, and I think of the dragon’s blood splattering the ground. Here, the flowers are sagging, their leaves a rotting black pulp.

At the circle of blankets, Melisande holds one up, and I step inside. A big brass tub is centered in the circle, and steam is rising up out of it. Without a word, Melisande lifts the pale yellow dress off over my head. She helps me out of my lace bloomers and holds them up with a quiet chuckle. My cheeks flame. “Wedding undergarments,” I explain.

Melisande steps in front of me, and one of her eyebrows is raised. She quickly lifts the camisole over my head. Holding her offered arm, I step over the side of the tub. As my leg sinks calf deep into the steaming water, I suck air through my teeth. “It hurts,” I say, leaping back out.

She puts her hands on her hips and pulls her lips tight against her teeth, contemplating me. “If you don’t get in and stay in,” she says, voice low and menacing, “I am calling that young man of yours over here to help me put you in. What did you say his name was?”

I swallow and fold my arms over my naked chest. “Ornald.”

She puts a finger over her mouth and shakes her head. “No, that is not the name you shrieked when he was fighting the dragon. You called him Golmarr. Do you know what Golmarr means?”

Shivering, I shake my head.

“Gol means dragon, and Marr means destroyer. Do you know what language that is?”

I shake my head again and wish I weren’t naked. I want to run from this woman.

“That, my girl, is the ancient language of Anthar. In fact…” She takes a small step closer to me, and I back up until the backs of my legs are pressed against the side of the tub. “In fact, King Marrkul’s youngest son, who disappeared with the reputedly beautiful Princess Sorrowlynn of Faodara not seven days ago, is named Golmarr. What do you think of that?”

“I think I’m ready to bathe,” I say, and gingerly step over the side of the tub. The water sears my calves so intensely that I can’t help but compare it to the whippings I got as a child. I whimper and grit my teeth. Slowly, millimeter by millimeter, I lower the rest of my body into the tub. The heat from the water scalds my skin, warms my blood, and finally seeps into my bones. I close my eyes and let the water lap at my chin.

“Something else noteworthy,” Melisande says, and my eyes pop open, “is the way you stood there and let me, a perfect stranger, undress you. Most women would balk at having someone strip them down to their bare skin.” She kneels beside the tub and dunks me under the water. When I come up, she starts talking again. “It is said that Faodarian royalty are waited on hand and foot, even when dressing and undressing.” She wrinkles her nose and runs a cake of soap over my head. I blink at her. “I know you had a sponge bath before your wedding, yet still you stink like you’ve been rolling in coals and old blood,” she explains. “But you don’t stink quite as badly as the young horse lord Golmarr, son of King Marrkul of Anthar. He smells like melted hair, burned leather, and fire. That should be some consolation, Princess Sorrowlynn.”

My eyes grow guarded, and she smiles and nods her satisfaction. “How is his head?” I ask.

“He’s been tended to, and he is soaking in a bath, just like you, only we call the place where the men bathe a cold stream. Tell me.” She holds up the filthy lace bloomers. “Did he get to see you in these?” I shake my head and she dunks them in the bathwater and rubs them with soap. “In that case, I will wash them for you. You can still use them for your honeymoon.”

I shake my head and sink down into the water until it is lapping against my earlobes. “I don’t think he truly wants to marry me. Last night, that was just our way of trying not to get killed by…your people.” I cringe.

“That kiss was fake?” she asks with a laugh. Her hands pause in their washing, and she looks at me. A smile softens her face. “Would you marry him? Do you love him?”

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