The wagon stairs creak, and Melisande steps inside carrying a tray of food. She places it on the table. “Porridge,” she announces, her eyes defiant, as if daring us to refuse such a modest meal. “Porridge for the young lovers to celebrate their honeymoon morning.” She winks at me and turns to leave, but stops. “Princess, I almost forgot.” She pulls a brown-and-white bundle from her pocket and holds it up. My face starts to burn so brightly it hurts. I snatch my lace bloomers from her, and she and Golmarr instantaneously burst into laughter. I have no pockets on my skirt, so I wad up the bloomers and shove them down the front of my shirt. When their laughter increases, I bristle and square my shoulders and put my nose up in the air, forcing my face into an expression of regal indifference. “Now I see the princess,” Melisande says, wiping tears of laughter from her cheeks. “Oh, I almost forgot one more thing.”
I cringe with dread as she opens the wagon door, wondering what else she can do to embarrass me. She steps back inside with my staff, and I gasp. I take it from her hands and run my fingers over it. Instead of prickly pine bark coating it, it is covered with a slick, polished wood that has hair-thin veins of silver. I almost hand it back to the woman, thinking she is mistaken, until I recognize the narrow spot near the top where I hacked the rough bark away with my hunting knife.
Melisande leaves, and I lay the staff across the table and sit studying the wood. Taking the spoon from my bowl of porridge, I try to gouge the staff’s surface but cannot. “What happened to it?”
“Don’t you know?” Golmarr asks. I shake my head. “I saw you throw it at the dragon when it blew its breath on you. It went into the dragon’s mouth and lodged in its throat until it coughed it out.” The color drains from his face. “I thought it killed you with its breath.”
“So did I.” I shiver at the memory and lean my staff against the wall. Scooting my chair up to the table, I look at the lumpy, pale porridge—a peasant’s meal—and frown. Leaning over the bowl, I sniff, and my mouth starts to water.
“Have you never eaten porridge?” Golmarr asks. I shake my head. “This is how you do it.” He puts his spoon into his bowl and lifts a glob of the sticky food to his mouth and swallows without chewing. “It’s good,” he says, watching me with amusement.
I put my spoon into the bowl and lift a smidgen of porridge to my mouth. It is soft, and warm, and salty, and mixed with cream and cinnamon. I dig my spoon in again and lift a mountain of porridge to my mouth and proceed to devour it, savoring the feel of it sliding down my throat and into my hollow belly. When I have finished eating, I lean back and look into Golmarr’s surprised face. “I know your education was sorely lacking in certain areas—like self-defense, and what is and is not proper—but were you not taught table manners?” Golmarr asks, laughing. His bowl is still half-full.
“Are you going to finish that, sir?” I ask. He puts one finger on the lip of the bowl and slides it across the table to me. I laugh. “I was just joking. I’ve had—”
From outside, a bell starts clanging, and then another, and another. Golmarr and I lock eyes for a heartbeat, and then we are both on our feet, I with my staff and him with his sword.
We rush outside, and I look immediately to the stark blue sky, expecting to see the dragon appear above the broken trees. Golmarr slams into me and wraps his arm around my waist, and as we tip forward, I feel a gust of air swipe against my cheek as an arrow flies past. It lodges into the wagon behind us.
With a grunt, I land belly-down on the damp ground, and Golmarr lands on top of me. “Are you okay?” he asks. I nod. “We’re being attacked by renegades. Get back inside of the wagon!” With those words, he leaps up and starts running toward a group of fighting men, his sword held high.
I lay on the ground and watch as armed men with red bands tied around their biceps pour into the clearing from between the wagons. Edemond’s people are rushing to get children out of the fighting zone, or are running to wagons to arm themselves more fully. And while they do this, their unarmed people are not protected. I can see it all so clearly, how with the men running for their weapons, and the women trying to protect the children, the attackers have a moment to take or kill whatever they want.
To my left, a woman screams. Melisande is running with a toddler in her arms, but a man has caught her by her braid. He kicks her in the small of her back, and she lets the child down with a command to get inside of a wagon. Whirling around, Melisande pulls a dagger from her belt and slashes at her attacker. Her weapon clangs against a sword and is knocked from her grasp. The man kicks her again, a boot to her stomach, and she crumples to the ground. He lifts his sword and grits his teeth, and I am already running, my staff gripped in my hands like a weapon. His sword swings downward, and Melisande screams, struggling to pull herself out of the way. Just as the weapon comes flush with her body, I thrust my staff in the way and knock it aside, and Melisande crawls away.