Torrin shrugs and sweeps his hair out of his face. “It doesn’t matter who told me—it’s true, isn’t it? You shouldn’t be talking to him. I don’t even know why you would. You hate dragons. And now everyone thinks you’ve lost it, because of this marriage, and—”
“I don’t care what anyone thinks.” Well, I do, but only because I need to know whose wedding invitations to “forget” to write.
“Me neither. But, you have to admit, it really doesn’t sound like you.”
“And what does sound like me? Hiding in my room all day? Waiting for other people to decide my life for me?”
“Prince Amelrik is dangerous.”
Prince. There it is again. He didn’t seem much like a prince to me, but the only other prince I’ve ever met was Lothar, and I’m not sure that counts. “Celeste said he infiltrated other cities.”
“He did. He’s good at acting human. Most dragons can’t stay in human form for very long—not without going crazy. It’s one of the first lessons we got in paladin training. Usually there are signs. They have to go off into the woods every night. They eat alone. And there’s just something . . . off about them, like they don’t really get how to be human. Like someone who speaks a language but will never be fluent. But he’s different.”
“You’re telling me Amelrik’s fluent in being human.”
“In acting human, but, yeah. That’s exactly what I’m saying. It’s how he’s fooled so many people.”
“Has he ever killed anyone himself?”
Torrin purses his lips and gives me a worried look. “He tricked hundreds of people, knowing they would be brutally murdered.”
He said he never had blood on his hands. “I just don’t understand.”
“What? Why a dragon would kill paladins? Vee, you know what they’re capable of.”
“No, I mean, if Amelrik’s such a ruthless killer, why did he save my life at the party?”
Torrin snorts. “He didn’t save your life—I did. He’s the one who almost got you killed.”
“He told me to run. He risked his own life to tell me that, even knowing who I was. It just doesn’t add up.”“Maybe spending all that time in human form really has made him crazy. I don’t know. Can you ever really know what goes on inside a dragon’s head?”
Or anyone’s, I think, but I keep it to myself. “Why was he at the party at all? Better yet, why were there two dragons at the party? And why did Lothar want to dance with me?”
Torrin joins me at the window and stares outside. He’s silent for a minute, then lets out a deep breath. “A paladin could be useful to a dragon.”
“Exactly. A paladin could. Not me. Besides, what did he think he was going to do? Marry me?” I wrap my arms around myself and pace in front of Torrin’s bed. He has a brown and green patchwork quilt his mother made him when we were kids. I remember wishing my mother would make me one, too, but she wasn’t a seamstress like Mrs. Hathaway, and I was too afraid to ask. Now of course I wish I had. It would have been one more keepsake to remember her by. I could have wrapped myself up in it and pretended it was her arms around me.
“Vee.”
“No, really. It’s one thing to dance with me, and yeah, I know my father was hoping for a quick marriage, but did Lothar seriously think he could get away with it? That he’d just put on the charm and I’d fall for it? And I know what you’re going to say, that I was falling for it, but—”
“Vee.”
The urgency in his voice silences me. I stop pacing. Torrin’s still staring out the window, only now his face is pale, his shoulders rigid. My voice is little more than a whisper. “What is it?”
“It’s the hunting party,” he says, his voice filled with dread. “They’ve returned. But your sister isn’t with them.”
8
A FATE WORSE THAN DEATH
She got attacked by dragons and was carried off. We believe her to be dead.
The words ring in my ears as I stand in the courtyard with my father and Torrin, listening to the hunting party recount what happened. Justinian, acting as their leader in Celeste’s place, keeps his head bowed as he hands my father the burnt, bloody scrap of Celeste’s dark blue cloak. All that’s left of her.
Tears stream down my cheeks. I’m vaguely aware of Torrin squeezing my hand and the other paladins staring at me and looking guilty. Like it’s their fault they couldn’t protect her. But nobody ever needed to protect Celeste—she took care of herself and everybody else. What they don’t know was that it was me. If she hadn’t stayed up all night trying to teach me magic, she wouldn’t have been off her guard. Celeste is the best—she would never have been dragged off.
No, Celeste was the best. Before dragons got her, catching her away from the safety of the group, leaving only this burnt-up, bloody piece of cloth behind, and . . .
I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to picture the gruesome remains. Not Celeste’s and not my mother’s.
“We’re so sorry,” Justinian says, speaking for the whole group. His gray-blue eyes meet my father’s, then mine, while the other four paladins bow their heads. A tear slips down Ravenna’s face, though she stays silent, as solemn and stoic as the others.
“Celeste,” my father says, his voice sounding numb. “You can’t be . . .” He looks over at me in disbelief, as if maybe, just maybe, they got the wrong daughter.
I’ve only seen my father cry once, and that was when my mother died. But now, hard sobs rack his shoulders. He throws any St. George stoicism to the wind and screams, clutching the scrap of Celeste’s cloak to his chest. He falls to his knees, repeating, “Celeste. My Celeste. How could this have happened?”
There’s blood on the piece of cloak, but maybe it’s not her blood. Celeste would have fought, after all. Even if they took her in the end, she would have fought. And she must have, if they resorted to fire. The cloak is burnt around the edges. And I hope Celeste was burnt up by dragon’s fire. I hope she was already dead when they dragged her off, saving her from a much worse fate. From the fate that happened to our mother.
That was my fault, and so is this, because I can’t wield the family magic. If I could, Celeste wouldn’t have needed to stay up late, futilely trying to teach me. And maybe I got a spark—maybe her efforts weren’t completely wasted on me—but was it really worth this?
I would marry a thousand bony old men if it would bring Celeste back.
Torrin slips his strong arms around me and holds me to his chest when I start to sob. And I hate that I enjoy it—that for a moment I feel safe and loved and like nothing could ever hurt me—because I shouldn’t enjoy anything. Not after what happened to Celeste, and especially not when she died because she tried to help me. Because she tried to help me find a way to feel strong and safe on my own.
But I also hate that I enjoy it, because Torrin’s not mine. He’s just my friend, and while I could see us having a life together, he made it clear he doesn’t feel the same way. And I know I’ll think about this moment later with longing and regret, wishing I could feel his arms around me again, holding me together when I want to fall apart.
I feel a surge of anger and push away from him. It isn’t fair—none of this is. It’s not fair that Celeste had to die, or that I can’t do magic. That Torrin will never be more than my friend.
“Vee, wait,” he says, putting a hand on my arm to stop me.
But I don’t stop. I let my anger take over, drying up my tears and making me feel so alive. I run back inside the barracks, my feet pounding down the stairs to the dungeon. I run right to Amelrik’s cell and kick his door as hard as I can. The impact hurts my foot, but I don’t care.
“You monster!” I scream at him, hardly recognizing my own voice. “You’re all murderers! All of you!”
Amelrik appears before me, a bewildered look on his bruised-up face, his green eyes staring back at me with curiosity. I lunge at the barred window, slipping my arm inside and clawing at him. My nails slash into his skin just as I feel two strong arms grab me from behind and pull me away.
“What the hell are you doing?!” Torrin says as I struggle to get away from him.
But I ignore Torrin, keeping my eyes on Amelrik. There are a couple of thin red cuts across his cheek where my nails bit into him, adding to his injuries. “Did you know you were sending her to her death?! Was that your plan all along?”Amelrik’s eyes widen. Then he closes them, looking pained. “So Lothar’s not dead.”
“That’s what you care about?! You killed my sister!” As soon as the words leave my mouth, the fight goes out of me and my vision blurs, wobbly with tears. “You killed her! It’s your fault she’s dead. Yours.”
Torrin eases his grip, but he still keeps one arm around me, as if he’s afraid I’ll try and do something crazy again, like attack a dragon. “It’s okay,” he whispers, holding me close to him. And then he adds, as if he knows exactly what’s on my mind, “It wasn’t your fault.”
I break down and sob, leaning my head against his shoulder. Every part of me hurts, like my insides have been scraped raw. My sister is gone. I’ll never hear her voice or feel all warm when she smiles at me. I’ll never watch her put on her armor and look like a goddess of the battlefield as she rides off on a hunt.