Dragonscale Throne

By Barbara Lund

With hostile dragons threatening the land, can a princess save her kingdom and its dragonscale throne?

Something’s rotten in Ipurra, and Princess Shalee hopes it’s not her own family, but she’s not convinced. Her younger sister is a spoiled brat, her brother, the crown prince, a drunk and a bully, and her father encourages them both.

When the king demands a huge party for Shalee’s birthday, she must organize the feast, attend it, and pretend she enjoys it while preventing the local nobles and visiting royalty from killing each other. Piece of cake.

Except she never gets a piece of her own cake because the neighboring country declares war. And they have vengeful dragons on their side for Ipurran nobles have been killing dragons for as long as Shalee remembers. Now the enemy is coming for her father’s dragonscale throne.

And her.

Her sister on the run, her life on the line, and dragons determined to wipe out the dragon slayers, Shalee must save the dragonscale throne, her family, and herself...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Lund
• Release date: Dec 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781944127329

Barbara Lund

Award-winning speculative fiction author Barbara Lund has several indie-published novels, dozens of short stories, and has been traditionally published in Daily Science Fiction and L. Ron Hubbard Presents Writers of the Future, Volume 37 (November 2021).She won the Writers of the Future Golden Pen (2021), along with a First Place, three Silver Honorable Mentions, and two Honorable Mentions. She won the 24th Annual Critters Best Magical Realism Short Story.She's always working on new novels and short stories.Add a husband, two kids, and a martial arts obsession, and she keeps pretty busy.

Book preview

1

Before the Ipurran/Wilding conflict, lacking information from the wildings, we don’t know what Ipurrans were to them; to Ipurrans, however, the wildings were myths, bedtime stories, demons in the dark and forbidden forest.

-Royal Chronicler Ruvaennillo, son of Aimonnfaro

---

Shalee perched at the edge of the chair next to her mother’s bed, clutching her mother’s limp hand in her own. Wake up, Mama.

Her mother the queen did not magically open her eyes.

The queen’s spacious bedroom, decorated all in shades of brown and cream, had always before felt warm to Shalee, but now she shivered. Wake up, Mama, she insisted, tugging her mother’s hand off the bed into her lap. It’s my fourteenth birthday tomorrow and if I want to have a party, Papa insists I plan it myself. He says I’m old enough to think of marriage.

Sixteen was too young for marriage or to be considered an adult no matter what the laws said, her mother had always argued with a laugh, promising to keep Shalee with her forever. But the king was the one giving the orders now, and he said fourteen…

The queen wasn’t laughing. She wasn’t opening her eyes. She wasn’t even squeezing Shalee’s hand.

Papa says I have to wear royal black. He says it’s time. And I have to wear my hair down, like a princess, but it always gets in the way. She wished again she had her mother’s straight, perfect, honey-colored hair rather than her own dark brown not-curly-not-straight. I’d rather wear it up like a warrior.

Still nothing.

Leaning forward, Shalee whispered, "I don’t want to think of marriage, Mama. I want you to take care of me. Us."

Her mother’s chest rose and fell shallowly, her skin was waxy, and to Shalee’s young eyes, she looked more dead than alive. But her own maid had told her that as long as her mother was breathing, it was possible she would wake up and hold Shalee’s hand and sit in the queen’s throne next to the king’s throne.

Perhaps even convince the king to oust the wizard who had started all the troubles. Then life could go back to normal and they could all be a happy family again: Papa, Mama, her two older brothers, her younger sister, and Shalee.

The door rattled and she shrank back, tucking her head into the chocolate-brown blanket like one of Rue’s legendary sea turtles. She wasn’t sure if her brother had found the stories of the turtles in one of his books or had made them up himself to torment her. With the king’s temper so uncertain, she didn’t dare ask.

The door opened and someone came in. When she dared peek, she saw two someones: not the wizard, nor her father, but two maids, tidying and stoking the fire. They didn’t notice her, so she kept still and continued to hold her mother’s hand, hoping for a miracle.

The taller of the two maids paused in her cleaning and turned to gawk at the queen. Is it true? she asked the other.

What? The other’s voice was quiet but sharp. The woman darted a suspicious glance around the room. She must not have seen Shalee under the blanket because she said, That the king was drunk on his wizard’s newest concoction? That the queen questioned him and he flew into a rage? That he pushed her down the stairs? That she hasn’t opened her eyes for four days and four nights?

Shalee held her breath and squeezed her eyes shut. It was true. She had been hiding behind the curtains, watching, telling herself to step between Papa and Mama.

She hadn’t dared.

She’d seen Papa push Mama. She’d seen Mama fall. She’d heard the awful thud.

And now her mother wouldn’t wake and her father was even angrier than before, and if Mama died…

It would be all her fault for not stopping it.

It’s true, said the shorter maid, as if agreeing with Shalee’s thoughts instead of the other woman’s observations. It’s all true. Ever since that wizard came--

The doorknob rattled and then the door banged open, bounced off the wall and was stopped by the king’s heavy hand. He wore a stained and rumpled white tunic without his embroidered overcoat-- the monarchs wore white for death, a reminder of their own mortality-- and wrinkled, wide-legged royal-black pants, with his blood-red sash hanging off-center from where it should be.

He strode into the room, his sash fluttering and his boots clomping on the tile floor. Out! he bellowed.

The maids went, scurrying and hunching like they too were afraid.

She didn’t need to be afraid, Shalee reminded herself. He was her Papa, even if he acted strangely when he drank the wizard’s concoctions. She wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t.

The king went to the other side of the bed, glared down at the queen and muttered under his breath.

Shalee gnawed on her own lip until it was tender.

She didn’t know what changed, but the king’s face went red. He stopped muttering. Then he yanked the largest pillow off the bed and held it down over the queen’s face.

Shalee jerked back farther into the chair, her hands flying up to cover her mouth.

The queen’s hands and feet twitched, but Shalee couldn’t tell if the pillow under her father’s hands moved at all. He was pressing down so hard with such a look on his face--

She’d failed before, but she wouldn’t fail again.

Papa, no! She threw off the blanket and ran around the bed, afraid of hurting her mother if she went over. You’re hurting her! Stop!

"I’m finishin’ killin’ her," he growled, his voice slurred.

Stop it! Shalee grabbed one of his giant arms and tugged.

The pillow slipped, and for an instant she hoped everything would be all right.

Then the king shook her off.

Shalee stumbled.

While she was still off balance, her father backhanded her.

Her cheek exploded and she fell back onto her bum and couldn’t get up again.

He went back to smothering her mother.

It lasted forever and Shalee couldn’t move. She felt like she was dying too.

Done? the wizard said from the doorway.

Shalee flinched.

Done, the king growled, tossing the pillow to the side. He stared down at the queen’s face, then rolled his shoulders back and stomped back out of the room, holding his hand out for a cup and ignoring Shalee entirely.

The wizard obliged, handing him something that billowed purple smoke as they headed down the hall.

Shalee stared at the body on the bed, and realized how wrong she’d been before. Her mother had looked alive before. Sick, but alive. Now there was no mistaking her death. They wouldn’t be having a birthday party. They’d be having a funeral.

She couldn’t think. Still she couldn’t move. She just stared and stared until she heard a noise at the door. When she turned, she saw her little sister, dark hair askew, mud on her gray pants, and one slipper missing.

Shalee, why did Papa hurt Mama?

Roshi, don’t look. Shalee ran to her sister and gathered her into her arms. That wasn’t Papa. That was a monster hurting Mama.

Is she going to be all right now?

Shalee glanced over her shoulder at the still body on the bed, and her voice caught in her throat. She held her sister tighter.

Roshi’s voice was smaller now, as if she’d realized the answer on her own. Is the monster going to hurt me?

No, dear heart. I won’t let him hurt you. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Roshi was eight, and much too big to be carried, but Shalee lifted her to her hip anyway, and cradled her tight as she walked down the hall back to their nursery. Let me tell you a story.

About the wildings? Please Shalee?

All right. She set Roshi onto her bed and removed her single slipper. A thousand years ago, before your grandfather’s grandfather was born--

"And before our ancestors wres-- wrestl--wrested!-- the land from the wild to create a country!"

Who is telling this story? Shalee mock-scolded. She tucked her little sister into a blanket, mud and all. You or me?

Me! laughed Roshi, wiping something off Shalee’s chin.

Tears, Shalee realized, lightly blotting her cheeks with her sleeve and trying not to hiss at the raw feel of fabric on her blooming bruise. How could she not have realized she was crying?

Only now did she feel the deep shudders in her own body. Only now did she see her fingers shake. Only now did she feel the scream rising in her throat. But she couldn’t give in to any of that. She had promised to protect her sister, and she would keep that promise.

Finger-brushing out the younger girl’s dark hair, Shalee said, "Yes, before our ancestors wrested the land from the wild to create the country of Ipurra, the land was covered with forest all the way to the ocean. And the creatures who lived here breathed magic and ate fire and shat ice."

"You said shat," Roshi giggled. Her laugh was wrong and a little mad, but after what they had just seen, Shalee couldn’t blame her. Her own laugh was a little mad too.

So I did.

The people, Roshi said. Tell me about the people.

"And the people floated over the earth, careful to never prick themselves on thorns, nor stumble on stones, nor scrape their skin, for they bled magic."

"An’ they spoke to the creatures in their very own tongues, and they made creatures of their blood and their blood an’ their--"

And they created, and they loved, and they hated, and eventually they warred with each other, Shalee agreed. And when they battled they leveled the mountains and the great trees, until nothing taller than grass would grow right here on this very spot.

The mountains! Roshi nestled closer.

The movement jostled Shalee, and she winced at the sharp twinge from her aching cheek. And then they saw their babies hungry and hurting, and for the sake of everyone, those who had the most magic cast the rest out, and took their most magic creatures and their magic forest and their magic blood away so those left behind--

--our grandfather’s grandfathers--

--could tame the beasts left behind, and tame the lands left behind, and tame the stones left behind--

--an’ build castles. The kingdom of Draedeaa dawnward, Heliianva duskward, Plinth treeward, and Ipurra at the center, ringed about by enemies. Roshi’s eyelids drooped.

Sometimes-enemies, sometimes-allies. One word, in Ipurran. And those left behind built castles, and farms, and governed themselves mostly in peace. And the six Ipurran duchies are?

Dawningbright, Forrestmist, Snowden, Sunsethills, Starrfell, and Oceanside.

Very good. And the emblem of Ipurra?

Papa-- Roshi dropped her eyes, swallowed hard, then continued, "Papa fixed it. It’s our throne now. Our dragonscale throne, an’ a bared sword."

"Yes. And the peace will continue so long as those with magic stay in the wilding wood and those without magic stay without."

For a thousand-thousand years.

For a thousand-thousand years. Shalee stroked her fingertips across her sister’s forehead. Hearth gods, she couldn’t go down to dinner with the court, no matter what her father had said earlier that morning-- they would all see her face and she couldn’t bear it. She’d eat in the nursery again, like a child.

Do you think mommies left their babies behind? Roshi asked in a tiny voice.

Shalee froze, her mind going back to the body in the queen’s bedroom. Like it or not, their mama had left them behind. She swallowed hard, and said, I think they might have, but only if they had no choice. I think the mommies loved their babies very much, and they would have done everything they could to keep them close.

You won’t ever leave me, will you Shalee? Roshi asked, mostly asleep. Not for a thousand-thousand years?

I won’t, Shalee lied, thinking of the likelihood of the marriage she wasn’t ready for and didn’t want. Not for a thousand-thousand years.

2

My father said he was the greatest man in all the world, and we-- his children-- believed his lies completely.

-Royal Chronicler Ruvaennillo, son of Aimonnfaro

---

Six years after her father murdered her mother in front of her very own eyes, Princess Shaleavarra-- Shalee to her friends if she’d had any, but she didn’t, so only to her siblings-- touched the cheek that her father had struck that night. Not for luck, but as a reminder to herself.

All the world had come for Shalee’s twentieth birthday party, as if she wasn’t rather old to now be suddenly married off. The massive dance room was overcrowded and hot, even with the high ceilings and open doors, but none of the guests were truly here for her.

Nodding to the musicians to begin the next song, Shalee wiped moist fingers on her royal-black pants, then in a single smooth motion tugged down her black tunic and embroidered overcoat, then twitched her red sash into place.

She moved into the first dance position, and allowed one of her eldest brother’s friends to place one hand at her waist and the other at the nape of her neck, under her dark braids. Panic flashed through her, but she’d had plenty of practice shunting it aside. As the musical introduction changed to the dance tune, she and her partner moved together, and neither faltered despite the braying laughter cutting across the floor.

The man who was laughing, Ilvisaranno, the crown prince and Shalee’s eldest brother, was drunk. Not that he wasn’t usually, but tonight he was drunker than ever, making sure everyone remembered he was the heir to the throne of Ipurra, and tormenting their brother Rue, one of the things Ilvi did best.

Like Shalee, Rue and Ilvi wore embroidered overcoats over their fitted tunics and wide-legged pants-- black, of course, as tradition demanded for any formal event-- though their sashes tied on the left while Shalee’s tied on the right.

The room itself had the gray slate tiles underfoot, whitewashed walls around, and ceilings high above the lantern lights that were common to all the rooms in the castle. Duskward, her father’s dragonscale throne loomed over the room even though he was currently dancing. Waveward, the musicians played their dance tunes and servers brought drinks and small bites from the kitchens. Most of the local nobles who weren’t currently dancing had gathered treeward to gossip, and the visiting princes and envoys lurked dawnward, hoping to curry favor with her father’s brother the chancellor. The room smelled of sweat and perfume and power struggles.

Years of training prevented Shalee from scowling at her brothers. Ilvi and Ruvaennillo were as opposite as two brothers could be: Ilvi tall and broad like their father, a drunk and a womanizer, and the center of his own world, and Rue, a fingerwidth shorter, but slender like their mother, chaste as far as Shalee knew, never seen drinking anything but weak wine, and kind where Ilvi was cruel.

Shalee subtly steered her partner across the room, and verified that the royal wizard still held his own mini court in one corner, flirting with local and visiting nobles alike. He was tall and gaunt as a fence post, but allowed his sycophants to flatter him outrageously, and in return occasionally gave them a sip of what he had reserved for the king and crown prince.

Ever since her mother died, Shalee had hated her birthday, and she hated the associated party even more.

The whole thing was a barrel of black powder waiting to explode, and that included only her own family. Adding the local nobles, and all the visitors from other countries? If they made it through the night without bloodshed, she would count it a success.

The music ended and Shalee bowed to her partner. He left her but before she could sigh in relief, her father the king took his place. As customary, the king wore a white overcoat and tunic-- white for death-- currently unstained, though Shalee doubted they would stay that way. His sash tied in the middle, as only the monarch’s should, though his knot tended to shift toward his left the more he drank.

The music started again. Without a word, they bowed to each other, then danced, the tails of their sashes fluttering together, then flying apart.

--monsters in the castle-- she overheard, and whipped her head around, but she couldn’t tell who had said it. Her eyes drifted toward her uncle before she could drag them back to her father.

Yes, there are monsters in the castle, Shalee thought, but no--no, she had enough to think about tonight.

The king moved as if he were ten years younger, half his weight, and sober. He pretended well, and with all the visitors looking on to determine if Ipurra’s king was weak, he had to pretend. If they looked even more closely to decide if an alliance with his eldest daughter was desirable, he had to pretend that as well, though he had no intention of marrying her off.

Someone had to run his castle and… no.

The rigid structure of the dance allowed her to move by rote while her mind went elsewhere, watching the visitors, watching the local nobles, watching her own family, waiting for the little arguments to erupt into bloodshed.

Shalee touched her fingertips to her father’s. They circled around each other then parted while her slippers moved gracefully out from under her father’s boots. A few mashed toes had taught her to move quickly.

You wasted the first dance on Oceanside? he rumbled.

He asked first, she said simply, avoiding his glare.

Crown Prince Ilvisaranno lounged on the throne that had been their mother’s, with one of his hunting dogs at his feet. Shalee had asked that the dogs be banished from her birthday party, but there it was next to its master, grunting and wriggling on its back with all six feet in the air.

She swallowed her scowl. Her father would notice and he would devise some sort of punishment, so she was better off pretending the damned dog was her idea anyway.

Dance with the Heliianvan next, her father commanded as the music ended.

The neighboring country duskward, Heliianva had sent a younger prince, as stiff in his dance movements as the layers of yellow, orange, and red beaded fabric he wore, and two princesses in matching Heliianvan dresses. The princesses sneered at the Ipurran women’s pants, no matter how wide-legged they were, but Shalee didn’t understand how they could run or ride in skirts.

Yes, Father, she said to his back as he strode away.

Ilvi straightened the crown sliding over his ear and pointed at his younger brother. "You’ll never be my advisor, Rue," he called across the crowd and the music, as if the pointed finger weren’t insult enough.

In the sudden silence, Shalee’s heart pounded, and she gulped air and spun and glared at the musicians until they started playing again.

Prince Ruvaennillo ignored his brother. He bowed to one of the Sunsethills daughters. Dance? he managed.

The girl glanced at her father, caught his nod, then acquiesced, facing Rue and placing one hand on his upper arm and the other on his chest over his heart.

Shalee bowed to the Heliianvan prince, reminded herself to learn his name, and let her feet carry her into the dance, disaster averted for one more tune.

In the middle of her dance, the crown prince muttered a command to his dog to stay, then deigned to come down off his throne and invade the dance floor. Several partnerships faltered as they moved-- or were elbowed-- out of his way.

The king, dancing with one of the married duchesses, watched the commotion with disdain. Shalee bit her lip.

This one is pretty enough, Ilvisaranno said, as if he hadn’t known the girl all his life. Move, little brother.

Rue opened his mouth, then closed it again.

No one said no to the crown prince.

Rue left the dance, causing Shalee’s partner to miss a step, and Ilvisaranno took Rue’s place, the younger prince already forgotten.

The song finished, though Ilvi kept his hand wrapped around the nape of his partner’s neck in a show of possession that brought an avaricious smile to her father’s face and worry to her mother’s. If the girl provided Ilvi an heir, he would marry her. So their king had said. Repeatedly.

Her stomach lurching, Shalee bowed to the Heliianvan prince and slipped away through the crowd before anyone else could claim her. She took a cup of wine from a servant with a quiet, Thank you, and wove her way to one of the empty chairs. Sipping cautiously, she sat.

Your hair is b-beautiful, the Plinthian prince said in her ear.

Shalee jolted, spilling wine on her pants. Thank the hearth gods she wore black; her father would never forgive her for embarrassing him.

In contrast to the dark Heliianvan prince, the Plinthian had the lightest skin and hair of anyone in the room, and wore furs despite the heat of lanterns and bodies. Even farther treeward than the Snowden duchy, Plinth spent most of the year locked into winter and seemed to forget that other lands did not. Or they were too proud to adopt local customs, though the boy had to be sweating. Gods, he was too young for her, though obviously his kingdom didn’t agree.

Shalee stilled the grimace before it could reach her lips. After all, her possible marriage to one of the visiting princes was the only reason they had attended. She turned her knee slightly away from his and noted the local girl-- a countess in the making-- and three Heliianva women who had followed the prince. Silently wishing them luck with the boy, she forced her lips into a smile and turned toward him.

You really like it? Shalee said with her eyes wide. I thought the way my servant braided it made my eyes too big…?

No! The prince looked startled. Your eyes are beaut- beauti- nice! Such a wonderful… He squinted. Brown.

Gray, she corrected him, keeping her words to herself. Gray eyes with a ring of gold that look brown if you’re too busy staring at my breasts.

Walk with me in gardens? The boy leered at her.

Shalee smiled her most vacant smile, as if she had no idea he had propositioned her like he would a whore in his own land. If she had been more important to her father, or if the king had cared enough to overhear the insult, it could have been a declaration of war. But war had to be avoided at all costs tonight, or her father would blame her. I must check on Rue. My humblest apologies.

Oh. The Plinthian prince snorted. Right. The weakling.

Another insult. Shalee flushed and rose. Excuse me, she said through gritted teeth, and stalked away from him.

If the Plinthian prince had been sent by his father to find out if the Ipurrans would go to war over insults to the royal family, he had his answer: No.

After all, the crown prince had insulted his own brother loudly enough for anyone to hear, and even Shalee had overheard the rumors of how her father had insulted her. The rumors were true, but she swallowed those down too into a pit of hate in her stomach.

With a vapid smile, she avoided invitations from locals and visitors alike, and made her way to Rue’s side.

Talk to me, she commanded. It’s my birthday party and it’s horrible.

"It is horrible, he agreed. Have you seen the Snowden girls’ tunics? They’re from last season, just re-sewn."

Shalee choked back her inappropriate giggle. They’re both very nice.

But their clothier is not!

Sobering, the princess put one hand on her brother’s arm. Ilvi is--

Being an ass, he replied distantly, his eyes on his erstwhile dance partner.

I was going to say ‘drunk.’ But he always is.

He’s just saying what everyone else is thinking. Rue rubbed his eyes, faintly smearing his black eyeliner.

Not everyone. She bumped her shoulder against his. The Sunsethills girl was enjoying your dance.

Until the crown prince appeared, he said bitterly. Now he’ll bed her, and when he tires of her, she’ll expect me to still be interested. If I wasn’t the Weakling Prince…

You’re not!

He lifted one eyebrow, and in that moment looked so much like his older brother that Shalee winced.

We are what they have made of us, she whispered.

The king left the dance floor mid-song, leaving faltering couples in his wake. All eyes turned toward him as he climbed the steps to the dais and flung himself down on the dragonscale throne. He waved his goblet for a refill, and scowled until the wizard made his way to his monarch’s side.

I wish Roshianna had been allowed to come, Shalee murmured. She can always talk him into a better mood.

Maybe that’s why he banned her, Rue said, clutching his cup. "He likes being the way he is."

No one else likes it.

Our eldest brother acts just like him, even if he dreams of murdering the old man and taking his place.

Shh!

Rue grinned naughtily. What a strong prince would never say, he whispered, a weakling may.

Shalee smothered her own grin. Perhaps Rue hadn’t been able to protect her from the monsters in the castle, but she wouldn’t have survived so long without him.

Together they watched as the musicians managed a credible rendition of a Plinth dance tune, and Ilvi trod on his partner’s toes. Just as Shalee had talked herself into returning to the dance floor, the doors at the far end of the room opened and the herald announced, The Draedeaan envoy!

Ilvi’s dog lurched to its feet and growled, but at a finger-snap from its master, stayed where it was.

The Draedeaan envoy was attired in dark gray riding leathers, with a gold and silver pennant on the helm he had tucked under one arm. He braced, standing straight just inside the doorway.

Well, man? The king waved one ringed hand dramatically into the silence. You left Our court last spring, refused your invitation to Our princess’s birthday party, and now you burst in? What has your pants in a knot?

Shalee winced. Her drunken father would mock the hearth gods themselves should they appear in his throne room.

The envoy of Draedeaa bowed shallowly, his eyes fixed on the king in a wordless insult. By custom he should have dropped his gaze to the floor as he spoke to the king, loud enough for all in the room to hear, but instead he stared boldly. For your raids on our borders these last seven years, for your refusal to cease hostilities, for your brutal murder of our dragons and theft of our dragons’ eggs, Prince Vokhaan of Draedeaa has gained his father’s blessing to carry the banner of claw and wing to you.

Shalee stared at him. Then she cut her eyes toward the king. Was he saying what she thought he was…?

Her father gaped at the envoy too.

Jerking one shoulder insolently, the envoy clarified. King Aimonnfaro, Ipurra and Draedeaa are at war.

Roshianna, youngest princess of Ipurra, watched the declaration of war from the seldom-remembered second-floor balcony. Her lantern was dim, to keep her from being seen, and the balcony itself was half-sized, cramped, and dusty. Roshi had to stoop to get through the arches that served as doorways, even though she was the shortest in her family.

Her father the king had banned her from Shalee’s party, but Roshi was fourteen and a half now. At her next birthday, she would be old enough to be presented at her own birthday party, and the year after that, old enough to be married.

If her father said.

Roshi had wanted to see the dancing, so she drugged her nursemaid and sneaked out to the balconies. She had just settled into her perch, wearing her softest grays-- she couldn’t wait until her father told her she could finally wear royal black!-- tunic, pants, and slippers, with a dark gray blanket around her shoulders, when the Draedeaan envoy had spoken his bit about wing and claw and then declared their countries at war.

Silly, because even though there had been border skirmishes for years, they’d never been at war during her lifetime. Why would the Drades go to war? They were as stupid as their stupid religion, and their stupid envoy. The man would never have guessed it, but the littlest princess knew his biggest secret: he actually believed in the Draedeaan dragon-god.

Her father the king said there were no gods and he was always right.

The Drade envoy slipped back out the doors he’d come in while the Ipurran nobles all shouted at her father the king when they ought to be shouting at the envoy.

The entourage from Plinth were sneaking out of the dance room amid the chaos, so Roshi ran lightly along the balconies, ducking through doorways and kicking up dust, until she stood above the common room in the Plinthian suite. She hadn’t needed to run; their shouting carried. They spoke in their native tongue, trusting that no one would be able to understand them, but Roshi did.

She’d taught herself several languages, the better to eavesdrop on those who thought their words safe. Roshi liked secrets. They made her feel important.

Get the horses ready! the Plinthian prince commanded, sending three servants scuttling from the room. He sounded much smarter than he ever had in any of the public rooms, where he affected slow speech and stammering. War between the Draedeaans and the Ipurrans?

Draedeaa will be our new neighbor within a season, the prince’s companion declared sourly as he pulled saddlebags from the storage closets.

Melting ice! the prince swore, taking his own clothes from their hangers and rolling them tightly. Surely not.

That was an interesting secret, Roshi thought. The relationship between the men from far treeward where ice and snow thrived most of the year was much less servant and master and more friends than anyone else thought.

Of course they will, declared the prince.

Roshi snarled soundlessly. How dared he say the Drades would win the war? And within a season?

They’ve been preparing for a year, the prince continued, and Ipurra’s magic is limited to a concoction-making wizard while Draedeaa has--

Scuff. In her rage at their description of Ipurran magic as weak, Rosh accidentally scraped one slipper on the floor, but they wouldn’t notice.

Did you hear that?

They noticed. Roshi gritted her teeth so fiercely she thought they might hear them grind.

The prince and his companion stood up straight and scanned the ceiling and wall for intruders. If we were in Draedeaa-- the companion started, craning his neck and studying the shadows above the lanterns.

I know. The prince glared about one last time, then continued rolling their clothes. They did have clothes other than furs, she saw, but they’d worn their furs anyway, just to insult her family. But we’re not. I’m just glad they did us the courtesy of declaring war before Father pressured me into courting the Ipurran princess.

"She is interesting looking, ventured the companion, if you like your women dark. But did you seen how they treat her? He flung their furs haphazardly into the trunk. Allowing your insults, making her run the castle like she’s a half-blood servant girl? And she’s old."

That’s how they treat all their women. The prince smirked. But someone like her would do me no good for a wife.

Ipurrans, fah. They treat their women poorly and their commoners worse.

Roshi glared into the darkness. The Plinthians knew nothing about Ipurra. Shalee was doing her duty-- as she should-- to take care of her family, and commoners existed to serve royalty. That was what her father the king said, so it was law.

The stupid prince and his stupid companion lapsed into inane conversation, planning their journey out of the capital city, through the duchies of Forrestmist and Snowden, back to Plinth.

Good riddance.

Carefully this time, since they had better hearing than she’d thought, Roshi gathered herself and her blanket and made her way to the balconies of the Heliianva common room, only to see-- and hear-- more of the same chaos.

At least the servants were acting like servants, packing the two princesses’ and prince’s belongings while the siblings from the mountains far duskward squabbled with each other.

We ride at dawn, the older princess declared, looking like a tall flame in her beaded outfit. Shalee had said once that Heliianvans loved to show