The Dragon Sacrifice Read online

  “Seela!” Horace boomed the minute he saw her. Setting down his clever and the hunk of meat he was dividing, he wiped his hands on his bloody apron and bellied up to the other side of the counter. He was a bear of a man, well fed on meat and strong from slinging sides of beef all day. His blond beard and thatch of matching hair was full and thick. He was round-faced and pleasant, the type of person who smiled at everyone he passed on the street. “Just in time. I was about to close.”

  “Sorry to be so late. I was helping my mother tend to Mr. Whelp.”

  Horace’s face fell. “Ah yes. Poor old Mr. Whelp. To die on Festival is a bad omen. Then again, to die at all doesn’t bode well for the rest of your life expectancy.” He chuckled, his apron shaking around his barrel chest.

  She grinned, though laughter seemed impossible today. “Mum requests goat, if you have it.” She dug the coin out of her boot, then plinked it on the table.

  “Goat it will be. Tommas!” Horace bellowed behind him. A few moments later, a small, squat young man with a matching blond beard came rushing out from the back. He, too, was covered in splatters of animal blood.

  “Yes?” the boy asked, wiping hands on his already-soiled apron.

  “Goat. Our finest cut for the lady.”

  Seela smiled at Tommas and Horace. But as she met their eyes, she saw Horace’s cheerful expression fade.

  Boot thumped on the wooden floor behind her, making her freeze. Slowly, she turned around.

  The dark figure in the doorway was just a shadow as the light spilled in around his frame. He took another step inside, revealing himself. Shiny boots, a long, luxurious cloak in crushed velvet, and something silver gleaming on his lapel. A chill ran down Seela’s body like a stream of ice.

  The Bishop of Danbury stood in their butcher shop, appearing unamused and irritated. Seela recognized the man from the portrait in the king’s courthouse the one time they’d gone in an attempt to garner wages from a man who’d accidentally killed her father. The court fees had been more than the man had owed for an accidental death and they hadn’t recovered any coin, so it had been a lost venture.

  Now, staring up at one of the most powerful men in the country, Seela felt herself shrink under his gaze. His clothes were regal—shiny black boots of expensive leather. His tunic and pants, gray on bottom and a royal blue on the top, were made of the finest silk with not a speckle of mud to be found. His cape was clasped at the nape of his neck with a broach sporting the largest dorst gem she’d ever seen. His ring finger had a matching gem, slightly smaller, but just as eye-catching and expensive.

  The story about the bishop was he was a man of the cloth who delighted in doing the king’s most violent bidding. He was in charge of Selection, made appearances at beheadings, and he was the one the king sent to demand taxes from starving priories. His gaze felt like a trail of cold fingers as he turned first to her and then to Horace.

  “M’lord,” Horace stammered, coming around the counter toward the bishop. “To what do we owe the pleasure?” Horace bowed so low he nearly scraped his head on the floor.

  “I’m in need of meat for my men. Whatever you can spare. This should suffice.” The bishop dug out several gold coins, dropping them in Horace’s palm. The butcher’s eyes grew wide.

  “Yes, sire. This will suffice for sure.” Beaming, Horace strode into the back, bellowing for Tommas.

  “And who might you be?” the bishop said, turning to Seela.

  Was he speaking to her? A common peasant? Seela didn’t know how to answer. Should she bow or scrape? Following her first instinct, she simply stood where she was and answered his question. “I’m Seela of the Deep Forest.”

  “Deep Forest?” he asked, stepping closer. His eyes traced her body hungrily, and it made her want to draw her cloak around herself like a barrier, though she knew that would be rude. She stood stock-still like a deer in the sights of an archer, trying not to move.

  “You’re very lovely for a peasant girl.” His bushy eyebrows raised.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled, hating his backhanded compliment and the fact she had to thank him for it. She hated his trim little beard, his smell of talcum powder. She hated the way his steely eyes lingered on her breasts. Forget the goat—she wanted the hell out of the butcher shop.

  She took a step toward the door. He moved to close the gap between them, wedging himself between her and escape. His hand slipped around her waist, palm settling on her behind and giving it a squeeze.

  Hot breath smelling of onions pulsed against her neck. “I might just allow you into my tent tonight. What a lucky girl.” His tongue slithered up the length of her neck like an oiled snake.

  Her body reacted before her brain. Her knee went up, planting itself into his crotch as hard as she could. The bishop folded with an oomph, clutching his codpiece protectively. Angry eyes flashed up at her.

  What had she done?

  “You bitch,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Seela didn’t wait to see the consequences of her actions. She fled, running out of the shop and down the street.

  When she got to the safety of the trees, she stopped, clutching a trunk to catch her breath. Was he after her? There was no sign he was perusing her, though a man like that didn’t really need to give chase, did he? He could summon her mother and Seela to court, make them pay that way. Or he could send his knights to her house. She’d given him her name, a foolish thing. But would the slight be enough to warrant revenge? Maybe he’d be too embarrassed to explain why he was causing trouble for Seela. A man rebuffed might not want to admit a peasant girl had handed him his nuts in a sack.

  Seela smirked a little despite her circumstance. The look on his face…

  She rushed home, her cloak drawn around her, hiding her face as best she could. When she burst in the door, Mr. Whelp was gone, and her mother was busy setting the house to rights.

  “Back so soon?” Her mother glanced up, noting the fear on her daughter’s face immediately. “Everything okay?”

  Seela placed her cloak on the hook by the door. She set the door latch down, too, though that wouldn’t stop soldiers and their swords. “Mr. Whelp is gone, then?”

  “Gone and done. His mistress paid, thank the Lords. I was worried she wouldn’t since she wasn’t his wife.”

  “His wife didn’t want him,” Seela said smugly, going to the basin to wash. She could still feel the bishop’s hands on her skin and she wanted to douse her whole body, though there wasn’t time nor water.

  “What happened in the village?” her mother asked.

  Seela had no goat, nor fennel, and her coin was still in Horace’s hands. Should she tell her mother? It would do nothing to solve her predicament, and it would only cause her mother to worry. In the firelight, her mother looked haggard, grey hair limp and sagging from the bun at the top of her head. Bags hung under her normally bright hazel eyes. Eyes exactly like Seela’s.

  “Nothing happened. I ran into Mickey. They were drinking to Mr. Whelp in the tavern.”

  “And draining his kegs, no doubt.” Her mother put a kettle on the fire and then turned to her. “We have an hour before we have to be in the square. Would you like me to help you dress?”

  Seela sighed. The last thing she wanted to do was get dolled up for Selection and Festival, but it was compulsory. All valley folk were required to attend, or they’d be charged a steep fine and spend some time in jail.

  “I can dress myself, but I’ll ask you to braid my hair.”

  Her mother nodded, falling into the wooden chair beside the fire. “You can have the bedroom. Come out when you’re ready for me.”

  Seela slipped into the other room, then drew the curtain. It would be nice to have her mother’s deft fingers at the buttons on the back of her dress, but she could see her exhaustion. Plus, Seela wanted to be alone with her thoughts. She kept picturing the bishop’s face, his hands on her. He had power and wealth. A smart girl would have gone to his tent, plied him with her body, and sed
uced him. Seela had never been able to bring herself to do any of those things. She’d given many boys the knee-in-the-balls trick over the years. Now, they knew better than to lay hands on her.

  But not the bishop.

  She pushed thoughts of him out of her head, drawing the box with her Selection dress out from under the bed she and her mother shared. She’d worn it every year since she’d been eligible, three to be exact. And this would be her fourth at twenty years old. She was practically a spinster, an old maid. Soon, her marriage prospects would dry up. But Seela couldn’t bring herself to care.

  Pulling off her frock and wriggling down to her slip and undergarments, Seela shivered. The dress in the box was a corseted number, tight and constricting, that pinched her waist and thrust her breast to the heavens. She’d worn it for each Selection, then cleaned and stored it. Running her hands over the silk, over the golden dragon embroidered in a serpentine shape around one breast, Seela thought of the care it took to make such a dress. How much it cost. Every family with daughters saved up for years to buy their Selection dresses. How many hours had her father worked cutting down trees, or her mother at healing wounds? And for what?

  The clenched fist in her stomach was back. She was not going to be picked.

  She slipped the silk over her body, feeling it cling to every curve. The plunging neckline showed off more than she was used to and she tugged, trying to cover as much as she could. The dress was beautiful, a shimmering red, and she knew her dark hair and hazel eyes would flash against the hue.

  “Ready?” her mother called from behind the curtain. When she pushed it back, she gasped. “Oh Lords. Every year I forget how beautiful you look in this dress.”

  Seela blushed, feeling her mother’s fingers work on the corset strings and then attach the last of the buttons between her shoulder blades. Then she sat on the bed, careful not to wrinkle her skirt as her mother plaited her hair.

  “I wish we had a looking glass so you could see what I see,” her mother said, tears in her eyes. “Your father…”

  “Don’t get sappy,” Seela said, fighting her own tears. “The dress will be soiled, and I’ll come home smelling like mead and men by tomorrow morning.”

  “You know, this could be the night you meet the one.”

  “Or it could be the night I get my toes stepped on by every dance partner I meet. Are you ready?”

  Her mother nodded, grabbing her bag and leaving the bedroom to get their cloaks. Seela smoothed her dress, sighing as deeply as the corset would allow. Tonight would bring what it would bring. There was nothing to stop the march of fate.

  3

  The Bishop of Danbury was there when they arrived. Seela pulled her cloak tight over her head, ducking low in the crowd as they walked up. The good news was it was already twilight; the guttering torches only lit the dais and not the crowd of villagers. Easy to hide. Easy to avoid his horrid gaze.

  It was strange to see everyone gathered together quietly, something they only did once a year. Usually by this time, most of the villagers would be home in bed, with the rowdier ones getting tossed in the pub, songs blasting from the piano. Tonight, the piano was silent, as was the crowd. She knew every family with an unmarried daughter between the ages of sixteen and twenty-two had knots in their stomachs as big as the one in Seela’s belly right now. This was why mothers begged for boys. Why they cried when the pronouncement of “It’s a girl,” was thrust upon them by the midwife.

  But there were reassurances, too. Her town hadn’t had a daughter selected in seven years. Was it a good omen or a sign that their time had arrived? She thought of the painted rock the old woman had pressed into her palm. Reaching into her cloak pocket, she found it was still there. She ran her thumb along the smooth surface, finding it strangely soothing.

  As her eyes skimmed the faces around her, she spotted Mickey with his dockside friends. He nodded at her as their eyes met. His gaze seemed to relay assurances. She offered him a look of hope back. Later, she would meet up with him. Together, they’d enjoy Festival and the relief at another year gone by.

  Trumpets on the dais jolted her out of her thoughts. The Bishop of Danbury, flanked by armed soldiers, held up his hand to demand silence, even though he already had it. In the torchlight, he appeared viler, more sinister than in the light of day. As his eyes scanned the crowd, Seela could swear they locked on her, pinning her like a moth on a board.

  “Good ladies and gentlemen of the ninth valley village, it is my honor and privilege to preside over this year’s Selection. As you know, your king, long may he reign, thanks you for your sacrifice. The contribution you, and families like you, have made to our peaceful kingdom receives our highness’s utmost gratitude.”

  Seela bit her tongue, knowing full well the king didn’t give two thoughts to the maidens selected each year. She doubted he even knew their names. All he cared about was filling coffers. And keeping the monsters at bay.

  “We will keep our Selection brief. I know that many are anxious to partake in the banquet.” He gestured to the long table prepared on the far side of the square. Every year, the kingdom paid for a huge feast of food and ale. They touted it as an act of goodwill, but Seela knew it was a payoff—food for the town’s daughters. Some felt it was an even trade.

  The bishop pulled an envelope out of his trouser pockets. Seela marveled that such a huge thing could be contained on such a small sheet of parchment. For the last seven years, the sheet had been read, no maiden in their community had been selected, and the party began. She did remember the year a maiden had been taken from their midst. The shouting, the pushing. Her mother had shielded her eyes and turned her away.

  She watched in anticipation as the bishop opened the envelope and pulled out the sheet. Her mother grabbed Seela’s hand, squeezing it hard.

  The bishop cleared his throat. “The woman selected is… Seela of the Deep Forest.”

  Everything that happened after those words were read became a blur in Seela’s mind.

  Her mother let out a strangled cry. Several villagers gasped, and someone gripped her arm. Seela felt frozen. Her heartbeat was a drum in her chest, in her head, blocking out all other sound.

  What had he said? Had he just read her name?

  Her eyes darted to her crying mother’s face, to Mickey who was attempting to shove his way through the crowd, and to the soldiers who were making their way to her, swords drawn.

  Swords drawn? Would they hurt her? What was happening?

  The soldiers were there, hands on her wrist, urging her toward the dais. Her mother was screaming now, bashing her fists into the soldiers’ backs as other villagers tried to hold her back. Mickey was shouting, too, waving angrily at the guards. Seela wanted to tell them to stop, that it would all be okay, and not to get themselves hurt at her expense, but her throat had constricted. Her mouth was dry, and her head was spinning.

  She’d been selected. It was a realization of her greatest fear.

  “P-please,” was all she managed to say as the guards pulled her toward the stage and up the steps.

  There was the Bishop of Danbury.

  He pulled her close in what must’ve looked like a comforting embrace to the crowd. His lips brushed against her neck in a very familiar way. “You should’ve given yourself to me when you could,” he hissed. “Now, you see what happens to naughty girls who disobey their superiors.”

  Seela staggered back, and he let her go. She nearly fell off the back of the stage before a guard grabbed her arm and righted her. He held her in place as the bishop once again addressed the crowd.

  “We thank you so much for your sacrifice. Once again, please enjoy the king’s banquet.”

  Then he was turning, gesturing to his soldiers to hurry before the crowd’s anger grew. Already, it looked like they were about to revolt. Seela glanced her crying mother, then at Mickey on the ground, pinned by one of the king’s guard. She wanted to go to them, at least say goodbye, but the soldiers were dragging her along at
such a clip she nearly fell as her boot caught a stone in the path. All too soon, she was inside a carriage. The door slammed and locked. She felt it lurch into motion.

  They were taking her away.

  “Mama!” she cried. Coming unstuck, she clawed at the carriage door, but it was one made for criminals and thieves—solid wood, reinforced steel hinges, and formidable locks. She tore at the wood until her fingernails bleed. The desperation in her chest felt like a live thing eating her from the inside out.

  But the crying and screaming did nothing to stop the march of her carriage away from her village, her home, her mother.

  Before Selection, she had barred herself from thinking too much about what it would mean to be chosen. The kingdom had always been hush-hush on what exactly happened to the selected maidens, but everyone knew they never returned. Stories circulated that no one believed: they were gifted as wives to faraway princes, they went to work in the castle as handmaidens to the princesses and queen, they were elevated in court.

  But the stories most believed were much darker: they were dissected for science in the lab of the king’s doctor, or they were kept as sex slaves in the cellar for the king’s strange sexual fetishes. But one theory was currently the most popular.

  They were fed to monsters.

  No one knew if that were true. None of the women who were selected ever returned. It was a life sentence whatever it was. Seela figured if it had been any of the happy-ending scenarios, one of the girls would’ve written home about it.

  Putting her head in her hands, she cried. Not knowing felt almost worse than knowing.

  They rode for hours, no one stopping to talk to her or ask if she needed to relieve herself. The wooden seat was harsh on her behind, and the swaying carriage meant she could not get comfortable enough to sleep. She didn’t know how much time passed before the carriage came to a lurching halt.

  Seela sat up, the worry that had abated a bit picking right back up where it had left off.

  Outside, the horses rattled their halters and men’s voices called out to one another. Seela pressed her eye to the slit between the door and its frame only to surmise it was daylight now, but unable to pick out anything else. Soon, boots were heading her way, the lock was clinking, and the door creaking open.