The Dragon, The Dagger, and The Rose
The Heart of Uldara: Book I
Chapter 1
The weeks before her departure were not enough time to prepare a
kingdom to survive without her. It was, however, more than enough
time to embroider a wedding gown.
“Hold still, Your Highness,” the head seamstress warned through a mouthful
of pins.
Rosaleigh obediently lowered her arm and stepped back into place on the
fitting platform as three women hovered around her with measuring tapes
and silk. Across the room, Queen Dahlia argued with the embroidery master
over the train’s length, demanding darker sashes to minimize her daughter’s
silhouette.
Rosaleigh ignored the subtle critique of her waistline. She was tall, broadshouldered,
and soft through the hips—traits her mother had spent years
trying to tailor away, but traits Rosaleigh no longer had the energy to pretend
were flaws. Instead, her eyes wandered toward the trade report balanced
precariously on the settee.
The Salted Coast grain manifests were missing two barges. Before long, she
would cross the ocean to marry the Dragon King, but until then, Everspring’s
supply chain remained her responsibility.
You are a person before you are useful to a kingdom, Rosa. Eleanor’s ancient
counsel whispered in her mind as she stood pinned into cream silk.
Rosaleigh closed her eyes briefly, breathing through the tight lace. She was
leaving Everspring to settle a debt. But as she looked toward the windows
at the rain falling over Rosehollow, she smoothed the silver locket her
grandmother had given her, determined that when she met King Paxton
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THE DRAGON, THE DAGGER, AND THE ROSE
Bellroar, she would face him not as a timid sacrifice, but as a ruler in her own
right. The women began unpinning fabric. Rosaleigh said nothing. Neither
did Dahlia. They had all become very good at leaving sentences about Paxton
Bellroar unfinished.
The Dragon King had killed his father. That was the first thing everyone
knew about him. Not his age. Not the date of his coronation. Not his policies.
Not the trade reforms he enacted after taking the throne. Not even the
fact that Drakhar had prospered considerably under his rule. Ask almost
anyone in Rosehollow about King Paxton Bellroar and eventually, inevitably,
they would lower their voice and say: He killed his own father. Rosaleigh had
heard several versions. In one, Paxton challenged the old king in the throne
room and burned him alive before the entire Drakhari court. In another, he
transformed into a dragon and tore his father’s throat out. One particularly
inventive lady at dinner claimed Paxton had eaten the former king’s heart.
Rosaleigh doubted that one mostly because she had read the official Drakhari
report.
King Aeron Bellroar had died from injuries sustained during a formal
challenge for the throne. The report contained precisely three paragraphs. It
did not specify what those injuries were. That omission bothered Rosaleigh
considerably more than the heart-eating rumor. She had requested everything
Everspring possessed concerning Paxton Bellroar. The royal archives
had produced twelve volumes, forty-three diplomatic reports, six trade
assessments, nine military summaries, and several deeply unhelpful court
journals. Rosaleigh had read all of them. None agreed on what kind of man
she would marry. King Paxton was ruthless. King Paxton was disciplined.
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He had executed nobles who opposed him. He had pardoned soldiers who
fought against him. He had broken a rebellion in six days. He had personally
funded the reconstruction of the villages damaged during it. He despised
weakness. He protected children. He possessed a temper violent enough to
scorch stone. He was capable of transforming into a dragon more than one
hundred feet long. That particular fact had remained with Rosaleigh. One
hundred feet. She had measured the eastern ballroom. It was eighty-three. She
regretted doing that.
“Stop it.” Rosaleigh blinked. Bea was standing in front of her. The
seamstresses were gone. So was her mother. Rosaleigh looked around.
“When did everyone leave?”
“About the time you began staring into the middle distance like a widow in
a tragic painting.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.” Bea handed her a dressing gown.
Rosaleigh slipped her arms through it. “Thank you.”
“What were you thinking about?”
“Grain.” Bea stared. Rosaleigh tied the belt. “Paxton.”
“Ah.”
“And grain.”
“That I believe.”
Rosaleigh stepped down from the platform and immediately reached for
the abandoned report. Bea snatched it first.
“Bea.”
“No.”
“I need that.”
“You need lunch.”
“I ate breakfast.”
“You drank tea.”
“There was toast.”
“You gave the toast to the dog.”
Rosaleigh paused. “That was yesterday.”
“That was this morning.”
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THE DRAGON, THE DAGGER, AND THE ROSE
“Oh.”
Bea tucked the report behind her back.
Rosaleigh held out her hand. “Please.”
“No.”
“Bea.”
“Princess.”
Rosaleigh narrowed her eyes.
Bea smiled.
This was precisely why one was not supposed to befriend one’s lady’s maid.
There was insufficient respect.
“I need to verify the Saltmere manifests.”
“After lunch.”
“If the western shipment is actually short—”
“The kingdom will survive twenty minutes.”
Rosaleigh went still. Bea’s expression changed immediately. Neither of them
said anything. The kingdom would survive a few minutes, but would it survive
Rosaleigh leaving? That was the question she had been carefully avoiding.
Rosaleigh looked toward the windows. Rosehollow extended beneath Crown
Hill. From here, she could see the capital’s upper reaches—pale towers, green
roofs, church spires, garden squares, and the distant thread of the Silverwater
winding through the city. Farther beyond those rooftops, the Crownway
branched into roads connecting every province. Blossom Basin. The Emerald
Highlands. The Plum Hills. The Salted Coast. Six-point-eight million people.
Forty-two days. Rosaleigh rubbed her thumb over the scar crossing her right
palm. “I’ve prepared transition ledgers.” Bea sighed. “Of course you have.”
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“One for every ministry.”
“Rosaleigh.”
“I reorganized the pending petitions by urgency. Red ribbons are immediate,
gold within thirty days, green can wait until after harvest. The provincial
governors have summaries, the Chancellor has the reserve projections, and
the steward knows which canal gates require inspection before autumn rains.”
Bea stared at her. “Have you slept?”
“That is unrelated.”
“It is extremely related.”
Rosaleigh reached again for the report.
Bea moved it farther away.
“And,” Rosaleigh continued, “I asked Lord Marroway to send the Saltmere
manifests directly to the Treasury after I leave because Father doesn’t read
maritime reports unless someone summarizes—”
“Rosa.” Rosaleigh stopped. Only a few people were allowed to call her that.
Once, the number had been two. Now it was one. Bea stepped closer. “You
cannot write enough instructions to make them become you.”
Rosaleigh looked away. “I don’t want them to become me.”
“Don’t you?”
“No.” The lie sounded weak even to her. Bea softened. Rosaleigh lowered
herself onto the settee. “I don’t understand how they did it.”
“Did what?”
“Created the debt.” Her voice came out quieter than she intended. “I
watched everything.”
“You watched what they allowed you to see.”
“I should have noticed.”
“How?”
“There must have been something.”
“Your father hid private Crown accounts from you. Your mother used
creditors you didn’t know existed. They lied to you.” Rosaleigh flinched. Bea
noticed.
“You can say it,” Bea said.
“I know.”
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THE DRAGON, THE DAGGER, AND THE ROSE
“Then say it.”
Rosaleigh smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her dressing gown. “My
parents made mistakes.” Bea stared at her. “They’re my parents…”
“And?”
“And the king and queen.”
“That doesn’t make them incapable of lying.”
Rosaleigh looked at the report in Bea’s hand. “They’ll be responsible for
everything again.” There. The real fear. Bea sat beside her. Rosaleigh clasped
her hands. “Father won’t check the reserve forecasts. Mother won’t notice if
the hospital appropriations are late. The Chancellor is competent, but Father
dislikes being contradicted. The Blossom Basin irrigation negotiations aren’t
finished. The western retaining walls still need funding. There are vacancies
in the magistrates’ court, and the Plumwater dredging proposal has been
sitting on Father’s desk for eleven days because he doesn’t like the cost.”
“Which is?”
“Less than one-sixth of what Mother spent on the Midsummer masquerade.”
Bea’s mouth flattened. Rosaleigh rubbed her forehead. “I shouldn’t have said
that.”
“You absolutely should have.” Rosaleigh gave her a tired look. Bea sighed.
“What happens if something goes wrong?”
“I won’t be here.”
“I know.”
Rosaleigh looked at her. “The governors will write.”
“You’ll be in another kingdom.”
“I can still answer letters.”
“You’ll be marrying a dragon.”
“I am aware.”
“A dragon king.”
“Yes, Bea.”
“A dragon king who killed his father.” Rosaleigh’s hands tightened. Bea
grimaced. “Sorry.”
“No.” Rosaleigh stood. “No. Everyone else keeps stopping themselves from
saying it. I’d rather someone actually did.” Bea watched her carefully as
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Rosaleigh crossed toward the window. “He killed his father.”
“Yes.”
“And took the throne.”
“Yes.”
Rosaleigh folded her arms.
“The challenge was legal under Drakhari succession law. His father
accepted it. There were witnesses. Paxton was twenty-six. Whatever
happened between them had apparently been escalating for years.”
“You sound like you’re arguing a case.”
“I’m trying to understand.”
“Have you?”
“No.” Rosaleigh looked back over the city. “The records contradict one
another. Some say Aeron Bellroar was unstable near the end of his reign.
Others describe Paxton as ambitious. There were troop movements near the
western border. Grain reserves were falling. Several noble houses had begun
withdrawing support from the old king.”
Bea frowned. “You know all that?”
“I’ve had two days.”
“Most brides spend two days selecting flowers.”
“I selected flowers yesterday.”
“What did you choose?”
Rosaleigh paused. “I don’t remember.” Bea stared at her. Rosaleigh sighed.
“White peonies.”
“You hate white peonies.”
“They’re traditional.”
“Your grandmother will haunt you.”
The corner of Rosaleigh’s mouth twitched. “Probably.”
Bea stepped up beside her. “Are you frightened?”
Rosaleigh’s first instinct was no. The word almost escaped. She stopped
it. Eleanor would have called that progress. “Yes.” Bea’s expression relaxed.
Rosaleigh stared out over Everspring. “I don’t know him. I don’t know what
makes him angry. I don’t know what he expects from a wife.” Her cheeks
warmed despite herself. That particular question had acquired increasingly
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THE DRAGON, THE DAGGER, AND THE ROSE
uncomfortable dimensions the closer the wedding came. She pushed onward.
“Drakhar is different. Their court is different. Their laws are different. Their
people are different. Their king can become a creature large enough to
destroy this wing of the palace.”
“Comforting image.”
“I measured.”
“You what?”
“The ballroom.” Bea slowly turned toward her. Rosaleigh immediately
regretted speaking. “The eastern ballroom is eighty-three feet long.”
“Why do you know that?”
“I wanted context.”
“Context for what?”
“His dragon.” There was a pause. Then Bea covered her face.
“Oh, Rosa.”
“It was a reasonable exercise.”
“You measured a ballroom to imagine how large your future husband’s
dragon is.”
“I already had the measurements.”
“That does not improve this.” Rosaleigh began laughing. She couldn’t help
it. It started as an anxious sound and became something warmer. Bea laughed
too. For perhaps half a minute, Rosaleigh was not the heir to a kingdom, a
diplomatic bride, or the future wife of a rumored patricide. She was simply
twenty-five, frightened, and laughing with her best friend. Then someone
knocked. The moment ended. “Enter.” A footman entered. “Your Highness,
His Majesty requests your presence in the council chamber.”
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The first of those weeks vanished into handovers. Rosaleigh spent it buried
in transition ledgers, provincial summaries, and the slow, grinding work
of teaching a government to function without the person who had quietly
been holding it together. She did not sleep enough. She ate standing up. Bea
began hiding reports the way other people hid sweets. Rosaleigh straightened.
“What is it?”
“The delegation from Blossom Basin arrived early.” Rosaleigh closed her
eyes. The irrigation negotiations. Her father had forgotten.
“Tell them I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” The footman bowed. Bea handed
her the grain report. Rosaleigh accepted it. Neither commented on the
surrender.
“Lunch.”
“I’ll eat during council.”
“You cannot eat stew during council.”
“Bread, then.”
Bea pointed at her. “I am holding you to that.”
The meeting lasted three hours. King Edmund spoke for approximately
twenty minutes. Rosaleigh handled the remaining two hours and forty
minutes. Lady Marigold Loveday had arrived from Blossom Basin with two
irrigation commissioners, a grain warden, and the expression of a woman
who had been ignored for too long. “The eastern channels cannot support
another expansion,” she said. Rosaleigh nodded. “I agree.” Her father glanced
at her. Lady Marigold paused. “You do?”
“Yes. The Water Office’s projections assumed average spring rainfall. We’ve
had three consecutive above-average years. The overflow is hiding the
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THE DRAGON, THE DAGGER, AND THE ROSE
capacity problem.”
One commissioner leaned forward. “Exactly.”
Rosaleigh pushed a map across the table. “If we reinforce the southern
reservoir and redirect these three channels, we can reduce pressure on the
eastern system without taking water from Wheatmere.”
Lady Marigold studied it. “This would require Crown funding.”
“Yes.”
Her father cleared his throat. “The treasury is under certain constraints at
present.”
Rosaleigh did not look at him. “The Crown can fund forty percent this
year.”
“Rosaleigh—”
She continued. “The Basin contributes twenty percent through its existing
infrastructure levy. The remaining forty percent can be divided across three
years, provided the crown suspends the eastern road toll on construction
materials.”
Lady Marigold’s eyes lifted. “That would be acceptable.”
Her father looked annoyed. It was, Rosaleigh thought, an excellent
expression for a man whose kingdom she was saving while preparing to
leave it. She folded her hands. “Then we have an agreement.”
Lady Marigold smiled. “Assuming His Majesty approves.” Everyone looked
toward Edmund. The king glanced around the table. Then smiled as though
the solution had been his all along. “Of course.” Rosaleigh looked down at
the map. Forty-two days.
By sunset, they had drafted the agreement. By dinner, Rosaleigh had
reviewed the Saltmere manifests. Storms. The missing grain barges were
merely late. By nine, she had answered seven letters. By ten, she was alone in
the royal library with Dynastic Conflicts of Drakhar: The Bellroar Succession
open before her. A cup of tea cooled beside her. Rosaleigh read the same
paragraph four times.
—
On the fourteenth day of Ashwane, Prince Paxton Bellroar invoked the
Rite of Ashen Claim before the assembled court. King Aeron accepted. The
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confrontation concluded before sunset. Prince Paxton emerged victorious.
King Aeron succumbed to his wounds shortly thereafter.
—
Shortly thereafter. Such polite words. Rosaleigh turned the page. Nothing.
The historian moved immediately into Paxton’s coronation. She leaned back.
“What did you do?” The painted portrait opposite her did not answer. It
wasn’t even Paxton. It was some long-dead Everspring king with unfortunate
eyebrows. Rosaleigh rubbed her eyes. She had found one portrait of Paxton.
Someone had painted it three years earlier, during a diplomatic summit. He
was enormous. That had been her first thought. Even seated, he looked too
large for the chair beneath him. Black hair. Bronze skin. Broad shoulders
beneath formal black-and-gold clothing. A severe mouth. Grey eyes with a
ring of gold around the pupils. The artist had captured no smile. Perhaps
Paxton disliked portraits. Rosaleigh could sympathize. She had stared at his
painted face for an embarrassingly long time. Not because he was handsome.
He was. Infuriatingly so. But because she had been trying to find cruelty. She
hadn’t. That meant nothing. Paintings lied. Rosaleigh knew that better than
most. Her own portraits had been lying about her waist for fifteen years.
As she shut the book, a folded paper slipped from between the pages.
Rosaleigh frowned. It bore Everspring’s diplomatic archive seal. A private
memorandum. Not official. Ambassador Ellery Rafter wrote it nine years
earlier, after returning from Drakhar. Rosaleigh unfolded it.
—
Prince Paxton remains difficult to assess. He is neither charming nor
interested in appearing so. He speaks little during council but appears to miss
nothing. His soldiers fear disappointing him more than they fear punishment.
His father appears to dislike him intensely. Rosaleigh continued.
Of particular note: during my stay, a mine collapse occurred in the
Obsidian Reach. The prince departed court immediately despite King Aeron’s
objections and remained at the site for three days. Forty-two miners were
recovered alive. Eleven bodies were retrieved. Prince Paxton personally
remained until the last was accounted for.
—
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Rosaleigh stopped. She read it again. Then the final line.
—
I would not describe the prince as kind. I am no longer certain that kindness
and goodness are identical things.
—
Rosaleigh sat very still. Outside the library windows, Rosehollow rested
beneath moonlight. She thought about a young dragon prince standing beside
a collapsed mine. Forty-two living miners. Eleven dead. Three days. She
thought about a son challenging his father. It changed nothing. A ruthless
man could save miners. A good man could kill his father. People were
inconvenient that way. But for the first time since learning Paxton Bellroar’s
name would soon become attached to hers, Rosaleigh felt something other
than fear. Curiosity. She tucked the memorandum back into the book. Then
reached for her tea. Cold, Rosaleigh drank it anyway.
She crossed to her writing desk. There, beneath provincial reports and
wedding correspondence, lay a single sheet of cream parchment. She had
been avoiding it since morning. The seal stamped into the wax was black,
a dragon’s head impressed in gold. Drakhar. Rosaleigh sat. The letter had
arrived directly from the Black Crown Palace. Not from a minister. Not
from an ambassador. From him. Her future husband.
She broke the seal. The handwriting inside was surprisingly clean.
—
Princess Rosaleigh,
—
She stopped.
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Her heart began beating faster.
Ridiculous.
It was ink.
She continued.
—
I have been informed that Everspring intends to send your household ahead
of you. I have instructed my steward to make whatever accommodations
they require. No member of your personal staff will be dismissed or replaced
without your approval.
—
Rosaleigh blinked. She read the sentence again. Her staff. Her approval.
She continued.
—
Your rooms are being prepared in the eastern royal wing. If there are
furnishings, books, plants, animals, foods, or other comforts you wish brought
from Everspring, send the list directly to my household rather than troubling
yourself with diplomatic channels.
—
That was… considerate. Unexpectedly considerate. Rosaleigh read on.
—
I understand this arrangement was reached under circumstances neither
of us selected. I will not insult you by pretending otherwise.
—
Her breath caught.
—
Neither your title nor your dignity will diminish when you cross into
Drakhar. You will be respected as both Princess of Everspring and my future
wife. Drakhar will not demand that you surrender your customs merely
because you cross its border.
—
Rosaleigh’s fingers clenched around the page. Then she reached the final
paragraph.
—
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There are many stories told about me in your kingdom. Some are true.
Most are exaggerated. A few are disappointingly unimaginative.
—
Rosaleigh stared. Was that humor? From the terrifying Dragon King?
—
You may ask me about any of them when we meet. I would prefer you judge
me by my answers rather than another man’s rumors.
Paxton Bellroar
King of Drakhar
—
Rosaleigh remained motionless. Then, despite herself, her eyes returned to
one sentence. A few are disappointingly unimaginative. A cackle escaped her.
Small. Startled. Completely inappropriate. Rosaleigh covered her mouth.
“Oh, no.” This was worse. She had been prepared for a monster. Monsters
were simple. A cold, ruthless king who murdered his father and expected
obedience from a purchased human bride—Rosaleigh could prepare for that.
She could become polite enough. Quiet enough. Useful enough. She could
learn his preferences, avoid his temper, fulfill her obligations, and find some
corner of Drakhar where she could continue helping people without drawing
attention. But a man who ensured her servants could remain with her? A man
who asked what would make her comfortable? A man who acknowledged
she had not chosen this either? A man who invited her to ask him whether
he had killed his father? Rosaleigh looked down at the black dragon seal.
For the first time, Paxton Bellroar seemed somewhat less like a fable
whispered in Rosehollow drawing rooms. He felt like a man. And men
were considerably more complicated than monsters. Rosaleigh folded the
letter meticulously. Then unfolded it. Then read it again. One day. She still
had transition ledgers to finish. A hospital appropriation to secure before
her father discovered how much it cost. Trunks to pack. More, if Bea lost the
argument about the books. And well beyond Everspring’s green mountains,
a dragon was waiting to marry her.
Rosaleigh pressed Paxton’s letter flat against the desk. She was still afraid.
Of Drakhar. Of marriage. Of leaving. Of what would happen to Everspring
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after she was gone. And yes, of the man who had killed his own father and
taken his crown. However, beneath the fear, something unfamiliar had begun
to take root. Not hope. Rosaleigh was not foolish enough to call it hope.
Not yet. Curiosity, perhaps. She reached for a clean sheet of parchment and
dipped her pen into the ink.
—
Your Majesty,
—
Rosaleigh stopped. Too formal? No. They had never met. She would not
begin their marriage with Dear Paxton like some breathless heroine in one of
the dreadful court romances Bea occasionally smuggled into her room. She
continued.
—
Thank you for your letter and for the consideration you have shown toward
my household. Learning that my attendants may remain with me has relieved
one of my greater concerns pertaining to the journey. Several have served
me for many years, and I would be grateful to retain them upon my arrival.
—
Rosaleigh read it. Grateful. Too grateful? Why did writing to one man feel
more difficult than negotiating irrigation rights between three provincial
councils? She dipped the pen again.
—
I will have my household steward forward the appropriate list tomorrow. I
do not require anything particularly extravagant. Most of what I intend to
bring consists of clothing, personal belongings, several plants, and books.
—
She paused. Then added:
—
I should apologize in advance for the books. There are far more than could
be described as a small collection.
—
Rosaleigh’s mouth twitched. That sounded like her. Was that a joke?
Perhaps she had lost her mind. She nearly crossed it out. Then remembered
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his disappointingly unimaginative rumors and left it. Her pen lingered
again. There were so many things she wanted to know. What would the
Drakhari court expect of her? Would she have an independent household
budget? Would she be permitted to correspond freely with Everspring?
Would Drakhar expect her to abandon the Cycle of Seasons? Were human
physicians available at court? Rosaleigh began with the least dangerous.
—
As I have not previously visited Drakhar, I would also be grateful for any
guidance you believe useful regarding your court and its customs. I have
been studying what records are available to me. However, I am increasingly
aware that Everspring’s archives were written largely by humans attempting
to describe a culture from the outside. I would prefer not to arrive believing
misconceptions simply because they have been repeated often enough to
become accepted as fact.
—
She reread the sentence. Her eyes drifted to Paxton’s letter. There are many
stories told about me in your kingdom. Rosaleigh slowly lowered the pen. He had
invited the question. Still, asking a man whether he had murdered his father
seemed an unusually aggressive beginning to a courtship. Though being
exchanged to settle one’s parents’ debts was not an especially conventional
courtship either. Rosaleigh pressed her lips together. Then wrote.
—
You mentioned the stories told about you in Everspring and invited me
to ask about them. I hope you will forgive me for accepting that invitation
sooner rather than later.
—
Her pulse quickened. The story repeated most frequently here concerns your
father. Rosaleigh stared at the sentence. No lightning struck the palace. No
dragon appeared at the window. Encouraging.
—
Our official records state that you invoked the Rite of Ashen Claim, that
King Aeron accepted your challenge, and that he died of injuries sustained
during it. They explain very little beyond those facts.
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—
She stopped. This mattered.
—
I do not ask because I believe myself entitled to memories you would prefer
remain private, nor do I expect you to justify every decision of your past to a
woman you have never met.
—
Rosaleigh continued.
—
However, I would be dishonest if I pretended the story had not frightened
me.
—
She sat very still. Frightened. The truth looked remarkably vulnerable in ink.
Her mother would tell her never to write such a thing. Never tell a powerful
man where you were vulnerable. Never reveal uncertainty. Never provide
another person with a weapon. Eleanor would have asked whether Rosaleigh
wanted a marriage built upon careful lies. Rosaleigh continued.
—
I am preparing to leave the only kingdom I have ever known and enter
a marriage neither of us appears to have sought. I know very little about
the man who will become my husband beyond diplomatic records, military
reports, and accounts whispered by people who have never met him.
Some describe you as ruthless. Others call you disciplined. A few appear
convinced you routinely burn people alive for minor inconveniences, though
I suspect relations between our kingdoms would be considerably worse if
that were true.
—
Rosaleigh froze. Then covered her mouth. She had absolutely written that.
She should remove it. She reached for the blotting paper. Stopped. Read it
again. A laugh threatened. Oh, Eleanor would have loved this. Rosaleigh left
it.
—
I would therefore rather hear the truth from you. Not the version
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Everspring fears, nor the version Drakhar’s court may prefer remembered.
Yours.
—
Her fingers tightened around the pen. Then she added:
—
You need not answer by letter if you would prefer to speak of it when we
meet.
—
Fair. Now for the question that frightened her almost as much.
—
There is also a practical matter I hope you will permit me to clarify ahead
of my arrival.
—
Practical matters. Safer.
—
While my father remains sovereign, I have spent several years assisting with
provincial administration, food reserves, hospitals, infrastructure, and trade
correspondence. There are matters currently in progress that may necessitate
clarification after I leave.
—
Assisting. Rosaleigh looked at the word. It was technically true. She
supposed.
—
I do not intend to allow Everspring’s affairs to interfere with my responsibilities
in Drakhar, nor would I presume that becoming your wife gives me the
right to conduct another kingdom’s government from your palace. However,
I would like to know whether you object to my maintaining correspondence
with Everspring’s governors, charitable institutions, and ministries should
questions arise regarding work begun prior to my departure.
—
Her heart thudded. This mattered. Perhaps more than anything else she
had written. If King Bellroar said no— Rosaleigh swallowed. She would still
marry him. The treaties were signed. The debt would disappear. Everspring
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would be protected. She knew that already. She finished carefully.
—
I realize these are perhaps unusual questions to include in a first letter to
one’s intended husband. Unfortunately, I have very little experience being an
intended wife and considerably more experience preparing administrative
transitions, so I fear you have received the version of me best equipped for
the situation.
—
She smiled lightly. Then added:
—
Thank you again for writing to me personally. Whatever circumstances
produced this marriage, I would prefer that we begin it by speaking honestly
to one another.
I hope that is something you desire as well.
—
Rosaleigh hesitated over the closing.
—
With respect,
Too distant.
Sincerely,
Too commercial.
Yours—
Absolutely not. Her cheeks went hot. She scratched it out so violently the
nib nearly tore the parchment. Finally, she settled upon:
—
Until we meet,
Rosaleigh Elowen Ivymoore
Princess of Everspring
—
Rosaleigh placed the pen down. She read the entire letter once. Then
twice. By the third reading, she had identified eleven phrases she wanted to
change, four sentences which might be interpreted badly, and at least one
joke her mother would consider deeply inappropriate. She folded it before
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she could ruin it. Wax melted beneath the small flame on her desk. Rosaleigh
pressed the golden peony of House Ivymoore into deep green wax. She
held the finished letter for a moment. Paxton Bellroar would read this. The
Dragon King. The man who had killed his father. The man who might be
cold. Who might be ruthless. Who had nevertheless thought to ask whether
his unwilling bride wanted to bring her plants. Rosaleigh ran her thumb
across the hardened seal. Then she rang for a servant. When the footman
arrived, Rosaleigh held out the letter. “This is to be sent directly to King
Paxton Bellroar. Not through my father’s diplomatic office.” The young man
wavered only briefly.
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“And I want confirmation when it has entered the Drakhari courier line.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” He took it. Rosaleigh’s fingers stayed on the
parchment a heartbeat too long. Then she let go. The footman bowed and
left. The door clicked shut. Rosaleigh stared at it. There. Done.
Somewhere in the coming days, the most feared man in Uldara would
open a letter in which his future wife had essentially asked whether he truly
killed his father, requested permission to continue corresponding with half of
Everspring’s government, apologized for the quantity of books she intended
to bring, and lightly accused him of possibly incinerating inconvenient people.
Rosaleigh covered her face with both hands. “What have I done?” Her
grandmother’s voice seemed to answer from eight years away. Something
interesting, Rosa. Rosaleigh lowered her hands. The remaining weeks blurred
into administrative handovers, late-night ledger reviews, and endless fittings.
His reply arrived before long, carried by peryton courier. Brief, dry, and
surprisingly reassuring regarding her correspondence rights. She had read it
three times, then written back. His second letter reached her the morning
they left. She was still composing an answer when the carriage pulled through
the palace gates. Over the next five weeks, the transition files were completed,
the ministries briefed, and the final trunks strapped shut. One day remained
before she would leave Everspring.