Shana Abe: Queen of Dragons

We dare to presume to be related to you and your people. Indeed, we hope to persuade you to visit our land and meet your distant kin. You would be entirely welcome. Or, should Your Grace permit, we might come to you. All we ask is your direction, and of course, your gracious consent.

On behalf of the Marquess and Marchioness of Langford and the members of our tribe, we remain, Your servants,

Kimber Ellery Darce Langford, Earl of Chasen, &

Council Members

3 October 1774

Gentle Lord, Members of the Council,

We ourselves are greatly pleased to find our English cousins. Although I will not repeat the word you found so distressing, I must relay to you that here in my land, what we are is well known. It is in the history of our fortress. It is in the folklore of the serfs.

I regret to inform you that travel at this time will be impossible. Since the death of my husband last year, there has been a slight unrest within the castle. It is nothing so very serious, merely enough to warrant all of my full attentions. Naturally there is a new prince for the throne, my brother, but as I am more skilled in these matters, it is my joy to supervise the hold until he is old enough to take command as he should.

Please convey my salutations to the Lady Amalia and her husband. Very truly,

Maricara of the Zaharen

February 23, 1775

Your Grace,

It grieves us to hear of any jeopardy or peril surrounding you. We offer our assistance in any manner you should desire. Without doubt you are a strong and capable ruler, but perhaps a widow alone, even a princess, would do well with a guard? We ourselves make use of such measures on occasion for our kind, and would be honored to offer any small skills we possess to you, and of course, your younger brother.

We may be ready in a matter of days, should you wish it. Your castle is in the northern Alps?

Chasen

Council Members

5 January 1776

Good Sirs,

I thank you for your kind and generous offer of assistance, but must firmly decline. Please do not come. Such strangers in the castle now will only invoke further unease. Although I am young in years, I assure you, I have my people well in hand. They understand who and what I am. We have only a few minor discontents, and very little bloodshed.

My gratitude for your concern.

The Princess Maricara

July 20, 1776

Your Royal Grace,

Forgive my boldness. If I might inquire: How old are you?

—Kimber

18 November 1777

Lord Chasen,

I have fifteen years.

—Maricara

In Session: Sir Rufus Booke; Calvin Acton; Theodore Henry; John Chapman; Tamlane Williams; Erik Sheehan; Adam Richards; Anton Larousse; Claude Grady; Devon Rickman; Kimber Langford, E.o.C.; Lord Rhys Langford

Without: Christoff, Marquess of Langford

[In the absence of the Marquess of Langford, eldest son Lord Chasen presides as Alpha]

The issue of the Zaharen drakon has been raised again. Renewed urgency at revelation of age of professed leader Her Grace the Princess Maricara. The question before the council has been raised [proposed: CG; seconded: AR] regarding the situation of HG Maricara.

Status: Widow

Status of Turn: Apparent Positive

Status of Dragon: Apparent Positive

Age: 15

[Due to continued nonappearance of Lady Amalia Langford and so-called husband Zane, all Apparents as yet unconfirmed.]

Motion made before the Council to form party to reconnaissance Zaharen drakon.

Motion made before the Council to appropriate Zaharen drakon/ resources.

Motion made before the Council to wed HG Maricara to Alpha heir Kimber Langford as soon as legally viable.

All motions passed.

It was a night without moon or stars, the clouds boiling heavy with dark, impending snow, masking not only the ruts of the road but also anything that might be hiding above. Anything lethal.

Fortunately, he didn't truly need to see to sense an aerial threat. He felt them occasionally, or thought he did: distant tremors in the air, never too close, usually so faint he half thought he was imagining it.

The cold seemed the greater threat, actually. He'd never known a spring night this frigid, not in his life, and wondered how the bloody hell anyone managed to live here. Springtime at home meant bright green crocuses and warmed streams splashing free of their ice—not this. Not this bitter, relentless chill that sliced through his greatcoat and froze to frost inside his mouth and nose.

His horse stumbled, pitching him forward in the saddle. He righted himself and tried to calm her with a hand to her neck, but the mare only shuddered at his touch. He pulled back again.

Riding horseback was never ideal. But he'd been unable to hire a coach to take him up these mountain roads, no matter how much he offered. No one wanted to venture here.

And that was good, he knew. It meant, finally, that he was close.

The mare skipped to a halt, sending him forward again. He swore under his breath, snapping the reins, but she would not move. When he used his spurs she tossed her head and reared; he held on with both hands, but she only went into a buck, panicked, squealing, and he realized suddenly that there was something ahead of them on the road, something that spooked her.

He lost his grip. He hit the ground and then lost his breath, managing a roll to his feet, swiping the mud from his eyes. The mare pounded off and the danger-sense grew and the skin crawled along his spine—he was already Turning, but it was cold, and he was winded. And it was too late.

Her morning began the way too many of her mornings did: with the wind blowing her hair in heavy ropes across her face, her body curled in a ball atop a loose mound of hay, her fists clenched. Even her toes clenched. She wore no clothing. Beneath the hay, the terrace floor was cold, cold—nearly as cold as the ice topping the mountains, just as glimmering, milky-pale stone hewn from the hills centuries past.

Her mouth tasted of ashes. Her hair smelled of smoke.

Maricara opened her eyes, then closed them again. The sky above loomed pink and scarlet-gold, domed with soft, glamorous clouds all rimmed in gilt. It was wildly beautiful and deeply inviting, a sky fit for a princess. Or at least a serf masquerading as one.

For an instant—a brief, wistful flicker of time—she pretended she was still asleep. In a bed. With pillows.

The wind stole her hair again, whipping it hard over her nose. Definitely woodsmoke.

Cautiously, she began to stretch. Fingers, toes, the warm tucked spaces of her body chilled at once as she flexed against the straw. Nothing broken. Some pain in her left hand, bruised knuckles. A cut along her belly.that could be a problem. A stomach wound meant she had either flown too low or reared up too high.

Mari sat up and explored the wound, sucking in air to dispel the pain. The edges were clean, razored, and not terribly deep—but it hurt. She'd have to wash it carefully; the last thing she needed was blood poisoning.

She climbed to her feet, brushing the loose twigs from her torso, bending down to get her legs. She shook back her hair and spoke to the open view before her.