Chapter Three

Ivel placed a small cold hand on Muirgen’s arm, shaking her awake. Muiregn frowned as her other servant, Arie pulled open the curtains and let in the pale light of the rising sun. The two girls were quiet in the morning as they went about their chores, starting the fire, laying out clothes for the day. Muirgen sat up and swung her feet over the side of the bed, lightly brushing the cold floor with her toes. She breathed in deeply, thankful for their calm, quiet routine. She knew she should be excited about the prospect of picking the next Dragon, but it was hard to remain excited when she thought about Uthyr stepping down.

Arie pushed and pulled Muirgen’s hair into a pile upon her head as Ivel handed her hairpins. Muirgen closed her eyes, lulled by the familiar task. Ivel and Arie had been her servants for years, helping her through the awkward transition from princess to queen.

As they helped her into a practical underdress Muirgen stared out the window, the leaves on the trees were changing ever so slightly, green bleeding into yellow, orange, and red. They laced her into a russet silk gown, laying a fur-lined surcoat over the top for extra warmth. “Where did this come from?” she asked, lifting the hem of the fine gown. It was much too fine to wear while watching men sweat and groan in the mud.

“New dresses were ordered last week, my Queen,” Ivel said, tugging at the laces. 

“By whom?” she asked, watching as the two girls eyed each other with apprehension. She almost never ordered new dresses; it was wasteful. A brisk knock at her door spurred the servants to help her into her shoes. As the door opened she asked again, “Who ordered the dresses?”

“The, the royal event planner, my lady,” Arie squeaked, eyes darting to Ivel and back to Muirgen, her freckles standing stark against her pale skin. “He gave us instructions on which you were to wear, on which days.” Muirgen pursed her lips in distaste. As if she were a doll to be dressed to please.

“Take them back,” she all but snarled before turning toward Uthyr. He raised an eyebrow at her tone. “The royal event planner. My offices. Now,” she commanded to one of the soldiers stationed at her door.  He nodded before rushing off.

“You’ll be late,” the Dragon warned, closing the door with a quiet click.

“So let me be late,” she grumbled glaring at herself in the mirror. A single curl had escaped from her forehead. She pushed it back in place, but it sprang stubbornly free. “They’re all there to impress me any way. They can impress me with their ability to wait, first.” She stalked through the open doorway from her bedroom into her offices and paced the floor until a knock at the door.  She set her jaw as the event planner and his flurry of attendants entered the room. “I hear I have you to thank for my new wardrobe,” she said, flourishing the gown’s hem slightly before letting it pool on the ground.

The man had the gall to beam at her, “I’m glad it pleases you, my Queen.”

“It does not,” she said, her lips pursed. “I have plenty of fine dresses. I do not need new ones in order to watch men wrestle in the mud for my favor. I am to choose them, not the other way around.”

“But my lady, as Queen you must radiate a certain figure to the people, to influence their thought of you,” he protested, sweat beading along his receding hairline.

“As Queen, I do believe it is my right to decide which figure I choose to portray,” she said with deadly calm. “The dresses will be returned. Auctioned, if they must, to whichever silly noblewoman wants to turn the heads of the warriors gathered here, but I. Do. Not. Am I understood?”

He was sweating now, realizing his overstep too late. “Yes, my Queen.”

“In fact,” she said, striding toward him, “I do have a figure I should like to present during the ball. Show my strength. Show that I am ready for war. Show that I am no child to be dressed and coddled. I am the Queen. And I alone rule this country.” The man gaped at her audacity. “I’ll hold you personally responsible if I am displeased,” she said, turning on her heel so her back was turned to him. She fingered an empty glass and then tore open the stopper and poured herself a drink. The man lingered for a moment, too shocked to move, but then she heard the hurried sounds of his retreat.

They walked in silence for a while before he deemed it safe to comment, “Was that necessary?”

Muirgen slipped her lip between her teeth and worked on it in anger. “One ball gown, perhaps, was his idea, but the rest? I can only imagine it is the council seeking to pass me off as unfit, too feminine. I will not yield.” She took a deep sip of the wine and set the glass down harder than she meant to. She grimaced as Ivel jumped.

He tipped his head in thought, his eyes carefully gauging her mood. “Seems unlike their usual style.”

“So does bartering my hand in marriage.” She rubbed a hand over her face. “I look ridiculous. Only a vain fool would wear this to the tournament.”

He shrugged. “The ladies when I competed were dressed in finery.”

She scoffed. “You also married one the day after you won!”

He smiled. “So I did.”

“Also, she didn’t have to climb into the pit to award the victors wreaths. I do.” She turned to Ivel, who kept her head bowed.  “I’ll have the blue wool dress, please,” she said, tugging at the ties of the fine silk dress as she crossed over the threshold into her room. Ivel nodded and ran to fetch the woolen dress as Arie closed the door connecting her room to her offices.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Dragon escorted her to the arena, which was specially decorated for the occasion. A crowd had gathered, the rows of seats filled, some had even chose to even stand when there was no longer any room.  But her seat, boxed off from the rest with even its own set of stairs, was blissfully empty. A quartet of trumpets took up the call that she had arrived, their bright call a signal for the entire arena to stand at attention.  Muirgen lifted the skirt of her dress, the soft ground of the arena not quite turning into mud, but just wet enough so clouds of dust wouldn’t rise during the event. She hurried to her box, so the first part of the tournament could begin.

The announcer jolted forward on his horse, lapping the arena once to the excited calls of the crowd. Then he stopped in front of Muirgen’s box, bowing in his seat, one hand pressed to his heart. “Ladies and Gentlemen, today 217 of our finest warriors will battle for the title of Dragon.” The crowd roared, and the announcer grinned, soaking in the admiration.  “You know their names—so cheer for them. Ladies, feel free to give your good luck charms—to me if you must,” he grinned again, a roguish call to the ladies, though his words were light and the crowd laughed. “Each entrant has been placed in a group of twenty-five men, for the first task is group combat!” Another cheer went up and Muirgen sighed as the Dragon squeezed her hand.

The contestants marched from a large doorway across the arena, five abreast, each group of twenty-five wearing a sash across their mail. Red, Green, Black, Blue, Yellow, White, Orange, and Brown. “To help judge this task is the Dragon himself!” the announcer cried, throwing a hand at her booth.  Uthyr stood, raising a hand in greeting to the crowd as he excused himself from the box and headed out onto the arena.

The announcer went on, “Each group will have a few moments to plan before they face the other team.” The contestants had gathered in groups, discussing while the announcer went on, “The Dragon will have the opportunity to examine each group—to see how each member acts in a team setting. Does the contestant step forward as leader, stay back as a reliable follower, plow ahead with their own ideas despite what other team members are saying? Each contestant has their own unique ways of fighting, but can they work together in a team to defeat the other teams? Now do not be worried, Ladies and Gentlemen,” the announcer said, trotting around the arena as the Dragon examined one group, then moved on to the next, “your brave warriors will not be disqualified should their teams lose. This is a test of individual skill. That being said each warrior will be evaluated by their strategy and ability to follow it as well as their performance on the field.”

He cast an irritated glance at the Dragon, only now making his way to the third group. Muirgen smirked, apparently he had expected the Dragon to be finished by the time he stopped speaking. “Now Ladies and Gentlemen,” he said, kicking his horse into action, “Let us send cheer to our brave warriors!” He raised cheers for each of the groups of knights, even pitting the crowd against each other in attempting to get the groups to out-cry the others. A servant brought Muirgen a plate of cold meat, cheese, grapes, and cider, which she gratefully snacked on while the Dragon finished going from group to group. The clouds above were gray, threatening rain. Muirgen pulled up the hood of her cloak more tightly, glad she had insisted upon changing.

When the Dragon nodded to the announcer, he shot forward on his horse as a servant brought forth two flags; one blue, one yellow. He planted the yellow on one end of the arena and galloped to the other where he planted the blue.  “Contestants take your places!” he called. “Ladies and Gentlemen, the blue and yellow teams will have several minutes to battle forward. The objective is to remove the other team’s flag. If a contestant is thrown down, more than a single knee or hand touching the ground, they will be removed from play.” The other teams had backed from the arena, standing patiently near the door they had entered while the blue and yellow teams slogged through the slightly wet earth to their sides of the arena. “The aim of the event is not to harm any another player, but remember Ladies and Gentlemen these are the country’s finest warriors and the stakes are, after all, high. We may yet see blood shine upon the field.” Muirgen pressed her lips in a thin line, displeased with the finale of his speech. 

The two groups were gathered, weapons drawn in wait. “Your Highness?” the announcer questioned, and Muirgen realized that he was waiting for her. She nodded, and he cried, “May the match begin!”

Muirgen watched as the groups threw themselves at each other, a mess of chainmail, dirt, and swords.  She tried to watch carefully, to see if any of the contestants were somehow above the rest, but it was so hard to tell. The matches did not take long, and soon each of the initial groups had battled each other, leaving tired, bloody, dirty warriors in their wake. Her feet and backside hurt—she was ready to disappear into the castle and roast her face before a warm fire.

The announcer did a lap around the stadium as the men reorganized into groups, standing at attention in the arena. “A round of applause for all the contestants, if you please!” the announcer shouted and the crowd did not disappoint, their enthusiasm untampered by the chill of the day and the likelihood that they could no longer feel their backsides. Muirgen certainly couldn’t feel hers. 

“The Dragon, having watched every moment of the competition will now set about removing the sashes from some of the contestants,” the announcer said and the crowd leaned forward in anticipation.  Uthyr strode forward, going from contestant to contestant, giving them a moment of consideration before either removing the warrior’s sash, or moving on. When he was done nearly half of the contestants were without sashes, and Muirgen sighed in relief.

“Well,” the announcer said, a little taken aback, “He was certainly more critical than we had expected, but that after all, is why he is the Dragon!” A small cry went up in reply, but it was obvious that many in the crowd were disappointed with the results. “Those without sashes may leave, their part in the tournament is now over,” the announcer cried, some already beginning to filter out the way they had come, “Those with sashes may take the next few hours to clean up, repair armor, patch wounds, eat, and rest, for tonight we have the second part of the first day’s events!” The Dragon had made his way back to Muirgen, and offered her his hand.  She took it and allowed him to lead her from the arena, the sound of trumpets announcing her departure.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Muirgen sat in her room, staring at the wall, trying to think, to find a way out of the corner she had been trapped in. She needed a new Dragon, yes, but after she got him, what then? She couldn’t go to the North. She could marry someone else, but after the council had phrased her pending engagement as a matter of stopping the attacks the people would certainly disapprove. She could refuse, but again it would seem a selfish act when she had pledged to keep her people safe with her every breath. Or she could go to war. No doubt that would end in misery. And then there was the bard with his cryptic messages, and ability to vanish into thin air. She rubbed her temples, irritated at her predicament. What would her mother do?

The Dragon entered the room, frowning as he felt her emotions. “Stop worrying, we have enough to deal with as it is.”

She turned her eyes to him. “What use is a Dragon when I have to walk into the lion’s den?”

“Are lions not afraid of dragons?” he quipped, his tone light, though she knew he was just as worried.

“I suppose they are.” He leaned against the wall, waiting for permission to move to the more pressing topic at hand. “What is it?”

He sighed. “I tried my best to eliminate as many as possible during the first round, but now I have fathers and sons trailing me demanding reasoning and a retrial.”

She ground her teeth together in irritation, “And what did you tell them?”

He shrugged. “I told them as Dragon it is my responsibility to choose the best warrior to replace me and that I do not have to answer to them.”

She groaned. “Uthyr…”

He grinned. “I’ve never been good at politics Muirgen. Your mother Igrene knew that, and so do you.” He paused, “I also told them that if they wanted a reason they could give their name to the Royal Event Planner and he would write a letter explaining their shortcomings.”

She groaned. “And how many have requested this?”

He pulled a bit of rolled parchment from his sleeve, “47.”

She glared at him. “Fourty-seven letters? Are you insane?”

He shrugged. “I was trying to be polite.” He glanced out the window, the sun still high in the sky, “Besides I thought you wanted to teach him a lesson.”

She frowned. But her bad mood dissipated slightly.