Chapter Six

Ivel and Arie stood in shocked awe, staring at the dress that the Royal Event Planner had brought in. It was hanging over a hanger, hooked on the lip of her armoire. Dain had actually listened to her request.

The dress was a deep blue velvet with embroidery around the sleeves. There was an amazing girdle and neckpiece of worked metal. A network of metal knotwork swooped from the neck to the shoulders to form a graceful, yet imposing figure. The neckpiece was almost akin to a gorget, and would in no small terms made a statement to the entire council.  She wasn’t just going to sit back and allow them to take her crown.

Ivel helped her undress, throwing the dirty gown over a chair to be cleaned...or burned...later. The bath they had filled for her was slightly cold, but she gritted her teeth and sank into the water. Arie quickly scrubbed at her skin as Ivel poured scented oils into the water. As she stood, the droplets of water raced from her body back into the tub. Arie wrapped her in a towel and then set off to heat the curling tongs. Muirgen patted at her skin, goosebumps rising as the air to touched her skin. Bundled in her towel, she sat and tried to be patient as Arie separated her hair into several segments. Arie curled the pieces of hair and set them aside for Ivel to style. “Are you excited for the ball, your Highness?” Ivel asked. Muirgen smiled as she watched Ivel through the mirror. Ivel’s mouth was jerking upwards in a half-absent smile, her eyes dreamily staring at nothing as her hands twisted Muirgen’s hair into a plait.

“Not particularly,” Muirgen said quietly. Arie frowned, but made no comment as she handed another curl over to Ivel.

“I’ve always wanted to go to a ball,” Ivel sighed. “The food, the dancing, the dresses.” Muirgen watched in the mirror as Arie elbowed Ivel. Ivel jerked and stared at Arie, then nodded, putting her head down and returning her attention to her task. Muirgen lowered her eyes, staring at her cuticles. As a girl she had felt the same way. When had simple things like balls become so unbearable? How had she allowed the council to take so much power?

The servants helped her into her dress and seated her crown atop her hair. Muirgen stood before her mirror, rolling her shoulders back and straightening her spine. She was tall. Too tall for most men’s comfort, and had taken to slouching in order to compensate. But in this outfit that simply would not do.

The Dragon was waiting for her outside her rooms, dressed in a slightly finer outfit than his usual uniform for the ball, though it still had the dragon embroidered on each side of the collar.  He raised an eyebrow in grim amusement, “How do you think they’ll react?”

Muirgen grinned, much too satisfied with the thought, “No doubt someone will say something rude.”

Uthyr frowned, “It would be safer to just pretend to be the quiet queen they want you to be.”

She ground her teeth, the council’s eyes taunting her as they told her they’d negotiated her betrothal, “Not anymore. I’m done watching them toy with me.” The hall was full, the chairs and tables all pushed back against the wall to make room for dancing in the center of the room. Ladies were dressed in their finest, hoping for a dance with any of the remaining contestants. The contestants looked so different in their fine clothes, having shed the metal for silks and fine cottons. She stood a little straighter as the Dragon escorted her to her usual table.

She addressed the crowd, their eyes too wide as they took in her dress, “Only one more trial to attend, and then we shall have a new Dragon. Take this night to enjoy the food, drink, and music prepared. Let the feast begin!”

The servants entered the room, placing dishes on each table, hardly allowed to place them down before the attendants pounced. Muirgen ate her food quickly, knowing once the first contestant asked her to dance, she likely would not have another chance to eat before the food grew cold.

As she finished her first leg of lamb, Richard Beven approached. “Your majesty,” he said, bowing, his full head of dark hair flopping forward to shade his eyes, “May I have this next dance?” His tunic was oddly familiar, and she stared at it longer than she should have. Finally it clicked, his tunic was reminiscent of the undercoat worn by the Dragon. She raised her eyes back to his, her jaw tightening in irritation. Lord Beven had been the one to pay off Dain then, trying to get her into a fancy dress that would match the outfit he dressed his son in. Sending a message to all who attended that Richard Beven was the only clear choice for the title of Dragon. She turned her gaze to where Lord Beven sat, allowing herself a small smile and nod of the head before turning back to his son. It was a small win, but a win nonetheless.

“I would be honored,” she said, “Please make yourself comfortable until the next song begins.” He sat at their table, stiff and uncomfortable, as if not sure what to say. “I heard you finished first today,” she said, starting the conversation, “A very impressive feat.” Her stomach growled and she turned back to her plate.

“I pride myself on knowing my limitations. I knew if I started strong I would finish strong.” He paused, “It was close though, I must admit. If Evan Macklin hadn’t taken a wrong turn on the mountain as we searched for the Dragon, I would have come in second.”

She nodded, taking a scoop of boiled potatoes, “I also hear that you solved the puzzles very quickly. Are you fond of puzzles?” She focused on shoving the potatoes into her mouth as he pursed his lips in thought. She could hear her mother’s voice coaching her to be more ladylike. To savor each bite as though it was one’s last...not fill one’s mouth as though one was starving. She shoved the thought aside and shoveled in another two spoonfuls.

Finally Richard answered, “My brother often would use puzzles as a way of distracting me so he could escape with his friends while I was left behind. I learned very quickly that if I could not solve the puzzles fast enough, I would be left alone in my father’s devices. So no, I do not enjoy them, but I do practice them, even to this day.”

She raised her eyebrows, impressed, “It is beneficial to engage the mind with such things. It keeps it sharp and open to learning new things.”  She wiped her mouth on her napkin. “I must ask, what are your thoughts about me?”

“Your Majesty?” he asked, confused, standing and holding out a hand as the dance finished.

She took his hand, allowing him to lead her out onto the dance floor. “What are your thoughts about me? I’d like to know what impression I make on Lord Beven’s younger son.”

“I think the Queen’s first and only charge is to serve her people,” he said carefully. “But there are a great deal too many ideas about how best that is to be accomplished, and most of them are not easy choices to make.”

She nodded, pleased with the answer, though he had not exactly answered her question. He took her other hand, positioning them in line for the dance. As the music started, they dipped forward toward each other and then away, repeating the process until the steps changed and led them twirling away, she asked, “And what are your thoughts on the idea your father has constructed?”

He frowned, not pleased with the question. “I do not think marriage will solve the problem of the Northmen,” he allowed, “But I suppose it is better than doing nothing.” She nodded, allowing the dance to take them away without further questions. It hurt to know people thought so little of her. To tell them the truth was impossible, but still... When the dance finished, he bowed to her, “Thank you for the dance, your Majesty.” She inclined her head and he turned on his heel, returning to the table of his father and his very sour-looking brother.

“Your Majesty, may I have the next dance?” Evan Macklin asked and she turned her eyes to the contestant, forcing a smile to rise. He took her arm in his and situated them on the dance floor.

“Congratulations on your victory today,” she said studying his mop of bright orange hair and the splash of freckles across his cheeks.

He smiled, an open, honest act that completely reached his eyes. “I am honored to have made it this far,” he said as the dance began.

“You are from Lothian?” she asked.

He nodded, “This is my first time here. My brothers told me not to come, but I had to.”

“Why did they tell you not to come?”

He winked, “They wanted you all to themselves.” He flicked his eyes to a table full of burly, orange-haired warriors all silent and frowning at them.

She laughed, tipping her head back in amusement, “And yet here you are. Victory is the greatest revenge, is it not?” He smiled, nodding once more. He had an inner light that nothing seemed to have been able to diminish. “Your shores have been often hit upon by the Northmen,” she said, carefully breaching the uncomfortable subject, “What are your thoughts about the war?”

His smile faltered, a blush running across his features, “I…lost one who was close to me in a recent raid, your majesty.” He was silent for a moment, then said, “I do not pretend to know everything that is going on in this war, but I would follow the directives of my Queen.”

The song drew to a close and she laid a hand on his arm, “I have enjoyed our dance and conversation. You seem to be an honest, loyal man with a kind heart. So few are, and I value this highly.”

He smiled, blushing again, “Thank you, my lady, I am honored.” She watched as he walked toward his brothers, his back stiff as they glared at him. Rowan Gareth was leaning against a table, waiting for her to finish before he moved in. He cleared his throat and Muirgen smiled at him, holding out her hand in approval for him to dance with her. He took her hand in his own, and stared at his feet, barely able to look at her. For a moment she allowed him to badly lead her around the dance floor in silence. Then she asked, “I heard you showed great steadfastness and stamina during the last trial.”

“Yes.”

She raised an eyebrow. He was a man of very few words it seemed. “Tell me a little about yourself, as we have not had the pleasure of meeting before,” she requested, hoping to open up the conversation.

He looked intensely uncomfortable. “I have four sisters. I have trained to be a warrior of the Dragon since I was six. I enjoy the challenge this tournament brings.” Muirgen sighed. Getting him to have a conversation was more difficult than sparring with Uthyr.

“You have fought against the Northmen, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And how did you find them?”

“Alive, and then we killed them.”

Muirgen squinted up at him, trying to determine if he was serious. After several moments, she realized he was. “What did you think of them?” she clarified.

He cocked his head, “They are large and fierce. They do not fear death. Fiercely driven by something greater than a need for gold or land.” She nodded, even his curt speech showing that had good instincts. She excused herself at the end of the dance, grateful that the awkward moment was at last over.

Artair Ector waited for her a few steps away, calm and collected. “Your majesty,” he said, inclining his head slightly as she took his arm. “I must admit I do not know how to dance,” he said, coloring.

“I see...” she said, slightly disappointed.

His jaw worked and he bowed, “I am sorry to have to decline my dance.”

“Would you care for a brief stroll instead?” she offered. His dark brown eyes met her own, assessing her sincerity. Finally he nodded, and she led him out of the crowded hall and onto a balcony. A servant closed the doors after them, turning to guard the door from any who wished to join them.

“You are from Caer Gal?” she asked, making idle conversation even though she already knew the answer.

“I am, my lady,” he answered, tugging on his tunic. It was a fine tunic, but had seen many years of wear and was slightly too small on him. Obviously passed down from an older sibling or father. His boots too were worn, but rubbed clean.

“The Dragon tells me that you used a clever intellect while fighting,” she mentioned, hoping to learn more about the man who had made such an impact on her during their fight.

To his credit, he blushed, turning away, “I can only act with such intellect as I have been taught. Perhaps the others have not had the benefit of severe training in that regard.”

She nodded, smiling, “Tell me a little about this training you received.”

His eyes wandered to the trees below them, “I am a bastard, my lady. Lord Ector took me in as his own, trained me as he did his son, afforded me every comfort possible. But he was hard on me—pushing me to be better than I thought I could be.”

She smiled, laying a hand on top of his, “He must be very proud.”

He shrugged, “He might be, if I am chosen to be the Dragon. If not…well if not, perhaps then I need more training.” He looked pointedly at her, “You saw I barely made it through the first trial.”

She shrugged, “The Dragon needs to be a good warrior, yes, but there are other qualities I value more than sheer strength.” She tipped her head, “Tell me, Artair, why should I choose you as Dragon?”

He looked away, “Honestly, my lady, I am not sure I am the best candidate for the job. It is a hard line to walk—helping the kingdom and constantly being blamed for not doing enough. Do I have the skills to help our people? I do not know.”

Muirgen’s breath hitched and she had to remind herself to breathe. He understood their situation so well, “We all try the best we can,” she said quietly, “I need a Dragon who is willing to stand at my side and face the trials of this world with me.”

He frowned at her, for the first time really looking at her. “Forgive me for saying so, but you are more clever than they…than I expected. And you care more deeply than..” She smiled tightly though her stomach twisted in anger, feeling the whispers and judgement of her people press upon her. He straightened, suddenly remembering that he was speaking to the Queen.

“It was a pleasure getting to know you, Artair,” she said, turning to walk away, leaving him alone on the balcony. She took a goblet offered by a serving boy and took a deep gulp. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, and she hid the tremor of her fingers by clenching the goblet more fiercely. She took another swig. She didn’t know why his words had upset her so much. She knew what the people thought of her, it was nothing new. And yet...it was so very obvious that Artair had formed an opinion of her based off those murmurs.

Fen Drudyn was waiting for her, and she cut off the internal line of inquiry, focusing only on the next contestant. She set down the goblet and allowed herself to be swept into his arms, “Your sister, how is she?”

He smiled, “Very well, your majesty. She misses her childhood in the castle. And yourself of course.”

She smiled lightly, “I miss her too.” Life had been so much simpler then. “When the tournament started did you think you would get this far?” she asked, though she was distracted by Lord Beven as he argued with his son, his face getting more and more purple. But Richard stood his ground, calm in the face of his father’s anger. She jerked her attention back to Fen.

Fen shrugged, “I tried to keep my expectations low so I wouldn’t be too disappointed if I failed.”

“What do you think of forging an alliance with the Northmen?”

He frowned, “I think such thinking is flawed. Alliances do sometimes work, but I have little faith the Northmen would honor such an alliance.”

Muirgen nodded, as the dance ended, “Thank you for the company. Good luck tomorrow.” Though the feast was by no means finished, she turned and left the hall, the Dragon trailing behind her.

~~~~~

A/N: Thank you all who are reading! Muirgen has a really tough choice ahead of her. Five men, who each have different strengths. But none of them are Uthyr... Who would you choose?