Dragon Princess Read online

  Dragon Princess

  By Jason P. Crawford

  Cover Art by James T. Johnson

  Cover Design by Cherrie L. Newman

  Copyright 2014 Jason P. Crawford

  Smashwords Edition

  An Epitome Press Book

  This book is available in print at most online retailers.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  About the Author

  About the Artist

  Chapter One

  The morning sunlight danced, warm on Amalia’s face. Birds twittered and chirped, their music looping through the air as they flew in celebration of the new day. She brushed a strand of her hair back behind her ear.

  It must be lovely, seeing the land from on high like they do. She sighed, fingertips lingering over the scarred flesh where eyes once were. Or seeing it at all, I suppose.

  The insistent murmur of her instructor’s voice sharpened, resolving into syllables and words as her attention refocused upon it.

  “…important to remember that it is custom for you to greet the Queens, Princes, and Princesses while your father speaks to the lesser Kings.”

  “Why?” An insect crawled up onto her finger, its legs tickling her skin; she brought it up to her face and blew it away.

  Gorman sputtered to a stop, his train of thought losing steam. “I’m…I’m sorry, Your Highness. What do you mean, ‘Why?’”

  “Why does my father speak to the Kings while I talk to the others?” She laid back on the grass, enjoying the prickling on her skin through her gown. “What if I decide to talk to one of the Kings?”

  The sound of shuffling papers reached her ears. “As I’ve said before, Your Highness, you are the High Princess, equal in rank to any of the lesser monarchs. It’s simply custom that your father—”

  “But I’ve heard everything that they have to say.” Amalia sat up and curled her legs underneath her body. “How many times do I have to endure Thedia rambling on about the latest fashion to fill her closets, or Prince Harne’s odious aroma?” She exaggerated a shudder. “I swear, ‘tis like being buried under a pile of week-old garments that still await the washer’s attentions.”

  Gorman coughed, his words stuttering as he fought to suppress laughter. “Be that as it may, Your Highness, there are expectations, protocols that bind our society together.” His steps quickened, and he paced back and forth a few yards away from her. “Since your great-grandfather united the continent under his leadership, Aetheria has had to maintain a delicate balance between authority and allowing the vassal kingdoms to govern themselves.” He sat beside her, his gravel tones on her left, the odor of his sweat – familiar but not unpleasant – mixing with the roses on the wind.

  “Yes, yes.” She ran her fingers through the grass. “I know, Gorman. We’ve been through this, over and over, for years. Have I ever failed Aetheria at this Festival, or any other?”

  The sound of footsteps on the nearby flagstone path sounded in Amalia’s ears, and she turned her head toward it. “Have I, Father?”

  “Not once. Although I’ve given you plenty of opportunity to, with my own mistakes.” His voice was warm, full of amusement. “Gorman, I think my daughter has progressed past this point of her education. We should be focusing more on current affairs of state rather than protocols and manners.”

  A pause.

  “Do you disagree?”

  “Of course not, Your Majesty.” Gorman’s clothes shuffled as he stood. “With your leave, then, I will take some time to prepare new lessons for the Princess. I will need to speak with the Chancellor and Ministers, schedule appointments for discussions—”

  “Fine. Do what you need to do.” A few seconds more passed before Gorman’s footsteps, lighter and quicker than the High King’s, returned toward the palace on the flagstone path. Amalia’s father stepped closer, then sat down beside her on the lawn.

  “How did you know it was me?”

  Amalia laughed. “The buckles in your boots, of course. Well, that and your military march. You still walk like the Knight-Commander does, except you’re a bit heavier in your steps.”

  King Marcus laughed, deep and rich. “Is that your way of insinuating that I’ve been enjoying Emile’s currant cookies and cakes too often?”

  “Of course not.” She raised her brow. “If you’re feeling that way, then it must be a guilty conscience. You could just as easily have said you were carrying a load of logs to help out the servants and that’s why your steps were heavy.”

  “You would have known the difference.” Marcus sighed. “I wouldn’t…” A pause. “Is it terrible of me that, sometimes, I find myself forgetting about the accident? Because of how you’ve grown, how you’ve overcome it?”

  “I…I don’t think about it often.” The praise fell heavy in her ears and in her heart, but she forced cheerfulness into her words as she stood. “But I suppose it was a blessing in some ways.”

  The King stood as well. “Such as?”

  “I never have to wonder about my wardrobe.” She tried on a crooked smile. “I’ve long given up worrying about whether Sarai is lying to me or not about if my clothes match.”

  Without warning, Marcus swept his daughter in a hug. His shirt’s embroidery contrasted with the silk, rough patches mixed in with smooth pressing on her cheek. “You are my joy, Amalia. Don’t forget that.”

  She pushed away from him. “Do you have to do that? It’s hardly becoming of a King, you know.”

  He laughed, releasing her and tousling her hair. “Perhaps not, but I’m a father as well as a King.”

  She stepped back. “The day’s lessons are over and I have no appointments. Do you have need of me?”

  “Not today. Don’t forget about the—”

  “The festival planning. The gown fitting and the rest. I shan’t.” Amalia dipped in a curtsy. “Although I don’t know how much I could have possibly grown since the last one.”

  She heard her father swallow, and, when he spoke, his voice was thick. “Take care of yourself, my dear. Don’t wander too far.”

  Amalia turned, feeling her dress spiral out from her legs, exposing them to a brief breeze. “Of course not, Father. Besides, I won’t be alone.”

  With that, she lifted her face. “Marchen! Marchen!”

  A joyful bark, then the sound of four feet tearing through the grass toward her. She knelt down just as the animal jumped up, landing in her arms and almost knocking her over again.

  “Good boy, good boy!” Amalia hugged Marchen close to her, laughing as he licked at her face and neck. Her hands found the collar and leash, and she knelt down, putting the dog on the ground. “You’re going to keep me safe, aren’t you?”

  Another bark. Marcus chortled.

  “Do you have your whistle?”

  Amalia nudged Marchen’s face with her own. “Do I have my whistle, Marchen? Don’t I always have my whistle? Yes I do! Yes I do!”

  Heavy, thudding footfalls entered the courtyard, coming from the eastern entrance.

  “All right, all right.” Marcus laughed. “You win. Be back by dark, all right?”

  Amalia nodded, then put her forehead to Marchen’s. “Let’s get dressed, then go have fun.”

  A deep, military voice broke into her awareness. “Your Highness?”

  The interruption startled her, the two words bringing a flush to her cheeks. “Yes, Captain?”

  She heard his tongue pass over his lips. “Today, we honor Praxim, Your Highness. If you will recall, you are due for a combat training session this morning.” He hesitated a moment. “It is important that you keep a regular schedule if you wish to improve your skills.”

  Marcus chuckled. “Destrick, you chose possibly the worst time to remind my daughter of this.”

  “I understand, Your Majesty.” Destrick’s armor creaked as he shifted in place, each movement harsh on Amalia’s ears. “But I also know that the Princess would be cross with me should I fail in my responsibility to train her.” Another beat. “And I had nothing to do with today being today. That responsibility lies with the gods.”

  “They like talking about me like I’m not here, Marchen.” Amalia laughed, then turned her head toward the Guard Captain. “You are correct. I had forgotten that this was planned for today. Please
allow me a few minutes to retrieve my blade and change into appropriate clothing.”

  “Of course, Highness.”

  Chapter Two

  “That’s very good, Princess.”

  Amalia winced at the tone, her muscles tense as she held her stance, the broadsword parallel to the floor. “You’ve said that to me twelve times this session, Destrick. Can you be more constructive in your criticisms?”

  Destrick’s metal-clad fingers drummed on his own armor. “What do you mean? I’m not criticizing you.”

  “Exactly.” Amalia lowered the weapon to the ground and turned to face the Guard Captain. “You haven’t pointed out a single correction that could be made, a single error that I have committed.”

  “Ah. I see.” The clang of Destrick’s footsteps echoed in the chamber. The movement stopped next to her. She could feel the body heat radiating off him, amplified by the armor, could smell the mixture of perfume and exertion that followed him. “Perhaps I haven’t been looking closely enough.”

  Amalia laughed. “At least you have the privilege of doing so.”

  He continued on as if he hadn’t heard her. “Go on. Move back into the stance and go through the first three movements for an armored enemy.”

  She nodded, lifting her weapon again. Concentrating her senses and her imagination, she created an illusory opponent to battle. She could smell his sweat, hear his breath.

  “Now.”

  The first step was an evasion, moving to the side and forward to dodge the oncoming blow. She felt the wind pass down her right side in the wake of the imaginary weapon.

  With the second movement, her blade crashed into her adversary’s shoulder; the weight of the sword crumpled the armor, crushing it into his limb and pinning the joint.

  With the third, she ducked under the flailing counterstrike, sweeping the broadsword in a low arc, striking the back of the enemy’s knee, knocking him to the ground.

  “Stop.”

  The illusion faded from Amalia’s mind, leaving her aware, once again, of exactly how close Destrick was. Her stomach twisted in a small knot, in and out.

  “Your moves were technically perfect. The new blade suits your grip.”

  Amalia nodded, the adrenaline still flowing, keeping her thoughts on her sense memory.

  “But you must remember. Move the weapon as if it were your hand, your foot. Part of your body, no different from the rest of you.” He reached out and placed one hand on her upper sword arm, the other on her wrist.

  She flinched at the feel of his skin touching hers. Wasn’t he wearing gauntlets? Why would he remove them?

  “Your swings aren’t allowing for the fact that there will be resistance when you strike. Your enemy won’t be made of air when you have to fight him.” He guided her arm in the second movement of the sequence, adjusting his grip as they moved. “Here, when you hit the shoulder, if you don’t push, don’t angle the weapon just right, you’re as likely to bounce off the armor as to crush it.”

  She nodded, mentally adjusting her muscles to follow his directive, ignoring the tingling sensation that the passage of his fingers left on her.

  “And when you move into the third position.” The hand on her upper arm trailed down her side to her hip. “This needs to support the strike.”

  What is he…?

  The fingers shifted again, moving around the curve of her hip toward the back side.

  “So move it like AAAGH!”

  Amalia’s elbow slammed into Destrick’s cheekbone, sending him flying off his feet and onto the ground. In one motion, she turned and leveled her blade at him, advancing until the point touched his breastplate.

  “You forget yourself and your manners!” Her hand tightened around the hilt, the sweat of her exertions beading on her forehead and trailing down her scars. “I am not yours to fondle and molest as you see fit, nor some rude beast that welcomes your every touch. Instructor or no, you will be mindful of your hands or you shall lose them.”

  Metal creaked as Destrick regained his feet, the sword-tip scraping his armor as he moved away from it. “Your Highness, I swear to you that I meant nothing. I was simply trying to adjust your position…your stance.”

  She didn’t lower her weapon, instead baring her teeth in a feral grimace. “And then you further disrespect me with your deception, Guard Captain.”

  Amalia heard the sharp intake of breath. Then the rumors are true. A feeling of pride contested with the outrage for a brief moment, but vanished in the anger’s wake.

  “You—”

  “Silence.” She brought the sword down to her side. “You have been indiscreet regarding those you share your desires with. The servants gossip and think that I do not hear them, but I do.” She shook her head.

  He exhaled through his nose. “It seems I am caught, then, though I maintain that I was not trying to sully you, Princess.” Another exhalation, and the timbre of his voice changed, a small quaver sneaking in. “But, yes, I will admit that you speak the truth.” He took a single step toward her. “You…I have admired you for a long time. You’re beautiful, strong, fierce. You wield your sword and your position with equal aplomb.” A small laugh. “In all honesty, I’ve been trying to think of how best to approach your father regarding courting you.”

  For a moment, his words stopped her breath, held it within her chest. Memories of daydreams, fantasies of a young girl who longed for a husband who would sweep her away, protect her from a world of ugliness and anger, dusted themselves off in the attic of her mind. Thousands of hours of lessons, private, intimate, as she mastered the weapon she held under his watchful eye and the girlish imaginings that would distract her, send her blade skittering across the floor to his laughter, all crowded into her mind at once, clamoring for attention.

  She felt the grip on her weapon loosen as the shock rolled over her.

  He…he wishes to court me? Then she shook her head, regaining her weapon and her strength. No. The time for that is…if he truly wished that, then…

  She shoved down the disbelief and confusion, burning it in the furnace of her indignation as she scowled, then turned, snapping her fingers. Marchen trotted up to her side, and she reached down to grip the leash. “While I will not pretend that no part of me is honored or flattered by your words, Captain, in the main, you should know that I….” She faltered, then flattened her lips into a hard line. “I will be asking my father to assign me a new instructor. I do not expect that you shall protest.”

  His own voice reflected the finality and certainty of her terms. “No, Your Highness. I will not.”

  “Very well. Marchen, bring me to our room.” She turned to follow the dog’s tugging, no longer facing the disgraced warrior. “You are dismissed, Captain.”

  Chapter Three

  “How could he?”

  The ground began to slope away, signaling the drop-off that would take Amalia out of sight of the palace. She slowed her pace, attending to Marchen’s lead to avoid tripping in a hole or on a root. Leaves brushed her face and hair.

  “He…he asks for my attentions, my favor, now?” She snorted a sad laugh, and Marchen echoed the sound with a snuffle of his own. “My ears have waited half my lifetime to hear him say such, and yet…”

  A whine.

  “Why now? If he truly meant it, why would he have waited so long? Why did I have to confront him before he would admit it?” Amalia threw her weapon to the ground, hearing the metal clang within its sheath. “Of course. He’s ambitious. He obviously wants to be King. Why else would he be pursuing me?” Marchen changed course, guiding her in a large arc to the left. The sounds of falling rocks and twigs drew the picture of the small gulch they were avoiding. “He called me beautiful!”

  She stopped. The leash tightened, then slackened.

  “He called me beautiful.”

  With the words, the suppressed emotions burst out. Rage and sorrow, bound into one demon, set fire to Amalia’s mind and heart. She stood in the woods, tearlessly weeping as her thoughts tried to codify, to compartmentalize and analyze, that one statement. Her free hand rose up to her face, and fingers ran over the gnarled, hardened scar tissue that rose and fell over where her eyes should have been, a topographical map of twisted flesh.

  She shifted her grip and her nails pressed into the skin, denting the hardened flesh but unable to pierce it. There was pain, but diminished, weakened by the layers and layers of disfigurement.