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and out. No one could doubt that deep in its dragon-beast mind it was thinking,
Yum, yum. More princess blood.
It was even drooling a viscous yellow and pink stuff.
    The man wasn’t controlling her anymore. She was clutching his arms for protection.
    “Seesee, behave,” he said.
    If a dragon could pout, this one did, but it moved its head away, circling it on the long, flexible neck as if inspecting king, knight, priest and councilors. They all flinched back. Then it poked its head off the hill and breathed at the crowd below. Horses reared.
    “Seesee!”
    The head coiled back to be tucked on the beast’s back, perhaps chastened, perhaps sulking. By the blood, the monster behaved like a poorly trained puppy.
    “You see, wife, we must go. This is too difficult for her.”
    The Dornaan said something and then picked Rozlinda up in his arms. The dragon had already lowered its neck, and he ran up it to a crest of horn at its shoulders, to place her sideways in a dip behind. She clutched the horn, looking down, stunned, at the equally stunned watchers. The Dornaan slid astride behind her and said, “Go.”
    The dragon leapt, beating its enormous wings and stirring a stormlike rumble. Rozlinda couldn’t believe it could raise its mass, but then it soared like paper on a breeze. Below, Dragon’s Rock, father, knights and all she’d ever known shrank smaller and smaller in her horrified vision.
    When she saw her home, turrets shining in the sun, pennants bright and lively in a breeze, she burst into tears, sobbing against the velvety warmth of the dragon’s bony crest.

Chapter 4
    Rozlinda’s tears ended as tears must, even when the cause persists. She simply rested there, limp and exhausted. What calm she felt was probably from hralla tea. That must explain why she hadn’t thrown a fit earlier, and all in all she was glad of it. It wouldn’t have done her any good.
    No one could afford to break protocol again. If this was her fate, she would be brave.
    She swallowed and straightened—and became aware of being in a man’s lap, of his hot hard presence down her left side. She was finally touching a man, in many places, and he was her
husband.
She shied away from that thought, fixing instead on a simpler problem—her runny nose.
    “The costume of the Sacrificial Virgin Princess doesn’t include a handkerchief.”
    “The clothing of the seyer of the dragon’s womb doesn’t include one, either. Use the bandage on your arm.”
    Teeth gritted at his tone, she did as he suggested, taking in the state of her gown for the first time. When she’d put it on, it had been stained only around the hem. Now green dust covered it, smeared deep in places by her dirty hands. With a grimace, she wiped them as clean as she could on the silk. The dress was ruined beyond hope, anyway.
    Yet it was all she possessed. She was leaving home without money and with only the clothes she wore—ruined, impractical clothing that hadn’t fit her well in the first place.
    She would not cry again. Presumably, a husband would provide clothing for his wife. And she had done her duty. A harder one than she’d expected, yet still she had done it. For her people and her family. Legends would be woven about Princess Rozlinda of Saragond.
    “Mother stone,” she said, still looking at her gown for fear of looking anywhere else. “You will send it this time?”
    “Of course.”
    She felt his voice as well as heard it, which was perhaps why his tone seemed softer, even kinder.
    “Everything will now be as it should be, Princess. I promise.”
    She turned her head to look at him, but he was too close and everything about him was too strange. When she looked away, she saw the ground far, far below. And realized it didn’t bother her.
    “How peculiar not to mind flying.”
    “A blessing.”
    “I suppose so. Cold, though.”
    He put his arms around her, sharing his startling warmth. With that added to the heat of the dragon, she wasn’t unbearably