Princess
incident, and whenever Moira looked over her shoulder as Pyrros flew, she could not see the slightest hint of the witch’s magic following them.
“The closer we get to the human city, the less likely she is to follow,” Pyrros said. “Witches and humans don’t get along, as far as I’ve been told.”
Moira wondered who must have told him. Was it the girl he had tried to save with the witch’s help? Was she a human? A part of her wanted to ask about the mysterious girl, but another dreaded bringing it up, because it would start them on a dangerous topic that would eventually lead to questions about how he could have even considered using her as payment. So she refrained, despite her curiosity.
They spent the nights by streams, Nerida in the water and Moira huddled under Pyrros’ wing, with a small fire lit solely for Moira’s comfort. In the mornings, they gathered food from the surrounding wilderness, everything from berries and roots to fish, when available, though Pyrros never tasted the fish. Moira noticed how she needed to pull her clothes—if anyone could call them that anymore, rags were a better word—tighter around herself, as she lost a significant amount of weight with their fruits-and-berries-diet.
The rest of the time, they were in the air, trying to escape the witch who might or might not be hunting them, heading for the dangers of the human city.
After Nerida transformed twice more, they concluded that her legs appeared once she was dry from hair to fins. She did part of the journey with legs, but never so long that she hurt.
Every time they were on the ground, Moira flipped through Potentes Magia and tried different spells, but nothing worked for her—unlike for Nerida, who practiced and managed the water spell. It frustrated Moira because magic was fascinating and beautiful, and certainly useful.
They grilled fish over an open fire one evening, small fish pierced by wet wooden sticks that Moira held over the fire. While they waited for the food to be ready, Pyrros told them about Dragondale, where he grew up.
“It’s that way, on the other side of the mountain.” He nodded to one side. “Not that far from the human city, actually.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?” Nerida braided the grass with nimble fingers. She had done it every night, and the green cloth fell over her knees and onto the ground now. Nerida looked up at Pyrros, but did not stop working on the grass blanket. “People being so close, I mean. From what little we’ve been taught about them, they’re bloodthirsty creatures.”
“Who do you think is more bloodthirsty, a dragon, or a human?” It could have been sarcastic, but Pyrros said it with a crooked smile.
Nerida laughed.
Warmth spread through Moira. They seemed to thrive together, all three of them for the first time since they met. Then she was reminded of Pyrros’ betrayal, for which she had yet to forgive him. Nerida seemed closer, but for Moira, resentment lingered.
“Okay, true. But the human population is massive. You dragons can’t be nearly as many, or you wouldn’t fit.” She picked up a wooden stick and rolled it between her fingers so the fish turned and curled.
Pyrros stuffed a branch—with leaves, berries, and everything—into his mouth and chewed it up before answering. “People have tried to attack us. There are songs about it, and it happened once when I still lived there. I wasn’t big back then, just a year or so old, but I remember they attacked us while we were sleeping. Used bows to shoot arrows and threw stones at us, and they got some hits in because they surprised us, and we were sleeping. When we dragons are young, our scales have yet to harden, and the rocks injured one of the other babies. My mother and the others went crazy, and it didn’t take long before they’d found all the humans lurking around the dale. There wasn’t much left of them—Dragondale had a barbecue party that day. Except for me, of course. Or well, I found some cauliflower and other goodies in people’s bags, which I grilled and ate.”
“Cauliflower? What’s that?”
There was so much Nerida did not know, so much she had never encountered before. Though she hid it well, Moira noticed her astonished expression at small things Moira took for granted—birds soaring across the sky, leaves swaying in the wind, and the wind itself as it tangled her hair. With great interest, Nerida watched as a ladybug made its way up a grass straw before flying off—Moira heard her gasp as it unfolded its wings. When Moira and Pyrros brought back berries, Nerida tried them, always cautious but curious. Sometimes she ran her fingers across the grass as if it were magical, and Moira had to remind herself that ordinary grass did not exist on the seabed. What was ordinary to Moira was extraordinary for Nerida.
Pyrros revealed his teeth in a wide and jumped up and down at the reminder of cauliflower. “Oh, it’s so tasty. I rarely find any, but next time I do, I promise I’ll let you taste it. Or broccoli, it’s also delectable.”
“You’re so bizarre.” Moira shook her head. “Mother always needs to force my little brother to eat his vegetables, and here you are, a dragon, and you eat nothing else.”
“Mom did always call me a strange child. I tried to take it as a compliment.” Pyrros sounded like it was something he had heard before. He tilted his head and nodded towards Nerida. “That necklace, what’s so special about it? I’ve been wondering if you don’t mind me asking.”
Moira turned her gaze to Nerida, and everything stood still, waiting for Nerida.
“I got it from… it’s just important to me.” Pale fingers touched the charm, her voice barely audible over the breeze. “I got it from my dad. He left us when I was little, but when I turned ten, my mom had a package for me from him. This necklace was in it. I don’t remember him. This is all I have left of him.”
Nerida had only talked about her mother and grandmother before, never about her father. Moira placed a comforting hand on Nerida’s back, and she jerked out of a trance.
“I’m sorry I took it,” Moira said, feeling guilty of another little thing on top of others.
But Moira did not regret making Nerida come along—not only because she would be dead without her—but she should have found another way than forcing her. Could Moira have simply asked, had she not been so busy being angry?
Nerida shrugged, as if to distance herself from the conversation. “It doesn’t matter. I’m glad I came along.”
Moira’s hand remained on her back. Nerida was warm for once, and Moira had not even been sure Nerida could get warm, considering the cold water she surrounded herself with.
The silence dragged out like an elastic string, and Moira needed to quickly fill it with something. “I love to ride,” she said. “At home, I always ride whenever I get the chance.”
“Do you have horses up there, or what do you ride?” Pyrros chewed on another branch.
“We have winged horses. They’re called chevolants.” Moira told them about the horses, about her own Caol, and how she enjoyed riding. She even drew a horse in the sand to explain to Nerida what a horse looked like. And then, somehow, she ended up telling them the truth about her being a princess.
“So we really should call you ‘Your Highness.’” Pyrros’ words were half-joking, half-serious.
Moira looked up at him, into the yellow eyes glowing in the dark like a cat’s. He seemed more amused by her title than anything else. Dragons may not care so much about royal houses and princesses, especially not dragons that lived alone out in the woods.
Before she found the right answer, Nerida asked, “How did you end up in the storm?”
Moira gazed at her, and Nerida sat perfectly still, awaiting an answer.
“I had a fight with my mother. She wants me to act like a queen—she says I have to behave a certain way and enjoy the same things she does. Really, she wants me to be exactly like her, and I can’t… There must be more to life than dinners and meeting dignitaries, right? There must be something to dream about, fun stuff in life, not just things one has to do.”
Nerida cocked her head. “What do you think our lives are like? Do you think they’re better?”
Moira hesitated. She had never been able to imagine what life was like for someone who was not a princess. She met her people, of course, greeted them and spoke to them, and on the few occasions when she had come along on trips to other countries, she had glimpsed the lives of other species—but she had not grasped what their lives consisted of. What did they do when they were bored? What did they dream of? What fulfilled their lives?
Nerida continued without waiting for Moira to finish thinking. “It’s not better.”
Moira glanced at Pyrros, maybe looking for confirmation of Nerida’s words, and he shrugged. “Our lives aren’t that exciting. Well, until we met you, I suppose.”
Moira raised her gaze at the sky, nearly expecting to find Aurora there, though she knew it was far, far away. Her life up there was not bad, not in any way. For many others, it would probably be a dream life—she never went hungry, was surrounded by beautiful things, and she had her siblings and her dad, despite her tumultuous relationship with the queen. But trouble with parents was not reserved for royalty, she realized with a start, as she thought of Nerida’s relationship with her mom and her absent father, and Pyrros’ complicated family life.
Perhaps she had been wrong to wish for a different life.
“You’re in a position of privilege, Moira,” Nerida said, putting words to Moira’s thoughts. “Make something of it.”
Moira met her gaze reluctantly, feeling ashamed of her behavior.
Make something of it.
Perhaps as crown princess, she was in a unique position to shape her own life? She nodded as the sudden insights threatened to overwhelm her and searched for a way to change the conversation to something less overwhelming. The green blanket Nerida had been braiding caught her attention. It was nearly complete.
“What’s it for?” she asked, hoping Nerida would accept the shift.
Nerida looked up and Moira saw the uncertainty in her eyes. “You seem to be cold at night. I thought that—maybe…”
“You made it for me?”
Nerida twitched without looking up. “I’m sure it’s not suited for a princess.”
Moira’s jaw dropped. “Nerida, it’s exquisite.”
And it was no lie; Nerida had made the blanket of what must be hundreds if not thousands of grass straws interwoven, long and short, light and dark green. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Thank you.”
Nerida held it out. Moira’s fingers touched Nerida’s as she took the blanket, and Nerida jumped. Then she said no more, walking straight into the lake and diving below the surface as soon as the light engulfed her.
When Nerida did not return to sleep at the water’s edge as she usually did, Moira knew she had made a mistake; she should have kept being a royalty a secret.