Free Dragon and the Princess by Jo Beverley Page B

What if this was the way the Dornae lived—wandering homeless through a rocky world with all their possessions in a bag, sleeping on their dragons, washing in streams? Surely Seyer Rouar of the Dragon’s Womb, or whatever his titles were, must live in a castle.
    Seyer Rouar of the plain clothes and scruffy bag?
    “Zlinda?”
    She turned and saw her captor in the trees.
    “If you want breakfast, you need to come and eat.”
    If starving would spite him, she might, but she gathered her things and returned to the fire. He had the kettle boiling, slices of bread on plates, and something liquid in a pot. Boiled drool?
    Rozlinda looked around. “Where’s Seesee?”
    “Gone to feed.”
    Rozlinda stared into the blank sky, stabbed by a new loss. There went her stockings. The delicate silk might have survived a night on the dragon’s back, but they wouldn’t survive flight. For some absurd reason, that loss seemed tragic.
    “Sit and eat.”
    She sat down and picked up a slice of bread. It was heavy and hard.
    He offered her the pot.
    “What is it?”
    “Honey.”
    Distrustfully, she tasted it. It was indeed honey, so she spread it thickly and ate, savoring the familiar sweetness. Even this had a strange taste, however. The bees of Dorn must feed off different plants. Strange plants, strange place, strange people . . .
    He put a steaming cup near her hand.
    “Is that hralla?”
    “In the morning?”
    She wanted to snap that it wasn’t her fault if she understood nothing about Dorn and its ways. That if they’d been planning this capture as carefully as it seemed, they should have sent lesson books to prepare her. And known to bring her suitable clothing! But what was the point?
    She didn’t recognize the taste of the tea, but it was pleasant enough, especially as he’d added honey. She ate, drank and was wiping honey off her fingers with the washcloth when she felt a thrum in the air. She looked to see Seesee swooping down on them, and watched the way the dragon seemed to gather herself in order to land neatly, stirring as little dust as possible.
    “She’s good at that,” she said, trying to be pleasant.
    “Dragons try to be considerate.”
    “So,” she said coldly, “do princesses.”
Unlike Dornaan men.
    The dragon waddled off to the stream, and the man gathered their cups and plates and followed, presumably to wash them. Rozlinda deliberately did nothing to help. When he returned, he began to pack things away.
    “What do you want to do with the strip of cloth?” he asked.
    The piece cut from her gown was neatly folded, but it was brown from recent dirt, green from dragon rock, and smeared where Seesee had sucked at it. She should send everything back home, but what would they think of its condition? He’d extinguished the fire, or she might burn it.
    Then she “heard” a vague
yum?
and saw the dragon emerging from the woods.
    “Perhaps Seesee would like it.”
    “She’s not a puppy to be given a toy.”
    Rozlinda picked up the silk and walked over to the dragon. “If you would like it, I am most happy to offer it.”
    For a moment, she thought she’d made a fool of herself, but then the dragon’s tongue slid out and snagged it, slurping it into her mouth, where she chewed or sucked with obvious delight.
    Rozlinda turned to smirk—and caught affectionate humor in Rouar’s eyes again. For the dragon, of course, but it gave her hope. He immediately turned blank. “There’s no understanding dragons.”
    “Or a Dornaan.” But Rozlinda returned to help gather their belongings, saying, “Ro, we need to learn each other’s ways. Tell me about Dorn. You’re organized into tribes, aren’t you? By trade?”
    He was assembling plates, cups and utensils into a tidy bundle. “More or less.”
    “And your tribe is?”
    “The dragoners, of course.”
    His tone implied she was stupid to ask, but she would not become irritated. “The clan devoted to caring for the dragons?”
    “All people of Dorn