Page 6 of The Dragon Sacrifice

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The Bishop of Danbury was there when they arrived. Seela pulled her cloak tight over her head, ducking low in the crowd as they walked up. The good news was it was already twilight; the guttering torches only lit the dais and not the crowd of villagers. Easy to hide. Easy to avoid his horrid gaze.

It was strange to see everyone gathered together quietly, something they only did once a year. Usually by this time, most of the villagers would be home in bed, with the rowdier ones getting tossed in the pub, songs blasting from the piano. Tonight, the piano was silent, as was the crowd. She knew every family with an unmarried daughter between the ages of sixteen and twenty-two had knots in their stomachs as big as the one in Seela’s belly right now. This was why mothers begged for boys. Why they cried when the pronouncement of “It’s a girl,” was thrust upon them by the midwife.

But there were reassurances, too. Her town hadn’t had a daughter selected in seven years. Was it a good omen or a sign that their time had arrived? She thought of the painted rock the old woman had pressed into her palm. Reaching into her cloak pocket, she found it was still there. She ran her thumb along the smooth surface, finding it strangely soothing.

As her eyes skimmed the faces around her, she spotted Mickey with his dockside friends. He nodded at her as their eyes met. His gaze seemed to relay assurances. She offered him a look of hope back. Later, she would meet up with him. Together, they’d enjoy Festival and the relief at another year gone by.

Trumpets on the dais jolted her out of her thoughts. The Bishop of Danbury, flanked by armed soldiers, held up his hand to demand silence, even though he already had it. In the torchlight, he appeared viler, more sinister than in the light of day. As his eyes scanned the crowd, Seela could swear they locked on her, pinning her like a moth on a board.

“Good ladies and gentlemen of the ninth valley village, it is my honor and privilege to preside over this year’s Selection. As you know, your king, long may he reign, thanks you for your sacrifice. The contribution you, and families like you, have made to our peaceful kingdom receives our highness’s utmost gratitude.”

Seela bit her tongue, knowing full well the king didn’t give two thoughts to the maidens selected each year. She doubted he even knew their names. All he cared about was filling coffers. And keeping the monsters at bay.

“We will keep our Selection brief. I know that many are anxious to partake in the banquet.” He gestured to the long table prepared on the far side of the square. Every year, the kingdom paid for a huge feast of food and ale. They touted it as an act of goodwill, but Seela knew it was a payoff—food for the town’s daughters. Some felt it was an even trade.

The bishop pulled an envelope out of his trouser pockets. Seela marveled that such a huge thing could be contained on such a small sheet of parchment. For the last seven years, the sheet had been read, no maiden in their community had been selected, and the party began. She did remember the year a maiden had been taken from their midst. The shouting, the pushing. Her mother had shielded her eyes and turned her away.

She watched in anticipation as the bishop opened the envelope and pulled out the sheet. Her mother grabbed Seela’s hand, squeezing it hard.

The bishop cleared his throat. “The woman selected is… Seela of the Deep Forest.”

Everything that happened after those words were read became a blur in Seela’s mind.

Her mother let out a strangled cry. Several villagers gasped, and someone gripped her arm. Seela felt frozen. Her heartbeat was a drum in her chest, in her head, blocking out all other sound.

What had he said? Had he just read her name?

Her eyes darted to her crying mother’s face, to Mickey who was attempting to shove his way through the crowd, and to the soldiers who were making their way to her, swords drawn.

Swords drawn? Would they hurt her? What was happening?

The soldiers were there, hands on her wrist, urging her toward the dais. Her mother was screaming now, bashing her fists into the soldiers’ backs as other villagers tried to hold her back. Mickey was shouting, too, waving angrily at the guards. Seela wanted to tell them to stop, that it would all be okay, and not to get themselves hurt at her expense, but her throat had constricted. Her mouth was dry, and her head was spinning.

She’d been selected. It was a realization of her greatest fear.

“P-please,” was all she managed to say as the guards pulled her toward the stage and up the steps.

There was the Bishop of Danbury.

He pulled her close in what must’ve looked like a comforting embrace to the crowd. His lips brushed against her neck in a very familiar way. “You should’ve given yourself to me when you could,” he hissed. “Now, you see what happens to naughty girls who disobey their superiors.”

Seela staggered back, and he let her go. She nearly fell off the back of the stage before a guard grabbed her arm and righted her. He held her in place as the bishop once again addressed the crowd.

“We thank you so much for your sacrifice. Once again, please enjoy the king’s banquet.”

Then he was turning, gesturing to his soldiers to hurry before the crowd’s anger grew. Already, it looked like they were about to revolt. Seela glanced her crying mother, then at Mickey on the ground, pinned by one of the king’s guard. She wanted to go to them, at least say goodbye, but the soldiers were dragging her along at such a clip she nearly fell as her boot caught a stone in the path. All too soon, she was inside a carriage. The door slammed and locked. She felt it lurch into motion.

They were taking her away.

“Mama!” she cried. Coming unstuck, she clawed at the carriage door, but it was one made for criminals and thieves—solid wood, reinforced steel hinges, and formidable locks. She tore at the wood until her fingernails bleed. The desperation in her chest felt like a live thing eating her from the inside out.

But the crying and screaming did nothing to stop the march of her carriage away from her village, her home, her mother.

Before Selection, she had barred herself from thinking too much about what it would mean to be chosen. The kingdom had always been hush-hush on what exactly happened to the selected maidens, but everyone knew they never returned. Stories circulated that no one believed: they were gifted as wives to faraway princes, they went to work in the castle as handmaidens to the princesses and queen, they were elevated in court.

But the stories most believed were much darker: they were dissected for science in the lab of the king’s doctor, or they were kept as sex slaves in the cellar for the king’s strange sexual fetishes. But one theory was currently the most popular.

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