Dust field. South of Iolika. Dry enough to chap my lips. My sandals are full of grit, my thighs are sticking, and the Dragon's wheezing like an asthmatic bellows.
"Do you think she's a real princess?"
"Hm?" he mutters, eyes half-lidded, tail swishing slow.
"Loma," I say. "You know. Ditzy. Blonde. Tits like melon offerings. Keeps popping up like a rash."
"Who?"
I blink. "Loma."
He just looks at me.
"Princess? Tower? Kidnapped. Rescued. Kidnapped again. Loose in the morals. You mocked her tea collection."
The Dragon exhales through his nose, long and flat. "Ah. That one."
"Yeah. That one. You think she's for real?"
A pause. Then: "Did she say where she was from?"
"Tanagra. Or… Tamagra. Whatever."
He stops walking.
Oh, here we go.
"Ilma," he says slowly, like it hurts. "Queen Ilma of Tanagra. Savage thing. Wild. Came from the Upper Steppe. They say King Keldor married her after she speared his warhorse through the eye and danced naked on the corpse."
"Romantic," I mutter.
"They say he kept her in a golden cage and fed her live songbirds until she finally… softened."
"Softened?"
"Succumbed," he says.
I raise an eyebrow. "Same thing."
"Human generation ago," he says. "Maybe two. But I remember the war-banners. Crimson with gold trim. The woman made fire look bashful."
I tilt my head. "So. Loma?"
The Dragon exhales, smoke curling like a bored sigh. "Queen Ilma was blonde. Or so they say."
"Mm."
"So is this Loma."
I wait. He's chewing the thought like it's undercooked.
"But… Ilma was anything but soft. Beautiful, yes. Like a knife's reflection. But soft? No. She once split a man's skull with a candlestick because he insulted her hawk."
I snort.
"If she bore Keldor a daughter, it'd be plausible. Ilma was scion of the fallen House of Mara. That line—" he lifts a clawed finger, "—is either cursed or blessed, depending on who's telling the story. Some say the goddess Ororo watches over them. Others say doom follows them like perfume."
"All very heroic. Very epic," I mutter, kicking a stone into a thistle bush.
He nods once, dry. "And Loma?"
"Loma is anything but epic," I say. "She's got the spine of a ribbon and a brain like boiled shrimp."
"She keeps popping up, nonetheless," he says with a sigh.
"Like an unpaid debt," I mutter.
"Or herpes," he adds.
I grin despite myself. Dust rises around us, clinging to sweat and bad decisions. Somewhere behind us, a past we keep looting. Somewhere ahead, another town, another scam.
And maybe—just maybe—another blonde disappointment waiting with teacups and tears.