Horn Book Review
Princess Sorrowlynn must offer herself in marriage to an enemy prince to renew the spell confining the terrible fire dragon--or else sacrifice herself to the beast. Standing up for herself for once, sheltered Sorrow chooses sacrifice to the dragon, whom she faces with aid from the spurned prince, Golmarr. While the standard-issue fantasy continues long after it might have ended, Sorrow's growing self-awareness is captivating. (c) Copyright 2018. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Booklist Review
Sorrowlynn, the unfortunately named fourth princess of Faodara, is destined to die by her own hand quite unlike her elder sisters, who are prophesied to be beautiful, joyful, and peaceful. On her sixteenth birthday, tradition demands she sacrifice herself as either a bride to an enemy prince or bait to a great fire dragon. That she effectively chooses neither surprises the entire nation, as well as Sorrow herself. What follows is an exciting and magical adventure, with heaping helpings of romance added in the form of horse lord Golmarr, the youngest Prince of Anthar who was almost Sorrow's betrothed. The characters take a while to grow, which makes for a slow burn, but the ending is left open, and readers will certainly be on board for the long haul. There are definite parallels between Sorrowlynn and Daenerys from George R. R. Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series in that both are timid girls forced to become fierce. This novel is fitting for teens not yet ready for those thousand-page epics.--Comfort, Stacey Copyright 2016 Booklist
School Library Journal Review
Gr 7 Up-A coming-of-age story of a princess who must make a terrible choice between being eaten by a dragon and marrying the prince from a neighboring enemy clan. Somewhat illogically, she chooses the dragon. Fortunately, the prince follows her into the dragon's underground cavern, rescues her in the nick of time, and carries her off to his homeland. During their travels, they fall in love, of course, and decide to do everything they can to save his kingdom from the dragon's kin, who are hell-bent on revenge. There is very little originality in this slight fantasy: prince (check), princess (check), bad dragon (check), cruel father (check). On the plus side, there is a nice dynamic between the two protagonists, and the growth of their affection for each other is well paced. Wiggins also wrote the popular "Stung" series. VERDICT A flawed but serviceable tale for readers looking for new fantasy works about princes, princesses, and dragons.-Jane Henriksen Baird, Anchorage Public Library, AK © Copyright 2017. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Kirkus Review
Formulaic fantasy-romance enlivened by an innovative take on dragon treasure. After a childhood marked by her mother's hatred and her father's beatings, which scarred her legs but not her heart, 16-year-old Sorrowlynn, like every Faodarian princess (evidently white and generally blonde and blue-eyed, aside from light-brown-haired Sorrowlynn), must pledge her willingness to marry a barbaric Antharian prince to save their countries from the fire dragon (a pact whose origin only nominally makes sense). When she refuses, she, with handsome Antharian horse lord Golmarr, must face and defeat the dragon to survive. The dragon's treasure is knowledge; killing the dragon transfers to Sorrowlynn everything the dragon and his centuries of victims ever knew. The remainder of the novel includes a few set-piece adventures, kissing, much banter about lustful feelings, and finally facing another dragon, whose treasure is hatred. There is little to make this stand out; Sorrowlynn's journey is the standard girl-power arc done better by such authors as Tamora Pierce and Kristin Cashore, foreshortened by the magical knowledge dump; Golmarr (of the "long black hair" and skin like "caramel-colored silk") is the classic (exoticized and problematic) noble barbarian, whose darker-skinned people are in touch with the earth and their feelings. Oh, and it's first in a series. Skip. (Fantasy. 12-16) Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Excerpts
Chapter 1 Today is my sixteenth birthday. I am wearing a gown I can barely walk in, my artfully styled hair is giving me a headache, and I feel like I am going to throw up. "Hurry! Bend down!" Nona snaps, tugging on my shoulder with frigid fingers. "I can hear them marching down the hall!" I lean forward and she quickly fastens a gold tiara in my hair just as the chamber door swings open. I jump as four armed guards stride in. "Princess Sorrowlynn, we are hereby ordered to escort you to the opening ceremony of the Mountain Binding," says the tallest guard, Ornald. It sounds like a death sentence, and my hands begin to tremble, so I clutch the delicate fabric of my skirt in them and square my shoulders. The guards studiously do not look at me, staring instead at the gray stone wall behind me. I glance from them to Nona, who is slouching in the corner of my bedchamber and chewing on her thumbnail. She stops chewing long enough to nod and wave me toward the guards. "I don't want to go." My voice quivers like I am on the verge of tears, and I take a tiny step backward. Ornald scowls and stops studying the wall to look at me. "If you don't come by choice, my lady, I have been instructed to drag you to the courtyard. Please don't make me do that. That's no way for a Faodarian princess to make her grand entrance into society, is it?" he asks, his eyes pleading. "Instructed by whom?" I ask. Ornald frowns. "Beg pardon, my lady?" "Who instructed you to drag me? My mother or my father?" The guard clears his throat and puckers his mouth like he is about to spit, but then stops himself. He tugs on the collar of his red uniform and says, "Lord Damar, your father, instructed me to drag you if you don't comply. Let's show him you've grown into a lady and can follow orders." A small smile softens Ornald's square face. "You look like a lady today, my lady." I glance into the mirror. My light brown hair is braided in a crown around my head, the golden tiara gleaming in front of it. The sapphire-blue dress I have been stuffed into is low-cut, and the corset gives me double the curves that I normally have. The eyes staring back at me are on the verge of panic. I do not know this woman I am looking at. I feel trapped in her body. "Princess Sorrowlynn?" I blink and turn away from my reflection. Ornald holds his arm out to me even though it is forbidden for guards to touch royalty. It is a gesture that would get him demoted if he weren't already the lowest man in the guard despite his being one of the older men. But somehow that tiny gesture offering human contact sends a bit of courage through my trembling body. I swallow, put my frigid hand on the red sleeve of his uniform, and nod. "Ready," I whisper, and together we walk into the shadowed passage. The walk through the palace goes by too fast, even with me tripping on my skirts every three steps. My mother and father are waiting for me by the palace doors. Both of their gazes go directly to my hand, resting on the arm of a lowly guard, and my father's face turns crimson. My mother purses her lips and her blue eyes narrow. I quickly clasp my hands behind my back as Ornald steps away from me. "Who dressed you?" my mother snaps, eyeing my gown. Her perfume is so strong that I can barely breathe. "Nona," I say. She is the only person who has dressed me since the day I was born. "Your corset is too loose. Has she forgotten how to string a corset?" Her eyes flash accusations at me. Probably, considering this is the first time I have ever worn one in my life, I think, but hold my tongue. One does not talk back to the queen. Outside, a horn blares, a clarion call announcing the looming arrival of our guests of honor, and the irritation disappears from my mother's face and is replaced with majestic indifference. She lifts her chin and grasps her silver-and-gray skirt in one hand, and lays her other hand on my father's proffered arm. Two guards throw open the massive double doors leading out to the palace's courtyard, and my mother and father walk outside into evening sunlight. They are greeted by the cheering and applause of a massive crowd. Ornald gives me a small shove forward, and I stumble from the shadows into sunshine. Regaining my balance, I grasp my skirts in both my hands and climb a small staircase that leads to a raised dais. The courtyard is filled with nobles and commoners, and like water and oil, they remain steadfastly separate of each other. The commoners, at the far edges of the courtyard, seem to suck the sunlight away with their drab and dreary clothing. At the base of the dais, the nobles reflect the light, making it difficult to look at the white, silver, and gold clothing they favor. My gaze drifts over their eyes, which are devouring every visible inch of me from the tiara in my hair to the silver-embroidered hem of my dress. Everyone wants to see the youngest Faodarian princess, who has been hidden away in her rooms for most of her life. But they look at the young woman standing before them, in a dress she's never worn before, with her hair braided in a coil for the first time. They don't see me at all. They see only what my mother wants them to see. The whispered words offering and Suicide Sorrow drift through the crowd like wind, and I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to plug my ears. Even whispered, their words seem to batter against me. And then I hear something else, hoofbeats, and my knees start to tremble. The nobles turn and face the open gates leading from the courtyard to the rest of the world. The commoners quickly copy them. My heart starts thundering in my ears, louder than the horses' hooves, as the king of Anthar and his party gallop into the yard and part the crowd with their animals. They stop directly in front of the dais and the smells of leather, horse, and sweat compete against my mother's perfume for supremacy. The horse clan has arrived. Their animals are sleek and beautiful: rippling muscles, glossy bodies, strong legs. Ribbons and beads and flowers have been braided into their manes, like something I would do to my dolls when I was a child. A smile forms on my lips as I look from the horses to their riders--and then it falters. These dark-haired, strapping men and women are examining me from their saddles like I am for sale. At that thought, my face starts to burn, because I am for sale, in a manner of speaking. I stare back at them, trying to guess which man I will be offered to, but they all look the same, with long black hair and skin as golden as toasted bread. More disturbing are their women, sitting astride their horses instead of sidesaddle, and dressed no differently from the men: brown leather pants and chain mail that has been shined until it looks like sparkling silver. Curved swords hang at their hips, and strung bows at their backs. Out of the whole group, only one person stands out. He is at the back of the party, and a cut on his cheek has bled trails of red all the way down to his jawline. I shudder at the thought of associating with these barbarians. "For three centuries you and your sons have been our honored guests. That tradition still holds strong," my mother, the queen, bellows, practically in my ear. I try not to flinch and take a small step away from her. "I bid you and your family welcome, King Marrkul." The biggest man, the one at the front of the group, nods to my mother. He has gray streaks in his dark hair, and a beard that looks like a bird's nest hangs halfway down his chest. I shift my gaze from the king to the man on his right. He looks powerful and stern, and at least two decades older than me. When our eyes meet his jaw clenches and he glares, so I lift one eyebrow and look at the next man. He, too, looks powerful and stern and way too old for me to marry. He flashes his white teeth in a grin, and my father hisses into my ear, "Smile, Sorrow!" So I turn to my father and smile. "Not at me. At them." He rolls his eyes in the direction of the horse clan, and I can see how desperate he is for me to make a good impression. So I do as he wants and turn my practiced smile toward them, the smile that doesn't show my teeth, that makes me look soft and regal, like my mother. "I thank you, Queen Felicitia," the Antharian king says, his accent thick. "May I present my oldest son and heir, Ingvar," he adds, holding his hand out to the man on his right. My three older sisters all were offered in marriage to this brute, but he turned them down. Now, standing in the exact same place they all stood, and meeting the Antharian heir for the first time, I realize how lucky my sisters are to be married to Faodarian noblemen. Ingvar looks at me again, his eyes moving up my body, and the smile slowly fades from my face. I can't smile because a hollow ache has opened up in me, stealing every emotion I have been feeling, but one. For the first time since birth, my name fits. I fight to keep the tears at bay. Excerpted from The Dragon's Price (a Transference Novel) by Bethany Wiggins All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.