Dragon Blood h-2

by Patricia Briggs

  It grew harder to keep up the "Hail, fellow, well met" image as we got closer to Estian. The last morning of the journey, General Lawin put iron manacles on my wrists.

  "Sorry," he said, half apologetically, and handed me a water skin.

  Feeling sympathy for him, I drank his peace offering. I gave it back to him and he took it gingerly.

  He met my eyes squarely and said, "I am very sorry, my lord. I must do my duty."

  Foreign magic, tainted and foul, burned through me, and I realized he hadn't just been talking about the manacles.

  "The water," I said hoarsely. "Something in the water." Something more than the herbs my mother had favored.

  Two guards, eyes lowered and faces grim … I blinked my eyes and they were replaced by two fire demons that clutched my manacles in their clawed hands. I spun, and the demons fell away from me to lie broken on the ground.

  The pain of the magic elixir made my arms shake. Sweat ran into my eyes and distorted my vision until everything I saw was blurred in hues of red.

  Someone called, "We need help!"

  "I am helping," said a monster with glowing jade eyes. "If I don't keep this barrier up, his magic guardian in the woods will destroy us all. That's why I had to wait until now, during the day, when it is at its weakest. You go fight him—that's what you do."

  They came with clubs and swords, and I hurled them into the ocean that somehow yawned behind them. After the first few, though, the demons were ready and their weapons began to find their mark.

  "I thought the king wanted him alive," someone exclaimed harshly. For a moment I knew it was Garranon, but then that understanding left me.

  It was hard to fight with the manacles on, so when I'd won myself some space, I pulled. The links bent, but not enough.

  Someone swore, then said, "Look at what he did to that chain."

  Something hit me in the back of the knee and I stumbled. My vision exploded in a flash of light as I was hit again.

  I woke on a pile of straw in a small room dimly lit by a window high above. Garranon sat on his heels beside me.

  "The demons didn't get you," I whispered, because I was certain I could hear the rustle of their feet just outside.

  "I think they did," he said, sounding sad.

  There was something I'd wanted to tell him, but I couldn't quite … "I have a secret," I said.

  "Don't tell anyone," he replied, looking a little worried.

  "It's for you—Ward wants you to know."

  "Ah." He looked a little confused, but made no other sound.

  "Isn't your fault," I said. It was harder to talk than usual, my tongue felt swollen. "Jakoven would have done it anyway."

  "Would you have come if I hadn't been there?" he said bitterly.

  I nodded. "Hurog's not completed. Not prepared to take on the king. Ward had to come, he knew it was a trap."

  He knelt down. "Ward?"

  But when he knelt, he turned into my father and I curled into a ball. Father was angry with me, and I knew that his anger always hurt.

  After a while the door opened and shut, and I was alone.

  If I burrowed under the straw that covered the floor, the demons couldn't find me. Terror was my closest friend; my room was rank with the smell of it. The only hope I clung to was that if I could hide long enough, I knew the dragon would come and save me.

  4—TISALA

  Some stereotypes are useful. Certainly I've never met a dishonorable Oranstonian, nor a Shavigman who wasn't happy to fight.

  Tisala paced the confines of Ward's room. Waiting here while someone else dealt with her problems was harder than the role she'd accepted in her father's little plot—which was just what Ward had thought it to be.

  It had been her father who proposed it, Alizon had been none too happy about her knowing everything—his plans were more than Ward had guessed. Enough more, she hoped, for her father and others she cared about to triumph over Jakoven. But Ward had been brutal in his dismissal of Alizon's rebellion, and his recital had had the ring of truth about it.

  She'd been too long among men who grasped every straw as a great hope and built a house of it. Everything she knew of Ward told her that he saw the world as clearly as any. If he saw disaster, she was afraid he was right.

  It was too quiet.

  A keep always has noise: people going about their lives, the clash of weapons as the Guard trained, the creak of wagon wheels. With the king's troops here it should have been louder than ever. But there was no sound here at all, not since the tremendous booming cracks of wood on wood, and Tisala was growing even more nervous.

  She sat down abruptly, fighting the dizzy exhaustion that claimed her at unexpected minutes. Some aspect of the magic Oreg had used to help heal her, Ward had explained.

  The soreness was mostly gone, though her left hand ached. Oreg warned her it might not ever have much strength, but he'd been pleased that she could open and shut it completely. She'd been pleased that it was still on her arm. She remembered distinctly wondering whether she should try to cut it off herself before the bandits attacked her. She hadn't realized she was so close to Hurog.

  She pushed back her hair wearily and clung to the carved post of the nearby bed to stand, knowing that if she stayed in the chair she'd fall asleep no matter how anxious she was.

  Ward's tunic hung over the end of the post. There was a salt-sweet smell that clung to the fabric, a smell that lingered in his bed as well.

  Would she have come here if it weren't for that compelling memory of an afternoon spent riding and joking?

  Ward probably had such afternoons often. But no man before had ever teased Haverness's daughter, who could outfight, outride, and, mostly, outwrestle anyone. No man had ever flirted with her before. Perhaps she'd misinterpreted, perhaps he'd just been polite. But at least he didn't see an abomination when he looked at her.

  Well, she wouldn't embarrass him by hanging all over him. She knew how to be a comrade in arms, someone men were comfortable with. She wouldn't make a fool out of herself. She pulled the fabric of his shirt against her nose and breathed in deeply, all the while sneering at herself for acting like a silly girl half her age.

  The door opened and Tisala dropped her hold on the shirt, adopting a defensive stance as Stala strode in. Tisala relaxed as she realized the woman hadn't seen her sniffing Ward's shirt.

  "Ah," said Stala briskly. "We've much to discuss. Lord Duraugh will be here in a few days and we need to decide what to do with you. I expect Duraugh will strip Hurog of every soldier here and take them to Estian, but we've got to keep you safe as well. How are you feeling?"

  His aunt's voice was quick and biting—from habit, thought Tisala, and not any particular irritation.

  "Better than I should be," she answered. "What has happened that Lord Duraugh needs Hurog's men? Where's Ward?"

  "The king's troops took Ward with them to Estian to stand trial—no, no, girl," snapped Stala impatiently, "don't look like that. As far as I could tell they didn't have a clue you were here, and Ward kept them out of the keep. It had nothing to do with you." She gave Tisala an assessing look. "Do you know why Ward was fighting in Oranstone five years ago?"

  "Four years," corrected Tisala before she could stop herself. Clearing her throat she continued before Stala could wonder why Tisala would keep track of how long ago it had been since she'd seen Ward. "Because the king threatened to imprison him in the Asylum—he and Tosten were just talking about it." The thought of Ward in one of those barren little cells she knew all too well made Tisala feel ill.

  Gods, she thought, he won't last long.

  Stala said, "Ward won enough acclaim for stopping Kariarn's invasion, the king couldn't very well declare him mad, not then. But time has passed and Ward hasn't done anything else remarkable. People forget. Unlike the general populace, though, Jakoven has a long memory, and a grudge against the family of Hurog. It's not your fault they took him. If anything, from what Ward told me, it sounds as if you ar
e a victim of the king's ire with Hurog rather than the other way around."

  Tisala took a step away from the bed, impatient with the weakness that caused her to sway unsteadily. "You can't let them take him to the Asylum. Have you ever been in it?"

  Stala shrugged, but Tisala could tell she wasn't happy. "I didn't let them do anything. Ward decided he'd go with them and gave the rest of us our orders. I'm to make certain you're safe." She narrowed her eyes and grabbed Tisala just as her knees gave out. The older woman's firm grip propelled her back into her chair.

  Stala's voice softened. "He'll be fine, lass. Our Oreg is trailing them. He won't let them do anything to Ward—gods help them if they try. Oreg doesn't have Ward's fine political sensibilities. Tosten's gone for Duraugh—and that man is as sly a politician as ever was bred from this family. If Duraugh can't get him out by negotiation, Oreg can get him out with power. Ward's safe enough. Don't fret. We just need to decide how to keep you safe."

  Keep her safe? Would Ward have gone with them if he hadn't had to worry about her? Tisala shook her head firmly. "I came here because I was hurt and needed a place to hide while I healed. I can keep myself safe. Give me some food and I'll be fine. You don't have to do anything more for me—but" — she leaned forward—"maybe I can do something for you."

  "Oh?" Stala pulled a chair up and sat close enough for soft conversation. "What can you do for us?"

  "Much of my work these past years for Alizon has been with people not in favor with Jakoven, such people who have a tendency to end up in the Asylum." There, that was as fine a line between lie and truth as she'd ever trod. "As a result, I know a lot about the Asylum and how it operates. If politics don't work, and someone has to break in to get him out—I can help."

  If the Hurogs were more loyal to the royal house than Tisala believed, she might just have signed away everything she'd worked for. The Hurog family had strong ties with tradition, and tradition had them supporting the king no matter how he treated them. Tisala was betting that Stala and Ward's uncle loved Ward more than they loved tradition.

  "Most of the people imprisoned there are people of little consequence or power," commented Stala. "At least now."

  Tisala forced a smile. "Most of the people who support Alizon are people of little consequence. But there are a growing number of them."

  Stala let out a breath. "Right. I won't stop you leaving as soon as you wish, but waiting for Duraugh might be better. He knows when a mouse sneezes in Estian; he'll know how to use your information."

  "When is he coming?"

  "Tosten set out to find him as soon as Ward left. Perhaps as little as four days."

  Surely Ward could survive a short time in the Asylum. It would take days of travel before he was actually in Estian. She knew a man who'd lived there for years.

  Tisala stretched her stiff neck. "I'll wait for Lord Duraugh."

  Tisala slept most of the day, and awoke the following morning feeling much better, especially after she ate the enormous breakfast that had been left to cool by her bedside. When she finished eating, she stretched out gingerly. Sweat poured off her forehead anyway, but when she was finished, most of her stiffness was gone.

  Ward's staff, which she took from its place against the wall near his sword, was too long. Her left hand, as Oreg had speculated, wouldn't grip right, so she had to alter some of the steps accordingly.

  Stala came in without knocking as Tisala was in the middle of turning a slow cartwheel using the staff as an extension of her hands. If the ceiling had been lower, or the room smaller, it wouldn't have worked.

  "Not a particularly useful move," Stala observed dryly.

  Landing lightly on her feet, Tisala smiled neutrally. "I've found it very useful in my line of work. In the middle of the second act, the warrior goddess teaches the hero how to defeat the emperor's evil wizard. It doesn't bring in much, but it pays for my room and board."

  "You've been acting?"

  "Ward's told you about what I was doing in Estian," said Tisala. It was a safe enough guess. Now that she wouldn't be able to go back to it, there was no harm in Ward's aunt knowing about her role. "As Haverness's daughter I couldn't work—not and keep my status as a lady, but being a spy is an expensive lifestyle."

  Her father had sent her money once, but she'd told him not to do it again. The chances of someone making the connection were too great—and Jakoven would love to have an excuse to take Haverness for treachery.

  Tisala continued, "One of the men at the inn where I stayed was an actor; he got me the part. I wear a mask, and the theater's in a district not overrun with nobles anyway."

  Stala nodded her understanding. "Ward told me that you can use a sword—high praise. Can you use a staff as well?"

  Tisala shook her head. "Not right now. This staff's too long, but I suspect my left hand's not up to it even with one the right size."

  Stala examined the hand in question, turning it this way and that.

  "The sooner you start pushing it, the sooner it'll recover," she said at last, returning Tisala's hand. "I think we can find a better fit for you than Ward's weapon. That boy could use a tree trunk. The Guard is working with staff today in the bailey. I've a Seaforder, several Tallvens, and a few Avinhellish men, but we've not had an Oranstonian here in my memory. It would do the men good to see the difference between Oranstone style and ours."

  Tisala felt a real smile spread over her face. It had been so long since she'd been in a sparring match with trained men. "Fine."

  Staff fighting gave way to the sword over the next few days, then hand-to-hand and bow.

  Tisala was in her element as she'd never been. Here the men weren't afraid to lay into her just because she was a woman. There were better fighters among the Guard, but she was far from the worst, and Stala taught her a few tricks. What lingering weakness she felt began to fade hour by hour. When she put her head down to sleep, exhaustion gave her dreamless rest instead of the nightmares she'd been plagued with since she left her torturer dead in Estian.

  By the end of the morning workout, three days after Ward had left, she felt well enough that she decided to set out for Estian that afternoon on her own rather than wait for Lord Duraugh.

  While Tisala wiped off sweat and exchanged friendly insults with the Seaforder she'd been sparring with, she decided what she'd need to ask Stala for: a horse, supplies, and money for bribes.

  The sound of a horn's staccato blast from beyond the newly repaired gate brought everything to a standstill.

  "Lord Duraugh," said Stala. "It's about time."

  Stala put her fingers to her lips and blew a sharp whistle that was answered by a horn. At that sound the men guarding the gates scrambled to open them. A second whistle had the Blue Guard in formal formation. Tisala stepped in beside Stala and watched Ward's uncle ride through the gates with half a hundred men, including Tosten and Beckram.

  Their horses were stumbling tired, and Stala sent a group of her guards to help the grooms with the animals.

  Ward's uncle was a big man, too, though not so extraordinarily large as Ward. The Hurog blood was easy to see in the shape of his face and his coloring. Like Tosten and Oreg, his eyes were a luminous blue very close to being purple. They swept over the men in the bailey, touched briefly on Tisala, then settled on Stala.

  He dismounted and yielded his gelding to a groom without comment. "The king's men are close on our heels. I dared not take too many men from Iftahar—Ciarra is due to give birth to my grandchild any day. Without us there to bargain with, like as not they'll leave her be, but I needed to give her a force to fight with if the king decides he really needs all the Hurogs, rather than just the men in Estian."

  Stala frowned. "What do you mean, all the Hurogs? And why are the king's men chasing you?"

  Beckram answered her, "The day before Tosten reached us, I had word from a friend that the king was going to summon us all to him. Tosten told us that the king has already taken Ward."

  Tisala, standi
ng unnoticed behind Stala, had forgotten how effective a weapon Ward's cousin had in his voice and face. The rich baritone caused a pleasing flutter of her heart, and his face combined the best of Hurog features with unusual golden skin tones and reddish hair. Unlike Ward, Beckram was very handsome—she'd heard somewhere that he'd married Ward's sister.

  "We decided to lead them away from Ciarra and find out if Hurog were still safe, before we let them catch up with us," said Duraugh. "Have you had any word from Oreg?"

  Stala nodded, though Tisala hadn't seen any messengers come or go, nor any sign of a carrier pigeon coop. Maybe, being a wizard, Oreg had other means of communication—although her father's wizard had not.

  "He says they're two days out of Estian. Ward is fine. Oreg says he's already won over the general, though none of them, possibly with the exception of Garranon, have a clue what they're dealing with."

  "He's not trying his stupid act again?" exclaimed Beckram.

  Stala rolled her eyes. "Of course not, but you know how he is. Even without the act most people think he's not too swift."

  "It's the eyes," added Tisala, deciding it was time to make her presence felt. "They're lovely, but not the eyes of a clever man."

  Tosten grinned at her under his dirt. "Nope, it's that it takes him so bleeding long to say anything. Uncle Duraugh, Beckram, allow me to introduce Ward's warrior-maid and Haverness's daughter, Tisala. Tisala, you already met Beckram, though you might have forgotten." His tone made it clear that he was well aware that no woman, having once met his cousin, would ever forget him. "And this is my uncle, Lord Duraugh. Though he's Shavig to look at, he holds his estate in Tallven, which gives the king's chamberlain ever so much trouble at formal dinners—does he sit with the Tallvens or the Shavigmen?"

  Lord Duraugh set aside his weariness and bowed with automatic courtesy. "Lady."

  Tisala smiled. She bowed in return. Women who topped six feet looked ridiculous and awkward bobbing up and down, so she avoided curtsies when she could. She remembered meeting Lord Duraugh and his son any number of times in Estian, though she doubted they could say the same.