It was selfish, she knew, but Cordelia could not help attempting to prolong her time in the tower with the dragon, away from the unpleasant responsibilities of the royal life she had been born to.
So, though at first she had felt pain for every wound taken, whether by knight or by dragon, her sympathies now resided entirely with the beast.
Today, the knight had come early. It was still not quite light, and in other circumstances Cordelia would have remained lying in bed for some time, pondering the day ahead while watching slow tendrils of illuminated clouds spread across the increasingly blue sky.
The window of her tower prison would have given a particularly nice view of that phenomenon. Her father had made some effort to ensure her comfort during this period of confinement, and she appreciated that.
She didn't hold him responsible for the life ahead of her. He'd been born into the same web of inflexible duties. He had tried to weave it all into a garment she could wear lightly—it wasn't his fault if the task was impossible.
Cordelia pushed herself up out of bed and went to the window. She had learned the angle that allowed her to peer down in such a way that no knight could spot her by glancing up.
This knight was smaller than usual. The armor did not provide the same sense of mass that it did to many of the big men who wore it. Watching the figure below as it darted in and out of the dragon's reach and fought with no attempt to establish overwhelming force, Cordelia formed a suspicion…
*~*~*
Nothing happened in the palace that her father didn't know about. Nothing. She had learned that the hard way several years before, when he sent Lady Jeanne to initiate a pointed conversation with her.
"My position has always been delicate," Lady Jeanne had said. "No one gets worried that I'll birth an illegitimate heir. On the other hand, some of them worry about what I'm doing to the women who work near me."
Cordelia had opened her mouth to protest. Malia loved her in return. She was sure of that. She had never done anything Malia didn't want. Cordelia had done things to Malia, to be sure, but Malia had done things back to her.
As if she could read Cordelia's thoughts through her forehead, Lady Jeanne had lifted a hand. "You're the princess. There are people who would do anything to obtain a position close to you. There are people who believe they can refuse you nothing. I experience a bit of that, as the king's cousin. What you have to understand is that it's even more of an issue for you. Unless you're in very special circumstances, or with very special people, you can't ever forget your place in this world."
Cordelia hadn't been able to resist anymore. "Malia is a special person."
"You have to be more careful," Jeanne had persisted. "Many of the reasons for that are unfair. You've been hearing all your life about the consequences of your rank. I'm sure that won't be a surprise to you. For women who love women—well, I want you to know you can turn to me if you need advice."
Cordelia still recalled the angry swish of skirts around her calves when she popped out of her chair and turned her back on Jeanne. "Is your advice going to be about how I have to restrain myself and wait so nobody gossips? Because I could do that if I was going to end up like you, if there was any possible way Daddy would let me marry a woman. But sneaking around with Malia might be the only chance I get to love the way I really need to." She crossed her arms and stiffened her spine. "I know my duty. I'll fulfill it. But I see what the men do. With the serving girls. With the stable boys. With whoever else. I don't think what I've done is any different."
"You can turn to me if you need advice," Lady Jeanne had repeated before she left.
It wasn't until the next day that Cordelia discovered what Malia had been saying about her—that Cordelia had forced her serving girl to deviant behavior, that all Malia wanted was to find a good husband and become a decent wife and mother, that the princess planned to prevent her from ever fulfilling the dreams of an ordinary woman.
Her father summoned her to the private audience chamber attached to his bedroom, and made her wait for many long, uncomfortable minutes while he slowly chewed toast slathered in butter and honey. When he spoke, he fixed his eyes on the middle distance, and his tone was casual, as if what he had to say concerned her not at all.
"I've arranged to transfer a group of servants to the household of Duke Darian. They will be well paid for their trouble. I included Malia, your old maidservant. I've replaced her with a competent woman who has been working in the palace for more than thirty years. I don't believe you'll miss Malia much."
Cordelia swallowed, picking up the subtext. Malia's replacement would be old enough to be Cordelia's mother. There would be no more scandals. She was never to do this again. She was never to show that what had happened with Malia had hurt her. Her eyes burned and her throat ached.
"Daddy, I—"
He set down his slice of toast. "You won't miss her, will you?" There was something dangerous in his voice, a threat hidden under the thin affability of his tone.
She wanted to ask him questions. Had this ever happened to him? Had he ever loved a servant? Had he ever had to give somebody up?
She wanted to defend herself. Cordelia had spent the morning going over her memories. Every kiss, every touch, every smile. Had she used the tone of command when she hadn't meant to? Had she imagined pleasure on Malia's face because she wanted to see it there? Had she been a monster, a deviant, like the gossips were saying she was? Or had Malia lied? If Malia had lied, was it now, when she said she hadn't wanted Cordelia? Or was it then, when she'd claimed she did?
After several tense moments, Cordelia was able to force away her questions. Her father didn't want to talk about it, and so this was another part of her duty as a princess. She had to let him handle this as he saw fit, she had to learn from watching him, and she had to set aside her feelings as a young woman and remember the rules of conduct that governed her existence as a princess.
Her father nodded, as if he guessed some of the struggle that had transpired within her. "We can't trust anyone," he said. "Those who serve us live in a world we can't enter. Our equals wish to become our betters. And our betters... you should make sure never to let anyone become such a thing to you."
"What about my mother?" Cordelia asked, afraid she knew the answer but needing to ask anyway.
The king smiled, but the expression was both lonely and rueful. "There is only so much love that can exist without trust. You have the right of it."
She imagined him, wanting to reach out to her mother in the night but feeling he could not, hiding his vulnerability even from his own wife. No wonder Cordelia had reveled in the luxury of pressing her face to Malia's breast, of crying and smiling together. It was yet another luxury she couldn't afford, yet another aspect of humanity she had to give up for her rank, a sacrifice for which her jewelry and fine clothes and wealth supposedly compensated her.
That had been the end of the audience, and the apparent end of the subject. Yet there had been a curious addendum to that course of events, and Cordelia had been thinking about it ever since.
*~*~*
Sir Elizabeth. Cordelia recognized the heraldry on her shield now—all of it quite martial. The fireball, symbolizing the terror she experienced while under siege at Tyrell Keep, but against a field of maroon, emphasizing her victory. The horizontal sable line, for the walls, for the fire of the attackers, for the grief created by the absence of those lost in battle. Below, an azure field for steadfast strength and loyalty, and emblazoned there, bold and red, the color of the warrior and the would-be martyr, was the hand representing the rank of knight.
So, like the other knights, she was here to test herself against the dragon. To kill the great and noble beast. To claim glory, and Cordelia's hand, and eventually, the throne.
King Carlysle had knighted Sir Elizabeth just days after the scandal with Malia, and Cordelia had often wondered what he meant by it. Of course, Sir Elizabeth had earned every bit of that title. She had not won this r
ank through birth or money or friendship, but by blood and victory and honor. Still, Cordelia could not fail to notice the timing. Her father was ever subtle. Did he think Sir Elizabeth would make a suitable spouse for his daughter? Was he offering something Cordelia had never believed he would allow her to have?
Cordelia peered down at Sir Elizabeth from her hidden vantage point. She should be happy this woman was here, shouldn't she? Sir Elizabeth represented her best chance at a love match. Cordelia could respect men, and she could like them, but she had never felt drawn to look at them or touch them. Sir Elizabeth, she knew, was handsome and strong while still soft and curved in all the right places. Cordelia could imagine her small but powerful hands, roughened by long hours of practice with her weapons.
The imaginings, however, stopped there. Sir Elizabeth was a woman, yes, but Cordelia felt no special attraction to her. After all, she was only one woman. Fate would have had to strike hard and fast to make Cordelia love literally the only woman available to her.
Watching Sir Elizabeth fight, listening to her grunt as she whirled out of range of the dragon's claws, wincing at the screech of steel on scale, Cordelia felt annoyed. She could not decide which was worse: to marry a man when she wanted none or for her father to think any woman would suffice as long as she was female. Did King Carlysle think he had done Cordelia a favor? Cordelia was not sure he had.
If Sir Elizabeth defeated this dragon, what lay ahead of Cordelia was the most difficult future possible. A marriage many would question in secret. An uncertain path to getting an heir. A spouse whose military and strategic power was sure to be tested at every opportunity. A disadvantage diplomatically, when Cordelia could not work through the network of power that belonged to women without risking having her motivations scrutinized for signs of abnormality.
And what would she get in trade for all this? A woman's body in her bed at night, yes, but not necessarily the body of a woman she could love.
Sir Elizabeth dodged a swipe from the dragon's claws and thrust with her spear. The barbed tip eluded the dragon's defenses and lodged between two scales, just behind the right foreleg.
The dragon screamed its pain and fury, and Cordelia's chest clenched. She ought to let Sir Elizabeth win this battle. Someone would win it eventually, and Cordelia didn't want to wind up married to a man, did she? Her heart raced as she watched Sir Elizabeth press her advantage, drawing her sword as she drove the spear in deeper.
Perhaps her father had expected this to make her happy. Perhaps he'd wanted to give her that sensation she'd so often read about, of anticipation and nervous excitement at the sight of a brave knight risking life and limb just to be with her.
Except Cordelia thought more pragmatically than that. Sir Elizabeth risked life and limb for glory, wealth, and a future with an even better title than the one she had now. She had never directed any particular heat Cordelia's way. Cordelia did not blame Sir Elizabeth for acting the same as every other knight, but neither did her heart melt just because the stories said it was supposed to.
Another blow from Sir Elizabeth, and the dragon's voice rose again. It sounded younger to Cordelia now, hurt and desperate. Her heart cracked.
No. She could not let this happen. Cordelia could not go on sitting in this tower waiting for someone to kill the noble beast who defended it, which she loved. She had not wanted any knight to hurt her dragon, and it made no difference that this knight was a woman.
Cordelia wished desperately that she could lean out the window and bathe her dragon in soothing moonlight, the way the priestesses at the great temple did for their champions. Because she was not capable of such a thing, she was left relying on the skills she had learned from the beastmasters, fumbling among the poultices, powders, and potions she'd made up ahead of time, looking for something that might stop the attacking knight and save the creature's life.
Those with talent could summon magic at will. Those without had to grind it out of herbs and minerals, painstakingly, patiently, capturing what they could through the careful application of tools, unable to see ahead of time whether they had achieved success or failure.
As Cordelia selected three glass vials, she prayed to whatever might be listening that these represented her successes.
She rushed back to the window so quickly that she nearly flung herself out of it. The battle had turned even worse for the dragon during the time Cordelia had been searching. Even her brief and desperate glance told her it was bleeding from many wounds, and that Sir Elizabeth had gained the strength of confidence.
The knight caught sight of Cordelia in the window and tilted her head back. Her faceplate made it impossible to read her expression, but Cordelia felt certain that whatever it was, it was inspired by a misinterpretation of the situation.
"Princess!" Sir Elizabeth cried. "Do you come to give your blessing?"
For the space of a pendulum swing, Cordelia hesitated. She could have her story if she said yes to this. Her father might be pleased. Perhaps she and Sir Elizabeth could learn to love each other.
Then she saw the dragon, still shivering with pain, trying to rally itself to go on defending her and the tower.
Cordelia ignored Sir Elizabeth and dropped the first vial. The smokescreen it produced would blind Sir Elizabeth but not the dragon, whose "vision," according to the beastmasters, was less about its eyes and more about its sophisticated sense of smell and ability to sense vibrations.
The sound of the vial shattering seemed unnaturally loud. Without checking to see if the potion was functioning properly, Cordelia quickly dropped the next two vials. The first was not for true healing. Though she had a powder that could close wounds magically, it would not fall true from the window, and it had cost her too much effort to be squandered. This would simply ease the dragon's pain until she could see to its wounds properly.
The second she felt a bit guilty about, but it seemed necessary. Though dragons had once breathed fire, most now lacked the full anatomy that allowed the feat, possessing vestigial organs instead. Beastmasters, however, had concocted certain potions that could release magical gases that temporarily enabled a dragon to achieve the fire-breathing capacity of its powerful ancestors, assuming the potion was dropped for a dragon with proper training.
Cordelia's dragon wasn't supposed to have that training, but Cordelia had made sure it did.
That potion took effect first. The dragon exhaled a small jet of flame as it appeared to smile. Then the smokescreen began to work. The last clear view Cordelia got before spreading gray tendrils obscured the battle scene was of Sir Elizabeth's shocked face.
Not Personal
Beth glared at the princess through the gathering haze, rude words on the tip of her tongue. She was helping the dragon? Was Cordelia that horrified at the idea of Beth winning her hand? Did she have a favorite knight she hoped would win this contest?
She gritted her teeth and gripped her weapons harder. She'd been winning. She was sure of that.
The dragon breathed more fire, a thicker spurt this time. That ability, apparently enabled by Cordelia, seemed to be gathering literal steam. Despite the spreading smoke, Beth could see heat lines rising off the dragon's back. She could hear the hiss of heated elements in its guts.
She had prepared well for this fight. She'd even cajoled an interview with the beastmaster who had trained this particular monster, and had been able to learn a few things about what it did and didn't know. The beastmaster hadn't told the whole story.
Beth lowered her chin, pointing the top of her helmet toward the dragon as if about to charge in for a headbutt. It was a bad habit, she knew, because it reduced her ability to see. Sometimes, however, the instinct to protect her face became too powerful for her to overcome.
She had to turn this around somehow, get back to the winning position she'd had before Cordelia intervened. Strategies and battle moves swirled through her mind. If she could grab onto the tower itself, maybe climb up toward Cordelia and fight from there, the drago
n might not breathe fire in her direction. Since it seemed to have a bond with Cordelia, it probably wouldn't risk hurting her.
Beth moved back, far enough to get out of the smoke and assess how possible it would be to climb the tower blind while on the receiving end of attacks from an angry, now fire-breathing, dragon.
From her new vantage point, she could see the road that led to the tower, and the telltale dust cloud that indicated another rider, heading this way. She did curse at that. If another knight got here before Beth wrapped this up, this situation would get even more complicated. The last thing Beth wanted was to wind up wounded and exhausted from fighting this dragon, only to have to immediately defend her victory and life in a duel with a well-rested knight with twice her muscle mass.
Without wasting any more time in thought, Beth rushed to the side of the tower, grabbed a drainage pipe, and pulled herself up. Her muscles screamed in protest—armor was incredibly heavy—but the most important thing she'd learned from her change in station was the ability to press through pain and discomfort. She promised herself she'd have servants draw her a bath later, and hauled herself upward, flexing the muscles below her shoulder blades and down her sides with grim determination.
She could vaguely see the dragon's shape through the smoke, a green swirl accented by periodic fiery exhalations.
Beth had hoped her shift of position would confuse it, but that only lasted seconds. All too quickly, it turned toward her, and flame licked the side of the tower, exactly where Beth would have been standing if she hadn't managed to climb up a few feet. Beth figured this advantage wouldn't last long, either.
Panting, aching, she ran through her options.
She could jump down and try to land on the dragon, maybe plunge a dagger into the base of its skull. If she couldn't disable it quickly, though, there were so many ways that idea could go wrong. If its skin was as hot as it looked, she might not be able to sit on it without grilling herself alive inside the giant metal trap she called armor.
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