Dragon Blood

"Though Jakoven failed with you, you are hardly the only person the king could torture a confession out of. I need to get word to him. Do you know if Beckram is in Estian now?" I asked. I didn't keep an eye on my cousin's travels. Iftahar was much nearer to Estian than Hurog was, and Beckram went to Estian on a monthly basis.

"No," she whispered. "I don't know. Do you think Jakoven took others to make them accuse Beckram?"

I had been thinking about it from the angle of containing the threat toward my cousin, but, prompted by her question, I realized that anyone Jakoven had taken was likely to have been at least an acquaintance and probably a friend of Tisala's.

I sat forward and Tisala jerked back from me. When she realized what she had done, she flushed with embarrassment—but she didn't relax.

I'd fought side by side with Tisala. The thought of what it would take to make her flinch from anyone made me want to hit something. I wanted to say something to comfort her—but the closed look on her face told me she wouldn't talk about it.

"Do you think Jakoven has taken someone else?" she asked again.

"That depends upon what he really wants," I said finally. "If he's really trying to break Alizon's support, he'll go after the lower born first. Build up cases against the nobles from the confessions he gets from the ones he can attack with impunity."

"What do you mean 'if'?" she asked.

"I told you," I said. "On the run the way he is, Alizon's no threat to the king now. He has no access to his wealth or lands—both of which have been padding the king's purse nicely. Alizon might have had a chance four years ago, if Kariarn had been a little more successful in his attempt to take over Oranstone—and if Alizon weren't illegitimate. When Alizon's caught, Jakoven will make a fool of him and confine him somewhere convenient—like the asylum next to the king's younger brother, Kellen—where Alizon will die from choking on his di

"So what do you think King Jakoven is doing?" asked Tisala after a moment. I thought she sounded bleak—had she really thought Alizon had a chance of oversetting his brother?

"I think Jakoven's moving against my cousin," I said. "Though he's taken quite a risk in doing it."

"What do you mean?" Tisala wasn't sitting up quite so straight anymore, and her face had gone from pale to gray. She tried to lean back against the headboard of the bed, but desisted as soon as her raw back touched the wood. I could have moved away and allowed her to lie back comfortably, but I didn't want her to feel as though I was making allowances for her fear. I hadn't done anything to her—she just had to force herself to remember that.

"Taking you could have precipitated a scandal," I said. "Even with your father disowning you, you are a highborn lady—and as such entitled to a certain amount of respect to your person. The Tallvenish are very protective of their aristocratic womenfolk, and it is the Tallvenish who are the heart of Jakoven's seat upon the throne."

"Not that protective," she protested. "They wouldn't change their allegiance over a woman—especially not an Oranstonian who fights like a man."

I raised my eyebrows at the bitterness in her words and I wondered how uncomfortable she'd found life in Estian after the freedoms her father had allowed her.

"You're right," I said, "at least in that most of them wouldn't have run to your rescue. But it would be as bad for him as if he were caught having relations with one of his hunting dogs. They would lose all respect for him, and that would be dangerous. My cousin's downfall must be important to him in order for him to risk being found out."

"So he won't stop with me," she said. "And he probably didn't start with me, either."

She sounded a little frantic, and I wondered if there were a man in particular she was worried about.

I shrugged. "I don't know. It would take more than the word of a peasant or merchant to give King Jakoven a clear shot at Beckram. Someone that everyone knows is one of Alizon's supporters. Have you been missing anyone who fits that bill?

She shook her head. "No—not when I was taken. I don't know about now."

I shifted forward slowly, to give her time to control her initial recoil, and put a gentle hand against her shoulder. "There's nothing you can do from your sickbed. Rest."

She held still under my touch, but made no move to lie back until I got off the bed.

"Do you need help?" I asked, letting my hand drop casually to my side. "I know what your back must be feeling like."

"No," she said. She hesitated for a moment, then sank back beneath the woven blankets and turned painfully onto her side to take pressure off her back and sore rib. "I can't think," she muttered.

"Don't panic," I said. I'd been healed by Oreg a couple of times, too: I knew how it felt to have exhaustion pull my consciousness away from me. "It's just the magic."

Her lips curved up as her eyes closed. "They call you a wizard—the Shavig Wizard, as if there were no other mages to come out of Shavig—or Hurog, for that matter. Did you really pull Hurog apart with your power?"

"No," I answered. With my soul, perhaps, mine and Oreg's, but not my magic. "Rumor exaggerates. Oreg's our wizard here. On a good day I can light the fire in the hearth." I was a bit better than that, or had been before Oreg decided last month that I needed to learn to use my own magic rather than Hurog's to power my spells.

The smile fell away from her lips and she struggled up on her elbows and forced her eyes open. "I shouldn't have come here," she said, her voice slurring the words. "It's too dangerous."

"What would have been dangerous," I said, "would have been not knowing that Jakoven was moving against my family. For that you are welcome to stay here until you grow old and rot." My words eased her and she allowed me to pull the covers over her again. I waited until her breathing slowed before I touched her cheek.

She wasn't objectively beautiful—she had her father's hawklike nose for one thing. On her father it was distinguished. On her it was … intimidating. Her face was all angles except for her slightly slanted eyes and overlarge mouth. She was too tall as well, and not in the slim-fragile ma

To me she was glorious, even battered as she was. For the past four years I had measured every woman I met against her, to their detriment. Now she was here, in my bed.

Tisala progressed rapidly from invalid to cranky and bored. Sympathetic, I brought out a chessboard to help her pass the time.

"My father taught me," she said apologetically as I stared at the board as if that would explain how she beat me faster than Oreg ever had.

I gave her an a

A slow smile crossed her face. "I know."

I shook my head again. "No. When you win, you want to crush your opponent, not just humiliate him. A humiliated opponent just gets vicious, a crushed opponent crawls off and never bothers you again. Watch."

I took a deep breath, then hit the table with sudden violence, scattering hapless chess pieces on the floor. "Hah!" I bellowed. "Do you call that a game! My grandmother's dog played better on its deathbed. Fifteen moves! Teach you to believe it when someone claims to play a little chess!" I subsided slowly.

Tisala had flinched at my first move, but it had been reflex only, and even when I loomed over her, she was relaxed in her chair. It had taken me weeks to get my father's warhorse to trust me that much—but Tisala had only been abused for a short time.