To the Victor Read online

  Something bothered Cordelia about Sir Elizabeth's tone. She studied her, trying her best to apply the eye of pragmatism, not allowing herself to give in to the fantasies she'd had before. Armor hid everything. Cordelia had honed her skills in fine dining rooms and parlors, not on battlefields. "What is it?" she asked, unable to read anything more from Sir Elizabeth's guarded posture.

  "Nothing you should concern yourself with, Your Highness."

  Cordelia narrowed her eyes. "No. That won't do. Don't tell me not to worry my pretty head while the Real Warriors handle the Real Problems."

  Sir Elizabeth stiffened at that, and Cordelia knew she'd struck a nerve. She dared to step closer and lay a hand on Sir Elizabeth's metal-clad arm. "I need to know what's wrong," she said, her voice huskier than she meant it to be.

  A muscle worked in Sir Elizabeth's jaw. Her gaze touched Cordelia's hand with nearly physical force, and the princess felt self-conscious about the nature of the moment. If Sir Elizabeth felt no pull toward women, then this romantic gesture would seem foolish to her. Still, Cordelia stood her ground. Sir Elizabeth clearly knew the story a knight needed to play out. If she hoped to win herself a princess, she'd deal with the situation, whether her interest was genuine or feigned. Drawing on her years of diplomatic training, Cordelia held her body as if she were perfectly at ease, though in truth she was far from it.

  "I'm wounded, too," Sir Elizabeth confessed at last. "Weak from the fight with the dragon." She sighed heavily. "I could beat most knights if I had to, under most normal circumstances. Now, like this… I didn't see who was coming. There are plenty of knights I could still defeat, but there are plenty I'm not sure about right now. You'll get away on your dragon, Princess. I'm confident I can promise you that. As far as my other promise, that I'll stay alive for you… Well, I will do my utmost."

  Cordelia tightened her grip. Her heart lurched at Sir Elizabeth's words, and she wondered yet again if this was a calculation. Was she being played like an instrument? Sir Elizabeth had clearly formed a strategy for taking on the dragon. Had she conceived one for taking on the princess, too? Cordelia swallowed. "What would you have me do?"

  "Nothing. I thought about it and decided I can do enough of what you're asking that you shouldn't have to think about the rest."

  Cordelia's eyes flicked toward the window. She didn't know how long they had before the other knight arrived, not exactly, but there was a little time. "No," she told Sir Elizabeth firmly. "If you were lost because of this, I would think about it for my remaining life. I have no desire to receive that sort of favor from you."

  She pressed her lips together. She'd used the potion that gave the dragon fire. She'd used the smokescreen and the one that masked its pain. She'd saved the powder that would give it true healing, though, because she hadn't wanted to risk dropping it from the window, and because it wouldn't really have taken effect unless the dragon had a chance to rest. If she used that one now for Sir Elizabeth, there ought to be just enough time for it to do some good. She'd wanted it for the dragon, but as long as she got to a safe place she ought to be able to care for the creature through mundane means until she had a chance to piece together more magic.

  "Where are you wounded?" Cordelia asked, already unwrapping the bundle that held the powder.

  "On the thigh," Sir Elizabeth replied.

  Cordelia studied the joins of her armor. "Can you get your tassets off without undoing your cuirass? I'd rather not remove any of your protection unless we have to."

  "I think so." Sir Elizabeth fumbled behind her back. "There's a connecting piece here."

  "Hold still." Cordelia took a deep breath, all too aware that this was the fantasy she'd been afraid of. Loosening a knight's armor, peeling it away, soothing her… She stepped behind Sir Elizabeth, biting the inside of her cheek as she grasped her hips and felt for the straps that held the steel plating in place over her thighs.

  Up close now, she could see the dents in the armor and could imagine the damage that might have been done beneath. Sir Elizabeth hissed with pain as Cordelia shifted the steel, but the sound made it all too easy to envision how she might stiffen, jerk, and gasp under a touch intended for pleasure.

  Cordelia tried to pretend she was working on the dragon, but it was no use. The dented tassets had stuck to Sir Elizabeth's wounded flesh, and she was forced to kneel and peer closely at them, to brush her fingers lightly all over her thigh, searching for the spots that caused the least amount of pain. In the process, she was introduced to the intimate smells of Sir Elizabeth's body—of her sweat, her blood, and under all that, of her sex. Cordelia found herself oddly fascinated by the idea of kneeling before Sir Elizabeth in very different circumstances.

  If they did wind up married, would the act feel submissive? Would Sir Elizabeth wind Cordelia's hair through strong fingers? Or would Cordelia be the one in control? Would she part Sir Elizabeth's thighs and feel her trembling and vulnerable beneath the touch?

  There's no time for this. Cordelia gritted her teeth and eased the tassets free. "I'm going to cut away the fabric over the wound, heal your flesh as best I can, and then baste on a patch to keep your armor from rubbing too badly against the newly healed skin."

  "That sounds like more than I could have hoped for," Sir Elizabeth said, and it sounded like there was something extra in her tone, something personal. Cordelia couldn't help glancing up at her face. She'd been looked at by men who wanted her, but she was not used to the vulnerable feeling of being looked at by a woman who seemed to want her, by someone she might respond to.

  She'd been angry at her father for thinking she'd fall in love with Sir Elizabeth simply because she was the only woman available. Now she was angry at herself for the same. Was she really that starved? There's only ever been Malia, and that was all too brief… Impatiently, Cordelia thrust her sexual thoughts away. She returned her gaze to Sir Elizabeth's wound.

  Cut away the fabric. Cordelia took up a small knife and moved it carefully, watching threads part around the blade. Sir Elizabeth's wound made her hiss with displeasure. The damage turned her olive skin all sorts of angry colors. Almost, Cordelia stroked the skin to soothe it. She only barely managed to restrain herself from that silliness.

  Heal the flesh. She applied the powder she'd meant for the dragon, hoping this batch wasn't one of her failures. It fizzed when it made contact with Sir Elizabeth's blood. The theory she'd been taught by the beastmaster was that this magic empowered blood to do whatever it would have done anyway, only faster. She watched as the wound moved through various stages with absurd rapidity. A scab formed, then flaked away, revealing fragile, shiny new skin below. Sir Elizabeth swayed from the shock of the effect, but beasts did that, too, and Cordelia had already put out a hand to steady her.

  Baste on a patch. She pulled her hand away from Sir Elizabeth's hip. The fabric she'd used to wrap the powder would do for the patch, and so Cordelia quickly cut it to size. Now that Sir Elizabeth was no longer wounded, the urge to stroke her thigh was even stronger. Cordelia longed to wash away the gore, to test the strength of the mend, and, selfishly, to feel the difference between the rest of Sir Elizabeth's skin and this skin she'd had a part in forming. She sewed as quickly as she dared, knowing she needed this moment to end.

  Reattach the armor. Cordelia made her gestures as efficient as possible. She asked herself how a servant would perform the task, but then could not help thinking of Malia and the lingering way she had fastened and unfastened Cordelia's buttons, just before things became romantic. Cordelia questioned herself ruthlessly. Was it truly necessary to perform that final check of the connector? To smooth down that spot in the fabric? She didn't want to allow herself any excuses to touch Sir Elizabeth more than the situation required.

  As soon as she could, Cordelia stepped away, avoiding Sir Elizabeth's gaze. "That should help a bit."

  "Thank you, Your Highness. It will."

  "We're agreed, then? You'll cover my escape?"

  Sir Elizabeth s
quared her shoulders. "If this is a test of whether I'd go against the king's commands for the princess, I've just failed. I'll do what you ask."

  Cordelia felt a twinge of guilt. "In my eyes, you've passed."

  "We'll see what that turns out to mean."

  Flinching, Cordelia looked Sir Elizabeth full in the face. Did she expect a romantic act? Or a promise?

  Sir Elizabeth, however, simply wore a rueful expression. She lifted a hand as if to wave goodbye, then moved to leave out the window. She exhaled wearily as she positioned herself for the climb.

  "Wait," Cordelia said.

  "Yes?" Sir Elizabeth's tone was polite and courtly, neither over-excited nor impatient. It made Cordelia hesitate. She worried that Sir Elizabeth had come for politics and power, not because she wanted Cordelia in any real, personal sense.

  She forced down her fear of humiliation and offered her romantic gesture anyway, because she needed to know how that would feel. Reaching behind her head, Cordelia quickly unwound her hair ribbon, took Sir Elizabeth's hand, and tied it around her wrist. "I'm sorry I didn't give you my blessing right away," she said. "I just didn't want my dragon to die. You have it now, no matter which knight it is coming down the way." Her throat tightened. "I'm not sure I want anyone to win me at all, but you're the only one I might not mind."

  It was both more and less than she'd wanted to say. Cordelia tensed, afraid Sir Elizabeth might take her words as an insult.

  Instead, Sir Elizabeth lifted her hand and kissed the ribbon, then brushed the tips of her gauntleted fingers against Cordelia's cheeks. "Princess, it sounds like this could get personal after all."

  She wore an odd expression, half-amused and half-wistful. For a moment, Cordelia thought Sir Elizabeth might kiss her. She lowered her eyelids and leaned toward her.

  Sir Elizabeth, however, pulled away and disappeared out the window. Cordelia was left with cheeks burning, uncertain of how her gesture had been received.

  There's no time for this, she told herself yet again, and whistled for her dragon.

  The Duel

  Beth knew she should have kissed Cordelia. She had obviously expected it, and by leaving out that action, Beth had failed to play her part.

  How to explain the fear that had suddenly gripped her? It hadn't been, as she might have guessed, that she wouldn't enjoy the kiss, but that she would.

  Sir Elizabeth, this sort of thing is not about love, Sir Mark had said.

  What is it about, then? Beth had asked, and she'd felt so very mature when she thought she had an answer. Power. Politics. Claiming her due the way any male knight would.

  And yet she had not done so, had she? She hadn't pressed for a bargain with Princess Cordelia, hadn't gotten any concessions for herself. She had failed completely at the power games the nobles played, and come out of the situation promising to risk her life and King Carlysle's displeasure in exchange for a hair ribbon and vague sentiments about how Cordelia thought she maybe wouldn't mind having to marry Beth, assuming she had to marry anyone and didn't just fly away on her dragon and keep flying.

  One way of interpreting this story was that Sir Elizabeth was a fool and Princess Cordelia had played her for one.

  Beth gritted her teeth and sped her descent from the tower. Above, Cordelia was cooing over the dragon—with notably more affection than she'd used to tend to Beth's rather grievous leg wound.

  There might be another story here. Maybe Princess Cordelia appreciated Beth for treating her like a person, for listening to her wants and needs. Maybe those moments in the tower had been real. Maybe if Beth had kissed Cordelia, she would have felt something, and maybe Cordelia would have kissed her back. Maybe this was about love after all, not about an inexperienced knight making stupid mistakes when encouraged to do so by a trained diplomat.

  Dream on, Beth. Besides, what's love if not a series of stupid mistakes? That's the whole problem with it.

  The ground was closer now, which would have been more of a relief if Beth hadn't recognized the knight riding toward the tower. Sir Dalton the Adamant. She knew his painted shield—grapes over a field of vert. The symbolism was downright bucolic, suggesting growth and joy, peace and the fruits of God's goodness. Unfortunately, that heraldry fit Sir Dalton's grandfather, and the family temperament had shifted since that time.

  Beth steeled herself for a hard fight.

  Cordelia was still fawning over her dragon, and Beth was half tempted to shout up to her. There wasn't much time if she wanted to get away. Sir Dalton, for all his many flaws, was a strong fighter. She wouldn't have been sure of beating him on a good day. Now, Beth was tired, and still wounded despite Cordelia's helpful ministrations. She was distracted, too. In some ways, it didn't matter if she was falling in love or being fooled. Either one made it hard to think straight.

  Taking a deep breath, Beth steered her thoughts into line. She told herself she didn't need to know what Cordelia's motives were or what the princess felt. The point was, Beth had done the right thing. A ruler had the right to command a knight. A woman deserved to have a say in who she married, even if that wasn't always the way the world worked. A person who loved dragons shouldn't have to watch one of the noble creatures be killed.

  Sir Dalton came into view. "Sir Elizabeth, apparently no one took the time to explain to you how this is done. You kill the dragon and claim the princess. You don't stand at the bottom of the tower waiting for someone else to come down the road." He laughed prettily, and Beth gritted her teeth.

  "Things are going differently today." She raised her sword, and he swept up his visor and raised an eyebrow.

  "Oh?"

  He unsheathed his weapon with a courtier's grace. He appeared to have none of the warrior's ferocity, and Beth knew he meant to defeat her with an insultingly casual approach. For her part, she couldn't afford to worry about how she looked while she was fighting. What mattered was buying time for Cordelia, and Beth didn't think she could appear smooth doing it.

  Still, any time she and Sir Dalton spent in conversation was time she didn't have to dance around the tip of his sword, so Beth forced herself to come up with something clever. "Her Highness isn't taking visitors."

  "I didn't make my name as a knight by asking permission."

  "I made mine by refusing people who didn't bother to ask."

  Sir Dalton was still mounted. Beth glanced toward where she'd tied her own horse—some distance away, to keep it clear of the dragon. She gestured for him to come down and meet her on equal turf, trusting both his chivalry and his sense of superiority to make him comply.

  "So, Her Highness has you defending her honor now. Is that it? Is it the solidarity of women? Or are you like that little serving girl Malia?" Sir Dalton offered an insinuating smile before lowering his visor again and climbing off his horse.

  "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about," Beth said, but she'd planned that response even before he opened his mouth. She knew she needed to focus now, to watch how he approached her. So she studied his posture, and his words only slowly filtered into her mind. Who was Malia? Was she related to the rumors Princess Cordelia had referred to? Beth couldn't let herself get distracted now, and she wrenched her mind back to the fight.

  Sir Dalton didn't bother to tie up his horse, but the animal was so well trained it stayed in position. He moved toward her as if strolling, but despite his demeanor, Beth recognized his fighter's stance. He wasn't leaving any easy openings for her.

  The ground around the tower was rutted and pitted from the dragon's movement and from previous battles. Beth had the advantage of having fought on it once already, of being aware of at least some of the pitfalls. She thought perhaps her smaller size might give her a maneuverability advantage over Sir Dalton.

  On the other hand, Sir Dalton was bigger. He'd had years of training in all the fighting arts, going back to a time when Beth was arguing with her family over embroidery lessons. He'd likely killed more men than Beth cared to think about.

  He
was closing, sword tip aimed at the gap in her visor. Beth felt some surprise that he'd go in for the kill so suddenly. Did he really think she'd be as clumsy as that?

  She spun away easily, but did not succeed at tripping him in the process.

  "She gave you a ribbon, did she?" Sir Dalton said mockingly.

  Beth stopped herself, just in time, from glancing at it. Instead, she rolled away from a sword stroke that would have slid into her throat through a joint in her armor, had she looked in the direction he invited. As she regained her feet, she wondered at that—Cordelia's gift could have gotten her killed just now. Beth needed to put her out of her mind.

  "What if I told you your tassets were coming loose?" Beth pointed with her sword tip, daring her opponent to look down.

  Sir Dalton laughed. "I'd say you need to invent your own tricks."

  She feinted at his hip. "What if I make them come loose?"

  "My dear girl, you can try."

  At that, he closed with her, sword locked with sword, their armor clashing together everywhere in a cacophonous din. He let her feel his full weight as he drove her backward, and there was nothing she could do to resist it. She was going to fall limbs-up like a helpless turtle, and he would land on top of her, and he was probably already envisioning drawing a dagger from his hip and putting an end to her once he secured that victorious position.

  Beth grunted and embraced her only option. She gave way, suddenly and thoroughly, falling back and using their locked position to encourage him to follow his momentum. She succeeded in throwing him off her, and she heard him grunt as he hit the ground several feet away.

  Her heart pounded, but there was no time to recover. She forced herself up, feeling yet again what a heavy burden her armor was on muscles already pushed well beyond their limit.

  Sir Dalton was on his feet half a breath later, and he would have charged her again if not for a roar from the top of the tower.

  Princess Cordelia had climbed onto the dragon's back. She hadn't bothered with the conveyances normally used for riders. Instead, separated from its scaly body by nothing more than a padded cloth, Cordelia clung to two rope handles, one secured around the upper joint of each wing. Only the most daring beastmasters rode that way, and if Beth hadn't already witnessed the depth of Cordelia's connection with the creature, the position would have seemed foolhardy in the extreme.