To the Victor Read online

  The dragon exulted as it rose, higher, then higher. At first its wingspan cast a great shadow over Beth and Sir Dalton and the tower as a whole. Then it began to fade, becoming small like the moon, and then like a star. Beth thought she heard Cordelia whooping with joy as the dragon passed out of sight.

  At that point, had their battle really been about getting the girl, Sir Dalton would have given up. For all intents and purposes, Princess Cordelia was lost to both of them once she and the dragon lifted away, unless she chose to make herself available. Defeating Beth wouldn't change any of that.

  But because an equal part of their fight was about putting Beth into her place, Sir Dalton came at her even harder than before, and Beth found herself fighting in earnest for her life.

  She disarmed his sword just before he could use its hilt to club her head. She worked her leg between his and used the position to kick a foot out from under him. They landed with a jarring clash, and Sir Dalton pulled her into a vice-like grapple.

  He began to speak to her through gritted teeth, all the while trying to smash the back of her head against the pitted and rocky ground beneath them. "A good knight…" Crash. "A real man…" Clang. "Would know…" Thump. "Not to let that…" Thud. "Entitled little…" Clunk. "Princess…" Thunk. "Get away."

  Beth's ears were ringing, and there was an ache in the back of her head. That last impact, she'd felt as if a rock had punctured the back of her helmet and stabbed into her skull. It was hard to say whether that was reality or a morbid imagining, but either way, her vision swam, and she wasn't sure how to get Sir Dalton off her.

  No longer able to catch enough breath to answer his taunts, Beth held him close like a lover, trying to deny him leverage. She worked one leg out from under him and managed to anchor the foot firmly. She inhaled sharply and tilted her hips upward, pushing against that planted foot with everything she had.

  Sir Dalton fell onto his back, with Beth above him now. Instinct took over. She snatched her dagger and angled it toward the slit in his visor. One quick stab, and this would be over.

  Sir Dalton, however, slipped one arm free and flipped up the visor, revealing his flushed, battle-rugged face, and a stoic expression that reminded Beth of her lost father.

  "Go on then, girl," he said. "Kill me while looking in my eyes."

  Beth knew she had to. This move was his latest ploy. He didn't think she had the guts to kill this way, and if she didn't prove him wrong, he'd only do it to her.

  And she had killed like this before. While defending Tyrell Keep, she'd slit the throat of the commander of the besieging forces, and smiled while she did it. She hadn't feared the splatter of his blood, the reproach in his eyes, or the judgement of God himself. There had been rumors, the final day of the siege, that the daughter of the Duke of Tyrell had been possessed by a demon, and Beth had thought, let it be true, and fought twice as hard.

  She tried to let that ferocity show on her face now, but this moment was different. She wasn't defending her people—her little brothers, the serving women who had been like aunts to her, the sweet blacksmith's apprentice who'd shared her first kiss. She was fighting over a woman who didn't want to be fought over, on a scarred battlefield that had already sucked up the blood of too many knights.

  Beth let her dagger point threaten Sir Dalton's left eye, and was proud to see the tip didn't waver. "Yield," she said between gritted teeth. "On your honor."

  The hatred that took over his expression would have washed the breath out of her if the battle hadn't already done so. "Never."

  Beth didn't want to kill him, but she needed him to think she would. She let the dagger dart quickly over his cheek. The touch was light, but she kept her point sharp, and a bright wound blossomed in its wake. Sir Dalton hissed and bucked beneath her.

  "Yield. I'd rather not deprive the king of a good knight."

  He struggled beneath her, but she remained wary of the move that had delivered her the upper hand. "You unnatural bitch."

  Ah, there it was. What she knew so many of the knights really thought about her. Beth's smile turned harder, and she felt the compassion drain from her face. She didn't let herself worry about where exactly it ran to—she only hoped she could find it later. Beth marked his second cheek. "I said yield."

  Sir Dalton's lips twisted. He spat at her, and for an awful moment, Beth thought he was going to force her to kill him after all. She inhaled in preparation, but just as she was about to drive the blade home, her enemy muttered, "I yield to you, Sir Elizabeth."

  Beth wanted to sag in relief, but she denied herself. Regaining her feet, she reached out a hand to help him up as well. Blood flowed down Sir Dalton's cheeks and into his beard. His eyes looked small and hard.

  "I notice you don't offer me your friendship," he said bitterly.

  "You called me an unnatural bitch," she returned.

  He pulled off a gauntlet and wiped ineffectually at his face, then glanced up toward where Cordelia's dragon had last been visible. "You'll answer for this to the king," he said lightly. "You'd think only a lovestruck boy would fall for the trick she just pulled. Apparently, it works on silly girls as well."

  "You think she shouldn't have her freedom?"

  "Freedom?" Sir Dalton snorted. "There isn't a person on God's green earth who has that. You're a fool if you think otherwise." He stumbled toward his horse.

  After a pause, Beth did the same. Cordelia was gone, she'd made an enemy of Sir Dalton and possibly also King Carlysle, and all she had to show for it was a hair ribbon.

  Wanting More

  Cordelia's dragon wasn't dead, but Sir Elizabeth might be. The possibility bothered the princess as she flew. Sir Elizabeth was a better knight than she gave herself credit for, but that didn't make her invulnerable. What if I sent her to her death? What if I never find out how it feels to…

  The princess cut off the thought before she could succumb, yet again, to fantasy.

  She'd needed to get away from the tower before she wound up married to a man she didn't want, the deal sealed by the death of the creature who was her current most loyal companion. She touched the dragon's neck. It was still hotter than usual from the potion she'd given it to induce its fire breathing capacity, but the warmth, through the cloth pad on its back, was pleasant.

  It made a soft noise in response to her touch, and guilt stirred within her. She had cared more for this creature than she'd cared for human lives—not only that of Sir Elizabeth, but those of all the knights who'd come before to claim her. On the other hand, though, she'd considered allowing Sir Elizabeth to kill the dragon so they could be together.

  Cordelia scanned the ground below, seeking a place to land. Ideally, the spot would be mountainous, to discourage knights on horseback from coming to reclaim her. There would be water, and maybe signs of goats or sheep…

  What is your plan, Princess? The insistent internal voice sounded like that of Cordelia's mother. The Queen had always encouraged Cordelia to make every move with intent. You didn't so much as pick up a salad fork, she believed, without knowing who would be impacted by the gesture and why.

  I've done a lot more than pick up a salad fork, Cordelia thought bitterly. I might even be outside the realm of plans. One of the reasons the life of a princess was so prescribed and so carefully coordinated was that it had to be in order to calculate the effects of any one action. If every movement was defined by tradition, then a shift in the angle of her head could bring down a man's reputation. With the precision of an alchemist, a queen could adjust one variable at a time to achieve desired results.

  The potion Cordelia had been brewing recently, however, had been made by dumping every potent ingredient she could find into a single cauldron and letting it all boil over. Running away from the tower. Helping the dragon defeat the king's knights. Taking the creature with her. Enlisting Sir Elizabeth into her service. Whatever she'd been doing when she gave away her hair ribbon.

  Cordelia sighed. The land below was barren. She couldn't
see anywhere that promised the amenities she needed to give the dragon more care than she'd managed in the first minutes of Sir Elizabeth's fight with Sir Dalton. She knew where better land could be found, but that would undoubtedly be frequented by her father's beastmaster and the royal beasts.

  She could feel the dragon growing weary as they circled, the flap of its wings becoming less crisp, and the pointing of its snout less sure. It felt like an uncomfortable metaphor for her life right now: caught in the air on a wounded beast with no clear destination and no good place to land.

  Sir Elizabeth likely shared her feelings. Even if she'd survived the battle with Sir Dalton, how could she return to court? Who would see to her wounds? She must be as lost as Cordelia felt.

  The dragon made a soft whuffle, its first sound of protest since they'd risen into the air together. A wave of guilt buffeted Cordelia. It had been loyal to her, but would it find any reward for that virtue in the end? It trusted her leadership, but she had yet to show any vision for those who followed her. And Sir Elizabeth… All the same worries applied to her, too.

  Cordelia squared her shoulders. In a rush, she knew that even if she wasn't certain where to land and make camp, she did know where she needed to go.

  *~*~*

  There were no bodies at the tower, though there was a great deal of blood. Two sets of hoofprints led away, though not in the same direction. She studied them, thinking about the differences in the builds of their likely riders. Sir Dalton was big and powerful; Sir Elizabeth light and quick. Given the time she'd spent with the beastmasters, it wasn't hard for Cordelia to decide which animal likely carried which knight.

  Cordelia knew she would feel no comfort until she resolved the mystery of Sir Elizabeth's fate, and so she allowed no rest for either herself or the dragon. She grabbed her pack of first aid supplies, hoping she would not be greeted with any injuries beyond their power, and set off in the direction the tracks indicated, flying low, nearly clipping trees.

  She didn't have to go far. A thin line of smoke rose from just off a hunting path not far from the tower. It took some doing to find a clearing large enough for the dragon, but Cordelia managed it, signaled the creature to stay put, and headed toward the campfire.

  Too concerned for Sir Elizabeth to worry about the noise she made, Cordelia dashed through the trees, ignoring the occasional twist of an ankle when she put a foot down wrong. She emerged breathlessly beside a brook that was nearly too small to deserve the name, facing a wary Sir Elizabeth.

  She stood on her feet, weapon in hand, but she'd shed most of her armor. A dirty blanket wrapped her shoulders, and the weary, grim look in her eye faded into relief as she recognized Cordelia.

  "Your Highness." Sir Elizabeth sheathed her dagger.

  Panting, Cordelia took in the scene. Sir Elizabeth bled, but did not seem mortally wounded. Her campsite was meager but solidly acquitted. Without her armor, Sir Elizabeth seemed much smaller and less imposing. Despite the ripple of muscle in her forearm as she moved the dagger, it was hard to believe her capable of deadly battle. Now that her helmet was off, Cordelia could gaze at her face. It pleased her, and she wondered why she'd never noticed back in court.

  Was it simply that you didn't want to notice?

  "You're alive," Cordelia said.

  One side of Sir Elizabeth's mouth quirked upward. "Were you hoping otherwise?" Her fingers darted to Cordelia's hair ribbon, which she must have retied after taking off her armor.

  "No," Cordelia said. "Definitely not. Actually, I came back because I thought…"

  She couldn't help mocking herself in her head. You thought what? That you ought to use the dragon to fight rather than escape? Because you wanted to be the one to find her body? That you might get that kiss after all?

  Sir Elizabeth lowered herself heavily to the ground. "You shouldn't have."

  "Excuse me?"

  She seemed to be struggling to hold herself upright. "You heard me. You asked me to buy you time, and I did. Coming back wastes the advantage I gained for you. It means the battle I just fought—the enemy I just made—didn't win us much."

  At least she said us. Cordelia tried to be grateful for that small concession. She took a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I…" She didn't know what to say next. She felt like she was intruding. Without Sir Elizabeth, however, Cordelia didn't know where to go. The surge of certainty she'd had atop the dragon's back now seemed naive and foolish. Like so much of what I've done.

  She turned to go. She could busy herself with finding more herbs for her potions and providing more thorough healing for the dragon. Perhaps more answers would come with time.

  "Wait," Sir Elizabeth said.

  Cordelia felt herself freeze like a hunting dog, almost quivering with anticipation for the next command.

  "I hate to ask, but do you have any more of that substance you used on my leg? It worked well."

  Turning back, Cordelia recognized the request as an awkward attempt to offer peace after harsh words. She walked to Sir Elizabeth's side and knelt there. "I come by my magic through hard work and preparation, and it would take time for me to make more of what I used on your thigh. I can, however, see to your wounds through mundane means." She hesitated, her fingers inches above Sir Elizabeth's skin. "If you want me to."

  Sir Elizabeth grimaced and turned her face away. "You are a princess, not a nursemaid."

  "I am responsible for those who serve me." She waited, and when Sir Elizabeth did not look her way again, Cordelia pressed her. "You'll have to undress." She swallowed. "May I?"

  Sir Elizabeth nodded. After another moment of hesitation, Cordelia reached for the hem of her shirt and lifted it, then unwound the cloth that bound her breasts.

  Uncovering the knight felt different from anything she'd done before. The act was not playful, as it had been with Malia. It had a necessary purpose. And yet Cordelia had to resist the way her breath wanted to change at the sight of Sir Elizabeth's bared flesh. She was dirty and bloody, sweat-tracked and shaped by hard training. All these things, however, made her breasts seem even softer, more intimate, more compelling.

  Cordelia bared Sir Elizabeth's body entirely, not wanting to miss any significant injury—but also, she had to admit, because she wanted to see it. She worried that was wrong, and tried to deny herself any pleasure in the intimate view.

  That proved impossible. She could not help the occasional dart of her gaze. Another glance at Sir Elizabeth's breasts. A glimpse of the patch of hair between her thighs—near which there truly was a wound that needed tending. On top of that, she could not help taking pleasure in aspects of Sir Elizabeth's anatomy that were less obviously geared toward the carnal. The taper of muscle along her calf led to a lovely ankle, nearly as delicate as a dancer's, and Cordelia found herself cleansing this ankle, dabbing it with ointments, and winding bandages around it. She grieved over Sir Elizabeth's wounds, but had to admit there was pleasure in caring for her flesh.

  The wood was quiet except for the occasional crackle of the campfire, scamper of a squirrel, or flap of a bird's wings. Cordelia could hear the dragon shifting its weight periodically over dead twigs and leaves.

  Sir Elizabeth's breathing remained steady and even. She did not gasp or pant at Cordelia's touch, and while Cordelia was glad not to cause her pain, a part of her wished her fingertips could inspire more of a reaction.

  "Are you going away forever after this?" Sir Elizabeth asked finally. Her voice held some sort of tension.

  She lifted her shoulders. "I was taught everything I need to know to take over the kingdom one day. It would be a waste for me to leave... for my parents and for me."

  "So you're staying."

  Cordelia certainly felt she should. Her experience in the tower, however, had introduced a new reluctance to her heart, and she found herself wanting to explain it. She cleared her throat. "Sir Elizabeth, you were so delicate earlier when I brought up the rumors about me, but surely you must know the truth."

  Sir Elizabeth s
tared back blankly, and Cordelia sighed. She'd been so attracted to Sir Elizabeth's courtliness. She wondered how often delicacy turned out to be haplessness instead. It was good, at least, that Sir Elizabeth was indifferent to palace gossip. On the other hand, the gossips might not have been willing to take a misfit like her into their so-called confidence.

  "There were stories about me and a serving girl." Cordelia found herself unwilling to go on. She'd never spoken about this out loud, or so directly. She'd never had to. She pulled her hands away from Sir Elizabeth's body and pretended to study the treeline. "They're true. I loved her."

  Sir Elizabeth looked confused rather than shocked. Cordelia tried to elaborate. "Not like a sister," she said.

  A corner of the knight's mouth quirked up. "I gathered that. I'm just not sure yet how this relates to whether you plan to escape on the back of that dragon."

  Cordelia groped to articulate things she was only beginning to understand. "My father—King Carlysle—he's tried to give me a place in this world. He's been so indulgent toward Lady Jeanne. He knighted a woman, and gave her a chance to win my hand—" She would have gone on, but could not fail to notice how Sir Elizabeth stiffened. She frowned. "What is it?"

  "You make it sound as if he knighted me for you."

  "Well. I wonder if perhaps he did."

  "And not because of what I did at Tyrell Keep? Not because of the men I killed and the bravery I displayed?"

  "He chose a worthy woman."

  Sir Elizabeth bit her lower lip and moved herself a small distance away from Cordelia. Then Cordelia understood, and cursed herself.

  "No, this is exactly what I'm trying to say," the princess said. "The reason you're upset—it's the reason I'm upset, or at least close to it. You're a great knight, obviously. In any country, you would deserve the honor. But there's this feeling—Isn't there?—about why you were chosen. As if what you did wasn't enough on its own, even if it's more than lots of the other knights have done. As if there was a reason my father gave you this honor, and it's somehow got to do with him, not you. He's a good man and a great king, so he can see your talent for what it is. As if it takes a good man and a great king to see it. As if it doesn't shine brightly enough for all to see it on its own."