9. The dragonrider
9
THE DRAGONRIDER
The red-haired woman wasn’t dressed for jungle hikes this time, but then again, she hadn’t been last time, either. She wore a scarlet wool coat, slim-fitting to emphasize a small waist. The coat flared out again at the hips. A darker red broadcloth shirt peeked out from underneath, worn over tight farul-skin leather pants and tall leather boots. Lace spilled from the sleeves. Her hair was pulled away from her face, fastened with a set of gold pins, and allowed to fall free behind her—a dragonrider hairstyle. Crystals in her ears chimed when she moved, matching a similar set of links around her hips, just visible through the gap in her coat.
Ris wasn’t wearing her sword, but Anahrod wasn’t na?ve enough to think that meant she was unarmed.
Ris met her stare with a smile on lips redder than any of her clothing, shiny and freshly licked. Mocking delight shone from her green eyes.
It took all of Anahrod’s will not to draw her sword.
“I see he told you.” Ris wagged a finger at the mayor. “You and I will have words about this later, Mayor e’Doreyl. For now, take your men and leave.”
The mayor turned to Anahrod like he was about to apologize.
“Please go,” Anahrod said. “And tell your son—”
The words lodged in her throat, sharp and dry as the air. What would she say? That she was disappointed? That she hoped he burned in the Deep a thousand years?
She was only upset because she was on the receiving end of his betrayal. Would she have made a different decision in his place? She wasn’t so na?ve as to think she’d be anywhere near as noble as Aiden e’Doreyl in a similar situation.
She shook her head. “Just tell him to be careful out there.”
“Of course.” He threw Ris one last look of dread and then all but ran for the door.
He didn’t close the door behind himself, but it clicked shut all the same, moving in time to a wave of Ris’s hand. She hadn’t taken her eyes off of Anahrod, not for one single second.
“I have no idea what the people of Crystalspire were thinking, electing an honest man to the position of mayor. Nothing but trouble.” Ris walked over to a cabinet, pulled out a bottle of wine, and poured herself a glass. “If you’re planning to attack me, reconsider. You’re far too lovely to damage, but if you make me prove just how unwise violence would be, anything might happen.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Anahrod said.
She was unlikely to have a better opportunity, however. Ris would expect Anahrod to listen to the other woman’s explanation before trying something. That would be the rational thing to do.
So Anahrod did something else.
She never saw Ris’s reaction; it happened that fast. The hard tiled floor slammed into Anahrod’s back. Her feet were bound by—something. It felt like rope, but she suspected otherwise. Anahrod couldn’t see her legs, though, because after throwing her to the floor, Ris followed. She drove all the air from Anahrod’s lungs as she landed. Ris planted one knee on Anahrod’s chest, painfully close to her neck, and the other knee on Anahrod’s sword arm.
The ghost of her old teacher, Carvyx, would’ve been hurling mud clods at Anahrod in disappointment.
Ris smirked, then leaned over enough to scoop the wine bottle off the ground. “It didn’t break! Lucky me.”
Ris pulled out the cork with her teeth and took a big swallow. “What were we talking about? Oh yes. What you have to lose.” Ris seemed more playful than angry. “Since I might be falling in love with you, I’ll give you a serious answer.”
Anahrod continued glaring, which amused Ris, who took another swig of wine. She didn’t care that it was morning or that she’d spilled a drop of red wine to trace a path down her chin and neck.
Ris continued: “You have nothing to lose—assuming we were planning to kill you. But since we’re not, well. Your health, your life, your freedom.” She paused. “Your eventual freedom. So, in reality, you have a great deal to lose. One might argue: everything.”
Anahrod couldn’t trust her. She certainly couldn’t believe her. She concentrated on breathing while she strained against whatever Ris had used to bind her legs.
“Eventual freedom,” Anahrod said. “Do you deny that my choice means nothing? That you’re going to force me to do—whatever it is you want from me—regardless of how I feel?” She still had one arm free, but throwing a punch just then felt less “unexpected” than “supremely foolish.” She watched Ris take another drink.
Ris’s grip on the wine bottle also gave Anahrod an excellent view of Ris’s garden rings. It was the same jewelry the woman had worn in the Deep: finely made gold, delicate, expensive. Had no one ever explained that it was bad luck to wear gold jewelry? Zavad hoarded gold, and so to wear gold was to draw the evil dragon’s attention.
Other than the obvious—flowers and leaves on her rings meant she preferred both feminine and masculine partners—Anahrod couldn’t interpret specifics.
Ris noticed Anahrod staring and lowered the bottle partway. “Were you old enough to have picked out rings when they tossed you off that cutter?”
“Stop acting like you’re helping me,” Anahrod spat. The thin ribbon of wine had dried against Ris’s skin, stark in contrast. Anahrod wondered how it would taste, and just as rapidly shoved that thought away.
“I am helping you.” Ris wiggled her fingers. “I’m sure you had most of your social rings, but garden rings? You couldn’t have been more than fifteen. That’s too young. You couldn’t have picked out your garden rings yet.”
Anahrod didn’t answer, which she knew Ris interpreted as “yes.”
“We’ll have to find you a set,” Ris said. “Once you figure out your preferences. I’d be happy to go into what mine mean if you like. Maybe even give you a demonstration.”
“Which ring means you like doing this?” Anahrod gestured—as much as she could, anyway—toward where Ris perched on top of her body.
Ris’s smile turned, for just a second, into a guileless grin. “Why, none of them. This is work, not play.” She bit her lower lip, a teasing pull of flesh through her teeth, recorked the wine bottle, and set it aside, out of Anahrod’s reach.
Ris bent lower, until her face was mere inches from Anahrod’s. “I wear jasmine. You’re thinking of roses.” She stayed there for an eternally long moment, too close, not nearly close enough.
Then the moment was over, and Ris straightened. She also stopped smiling. “Now, for this next bit, you’re going to behave yourself. Because if you don’t, I will break all your limbs and then let Claw work on her knife skills. Do we understand each other?”
Maybe Anahrod was taking the wrong approach. Anahrod didn’t trust the dragonrider. She sure as hell wasn’t about to play along with whatever game she was pushing.
But there was no reason to make that so obvious.
So what Anahrod said was: “You always say the nicest things.”
Ris moved her leg, until the knee wasn’t on Anahrod’s chest anymore, but about to press into her throat. “Let me rephrase that.” In a less friendly tone, she repeated, “Do we understand each other?” Her eyes had that same look she’d seen down in the Deep when Ris had confronted Claw—an endless ferocity, bordering on madness.
Anahrod inhaled. Flirting aside, Ris was a serious threat. She’d already proven that she’d win in a fair fight, with the definition of “fair fight” being that Ris was conscious. Ris hadn’t even used her sword, and Anahrod had been armed .
“Yes,” Anahrod said. “We understand each other.”
“Good.” Ris stood up, then offered Anahrod a hand. She seemed reluctant to let go of it afterward.
The two women both stood there, eyeing each other. The tension climbed higher, as though a second round of fighting were seconds from breaking out.
Ris had spoken one truth: if she’d wanted Anahrod dead, Ris had had plenty of opportunities to make that desire real. Her long-term motives were suspect, but for now, Ris wasn’t interested in killing Anahrod.
Anahrod turned her back on the woman and settled into a chair by the now-open window, where she could enjoy the view. “But do you intend to feed me?”
Ris chuckled. “Of course. One moment.” She stuck her head out the door and said something to whoever stood outside. When she returned, she said, “Naeron’s bringing breakfast. Which Kaibren made himself, I should add, so there’s no danger of some well-intentioned local who’s watched too many plays about ‘Anahrod the Wicked’ getting any ideas.”
Anahrod clenched her jaw. “Anahrod the Wicked?”
Ris threw herself into a chair sideways, putting her legs up over the arm. Given the fight (if it could even be called such) they’d just had, it struck Anahrod as mocking. A dare.
Ris waved a hand. “Sure. They’ve written plays. Some aren’t even that bad.”
Anahrod closed her eyes. Eannis. She’d always known that the gossips must have had a banner day with her. But the idea that the gossip had turned into stories, plays, that she was everyone’s newest favorite cautionary tale? The news left a foul taste in her mouth.
“And why—” Anahrod stopped and stared out the window at the far-off mountains.
Ris patiently waited.
“You know who I am,” Anahrod said.
“Haven’t we established that?” Ris raised an eyebrow. “I couldn’t have found you, otherwise, but the world? The world needs to think you’re some poor, unfortunate woman from the Deep with the bad luck to share the same name as a very naughty criminal. You couldn’t possibly be the real Anahrod. That would be silly. She died seventeen years ago.”
Anahrod turned around to stare at Ris in disbelief.
“Let me—” She tried to calm her heartbeat and started over. “Am I really understanding this correctly? You kidnapped me and brought me here because you want me to pretend that I’m pretending to be Anahrod Amnead?”
Her grin was dazzling. “I knew you’d catch on.”
Anahrod rubbed her forehead. “Why?”
“Real answer?”
“Sure. Why not? Let’s be different for once.” She banged her fist on the armrest. “Of course I want you to give me the real answer!”
Ris grinned amiably. “It’s because the dragon Tiendremos needs to think you’re Anahrod Amnead. The real Anahrod Amnead.”
Anahrod lowered her fist. “Unfortunate, since that’s something I’d never be fool enough to admit in front of one of the dragons that wants to kill Anahrod Amnead .”
“I understand why you might think that, but shockingly, Tiendremos doesn’t want to kill you. I’ve convinced him you’re too valuable.”
Anahrod reined her temper back in with great effort. “… He’s Neveranimas’s right hand. Why would he possibly think that? And why…” She inhaled deeply. “Again, why the deception ? Wouldn’t it be simpler to just say I really am Anahrod Amnead?”
Ris pulled her legs around so that she was sitting right side up again and leaned her elbows against the table. “Simpler, yes. Better, no. I’m thinking long term here. What happens when people start hearing that Anahrod the Wicked is once again stalking the streets of Crystalspire? What happens when people start demanding that someone do something? On a good day, you’d be chased out of Seven Crests.”
“On a good day, I had no intention of ever coming back.”
“There’s a difference between ‘don’t want to’ and ‘can’t,’” Ris pointed out. “I would prefer to give you options. You deserve to have a choice.”
That stopped her.
Did she really want to believe Ris was doing this to help her?
Yes, she wanted to believe. That didn’t mean Anahrod did.
“How did you find me, anyway?”
“Oh, I had a little help from your warlord friend.” Ris pulled a piece of folded-up paper from her coat and tossed it to Anahrod.
Anahrod unfolded the paper and cursed.
It was a reward poster, with a woodcut illustration stamped in the center. Sicaryon had put out a reward for her capture—alive—to the sum of five thousand scales.
Centered under the drawing was her name: Anahrod.