Books by Patricia Briggs

About the Author..

Steal the Dragon (1995).

When Demons Walk (1998).

Hurog Series.

--1 Dragon Bones (2002).

--2 Dragon Blood (2002).

Ravenas Shadow (2004).

About the Author.

Patricia Briggs lived a fairly normal life until she learned to read. After that she spent lazy afternoons flying dragonback and looking for magic swords when she wasn't horseback riding in the Rocky Mountains.

Once she graduated from Montana Stala University with degrees in history and German, she spent her time substitute teaching and writing. She and her family live in the Pacific Northwest, where she is hard at work on her newest project.

Visit her on the web at: www.hurog.com.

Steal the Dragon (1995).

With appreciation to the following people: Michael, husband and (self-appointed) editor-in-chief.

Laura Anne Gilman, editor (professional), who asked for a major changea"thank you, thank you, thank you!

Mark and Kristi Dimke, for their friendship, patience and printera"in that order.

Bob and Jolene Briggs, for their love and support . . . and for putting up with my horse.

This story would never have been told without them.

ONE.

She stretched her arms wide, hands open, holding the pose for an instant before bursting into furious motion. Each placement of foot and angle of wrist was choreographed, thoughtless, perfect. Her body flowed from one movement to the next, graceful, seductive, submissive in turn.

The beat of the drum was a familiar companion: its rhythm consumed her. Her heart kept time with the deep bass tones; the lighter beats of the small instruments were the quick movements of her hands and feet. The dance slowed, and her movements became languid, erotic.

She reveled in the euphoria that accompanied her dance, the pain of straining her muscles for the perfection of her art only adding to the exhilaration. Sweat blinded her, but she didnat need her eyes to seea"the floor was sanded and flat and she knew where the music would take her.

The beating drum accelerated again, built to a crescendo, then abruptly it ended. The brief silence pounded at her ears as she collapsed facedown on the floor, fighting for breath. The clapping of a single pair of hands replaced the fading memory of the drumbeat.

aVery nice, Little One,a said the Masteras hated voice.

RIALLA SAT BOLT upright in her bed. Her bedclothes were saturated with the sweat of a dance long past. Automatically her hands went to her neck, but the slave collar had been gone for a long time, and the scar on her face still replaced the hated tattoo.

Trembling, she bowed her head and ran her hands through her hair. She threw the covers back and got out of bed, though the dawn was hours away.

IN THE MAZE that was the oldest building in Sianim, Ren, better known as the Spymaster of Sianim, settled himself in his chair and looked out the open window at nothing in particular.

The chair had been made for his predecessor, who had been a much larger man. Renas slight, balding and graying person looked a little absurd sitting in it, like a child playing at grown-up, but no one in the mercenary city-state of Sianim would have called the Spymaster absurd: he held more power in his hands than many kings.

Turning his chair away from the window, he propped his feet on top of his crowded desk, ignoring the resultant thump as a pile of papers fell to the floor. He rested his chin on his hands and waited patiently for the arrival of one he had summoned.

At last there was a soft tap on the door.

aWho?a he barked.

aRialla of the horses, as ordered, sir.a The voice that answered him was soft and shy. Renas mouth tightened in annoyance. If she was as meek as she sounded, he might as well send her back home.

Ah, wella"it wasnat the womanas fault that his informant had misled him. Even if she wouldnat serve his purpose, he could use whatever information she could provide.

Schooling his voice into a more welcoming tone, Ren called out, aCome in, Rialla of the horses. Iave been expecting you.a The door opened with a sigh and squeaked a protest when the horse trainer shut it behind her. She was taller than he was, but so slender that she appeared fragile. Her red hair was pulled tightly back in a short braid that barely reached her shoulders. He got a quick glimpse of emerald-green eyes before she dropped her gaze to the floor.

She waited silently for him to speak, her arms held loosely at her side and her face expressionless. He noted absently that she would have been beautiful if it werenat for the scar that covered most of one cheek.

He greeted her in kind tones. aTrainer.a The green eyes briefly met his. aSpymaster.a There was a slightly mocking note that someone who was less observant would not have caught. Ren was so fascinated by the inconsistency between the demure mien and that subtle disrespect that he let the silence stretch uncomfortably long.

When he didnat reply, she shrugged and turned her back to him to examine a nearby bookcase. The illusion of fragility was shattered with her movement. She moved with the grace of a trained athlete, and sinewy muscle corded her arm as she reached to pull a book out of its shelf.

The Spymaster watched her with a tingle of pleasure. This just might work. Experimentally he held his silence. She turned a page and seemed to become engrossed in the book.

Finally, Ren laughed softly, pushed his chair away from his desk and said with a smile, aArenat you the least bit curious about why I called you here today?a She replaced the book and turned back to him. aYes.a This time her voice was as meek as it had been at first.

aI spoke with Laeth, I believe he is a friend of yours, who informed me that you speak native-quality Darranian.a He turned the statement into a question with an inquiring look.

She shrugged indifferently, but her left hand came up to finger the scar that marred her face and her gaze shifted back to the floor.

Darranian slaves were all elaborately tattooed on the left side of their faces for identification. In Darran, slaves could not be freed; the tattoo marked them for life.

Ren decided to change tactics. aDo you know who Lord Karsten is?a he asked bluntly.

aYou mean other than Laethas brother?a she asked, but continued in indifferent tones without waiting for a reply, aHe is one of the Darranian lords pushing to ally the kingdoms of Reth and Darran. I understand that the proposed alliance involves the marriage of King Myr of Reth to the king of Darranas older sister.a Ren nodded his head in agreement. aLord Karsten is the most influential member of the regency council. With his support the new alliance is a virtual certainty.a The light mockery eased back into Riallaas voice as she spoke for the first time without being prompted. aSianim wants to prevent the alliance? Maybe an accident for Lord Karsten?a aOf course not!a replied Ren in a shocked tone, widening his eyes improbably to show his innocent dismay at her suggestion. aMy dear young woman, Sianim never interferes with the politics of any government. We are mercenaries, and merely hire ourselves out to the highest bidder.a He knew when the corner of her mouth turned up in a reluctant smile that she caught the satire with which he spouted their official dogma.

aSo,a she said, atell me. Why is it that Sianim doesnat intend to hinder the alliance? The feud between Darran and Reth has diverted a steady stream of gold into our coffers over the past century or so.a Ren looked at her with the same pleasure with which a schoolmaster might regard a pupil asking a thoughtful question. He rubbed his hands together with satisfaction and began to talk.

aThe Great Swamp has long been a barrier between the East and our West.a He gestured to her impatiently. aSit down, girl. This will take a while. Now then . . . the only trading currently done with the East is through the Ynstrahn sailing fleets that dare thread the shoals and reefs in the Southern Sea.

aOnce there was a road through the Swamp. The magic of the Archmage held back the Uriah, wights and other nasty swamp dwellers. But as the seasons changed so did the Archmage, and other matters became more important. The road was overrun and swallowed by the Swamp.a He paused and sipped water from a glass that sat on the corner of his desk.

aI have heard that there was once such a road,a commented Rialla, abut what does that have to do with Darran? The Swamp is nowhere near there.a She had cleared off a place for herself on a worn tapestry chair, and sat on the very edge of the seat, though her hands were open and relaxed in her lap.

aHave patience and Iall tell you. Now,a Ren fell back into a storytelleras voice, awhen I came into office, I noticed that we lacked information on anything on the other side of the Swamp. An oversight, of course, which I have corrected.

aFor some time I have been monitoring the expansion of an Eastern empire called Cybelle. A decade ago it was a small country and very poor, then its ruler died leaving no legitimate heirs. When the ensuing fight for power was over, the man on the throne was a religious fanatic who called himself athe Voice of Altis.a I have tried for ten years to find information on his background, but he seems to have appeared from nowhere.

aThis man professes to believe, as do his followers, that the ancient god Altis appeared to him and revealed that it was Cybelleas destiny to rule from the Eastern Sea to the Western, from the far Northlands to the Southern Sea. In the relatively short time that athe Voicea has been in power, he has managed to take over most of the countries between the Eastern Sea and the Great Swamp.a Ren glanced at Rialla to make sure that she was still listening before he continued. aLong ago, after the Wizard Wars, the people of the East rose up in anger against anyone who practiced magic, much as we in the West did. In the East, however, there was no refuge. Without countries like Reth or Southwood to shelter them, the mages disappeared into stories told to frighten children.

aThe religious revival is spreading even faster than the rule of Cybelle; the last few countries to join the empire have not even put up a fight. I am informed that the Voice of Altis performs miracles. Altis has given him the power to make light where there was only darkness, to make a building burst into flame with a wave of his hand. He can kill with a word. Sound familiar?a Rialla looked up at his question. aA trained mage has set himself on the throne of Cybelle.a Her voice had lost all traces of timidity or mockery and was merely thoughtful.

Ren nodded and smiled with the growing conviction that she would turn out to be an adequate tool for his purposes. aHe plans to continue through the Great Swamp by clearing the ancient path through it. My sources say he can do it.a The Spymasteras smile dropped from his face and he sat forward intently on his chair. aSianim, for all its military fame, is just a small city-state; alone against Cybelle wead stand no chance at all. The Western nations need to face the Easterners as allies if we are to have a chance to stand against them. I have been working to patch old hostilities for the last few years. The most difficult conflict to smooth has been the persistent fighting between Darran and Reth.a aSo what do you need me for? There are other people who speak Darranian,a said Rialla quietly, obviously not stricken with any sudden urge to be of assistance.

aLord Karsten is the driving force behind the Rethian alliance. There are people who donat want Darran to be tied to Reth; the last outbreak of war is still fresh in the minds of those on both sides who lost kin. The antagonism is in no way helped by Rethas traditional link with magic; as you well know, Darranians view sorcery as something twisted and defiled. Karstenas influence is such that he is capable of overriding the objections of his peers in the councila"if he survives to do so.a Ren cleared his throat before continuing, watching the woman narrowly to gauge her response. aLast week an assassinas arrow killed the horse that Lord Karsten was riding. Karsten was lucky, but I want to know who was behind the attempt so I can have them stopped.

aLord Karsten is sponsoring a week-long celebration of his birthday at his country estate, Westhold. Because of the attempt on his brotheras life, Laeth has agreed to attend the celebration to see what he can find out.a Ren leaned forward intently. aBut I need something more. My dear mother used to say, aAn unguarded tongue will bring down the stoutest walls.a Around Lord Karstenas brother every word will be weighed, measured and carefully doled out.

aWhat I need is someone no one noticesa"a part of the furnishings of the keep. Unfortunately the furniture canat tell me what it hearsa"but a slave can.a Ren watched Rialla closely for her reaction, but not so much as a twitch gave away her thoughts.

She stared silently at the floor for a moment, then lifted her eyes to meet his. aI would do a great deal for Sianim; but not this. Paint a tattoo on someone else and I will teach them to be a slave, but I will leave Sianim before I go back to Darran.a Her voice was cold and hard, the voice of someone with the courage to cut the skin from the side of her face and cauterize the resultant wound.

Ren sat back undismayed: he still had a carrot to dangle in front of her. aTo make the alliance more acceptable to Rethians, Lord Karsten has proposed several changes in Darranian law. Marriages with outsiders will be legal; this is required, of course, to permit the marriage between the princess and King Myr. Trade taxes will be lowered or possibly eliminated.a He paused and softened his tone to attract her attention. aThe third change is the elimination of slavery within Darranian borders. This was deemed necessary because Reth views slavery as an abomination used only by the most barbaric of people.a He couldnat see if she had gone for his bait yet, so he rambled on to give her time to think. aIn a strange way, the last change is the one that the Darranians find most objectionable. Slavery is not integral to their economy; slaves are merely luxuries that only a few can afford, but they are integral to Darranian culture. Most of the nobles of the council own several, and are loath to part with them. You, I am sure, have a greater understanding of this than I.a The former slave bowed her head for a moment and then looked back at the Spymaster. Ren had been waiting for a reaction and he finally got one. aDo you know what you ask of me, Spymaster?a aYes,a he answered. aWith your help, it may be possible to eliminate slavery in Darran. Laeth told me that you would be interested in such a mission.a The tension left her body as suddenly as it had come. In a weary voice Rialla said, aTell me the essentials and give me some time to think it over.a Ren leaned back in his chair, satisfied that his strategy was working. aMost of the powerful nobles in the kingdom will be at Westhold with their entourages. Obviously, they arenat likely to discuss their newest attempt on Lord Karstenas life. I want you to determine who supports the alliance, who resists it anda"most importantlya"why. Donat worry if your information seems trivial; I assure you that the most innocent facts are capable of illumination when combined with intuition and intelligence.a Rialla rubbed the scar on her cheek, as if to relieve some persistent ache, and asked, aYou are sure that Laeth agreed to this? For all that he has chosen to live in Sianim, he is Darranian. For him to agree to spy, or escort a spy to his brotheras home is the worst sort of betrayal.a Ren nodded, aHe agreed because of the threat to Lord Karsten.a aWhen would we leave?a Rialla asked neutrally.

aFive days.a She nodded and got to her feet. aIall give you my answer tomorrow morning.a The door shut quietly behind her as she left.

FEELING NUMB, RIALLA made her way through the busy streets to the stables where the war horses, a source of income for Sianim second only to its mercenary services and training, were kept. She slipped under the ancient stone archway that lead into the stables, and allowed the familiar smells and the sounds of the horses moving quietly in their stalls to calm her. It was lunchtime and she had the place to herself.

Ignoring the friendly muzzles that were extended to her over the stall doors, she found a bench that wasnat too cluttered with bits of mending or grooming tools and huddled on it, drawing her legs up beside her and leaning wearily against the wall.

The gray stone was cool against her cheek. She closed her eyes and contemplated what shead been asked to do. Even the idea of going back to Darran was enough to raise a cold sweat. Darran had stolen her family, her heritage and a part of herself. In return shead been given the scars she carried, inside and out.

Perhaps it would have been different for someone born into a more restrictive society, where women had little control over their destiny. Rialla had been born to one of the wandering Trader clans that traveled throughout the South; primarily through Southwood, Ynstrah and the little principalities that made up the Anthran Alliance. In the Trader clans, women were people of power. The women controlled a clanas finances and determined where the clan would travel the next season.

Rialla had learned how to train horses from her father. The horses he trained were widely sought after, for head had a fine touch with animals. Often he staged exhibitions in which he would take some vicious beast and turn it into a usable animal. He brought prestige to their small clan, so that Riallaas clan rarely had to worry about money, and were free to travel where many other clans were forbidden.

Rialla had been born an empath, able to perceive the feelings and sometimes thoughts of the people and animals around her. It was a rare talent, but not unheard of among her people, and it was valued highly by a people who lived on the whims of others. Almost as soon as her ability was recognized, her father had her working with the horses, using her empathy to enhance his training and teaching her to control her gift at the same time.

Because of her value to the Traders, the womenas council and her father contracted an advantageous marriage for her with a wealthier clan. It had been at the betrothal festival that the outlander had come among them.

There was nothing unusual about his presence because everyone was welcome at festivals, even nonclansmen. The only reason that Rialla noticed him at all was that he was one of the few people shead met that she couldnat use her empathy to read. She had felt his eyes on her as she danced for her betrothed. She couldnat recall the boyas face now, though she remembered thinking him handsome.

After the festival the Trade clans split up to travel again, with the understanding that they would meet at the same place in exactly one year for the marriage, as was customary.

Two nights later the slavers attacked Riallaas clan, killing the men and the old peoplea"and taking the younger women and children as slaves. It was the outlander who led the slavers. She could still feel the first touch of his hand on her face. It was the first time shead been able to read him with her talent: her first taste of a Darranian slave trainer.

Rialla shuddered heavily against the cold granite of the stable wall, ignoring the tears that ran down her cheek. If she hoped to function as a Darranian slave, she would have to cope with the past.

After all these years the slave traineras face wasnat clear in her memorya"a slave didnat look at a personas face oftena"but his voice haunted her nightmares.

On the third day of her captivity, Rialla, huddled in the small group of women and children that were the remnants of her clan, watched as a rider entered the camp. He was greeted warmly by her captor. She couldnat understand the language they spoke to each other, but the rideras name was familiar: Geoffrey aeaMagi, the Archmage.

Rialla heard later that the Archmage was killed shortly after this visit; she had no sorrow for his death.

One by one the children and women had been taken to the tent where the slave trainer stayed; only Rialla and two others were spared. She didnat see what the aeaMagi and the slaver did to the remaining captives, but she heard their screams and felt their anguish in empathic detail. The horror of her knowledge ravaged her mind until it closed down to protect itself, leaving her with only a shadow of her former gift. What little empathic ability remained after the Archmageas visit was so erratic it was all but useless.

For a slave, though, it was probably just as well.

FOR TWO YEARS Rialla was trained as a dancer, and she was rewarded with the tattoo at the end. Dancers were popular in Darran and she was good, very good. She was treated well and allowed more freedom than most slaves, who were intended for brothels or worse, but she was still a slave.

For five years she danced as her master bade. Finally, there came a day when the opportunity to escape presented itself and she ran.

She killed a man when she escaped. Even the slight remnants of her empathy had been enough to make her cry out with the pain of his death. Nevertheless, with shaking hands she searched the dead man and took his knife and what little money he had. She stole a horse from the stables and fled.

She escaped over the border to Reth, where she used the knife, heated in her camp fire until it glowed, to rid herself of the hateful tattoo.

At the next town she traded her horse for an unbroken gelding and a handful of coins. Eventually, she made her way to Sianim, where her skill with horses earned her a home. The mercenary city-state had offered her refuge, but now it offered even more.

She had been given the opportunity to take something from the slavers, if she had the courage to do it.

Safe in the stables of Sianim, Rialla let her hand rub the scar on her cheek. If she agreed to return to Reth, she would have to let them tattoo her again, over the scar. The scar would brand her as an escaped slave; as such she would be watched even closer than most. Something could go wrong and she would be forced to remain a slave; a second escape would be virtually impossible.

The whisper of sound alerted her that she was no longer alone. She wiped her cheeks, but knew it would be obvious shead been crying. Drawing a deep breath she turned to see who had joined her.

The man who stood in the dim light of the stable was of average height. He had dark hair, darker eyes and skin that was tanned by many days out in the sun. His build was slight, but he moved with the trained grace of a warrior.

Rialla raised her chin in an unconscious gesture of defiance that was not lost on the man watching her. aLaeth.a He nodded a greeting and leaned against a stall partition across from the bench where she sat, leaving the width of the aisle between them.

It was virtually unheard of for a Darranian lord to train at Sianim. Though the schools of warcraft at Sianim were famous, Darranians kept to themselves. When Laeth had come to Sianim for training two years ago, Rialla had avoided him until they were assigned the same instructor for hand-to-hand combat.

The instructor didnat speak Darranian, and Laeth only knew what little of the Common tongue head picked up since he came. Darranians, being an insular people, had little use for learning languages other than their own.

She watched him struggle for several days before moving next to him and interpreting. It had been a combination of the way that head persisted, laughing at himself and trying again, and her refusal to let herself be manipulated into hating all Darranians for what a few had done that made her help him.

He had turned to her, ignoring the betraying scar on her cheek, and thanked her in a quiet voice. The friendship that followed was a surprise to Rialla and, she thought, to him also. She taught him Common in the evenings and he told her a little about himself.

The younger son of a powerful Darranian lord, head amused himself scandalizing his family for most of his life. Then head discovered a shy little maid called Marri, whom head met at a party given at a local estate. Her family hadnat approved of her marriage to a black sheep, even of so exalted a family, so head settled down and persuaded his father to give him a small manor that he worked for a year, preparing it for his intended bride. When he received an invitation to his older brother Karstenas wedding, he decided that the time had come to inform his family that head found the girl he intended to marry.