But I come from a kingdom of bronze, Laira told herself. Mother told me that thousands of warriors there wield bronze khopeshes—great swords shaped as sickles—and that my father leads them all. I will be brave. I will not fear this man.

Before he could rise to his feet and strike her, she spoke.

"Why do you hurt me?"

He froze, risen to a crouch, and stared at her. He said nothing.

Her voice trembled and her knees felt weak, but she would not look away. She stared into his eyes—one baleful and blazing, the other drooping in the ruined half of his face.

"I did not burn you," she said, voice slurred from the wounds he had given her. "My mother had the curse. She could become the reptile. And she paid for her sins. I am not diseased." Her eyes stung and she clenched her fists, refusing to cry before him. "You beat me. You starve me. You make me sleep with the dogs. But I am no reptile. I am not my mother. I have served you well, and whenever you beat me down, I stood up again. Whenever you hurt me, I grew stronger. My face is ruined now as yours is. And our spirits are both strong." She took a step closer. "In the mud, in the dog pen, in puddles of my own blood, I proved my strength to you. Let me show you this strength upon a roc, a bow in my hand. I will hunt with you, and I will prove that I'm worth more than scrubbing your feet." She took another step, raised her chin, and stared at him with all the strength she could summon. Her tears were gone. "I will kill for you."

Slowly, his joints creaking, he rose to his feet. He loomed over her; the top of her head did not even reach his shoulders. He stank of ale, sweat, and his old injury.

"You have the curse." His voice was low, full of danger. "You lie, maggot. Your mother had the reptile in her veins. You carry it within you too."

"I do not!" She raised her chin, staring up at him, refusing to cower. She would show him her strength in this tent. "You lie to yourself so you may hurt me. I cannot fly as a dragon, but I will fly upon a roc." She raised her fist. "I am small and weak; you made me so. But my spirit is as strong as bronze."

Quick as a striking cobra, he reached out and clutched her throat.

She gasped, unable to breathe.

"Your spirit is strong?" He leaned down to bring his face close to hers. His breath assailed her. "I could just . . . tighten my grip. And your neck would just . . . snap. Like a pheasant bone. You are a woman, and all women are weak."

She sputtered, struggling for air, forcing down the urge to strike him. His grip loosened just the slightest, and she whispered hoarse words.