The Dragon's Son by Margaret Weis

snapped and crackled, and Draconas could feel the warmth of
the blaze, did Ven come over to Bellona.
    Draconas washed the blood from her face. A faint flush of life returned to
her pallid skin. She ceased to moan and her breathing evened out.
    “She is a strong woman,” said Draconas. “That was a horrific beating she
took, but all she has is a broken arm and a couple of broken ribs.”
    “The thieves couldn’t find the money,” Ven said as if he felt he needed to
provide explanation. “They looked in the wrong place.”
    Draconas glanced at the boy. “You don’t have to pretend for me, Ven. I saw
the attack. Both attacks,” he added pointedly.
    “I don’t know what you mean.” Ven turned away, and walked to the fire.
Crouching down, he poked at the glowing wood with a stick to stir up the blaze.
“They were thieves.”
    Draconas shrugged. So that was the game.
    “I heard Bellona call you ‘Ven,’“ Draconas said in friendly tones, to put
the boy at ease. “That’s an unusual name, one I’ve never heard before. What
does it mean?”
    “It’s short for Vengeance,” the boy said offhandedly.
    Draconas sat back on his heels, surprised and not surprised. What a dreadful
burden, he thought. Still, he supposed he could understand.
    “The best cure for Bellona is sleep,” Draconas said briskly. “You must be
hungry. I have food in my pack.”
    Ven shook his head. Squatting on his beast’s legs, he continued to play with
the fire. He did not look at Draconas or at Bellona. He kept his gaze fixed on
the flames.
    “Are you tired?” Draconas asked. “Ready for sleep?”
    Again, Ven shook his head.
    “Good,” said Draconas pleasantly, easing his back against a tree trunk. “That
gives us a chance to talk.”
    Now Ven looked at him, peering out warily from beneath a mass of lank, fair
hair. He frowned. “I don’t want to talk.”
    “But I do,” said Draconas. “We need to talk about what happened back there
on the road. About why you killed that man.”
    Ven poked at the fire. Sparks flared, drifted upward with the smoke. “I didn’t
kill anyone,” he said in calm, matter-of-fact tones. “How could I?”
    “Like this.” Draconas seized a bolt of lightning and, taking careful aim,
threw it at Ven.
    The bolt struck the ground right next to the boy. The blast bowled him over.
The flaring light blinded him. The white-hot heat singed all the hair off his
arm.
    Shocked, burnt, and dazed, Ven lay on his back, gasping and panting.
    “You can lie to humans, Ven,” said Draconas. “You have to lie to them, in
order to survive. You can try lying to me, though I’ll tell you now it won’t
work. Never lie to yourself. You killed that man and you know it.”
    Ven said nothing.
    “I’m not saying he didn’t deserve to die,” Draconas continued. “But you
killed for the wrong reason. You killed out of fury, out of rage. You killed
because you lost control. You killed because it felt good to kill.”
    Ven sat up slowly, nursing his burnt arm.
    “Dragons kill for one reason, Ven. Dragons kill to survive. And, even then,
we don’t kill humans.”
    Ven stood up, tossed his stick into the fire.
    “Where are you going?” Draconas demanded.
    “My arm hurts. I’m going to put cold water on it.” Ven walked off, heading
back toward the river.
    “You heard the holy sister say that, didn’t you?” Draconas told the boy’s
back. “You heard her call you ‘the dragon’s son.’ “
    Ven paused, but he didn’t turn around. “I didn’t hear her say anything.”
    He limped away, favoring his injured leg. Draconas watched him, his dragon
vision seeing the red warmth of the human part of the boy, following him with
his gaze to the riverbank. Ven squatted at the water’s edge, dunked his arm
into the swift current and let the chill water flow over the wound, easing the
pain.
    Draconas could imagine the pain burning inside Ven. Nothing could ease that.
Except maybe telling yourself it wasn’t