The dragon nudged Asha’s arm. She ignored him. When he nudged harder, she moved away.
The slave clicked, dragging his attention from Asha and luring it to himself. He scratched the scaly chin, and the dragon’s eyes half closed with pleasure.
“Are you offering to watch the dragon for me?”
“For a price, yes.”
Asha’s skin prickled. “What price?”
“You promise to fly me to Darmoor when you finish your task.”
Asha started at him. Was he serious?
“If you fly me to Darmoor,” he said, “I can find work aboard a ship sailing far across the sea and you’ll never have to see me again.”
“I can’t just fly you wherever you want.”
“Why not?”
She looked to the dragon. “I—I’ve never ridden one.”
That’s how links between dragons and draksors were formed: in flight. This creature’s attachment was already an inconvenience. Asha didn’t want to deepen it.
“How hard can it be? Your ancestors did it.”
“The dragons turned on my ancestors. Besides, I don’t have time to fly you anywhere,” she said, looking to the pure blue sky. The daylight had whisked the waning moon away.
“And why’s that?”
All these infernal questions! Asha threw up her hands in surrender. “I only have three days left to hunt Kozu.”
The quirk in his mouth flattened.
Asha lowered her gaze to the dusty earth. “If I kill Kozu, my father will cancel my wedding.”
“What?” His brow furrowed. “Why would he—”
“My father is intent on destroying the old ways.” To escape his piercing look, she started tracing symbols in the dirt. The flower pattern from the sickroom tiles began to emerge: elegant, seven-petaled namsaras. “But the Old One keeps sending me ‘gifts,’ which always come with commands. . . . It seems to be his way of slowing me down.” She shook her head. “So you see, I can’t help you. I have only so much time.”
The slave was quiet a moment. “After you kill Kozu,” he said, “then you could fly me to Darmoor.”
“There’s just one problem,” Asha growled, smudging the sand-etched flowers. “I don’t ride dragons.”
“If you want me to keep your dragon safe while you go off on your suicide mission, then you’ll just have to learn. It’s the price I’m asking.”
Asha looked to the red dragon. How could she soar through the sky on one of the very creatures she’d sworn to hunt into extinction?
Once she killed the First Dragon, it might not matter. At its death, all trace of the Old One would crumble into dust. This red dragon’s attachment to her would probably crumble too.
Asha looked to the slave. He didn’t know that.
“Fine,” she said.
“I need your word. I won’t wait here and give you time to change your mind. I need some surety you’ll make good on your promise.”
Damn it.
Without thinking, Asha touched her mother’s ring. The moment she did, she wished she hadn’t, because the skral’s gaze fixed on it.
“That will do fine.”
Asha shook her head. “No.”
“Then watch your own dragon.” Rising, he headed for the stream.
He shucked off his shirt, giving her a clear sight of the strength in his shoulders and arms. Of the satisfying curve of his torso. Of the linen bandages crisscrossing his back.
Bandages that had been bled through.
Asha frowned. She was fairly certain he hadn’t brought fresh ones.
She tried to keep her gaze from skimming him as he rolled his trousers up to his knees, letting the sparkling stream rush around his calves. Cupping his hands, he scooped up water and drank deeply before splashing the rest over his face.
Asha spun her mother’s ring around her finger. As long as she made good on her word, he had to give it back. It wasn’t like she was giving it to him to keep.
The dragon watched her with lazy, half-lidded eyes as she tugged the band off. Rising, Asha walked to the edge of the stream.
“If you watch the dragon, I promise to fly you wherever you want—after I kill Kozu.”
He looked up. Water gathered in his eyelashes and dripped from his hair. The sight of him—sparkling in the sunlight—startled her.
When she realized she was staring, Asha shoved the ring toward him.
“Here.”
Taking her mother’s ring, he slid it onto his smallest finger and studied her. When his mouth tipped up at the side, ever so slightly, Asha felt herself loosen. Whatever was plaguing him receded, leaving something playful in its wake.
And then, before she even knew what was happening, he grabbed the hem of her shirt and pulled her into the stream.
Asha shrieked as cold water splashed up her leggings, soaking her through. When she recovered, she shoved him. He laughed as he staggered back, eyes shining with mirth. And then, as if he weren’t afraid—not one bit—he bent down and splashed water into her face.
Enraged, Asha shoved him harder.
This time, he went down. The cold stream swallowed him. When he came up, that crooked smile was gone, replaced by one that curved at both ends. A whole smile.
He rose out of the water and stepped toward her, still grinning. His eyes burned brightly as he reached to tuck a wet strand of hair behind her ear. “Your hair is pretty when it’s down.”
Those words lashed like the shaxa.
Pretty?
Was he mocking her?
She could have him killed for such a thing.
Asha stepped in close, narrowing her eyes. “Call me that again, skral, and I’ll cut out your lying tongue myself.”
Dripping with anger, she turned and left him in the stream.
Twenty
Asha was still damp when she stepped out of the stairway and into the temple. Her anger fizzled out when she heard a familiar voice.
“You truly are a useless fool,” Jarek growled from somewhere in the maze of corridors. Asha followed his voice until she stood at the bottom of a stairway. The same stairway leading to a locked room, where his slave had been hiding just yesterday.
Her heart leaped into her throat.
The sound of scabbards clanking against belts and buckles made her turn. Two soldats stalked down the corridor, their footsteps echoing off the whitewashed walls.
“The next time you do something illegal, do us all a favor and pick a crime punishable by death.”
A second voice rose up, equally familiar and just as fierce. “You know, Jarek, I’m really looking forward to your binding. Specifically the part where my sister cuts off your balls and hoists them high above the walls on your wedding night.”
Dax.
His words were followed by a loud crack!
Dax swore.
Asha took the steps two at a time, her heart hammering. When she reached the open door, the light of a torch illuminated her brother—who was reeling from the punch Jarek threw, his cheek already swelling.
Flanked by two soldats carrying torches, the commandant stood with a scroll gripped in his fist. More scrolls littered the floor at his feet, while behind him, hidden in darkness, was the cot, its linens folded in what looked like a hurry, then tucked up against the wall.
But far worse than the cot was what lay on the bottom shelf, half hidden in shadow: a worn-looking lute, fashioned out of pale pine. On its flat, pear-shaped face was the elegantly engraved name Greta.
Distracted by the scrolls, Jarek hadn’t yet noticed this telltale sign of his fugitive slave. But the moment he did . . .
Suddenly, Maya, the temple guardian, stepped into view. She stood inside the room, flanked by a soldat. Her eyes widened at the sight of the Iskari in the doorway. She shook her head almost imperceptibly, telling Asha to go, to escape being implicated in whatever was happening.
Asha ducked back out of the doorway and into the shadows of the stairwell, pressing herself against the w
all, out of view.
“I didn’t realize you knew how to write,” Jarek said. Asha heard the smirk in his voice. Heard the sound of him unrolling one of the scrolls. “Did your scrublander whore teach you? Or did she write it for you?”
Asha dared a look around the doorframe just in time to see Dax’s fists tighten and his jaw clench.
Jarek ripped the scroll’s parchment—once, twice, three times. He picked up another scroll and tore that one too. Dax watched, his eyes sharp as daggers.
With every rip, Asha’s chest constricted.
Shame scorched her. She didn’t care about torn scrolls. Of course she didn’t. The old stories killed her mother. She hated them. She wanted them destroyed.
When Jarek turned to the shelves for more, he caught sight of her, frozen in the shadows beyond the doorway. His sneer slid away.
“Asha? What are you doing here?” His hand fell away from the shelves. “Why are you wet?”
She looked to the lute. The moment he turned around, he would see it and recognize it.
She needed to prevent that from happening.
Asha strode into the room, positioning herself between Jarek and the lute while motioning to the crumpled, torn scrolls at their feet. “What happened here?”
“After the news broke this morning, I followed your brother to the temple,” Jarek answered. “He led me straight to this.” He waved a hand around the room, then bent to pick up a scroll, handing it to Asha. She didn’t need to unroll it, of course. She knew what it was.
Leave it to Dax to lead the commandant straight to the evidence of his own treachery.
“News?” Asha took the scroll. “What news?”
Jarek’s eyes narrowed, suspicious. “No one told you?”
She shook her head. She’d been in the Rift all night.
“The scrublanders took Darmoor last night by force. Your father got word this morning.”
Asha thought of Roa and her hawk. Thought of the way Dax always leaned toward her. Like she was a moon and he was a moonflower.
Thought of the way Roa didn’t seem to notice him at all.
Asha looked to her brother, who refused to meet her gaze, staring at the floor instead.
Oh, Dax.
The scrublanders had betrayed him twice now.
“Your brother’s guests”—Jarek said guests like they were something vile—“have disappeared. Their presence here was a ruse. A distraction while their army invaded our port.” Jarek turned back to Dax, towering over him. “This is further proof he’s not fit to rule.”
Asha moved to protect her brother from Jarek’s ridicule, but Dax met her gaze, then looked sharply and meaningfully to the lute.
Get rid of the evidence, said the look in his eyes.
But how was she supposed to do that, with Jarek standing in the room?
“If Dax is too foolish to know the difference between a friend and a foe, how can he protect a kingdom? If he’s too stupid to notice me tracking him through the streets of Firgaard, how will he notice his enemies plotting against him at his own table?”
Dax’s fists uncurled, the fight suddenly sucked out of him. It was no longer Jarek’s voice he heard, Asha knew, but the voices of their old tutors.
Foolish. Stupid. Worthless.
“He had one task: to appease the scrublanders and put down their insubordination. Instead, after he spent three months treating with them, they deceived him. I’ve sent half our army to deal with the insurgents. He’s jeopardized the safety of the entire city.” Jarek shook his head in disgust. “And now there’s this to contend with.” He gestured to the scrolls. “The old stories, outlawed by your own father.”
Jarek’s gaze roamed the shelves, then the rest of the room. It was about to settle on the cot behind her when Maya came out of the shadows, snagging Jarek’s attention.
“You,” he said, “will be removed from your position immediately.” Jarek took the torch from one of his soldats, motioning for the man to arrest Maya.
It would be mere heartbeats before he discovered the cot and his slave’s lute. If he did, it would surely mean Maya’s life.
Asha stepped forward. “Wait.”
Everyone looked at her.
“If you arrest her, you’ll widen the Rift between the palace and the temple.” Which would only weaken the king’s rule.
Jarek’s gaze wandered along the damp shirt she wore, tracing the shape of her through the thin fabric. Asha backed up against the shelves, putting space between them.
“Force isn’t the only way to strike a blow,” she said.
A smile stretched across Jarek’s face, turning her spine to ice. “Is that so?” He stepped closer, trapping her against the shelf, his gaze devouring her in the orange glow of his torch. “How about a proposal, then?”
Dax moved to help his sister. The soldats restrained him.
“We could forget this ever happened.” Jarek put one big hand on her scarred cheek. “You could offer me something in exchange.” His hand moved down her face, then her throat, then ever farther. “If you came with me now, I could overlook the incident with my slave. . . .”
Asha’s eyes stung. She felt vile. Repulsive. Jarek’s touch made her hate herself more than she’d ever hated anything. More than the old stories and the First Dragon and the Old One, she hated her own heart for being desirable to someone so despicable.
It was further proof of her wickedness.
“Tell me how we should proceed.” His voice turned husky. Full of desire. “My fearsome Iskari.”
Asha’s fingers itched for her axe. But there was no axe to reach for.
So Asha reached for something else.
“Has anyone told you about Moria and the fourth king of Firgaard?” Her angry gaze met his. “It’s an old story about a man who took what wasn’t his and the girl who put an end to him. Shall I tell it to you?”
Something shifted, then. Jarek’s grip on her loosened.
Asha pushed away from the shelves and he stumbled back.
“Give me the torch.”
She didn’t wait for him to hand it to her. She snatched it from him.
Before anyone could stop her, Asha set the scrolls on fire.
Maya cried out, covering her mouth with her hands as the flames licked the parchment and the wood. Dax, released from the soldat’s hold, opened the door and held the guardian back, out of the way of the fire, while smoke filled the room. Asha watched the parchment crumple and burn.
“The stories killed our mother.” Asha didn’t look at her brother. “They must be destroyed.”
She tried to remember her mother’s voice chasing her nightmares away, those soft arms pulling her into a hug. But they were only memories of memories and too far gone.
Asha hugged herself tight as she watched the ravenous flames devour the shelves, and with them, any evidence of her brother’s treason. Now, if Jarek went to the king, it would be his word against Dax’s.
But that wasn’t the only evidence the fire destroyed.
As she listened to the strings of the lute—warping, bending, snapping—the skral’s freckled face flared up in her mind, drenched and smiling brightly as he tucked her hair behind her ear.
There are plenty of other lutes in the city, she told herself, pulling her hunting shirt up over her mouth to stop from breathing in the smoke. I will bring him one of those.
Moria and the Fourth King of Firgaard
The fourth king of Firgaard was not a kind man. Some called him cruel. Others called him wicked. Still others, power starved. He built a palace that towered over the temple. He taxed his people into poverty. And he took a different girl to bed every night.
If the fourth king of Firgaard came to your home and asked for your daughter, you gave her up to him. If you didn’t, he would take her anyway and your family would be dead come sunrise.
Moria was the daughter of the priestess. Raised in the temple, she lived a devout and sheltered life. She went to bed early and got up lon
g before the sun to pray. She visited the poor and sick and held fast to the Old One’s laws.
Until the king took her dearest friend.
On that night, Moria did not go to sleep early. She did not get up before the sun. She spent the long, cold stretch of moon kneeling on the stone floor of the temple, speaking to the Old One.
“I can’t save her,” Moria told him. “But I can save the next girl.”
“To take the life of another is a monstrous act,” the Old One told her. “Even the life of the wickedest among you is sacred.”
“If I must become a monster to stop a monster,” said Moria, “then that is what I will do.”
And the Old One said, “The killing price of a king is death.”
And Moria said, “So be it.”
She got up from the floor. She grabbed the ceremonial knife off the altar. Its blade scraped against the stone.
That evening, Moria combed her hair until it shone. She smudged her eyes with kohl and doused her skin in rose water. She put on her prettiest kaftan and set out for the palace.
The guards took her straight to the king.
Moria bowed low to the king of Firgaard. She did not meet his gaze for fear he would see the raging fire in her eyes. She did not speak her name for fear he would hear the sharpened edge of her voice.
The dragon king dismissed his guards.
The flame in Moria flickered. Who was she, to pit herself against a king? She was nothing more than a girl. Not yet eighteen. And he was twice her size.
When the king reached for her, Moria froze.
When he undid the buttons of her kaftan, she trembled.
When he slid the kaftan off her shoulders and down her arms, when he let it fall to the floor, Moria thought of her dearest friend. She thought of all the girls who’d stood right here, trembling and afraid. With her clothes crumpled around her feet, Moria reached for the knife strapped to her thigh.
Seeing it, the king’s eyes widened in surprise.
And Moria cut open his throat.
The guards found her standing over the body, blood dripping from the ceremonial blade in her hand. When her gaze fell upon them, they shivered. As if it were the gaze of Iskari herself.
Taking life was forbidden. The king’s life, especially. Elorma himself instated the law against regicide. It was as old as the founding of Firgaard.
The Last Namsara Page 14