Ancient laws needed to be upheld.
So, three days later, they marched Moria to the bloodstained block in the center square, where a man holding a saber waited. All of Firgaard came to watch. Every girl who’d ever been taken by the king lined the streets, with their families at their backs.
But as the guards marched Moria past them, her people raised a fist over their hearts. And Moria held her head high all the way to the chopping block.
Unafraid.
Twenty-One
Beneath the watchful gaze of the soldats, Asha bided her time, waiting for her moment to steal the flame.
Beneath the blazing sun, Asha and Dax walked side by side. Jarek marched six paces ahead while soldats surrounded them, their gazes cast like spears up and down the green-walled streets of the new quarter. The visiting scrublanders were missing and Jarek’s fugitive slave hadn’t been found. The city was on high alert.
“No one is allowed in or out,” Asha heard Jarek tell his second-in-command, “until the missing scrublanders are found.”
While her brother brooded beside her, Asha set her thoughts on her task. She needed to take the sacred flame from her father’s throne room without getting caught.
Up ahead, Jarek took off his mantle—useful in the early morning chill but stifling now in the increasing heat of the rising sun. A dagger hung at his hip, the ivory hilt polished and shining. Beside Asha, Dax’s gaze burned a hole in the back of Jarek’s shirt.
“You didn’t have to torch them,” said Dax. His brown curls were damp against his skin, where sweat beaded from the sun’s heat.
“You didn’t exactly give me a choice,” she said.
If she hadn’t shown up, what would Dax have done? How would he have hidden the evidence of Jarek’s rogue slave? She loved her brother, but he was too much of a dreamer. Expert at coming up with lofty plans, unskilled at carrying them out.
Like the scrolls.
What in all the skies was he thinking?
“Where’s Torwin?” Dax kept his voice low. He didn’t look at her.
“The slave?” Asha shook her head, whispering back. “You led Jarek straight to that room. Why would I tell you where he is now?”
Dax opened his mouth to respond, but instead of words, a fit of coughing erupted out of him. The harsh, ragged sound made Asha go rigid. Dax doubled over, pressing his hands to his knees at the force of it.
Asha stared at her brother. For a moment, it wasn’t Dax standing before her in the middle of the street. It was her mother, standing at the window of the sickroom, gripping the ledge with her sapped strength, willing it to bear her up as the same harsh cough racked her body.
No, thought Asha.
Jarek turned to see why the soldats stopped, but by then, Dax’s coughing subsided. The heir wiped his mouth and Asha looked for blood on the gold sleeve of his tunic. He tucked it out of sight before she could see.
When they arrived at the towering door set into the caramel-colored wall of the palace, Jarek issued an order to the soldats on the other side. Before Asha could pass through the arching doorway next to Dax, Jarek grabbed her arm, forcing her to face him.
“My offer still stands,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I will find that slave and finish him. Or you could accept, and I’ll forget about him.”
Asha twisted free and caught up with her brother. “Hunt him to your heart’s content,” she said over her shoulder.
“The moon wanes, Asha!” Jarek called after her. “Why prolong the inescapable?”
But her father had given Asha an escape. Jarek just didn’t know it.
Once she and Dax were both through the gateway, Asha moved quickly through the shaded arcades, leaving her brother behind. The sound of cascading water chimed from the fountains as mist evaporated in the heat of the sun.
“Asha,” Dax said, jogging to catch up with her. “Talk to me. Please.”
“Talk to you?” She stopped walking and spun to face him. “You who put those scrolls in that room? Who brought enemies into our home? I’m not telling you anything. Jarek’s right. You’ve put us all in jeopardy.”
Slaves going about their daily tasks stopped to eavesdrop on the two royal siblings in the middle of the arcade. When Asha shot them warning glances, they quickly moved on.
She thought of the old stories, written in Dax’s handwriting.
She lowered her voice. “The stories on those scrolls. Did you write them?”
His eyebrows shot upward. “I’m surprised you think me capable.”
That wasn’t an answer.
She studied him. His cheekbones jutted out too far. His clothes hung too loosely. As exasperating as her brother was, she couldn’t bear to lose him.
“You look just like she did,” said Asha. “Right before she died.”
A wild emotion flickered across his face. But it was gone as soon as it arrived.
“Not everything is as it appears, Asha.” His gaze flicked over her shoulders, checking for soldats and slaves. Satisfied that they were alone and unwatched, he stepped in close and lowered his voice. “When darkness falls, the Old One lights a flame.”
Asha stepped back. “What?”
“It’s what Roa says.”
Roa? The girl who betrayed him?
Was he serious?
Asha didn’t have time for this. Her brother was a lost cause. She needed to steal the sacred flame so she could get back to hunting Kozu.
She moved past her brother, heading deeper into the palace.
Dax’s footsteps rang out behind her.
“The realm is divided against itself!”
She ignored him and kept walking—through shady galleries and bright courtyards, through gardens full of date palms and vines of white jasmine creeping up the walls.
Dax followed her.
“You don’t see it,” he persisted, “because you’re forever in the Rift, doing Father’s bidding. Things are bad and getting worse. A reckoning is coming.”
When they reached the throne room, Asha turned to him.
“What does that have to do with you?” she demanded. “Since when do you care, Dax? About anything?”
He stepped back. As if she’d shoved him. Beneath the wounded look in his eyes she could see a war waging. Could see the reckless, careless Dax fighting to come out. To hide the truer, softer Dax and his myriad of hurts.
She shouldn’t have said that. Of course he cared. About too many things.
They were just the wrong things.
“The Old One hasn’t abandoned us.” He stared her straight in the face as he said it, forcing her to look him in the eye. “He’s as powerful as ever, waiting for the right moment and the right person. He’s waiting for the next Namsara to make things right.”
Asha froze just beyond the throne room’s archway, out of sight of the soldats within.
Did he realize how he sounded?
Insane. Traitorous. Just like a scrublander.
Asha stared at her brother. Dax had always been recklessly heroic. Like Namsara and Iskari, he was the tenderhearted hero and Asha was the destroyer.
But unlike Namsara and Iskari, Asha had never hated her brother, only worried about him.
Enough of this. I’m running out of time.
Turning from Dax, Asha looked to the bright, eternal flame. She watched it burn in an iron bowl on the black pedestal.
Even though the dragon king’s throne sat empty, his guards held their positions all around the walls. Asha counted sixteen of them. Sixteen pairs of eyes all watching her as she stepped through the archway and into the enclosed space, her footsteps echoing up to the domed ceiling. Her gaze swept over the room. There was no balcony level and only one doorway from which to enter and exit. The only other opening was through the skylight in the roof. The soldats and their watching eyes guarded the throne all day and night, changing their posts at dawn and dusk. Yet Asha was supposed to steal the flame and not be seen.
At a loss, she stared at the sa
cred flame itself, which twisted eerily, bright white and making no sound. The flame didn’t need to be fed; it simply burned on and on, ever since Elorma brought it here from the desert a thousand years ago.
No, she thought. Not here. Elorma brought it to the caves beneath the temple.
You will take the sacred flame from the thief who stole it and return it to where it belongs.
Asha pressed her palms to her temples, trying to crush the command out of her head.
What should she do?
Her father would want her to focus on her hunt. Once Kozu was dead, it wouldn’t matter where the flame burned. Kozu’s death would end the Old One’s regime once and for all. With their god proven false, the scrublanders would come to heel and her brother’s yammering about the Namsara would cease.
But if she ignored Elorma’s task—what price would she pay?
She thought of her paralyzed arm—the cost for using her slayers unwisely.
To ensure her strength was not diminished, she would have to steal the flame. And then she would end Kozu. Once and for all.
But she couldn’t complete this task alone.
Asha needed an accomplice.
A large, fire-breathing one.
Twenty-Two
Asha took her mare, Oleander, and raced down narrow, cobbled alleyways through the city’s largest market. Lengths of freshly dyed silk hung across the space between buildings, forming a canopy of indigo and saffron above her. Open-fronted stalls lined the walls, spilling their wares into the street.
As carts and horses hurried to get out of the Iskari’s way, Asha looked for one stall in particular. In her rushing, she nearly passed it. Oleander reared as Asha drew her to a halt, turning back to the display of wooden musical instruments.
The market fell silent. Slaves and shoppers gathered to whisper and stare as the Iskari bought an elegant lute made of burnished mahogany. They kept a wary distance as the craftsman buckled the lute into a hard leather case and the king’s fearsome daughter tossed the merchant her payment.
Scattering the watchers, she galloped toward the gate. The soldats didn’t stop the Iskari, despite their commandant’s order to disallow anyone in or out of the city. Her father had issued a direct order. One they couldn’t ignore, despite their loyalty to Jarek.
She rode hard. But when she got to the babbling, sparkling stream, no one waited for her. Asha halted Oleander, glancing around the clearing. Except for the bush chats and the wind rustling the pines, everything was silent. There were no signs anyone had ever been here. Asha couldn’t even find the armor she’d shed the night before.
Fear sliced through her.
Please, no. . . .
Dismounting, she tied the mare up in the shade and grabbed the lute case.
“Skral?”
No one answered her.
She moved deeper into the pines, ready to call up an old story. It was the fastest way to know for sure. Before she could, the sound of voices broke through the hush of trees and Asha stilled, listening.
Careful not to make a sound, she followed the muffled voices, moving ever closer, silent as a snake.
A twig cracked behind her.
Asha froze.
Someone was following her. She could feel the warmth of them at her back. Asha reached for an axe that wasn’t there, then quickly spun, ready to batter her stalker with the lute case if necessary.
The skral stared down at her. Freckles like stars. Tendrils of hair falling into sharp eyes. Just behind him crouched the dusty-red dragon, its slitted gaze intent on her face. Asha lowered the case. Despite her racing heart, the sight of them safe made her breathe easier.
The slave glanced over her shoulder, in the direction of the voices. Asha reached for his shirt, bringing his attention back to her. Her lips formed a question: Who?
Jarek’s men.
The slave motioned with his head back the way they’d come. Asha followed him through the thinning trees and out into the bright clearing.
Suddenly voices echoed from ahead and behind.
And then, as if he’d done it a thousand times before, the slave reached for the dragon’s wing bone, stepped into the crook behind its knee, and mounted. Straddling the dragon’s back, he reached down for her.
Asha gaped at him in shock and horror.
Another twig snapped in the trees. It broke through her shock. Asha took his hand and he pulled her up behind him.
“Hold on,” he whispered.
But there was nothing to hold on to—other than him.
The slave made a sharp click in the back of his throat and the dragon stretched its wings. The slave clicked twice more, then dug in his heels.
The dragon launched.
Asha panicked and looped her arms around his torso.
A wall of trees rose directly ahead. The dragon soared straight for it. Asha’s heart thundered in her chest. Closing her eyes, she buried her face in the slave’s neck. But the crash never came.
The slave flinched beneath her viselike grip, reminding her of the lacerations beneath his shirt.
“Sorry,” she managed, yet couldn’t bring herself to loosen her hold.
“It’s . . . okay,” he said through gritted teeth.
Asha opened her eyes—which was another mistake. At the sight of the treetops whipping by, she slammed them shut again. In the darkness behind her eyelids, all she could think was: I’m riding a dragon.
Which made everything worse.
Branches cracked beneath them, and when Asha looked, she found the dragon flying too low. Its tail and wings kept catching on trees. So the slave issued a series of clicked commands, and the dragon banked out over the river.
Finally, with nothing but blue sky before them and water below, Asha let herself relax. She looked back over her shoulder and couldn’t even see the city wall in the distance.
Suddenly, the tree line broke, turning into rock. Asha looked ahead to find the river disappearing.
Or rather, falling.
A waterfall roared below them. And then, without any warning, the dragon dived.
Asha bit down on a terrified scream as they dropped with the water. She felt herself lift, felt her stomach tumble over itself. Her arms tightened hard around the slave and she pressed her cheek against his shoulder. His hands came around hers, lacing firmly through her fingers as they flew straight into engulfing mist.
And then into darkness.
The dragon rocked as it landed hard on solid ground, nearly throwing Asha from its back. The slave reached for her waist to steady her as the dragon shook itself, spraying water droplets everywhere. The only light came from behind them, where water rushed off the cliff.
Asha stayed perfectly still, willing herself not to be sick.
The slave dismounted. His footsteps echoed on rock, and a moment later, she heard a struck match, then the smell of a flame flaring to life. Soon a bright glow illuminated the glistening cavern.
“Sorry. I probably should have told you. We spent the day practicing.” He cupped the back of his neck with his hand. “I thought—”
“Practicing?” Asha trembled as she dismounted, her limbs shaking with shock. “Practicing? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
Links were formed in flight. They deepened each time a rider and his dragon flew. As Asha shouted, the dragon cowered behind the slave. It slipped its flat, scaly head beneath its rider’s hand, seeking comfort, and the slave rubbed his thumb across the crown of its head, as if to say I’ll protect you.
Asha threw up her hands and stalked closer to the mouth of the cave, where the waterfall rushed and water ran in rivulets down the rock, making the ground shiny and slick. But as she stared into the glistening, thunderous waterfall, a quiet question slipped through a crack in her wall of anger.
Why wait for me?
The dragon could have flown this slave to freedom, as he wished. Why risk the danger and wait for her in the woods?
Asha turned back to find both of the
m staring at her, like mirror images, even though the dragon sat at almost twice the height of the slave.
The sight made her soften—just a little.
“You could have left,” she said. “You could have flown far away from here.”
“We had a deal,” he said simply, then turned and headed deeper into the cave. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
“All right,” she said, “but first I need your help.”
At sunset they would put everything in motion. Asha told him the plan as she followed him down slick rock-hewn steps.
When her foot slipped on the stone in front of her, she pitched forward.
He caught her around the waist.
“Careful,” he said, mindful of the stitches in her side. He was warm and steady beneath her hands, and for the merest of heartbeats, neither of them stepped away.
An odd silence rose up. And then, quite suddenly, he ducked his chin and released her, continuing on down the steps, following the click-click-click of dragon talons below.
Asha broke the quiet. “How did you find this place?”
“Redwing found it.”
“Who’s Redwing?”
“Your dragon.”
“You named him?”
He shrugged in the darkness. “I had to call him something. He’s reddish. He has wings.”
She shook her head. The next time Elorma called her unimaginative, Asha would send the slave his way.
There was light, suddenly, breaking up the darkness. When the stairway ended, a round chamber lay before them, with a deep pool at its center. A natural skylight high above let in a solitary pillar of light and water that flowed gently down the walls.
Asha walked the perimeter of the pool, looking upward.
“What is this place?” Her words echoed up the walls.
“I thought you would know,” said the slave, his gaze fixed on the dragon.
It seemed like some kind of ancient, sacred space.
Whatever it had been, it was now a perfect place to hide.
“I think his wing is torn. . . .”
“What?” Asha spun, looking where he looked: at the dragon staring into the water, his head cocked, watching the fish swim in circles.
The Last Namsara Page 15