The Last Namsara

by Kristen Ciccarelli

  No matter how many times her gaze scanned the courtyard, there was no sign of him.

  Above the din of conversation, just beyond the walls, the trilling birdcalls announced the approach of the night. Asha leaned over the balustrade, letting the hard, cold marble bear her up as she stared out across the lantern-lit court, still searching for Torwin. But all she found amid the potted kumquats and hibiscus hedges were colorfully clad scrublanders and collarless skral all mingling peaceably with draksors. It was a vision of the future. Of what Firgaard was capable of becoming.

  Dax stood on the white-tiled terrace. At his side, Roa gleamed in a blue and gold kaftan that belted high at the waist and moved like water even when she stood still. A crimson flower sat tucked behind her ear. One with seven petals. She looked like a girl born to be queen, outshining even Dax, who stood at her side, matching her blue and gold. Their father’s medallion hung across his chest. Dax looked tired and a little sad, but the set of his shoulders and the rise of his chest said these feelings were inconsequential to the work that lay ahead.

  When he spotted Asha, his smile broke. A shimmering grief fell over him as their gazes met and held. He raised his fist to his heart in a solemn scrublander salute. Asha returned it.

  The courtyard fell silent, looking where their new king looked. A chill crept up Asha’s spine as the eyes of every scrublander, draksor, and skral fixed on her. In their sparkling kaftans and silk tunics, they gawked at Asha’s chains and dirt-streaked garments.

  She still didn’t belong here. Would never belong here.

  Asha was a blemish on her brother’s new reign.

  A soft shadow fell over her then. When she turned her back on the courtyard, she found her eldest guard standing before her. He had a perpetually wrinkled brow and a graying beard in need of a trim.

  “Time to leave, Iskari.”

  Asha nodded, letting him take her arm.

  As the other guards fanned out, ahead and behind, he led her down the stairwell and into the court below.

  Whispered voices rose up as the guards walked through the arcades, keeping their charge away from the staring revelers. Asha fixed her attention on the towering entrance, its archway bordered by yellow and red mosaic tiles.

  Halfway there, her guards halted, forcing Asha to halt too. In the space between the guards ahead, her gaze caught on slippered feet, then trailed up a shimmering blue and gold kaftan all the way to the dragon queen’s face.

  Roa stood directly in their path, blocking the way out of the courtyard.

  The guards bowed their heads.

  “Step away,” said Roa.

  The two guards standing between Asha and the queen exchanged glances. “My queen . . . she’s dangerous.”

  Roa arched one elegant brow. “Shall I repeat myself?”

  Both guards paused, not sure how much they could test their new queen. Finally, they shook their heads and stepped aside.

  “And you.” Roa nodded to the graying guard at Asha’s side.

  Obediently, he let go of Asha’s arm and moved away. A heartbeat later, Asha stood alone before Roa.

  With every pair of eyes watching her, the dragon queen bowed to the criminal before her.

  “Kozu circles the city, night after night, searching for you. Yearning for his Namsara.”

  Murmurs and gasps rippled across the courtyard. The hair on Asha’s arms rose.

  Her? The Namsara? The life bringer?

  Impossible.

  Asha had spent her life killing things. She was hated and feared. She was the Iskari. The very opposite of what Roa thought.

  “You’re mistaken,” said Asha, staring down at the bowing queen. “My brother—”

  “Your brother says you know the old stories better than any of us.” Roa rose from her bow. “Which means you know who the Old One sends to mark his Namsara.”

  Asha’s lips parted. The stories glittered in her mind. She sifted through them.

  The Old One sent Kozu to Nishran. Just like he sent Kozu to Elorma. Just like he sent Kozu to . . . Asha. All those years ago.

  She’d thought it was her wickedness that called to Kozu as a child. Just like her wickedness allowed her to tell the old stories without being poisoned by them.

  But the stories weren’t wicked. And neither was Asha.

  The proof was right there in the stories: Kozu was the mark of a Namsara. And Asha was Kozu’s rider. She had the link to prove it.

  Even if all of that were true, Asha had spent her life hunting dragons and trying to eradicate the old ways. She was no Namsara.

  Roa took a step closer, and the court hushed.

  “There are other marks, are there not?”

  Asha thought of Nishran. The Old One gave him the ability to see in the dark so he could find the enemy’s camp. Just like the Old One gave Elorma the gift of a hika—a girl who saved the city from an imposter king.

  Just like the Old One gave Asha gifts to accomplish the tasks he set before her: slayers, a dragon, the ability to be unburned by fire.

  She’d been trying so hard to suppress the stories, she’d been so consumed with her hunt for Kozu, she hadn’t put it together. All those years ago, when she’d gone into the innermost cave after her mother’s burning . . .

  “The Old One was choosing me?” she whispered, staring into Roa’s eyes.

  But what of Elorma? If she was the Namsara, Elorma would have told her.

  Except . . . wasn’t that what he’d been doing all along?

  I am the Namsara.

  She hardly dared to believe it.

  Roa’s eyes shone as she lifted the fire-like flower from behind her ear. Seven bloodred petals curled back on themselves as a yellow stamen dropped pollen, flecking the petals with orange. It was the same flower mosaicked into the sickroom’s floors. The same flower carved into a temple door.

  A flower so rare, it was almost a myth.

  Roa stepped forward. Tucking the stem behind Asha’s ear, she whispered, “The old stories say Namsara is a needle sewing the world together.”

  Asha was too startled to respond.

  “And our world is in dire need of sewing.”

  Then Roa was gone, putting space between them as she nodded to Asha’s guards. They resumed their positions, severing Asha from her queen. With the entire courtyard still looking on, Roa returned to her husband’s side. Dax looked the most shocked of anyone.

  Silence rang out in her wake. When the guards recovered, they reached for Asha’s arms and moved her through the scandalized court. They marched her through archways and down corridors, all the way back to her dungeon cell.

  And their footsteps seemed less certain this time.

  Forty-Nine

  Asha couldn’t sleep that night. She sat in the dark, on the cold, damp floor of her cell, with Roa’s words running over and over in her mind. But even if what Roa said was true, what did it matter? There was still the law to contend with: Asha had killed a king, and the punishment for that was death.

  She might be the Namsara, but she was about to become the dead Namsara.

  Dawn was coming. And with it, the long lonely walk to the square.

  How had Moria walked so bravely to her own beheading?

  Trembling, Asha hugged herself and closed her eyes. She thought of the Rift, hoping this would calm her. She thought of the chattering bush chats and the wind whistling in the pines. She thought of the stars, like words on a scroll rolled out across the sky, and the bright, fierce sun.

  She thought of the ones she loved best.

  Safire.

  Tears welled in her eyes.

  And Dax.

  Her vision blurred.

  And—

  The sound of footsteps echoed in the distance, crashing through her thoughts. Asha turned her face to listen. Someone was bringing her breakfast.

  The last meal she’d ever eat.

  It seemed like forever before the guard shuffled his keys, sliding one into the lock. Forever before it turne
d and clicked and the heavy iron door slid open, letting orange torchlight sweep into her cell.

  In the rectangle of light stood a kitchen servant, cloaked in a wool mantle. His face was hidden deep beneath its hood, concealing him from the Iskari’s deadly gaze. The lidded silver tray in his hands shone in the torchlight.

  The guard withdrew the key. “She’s all yours.”

  The moment the words were out of his mouth, the servant hit him hard across the face with the tray. The ringing sound ricocheted off the walls. The keys fell to the floor a mere heartbeat before the guard did.

  No food tumbled from the tray. Only a flutter of cloth.

  With his comrade down, the second guard drew his saber. He thrust it at the servant, who blocked with the silver lid, kicked him in the groin, then slammed the lid down on his head.

  The man dropped like a stone.

  With both guards lying unconscious on the floor, the kitchen servant bent to pick up the keys and stepped into the cell.

  From the floor, Asha slid back against the cold, damp wall, the shackles on her wrists and ankles clanking, her heart pounding like a drum.

  “Who are you?”

  In three strides, he closed the space between them and crouched down. Reaching for her wrist, he slid his thumb over the bump of her bone. His fingers were callused but gentle.

  Warmth flickered through Asha. She knew that touch. Peering up into the darkness of the hood, she knew the face behind it even if she couldn’t see it.

  He thumbed through the keys until he found the one that fitted her wrist shackles. It slid into the lock. With a swift click the heavy chains fell away, snaking to the floor. As he turned his attention to the chains around her ankles, Asha grabbed his wool mantle. With trembling fingers, she pushed back the hood.

  The torchlight illuminated his hair and lit up his skin, revealing a multitude of freckles and eyes soft with worry.

  “Torwin . . .”

  At the sound of his name, he looked up. When their gazes met, he let go of her chains—just for a moment—and pulled her to him, breathing her in and burying his face in her hair. Asha curled her arms around his shoulders, squeezing him hard, not wanting to let go.

  He went back to work trying several keys before finding the right one, desperate to get her unchained. The click came. The weight of her chains fell off for good. When the cold dungeon air brushed against her bare ankles, Asha let go of him.

  Torwin remained, crouching over her, staring into her eyes.

  “Asha . . .”

  In that one word, she heard so much more than just her name.

  She heard all the sleepless nights he’d spent pacing the ramparts, wondering what was happening to her. She heard all the shouted arguments he’d had with her brother, who was bound by an ancient law to sentence his own sister to death. She heard all the things that led him here, to the belly of the palace, with two unconscious guards at his back and the keys to her cell in his hand.

  “You’re mad,” she whispered.

  Smiling her favorite smile, Torwin slid both hands around her neck and kissed her.

  Asha, who’d become accustomed to the harsh chill of the dungeon, dug her fingers into his hair. She pulled him into her, craving his warmth.

  “Maybe I am,” he whispered back, breaking away. “Come on.”

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her to her feet, then bent to pick something up off the floor. It was the garment that had fallen from the dinner tray—a pine-green mantle. Stepping in close, he flung it around Asha’s shoulders, tying the tassels at her throat, then flipped up the hood to conceal her face.

  Together, they walked out into the torchlit bays of the dungeon. Through the long shadows stretching from wall to wall, Asha saw more unconscious guards. Some lying in the dirt, others half propped against the walls. One of them was already coming to, groaning softly.

  “You did this?”

  “I had help.”

  They moved quickly through the shadow and torchlight and took the stairs up into the palace. They ran through sleepy corridors and silhouetted gardens. Past soldats making their nightly rounds. By the time the soldats realized who they were, Asha and Torwin were already down the hall or across the court or through the garden.

  Frantic shouts and thudding boots rang out behind them. Asha thought they were making for the front gate, but when Torwin turned down hallways that led farther into the heart of the palace, she halted, thinking he didn’t know where he was going, and tried to drag him in the opposite direction.

  “No,” he said. “This way.”

  As three soldats careened into each other not twenty paces behind them, Asha decided to trust him.

  Just when they hit a dead end, Torwin tugged her through a plain wooden door. Shutting it behind them, Asha found herself in a narrow, dusty passageway that smelled of mildew.

  A secret passage.

  Asha had grown up with rumors of the palace’s secret passageways, but she’d never found any, and had always thought that’s all they were: rumors.

  “How did you find this?”

  “Dax showed me.”

  Asha marveled. What other secrets had her brother been keeping from her all these years?

  “Come on.”

  He pulled her onward, through the stone-flagged darkness to another, older, door. One with rusted hinges and weak, rotting wood. Torwin pressed his eye to the sliver of light carving a line through the dark, peering into the room beyond, checking to see if it were occupied.

  Asha leaned against the cold, damp wall. As her heart slowed and her breath came easier, reason came crashing down around her. They were surrounded; every soldat in the city was looking for them now; and once caught, she would lose him all over again.

  “Torwin, there’s nowhere to go.”

  Didn’t he realize that? They were deep in the palace, with every soldat alert and looking for them.

  Keeping his eye pressed to the slit, Torwin said nothing.

  “Even if we manage to elude them, even if there were someplace safe to escape to, my brother would be obligated to hunt me down. He can’t just let me go.”

  Torwin whirled on her then.

  “Listen to me.” He took her shoulders in his hands. “We’re in this together now. So we can give up and hand ourselves over, or we can run. But whatever we do, we’re doing it together.”

  Asha looked up into his shadowed face. Lifting her fingers, she traced his cheekbone and jaw.

  “Okay,” she said. “I guess we’re running.”

  He grabbed her wrist and kissed her palm, then turned back to the door.

  “Ready?” he asked, sliding the rusty pins out of the hinges, then dropping them to the floor.

  “Ready for what?”

  “The door’s locked. We have to break it open.”

  Asha froze. “What?”

  “On the count of three,” he said, coming to join her against the wall.

  “One . . .”

  “Torwin—”

  “Two . . .” He twined his fingers through hers.

  “I don’t think—”

  “Three!”

  They ran at the door, charging it with their shoulders. It broke open on the first try. The rusted hinges gave and the rotten wood cracked away from the lock. The door fell flat to the floor with Asha on top of it and Torwin on top of her.

  “By the skies, did you crawl here?”

  A familiar, silhouetted form leaned against the wall. Arms crossed. Knee bent.

  “I left you in that dungeon ages ago.”

  Torwin grinned up at Safire as he hopped to his feet, grabbed Asha’s hand, and hauled her up.

  “Come on.” The new commandant pushed away from the wall. “We need to hurry.”

  They were in one of the orchards. Safire led them through the silhouetted trees, their twisted branches reaching for the lightening sky.

  Dawn had arrived.

  “Roa convinced the scrublanders you’re the new Namsara,” Safi
re explained as they approached a door on the other side of the orchard. She slid the key into the lock. The lock clicked. The door creaked open. “They’ve offered you sanctuary. You’ll be safe there . . . for a little while, at least.”

  Torwin stepped into the stairway first. Asha went after him, followed by Safire, who locked the door behind them. Together, they climbed the steps to a dark room, where Torwin grabbed some kind of pack and hoisted it over his shoulder.

  When they walked out onto a rooftop terrace, a night-black dragon with one yellow eye prowled before them. Waiting. Waiting for a long time. Black talons gleamed in the dawn’s light.

  “Kozu.”

  A rumbled growl answered her.

  Torwin opened the pack and pulled out two flight coats, two pairs of gloves, and two sandskarves.

  Asha turned back to her cousin.

  “Torwin has everything you need,” Safire said, then pulled her into a hug, squeezing the breath out of her. Asha squeezed back, her vision blurring with tears.

  “I miss you already,” Asha whispered. Safire squeezed even harder.

  Sounds in the distance wrenched them apart. They turned to look over the city, where torches floated through the streets, gripped in the fists of soldats, already searching for the escaped Iskari.

  “I have to go,” Safire said. “Before they realize I’m helping you.”

  Asha turned to find Torwin already dressed for flying and holding out a coat for her. She threaded her arms through the sleeves, then quickly did up the clasps and wrapped the cotton sandskarf around her neck, pulling it over her head. Asha mounted Kozu first, with Torwin following.

  “Don’t do anything reckless, Namsara,” Safire said from the ground.

  Asha didn’t know whether to smile or cry.

  “Don’t you do anything reckless.”

  A shout rang out from much too close. Safire turned to look as Torwin slid an arm around Asha’s waist.

  “I have to go . . . ,” said Safire, catching sight of her soldats below.

  Not ready to let her go yet, Asha reached for Safire. Despite her fear, Safire reached back, clasping Asha’s hand hard.

  “I love you,” said Asha.