Riders of Fire Complete Series Box Set books 1-6: YA Epic Fantasy Dragon Rider Adventures

by Eileen Mueller

  “Sleep now, while I change your bandages.” That widening of the eyes again, with a casual glance at the other workers behind her. She subtly wriggled her fingers. Some of them were no longer scarred and twisted.

  Roberto shut his eyes, feigning sleep. She peeled back his bandage, a twinge rippling across the dull ache of his wound. Something dribbled on his injury, burning. He nearly cried out, until he remembered the burn of Ezaara’s piaua. Was it possible this girl had piaua too? Where from?

  And then he heard Ezaara. Felt her.

  “Roberto!” Vibrant colors flashed through him—with a potent wave of love.

  “Ezaara!” He fought to keep an insane smile from his face. Ezaara was here. Ezaara believed him. Ezaara loved him. Every corner of his body was filled with light. He was a feather floating on the breeze, a bubble rising to the top of the sea.

  The juice burned along his stomach. He opened his eyes. The girl re-bandaged his wound and shielded him from view as she leaned over, pretending to give him the cup, but slipping a drop of piaua onto his tongue. “For your insides,” she barely whispered. “Ezaara is here.”

  “I know,” whispered Roberto, smiling. He closed his eyelids, pretending to sleep.

  §

  It was him—Roberto! Her whole body was singing with joy. A rush went through her, like she was imprinting all over again. He was here. Alive. Ezaara counted her heartbeats, concentrating on sathir, but it was hard to focus, especially when Ithsar made her way across the training room holding a dish of sliced oranges. She was clever, curling her fingers so they looked unhealed.

  “Quick, my mother is coming,” Ithsar whispered.

  Ezaara took the dish—and the vial of piaua hidden beneath the orange wedges. She pocketed the vial immediately, then sat down to eat her oranges while Ithsar watched, her face inscrutable.

  Within moments, Ashewar, the chief prophetess of the silent assassins, appeared. So Ashewar was Ithsar’s mother. Ugh.

  The assassins turned to face their leader, right hands on sword hilts, left fists over their hearts. Ashewar strode through the room on noiseless feet. As one, they followed her, their bodies like the hands of a giant clock, always facing their master.

  The chief prophetess stopped in front of Ezaara’s cell. “Stand,” she hissed.

  Ezaara passed the dish of empty orange peels back to Ithsar and stood.

  “You were asking about a man when you arrived,” Ashewar said. “We have interrogated a Naobian man, found in the desert with his gut slit. He says you injured him in an attempt on his life.” She shook her head. “To forfeit a life in the desert, without our sanction, is a grave crime, so you will be executed tomorrow at dawn.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  “Silence.” Izoldia stabbed through the bars with her sword.

  Ezaara leaped back.

  Ashewar waved a hand at the assassins in the training area. “Choose who will kill you.”

  Ezaara’s mind spun. She scanned the rows of stony-faced warriors. She pointed at Ithsar. “I choose her.”

  Ithsar’s expression froze, her eyes piercing Ezaara.

  Rage flashed across Ashewar’s face. Her voice turned to ice. “Very well, Ezaara formerly of Dragons’ Hold, soon queen of a shallow grave in the Robandi desert. May the buzzards pick your bones dry before they’re bleached by our sun.”

  Ashewar gestured to Ithsar, and she joined the ranks of the trainees, keeping her fists in her sleeves to hide her healed fingers. She had no weapon.

  Suddenly, Ezaara understood. She’d chosen the one assassin who couldn’t properly wield a sword, disgracing both mother and daughter.

  Izoldia bowed to the prophetess.

  “Speak, Izoldia,” commanded Ashewar.

  Izoldia gave a nasty grin. “My Most Revered Prophetess, Ithsar may finally have her first kill.” She barked out a harsh laugh.

  The prophetess gave a curt wave, cutting her off mid-laugh. “This is Ithsar’s last chance. If she is not successful in killing Ezaara, you will execute both of them.”

  §

  In the deepest night, the faint slap of feet woke Ezaara. Someone was coming. She felt for her sword but, of course, had none. She got up and crept to the side of her prison, gripping the dipper.

  A light flared. Ithsar was there, a tiny lamp in her hands. She unlocked the dungeon door and gave Ezaara a bundle of orange clothing. Hurriedly, Ezaara pulled the garments on over her own. Ithsar fastened an orange headdress over Ezaara’s head, and darkened her face with earth. She passed Ezaara her sword and daggers. Then, tugging her hand, she led her into the training cavern.

  “Where to?” Ezaara’s whisper sounded unnaturally loud, reverberating in the chamber. No! She’d forgotten the echo effect in the middle of the cavern.

  Ithsar’s eyes flew wide. She doused the lamp, but it was too late. People were running along the tunnels toward them.

  Grabbing Ezaara’s hand, Ithsar dashed with her into the darkness. Heartbeats. Ezaara tried to focus on her heartbeat to stay calm and stop her breath rasping. But her traitorous heart boomed like banishment drums.

  Assassins pounded the stone behind them.

  Racing along the network of tunnels, Ezaara was soon disoriented.

  Ithsar pulled her to the floor, whispering, “Lie down. Squeeze under this bridge. Don’t move until I return.”

  Ezaara obeyed. She wriggled under some planks—a hand’s breadth from her nose. Below, was the burble of distant water. Ithsar pushed her in further, then raced off to draw their pursuers away.

  Moments later, footsteps thundered over the wood, so close their breeze brushed her face. Ezaara froze, counting her heartbeats until they passed.

  Hundreds of beats after their steps had faded, Roberto melded with her. “Ezaara, what’s happening?”

  “I’m trying to escape.”

  “Me too, but—”

  Ezaara tried to meld with him again, but couldn’t. Time crawled as she lay, squeezed in that confined space. Her fingertips grazed slatted wood above her. To her side, her other fingers met air. One wrong move and she’d tumble into the water far below. Swallowing, Ezaara kept counting.

  §

  Ithsar was used to hiding in the tunnels. Used to avoiding the unwanted gaze of her fellow assassins. Used to crawling into tiny spaces to escape their taunting. But she wasn’t used to the new strength in her fingers, the strange energy that had surged along her half-dead nerves as Ezaara, she of the golden hair and green eyes, had healed her. Ithsar had never experienced such kindness from anyone. And although the dracha ryter from a far-off land had given her a vial of healing juice, Ithsar honored Ezaara, so she hadn’t dared use any on herself.

  So, Ithsar ran for her life and for Ezaara’s. Having hands that didn’t work well had helped her hone the rest of her body. Whenever she was off-duty, she practiced the sathir dance for hours on end, her limbs nearly brushing the walls of her tiny cavern. Her legs were strong, feet agile and her endurance was akin to the legendary Sathiri, who had established the ancient dance. Not that any of her fellow warriors realized. She’d hidden her prowess, deliberately acting clumsier than she was. Deliberately fooling everyone—especially her mother, Ashewar.

  On through the dark, Ithsar ran, through winding tunnels to a hidey-hole they’d never suspect. When pursuers passed her, she doubled back until she reached an alcove near where the Naobian lay healing. Healed. She’d healed him. He of the dark eyes shining like ripe olives under the sun. No wonder Ezaara loved this man—it was evident in her sathir when she’d asked after him. And he had cried, calling Ezaara’s name in his fever with such love, babbling about her color. The color, Ithsar had understood. Ezaara’s presence radiated all the colors in her mother’s prism seer. Another talent Ashewar was unaware of—Ithsar could see without a prism. And she’d seen a vision of these two dracha ryter.

  The Naobian had also ranted about banishment, murder and poison. It appeared he’d saved Ezaara, the healer. For that, Ithsar owed
him.

  Ashewar planned to kill him.

  But no, Ashewar would not kill this man, loved by her healer. Ithsar would see to that. He would go free to love Ezaara. Perhaps one day, she, Ithsar, would have a man like this, who called her name with a voice that ached with tenderness.

  Her breathing now quiet, Ithsar stepped out of the alcove. The Naobian had only one person guarding him at night—but tonight it was Izoldia. Ithsar’s birth defects meant she was smaller than other girls her age. Izoldia, the largest, had led the bullying, and was always the last to finish beating her—the most savage, the cruelest. Bruises, black eyes, and, later, cuts and burns had been Izoldia’s mark—until one day, Ithsar had wrestled the brand off her and burned Izoldia, keeping her brutality at bay.

  Ashewar, noticing Ithsar’s hurts, had said nothing. Disciplined no one. If Ithsar had been the daughter of another assassin, Ashewar would’ve been ruthless in punishing Izoldia. But she wasn’t. She was Ithsar, Ashewar’s only daughter—the chief prophetess’ malformed disappointment.

  Perhaps Ithsar owed Izoldia, for driving her to artistry in sathir, for making her stronger than she otherwise would have been, but Izoldia had also twisted what the Naobian had said, conjuring up stories so Ezaara—she of golden beauty the girls called her in hushed whispers over their evening meal—would die.

  Not while Ithsar breathed.

  Opening the healing room door, Ithsar kept the anger from her face, instead, offering congeniality and supplication.

  “What do you want?” Izoldia snapped.

  “Did you hear the disturbance?” Ithsar asked, eyes downcast.

  “You think I’d miss that lot, thundering around like a herd of Robandi camels?”

  “I came to fetch you because you’re much stronger. You’d be better at fighting an intruder than me.”

  Izoldia sneered at Ithsar, her chest swelling with pride, but then her eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  Although she hated groveling, Ithsar had to be quick. She held out her twisted fingers, hiding the healed ones in her palms. “My hands … I’m useless, afraid …” She let her lip wobble.

  “You miserable wretch, Ithsar. I should make you go and face the danger.” Izoldia’s bark was harsh, loud. She’d never been good at silence—gloating didn’t sound right in a whisper. Izoldia got up, hand on her saber. “Watch that man.”

  The moment Izoldia shut the door, the Naobian’s eyes flicked open.

  “I am Ithsar,” she murmured. “Ezaara’s friend. I’ll take you to her so you can escape.”

  “My hands and legs are fastened.” His whisper was papyrus-thin. He was obviously used to stealth—good, that would serve them well tonight.

  The ropes on his hands and feet were quick work for her saber. Ithsar thrust the cut ropes into her pocket and pulled some clothing and a headdress from a drawer. He threw them on. On close inspection, he wouldn’t pass for a woman, but it was better than the dracha ryter clothes he wore underneath. She passed him his sword and dagger. They slipped out the door, sliding through the shadows along the walls and nipping into side tunnels or alcoves whenever someone neared.

  Finally, they made it back to Ezaara, hiding under the bridge.

  When she’d crawled out and they’d retreated to a nearby side tunnel, Ezaara whispered, “Ithsar, quick, give me your unhealed fingers.”

  In the darkness, something dripped onto Ithsar’s fingers, then Ezaara rubbed the oil into her skin. The slow healing burn built until her bones were on fire and moved and straightened. An ache pierced her chest and her eyes stung.

  She was whole.

  Ithsar clutched Ezaara’s hand for a moment longer, placing it on her wet cheek. “My life is yours.”

  The Naobian’s hand rested atop theirs, enclosing them both. “Thank you, Ithsar,” he whispered. “Thank you for risking your life to save ours.”

  They stood in the darkness, her and these two strangers, their breath flowing and ebbing together in the inky black. And then the vision descended upon Ithsar again—these strangers on mighty dracha, with her beside them on another. Sathir built around them, tangible, like a warm caress full of color and life, a force connecting the three of them. She belonged to these people. This was her destiny.

  From Ezaara’s soft gasp and the grunt the Naobian gave, they’d sensed it too.

  Footsteps slid over rock nearby. They froze, waiting until they retreated, then Ithsar led them into a tunnel far away from the main thoroughfares. Winding under the heart of the lake, deeper and deeper into the earth, she took them toward a hidden exit on the far side of the oasis.

  §

  Roberto rubbed Ezaara’s hand with the back of his thumb. Her palm was warm and soft in his as they followed the tiny silent assassin through the winding tunnel, guided by the light of her lantern. They stooped to avoid sharp rocks protruding from the ceiling and slithered over piles of rubble nearly as high as the tunnel itself. Thank the Egg, he could move again. Brilliant colors swirled at the edge of his mind—Ezaara was trying to communicate with him. How was he going to tell her? The assassins’ sleeping draught had set all his old nightmares writhing and churning inside him. Perhaps it was better to get it over with. Letting his barriers melt away, he melded, “Ezaara.”

  “What’s wrong, Roberto? Why won’t you talk with me?”

  She’d picked up on his emotions in spite of his effort to shield them. How could he ever protect her from himself, from the monster inside? He squeezed her hand. She was as bright as a thousand stars, her multi-colored light streaming through him. He reached for his resolve. “Ezaara, I won’t be coming back to Dragons’ Hold with you.”

  Her steps faltered. “Why not?”

  Because his past had caught up with him. Because he’d lived a life before he’d become a dragon master. Because he feared Tonio was right: sooner or later, he could turn traitor. It was not only in his blood, it was in his past. Before Erob.

  He tugged Ezaara forward, keeping pace with the assassin.

  “I thought you loved me.”

  Pain speared through him. Exquisite pain. Shards, Zens’ words were still shaping him. Would he ever purge the evil from his soul?

  Escape

  There was a ripple in the fabric of the sathir, a rip in the cloak that surrounded them. “What is it? What ails you?” Ithsar turned to the dracha ryter, holding up her lantern.

  They were no longer holding hands. The Naobian’s face was stoic.

  Ezaara’s … Ezaara’s look haunted Ithsar. Hollow-eyed, bereft of hope.

  “With such disunity, Ashewar will feel the disharmony and find us immediately. If you are to be reunited with your dracha, you must put this pain aside.”

  §

  Dragons’ Hold without Roberto? Every fiber inside Ezaara screamed. And she wasn’t Queen’s Rider anymore. Her life was meaningless. Worse than before she’d left Lush Valley. Then, she’d been ignorant of mind-melding, of the depth of love, the wonder of dragon flight, the potential of life.

  She reached deep inside herself, stretching her mind out to Roberto, and showed him how to find sathir. He joined her and they found that place of peace, sensing the cord that bound them to nature, and to each other. And Ezaara found hope.

  §

  Ithsar’s lamp shone on a series of hand and foot holds in the rock, leading up a chimney into darkness. Ithsar went first, Roberto next and Ezaara took the rear. Melding with Erob, Roberto was surprised Ezaara was also talking to him.

  “Erob, we’re climbing out a tunnel on the other side of the lake, apparently near a cluster of date trees,” she informed him.

  “Date palms? With hundreds of palms around, that should be an easy landmark to spot in the middle of the night.”

  Erob’s wry response made Roberto’s heart lurch. Could he take Erob away from Dragons’ Hold? Would Erob leave his mother and kin? Or would he lose Erob, too? What about Adelina?

  “Stop disturbing the sathir with such morose thoughts,” Ezaara melded. “We�
�ll sort out what we’re doing once we’re out of here.”

  She was right. He’d tell her everything when they got to Naobia. If they got to Naobia—there were still dozens of silent assassins to get past. His hands bit into dusty rock handholds. The footholds were gritty with stone particles, often making his boots slip.

  Ezaara spat. “Tastes great, thanks.”

  He’d flicked dirt on her. “Sorry.”

  “I’d rather be underfoot than without you.” Her response was glib, making him smile, despite his heaviness.

  “Erob, we’re nearing the top. Where are the assassins?” Roberto asked.

  “Amusing themselves by thinking they’re guarding me.” Erob sent Roberto an image of him toasting an assassin on a talon. “Only joking. They have me surrounded with their sabers.”

  “Careful. I don’t want you wounded. We have a long flight ahead of us.”

  “Yes,” Ezaara chimed in. “It’s four or five days to Dragons’ Hold from here.”

  Roberto said nothing. Let her think she’d won. It would keep her happy for now.

  Above him, Ithsar whispered, “We’re here.” She put out the lantern hanging on her belt.

  There was a faint rustle. Foliage above them parted and the cool kiss of night air rushed in to meet them. Roberto climbed out to a sky scattered with stars, and date palms whispering in the breeze like hundreds of silent assassins. Moonlight cast a shaft of brightness across a lake. Beyond, a hillock was silhouetted among a fringe of trees. The sky was dark, but it wasn’t long until dawn. They had to get out of here.

  “Are you that lump in the trees?”

  “A lump?” Erob snorted. The hillock on the other side of the lake moved. “See that?”

  “Yes. We’re straight across from you.” Roberto grasped Ezaara’s hand and pulled her out into the open. She stumbled on the edge of the chimney and he grabbed her to stop her falling backward. She landed with her cheek against his chest, and their eyes met. Dragon fire raced in his veins. His heart thrummed.