Ithsar turned and shone her lamp on a series of handholds and footholds in the rock, leading up a chimney into darkness. She went first, Roberto next, and Ezaara took the rear. Her hands bit into the dusty rock handholds. The footholds were gritty with stone particles, her feet sending pebbles and sand cascading onto the couple below.
They climbed in silence, making their way up to the surface of the oasis.
When Ithsar’s new strong fingers brushed the tangled roots of a date palm over a handhold, she whispered, “We’re here.” She put out the lantern hanging on her belt and reached above her to part the rustling foliage of the desert brush.
The cool kiss of night air rushed in to meet her. Ithsar 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 the lake. Beyond, a strange new hillock was silhouetted among a fringe of trees—the enormous blue dracha that had brought these strangers here. The sky was dark, but it wasn’t long until dawn. She had to get them out of here.
The Naobian scrambled up and reached down to grasp Ezaara’s hand. As he pulled her up into the open, she stumbled on the edge of the chimney. He grabbed her and she landed with her cheek against his chest.
The Naobian leaned in to kiss Ezaara.
“No,” Ithsar whispered, but it was too late. The Naobian’s lips touched Ezaara’s hair, lighting up the sathir connection between them like a million stars. Any assassin tuned into sathir would know where they were. So much for stealth.
On the other side of the lake, a sand-shifting roar split the air. A belch of dracha flame lit up the palm grove, and the mighty blue-scaled beast took to the sky.
He was coming. Both dracha ryter would be saved.
“Traitor.” Izoldia stepped from behind a date palm, saber out.
By the dracha gods, Izoldia had seen through her ruse. She had to think fast.
Ithsar snatched her own saber and pointed it at the Naobian. “Now, you’re coming with us!” she cried.
The Naobian spun, flinging Ezaara aside. He was fast. When had he unsheathed his sword?
“You,” he spat at Ithsar, lunging at her. “You’ve outlived your usefulness.”
He was absolving her of blame. Ithsar parried with her saber, letting it fly out of her hand as he struck, as if her fingers couldn’t hold it. Izoldia wouldn’t know any different.
The Naobian held his sword to Ithsar’s throat. “Drop your weapon,” he said to Izoldia. “Or the girl dies.”
Izoldia threw her head back and laughed. “She’s worthless. Kill her. It’ll save me the trouble.”
The slow burning anger that Ithsar had harbored all these years blossomed like a bruise, staining the sathir purple-black. The stain spread across Ithsar’s vision, blotting out the stars, blotting out the date trees, blotting out Izoldia.
Ithsar had never deserved such scorn. Despite her deformed fingers, she had tried her best. Izoldia had seen to it that everyone despised her, including her own mother.
A breeze stirred at her feet, whirling the sand into a flurry. It rose, faster and higher around her, whipping her clothes in the wind. It shook the date palms, rustling their fronds and swaying their trunks. Thrusting out her anger, Ithsar’s whirlwind made the date palm over Izoldia tremble.
A huge bunch of dates fell, hitting Izoldia’s head, knocking her to the ground.
Instantly, the purple stain was gone.
The Naobian released Ithsar and spun, checking for more assassins. Ithsar could sense them across the lake, running toward them.
Ezaara rushed over to Izoldia. “She’s unconscious.” She hesitated for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” whispered Ithsar. “I’ve never done that before.”
“A good job you did,” the Naobian said, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder.
Ezaara opened her pouch and took out a tiny sack of powder. “Ithsar, quick,” she hissed, “fetch a little water.”
Ithsar snatched the empty waterskin at her belt and collected water from the lake.
Ezaara threw a pinch of powder into the skin, and they held up Izoldia’s head, letting the water trickle down her throat. Izoldia swallowed reflexively.
“This is woozy weed,” Ezaara said. “It will make her sleep and leave her confused about what happened over the last few hours. She probably won’t remember any of this.”
Ithsar had been prepared to die to free these strangers. She let relief wash through her, not trying to control it. If anyone had seen the dark bruise in sathir, they’d believe the dracha ryter had caused it. She fished the ropes she’d cut off the Naobian’s limbs from her pockets and thrust them deep into Izoldia’s tunic. “Hopefully, they’ll think she’s the traitor who led you here.”
Cries carried on the crisp pre-dawn air as the assassins raced between the palms, getting closer every moment.
The dracha bellowed and landed with a flurry of wings.
“Fast,” said the Naobian, “go back to your quarters through the tunnel.” He snatched the dates that had hit Izoldia and flung them into a saddlebag, then helped Ezaara on Erob’s back.
Ithsar flung herself down the chimney, and he pulled foliage back over the entrance. Only when she reached the bottom and turned on her lamp did she realize she’d forgotten to farewell the dracha ryter and tell them about her vision.
Treacherous Secrets
The roar of the mighty blue-scaled dracha shook the ground above Ithsar’s head, sending sand into her hair. She clambered down the rough-hewn hand and footholds and scurried along the tunnel, more sand dusting her head and shoulders. Blinking grit out of her eyes, she hurried on. Yells from outside drifted through the foliage and down the dark passage. Another roar came, more distant now. Ithsar was glad—hopefully it meant the dracha was escaping, whisking Ezaara and her Naobian lover, Roberto, away from the oasis.
She scrambled over a pile of scree and shale from a fall in, her stomach coiled as tight as a rust viper in the hot desert sand—hoping like the blazing sun that the Naobian had pulled the foliage over the tunnel entrance well enough to fool her fellow assassins. Most people had long forgotten the secret tunnel. She prayed the dracha gods would be kind and help it stay that way.
If she got caught aiding the dracha ryter—the northern dragon riders her mother had captured—to escape, her life would be in danger.
Although fear prickled along her scalp, Ithsar tried her best to remain calm so no one would detect a ripple in her sathir—the life energy binding every living thing—as she made her way along the secret passage under the lake. The lantern at her waist flickered, casting looming shadows on the walls, shadows with long fingers that leaped out grasping as she ran.
When she reached the entrance to the tunnel, Ithsar was panting. She paused to catch her breath and cocked her head. The tunnels riddling the silent assassins’ underground lair were quiet. Her only chance was to sneak back to bed and pretend she’d missed everything—but Izoldia was a major thorn in that plan. Izoldia had been on duty watching the Naobian who’d still been tied to his bed in the healing quarters when Ithsar had relieved her. Ezaara had said that after having woozy weed Izoldia may not remember everything, but which of her memories would be hazy? Those in the healing room, or only the recent fight by the lake?
For long moments, Ithsar waited in the shadows. If she went to the healing quarters and pretended she’d been asleep, she’d probably encounter people who’d wonder why she hadn’t rushed to help capture the strangers when the alarm had been raised. But if she went to her sleeping alcove and pretended she’d missed everything and then Izoldia later remembered her sitting with the Naobian, she could be accused of treason and executed. Had anyone checked her alcove to see whether she’d still been sleeping? By the dracha gods, she should have thought everything through before she released the prisoners, but she’d been so desperate to set them free she hadn’t spared a thought for her own life.
It didn’t matter.
Ezaara, she of golden beauty, the new Queen’s Rider who’d healed Ithsar’s damaged fingers, was now her friend. Roberto, Ezaara’s beloved Naobian man with olive-black eyes that gleamed with love as he beheld the Queen’s Rider, was her friend too. Since Ithsar’s father had died when she was a littling, she’d yearned for human friendship. With only her lizard Thika to keep her company, she’d been lonely. But now, she had two new friends. A smile traced her lips and she flexed her newly-healed fingers in wonder. Now, she could hold her head high and fight with the other assassins. She need no longer be afraid of not being worthy. No longer be afraid of being the deformed one, the only assassin unable to fight.
Light footsteps and the faint rustle of clothing sounded along the northern tunnel. That ruled out going back to the healing cavern, then.
Ithsar’s newly-healed fingers doused the light on her lantern. She plunged into the darkness, fleeing along the southern tunnel, trailing her fingertips along the wall to sense her way to her sleeping alcove. Fingertips that could feel, sense, and move again with newfound freedom.
§
Ithsar woke to something burrowing into her armpit. Thika popped his orange scaly head onto her chest and looked up at her with his yellow eyes. His tongue flicked out and tickled Ithsar’s chin. She smiled and rubbed his eye ridges. The lizard’s eyes hooded and his body thrummed with pleasure as he leaned into Ithsar’s touch. Without the old pain shooting up her fingers, things like stroking Thika were more pleasurable—Ezaara had not only healed her, she’d given her the power to enjoy such simple things.
Ithsar sat up and cradled him in her lap. Running her fingers over the dark bands on Thika’s orange back, she whispered, “I’m so glad Ezaara healed you too.” Someone had recently poisoned Thika. Ezaara had managed to detect which poison it was by sensing the sathir of various poisons and remedies to see how they affected the lizard.
Ithsar swallowed. Everyone knew her father had given her Thika before her mother, Ashewar, the chief prophetess, had executed him when Ithsar was only four. Ithsar blinked, seeing her father’s pleading dark eyes as he’d begged her to take care of herself and be strong, before they’d killed him.
The best way to hurt her was to strike at Thika. After enduring Izoldia’s taunting and physical torment for years, she knew Izoldia was most likely the poisoner.
Distant footsteps scraped the dry dirt in the tunnel outside her tiny alcove. Ithsar’s keen ears caught the whisper of fabric. She popped Thika on the bed and pulled on her orange robe. She tapped her belly. Thika clambered over her legs, along the voluminous fabric, and crawled inside the front of her robe. He flattened his body, settling himself above her waistband as she pulled the stays shut.
The curtains across the narrow opening of her alcove slid open, their iron rings rasping against the brass bar. Thut, one of Ashewar’s most trusted guards, thrust her head inside. Thut’s eyes slid over Ithsar and, curling her lip, she crooked her finger, motioning Ithsar to follow.
Ithsar nodded demurely and kept her eyes downcast as she rose and left her tiny alcove.
More guards were waiting, one on either side of her nook, flat against the wall. Without a word, they each grasped one of her arms and dragged Ithsar along the corridor toward the chief prophetess’ grand hall.
§
“Where were you last night?” Ashewar hissed, her dark fiery eyes burning through Ithsar like the desert sun. The chief prophetess was seated on her grotesque, ornately-carved throne depicting hundreds of female assassins murdering men.
Ashewar’s personal guards—a semicircle of stony-faced female assassins standing behind her throne—didn’t even look at Ithsar.
Ashewar thrust her chin forward, the diamond studs in her beaked nose glinting and the beads in her hundreds of tiny braids clacking. “I said, where were you?” Her whisper echoed off the walls. Torches guttered, as if Ashewar’s voice controlled the brightness of their flame.
No one’s gaze shriveled Ithsar’s heart the way her mother’s did.
Ithsar flexed her fingers, keeping them hidden in her long sleeves. Her mother didn’t yet know that they were healed, and now was not the right time to reveal that surprise. “Asleep,” she murmured, meeting her mother’s gaze for a fleeting heartbeat before she lowered her eyes and stared at her dusty feet. Grains of sand clung to her toenails. She marked the passing time with her thundering heartbeats, surprised the rhythm wasn’t reverberating off the walls of the grand cavern.
“Asleep? The alarm sounded, yet you slept?”
The alarm—hundreds of feet slapping against the floors as the silent assassins had sought Ezaara and then Roberto in the maze of tunnels between the caverns. The assassin’s vows of silence meant they were attuned to hear the faintest noises in the tunnels. Attuned to feel the subtle shifts in sathir. Their muted footfalls should have been enough to wake the deepest sleeper.
The guards would be sensing her sathir now. Ithsar had to maintain a sense of calm and keep herself as cool as the lake waters above them—or someone would sense a ripple in the colored fabric that joined them together. “Yes, most revered Chief Prophetess.” She breathed slowly through her nose and kept her head lowered so her mother wouldn’t see the pulse racing at her throat. Her waistband was damp with sweat where Thika pressed his body against her skin.
Ashewar despised Ithsar and Thika. She always had, but Izoldia’s snipes and jeers had fueled her mother’s hatred into something wild and pulsing that bashed at Ithsar’s skull.
The door thunked open. A heavy tread on the stone marked Izoldia’s arrival. Two female assassins, both much shorter than Izoldia, guided the burly guard into the cavern. She was sporting a black eye and an egg on her forehead the size of a small sand dune. Izoldia sank to her knees and bowed low enough to scrape her ugly nose on the floor.
One push, and Izoldia would fall flat on her face.
“My honored Chief Prophetess,” Izoldia’s harsh whisper cut through the cavern. She’d never been good at keeping their vows of silence, but it didn’t matter because she could fight. Ashewar overlooked Izoldia’s shortcomings because of her size, sycophantic attitude and sadistic streak.
Hands still hidden in her sleeves, Ithsar subtly dug her fingernails into her palms—the only movement she dared make to calm herself. A new movement—her fingers had refused to bend properly until Ezaara had healed them. Thika’s tail shifted slightly, his scales slithering across her hip.
Ashewar’s voice hissed again. “What were you doing last night, Izoldia?” She snapped her fingers.
A guard stepped forward and dropped to one knee in front of Ashewar, holding out two pieces of hacked-off rope.
Rope that Ithsar had cut to free the Naobian with the olive-black eyes, then stuffed into Izoldia’s pockets. Would Izoldia remember what she’d done? Or had the woozy weed numbed her memory, as Ezaara had promised? Ithsar let her gaze slide around the room, examining each guard’s face for a reaction, for a sign that they’d seen her shake the very palm trees with the power of sathir.
Roshni, a slight guard with piercing blue eyes and ebony skin, from the deep South, was watching her every move. Despite her knees wanting to melt like camel butter in the midday sun, Ithsar met Roshni’s gaze squarely, pretending she had nothing to fear.
“What are these?” Ashewar addressed Izoldia, flicking a finger at the ropes as if they were bugs on her robes.
Izoldia’s eyebrows rose, and she shrugged. “I don’t know. Um, ropes?”
“What were the prisoner’s bonds doing in your pocket?” the chief prophetess’ dark eyes flashed with venom.
Izoldia stayed on her knees, arms prostrated on the floor before their leader. Her voice shook like palm fronds in a sandstorm—something Ithsar never thought she’d hear. “I—I do not remember.” Her face rippled with fear.
Ashewar’s dark eyes narrowed, glittering like burning coals. “If you do not remember, why are you afraid?”
Cunning stole over Izoldia’s features. “An assas
sin likes to keep her wits about her, my revered and highly intelligent Chief Prophetess. I don’t know what happened and woke with a bump on my head and found out that the scrawny dracha and its two ryter had escaped while under my watch. It was enough to cause fear in anyone.” Izoldia remained prostrated on the floor, her arms practically touching Ashewar’s feet. Ashewar flicked a beaded slipper toward Izoldia’s hand.
Those slippers, traditional yokka, didn’t fool Ithsar. Underneath the hundreds of tiny orange beads glinting in the torchlight, there were blades hidden in the soles that would spring out if Ashewar pressed her big toe down. Izoldia’s wrist was within a finger’s breadth of those blades.
“The prisoner was under your care, my loyal guard,” Ashewar crooned, caressing the inside of Izoldia’s wrist—along a pulsing vein—with the toe of her yokka. No doubt, considering setting the blade free. “How did the Naobian escape if you were watching him?”
Izoldia leaped to her feet. Her head hanging, she whispered, “I do not know. I don’t remember anything.”
Ashewar’s head spun to glare at Ithsar. “And you? Why weren’t you fighting last night?”
“I slept deeply.”
Ashewar’s eyes narrowed, flitting between them both. The chief prophetess’ smile turned into a feral grin. “Izoldia, the prisoner escaped on your watch. Although you are my most fearless and courageous personal guard, I have no choice. You will be whipped twelve times and tied to a palm tree in the hot desert sun until mid-afternoon.” Leaning against the hideous carvings on her throne, Ashewar waved a languid hand. “If she cries out, rub salt into her wounds.”
Ashewar’s whisper died, the slap of bare feet the only sound as the guards grasped the stunned Izoldia and marched her from the room.
After the years of torture, burns, and bullying at Izoldia’s hands, Ithsar knew she should feel jubilation at Izoldia’s punishment. But, twelve lashes in the hot sun? It was her fault that Izoldia’s flesh would turn into a bloody pulp. Ithsar tried not to cringe. She wouldn’t wish that upon anyone.
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