The dragon was a liar.
Its story was all wrong. The skral were ruthless. They’d pillaged and burned every city they came across. They left only ruin in their wake. If the dragon queen let them go, their horror would continue. Asha’s grandmother had been protecting her people and everyone else.
The dragon was twisting the truth. Just like Asha herself had changed the end of her story, this dragon had changed his.
Later that night, Asha woke to the smell of smoke. Ready to yell at the slave reckless enough to make a fire and give their location away, she bolted to her feet. But the words fell silent on her lips in the presence of the man sitting opposite her. A fire roared between them, but it was no campfire. And there was no sign of the skral or the dragon.
Elorma sat across from her instead. “You’ve done well with your second gift,” he said. “The Old One is pleased.”
Asha’s temper curled around her like smoke. “The Old One can eat sand.”
His mouth quirked up at the side. “Let’s see how you do with your next gift.”
“No,” she said. “Please, no more.”
“You’ll like this one. I promise.” He pushed his hood back and his gaze slid to the burn scar running down her face. “I think you’ll find it . . . useful.”
Asha knew better. She gritted her teeth. Her fists clenched. “No matter how many times the Old One gets in my way, I’m still going to kill his dragon. I swear it.”
Elorma sighed, then got to his feet.
“The Old One bestows his third gift,” he said wearily. “Fireskin. You’ll need it to fulfill this next command.”
Fireskin?
Her fists uncurled.
“You will take the sacred flame from the thief who stole it and return it to where it belongs.”
A jolt of panic shot up through her legs. Her father took the sacred flame from the caves—where it belonged.
“You want me to commit treason . . . against my own father?”
Elorma’s silence confirmed it.
Suddenly she couldn’t catch her breath. As if she’d been running.
She felt dizzy. So dizzy, she sank to the ground and put her head on her knees, trying to make the world go still. Trying to force it to make sense again.
She thought of her father in the sickroom, holding her hand through the long, pain-filled nights. Standing fast at her side while her people hissed and spat at her feet. Looking at her with pride whenever she returned from a hunt with a dragon’s head on a platter.
Asha couldn’t. She wouldn’t betray him.
Even if she dared to, there was no way to succeed. A thief couldn’t just march in and take the sacred flame. She would be seen and stopped immediately.
“I can’t do it,” she said. “It’s impossible.”
“You’ll find a way,” said Elorma.
When Asha woke, the larks were singing the sky awake and the sun was a haze of gold setting the tops of the trees aglow. Nearby, the red dragon wheezed as it slept.
It was as if the world knew nothing of the wicked task the Old One had set for her.
Asha didn’t want to play this game anymore. In three days, she’d be bound to Jarek. She needed to hunt down Kozu. It was the only way to halt the coming tide.
She needed a plan—a way to outwit the Old One.
Asha rubbed the lingering sleep from her eyes, then stopped when she realized her burned hand didn’t hurt. She lifted the bandaged hand in front of her face, then started to unwrap it.
When the linen fell away, she stared in shock.
Yesterday her hand was raw and scorched. Today there was the tough skin of a scar. It took up the whole of her palm and some of her fingers. Her burn had healed completely.
Asha sat up. What was it Elorma had said about the Old One’s third gift?
Fireskin, he’d called it.
But what does that mean?
She had the tiniest spark of a notion.
Asha reached for the matches next to the lamp and lit one. When it flared to life, she held her breath. Very slowly, she held the quivering flame under her palm and started to count.
One. Two. Three.
Four. Five. Six.
Seven. Eight. Nine . . .
Nothing. No pain.
A slow smile spread across her lips. If she were impervious to fire, how much easier would killing Kozu be?
A hand shot out, knocking the match from her fingers. It hit the earth and died.
“What is wrong with you?” The slave crouched beside her, breathless. On his shoulder perched a hawk as white as mist. It stared at Asha with silvery eyes.
The sight of it startled her. “Is that Roa’s hawk?”
He reached up to touch its white feathers, as if he’d forgotten it was there. “Her name’s Essie.” Shaking his head, he returned to the original subject. “Were you just trying to hurt yourself?” He frowned. As if Asha trying to hurt herself was something for him to be concerned about.
“Yes,” she said, looking up into his face. She reached for another match and lit it. Keeping her eyes locked on his stormy ones, she raised her hand above the flame and held it there. It tickled. It warmed. But it never burned.
“It’s my third gift.”
The frown in his brow deepened. “What?”
Asha shook out the match. “He wants me to use it to steal the sacred flame.”
“Who wants you to use it?” His eyebrows were two hard, dark lines. He seemed exceptionally agitated this morning. Asha looked to the hawk—Essie—wondering if its presence was the reason. “What are you talking about?”
Their voices woke the dragon, who sat up.
“The Old One gave me this,” she said, raising the scarred hand she’d tried to burn. “Just like he gave me that,” she said, nodding to the dragon—now prowling through the grass toward them. “Just like he gave me those.” She pointed to the slayers, sheathed on the ground beside her. “And every gift comes with a command.”
He reached for her hand. Surprised, Asha let him take it. He frowned as he studied it, his thumb brushing across the rough, discolored skin, sending warmth blooming through her.
“That’s not possible,” he said. From her perch on his shoulder, Essie peered down too. “I just bandaged this a few days ago. It was completely raw.”
Asha watched the smooth sweep of his thumb. Once again, she thought of her mother, of the way she’d reach out and tuck a strand of Asha’s hair behind her ear. Or grab Asha as she ran down the corridor and pull her into a hug. Asha always squirmed away—she’d had better things to do.
Now, though, she wondered what those things were.
He let go of her hand, snapping Asha out of her memories.
“What is the command?” His gaze slid to her hair.
She ran her fingers over her braid and found it coming undone. “I have to steal the sacred flame and return it to the caves.”
“And you’re going to?”
“I don’t know.” Maybe she could just steal it temporarily. Until she killed Kozu. After that, the flame wouldn’t matter anymore. Nothing connected to the old ways would.
The old stories were like the branches of an argan tree and Kozu the thirsty root: cut off the root and the branches withered and died. To silence the First Dragon’s heart was to silence the stories forever, and with them, the Old One’s link to his people.
The moment Kozu died, the old ways would crumble and turn to dust.
Asha shook out her dark hair, running her fingers through it.
When she looked up, she found the slave staring. He turned his face away so fast, Essie squawked at the sudden movement. She flapped her white wings and flew off his shoulder.
“You need me,” he said without looking at her.
“What?”
“You said yourself he follows you.” He looked to where the dragon pounced on the hawk, dust-red scales rippling. A blur of white flew out from under him, screeching in annoyance. “As soon as you go back, what’s to stop him from flying after you again into the city?”
Essie’s flapping wings sounded like the soft hush of Darmoor’s sea. The dragon stared into the sky, contemplating his lost prey, then slunk over to where Asha sat. He walked two circles around her and the slave, then sank to the ground, blocking the sunlight with his folded wings. Lying down, the dragon was roughly the height of a horse.
The slave was right: if she was going to complete this task, she’d need a way to keep the beast in place. She didn’t have time to teach it to stay. And she couldn’t risk it following her again.
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.