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 them 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.
She needed this dragon to aid her in her plan. He couldn’t help if he had a torn wing. Slowly, Asha approached from one side. The slave approached from the other.
“He doesn’t need a name,” she said as they closed in on him.
“And why’s that?”
“Naming a thing endears you to it.”
Like slaves. The moment you started calling them by their names was the moment you started losing power over them. Better to keep them nameless than to be risen up against.
“Kozu has a name,” he pointed out.
“Yes, and soon he’ll be dead.” Asha crept ever closer to the dragon perching on the side of the pool. She could see exactly which wing it was. Black blood dripped from the thin membrane.
Slowly, she reached for the wing. The dragon darted away, quick as the wind, and jumped to the other side of the pool. His forked tail lashed playfully.
“You hate Kozu that much?”
The question broke her concentration. Asha whirled on the slave.
“Have you seen my face, skral?” She stepped toward him. “Do you know what Kozu did to the city right after he did this to me?”
He didn’t flinch, just met her gaze. “Have you seen the collar around my neck, Iskari?” It was the calm of a gathering storm. “Your own betrothed sends us to kill one another in the pit while you stand by, placing bets.” His eyes were colder than steel. “For that, maybe I should hunt you down.”
“I’d like to see you try,” Asha muttered, turning back to the dragon. The sooner she tended that wing, the sooner she could carry out her plan.
“There’s something I’ve never understood,” he called after her. “Why did Kozu turn on you then? On that day, and not before?”
The dragon before her braced himself, crouching low on his front legs, tail swishing, eyes daring Asha. Slowly, she started closing the gap between them.
“Something else I don’t understand? You should have died. Dragon burns are deadly, Iskari, and a burn like that?” His voice softened suddenly. “You were just a little girl.”
A fire sparked in her belly. He hadn’t been there. He didn’t know the first thing about it.
In her pause, the dragon broke his stance and slithered to the other side of the pool, closer to the slave, who was more friend than foe. He left behind a black spot of blood.
Asha rose to face the slave.
“I was alone,” she said, thinking of the sickroom. Of her father filling in the gaps in her memory. “I’d gone to end things. To tell Kozu I was done with the old stories. He kept pressing me, getting angrier and angrier, and when I refused for the last time, he flew into a rage, burning me and leaving me to die while he attacked the city. If Jarek hadn’t found me in time . . .”
She rarely told this story aloud because she didn’t like to think about it. But now, hearing it on her own lips, something didn’t make sense. The slave was right. A burn as severe as the one Kozu gave her would have to be treated immediately.
There must be a detail she was forgetting. She needed to pay more attention when her father told the story next.
Asha fixed her attention once more on the dragon, who stood behind the slave now, using him as a shield. She stalked him down.
The slave held out his arm, stopping her.
“Why did you need to end things?” he asked.
Because the stories killed my mother.
Asha remembered that last night. Her mother could no longer speak; it took strength she didn’t have. Asha sat with her in the dark, stroking her beautiful hair, only her fingers kept catching and the hair kept coming out in clumps. She remembered trying to get her mother to drink, and how the water dribbled down her chin. She remembered lying down beside her and covering her face in kisses.
Asha remembered falling asleep to the beat of her mother’s heart. . . .
And waking up to a body cold as ice.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
“You don’t know,” she whispered, pushing past the slave. “You have no idea the kinds of wicked things the old stories are capable of.”
He caught her arm, stopping her. “Not Willa’s story. It seemed . . . the opposite of wicked.”
So naïve, thought Asha. The old stories were like jewels: dazzling, beguiling, luring you in. “They’re dangerous,” she whispered, staring over his shoulder at the dragon staring back.
“Well then,” he said softly. “I guess I’m drawn to dangerous things.”
Asha felt her cheeks burn. She looked back into his face.
“I’ve been thinking,” he went on quickly, his gaze holding hers, “about the first time I ever saw you. You were eight—or maybe nine. My mistress invited your mother for tea, and you came along. While Greta served them in the gardens, you wandered into the library.”
Strangely, Asha remembered that day. Remembered the enormous dragon head mounted on the library wall. The lifeless glass eyes, the pale gold scales, the open mouth showing off a multitude of knifelike teeth . . .
“I was dusting the shelves,” he said. “I saw you enter, and I knew I was supposed to leave, to give you privacy, but”—he swallowed—“I didn’t. You were wearing a blue kaftan and your hair was loose around your shoulders. You reminded me of someone.”
Behind him, realizing their game was over, the dragon huffed a sigh and stalked off.
“I watched you trail your fingers along the wooden handles of the scrolls until you found the one you wanted. I watched you pull it down, then sit on the cushions and read it to the end. And then I watched you go back for more.”
The scrolls were the reason I wandered in there in the first place, she remembered. I was looking for stories.
That thought surprised Asha. Was she remembering that right? Had she been drawn to the stories before the Old One corrupted her?
“You came dangerously close to the shelf I hid behind. And I knew if you looked, you’d be able to see me through the space above the scrolls.”
Asha thought backward, trying to remember a skral boy in the library that day.
“I didn’t move.” The reflected light from the pool danced across his face. “I . . . wanted you to see me.”
“But I didn’t,” she whispered.
Asha felt suddenly exposed. Like when she stripped off her armor with a dragon lurking nearby. She turned quickly away from the skral, moving toward that same dragon now.
“Iskari.”
She stopped but didn’t look back.
“The day I found you in the sickroom, I knew things were about to change. And before they did”—he paused—“I needed you to see me. Just once.”
When Asha turned, there was no longer any steel in his eyes.
He lowered his gaze, as if suddenly shy, then gestured to the dragon. “Come on. I’ll help you tend him.”