After the ceremony, musicians played within the circle of lanterns as draksors and scrublanders danced around them. Asha sat on one of the benches ringing the dancers, waiting for Safire to return with food.
Separated from her by a sea of revelers, a certain lute player kept time in the dirt with his heel while his fingers coaxed song after song from his lute strings. The scrublander beside him, a broad-shouldered man with a round belly and sparkling eyes, beat out a rhythm on his hand drum, striking it with his palm and singing the words, while Callie played the reed pipes on Torwin’s other side, dancing as she did.
Suddenly, someone stepped in front of Asha, cutting the musicians off from view.
Asha looked up into kind eyes framed by thick lashes. Jas, in all his handsome glory, smiled down at her. He smelled like cardamom and citrus.
“I don’t dance,” Asha said before he could ask.
“So I’ve been told.” He pointed to the empty space on the bench beside her. “Can I sit with you?”
By the time she opened her mouth to say it was reserved for Safire, he had already taken it.
They sat in silence a moment, staring at the dancers, who were a blur of color and limbs and faces. Asha watched Callie’s dress twirl around her thighs as she spun, barefoot, in the dirt.
“Dax says you love the old stories,” Jas said, watching a scrublander girl with gleaming black curls that spilled down her back.
Asha looked at him. “I suppose he’s right.”
“He also said you burned the only copies in the city.”
Asha flinched at the memory.
Seeing her reaction, Jas went on. “I wanted to extend an official invitation to the House of Song.” He glanced back at the dancing scrublander girl, and from the affectionate look in his eyes, Asha thought she must be a friend. “So many stories are lost, but our library has a small collection. If you came to visit, you would have access to it. You could transcribe them, if you wanted to.”
Asha couldn’t remember the last time a stranger had been so kind to her. It made her smile. Just a little.
Seeing it, Jas smiled too. It was a bright, shining thing that lit him up from the inside.
“As for the forgotten ones,” he said, “maybe you could find them.”
Asha frowned. “Where would I even start looking?”
“You’re a hunter, aren’t you? Instead of hunting dragons . . .” He paused, checking to see if he had offended her. “You could hunt down the lost stories and bring them back to us. Restore our traditions. Make our realm whole again.”
But stories couldn’t save the realm. Only the death of Asha’s father could.
Jas was so full of optimism, though, she didn’t say this aloud.
“And now I think you should dance with me.”
Asha looked at him, her lips parting in surprise. She looked to the dancing scrublander, her curls spilling over her shoulders, her face turned up to the stars as she danced with two other girls.
“Why don’t you ask your friend?”
Jas looked where Asha looked. “Who? Lirabel?” He bit his lip, as if the thought scared him a little. “She already has two dancing partners.” He turned back to Asha. “Besides, I’m asking you.”
He seemed determined to be her friend. Her. A girl he’d been taught to despise. Because he was a scrublander, and she was a draksor.
It made Asha feel . . . strangely honored.
“I don’t know how,” she admitted.
“Neither do I, really.”
Asha bit down on a smile. “All right. One dance. But if it ends horribly, it’s not my fault. You were warned.”
Jas grinned. He rose and pulled her to her feet. But as they moved into the sea of dancers and skirts flared against her legs, Asha’s palms started to sweat. She remembered why she never did this: it made her feel clumsy and foolish.
She looked to Callie, her feet moving to the tune of her reed pipe. She looked to Jas’s friend, her smile as bright as the moon. Dancing was for other girls. Not death bringers.
Jas slid his arm around her waist.
“Ready?” he asked as the next song started up.
Asha wasn’t ready. In fact, she was starting to panic. But even if she could find her voice to say so, the beat of the drum and the chime of the lute and the whisper of reed pipes would have drowned her out.
And then, just as Jas’s fingers slid between hers, ready to lead her in the steps, something caught her eye.
Torwin stood at the edge of the dancing circle—where Asha had been sitting just moments ago. He wore a simple white shirt, unlaced at the throat, revealing his sharply defined collarbone.
The sight of him tugged at her heart.
Asha glanced to the musicians. Next to Callie, a gangly draksor boy stood plucking the strings of Torwin’s lute.
She looked back to Torwin. He’d caught sight of her and was now watching her and Jas dance, his lips parted in surprise, his eyes full of . . . hurt.
Before she could realize why, he disappeared down the path between tents.