There were other sounds, hidden by the spring: faint rustling, the chink of someone working. He lifted his head, stifling a groan of agony. Girls and women were working nearby, lit by shafts of sunlight angling through the ceiling. By the Egg, his guts. He’d never move again.
The prophetess frowned, voice stern. “Lie still. You must not rip the stitches.”
The young girl lifted the cup to his lips, her fingers twisted and scarred.
“Little and often,” the woman said to the girl. Then to Roberto, “Underestimate us at your peril. Every girl here is trained to kill.” She slipped the knife out of his discarded boots, and stalked away.
There must’ve been something in the liquid he’d sipped, because soon Roberto was dreaming again. He hung in a dark void dotted with stars, body endlessly spinning. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t move. Everything was numb—mind, body and emotions. Then he heard her.
“Roberto,” she called across time and space, her bright colors flashing through him. “Roberto!” Ezaara—the woman he loved. She’d brought vibrancy and meaning to his life, making him strive to be better.
He tried to answer, but his lips wouldn’t move and his limbs were rubbery. He struggled against the darkness dragging his body down, down, spinning … He thrust her name outwards, “E-zaa-ra,” then he was gone, suspended in the void again.
§
Ashewar turned her head from the sleeping Naobian as footfalls approached. “Izoldia, have you secured that dracha?”
“The dracha escaped, my highly-esteemed Beloved One.” Izoldia’s bow was so low her nose nearly scraped the floor. “But it’ll be back for food.”
Her darling sycophant had hoped she wouldn’t ask. “Trap the dracha. Or I’ll be tossing your hide to the rust vipers.”
“Yes, my Revered Prophetess.”
Ashewar turned back to the Naobian. Sathir was strong in him. She sensed a ruthless discipline in his spirit, or perhaps it was a disciplined ruthlessness, a darkness. He would serve her purpose well. With this core of steel, his seed would provide good lineage. She surveyed the geography of his face: hollows under defined cheekbones, high brow, strong chin, dark lashes. It was a shame she wouldn’t get to lie with him herself, but she had no need of more twisted progeny. Her loins had produced only bitterness: boys to be culled at birth and one daughter of inferior quality.
She needed good fruit. Strong female fruit, to be raised to carry on the legacy of the Sathiri. She’d selected ten protégés for the honor—women experienced in cajoling the seed from unwilling men. And when they were done with him, he would die. Just as he’d been about to die when they’d found him.
Izoldia appraised the male. “Good choice, Revered Prophetess. You show such excellent wisdom and foresight. He will give us many strong daughters.”
“He will indeed. It’s rare to find such a specimen, a man in his prime, on our doorstep. This is a good omen.” She hesitated. Izoldia was tough, cruel at times, but that would serve them well: if the others begot boys, Izoldia would have no hesitation in feeding their bodies to the carrion birds. “Would you like to oversee the process?”
Izoldia’s grin was fierce. “Thank you, Revered Prophetess. I’ll make sure he complies and kill him swiftly afterward.”
§
Roberto awoke with a start. “How long have I slept?”
“A day,” murmured the girl, bunching her twisted fingers in fists and hiding them in her sleeves.
“Was that a sleeping draught? That sweetness?”
“It promotes sleep and healing.”
His head was groggy, limbs still dead, but he was awake and his mind was his own. He’d dreamed of Ezaara, remembering the trial in horrible detail: Ezaara had believed him. Believed he’d poisoned Jaevin. By the Egg, that hurt—he’d only lied to save her. But even worse was the bleak expression on Adelina’s face: eyes hollow, face drained of hope. He knew that look. He’d been beside Adelina when Ma had died from injuries inflicted by Pa.
In saving Ezaara, he’d abandoned his sister.
“You must get strong and heal quickly.” The girl spoke quietly, her eyes slipping away.
Something in her glance sparked a memory: while he’d been dreaming, he’d heard Ashewar discussing him and harvesting some sort of fruit. What had it been?
Gods, his seed—they wanted to force him to give up his seed. Horror engulfed him.
When the girl offered him the sleeping draught again, he drank readily, falling back into the dark void.
Imprisoned
Guards marched Ezaara before the same imposing woman with kohl-lined eyes, now sitting on an ornately-carved throne. A prickle of dread ran down Ezaara’s back. Every carving on her throne was of a woman killing a man.
“Your name?” the woman whispered, torchlight glinting off three diamond studs in her beaked nose.
“Ezaara of Dragons’ Hold.” She didn’t belong there anymore, nor in Lush Valley—she was an outcast from the only homes she’d ever known.
“So, you are the new Queen’s Rider, but where is your queen?” Even whispering, this woman was haughty.
The woman had heard of her, but Ezaara had never heard of these silent assassins. Not in Lush Valley. Nor at Dragons’ Hold. “I have no queen,” Ezaara mumbled, staring at the floor.
“Without a dracha, you are not much use. Unless you can fight?” The woman clicked her fingers and her assistants lunged, swords aiming for Ezaara.
She ducked, instinctively thrusting her arms up to block—but their blows never came.
“With training, you might amount to something,” the woman hissed. “Izoldia, take her to the dungeon near the training room.”
With a sneer at Ezaara, a towering barrel-chested assassin squeezed her arm.
“But I have to—”
“Silence,” the burly Izoldia hissed. “You must not address Ashewar, Chief Prophetess of the Silent Assassins, until spoken to.” She raked a dagger along Ezaara’s arm. A line of red beads appeared. Ezaara sucked in her breath. That stung. Izoldia yanked her toward a narrow tunnel, more female guards in orange clothing trailing behind.
“Wait.” The prophetess’ eyes narrowed. “What is that pouch you wear?”
No, they couldn’t take her healer’s pouch. “My mother was a healer. I’ve learned some of her skills.”
Ashewar snapped her fingers and a guard brought the pouch over for her to examine. “Hmm. Let her keep her pouch. She can heal cuts from training skirmishes. Now, take her away.”
Roberto! Since they’d caught her, she’d forgotten to mind sweep. “Roberto.” Nothing. But she wouldn’t give up. He’d been alive a few hours ago. Why had Erob warned her off asking about him? “Roberto.”
They went through a catacomb of tunnels and crossed a large cavern, where women were moving in an elaborate dance, swords and bodies flowing in time to some unseen rhythm. The guards paused at an adjoining cell, unlocking a door of iron bars.
Izoldia’s fetid breath washed over her face. “If you’re useless, Ashewar will give me the pleasure of killing you, but if you train hard, you’ll become one of us.” The guard shoved her, sending Ezaara sprawling onto a lumpy mattress against the rocky wall. The bars clanged shut.
Marching to the center of the cavern, the guards joined the dance.
So, this was their training area.
And hers. She had to survive until she could escape. Shrouded in shadows, her cell was barely longer than the mattress. Torches in the main cavern illuminated a spring near the front of her cell, flowing from the rock wall into a pool. Picking up a long-handled dipper, Ezaara drank. At least the water was good.
The women in the cavern moved in unison with supple fluidity, their robes swishing, feet slapping on rock and their sabers flashing. Their dance was beautiful, but their moves were deadly. Kill or be killed.
Ezaara stayed in the shadows, copying them. With no sword, she used the dipper, thrusting the handle at imaginary opponents. The assassins ignored
her.
“Roberto.”
“Don’t give up,” Erob melded. “I think he’s here. I’ve escaped, but I’ll be back. Find him.”
“I’m imprisoned. I’ll try.” Ezaara kept at the killers’ dance. Here, her right hand needed to be higher, her left leg more controlled. She danced. “Roberto!”
And danced.
An assassin’s sword clattered onto the rock. A chain of echoes bounced around the chamber. Everyone froze. In a swish of orange gauze, Ashewar swept into the cavern, striking the offending assassin’s face with her saber. The smack of metal against flesh echoed in through the cavern, ricocheting against the walls like a macabre drum beat. A bloody gash split the woman’s cheek, but she retrieved her sword, slipping back into stance. Ashewar stalked out as the women continued, not missing a move.
Izoldia unlocked Ezaara. “You. Heal her.” She stood over Ezaara while she rubbed healing salve onto the woman’s wound, then marched her back to her cell. “If you don’t shape up, you’ll need more than healing salve when I’m through with you,” she sneered.
Heart pounding, Ezaara slumped on the mattress, sweat beading her limbs and torso. It was hopeless. She lacked these assassins’ control and finesse. She was weak from hunger. She’d never be good enough.
“Roberto.” Would he ever answer?
Across the training hall was a girl in the shadows, as still as a marmot scenting a predator. She was watching Ezaara, clumsily holding a silver dish. Her hands were covered by the ends of her sleeves. Maybe the dish was hot. The girl approached and passed the dish through the bars.
Dates, oranges and a grainy cereal containing smoked meat—not hot food. Then why had the girl covered her hands? “Thank you,” Ezaara said.
The girl held a finger to her lips—a finger that was scarred and bent out of shape.
Silent assassins.
Ezaara took the dish, catching the girl’s hand in hers. The girl shrunk back with terrified eyes, but Ezaara didn’t let go. She set the dish down and examined the girl’s fingers. Her fingers had deep scarring, as if by fire, all ten digits bent and twisted. The scarring looked like burns, but burns wouldn’t melt bones and twist them. Had she been born that way?
Ezaara examined the girl’s fingers, one by one, then pressed the tips with her nail to see if she flinched. She had some nerve damage. It’d be difficult to work with such fingers. Ezaara reached into her healer’s pouch—thank the Egg, the assassins hadn’t taken it—and pulled out a vial of piaua. Quickly unscrewing the lid, Ezaara tipped a drop onto the girl’s smallest finger and rubbed it over the scar tissue.
A soft hiss escaped the girl. Her scars slowly faded into healthy tissue and her finger straightened. Wonder lit her features. Ezaara picked up her piaua vial to work on the girl’s next finger, but she shook her head. Her eyes flicked to the dancing assassins and she motioned to the dish.
Ezaara scooped the contents into her mouth, then handed the dish back.
“I am Ithsar,” the girl whispered.
“Ezaara,” she whispered back.
“To complete the training, you must sense sathir, the energy of all living things, interwoven in the rhythm of the dance.” With that, Ithsar melted back across the room and out the exit.
What did that mean? “Roberto,” Ezaara melded. No reply. She picked up her dipper and started the dance moves again. What was sathir?
The next morning, when Ithsar brought food, Ezaara healed another finger. In return, Ithsar mentioned the first step in sensing sathir: feeling your heartbeat in every movement, while reaching out to sense what was around you.
It took Ezaara hundreds of attempts before she could move in time with her heartbeat.
“Roberto.” Would he ever answer? Was he alive?
When Ithsar came again, Ezaara was prepared. A drop of piaua, rubbed along her next finger, with a whispered question. “There is a man I seek: dark hair, with olive-black eyes and a tiny crescent-shaped scar on his cheek. Do—”
Ithsar’s eyes flashed recognition. She stiffened and turned away, curling her healed fingers into her palms. Izoldia was approaching.
Picking up the dish, Ezaara used Ithsar as a shield to bolt some of her food, then made a show of chewing and eating while the small assassin waited.
With a hand signal, Izoldia dismissed Ithsar.
Ezaara practiced the intricate dance of killing again. For every ten beats of her heart, she sent out Roberto’s name. It was easier now, the rhythm of the exercises counted in heartbeats gave a fluidity to her movements, but she doubted she’d sensed whatever sathir was.
That night, Ezaara jolted awake. A lamp flickered in the shadows across the cavern. Someone was sneaking around the perimeter, toward her dungeon. She grabbed the water ladle and slipped into the back of the dungeon, waiting in the deepest shadow.
As the figure came closer, she let out a breath of relief. It was Ithsar. Ezaara dropped the ladle and rushed to the bars. “What is it?” she whispered, mindful of the cavern’s echo chamber.
“Thika is unwell.” Ithsar set down the lamp. She drew a wan-beige lizard with dark stripes from the folds of her robe, cradling him on the underside of her forearm. Its head was nestled in her palm and tail curled around her elbow.
“Tell me about Thika.”
“My father gave me Thika when he was a tiny lizard, only this long.” She waggled her little finger.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know.”
Ezaara touched his dry cool hide. “Is he usually warmer than this?”
“Only when he basks in the sun or snuggles me. His skin can be fiery-orange, like Robandi sand, but today he’s pale. Usually, he scampers around, catching midges, or crawling all over me. I found him limp in a corner and he hasn’t moved since.” Ithsar’s bottom lip wobbled. “Please, use the juice. Help him.”
She couldn’t tell her only friend in this forsaken place that it would be a shame to waste piaua on a lizard, not when Ithsar cared so deeply for him. Ezaara reached into her healer’s pouch. “Piaua doesn’t heal everything.”
Ithsar forced Thika’s mouth open and Ezaara shook two drops of piaua into his maw. “There, he should be better in a few moments.”
Ithsar stroked his skin. Moments stretched and there was no change.
“Ithsar, this juice cures most illnesses and heals many wounds, however it has limits. It can’t treat infection or poison.”
“Thika has been poisoned?” Ithsar’s hand flew to her mouth. “It must’ve been Izoldia.” She thrust Thika through the bars at Ezaara. “I know where the poisons and remedies are kept. I’ll be back.” Ithsar left the lamp and dashed away.
Ezaara sat on her mattress, stroking Thika. The lizard blinked and slumped on her lap. His hide reminded her of Zaarusha’s—soft and supple. She released a long sigh, missing the queen.
Ithsar returned with a sack of earthenware pots. “I haven’t done my poison training yet, so I’m not sure what is what,” she whispered, her gaze hopeful.
“Let’s see.” Ezaara put Thika on the mattress and eased the sack quietly through the bars. Opening the pots, she held them near the lamp, examining the contents and sniffing each one. “I’ve never seen any of these before,” she whispered.
“Thika was my father’s. He’s the only thing I have left of him.” Ithsar’s eyes pooled with tears.
“Is your father …”
“Dead? Yes. Ashewar killed him once they’d finished using him to breed. I guess I was lucky. He lived longer than most. I was nearly four when he died.”
Ezaara took a sharp breath. “That’s why there are no men here?”
“Ashewar hates men. She murders them once they provide enough offspring. Any man who comes here—” Ithsar’s eyes flew wide. “I’m sorry. I—”
Oh, gods. They were going to use Roberto for breeding, then kill him. Ezaara’s body ran cold. A gulf opened inside her, wide enough to swallow her.
Ithsar froze, her dark eyes huge.
“T-tell me.” Ezaara tried to force a smile, but couldn’t.
“You love this man with the olive eyes?”
She nodded.
“It is the new way of the silent assassins—since Ashewar destroyed the former leader and purged the ranks of men. I’m sorry …”
Breeding and murder. She had to get out of here with Roberto. She’d need Ithsar’s help. “Where is he?”
“Under sedation while he heals.”
“What’s wrong with him? Is he poisoned too?”
“No, Robandi slit his gut in the desert.”
Shards! The rock walls spun, then closed in on her.
“He is healing well, but it will be slow. Gut wounds are.” Ithsar’s eyes dropped to Thika and a tear tracked down her cheek. “I have no one else.” Her whisper was barely audible.
Ezaara counted her heartbeats. She couldn’t panic. One step at a time. First heal the lizard. Then Ithsar’s fingers. Then plan an escape and rescue Roberto. And find Erob. Closing her eyes, she breathed deeply.
When she opened them again, there was a faint red glow around Ithsar. Must be the lamp light. She picked up a pot, sniffing the acrid black paste inside. When she held the pot near Thika, a sickly green shimmer enveloped the lizard and the paste. It disappeared when she moved the pot away.
“I think that one is rust-viper venom,” Ithsar murmured.
Setting it down, Ezaara took another pot which also had a faint sheen of greenish light around it. “Is this special clay? Is that why the pots glow?”
Ithsar’s face lit up. Her whisper was full of suppressed excitement. “Sathir. You can see sathir.”
“This light? That’s sathir?”
Ithsar nodded. “If you can see it around the pots, that is a miracle. I can sense most people’s sathir and Thika’s. Some can sense animals and plants. Perhaps you have that gift.” She held a pot near Thika. “Sathir shows the effect of things on one another. Here, what do you see?”
“Sickly green.”
Another pot.
“A tiny thread of red.”
“Red is Thika’s sathir color. This substance strengthens his life energy, so it may heal him.”
Riders of Fire Box Set Page 23
