§
Screams sliced through the night, waking Marlies. Throwing back the covers, she dashed to the next room, where her son Tomaaz usually slept. There, in the flickering candlelight was the nameless slave boy, thrashing in his tangled bedsheets. Marlies shook him awake. Scooping him into her arms, she carried him to the rocking chair. He was so light, the weight of a young littling. She settled in the chair, tucking a blanket around him.
He stared up at her, his eyes wide with terror.
The poor thing. Since Tomaaz had rescued him from Death Valley, he’d never slept through once, constantly plagued with night terrors. What had the poor boy been through? How many years had he lived there, and how had he survived? Most died within months of arriving, through starvation, sickness, sheer exhaustion or from the tharuks’ brutal beatings—Death Valley had earned its name, thousands of lives over.
She smoothed back his dark hair, rocking and crooning. Although he’d been at Dragons’ Hold over a moon and a half, he still hadn’t spoken a word. They had no idea whether his family was alive or dead, how old he was, or even what his name was.
“It’s all right,” she crooned, as she rocked him to sleep. “You’re safe.”
His eyelids fluttered and closed. Soon his breathing was peaceful. Her own time in Death Valley was plaguing her too, Zens appearing in her dreams to mock and taunt her as he threw her around the room using the power of his mind. And now, Tomaaz, her son, could be facing that same horror. She pulled a calling stone from her pocket and rubbed the flat side of the oval crystal. Nothing happened—no flicker; no image of Tomaaz’s face. He hadn’t contacted them for a week, now. She grimaced and stowed the crystal.
Rocking this boy reminded her of her twins when they’d been littlings. Tomaaz had always rescued injured insects and woodland creatures. Ezaara, on the other hand, had helped her with the healing arts since she’d been old enough to pick herbs.
A while later, Marlies carried the boy back to bed and tucked his covers around him. If she was lucky, he’d sleep through the rest of the night.
Marlies padded into the bedroom to Hans’ soft snores, his dark curls outlined on the pillow in the candlelight. He’d flown patrol tonight and was exhausted. She was just climbing back into their bed, when Liesar, her dragon, mind-melded. “Marlies! A wounded rider’s in Zaarusha’s den.”
“Tell Zaarusha I’m on my way.” Marlies threw a warm jerkin on and raced through the infirmary next door, snatching her supplies, then out to Liesar’s den.
Marlies picked up the dragon’s enormous saddle. “What’s wrong with the rider?”
“He’s unconscious and there’s a lot of blood,” the silver dragon replied. “Marlies …” Liesar turned her turquoise eyes to her, lowering her head. “It’s Tomaaz—Maazini’s not sure if he’ll survive.”
Dropping the saddle, Marlies swung onto Liesar’s bare back, her heart smacking her ribs like a battering ram.
§
“Ezaara!”
Ezaara woke, sitting bolt upright in bed. Strange, she thought she’d heard two voices in her head—not just Zaarusha’s, but also Maazini’s. She must’ve been dreaming again. Nightmares of Tomaaz and Roberto had been bothering her since they’d left for Death Valley six weeks ago. She snuggled back under the covers.
“Ezaara!” This time it was Maazini and Zaarusha.
She yanked back the covers, shivering in the chilly air. “What is it?” she mind-melded with both dragons at once.
Zaarusha answered. “Your brother’s injured, here in my den.”
Gods, no. Ezaara shoved her feet into her boots and her jerkin on over her nightdress, then snatched up her healer’s pouch and ran from her cavern to Zaarusha’s den next door.
Torchlight illuminated a horrifying scene. Her brother lay unconscious on the stone, blood seeping from his side. She knelt down and placed her fingers at his throat. He was still breathing. Heart, still beating. Around his hip, his blood-soaked breeches were in tatters. She pulled the fabric back.
Her hand flew to her mouth. Tomaaz’s right hip was a gaping hole of torn and bloody flesh. His hip joint was shattered. Fragments of splintered bone gleamed in the torchlight among congealed blood and pus.
By the First Egg, no. Ezaara turned away, dry retching. “Zaarusha, call my mother!”
Zaarusha bent over Ezaara, nudging her with her snout. “The master healer and Liesar are on their way. Are you all right?” Behind Zaarusha, Maazini was slumped on the snow.
“I’m fine. Please organize someone to take care of Maazini.” Ezaara turned back to her brother. Feeling his scalp, she found a gash where he’d whacked his head on the stone floor. There were also grazes on his arm, right thigh and side.
Liesar landed with a whump. Ma leapt to the ground and sprinted over.
Ezaara gestured to Tomaaz’s hip. “This is the worst, Ma. He has a gash on his head, but—”
“We’ll have to move him off this cold floor.” Ma’s face was creased with worry. “You take his shoulders while I support his injured hip and legs.”
Tomaaz was a deadweight, leaving a bloody trail behind them. Despite Zaarusha’s efforts to calm her, Ezaara’s heart pounded, mind racing. As they lifted Tomaaz onto her bed, he came to, shrieking in pain. Ezaara’s stomach wrenched.
Ma’s forehead was slick with sweat as she barked instructions. “Make some woozy weed to knock him out again. Fetch powdered slippery elm bark, bone-knit, and piaua juice. Fast!”
Ezaara grabbed the items from her supplies and brewed the woozy weed tea, feeding sips to Tomaaz until his eyes rolled back in his head and he slept.
Grunting, Ma extracted splinters of bone from Tomaaz’s hip wound with her surgical knife, her hands a bloody mess. “Grab that bowl,” her mother snapped. “Three measures of slippery elm to two of bone-knit and a few drops of piaua.”
Ezaara’s hands shook as she measured the powdered bone-knit, spilling some.
Ma grabbed Ezaara’s wrist, Tomaaz’s blood trickling down Ezaara’s arm. “It’s all right, Ezaara, we can do this.” Her voice was steady, but anxiety puckered her brow.
Do what? Help him die without pain? Amputate his leg? Keep him alive so he could never walk or run again? Ezaara nodded, not trusting her voice, and mixed the powder and liquid to form a thick paste.
“Add a little more bone-knit.” Ma placed a few shards of Tomaaz’s shattered bone into a dish, arranging them in some order. “Piaua juice restores life, but the slippery elm and bone knit helps glue the bone back together, giving the restorative juice something to work with. The more pieces of bone we can stick together, the better.” Ma dropped two last bits of Tomaaz’s bone into the dish. “Ezaara, fasten his limbs to the bed so he doesn’t thrash.”
Eyes pricking, Ezaara bound Tomaaz’s arms and legs. She checked his heartbeat, then mixed the ingredients in her bowl. The substance changed in texture, taking on a pale bone color. When the paste formed a thick clump, Ma scooped the substance out of the bowl and pushed it into the cracks in Tomaaz’s hip. “Bring that torch closer, please.” She painstakingly stuck pieces of his ball joint back together, adjusting them, and pushing them into place, until only a thin coating of mixture held them.
It took forever.
Ezaara kept checking Tomaaz’s pulse and breathing. His vibrant orange sathir was steady.
At last, while wiping away the excess mixture, Ma said, “That’s all the largest pieces taken care off. The challenge will be getting the splinters back in.”
“Do you think you got them all?” Ezaara asked, holding up a candle so Ma could see.
Ma picked up a splinter. “There may be shards that have been washed away. Maybe tiny particles have caught in his muscle or connective tissue. That’d give him trouble later. We’ll just have to do our best.”
Fitting the splinters back in took longer than the initial pieces of bone.
When she was done, Ma called Liesar.
The silver dragon snaked her neck through the a
rchway of Ezaara’s cavern. “It’s all right, Ezaara, we’ve done this before, years ago. It’s unnerving, but might help.”
Might help?
Liesar stretched her neck down to Tomaaz’s wound, blowing over it. Her hot dragon’s breath solidified the ball joint and smoothened Ma’s work, hardening it into a slick replica of Tomaaz’s bone.
An odd scent filled the cavern. “Zaarusha, have you seen that before?”
The dragon queen peered through the doorway. “Anakisha, my former rider, had me use similar techniques,” Zaarusha melded.” But now, I leave healing to the healers.”
“Anakisha taught me this after a battle,” Ma said. “We saved the leg of a young boy whose kneecap had been shattered. It’s not always perfect, but it’s better than amputation.” She shook her head at the mangled flesh of her son’s hip. “Mind you, it’s not always successful. Pass me my surgical knife.”
Ezaara passed the knife.
“We can’t have jagged edges catching in his flesh.” Ma scraped Tomaaz’s new ball joint with her knife, clearing the debris away from his wound.
The blade rasped, setting Ezaara’s teeth on edge. Tomaaz’s eyes fluttered and he moaned and his head thrashed. They’d been working on him so long, the woozy weed had worn off. Ezaara clenched her teeth and held his hand. Even with his arms bound, he gripped her fingers so hard her eyes smarted.
“Could you bring me some piaua, clean herb and cloths?” Slumping into a seat, Ma wiped her forehead. “The bone’s fixed now, but his muscles and connective tissue have taken a hammering. We must staunch the bleeding.”
Ezaara gestured at his mangled flesh. “At least the blood has washed the pus away.” She passed Ma clean herb and placed her fingers on Tomaaz’s throat. “His heartbeat’s weakening. His sathir is fading.” Ezaara’s own heart lurched. Even though Ma had fixed his hip, he could still die from shock and blood loss.
“Quick,” Ma said. “The piaua, before he loses more blood.”
They treated the wound with piaua juice, layer by layer, the flesh healing before their eyes. Tomaaz’s breaths were shallow and rapid.
“I thought I knew a lot of healing remedies, but I’ve never seen anything like that new bone,” Ezaara said.
“The piaua will help his nerves to regenerate,” Ma explained.
Ezaara bit her lip.
“What is it?” Ma asked, setting the piaua vial aside.
“Will he be able to walk again?”
Ma shrugged. “We’ll have to see.” Ma stitched the hip wound shut, sealing it with piaua.
Ezaara parted Tomaaz’s hair and applied a few drops of piaua to his head wound.
Ma snipped the stitches on his hip, tugging them free, then checked his pulse. “His heartbeat is stronger, but still rapid. We’ll need to keep him warm. Hopefully the shock isn’t too much for him.” Ezaara covered Tomaaz with some blankets.
“He’s not out of the woods yet, is he?”
Ma shook her head. “No, he’s not, but there’s nothing more we can do.” She sank into a chair and patted the seat next to her. Ma’s arms and hands were splattered in blood. Ezaara fetched her a bowl of water, asking Zaarusha to warm it. They cleaned up their hands, the area and the wound site.
“What now?” Ezaara asked.
“We wait until he revives and see whether it’s worked. In the best case, he’ll walk with discomfort. In the worst …” Ma sighed, patting Ezaara’s hand. “I’ll sit with him. Why don’t you take a breather?”
Ezaara walked outside through Zaarusha’s den, where the dragons were sleeping.
Zaarusha opened an eye as she passed. “Maazini’s not injured, just exhausted.”
“Any word of Erob?”
“Not yet. Maazini was too tired to make much sense.” The queen’s eye drifted shut.
The cool air out on the ledge dried the sweat on Ezaara’s brow, making it stiff with salt. She leaned against the stone wall, her hands clenching the fabric of her jerkin. Where were Erob and Roberto?
She shuddered as her nightmares replayed in her mind: Commander Zens torturing Roberto. Screaming, his handsome features were twisted into a mask of pain, his olive skin crusted with blood.
No. It was just a nightmare. She’d find out the truth when Tomaaz or Maazini woke.
Roberto would be fine. He was resourceful, clever. He’d survived being captured by Zens before. Him and Erob might be flying home now, just hours behind Maazini.
Ezaara sank to the snowy ledge, not caring about the chill.
Soon, the first rays of dawn hit the peaks of Dragon’s Teeth—the ring of mountains surrounding the basin of Dragons’ Hold—setting them on fire. Ezaara scanned the skies. No dragons.
Roberto’s face flashed to mind, his ebony eyes tender as he’d kissed her, vowing to return. No one knew they were promised to each other. No one must know. As master of mental faculties and imprinting, he was forbidden to love his trainee. Not that she’d be his trainee for much longer—she was nearly qualified.
She touched the crystal teardrop at her neck. A memory cascaded through her mind: Roberto nearly plunging to his death when he and Erob had fought Ajeuria.
Her gaze swept the empty snow-covered basin.
What if Roberto didn’t come back? A chill climbed Ezaara’s spine. What if he was already dead?
Footfalls echoed behind her. Ma was approaching. Ezaara’s backside was freezing. How long had she been sitting, lost in her thoughts?
“Tomaaz is stirring,” Ma said.
Ezaara nodded and followed Ma into her cavern. The scent of clear-mind infusion hung in the air. Ma must have steeped the berries to wake her brother. Pa was sitting by her bed, his brow furrowed, watching her brother.
Head tossing, Tomaaz was moaning and muttering in his sleep.
Ezaara patted his hand. “Tomaaz, it’s all right. You’re safe at Dragons’ Hold. It’s me, Ezaara.”
His eyelids fluttered, then flew open. “Ezaara, I’ve failed,” he rasped. “Commander Zens has captured Roberto.”
War Council
“Ezaara, did you hear me?” Tomaaz asked, grasping her hand. “Roberto’s been captured by Commander Zens.”
Ezaara was lost for words. Her mind spun. Roberto was captive. Surely Zens would kill him.
“What happened, Tomaaz?” Pa asked.
“We were leaving Death Valley when tharuks attacked us. They forced Erob to the ground and dragged Roberto away. Maazini flamed tharuks and I shot some, but they drove us back with limplocked arrows.”
“When?” Pa asked.
“Five days ago.” Tomaaz looked at Ezaara. “Roberto had a message for you: something about his mother saying, teardrops amplify thoughts. Erob told Maazini to tell the Queen’s Rider.”
What did that mean?
Probably that she should hide her sorrow so no one knew how she felt. Ezaara resisted the urge to clutch her necklace. No one must know it was from Roberto.
“Make any sense?” Ma asked.
Ezaara shook her head. She didn’t dare tell anyone.
“Um, Ezaara, do you mind letting go of my fingers?” Tomaaz asked. “You’re crushing them.”
She glanced down—she had his hand in a death grip. “Sorry,” she said, releasing his fingers. “I’m so relieved you’re home. We need to sort out how to retrieve Roberto, but first, how’s your hip?”
How was she sounding so normal, so in control? Ezaara wanted to scream, rage, and pound the stone walls with her fists. Zens had nearly broken Roberto last time. She shuddered, remembering the awful memories he’d shared when they were in Naobia. Shocking, violent memories that had taken weeks for her to push to the back of her mind. And now Roberto was in that monster’s hands again. Ezaara clutched the crystal teardrop at her neck.
“Let’s see if you can stand. Hans, give him a hand,” Ma said. “Now, Tomaaz, flex your leg like this …”
As Ma tested Tomaaz’s reflexes, Ezaara went to the other side of her cavern to get changed. “Zaarusha
, notify the dragons that I’m calling an urgent council meeting.” She couldn’t turn up in her nightdress and jerkin. She dressed mechanically, fastening her healer’s pouch at her waist. Instead of tugging her boots back on, she selected the shoes Roberto had given her for their race. Light and supple, they were hand-painted with a likeness of Zaarusha soaring over a lake, her colorful scales reflected in the water.
“Everyone’s been roused and is on their way, except Tonio, who will be a little late.”
So, the spymaster was off on business again. Ezaara was almost relieved. Tonio wasn’t exactly her favorite dragon master.
Ma had Tomaaz on his feet. He was still a little unsteady.
He needed a cane. Ezaara’s hand automatically fastened around the walking stick leaning against her wardrobe. Roberto had carved it for her when she’d twisted her ankle. Her throat grew tight. Even when she’d mistrusted him, he’d been caring. She held the beautiful handle, carved with herself upon Zaarusha, and offered it to Tomaaz. “Would this be helpful?”
Tomaaz took the cane. “Thanks, Ezaara.”
Ma nodded at Tomaaz. “Your range of motion is pretty good, and the wound has healed well, but it’ll feel odd while your muscles adjust to the new joint. Do you have any pain?”
Tomaaz screwed up his nose. “No pain, but it does feel weak, as if it might give out. The walking stick will be great.”
“I know you haven’t slept much, Tomaaz, but we’ve called a war council,” Ezaara said. “They’ll need to hear your report. Are you up to attending?”
“I haven’t had a chance to see Lovina or the boy yet. How have they been?”
“Both thriving,” Ma answered. “They’ll keep another hour or so. They’re probably fast asleep anyhow. You should attend the council first.”
“Of course he should,” Ezaara snapped. “We need to know what’s happened.” Oh shards, she sounded ratty. She had to do something or she’d crack.
Riders of Fire Box Set Page 63
