Dragon Rift: Riders of Fire, Book Three - A Dragons’ Realm Novel

by Eileen Mueller

  How would it be, loving him, now that she was no longer his trainee? Glorious, no doubt. She hardly dared hope he’d recover.

  A scrape sounded on the floor. She glanced up. Roberto was standing by the bed, wan and thin. Seeing him awake was like the sun breaking through storm clouds. Everything was going to be all right. “Roberto. You’re up. Welcome home.”

  “Hello, Ezaara.”

  His voice was strained, poor thing. “How do your legs feel?” She stood, her chair scraping stone.

  He shuddered at the noise. The tiny moon-shaped scar below his eye twitched as he prowled across the cavern. “My legs are fine. Thank you for healing them.” His voice was stilted, not like Roberto.

  Something was wrong. Even in Death Valley he hadn’t stared at her like that. As if she were prey. “Roberto, I’ve missed you.” She tried for bright and cheery, but her voice squeaked.

  Roberto’s face twisted into an ugly grimace. He lunged, slamming her against the wall. A blade flashed. In a heartbeat, his knife was at her throat.

  Oh gods, Handel’s prophecy had come true: Roberto was attacking her. She’d tried multiple times to deny it, but her father’s bronze dragon had shown her a vision of Roberto lunging at her. And then, they’d seen it again. They’d seen now.

  “Now we can talk, Queen’s Rider,” Roberto sneered.

  “Zaaru—” An iron wall slammed across her mind, blocking her attempt to meld with the queen.

  “Your mental talents are puny compared to mine.” His thoughts were dark, evil, like a choking fog.

  Ezaara snapped meld and blocked his probing mind. Her throat grew tight. This man was not Roberto. His eyes glinted with malice, the whites tinged yellow—Zens had gotten to him.

  “You, an ignorant little farm girl from Lush Valley thought you could waltz in here and become Queen’s Rider? Thought you could take me for your lover—the man with the best mental skills in Dragons’ Realm? I, who have learned from the master of the mind.”

  Dragon’s flaming claws and teeth. He was gone. The man she loved was gone. This was Roberto’s shell, controlled by Zens. Ezaara’s hope crumbled. Zens had broken Roberto physically and mentally. He’d found a way to steal her lover’s mind, chaining it to his will.

  Her thoughts raced. She couldn’t let Zens win.

  Roberto would be weak. She could probably fight him and break free. But she’d be pitting him against her, not winning him over.

  She’d better play this cool, downplay his aggression.

  “Oh, Roberto, you’re testing my skills.” She faked a laugh, but it came out strangled. The knife pricked her skin, stinging. Warm blood trickled down her neck, under her collar. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a training session. You’ve been through quite a rough time. You know, maybe it would be better to have a cup of tea and train later?” His eyes narrowed and he licked his lips as she mentioned tea. He was bound to be hungry and thirsty. “Look, I have fresh soppleberries, right here.”

  He glanced down at the table, the pressure of his knife easing.

  What else? If Zens had turned him, perhaps she needed to remind him of who he was and whom he loved. “Have you missed Erob?”

  “Erob?” Wistfulness flashed across Roberto’s face. “Yes, I’ve missed him.” The tension on the blade loosened. Then his face contorted with hate. “Sharding dragons.” The blade bit into her flesh again.

  “Yes, they’re so fickle, terrible creatures, aren’t they? Remember the time Erob met you in Death Valley and saved you from Zens? I’ll just pop the tea on, shall I?”

  He frowned. “I like soppleberry tea, don’t I?”

  Gods, Roberto’s mind was truly gone. Her eyes stung. “Yes, you love it,” Ezaara said. “I’ll make a cup now. Please, take a seat, Master Roberto.”

  He shook his head, as if to clear it. The knife clattered to the floor, his arms hanging limp at his sides.

  Ezaara pulled out a seat. “Please, sit down.” Whatever it was that was driving him, he was battling it. He wasn’t completely under its control—yet.

  Roberto picked up the knife and jammed it into his belt, taking a seat. “Thank you, my Queen’s Rider.”

  Shards, she’d hoped to grab the weapon while he was distracted. Ezaara threw some soppleberries into two cups. “I’ll only be a moment.” She rushed out to the ledge, getting Zaarusha to heat the tea. Thank the Egg, Erob wasn’t around. It would break his heart to see Roberto like this—just as it was breaking hers. She blinked away tears. Not now.

  Ezaara crumbled a double dose of woozy weed into his cup and bustled back inside.

  Roberto was cleaning his fingernails with his knife. “How did you know I wouldn’t kill you?” he asked, his voice as chill as the ice on Dragons’ Hold’s lake.

  She forced a brittle laugh. “Here you go, tea for two. Drink up. Would you like some food? You must be hungry.” Ezaara took a huge sip and smiled, her heart splintering into thousands of tiny icy shards.

  Who was this man? Roberto hadn’t come home at all.

  §

  Ezaara was so beautiful, so sweet, giving him tea. The tart berries soothed his raw throat, the warmth stealing through him.

  Dark fog crept along the edge of Roberto’s vision. Murky blackness writhed across Ezaara’s face and curled its fingers around her throat. “Kill her,” it whispered. “No, she isn’t beautiful. She’s a usurper. Zens is the rightful leader of the realm. This girl is puny, breakable. Zens will reward you finely if you’re brave enough to spill her blood.”

  Of course he was brave. He’d stood up to Amato hundreds of times, taking Adelina’s beatings. He’d killed tharuks and slaves for Zens before. He had courage enough to kill this wench.

  He saw himself slitting Ezaara’s throat, her beautiful blood spraying high, dribbling red down the cavern walls.

  Smiling, Roberto sipped his tea. He’d bide his time and strike when Ezaara trusted him.

  §

  Roberto’s head slumped to the tabletop. He snored softly.

  Ezaara removed the knife from his grip and turned it over in her hands. He’d wanted to kill her. She’d seen it in his eyes. She turned the knife again. He might have, had she not knocked him out. The irony hit her. She’d been sitting here, desperate for him to wake, and now he was out cold again.

  She spun the knife in her fingers, then spun it again.

  There was a whump on the ledge outside, and Erob melded, “How’s Roberto?”

  Ezaara blocked her thoughts, staring into space as her fingers flicked the knife again. And again.

  “Ezaara.” Erob’s tone was frantic. “What aren’t you telling me? Is Roberto dead?”

  He might as well be. The man she’d loved was gone.

  §

  Marlies hurried along the tunnel, a bag of healing supplies slung over her shoulder. Liesar said Ezaara had requested her hours ago, but there’d been one injured mage after another in the infirmary. Finally, she’d left Leah and Lovina in charge, so she could visit her daughter.

  She cricked her neck. Tiredness dogged her steps every day since she’d returned from Death Valley. She’d been trying to hide it, but her bones knew—and Hans knew—just how exhausted she was.

  Marlies opened Ezaara’s door. “By the dragon gods,” she murmured.

  The torches had burned down, sputtering in their sconces, casting a pale glow over a tableau: Master Roberto was hunched over a table, sleeping, and Ezaara was sitting opposite him, twirling a knife in her hands. Light glanced off the blade as it slid across her skin. Then again.

  It was Ezaara’s face that made Marlies suck her breath in. Blood at her throat, eyes vacant and dried streaks on her cheeks, she stared into nothing. Marlies had seen people in severe shock—usually after an accident or the death of a loved one. But Master Roberto’s breathing was even—he was alive.

  She moved slowly into the cavern, keeping her voice low and even. “Ezaara.”

  Ezaara jolted. The knife clattered on stone.

&nb
sp; Roberto grunted in his sleep.

  Ezaara’s hand flew to her mouth, panic on her face. “Don’t wake him,” she hissed.

  Marlies placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder and crouched to look in her eyes. “Why not?” She whispered.

  “Roberto’s home, Ma, but he’s dead inside. Zens is controlling him.”

  §

  Ma picked up a cup and sniffed it. “How much woozy weed did you give him? How long has he been out?”

  “A double dose.” Shards, how long had it been? It felt like forever. “I don’t know … um … four hundred and two knife turns?”

  “We’ve no time to lose. Help me lift him.”

  They carried Roberto over to her bed. He was so light, so thin. “Ma, this isn’t something a simple remedy or surgery can fix.”

  “Actually, it might be. Let me see. Do you have any rope?”

  “Yes, in Zaarusha’s saddlebags.” She melded, “Zaarusha?”

  “On my way. How can I help?”

  Ezaara rushed out to the den as Zaarusha landed.

  A worried Erob butted her with his snout. “Is Roberto all right?”

  Ezaara shared her memory of Roberto’s attack with both of them as she fished in Zaarusha’s saddlebags for rope. When she went back inside, Ma was examining Roberto’s chest and arms.

  “You’ve done a good job of healing him, Ezaara. Did you see any unusual bumps or swelling? Anything that wouldn’t heal properly?”

  “Yes, under his right shoulder blade.” She turned him over and lifted his shirt. “Here.” The angry red bump glared at them.

  “Zens may have implanted a crystal inside Roberto that controls his thoughts and actions. Sofia had one, too. Let’s tie him down.”

  Ezaara tied Roberto’s wrists to the bed, while Ma tied his legs. So cruel. He’d only just escaped shackles and now she was the one tying him. The irony made the icy shards of her heart twist deeper into her chest.

  Ma lit a new torch so they could see, then sliced along the apex of the lump in his flesh. Ezaara staunched the blood seeping over his back. Inside the wound, something yellow glinted. Ma squeezed the edges of the wound. Red and yellow rivulets ran out of the wound, leaving trails over his back. Ma edged the crystal out of Roberto’s body.

  “Help me,” she grunted.

  Ezaara applied pressure to the sides of his wound. A blood-smeared yellow stone—as long as Ezaara’s finger and twice as thick—slithered out onto Roberto’s back.

  Roberto’s body tensed, then went limp.

  “This stone is how Zens controls people?”

  Ma nodded. “Fleur did the same to Sofia. We found that Unocco—the dragon that the traitor Bruno used to ride—had a crystal embedded under his wing.” Bitterness flashed across Ma’s face. “It’s strange, because Fleur only used swayweed with Ajeuria, yet they implanted Sofia and Unocco. I can’t figure out why.”

  Why had Ma looked so bitter? Fleur and Bruno had been from Montanara, and Ma had grown up there. On a hunch, Ezaara asked, “Did you know Bruno?”

  Ma gave her an odd look. “I just found out yesterday that Master Bruno was the same man who had run the Nightshader crew in Montanara—a terrible street gang who stole from littlings and beat people up. I’m glad he’s been banished. Now take that crystal to Zaarusha so she can destroy it.”

  The crystal emanated an angry hum, like a swarm of bees, against her fingertips. Ezaara rushed outside.

  “Drop it,” commanded Zaarusha. She blasted the stone with dragon flame until it was a bubbling mass, giving off a nasty stink. “Don’t breathe in the fumes,” Zaarusha warned. “Who knows what they’ll do.”

  Erob sidestepped the bubbling mess, lowering his head to gaze at Ezaara with golden eyes. Ezaara rubbed his eye ridge. “What is it?”

  “Zens nearly broke Roberto,” Erob said, the wave of his sorrow socking Ezaara’s stomach. “If Roberto had succeeded in killing you, he would’ve been filled with self-loathing. We would’ve lost our Queen’s Rider and one of our most valuable masters.”

  Ezaara nodded, swallowing. They’d been lucky.

  Prophecy

  Roberto woke face down in bed, his back on fire. The swirling dark mist that had teased the edges of his mind was gone. So were the whispering voices, thank the Egg. His head was clear for the first time since leaving Death Valley. He stretched and winced. His right shoulder blade burned with pain.

  He rolled onto his left side.

  Ezaara was asleep in an armchair by the bed. A pale shaft of sunlight filtered through a crack in a stone shutter, falling across her cheek, highlighting the freckles on her nose. He’d first seen them when she’d flown her first loop on Zaarusha—the day he’d sworn to be her protector.

  Strange, he hadn’t noticed her freckles in all these moons. He lay there, watching her breathe. He was so lucky.

  Shards. Lucky she was alive. Memories of him holding a knife to her throat rushed through his head. Shame and remorse flooded him. He wasn’t her protector—he’d been a heartbeat away from murdering her. He was a worthless piece of shrot. His stomach tied itself in painful knots. Zens had been right. He’d made him his beast, no better than a stinking tharuk. He’d nearly killed the woman he loved—the Queen’s Rider, for the dragons gods’ sake.

  Ezaara opened her eyes.

  Skewered by his memories, Roberto froze, a dark pit gaping inside him.

  He opened his mouth. No words came out. No excuse for making her bleed.

  Her green eyes regarded him.

  He saw the blade, him holding it. Lunging, slamming her against the wall. And using that sharding knife. Always the knife—again and again—glinting red with the promise of death. Her death, the woman he loved. The memory burned through his mind, worse than Zens’ torture.

  Ezaara slipped into his mind. “Show me.”

  He tried to hide the memories, the shame, but she wrapped her warm presence around his thoughts, and watched with him, her love shining through the darkness, like a beacon fire welcoming him home.

  Tears wet on his cheeks, he stared at her unmoving.

  Her eyes bright with tears, she whispered, “Welcome home. I’ve missed you.”

  §

  When she’d left Death Valley, Roberto had been a broken man, weeping on the stone floor. Now, he was home, but still broken, weeping beside her. His ebony eyes were filled with the horror of what he’d done. Anguish painted his features. His chest heaved with sobs.

  As he’d been sleeping, Ezaara had wondered how she could ever trust him.

  And here was her answer.

  This is what Zens had wanted. To destroy the man she loved.

  And so Ezaara reached down within herself, dragging up courage she didn’t know she had, and stroked his cheek. “Roberto, do you remember what you promised me?”

  He stopped sobbing, eyes wide. Tentatively, he reached up and cupped her hand where it lay against his face. His touch was warm, gentle. “I remember,” he whispered, soft as a moth’s wing, husky with love and grief.

  This was the Roberto she loved. The man who’d spent all night carving a cane for her when she’d first arrived here. The man who’d helped hone her skills, offered his life to protect her. Bled for her.

  He was not the man who’d held a knife at her throat. No—that was Zens.

  And so she said what she’d been wanting to say ever since he’d left. What she’d been saving up for when he returned. And what she wanted with all her heart.

  “Are you ready to ask my parents?” She leaned in, brushing her lips across his.

  He nodded and kissed her back, his lips as welcoming as a soft spring rain.

  §

  Roberto ran a hand through his hair, then tugged his jerkin. He paced outside the door, then scratched his chin. This was stupid. He’d faced the horrors of Death Valley, but couldn’t face Ezaara’s parents. He knocked on the door, then immediately wished he hadn’t.

  Ezaara’s mother knew what he’d done. Would she forgive him? Or ba
nish him like a rogue dragon?

  Hans opened the door. “Come in, Roberto.”

  He wiped his palm on his breeches and shook Hans’ hand. “Morning.”

  Hans ushered him inside. The entrance tunnel swallowed him and the door thudded shut. Hans showed him into the family’s living area.

  Marlies looked up. “Morning, Roberto, how are you feeling?”

  “Fine, um, thanks.” How did you thank someone for saving you from murdering their daughter? He was mired in dragon dung.

  “Hey, Roberto, good to see you on your feet.” Tomaaz gave him a bear hug.

  Roberto hadn’t expected that. He hugged him back. “Thanks for getting Erob home.”

  Tomaaz shook his head, green eyes blazing—so similar to his twin sister. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get you out.”

  Roberto shrugged, then cleared his throat.

  Tomaaz winked. “Come on, Taliesin, let’s go and look at Lovina’s latest painting.”

  “Sure,” the slave boy grinned, trailing Tomaaz out the door.

  “So, he’s talking now?”

  Hans chuckled. “And so are you. Please sit down, Roberto.” He gestured to a sofa.

  Roberto sat. He may as well get straight to it. “I, ah, would like permission to, um, be hand-fasted to your daughter, Ezaara.”

  “I assume you’ve asked her if she’s keen?” Hans asked, emerald eyes gauging him.

  He nodded.

  Marlies leaned forward. “Roberto, I gave Ezaara my blessing to go to Death Valley and find you.”

  He sucked in his breath. “You did? Why?”

  She counted her reasons off on her fingers. “Firstly, I wanted to prevent your needless death. Secondly, she loves you, so why would I hold her back? Thirdly, Tonio had made it clear the council weren’t going to rescue you because he had a vendetta against Amato. That wasn’t fair. No one should pay with their life for their parents’ mistakes.”

  It always came back to his father. Every foul rotten thing came down to his father. No. His father had been turned by Zens, maybe even with one of those yellow crystals.

  Zens was the one to blame for every disaster in his life.

  “Son,” said Hans, grasping his hand across the low table. “As long as the council is happy with you being hand-fasted to the Queen’s Rider, we welcome you and Adelina to our family.”