In a hiss of sand behind him, a shower of particles tumbled down the slope. Orange-clad camel riders were racing down the dune.
Shock registered on his captors’ faces. One lunged at Roberto, sword slashing.
The pain was instant, blooming across his gut like a jellyfish unfurling thousands of stingers. Clutching his torso, he looked down. His clothes were sliced straight through, his guts spilling out of his broken flesh. He sunk to the sand, grasping at the edges of the wound, trying to hold the contents of his stomach together.
His gut rippled with fire. Lights ricocheted through his head. It was no use. In this blasted sun, his insides would dry out and disintegrate, as fragile as the crust of paper round the rim of a rice pot.
“Ezaara!” He’d never see her again.
Zaarusha
Zaarusha was wroth. That fanged Ezaara had risked the kingdom for infatuation. That silly volatile new rider. She roared, sending a sprinkling of shale tumbling down the mountainside. Undignified and irresponsible behavior for a queen, but she didn’t care. Her rider was gone.
Gone. After eighteen years of waiting.
After loss and despair and deceit. Right when Zens was marshaling his armies.
Liesar alighted on the lip of Zaarusha’s den and bowed her silver neck, her snout nearly scraping the ground.
“The Queen’s Rider is gone.” Zaarusha knew the wave of despair she’d sent to Liesar would have left a lesser dragon cowering. But that’s why she’d summoned Liesar. Not Ajeuria the Sly or Antonika the Stealthy, but Liesar the Strong. Liesar who’d arrived home last night with a sick girl from Lush Valley.
“I know,” was Liesar’s reply. “Erob melded with me as I was flying here and he was going south.”
“Erob told you, but deceived his own mother!” Zaarusha snarled, blasting Liesar with a gust of fire.
Liesar stood solid, immovable, silver scales reflecting the flames. “Yes, me. When you were enraged and would’ve killed Marlies, all those years ago, I ferried her away to Lush Valley to protect her lineage. I guessed correctly that your dragonet had passed his life force to her.”
“Don’t remind me of your traitorous actions.”
“Traitor or savior?” Liesar’s turquoise eyes regarded Zaarusha. “There are many facets to our actions, My Queen. My actions provided you with a Queen’s Rider of exceptional capability, a rider as good as Anakisha herself.”
“A rider who has fled after her lover—a traitor!” Zaarusha snarled, bunching her legs to pounce.
Liesar bowed her head, now submissive. That was better, the way a subject should treat a queen.
“Shall we hunt them down and kill them?” Liesar asked. “Roberto, Ezaara—and Erob too? Would that avenge your wroth? Would that appease My Queen?”
Zaarusha froze.
“Or would you rather listen to reason?”
Motionless, Zaarusha watched Liesar, feeling the timbre of her mind as she relayed Erob’s message.
“Tell My Queen and mother that I honor her and love her.” A wave of love flooded Zaarusha’s chest. That was Erob, loyal and true. “Tell her Roberto is innocent, that he lied to save the Honored Queen’s Rider, Ezaara, and that she fled to find him. There’s a traitor at Dragons’ Hold, but it’s not Roberto or Ezaara. Someone is plotting to undo the realm. Someone who doesn’t want Anakisha’s prophecy to come true.”
As much as she hated to admit she was wrong, Erob’s words rang true. “Why should I listen to his message?” Zaarusha scoffed, but the heat had gone out of her words. It was all bluster.
Liesar, now grinning, knew it too.
The queen changed her stance, airing her wings. “Let’s hunt down this traitor before they do any more damage.”
There was a rap at Ezaara’s door and the pounding of hurrying feet in Ezaara’s cavern.
Adelina burst into Zaarusha’s den. “My Honored Queen, Master Jaevin is dead!”
Silent Assassins
Ezaara winced. “No, Erob, we can’t return without Roberto.”
“It’s been days. We need more food,” Erob insisted, flapping his wings, his shadow rippling over the wind-streaked orange below. “Unless we find a food source here, we’ll have to return to Naobia for supplies. We’re no use to Roberto dead.”
“It’ll take two days to fly to Naobia and back here. Anything could happen to Roberto in that time.” Shards, they couldn’t leave yet, not without him. Panic gnawed at Ezaara’s gut. He’d die.
“Ezaara, don’t despair. We have to eat. We’re useless to him dead.”
“And he’s useless to us dead too!” she snapped.
Erob was silent, his slowing wingbeats speaking for him. Days of trawling the desert were wearing them down. They’d seen signs of skirmishes—ominous dark stains in the sand—and caravans of Robandi, but there’d been no sign of Roberto. What if he was hidden in a tent or a sandy grave?
“Sorry, I shouldn’t be morose.” She had to keep hoping. Roberto’s face flashed to mind. His sardonic smile. His ebony eyes flashing as he laughed with Adelina. The way his arms flexed as he wielded his sword. The warmth of his torso as he adjusted her grip on her knife. His love—his mind-searing, heart-bursting, fire-in-her-veins love. He couldn’t be gone. Mustn’t be gone.
She sighed. “All right, let’s go back.”
Erob ascended to fly back to Naobia, the desert dropping far below them.
Ezaara stared out over the endless gut-wrenching orange, one last time.
There, what was that? Hidden over some distant dunes was a smudge. “Look, Erob. Is that an oasis?”
“I can’t fly much longer without decent food.” Despite his protests, Erob flew toward the blur of color nestled between orange dunes.
Their flight seemed to take forever.
“Yes!” A turquoise jewel was nestled in the sand, fringed by palms. “Look, a lake, shade.” It was strange—all the other oases had been inhabited by Robandi tribes with their brightly-colored tents. “You’d think an oasis this big would have people here.”
Erob didn’t answer. His wingbeats were flagging and he was flying low. He banked and aimed for the lake edge.
“Unless we find food, we’ll have to fill our waterskins and fly back over the desert and the Naobian Sea.”
That vast ocean with its slate, lapis, cobalt and turquoise tones. She’d never expected the sea to be everchanging, writhing and seething far beneath them, whipping up white tips far out from the shore, sheltering enormous creatures that created dark blots, like ink stains, under the water. This life Zaarusha had given her was bursting with possibility. Except she didn’t have Zaarusha anymore. She’d forsaken her dragon, her role and title.
And she didn’t have Roberto. If she returned empty-handed, she’d have nothing.
“Let’s rest and drink,” melded Erob. “It helps stave off dark thoughts.”
Ezaara stretched her mind out, reaching for Roberto. “Roberto!” Hundreds of times she’d tried mind sweeping, and hundreds of times there’d been nothing except the bite of windswept sand on her cheeks. Infusing every last scrap of her love into her message, she thrust out her mind again, “Roberto.”
“E-zaa-ra ...” Faint and foggy, but it was him.
“Roberto!”
Nothing.
“Roberto!”
Again, nothing.
Had she imagined it? Was she sun-struck? Going crazy?
“No, I heard it too.” Erob thudded to the ground, and staggered, his snout hitting the sand and wings askew.
Ezaara slid to the sand. “Are you all right?”
“Need to drink.” Dragging his tail, Erob crawled to the water.
“Wait!” Ezaara called out loud. “It might be tainted. Maybe that’s why no one’s here.”
Erob sniffed it. “Seems fine.” He submerged his snout.
Ezaara followed, scooping crystal water into her mouth. It was pure, like fresh rain on spring grass. It beat the stagnant water from their skins. “Erob, Roberto mu
st be near. We can’t leave.”
“We can eat and drink here. Look.” Erob waved his snout at heavy clusters of dates hanging from the palms.
Ezaara roamed over to the palms, accidentally disturbing a herd of goats dozing in the shade. “Strange. Goats, but no people.”
“Maybe they’re wild.” As quick as a wink, Erob killed one and settled to feast.
They collected dates, Erob shaking the trees until the fruit fell down, and Ezaara gathering them into his saddlebags. She found an orange grove, the juicy fruit stinging her chapped lips as she wolfed it down. Why was this place deserted?
“Look, footprints.” Ezaara pointed at the churned-up sand near one of the groves. “Lots of them.”
“I noticed camel prints from the air. Someone else must’ve been hungry.”
“Maybe Roberto was with them. Maybe they’ve just left with him …”
“Let’s check.”
They searched the perimeter of the lake, filling their waterskins. The whole time, Ezaara and Erob stretched their minds out to Roberto. There was no reply.
“We heard him,” Erob melded. “He must be here somewhere. Be patient.” He settled on the sand and she slid off.
Ezaara sank down, leaning against him. “What if he’s dead and that was his last cry? We’ve got to do something. To come this far …” Her chest grew tight and she broke down, sobbing, burying her face in Erob’s side.
§
A cool caress brushed Roberto’s brow. A trickle of water slid down his throat. He swallowed, his gullet thick and clogged. A dull ache throbbed across his middle, laced with a filigree of dancing fire. Exquisite pain. Zens had taught him pain was exquisite and that there was an art to enduring it—Roberto had learned that the hard way.
His mind was slipping again. Faces flitted before him. Eyes, watching: Erob’s golden ones, shining as they’d imprinted; Ezaara’s sad green eyes when he’d been banished; Zens’ giant yellow orbs, enticing him to cruelty, mocking him when he succeeded.
He was a mockery. He’d thought he could make a difference to Dragons’ Realm, right his father’s wrongs and help send Zens back through the world gate. But instead, here he was, banished and dying.
A gentle burble floated through his mind, like the babble of a stream, an accompaniment to the waves of fire rippling across his belly. If he lay perfectly still, would the water put the fire out? Only there was no water here in the desert, in the dark.
§
“Ezaara.”
Erob’s sharpness woke Ezaara. Eyes gritty with sand, she rubbed them.
Then rubbed them again. This wasn’t a nightmare. They were surrounded. Warriors were thrusting a nest of sabers at her throat and Erob’s belly.
A tall warrior paced around the dragon, her kohl-rimmed eyes sizing him up. Ezaara followed her with her gaze, helpless. No wonder this oasis had been deserted. These warriors infested it.
“What are you doing here?” The woman’s voice was soft, sibilant, like the hissing of wind on sand.
“Ah, Ezaara,” melded Erob, “I know these people. You’d better be polite.”
That sounded dire. Were they Robandi? Their faces and hands were sun-darkened like Robandi, but they were dressed differently—clad in gauzy headdresses, breeches and shirts the same orange as the sand. “We were refreshing ourselves at these beautiful waters.” Ezaara inclined her head a fraction, as far as she could without being stabbed. “We also partook of your delicious fruit. Um, and a goat. Thank you for your hospitality.” Shards, what was she supposed to say?
The woman hissed, “Seize the scorpion with the flattering tongue and confine her lizard.” Swords flicked from her to Erob. Strong arms grasped Ezaara, removing her weapons in a heartbeat. “Now we’ll find out what you really want,” she whispered.
“We’re seeking a friend,” Ezaara said. “He may be injured. Dark hair, dark skin, black eyes.”
Snorting, the woman whispered again. “Convenient, but not believable. That could be any Robandi. Take them below.”
Below?
The warriors moved with lithe elegance and strength. They were women—all forty of them. They marched Ezaara and Erob at sword point to a grove of trees at the far end of the lake. Among the palms was a giant amber boulder with trees growing over it. A latticework of roots hung over the rock’s overhang, enveloping it like a spider’s web. Two figures stepped out from the overhang, their orange-and-brown-splotched clothing camouflaging them until they moved. They pulled aside some roots and the guards marched Ezaara down a tunnel leading underground.
“What about Erob?” she asked.
“He will be well-tended,” a guard answered in a hushed tone.
So, the tall warrior didn’t have a speech defect. All of these women whispered.
“Of course they do,” melded Erob. “They’re the Sathiri, the Wastelands’ infamous silent assassins. Whatever you do, don’t mention men, especially not Roberto.”
§
Kohl-rimmed deep-brown eyes studied Roberto. The woman’s skin was darker than his, the shade of rich pecans. Hawk-nosed, her face was a mask of tranquility. She was Robandi—and he was alive. High above her was a vaulted ceiling of amber rock. Still in the Wastelands, then. Fangs, his gut ached, a deep sharp throb that sent sparks of pain skittering across his skin whenever he thought of moving.
The woman lifted a cool compress to his brow, murmuring in Naobian, “Lie still. Rest.”
As if he could go anywhere. Gods, he probably couldn’t even sit up. More fire, pain. “Who—” His voice came out in a broken croak.
“Ssh. Let me tell you.”
Roberto had heard similar accents from the Robandi traders in the Naobian markets. She held a cup of sweet cool water to his lips and he swallowed. Bliss. A faint smile traced her lips and she stood, moving with strength and calculated economy. Clothed in orange breeches, headdress and a loose shirt, a saber hung at her hip. A warrior, then.
Who was she and where were they? That babbling was still here. Slowly, Roberto turned his head, not wanting to risk stabbing gut pain. A spring was trickling out of the rock into a pool, feeding an underground stream. He hadn’t dreamed the water. It was real.
“Robandi Duo slit your gut and left you to desiccate in the desert. The fools didn’t recognize you were Naobian or a dracha ryter. How do you call this in your tongue?”
So, she knew what rider’s garb looked like. “Dragon rider.” Still croaky, but his words were now recognizable.
“Ah, yes, those magnificent beasts, so fierce in combat.” A feral flash of teeth.
And she had an interest in dragons.
“Your road to healing will not be fast, but at least your fever has broken. Luckily, we found you and brought you here to the Retreat of the Silent Assassins.” Fire stirred in the depths of her dark eyes.
The band of women, renowned for their fighting prowess, who sat in judgment over feuding Robandi tribes. Their skills were many. Ruthless, most trained from the age of seven, learning the spiritual and fighting arts. “And you are the Prophetess of the Robandi Desert?”
A nod.
An assassin prophetess. He coughed, his throat dry, gritting his teeth against the ache in his stomach. If he survived this, he’d never take coughing or laughing for granted again.
“Rest. It is your first time waking in hours. Do not strain yourself.” She clicked her fingers, and a young girl of about thirteen approached his bedside.
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 per
il. 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.
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