He and Lovina had rehabilitated as many slaves as possible, buried the latrine pits and stinking cesspools that Zens had left behind, and tilled the land for the last four years. Dragons from all over the realm had participated, raking and turning the earth over with their talons and providing dragon dung to feed the dry and arid soil. There was a long way to go. Much of the land farther south near the old pirate tunnels was still arid, but they’d get to that one day. For now, this little corner of Dragons’ Realm, which had once been their hell, had become their heaven.
Lovina stirred and slipped out of bed, padding to join him. Tomaaz put an arm around her. The sun warmed their shoulders through the window.
She murmured, “After my family died, during all those years in Death Valley, all I ever wanted was a home and someone who’d treat me kindly.” She turned, her cornflower-blue eyes bright and full of hope. “And you’ve given me both.”
Tomaaz’s gaze flitted to Lovina’s easel standing near the window. Although she was often too busy to draw, the portraits of hundreds of slaves now thriving here in the valley were nailed to the walls. He brushed her hair with his lips, murmuring, “Wherever you are is my home.”
There was a knock at the door. Tharuk 274 entered, holding a tray of fresh bread and cheese. “I milked goats,” it said, giving them a tusky smile. 274’s gaze slid to the portrait Lovina had drawn of it after they’d found it wandering in Great Spanglewood Forest after the Battle of Mage Gate.
274 had been clutching a dragon figurine made of stick and leaves, and had never lost its love of art. In fact, it still had one of Lovina’s charcoal sketches on bark from when she’d been a slave in Death Valley. Tomaaz had hardly been able to contain his surprise when the tharuk had shown them its stash of precious things hidden in Zens’ old warren of mine tunnels. Since they’d spared its life, 274 had proven loyal and loved to serve them.
He often wondered how many more tharuks could’ve been rehabilitated if they hadn’t been thoroughly wiped out.
“Feed black scales next?” 274 asked, bringing Tomaaz back to the present. The tharuk took a tiny dragon made of twigs and leaves from its breeches pocket and stroked it—a dragon that Leah had apparently made when she and Taliesin had escaped. “I like black scales.”
When they’d cleaned up Zens’ caverns, they’d discovered some dragon embryos that hadn’t been destroyed. Although the dragonets had mind-screeched when they were taken out of their tanks, Tomaaz had insisted that Mazyka operate on them. Once she’d removed the methimium implants from their brains, the creatures had also proven friendly and not aged like those that’d had methimium.
“Yes, we’ll hunt with our black scales this morning.” Tomaaz or Lovina always accompanied the black dragons when they hunted to prevent the citizens who lived in Spanglewood Forest near the foot of the Terramites from worrying about whether stray shadow dragons had survived. 274 often rode behind them.
“Very good.” The tharuk smiled again and left, closing the door.
Lovina leaned her head on Tomaaz’s shoulder. “Sometimes I wonder if 274 will imprint with one of our black dragons one day. It’s certainly devoted to them.”
Tomaaz inhaled the floral scent of her soap and kissed her again. “After what we’ve seen, I’d say anything is possible.”
§
Six Years Later
Ezaara put down the rest of her roast fish and leaned against a rock. “I’m full. I can’t eat another bite.” She gazed at the lake shore where their daughter was skipping in and out of the shallow water. Nearby, Erob and Zaarusha were curled up in the sun.
“I wonder if she’ll be the next Queen’s Rider?” Roberto asked, dropping to the grass beside Ezaara and stretching out his long legs.
“Are you planning my demise already?”
“Never.” Roberto leaned over and kissed Ezaara’s lips, his dark eyes eating through hers. “Why would I have saved you from the Robandi Desert assassins if it was just to plot your demise now?”
She whacked him on the shoulder. “As if you saved me.” She snorted, a habit she’d learned from him over these past six years. “That’s not how I remember it, at all.”
He laughed. “Where would I be without you?”
“Sometimes, I do wonder whether Tyra will be the next Queen’s Rider. After all, she’s shown remarkable ability so far, and she’s still so young,” Ezaara mind-melded.
“I wonder too,” said Roberto. “It’s strange how she has a pale birthmark over her chest, like the burns we got at the Battle of Mage Gate.”
“That might explain her ability to mind-meld with animals.” Ezaara pursed her lips, remembering the first time Tyra had surprised them by mind-melding with an injured goat and telling them where it was hurt. “I didn’t even realize I was pregnant back at Mage Gate.”
Tyra squealed, running toward them. “Ma, Papa, look what I found.”
Ezaara scrambled to her feet and strode over. A tiny dragonet lay in Tyra’s hands, its tail curled around her wrist. Its scales were a splotchy turquoise-jade, and shimmered silver in the sun. “Where did you find it?”
“Over there in the rocks.”
Zaarusha and Erob lifted their heads out from under their wings. Erob stood and walked over to the lake. He stretched his long neck down behind the rocks. “There are egg shards here. I think this little one has just freshly hatched.”
The dragonet crooned, rubbing its head against Tyra’s chest. A shard of eggshell fell off its chest and its tongue flicked out, licking her cheek. She giggled. “She says she’s hungry. And that her name is Zatyrob.”
Roberto leaped to his feet and speared Ezaara’s discarded fish on his knife. He crouched beside Tyra. “Honey, you’re imprinting.”
“Imprinting?” Tyra squealed with glee. “You mean with Zatyrob?”
Roberto chuckled. “I think you’d better feed her.” He held out the fish on his blade.
The dragonet’s nostrils quivered as it gazed up at Tyra, ignoring the meat.
“Oh Roberto.” Tears pricked at Ezaara’s eyes. “Honey, she’s gorgeous. Zatyrob’s asking Tyra’s permission to eat.”
Tyra took the fish. “I have to feed it to her. You can’t, Papa. She’s my dragonet.”
Once again, Ezaara’s eyes pricked. Her own mother had missed Ezaara imprinting and had never had a chance to meet her granddaughter. “Roberto, she’s only five summers old. What are we going to do?” she whispered.
Roberto laughed and kissed Ezaara again. “I’m sure we’ll figure it out, just like we’ve figured out everything else so far.”
Zatyrob snaffled the fish and licked Tyra’s fingers. “It tickles.” Tyra laughed. “She wants to swim now.”
Swim?
Ezaara and Roberto followed Tyra to the water’s edge. Erob and Zaarusha joined them.
Zatyrob scrambled out of Tyra’s hands and leaped into the crystalline waters. She dived, then shot above the water into the sky, her wings dripping sparkling droplets, only to twist and plunge back underwater again. The next time Zatyrob surfaced, she had a small fish in her tiny jaws. She swam to the lake edge and clambered out with clumsy feet—much too large for her body. Then she pounced on the flapping fish, killing it with a swipe of her talons.
Erob rumbled his approval at Zatyrob’s first kill, while Zaarusha snuffled the dragonet like a proud mother. Tyra danced on the shore, clapping her hands together. “I’ve got a dragon, Mama. My very own dragon!”
Ezaara couldn’t help laughing. “Yes, you have, sweetie. Zatyrob is a sea dragon.”
Roberto raised an eyebrow at her. “And where did she come from?”
“When Ithsar and her Robandi guards visited a few weeks ago, one of their sea dragons was clutchy. She must’ve left an egg behind,” Ezaara replied.
“How in the Egg’s name are we going to take care of a sea dragon, here at Dragons’ Hold?”
Ezaara laughed again. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.”
They stood arms arou
nd each other, watching their daughter and the dragonet frolic in the warm water, the fierce snow-tipped peaks of Dragon’s Teeth rising behind them against a pristine blue sky. Ezaara leaned her head against Roberto’s. Yes, they’d figure it out somehow.
§
Hans opened the door and strolled out of his cottage onto the porch carrying his soppleberry tea—Marlies’ favorite drink. Tears stinging his eyes, he took a sip. Liesar and Handel were curled up in the sun-warmed grass, sleeping.
“Well, you thought we were sleeping,” Handel rumbled in his mind, making Hans chuckle.
Life had been like this for some time, the sweetness tinged with sadness; his happiness tinged with tears. He missed Marlies. Would do as long as he lived. He glanced out at the group of young piaua trees growing on the edge of his land—Marlies’ Grove, Taliesin and Leah had named it. Every day the three of them tended the trees and Leah harvested the piaua juice needed for the healers at Dragons’ Hold and others across Dragons’ Realm. Now that Mazyka was the new master healer at Dragons’ Hold and had many trainees, Leah was only occasionally needed in the infirmary.
After Marlies’ death, it had been too painful for him to remain at Dragons’ Hold. So he’d opted to live here, near where she’d died. Raising Taliesin and Leah had kept him from being too lonely—not that they needed much raising anymore, now that they were of age. And here, on the edge of Great Spanglewood Forest near Mage Gate, he was close enough to the hold to still be useful, and close enough for Taliesin to train.
And sometimes, just sometimes, if he listened closely…
Hans took another sip of tea and closed his eyes, listening to the whisper of the trees from Great Spanglewood Forest telling him how much they missed Marlies.
When he opened his eyes, Liesar’s turquoise eyes regarded him, sorrow in their depths. And he knew, with certainty, that she would not imprint again. Just as he could never love another with the same fierce love he’d felt for the woman who had first saved him from tharuks, so long ago when he was a foolish, headstrong, young rider on Handel.
Handel chuckled. “I remember that battle well. Marlies really saved your backside.”
Despite the tears rolling down his face, Hans had to laugh. “She saved the rest of me too,” he said. “It was a very close call.”
§§§
Sea Dragon
Prologue
These short scenes are repeated from Ezaara, Riders of Fire book 1
Ithsar was used to hiding in the tunnels. Used to avoiding the unwanted gaze of her fellow assassins. Used to crawling into tiny spaces to escape their taunting. But she wasn’t used to the new strength in her fingers, the strange energy that had surged along her half-dead nerves as Ezaara, she of the golden hair and green eyes, had healed her. Ithsar had never experienced such kindness from anyone. And although the dracha ryter from a far-off land had given her a vial of healing juice, Ithsar honored Ezaara, so she hadn’t dared use any on herself.
So, Ithsar ran for her life and for Ezaara’s. Having hands that didn’t work well had helped her hone the rest of her body. Whenever she was off-duty, she practiced the sathir dance for hours on end, her limbs nearly brushing the walls of her tiny cavern. Her legs were strong, feet agile, and her endurance was akin to the legendary Sathiri, who had established the ancient dance. Not that any of her fellow assassins realized. She’d hidden her prowess, deliberately acting clumsier than she was. Deliberately fooling everyone—especially her mother, Ashewar.
On through the dark, Ithsar ran, through winding tunnels to a hidey-hole they’d never suspect. When pursuers passed her, she doubled back until she reached an alcove near where the Naobian lay healing. Healed. She’d healed him with that little vial of juice. He of the dark eyes shining like ripe olives under the sun. No wonder Ezaara loved this man—Roberto, she’d called him—it was evident in her sathir when she’d asked after him. And he had cried, calling Ezaara’s name in his fever with such love, babbling about her color. The color, Ithsar had understood. Ezaara’s presence radiated all the colors in her mother’s prism-seer. Another talent Ashewar was unaware of—Ithsar could see without a prism. And she’d seen a vision of these two dracha ryter.
The Naobian had also ranted about banishment, murder and poison. It appeared he’d saved Ezaara, the healer. For that, Ithsar owed him.
Chief Prophetess Ashewar planned to breed him with her women and then kill him.
But no, Ashewar would not kill this man, loved by her healer. Ithsar would see to that. He would go free to love Ezaara. Perhaps one day, she, Ithsar, would have a man like this, who called her name with a voice that ached with tenderness.
Her breathing now quiet, Ithsar stepped out of the alcove. The Naobian had only one person guarding him at night—but tonight it was Izoldia. Ithsar’s birth defects meant she was smaller than other girls her age. Izoldia, the largest, had led the bullying, and was always the last to finish beating her—the most savage, the cruelest. Bruises, black eyes, and, later, cuts and burns had been Izoldia’s mark—until one day, Ithsar had wrestled the brand off her and burned Izoldia, keeping her brutality at bay.
Ashewar, noticing Ithsar’s hurts, had said nothing. Disciplined no one. If Ithsar had been the daughter of another assassin, Ashewar would’ve been ruthless in punishing Izoldia. But she wasn’t. She was Ithsar, Ashewar’s only daughter—the chief prophetess’ malformed disappointment.
Perhaps Ithsar owed Izoldia, for driving her to artistry in sathir, for making her stronger than she otherwise would have been, but Izoldia had also twisted what the Naobian had said, conjuring up stories so Ezaara—she of golden beauty, the girls called her in hushed whispers over their evening meal—would die.
Not while Ithsar breathed.
Opening the healing room door, Ithsar kept the anger from her face, instead, offering congeniality and supplication.
“What do you want?” Izoldia snapped.
“Did you hear the disturbance?” Ithsar asked, eyes downcast.
“You think I’d miss that lot, thundering around like a herd of Robandi camels?”
“I came to fetch you because you’re stronger. You’d be better at fighting an intruder than me.”
Izoldia sneered at Ithsar, her chest swelling with pride, but then her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Although she hated groveling, Ithsar had to be quick. She held out her twisted fingers, hiding the healed ones in her palms. “My hands… I’m useless, afraid…” She let her lip wobble.
“You miserable wretch, Ithsar. I should make you go and face the danger.” Izoldia’s bark was harsh, loud. She’d never been good at silence—gloating didn’t sound right in a whisper. Izoldia got up, hand on her saber. “Watch that man.”
The moment Izoldia shut the door, the Naobian’s eyes flicked open.
“I am Ithsar,” she murmured. “Ezaara’s friend. I’ll take you to her so you can escape.”
“My hands and legs are fastened.” His whisper was papyrus-thin. He was obviously used to stealth—good, that would serve them well tonight.
The ropes on his hands and feet were quick work for her saber. Ithsar thrust the cut ropes into her pocket and pulled some clothing and a headdress from a drawer. He threw them on. On close inspection, he wouldn’t pass for a woman, but it was better than the dracha ryter clothes he wore underneath. She passed him his sword and dagger. They slipped out the door, sliding through the shadows along the walls and nipping into side tunnels or alcoves whenever someone neared.
Finally, they made it back to Ezaara, hiding under the bridge.
When she’d crawled out and they’d retreated to a nearby side tunnel, Ezaara whispered, “Ithsar, quick, give me your unhealed fingers.”
In the darkness, something dripped onto Ithsar’s fingers, then Ezaara rubbed the oil into her skin. The slow healing burn built until her bones were on fire and moved and straightened. An ache pierced her chest and her eyes stung.
She was whole.
Ithsar clutched Ezaar
a’s hand for a moment longer, placing it on her wet cheek. “My life is yours.”
The Naobian’s hand rested atop theirs, enclosing them both. “Thank you, Ithsar,” he whispered. “Thank you for risking your life to save ours.”
They stood in the darkness, her and these two strangers, their breath flowing and ebbing together in the inky black. And then the vision descended upon Ithsar again—these strangers on mighty dracha, with her beside them on another. Sathir built around them, tangible, like a warm caress full of color and life, a force connecting the three of them. She belonged to these people. This was her destiny.
From Ezaara’s soft gasp and the grunt the Naobian gave, they’d sensed it too.
Footsteps slid over rock nearby. They froze, waiting until they retreated, then Ithsar led them into a tunnel far away from the main thoroughfares. Winding under the heart of the lake, deeper and deeper into the earth, she took them toward a hidden exit on the far side of the oasis.
§
Ithsar and the strangers stooped to avoid sharp rocks protruding from the ceiling and slithered over piles of rubble nearly as high as the tunnel itself. Ithsar led them on, the tiny lantern at her waist a star in the inky blackness.
When they were near the tunnel’s end, there was a ripple in the fabric of the sathir, a rip in the cloak that surrounded them. Ithsar turned to the dracha ryter, holding up her lantern.
They were no longer holding hands. The Naobian’s face was stoic.
Ezaara’s… Ezaara’s look haunted Ithsar. Hollow-eyed, bereft of hope.
Something terrible had passed between them. “What is it? What ails you?” Ithsar asked. “With such disunity, Ashewar will feel the disharmony and find us immediately. If you are to be reunited with your dracha, you must put this pain aside.”
They nodded and stared at each other for long moments—counted by the pounding of Ithsar’s heart. Expressions flickered across their faces—no doubt they were mind-melding—and the ripple of sathir died.
She nodded. “That’s better.”
Riders of Fire Complete Series Box Set books 1-6: YA Epic Fantasy Dragon Rider Adventures Page 155
