Riders of Fire Complete Series Box Set books 1-6: YA Epic Fantasy Dragon Rider Adventures

by Eileen Mueller

  Ashewar gestured at Bala, one of the more vicious guards and a close crony to Izoldia. “Once Izoldia has been whipped, arrange for a tonic to heal her head and restore her memory. We must get to the bottom of this.”

  Her gaze snapped to Ithsar, her black eyes glittering more brightly than the diamond studs in her beaked nose. “Someone who sleeps through the alarm needs to gain strength. You are on drill, doing the Sathiri dance in the training cavern until nightfall. No food nor water.” She waved to her guards.

  “Bala, once you’ve ordered the healing tonic, you will oversee her dance.” Ithsar’s mother flashed a terrifying smile that reeked of bloodlust. “If the deformed wretch collapses, leave her. Anyone who helps her is under the threat of death.”

  Dance of the Sathiri

  Ithsar kept her fingers tucked inside her palms and hands inside her too-long sleeves as she executed the movements of the ancient dance of the Sathiri. She pointed her toes, kicked and spun, then lifted her knee and swung her arm, pretending to wield a saber. Even though her chest felt as if it would crack in two for causing Izoldia’s whipping, the smooth rhythm of the dance soon soothed her. The women around her moved as one, flowing like the tide on a shore, the hissing and slap of their feet against the sandstone floor and the soft huffs of their breaths echoing around the chamber. The other women’s sabers glinted in the flickering lamplight, but, due to her mangled fingers, Ithsar had never been allowed to wield a saber. Maybe tomorrow, after she’d danced all day to prove herself, when she showed her mother her healed fingers, she would at last earn a real blade instead of the dagger she’d once stolen from the weapons cache when no one had been around.

  Thika stayed pressed against her belly, adjusting his weight to compensate for her movements, the harmony between her and the lizard filling her with quiet peace. Her father had found the tiny hatchling abandoned in the tangerine desert sands and gifted Thika to her. Ithsar had fed Thika, catching flies and bugs for him and oiling his dry scales during the molting season. Sometimes the lizard disappeared for hours to hunt around the oasis, but his favorite place to sleep was nestled around her belly. She carried him under her clothing to help him avoid detection. Izoldia had made more than one attempt on Thika’s life. It wasn’t enough that Ithsar was scorned and hated by all the women—no, Izoldia wouldn’t even allow her the small privilege of loving the lizard her father had given her.

  Ithsar’s breath caught in her throat as her father’s face flashed to mind: his handsome face; the kind smile lines around his mouth; and the way he used to hold Ithsar on his lap and tell stories of his life beyond the oasis out in the wild desert. Stories of taming camels, fighting rust vipers with a knife, or the story of him nearly dying. Dehydrated, he’d been taken in by the female assassins to breed an heir to the chief prophetess. Often, he’d stroked Ithsar’s hair, saying, “You are Ashewar’s heir. Never forget it. You are the most precious thing in my life.” His love had warmed Ithsar’s heart, sinking down deep into her bones.

  One day, when she’d been a littling of four summers, he’d found her crying.

  “What’s wrong, my beautiful princess?” He stroked the tears from her cheeks and scooped her into his strong arms, the scent of camel enveloping her.

  “The older girls say I’m weak because my fingers don’t work. That mother will kill me when I come of age,” she whispered, terrified someone would hear her speaking aloud and punish her. Although no one punished Izoldia when she spoke.

  “Was it Izoldia, Bala and Thut?”

  Her lip wobbled as she nodded. More tears came. “They did this.” Ithsar held out her arm, swollen and mottled with rapidly-forming bruises. “They hurt me. They’ll snap my arm if I tell anyone, but I can tell you, can’t I?”

  Her father had nodded, eyes burning with rage, and gone off to find the girls who’d hurt her.

  That night, she’d heard voices in Ashewar’s sleeping chamber. Raised voices—unheard of in the lair of the silent assassins—her parents arguing.

  Her heart had rejoiced that her father was championing her. She’d rolled over and gone back to sleep.

  The same heart had broken in the morning when she learned her mother had ordered his execution.

  Tears had glimmered in her father’s eyes, then, as he stole a few last moments with her. “Remember,” he whispered, his voice a flutter against her ear, “I will always love you. Be strong, practice the Sathiri dance every day. Even if no one sees you, I will be watching over you. One day, you will rise above your mother’s petty hatred, for you are my precious daughter, strong beyond words.” He kissed her hair and caressed her fingers with his bound hands.

  The guards yanked his rope, pulling him away from her. They dragged him down the tunnels.

  And then her mother had collected her and made her watch.

  Ithsar faltered, her foot slipping on the cavern’s sandstone floor.

  Bala’s eyes flicked to her as the women around her continued moving in rhythm. Lip curling, Bala snapped her fingers, the sharp sound whipping through the natural echo chamber of the training cavern.

  All movement stopped, women freezing mid-pose, arms extended and knees bent. Waiting.

  Bala stalked, feet barely making a whisper on the dusty cavern floor. Ithsar angled her head, holding her cheek up, ready.

  Humiliation washed over her. She could never be a true Robandi assassin, despite her healed fingers. She was too weak. Too full of what her mother called fool’s sentiment. If just the thought of her father made her falter, how could she kill? She didn’t have it in her. She was a failure.

  The ominous faint scrape of Bala’s feet on sandstone reverberated off the cavern walls, reminding Ithsar of the night she’d unlocked the cell in the corner and let Ezaara loose. Ezaara had dropped her saber, the clattering echo raising the alarm for the assassins, but at least Ithsar had helped the Queen’s Rider and her lover get free.

  Bala stopped in front of her, leering.

  Ithsar drew in a breath and braced herself. You are my precious daughter…

  Bala drew a knife from her belt and slapped the flat of the blade against Ithsar’s cheek.

  Despite her stinging cheek, Ithsar kept her gaze steady, her spine straight and her chin up… strong beyond words.

  A figure moved from the shadows, beads on tiny braids clicking softly as Ashewar made her way through the ranks of silent assassins, still frozen in place. She clapped her fingers and the assassins stood down.

  “Not you,” Ashewar hissed, glaring at Ithsar. She motioned with a flat hand.

  Ithsar quickly raised her arms again and lifted her knee, and froze in Sathiri stance.

  The other assassins retreated to line the walls, leaving Ithsar standing alone in the middle of the voluminous cavern. One by one, they filed into the barred cell where Ezaara had been captive and helped themselves to a dipper of cool water from the natural spring.

  Ithsar licked her lips, throat dry. She hadn’t even eaten or had the barest sip of water before the guards had manhandled her to Ashewar, but now was not the time to ask.

  Ashewar nodded, eyes glittering with malice, not with the love Ithsar longed for. She motioned Ithsar to continue.

  With a heavy heart, hands still hidden in her sleeves, Ithsar spun on her left toe, her right leg flung out, and then landed and raised her arm in a defensive block, flawlessly executing the next Sathiri movement.

  Ashewar’s eyes blazed.

  Ashewar had never seen her complete the full dance. Because of Ithsar’s bent, scarred fingers, she’d been assigned menial tasks, rarely joining the assassins’ training. But since her father’s death, Ithsar had practiced every night in her tiny sleeping alcove, her fingertips and toes nearly brushing the walls. So Ithsar continued, sweeping her arm wide in a blow that would dismember any attacker—if she had a saber. But now was not the time to ask Ashewar for a saber. Not until she’d proved she could perform the killing dance. Ithsar spun and leaped again, kicking an imaginary attacker�
�s chest. She landed, following through with a left arm flick as if she were throwing a knife. Keeping her hands still buried in her long sleeves, she twirled and executed a series of slashes. On and on she danced, until she’d executed all thirty movements of the Sathiri killing dance.

  Ithsar stood before Ashewar, head high and chest heaving, controlling her breathing so she didn’t huff. Surely her mother was proud of the way she’d executed the dance. Surely now she could have a drink.

  Ashewar’s eyes fell to the ends of Ithsar’s sleeves. Her lip curled and she motioned for Ithsar to start the sequence over.

  She would try harder, and earn her mother’s love if it killed her. Ithsar slipped into the starting stance again, and spun, kicked, and slashed. She sprang higher, moved faster, leaped farther until, at last, she stood before her mother, the dance complete. Surely now…

  Ashewar’s nose wrinkled. She gazed down at Ithsar and motioned her to begin again.

  When her mother found out that her hands were healed, Ithsar would join the ranks of the assassins, but now, she had to prove she was worthy. Her hollow belly rumbled, but Ithsar unleashed her full power, spinning, turning, and flying through the air. Sathir swirled around her in reddish waves, tendrils flying from her as she attacked imaginary assailants. Waves of pale blue sathir flowed from Roshni, her ebony braid glinting in the torchlight as she watched Ithsar’s every movement with those piercing blue eyes, stony-faced. More sathir flowed from three others, until the blue, red, orange, and greens of their intertwined sathir danced in time to the rhythm of Ithsar’s movements. Too tired to figure out what the merging sathir meant, Ithsar kept dancing.

  Her legs shook as Ashewar motioned her to start yet again.

  Ithsar made a cupping gesture, the sign she and her silent sisters used when they needed to drink.

  The chief prophetess’ face hardened and she waved her to continue dancing. The four assassins whose sathir was now intertwined with hers shifted against the wall, but said nothing.

  Shoulders aching and legs trembling, Ithsar began the dance again, arching her back with more agility, putting in extra effort to impress her mother. Sathir swirled as she danced and finished, landing with her head high and a smile on her face. That was it. Any moment now, her mother would smile back, then she’d show Ashewar her healed fingers.

  The corners of Ashewar’s mouth drew down and she thrust her hand out, motioning her to start over, then held up her hands, her fingers splayed. Once. Twice. Thrice.

  Thirty more times?

  Ithsar’s smile froze, but she didn’t dare show her displeasure, so she kept her forced smile in place as she started the next thirty rounds of the Sathiri dance. Her head spun from lack of food. Her throat was dry and scratchy, like she’d swallowed sand. Perhaps she’d breathed in the grains that had flown around her as she’d danced. No matter, she could do this—she could prove herself to her mother.

  Ashewar gestured to the other assassins to go to the mess cavern for food, as if she knew Ithsar’s belly ached from hunger. She gave Bala a grim nod, motioning her to keep watch on Ithsar, and, robes rustling, stalked from the cavern—not toward the mess cavern or her throne room, but out toward the entrance—to witness Izoldia’s whipping.

  Under Bala’s glower, Ithsar finished a cycle and began the dance again, limbs leaden and her movements hollow. Her gnawing belly matched the emptiness of her heart. Her whole life she’d endured scorn, abuse and dismissal because of her deformed fingers. Couldn’t her mother see that all she wanted was her love?

  No, not love—the chief prophetess wasn’t sentimental. Approval—the barest nod or hand motion to show her mother was satisfied.

  As Ithsar finished the next cycle, the sathir around her washed scarlet. Blinding red pain flashed through her mind. She faltered and gasped. Izoldia—it had to be. The sathir was the color of blood. Blood that would be running down Izoldia’s back—and all because she’d planted the prisoner’s bindings in the burly guard’s pocket. Ithsar stumbled as the sathir ran off her in rivulets, pooling like water at her feet.

  Bala sneered. “Tired?” she hissed, not daring to use a louder voice and have it echo around the cavern and bring assassins running.

  Ithsar kept dancing, completing that cycle and the next, and the next, her mind searing with Izoldia’s pain and red sathir spraying from her hands. Bala’s teeth flashed in greeting as a new shift of assassins filed into the cavern. They joined Ithsar in allotted positions, twirling and slashing in time with her. Not one of them gave her a second glance. None of them could see the blood-red sathir. None of them could sense Izoldia’s pain.

  But, from a young age, Ithsar had possessed the gift of seeing without the aid of her mother’s prism-seer. Especially when events directly affected her. She’d seen a vision of her future: flying into battle on a mighty green dracha with Ezaara flying on the multi-hued queen of Dragons’ Realm and Roberto on his blue dracha Erob. Ezaara had given her a new chance to be whole, so Ithsar had set them free.

  And let Izoldia take the blame.

  Limbs nearly giving out and movements growing clumsy, Ithsar drove herself harder. But dance as she might, she couldn’t shake the visions of blood-red sathir coating her hands and pooling at her feet.

  Yes, she was responsible for her tormentor’s pain.

  Lashed

  Four assassins manhandled Izoldia along the tunnels underneath the oasis. Her head spun. The huge bump she’d somehow gotten last night ached, making her head throb in time with the guards’ footfalls. She couldn’t remember anything past her midday meal yesterday. Her face was covered in bruises and her body as battle-weary as if she’d been on a killing spree. Vague dreams of a storm—palm fronds slashing among purple clouds—flitted at the edges of her mind. But that couldn’t be right. She’d even asked Thut, and indeed, there’d been no storm yesterday.

  Besides, Ithsar’s face featured in those dreams, full of rage and strength. Izoldia snorted. That runt Ithsar was anything but strong. No, it must be just another nightmare about that pathetic heir of the chief prophetess, the useless sniveling thing. Izoldia should have poisoned her too, not just that slimy lizard that Ithsar insisted on carrying around like a crutch. When Izoldia was finished with her lashes, she’d kill the lizard and Ithsar too.

  Then no one could stand between her and the chief prophetess.

  And, when the chief prophetess was dead, there’d be nothing between Izoldia and the beautiful throne Ashewar sat upon—made from the bones of murdered men and carved with the Robandi Assassins’ killing rituals. Deep at night, when no one was around, Izoldia sneaked into the throne room and ran her fingers over the carved patterns, reveling in the exotic depictions of women murdering men. By studying the carvings, she’d learned new methods of torture, and had been hoping to test those methods on the Naobian prisoner as she forced him to breed with her sisters. But now, he was gone.

  A sun-blasted shame—she’d hoped they’d spawn fine daughters from him. Daughters they could raise to be strong assassins in true Robandi tradition. Ashewar had assigned Izoldia to kill the Naobian when his time was up. Izoldia had planned a slow and torturous death, peeling his skin under the desert sun while she carved holes in his pretty face.

  And then there were the other deaths she would’ve enjoyed—the newborn babes, his rejected spawn—all males or deformed females. Slicing littlings open while they screamed and watching the vultures pluck their bones clean had been her delightful pleasure when they’d last kidnapped men for their seed. There was no place for men or cripples among the assassins. No place for soft emotions. No place for that runty heir, Ithsar.

  Yes, it was a sun-blasted shame, but the guards had found the ropes in Izoldia’s own pockets. She couldn’t remember releasing him, couldn’t remember anything. Had he unbound his own ropes, fought with her and hit her head, escaping? Her cheeks burned with shame. Whatever had happened, it was obviously her fault. She’d failed the prophetess, failed her people.

  The
ir chances of replenishing their ranks were gone. Unless she hunted down more men.

  Yes, she’d find more men for her sisters to spawn from, so she could earn her way back into Ashewar’s good graces.

  As they clambered up the tunnel toward the daylight, Izoldia stumbled, her head throbbing. A guard hefted her arm to help her up—Thut, who wouldn’t dare disobey Ashewar, but was a loyal crony. Izoldia kept her head high. She would not falter. She’d take her lashes without a scream. The prisoner had escaped on her watch, so she deserved them.

  They stepped through the entrance into the shade of the date palms. Sentinels parted, letting them pass. Izoldia’s feet shuffled through the cool sand as Thut and the other three guards led her under the palms out to the edge of the oasis. Vast orange sands shimmered with the sun’s haze. Heat beat down upon Izoldia’s face. The sand was already burning the soles of her feet. She squinted against the brightness, then bowed her head against a palm trunk. Thut and the others tied ropes around her wrists, and bound her to the tree. Izoldia let them. She deserved this. The chief prophetess’ prime breeding stock had been lost on her watch.

  Thut uncoiled a whip from her waist, and moved in, murmuring so quietly it couldn’t be deemed as treason, “I have no wish to lash you. I am only obeying Ashewar.”

  Izoldia gave the faintest nod. It made no difference. She’d accept her scars as trophies, a symbol of her submission to the prophetess. But one day, she would no longer submit. Then she would pay back every assassin who had ever caused a wisp of harm to her.

  The whip cracked, slicing through Izoldia’s robes into her flesh. She clenched her jaw against its stinging bite as rivulets of warm blood trickled down her back.

  Another crack. Pain lanced across her shoulders. Gritting her teeth, she kept her head bowed so the whip wouldn’t mark her face. When the third lash came, she clamped her teeth down, biting the edge of her tongue. Her mouth flew open in a grimace. She arched her back against the pain, but refused to cry out.