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

by Eileen Mueller

  Thika was still asleep on her bed, his tail curled around his body. Ithsar crawled back under her blanket, wondering why Bala had been here.

  Blessed by the Gods

  Izoldia awoke. Her wounds were burning, way worse than when she’d dozed off into a fitful sleep. The pain draught must’ve worn off. She flexed her back, muscles searing, but different than before. She grabbed fistfuls of sheet. The fabric tore beneath her hands with a satisfying rip.

  Something crashed to the stone floor and glass skittered across the healing cavern.

  “Izoldia, by the mighty dracha gods!”

  “What?” Izoldia growled, sitting up. She turned.

  A hand flew to the healer’s mouth. “Your back. It’s healed.”

  Izoldia snorted. That idiot. “Of course it’s healing.” It wasn’t as if anyone was standing there, making the wounds worse. She stopped, mid-thought. The burning had faded to a warm glow. She flexed her back. The glow slowly faded.

  “No, I said it’s healed.”

  Surprise rippled through Izoldia. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood, flexing her arms and bending her torso. “The pain is gone.”

  The healer nodded and whispered, “The wounds have disappeared. The dracha gods have blessed you.”

  Izoldia felt a slow grin spreading across her face. She pointed at the shattered glass. “Then you’d better clean this up, hadn’t you? You fool, the chief prophetess won’t be pleased you’ve smashed her glassware.” Izoldia backhanded the woman so hard that the healer’s head flew back, the audible crack of her blow ricocheting through the healing cavern.

  Treason

  The heavy tromp of guards woke Ithsar. It didn’t bode well, but she wasn’t expecting much after yesterday. Thika slithered out from under the blanket, and scampered up the wall to the low rocky ceiling of her alcove. Thika’s throat puffed in a brief, brave show of defiance as he angled his head toward the doorway, then the lizard pressed himself flat into a crevice—one of his favorite hidey-holes—his orange and brown striped hide blending with the sandstone.

  Ithsar closed her eyes again, pretending to sleep.

  Guards stopped outside her curtain and flung it open. One of them strode in and shook her shoulder roughly.

  Still clothed in her robes, Ithsar rolled to face them and sat up. A moment later, Thut’s saber was at her throat. The guard hauled Ithsar outside. Others grabbed her upper arms and dragged her, like a criminal, along the corridor to the throne room. Ithsar didn’t bother asking what they wanted her for. There was no point.

  Thut thrust the heavy doors open and pushed Ithsar inside.

  Gods, her muscles ached. She was still shaky. If Drida and Roshni hadn’t fed her, her legs would’ve collapsed. As it was, Ithsar stumbled into the cavern, but regained her footing and straightened her spine.

  With fiery eyes burning like the Robandi sun, Ashewar, sitting on her grotesque throne, raked her gaze over Ithsar. Behind her throne, her guards were arrayed like vultures on a dead branch, Drida and Roshni among them, faces harsh and shadowed in the flickering torchlight.

  Ithsar met her mother’s fiery stare without flinching, without apology.

  Ashewar set her elbows on the arms of her throne and steepled her fingers. “On the night the strangers escaped, I saw a purple bruise of sathir staining the sky around them, and the palms swaying violently in the breeze. One of those palms dropped a cluster of dates right onto Izoldia’s head. I wonder what caused that? Magic from the strangers? Or something, someone, closer to home?”

  Oh gods, oh gods, her mother knew.

  Or suspected.

  “But no, there is no one here with that sort of skill,” Ashewar continued, her eyes never leaving Ithsar’s face. “I must consider this an act of war from the North. Soon, we must strike back at these dracha ryter and their worm-scaled beasts. But first, I’ve to deal with you, an heiress who sleeps through a vicious attack upon my guards by our enemies. Once you are dealt with, we’ll ride to war and slay those dracha ryter in their sleep.”

  Ithsar had really messed things up. Instead of saving Ezaara and Roberto, she’d consigned them to a war against the blood-thirstiest assassins.

  The doors thunked open, making the guards twitch. Izoldia was in the doorway, her huge frame rigid with tension. Bala rapidly gestured to her. Izoldia’s posture softened and a grin broke out on her face.

  Then Izoldia stalked across the tiles to stand in front of Ashewar’s throne. “My revered Chief Prophetess, Seer of all, and the ultimate Wise One, I have reason to believe your heiress is plotting against you. She wishes to murder you.”

  “No!” The cry broke from Ithsar before she could check herself.

  Ashewar waved Ithsar to silence. “Does she, now?”

  Bala piped up, “Last night, I heard the weakling mutter something about killing you, right before she collapsed.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Ithsar cried. “You weren’t even there. It was Thut on duty when I fainted.”

  “Fainted, did you? Not a good trait in an heir.” Ashewar’s eyes flashed, as hard as diamond. “Bala, take witnesses and search her quarters.”

  Bala bowed, thumping her hand on her chest, and then exited the throne room, taking two other guards with her as witnesses.

  Ithsar breathed a quiet sigh of relief. There was nothing in her alcove that could incriminate her. Nothing except Thika. She swallowed. She hadn’t thought of bringing her friend with her.

  “My most revered and wise Chief Prophetess, please let me explain—”

  Izoldia’s words died as Ashewar waved her to silence.

  Good. Izoldia’s fawning attitude rubbed Ithsar’s scales the wrong way.

  Ashewar rose from her throne with the grace of a feline predator. Her feet slipped across the tiled floor. Noiselessly, she glided between Ithsar and Izoldia, her quick eyes measuring every breath, every twitch of a muscle, every heartbeat. She stalked, circling them both.

  Ithsar’s heart thundered. As her mother’s icy gaze slid over her, she lowered her eyes, staring at her dirty toes on the clean tiles.

  “Izoldia, you appear to be in remarkably good health after just being lashed.”

  Izoldia preened, meeting Ashewar’s gaze. “My rapid healing is a sign of the gods’ approval, my revered Chief Prophetess.” Izoldia inclined her head and gave a deep bow. “I took each lash with pleasure, knowing you had bestowed them upon me. However, the gods have seen fit to heal me while I slept.”

  As quick as a rust viper, Ashewar sprang, slitting Izoldia’s robe with her knife.

  The collective sharp intake of breath from the gathered guards ricocheted like a scream in Ithsar’s ears. Her heart raced like a herd of camels, their hooves thundering inside her chest.

  Ashewar’s eyes narrowed. “Bring a torch,” the chief prophetess hissed.

  A guard sprang into action, fetching a flaming brand.

  “Bend.” Ashewar snapped, kicking Izoldia in the back of the legs.

  The guard fell to her knees on the tiles, bowing her back. A crisscrossed mash of thin, red scars gleamed on her healed flesh.

  Ithsar let her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, staring like the rest of the assassins.

  Ashewar spun, her sword a flash in the torchlight as it sliced toward Ithsar.

  Ithsar dropped into a defensive crouch, ready to roll, raising her arms to block the blow, her sleeves sliding down her arms.

  Ashewar’s sword stopped a hand’s breadth short of Ithsar. Her mother’s control was impeccable. What had she been trying to prove? Ashewar’s cackle bounced off the walls, reverberating around the throne room, making the hairs on Ithsar’s neck rise. Then her mother’s glittering gaze landed on Ithsar’s healed fingers outstretched before her face.

  Her mother’s glare made something inside Ithsar curl up and die like a stray plant out of the shade.

  Ashewar sheathed her sword, her eyes never leaving those fingers.

  Surely now, her mother would rejoice
that she was healed. Ithsar sprang to her feet, smiling. “Mother, I—”

  Her smile froze as her mother sneered, “So, you’ve been healed, too? I wonder how that happened?”

  Although her mother’s words sounded harmless, the venom of hundreds of rust vipers laced her words, sending icy trickles of fear through Ithsar’s bones.

  §

  Ashewar stalked back to her beautiful bone throne. That scheming snipe of a girl had been healed. In a flash of insight, Ashewar knew the vile blonde Queen’s Rider had been responsible. Her limbs shook with savage rage. Her prisoner had not only escaped, but she’d healed her daughter. The girl that, one day, would be the end of her. Ashewar tried to control her trembling hands. She’d heard rumors of the miraculous piaua juice in the northern lands—in Dragons’ Realm—but she’d never believed they were true. Now before her eyes was evidence that, not one, but two people, had been healed. Perhaps the man she’d captured for breeding stock had been too. How else could he have negotiated the caverns without his guts spilling out of his belly wound?

  She wanted no trial for her daughter. Slaughtering her on the spot would be more fitting for such a despicable runt.

  Izoldia rubbed her hands together. “If I may, my revered Chief Prophetess.”

  Ashewar narrowed her eyes at the fawning sycophant who’d dogged her daughter for years, but had not been able to quell Ithsar’s stubborn streak—or break her spirit. The daughter whose long slim fingers now moved with dexterity as she tucked them into her sleeves.

  “But, Mother,” the girl cried, eyes bright with tears—another weakness not to be tolerated. “Mother, my hands are healed, so I can now train as an assassin. Please let me be a true weapon in your hands.”

  Ithsar dropped to the tiles, her forehead kissing the floor and her outstretched, now nimble, fingers within a hand’s breadth of Ashewar’s deadly yokka. An act of trust. A fool’s trust. She should snap the girl’s neck and end this now. “Stand, you weakling.”

  As the girl scrambled to her feet, Izoldia crooned, “Chief Prophetess, Ithsar wants to be trained as an assassin so she can end your life. It was Ithsar who set the prisoners free and planted the ropes in my robes. I fear Ithsar has plans to kill you.”

  The door to the throne room burst open and Bala marched inside, holding up an earthenware pot. She strode between Ithsar and Izoldia and laid it at Ashewar’s feet, then bent and touched her temple to the ground near Ashewar’s yokka. Yokka that could slit her throat if a single word from her guard displeased her. Ashewar gave her coldest smile and waved Bala to speak.

  Bala swayed back on her haunches. “We found this pot under the runt’s bed.” At a nod from Ashewar, Bala uncorked it and held it up, waving the fumes toward Ashewar.

  The reeking poison stung Ashewar’s nostrils. “Dragon’s bane,” she spat.

  Bala bowed. “We believe that the deformed runt was seeking to end your life, dear Chief Prophetess.”

  Ashewar coiled in her strength, refraining from smiting the rutting snipe dead on the spot. This useless hunk of flesh that had been born of her body with blood, sweat, and pain had been a bitter disappointment since her first cry. Although she hadn’t been male, perhaps it would have been just as good if she’d had her guards feed that runtling to the desert vultures.

  She needed strong women to fill the ranks of the Robandi Silent Assassins. Women who would not betray her. Unlike this snipe—the spawn of that attractive man who’d produced nothing but male spawn and this useless deformed waste of flesh. She would end this once and for all.

  §

  No. This was not the beginning of a new life with strong, healed fingers. A life fighting among her cold-hearted sisters, the Robandi assassins. Pain lanced through Ithsar’s muscles. If she hadn’t already been lying on the floor, then she would have fallen at the ice-cold rage she’d seen in her mother’s eyes. For years she’d been working to please her mother, to gain her love. And now? Now, there was nothing.

  Nearby, Izoldia smirked.

  Izoldia had poisoned her mother against her. Rage built inside Ithsar. She quelled it. She only had one chance. And that was to submit to her right for a trial before her execution. “But, Mother, that poison’s not mine. In fact, someone used it to poison Thika.”

  Ashewar sneered at her. “You named that despicable lizard from that useless man?”

  Her father was not useless. Her father had taught her to love, to believe in herself. Precious, strong beyond words. Above all else, he had given her Thika, a special friend to carry with her. Ithsar habitually placed her hand against her belly. Her robes were empty.

  “We searched her quarters but never found the spiteful lizard,” Bala snapped.

  Ithsar hid her smile. No doubt, Thika had evaded them. She sprang to her feet. “I request the right of a fair trial.”

  “I’m sure you do.” Ashewar turned to Izoldia. “My most trusted guard, it’s the runt’s fault I had you whipped. What do you suggest?”

  Izoldia bowed so low her hair scraped the floor. “It would be my humble pleasure to assist you in dispatching this traitor. I have long wanted her bleached bones to lie strewn under the hot desert sun.”

  “I’m aware,” Ashewar said dryly. She turned, her cold eyes slicing through Ithsar. “This has been trial enough,” she announced. “Tomorrow at dawn, this outcast will be thrown off the edge of the Robandi cliffs into the Naobian Sea.” Ashewar stroked an elegant finger along the carved arm of her bone throne. “Although I pity the sea monsters who will devour her. She won’t make much of a meal.”

  Faithful Friend

  Guards dragged Ithsar, kicking and fighting, down the narrow passages in the deepest dungeons. When they reached a tiny cell at the tunnel’s end, they unlocked the door and threw her inside. Ithsar landed on the hard stone floor and immediately leaped to her feet, rushing to the doorway. Thut lashed out, kicking Ithsar beneath her rib cage.

  Winded, Ithsar stumbled, hitting the stone, then rolled to her feet. She lunged, but the bars clanged shut in her face.

  Thut stalked down the passage, laughing with the other guards—they made no attempt to keep their vows of silence now that they were so far from Ashewar.

  Ithsar yelled, “No!” But after years of disuse, her voice only echoed in the tunnel like a rasping ghost.

  She refused to give up, pacing the length of her cell, running her hands along the crumbling walls, straining her eyes in the flickering shadows of the distant torches. Here, near the back of the cell, the sandstone wall was damp. She scrabbled with her fingers, gouging tracks in the dirt, but Ithsar knew they were under the heart of the lake. Even if she could dig up high enough, the sandstone would cave in, the cell instantly flooding, burying her in a pile of waterlogged silt.

  She ran her hands along the back wall and turned toward the cell door again, barking her shin on something hard. Her newly healed hands ran over a natural stone shelf with the remnants of a tattered blanket lying on it.

  Ithsar slumped onto the bed and wadded the scrappy blanket into a ball, hugging it against her chest. Without Thika snuggling against her belly, she felt empty. And even though she’d seen a vision of herself flying into battle with the two dracha ryter she’d released, it must’ve been nothing but a dream. Her belly gnawing with hunger, and her muscles still aching from her Sathiri dance yesterday, she choked back her sobs and drifted into a nightmare-plagued sleep.

  §

  The bars clanged open and Ashewar swept into the cell. The blaze of the torches in her guards’ hands made Ithsar squint as she scrambled to her feet, still clutching the tattered blanket. Ashewar waved a languid hand and her personal guards filed out of the cell, leaving them alone.

  Ithsar considered dashing past her mother to snatch the torch the guards had left in a sconce outside her cell and burning her way out, but there were too many guards waiting along the tunnel. There was no point in fighting here where the odds were against her. Better to wait until she had a chance. For the first t
ime in years, she did not hide her hands inside her sleeves. She would not back down. If she had the chance again, she’d still free Ezaara and Roberto.

  Dark shadows played across Ashewar’s face. “So, I finally get to kill you. Believe me, the pleasure will be all mine.”

  Ithsar’s chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. Her fingers were healed, so why did her mother still hate her so much? “I would gladly train with my sisters.”

  “The likes of you? Train with the Silent Assassins?” Ashewar wrinkled her nose. “You’re a useless chattel, only worthy to fetch and carry, or bow and scrape. My clan have undergone extensive training. They have discipline.”

  As if dancing the Sathiri dance yesterday from morn until deep into the night had not taken discipline. As if bowing and scraping and hiding her strength from these monsters she’d lived with all these years had not taken discipline.

  “Izoldia has told me everything. You freed those dirty dracha ryter, going against your own flesh and blood.” Ashewar pointed to the dusty sandstone floor. “At my feet.”

  Ithsar complied, prostrating herself for the chief prophetess. There was no point in fighting. Not here. Not now.

  “You loved your father, didn’t you?” Ashewar gave the feral, wild smile of a panther about to pounce. “Did you know you were his downfall? One day as I sat with my hands cradled around my prism-seer, seeking glimpses of my future, I saw you killing me.” Ashewar stalked around Ithsar, a shark circling its prey. “How could a despicable tiny slip beat me, the best fighting weapon the Robandi has ever had? I scoffed at the idea, assuming the vision must be wrong. But I kept seeing it: you, killing me in a hundred different ways.” Ashewar paused by Ithsar’s head and then lashed out with her foot, kicking Ithsar’s chin.

  Ithsar’s head snapped back. Her jaw clamped so hard, her tongue was already swelling, the tang of blood in her mouth. Precious, strong beyond words. She held onto her father’s words.