Compared to all the other kaftans in the courtyard, which were elegant and modest, Asha’s was a spectacle. Oh, it was finely made. It probably cost a soldat’s monthly wage—which was nothing for Jarek, whose father left him a bulging inheritance.
This kaftan was a luscious shade of indigo. Its thin layers shifted around her like sand, contained only by a wide sash tied tight and high around her waist. If Asha had to guess, she’d say he’d bought it in Darmoor, her father’s largest trading port. But the kaftan was made for beautiful, desirable girls. Not scarred, horrifying ones.
It was the neckline, which plunged, and the translucent material that insulted her most. It allowed Jarek to see too much of her. But the last time she’d refused a gift, Safire got hurt. So Asha wore it.
“You look like a goddess.”
Asha went rigid. His gaze made her want to disappear. She longed to move through this crowd unseen, gather her armor and her axe, and hunt Kozu down this very moment.
Instead, she said, “You should have seen me earlier: covered from head to toe in dragon gore.”
Jarek was not put off. He stepped in closer, careful not to turn his back to her brother and the scrublander. The commandant never turned his back on a threat.
“Dance with me.”
Asha stared once more at the slave pouring tea. “You know I don’t dance.”
“There’s a first time for everything.” Jarek’s grip tightened, allowing him to easily maneuver her away from her brother and his scrublander friend.
“Hey. Sandeater.” Dax grabbed the sleeve of Jarek’s shirt. “She doesn’t want to dance with you.”
Jarek’s eyes flashed. He shoved Dax. Easily.
The heir stumbled into Roa, spilling his cup of wine over them both. Roa’s lips parted in shock, her hands fluttering to the maroon stain seeping through her creamy linen dress.
“Excuse us.” Jarek smirked, forcing Asha into the crowd, toward the music. As he did, Asha glanced back over her shoulder and caught a glimpse of Roa’s narrowed eyes.
“I haven’t seen you in a month,” Jarek said in her ear. “I buy you a dress three times the price it’s worth. Now it’s time for you to do as I ask.”
Asha was about to repeat her refusal—more clearly this time—when that voice returned, calling her name. She didn’t look. She knew she’d find no one there. And besides, where would she look? The voice called to her from a hundred directions at once.
Asha. Asha. Asha.
It reminded her of a story. . . .
She forced the thought out of her head as Jarek dragged her onward, closer to the music. He pulled her into him, locking his arms around her waist so their bodies aligned. So she could feel his desire—hard and prodding.
Feeling sick, Asha turned her face away. She shouldn’t have. It was dangerous to show weakness in front of the commandant. But after ten days of hunting in the Rift, Asha didn’t have any energy left for games.
“I don’t dance,” she said again, pressing her hands firmly against the black silk of his shirt, trying to force space between them.
“And I don’t take no for an answer.” His hands tightened around her. His eyes seemed too hungry tonight. Like a starved animal.
Asha looked away, over Jarek’s shoulder, right into the freckled face of his slave. The skral stood in a semicircle of musicians at the center of the courtyard, their backs to the calm water of the wide basin.
While Jarek spoke, Asha watched, spellbound, as the slave’s fingers moved like spiders across the strings of his worn, pear-shaped lute. His eyes were closed in concentration, as if he’d gone somewhere else entirely, somewhere far away from this courtyard.
Sensing her gaze, the slave opened his eyes. At the sight of the Iskari staring him down, his fingers fumbled the strings. He recovered quickly, then looked to the man holding her captive. That dreamy, faraway look vanished, replaced by a scowl as dark as a storm cloud.
“Are you listening to a word I’m saying?” Jarek asked.
He sounded so far away.
For the last time that evening, the call rang out. Her name on the wind. Only this time, it echoed through the whole courtyard.
Surely, everyone can hear it, Asha thought.
But when she looked around, draksors danced and laughed and sipped their tea, oblivious.
Something was wrong. Asha could sense the wrongness buzzing in her bones. She needed to get out of here.
Asha wrenched herself from Jarek, who wasn’t expecting this kind of answer and let go more easily than usual. She stumbled, tripping over dancers as she did, and the music screeched to a halt.
The call drummed in her ears. Beat in her blood. Pushed out everything else.
Asha, Asha, Asha.
It made her dizzy. When she looked up, the eyes of Jarek’s slave were staring into hers.
Look away, she warned. But the sunset sky was rolling down now and the courtyard floor was rolling up and when Asha closed her eyes to make it stop, she felt herself sway . . . and then fall.
The slave caught her before she hit the ground.
With the room spinning around her, Asha pressed her cheek against his chest, willing it to stop.
This is what happens when you tell the old stories aloud.
It made her think of her mother—whom the stories killed. But as the darkness seeped in, it wasn’t her mother’s death that Asha remembered. It was the way it felt to be held by her.
It felt just like this.
“I have you,” said his voice at her ear. “You’re all right.”
The last sound she heard was the steady thump of a heart beating against her cheek.
The Severing
Before the great Severing, raconteurs preserved stories. These sacred storytellers told the old stories aloud: hallowed tales of the Old One, his First Dragon, and his heroic Namsaras. The raconteurs passed these stories down from father to son. They traveled from city to city, spinning words like thread before crowds of people in exchange for coin or a room or a meal. It was an honor to host a raconteur under your roof and serve him warm bread, for he was a holy man with a holy task.
After the dragons fled, the raconteurs sickened and died. The old stories began to poison their tellers, eating away at their bodies, turning on them just as the dragons turned on their riders.
But the raconteurs continued telling their stories aloud. And as they did, they continued to die. As more and more of them sickened, fear rooted itself in the heart of every draksor. This time, they didn’t turn on their neighbors. This time, they shuttered themselves in their homes to keep safe. They feared what would happen if the old stories fell on their ears. They feared whatever plague the Old One was unleashing now.
Which is when the dragon queen stepped in.
She renounced the Old One, who’d betrayed them. She outlawed the old stories and declared that any raconteur continuing to practice his craft would be imprisoned. When it didn’t stop the raconteurs, when the high priestess herself convinced them to keep telling the stories, it fell to the dragon queen to protect her people from the Old One’s wickedness.
She did three things.