The Last Namsara (Iskari #1)(11)
Asha stepped up to her father’s side. She threw Dax a concerned look before the trumpeted arrival of four of her hunting slaves. They brought forward the dragon’s head, displayed on an ornate silver tray. The yellow, slitted eyes were lifeless now, and the tongue lolled out the side of its mouth. It was a mere shadow of the fierce thing it had been.
Asha’s injured hand blazed at its closeness. She gritted her teeth. To combat the pain, she imagined the head of Kozu on that platter. Which only made her long to be free of the court walls, hunting him down.
And then: someone called Asha’s name again.
She turned, searching the crowd. Everyone she made eye contact with looked away. As if looking Asha full in the face would call down dragonfire.
She listened and watched, but the caller kept silent.
Am I hearing things?
For a half a heartbeat, panic sparked inside her. Maybe her treatment had been too late. Maybe the dragonfire’s poison had already found its way to her heart. How mortifying that would be, to die of a dragon burn before her father’s entire court.
Asha shook her head. It wasn’t possible. She’d treated the burn in good time.
Maybe the stories are finally taking their toll. Poisoning me the way they poisoned my mother.
But Asha was meticulous about checking for signs. And so far, there hadn’t been any.
Her father commended his Iskari on her kill. He gave his usual speech on the danger and treachery of dragons, who had once been their allies before turning against their riders during his mother’s reign. He gave this speech after every kill. Which was why Asha was only half listening until he reached for her gloved hand—her burned hand—and she nearly cried out at the pain of it.
With his grip firm, the dragon king drew a flinching Asha out before him, giving the visiting scrublanders an example on which to feast their eyes.
“You see what they did to my daughter? This is what happens when you treat with dragons.” He let go, no doubt thinking of the day the city burned. Of the day Jarek brought back Asha’s charred body. “My Iskari has devoted her life to hunting down these beasts, and she won’t stop until the very last one is dead. Then, and only then, will we have peace.”
He smiled down at her. Asha tried to smile back, but found she couldn’t. Not with her burned hand right under his nose, flaring up in pain, proof of the old story she’d told aloud.
When the dragon king dismissed her hunting slaves and the music rose once more, Dax stepped up to Asha, smelling like peppermint tea.
“My fearsome little sister.” He grinned at her and Asha noticed the deep creases beside his mouth. Creases that hadn’t been there before he left. “Did you see what I brought home with me?”
He nodded in the direction of the scrublanders. As if anyone could miss them.
“Not quite as impressive as a dragon. . . .”
He wore his favorite tunic, one that came to his wrists and ended just above his knees. White scrolling embroidery lined the collar and the buttons down the front, offsetting the shimmering gold silk.
Gold for a golden-hearted boy, Asha thought.
Normally this garment fitted Dax perfectly, showing off his strong shoulders and tall form. But now it hung loose off his wasted frame. His normally starry eyes were dull as stones.
The stress of the scrublands, not to mention the long journey back across the desert, had obviously worn him out. The sight of him, so thin and tired looking, reminded Asha of someone, but she couldn’t think who.
“You missed the introductions,” he said, studying her the same way she studied him.
“I had things to do.” Like hide the evidence of my treachery.
“Do you want to meet our guests?” he asked, taking the cup of wine offered him by one of the serving slaves.
“Not really,” Asha said, refusing a cup from the same slave.
“Great!” said Dax. “I’ll introduce you. . . .”
Warily, Asha followed her brother through the throng until he stopped abruptly in front of someone. When he stepped aside, a young woman stood before them. She wore a finely spun cotton dress, the color of cream. The girl pushed back the sandskarf hooding her face, revealing clear, dark eyes and the proud lift of an elegant chin. On her gloved and fisted hand perched a hawk as white as the mist that gathered over the Rift in the early morning.
Asha stared at the bird. It stared back with eerie silver eyes.
This girl was a scrublander.
Instinctively, Asha stepped back. The girl didn’t notice. She was too busy staring at Asha’s scar.
“This is my sister,” Dax told the girl. “The Iskari.”
As he spoke, he stroked the hawk’s white breast with the backs of his fingers. They were clearly acquainted, because the bird nuzzled his hand with the crown of its head.
“Asha, this is Roa. Daughter of the House of Song. Her brother couldn’t be here, but he so wants to meet the infamous Iskari. I promised I’d bring you with me next time.”
He winked, knowing how she’d feel about that.
Asha had no desire to ever set foot in the scrublands. They were flat, dull, and impoverished—or so she’d been told. Worst of all, scrublanders were still devoted to the old ways. It made her wonder how in all the skies Dax enticed them here, to the secular capital they hated.
Asha loved her brother, but he wasn’t exactly a diplomat. The only reason he’d been sent to the scrublands in the first place was to get him out of the city. He’d picked a drunken fight with Jarek’s second-in-command, who fell from the roof and broke his spine. It caused a huge scandal and increased tensions between the king and his army.