The Last Namsara (Iskari #1)(17)

“It’s not Roa I’m worried about.”

Asha frowned, hearing what Safire didn’t say.

It was strange that he’d brought the scrublanders back with him. It didn’t seem like something Dax could manage alone. What if he was smitten with Roa? And, if so, what if Roa knew it and was using it to her advantage? Using Dax’s affection to get within striking distance of the king?

Asha’s heart squeezed at the thought. Because underneath all of her brother’s ridiculous bravado beat a selfless, golden heart.

The real reason Dax got into the fight with Jarek’s second-in-command? It wasn’t because he was drunk. It was because it was the second-in-command who’d beaten Safire so badly, she could hardly get out of bed for three days.

Asha’s brother might be a reckless fool. But he was a reckless fool who would do what it took to save the ones he loved from pain.

She looked to her cousin. “I need you to watch him. Stay close and make sure he doesn’t get himself into trouble.”

“We can both watch him.”

But Asha couldn’t. She had a dragon to hunt.

She walked to the edge of the roof, pacing as she stared out past the city walls to the ridge of the mountain range towering above them. The morning mist gathered in its gray crevices and green valleys. The fading red moon clung to the bit of sky above.

Six more days until the moon disappeared completely. After that, Asha would belong to Jarek.

If only she had more time. . . .

“There’s something I need to do first.”

Turning away from the sight, Asha gathered up the wasters. She felt her cousin’s gaze on her back. This time, Safire didn’t put a voice to the questions burning inside her.

But that didn’t mean Asha didn’t hear them.

“As soon as it’s done, I’ll tell you everything,” Asha said. “I promise.”

She knew Safire wouldn’t betray her secret. Knew it better than the old stories buried in her depths. But if the dragon king found out Safire knew his daughter was perpetrating criminal acts, it would be the end for her. Asha couldn’t put her cousin in a situation that would require more grace from the dragon king—because there wasn’t any grace left for Safire.

The less her cousin knew, the safer she was.





A Tale of Caution

Once there was a slave named Lillian. Like all well-trained slaves, she kept her head down and did as she was bidden. She waited on the dragon queen with patience and care, dressing and bathing her, plaiting her long hair and sprinkling her neck with the finest rose water. Like all well-trained slaves, Lillian was invisible.

The second son of the dragon queen was named Rayan. Like most young draksors of high rank, he wore only the finest clothes and drank only the finest wine. He bet on the strongest dragons in the pit and broke in the most unruly of stallions. Like any handsome son of a dragon queen, Rayan caught every woman’s eye.

One day, returning early from a desert ride, Rayan strode through his mother’s orange grove and stopped short. Someone was singing. Someone with the voice of a nightingale.

Rayan paused, unseen, beneath the blooming trees. He watched, transfixed by the sight of a barefooted slave as she spun on her heel, her plain dress twirling around her as she danced to the tune of her own voice.

Every day after, Rayan returned to the orange grove to wait for his mother’s slave. He only ever meant to watch her. He never meant to be seen.

But Lillian saw. Her dance paused midstep. Her song broke midtune.

Lillian fled.

Rayan pursued, trying to explain: he hadn’t meant to find her that day beneath the blossoms. He hadn’t meant to return every day since. He only liked to watch her dance, to hear her sing. The sight of her was like a still pool. Like a calm and soothing place.

Lillian stood with her back against the wall, trembling and wide-eyed, refusing to look him in the face. She fell to her knees, begging. It confused Rayan, who kept telling her to rise.

And then, all at once, he understood.

She thought he’d come to take her against her will. The way a stallion takes a mare.

The thought struck like a blow.

This time, it was Rayan who fled.

When Lillian looked up, she found herself alone. She picked herself up from the marble floor of her mistress’s salon. She looked and looked for the son of the dragon queen—but all trace of him was gone.

The next morning, Lillian woke to a bouquet of orange blossoms—delicate white petals in the shape of a star—and a note that said, I’m sorry.

Lillian returned to the orange grove. She found Rayan waiting, his back to her, looking up into the dark green boughs above. She could have left right then. He never would have known.

But she didn’t.

Lillian said the name of the second son of the dragon queen, and Rayan turned. His face changed at the sight of her, filling with light. When he stepped toward her, she didn’t run. She let him look. And as he looked, Lillian reached to touch his hair, his cheek, his throat.

After that day, their eyes met across courtyards. In dark and narrow halls, their hands brushed. Beneath the cover of night, in secret gardens and forgotten alcoves and tucked-away terraces, Lillian and Rayan gave themselves to each other.

It wasn’t long before a child grew within her. But such a thing was not permitted for a queen’s slave.