The Last Namsara (Iskari #1)(33)

“It’s Willa’s story,” she said. Her mother’s voice rose up within her. Or rather, the echo of her mother’s voice. Despite the years that passed, despite what her mother had done, the memory of her set something glowing in Asha, right beneath her breastbone.

The cot sank in and when Asha looked up again, the slave peered down at the scroll unrolled across her lap. His thigh rested precariously close to her knee, which peeked out from beneath the hem of his shirt. Asha almost told him to move away. But after everything—after he’d bathed her, dressed her wounds—it seemed unnecessary.

“When I was younger,” she said, “I had nightmares every night.” She hadn’t spoken of this in years. “My mother called them terrors because even when I opened my eyes, I saw them.”

She traced each of the misspelled words on the parchment.

“My mother consulted every physician in the city and they all prescribed something different. Some gave me warm goat’s milk before bed. Others hung roots and herbs from my bedposts. One even put the tooth of a dragon beneath my pillow.”

She wrinkled her nose.

“Did it work?”

Asha shook her head. “The nightmares grew worse. So my mother tried her own remedy.” It didn’t matter if she told him. Everyone knew, anyway, because the slaves had stayed to listen at the door. The slaves were the ones who spread the rumor after her death: the dragon queen had told her daughter the old stories to save her, and it was the reason she died so young.

“When she woke to my screaming night after night, my mother left her bed, banished the slaves from my room, and locked herself in with me.” Asha glanced up to find him watching her. “She told me the stories until her voice went hoarse and the sun crept in through the windows. They were the only thing that chased the nightmares away.”

That was when all the symptoms started: the thinning hair, the lost weight, the shaking and coughing.

And finally, the dying.

Asha rolled up the scroll. She didn’t want to talk about this anymore. When she went to drop it with the others, though, she couldn’t let go.

“I have nightmares too.”

Asha looked to find him staring down at his hands, which were lying palm up in his lap. She had the strangest urge to touch them. To trace his large palms. To run her fingers along his calluses.

“Ever since I can remember, I’ve dreamed the same thing, night after night.”

“You have the same nightmare every night?”

He nodded. “It didn’t start out as a nightmare. When I was small, I used to love going to sleep, just so I could see her.”

“Her?”

His shoulders rose and fell with the breath he took.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Her.”

He took the scroll from Asha, unrolling it, then rolling it up again. Like his hands needed something to do.

“I used to think she was some kind of goddess. I used to think she was choosing me for some great destiny.” His hands tightened on the scroll. When he realized it, he handed it back. “Stupid boy that I was.” He forced a crooked smile, one void of lightness. He avoided Asha’s eyes as he said, “Now she’s a nightmare I can’t escape.”

His thigh touched her knee. Asha held her breath and looked down, staring at the place where their bodies connected, waiting for him to flinch away.

He didn’t.

“Your brother’s right, you know. You shouldn’t hunt alone.”

Those words shattered everything.

Kozu.

Asha didn’t know what time of day it was, but she knew one thing for certain: the red moon was thinner than when she’d fallen asleep. Time was slipping away from her.

“I have to go. . . .”

Asha stood. Scrolls clattered to her feet. The white linen shirt she wore fell midway to her knees, leaving her bare legs—one scarred, one smooth—peeking out from beneath the hem.

“Wait,” said the slave, pushing off the cot and retrieving something from the floor. “You can’t leave like that. Put this on.” He handed Asha another plain kaftan made of rough, scratchy fabric. “Maya brought it while you slept.”

Her fingers brushed against his as she took it.

She didn’t need to ask him to turn around while she dressed; he just did.

After gathering up her armor, Asha reached beneath the cot for her slayers. When she touched the cold marble and nothing else, she dropped to her knees, pain slicing through her side as she searched the floor.

Her slayers weren’t there.

But I brought them back with me. I know I did.

She looked around the whole room and . . . nothing. Her slayers were gone.

There was only one other person who’d spent the night in this room. Asha’s attention fixed on him like a hunter on her prey. The slave stood at the door, white bandages wrapped around his bare chest, watching her.

“Where are they?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.” But his voice said the opposite.

Asha rose and crossed the room, her anger rising in her as she did. Anger at him for tricking her and anger at herself for letting him.

She slammed him hard into the wood of the door.

The slave hissed through his teeth. His throat arched in pain. It made Asha think of him bound to Jarek’s fountain. It made her think of the shaxa shredding his back. She’d probably reopened every one of his wounds.