The Last Namsara (Iskari #1)(35)

When the scrublands learned of Amina’s death, of her profane funeral, they wept in sorrow and howled in rage. They declared the dragon king a monster and in their fury, took his son and heir—a boy of only twelve, a boy who was a guest in their land—and turned him into a prisoner. He was the heir of a monstrous king who would grow into a monster himself, and they treated him accordingly. In so doing, the scrublanders smashed the dragon king’s alliance, scattering its broken shards across the sand.

And Amina, the gentle queen, would never be remembered as the one who cured her daughter’s nightmares.

She would always and forever be a traitor.





Fifteen


The problem with returning to the palace four days before her wedding was that the moment Asha stepped through the outer courtyard, she ran the risk of being seen. And if she were seen, she could be summoned.

So Asha was not surprised when she heard someone call, “Iskari!” It was a slave girl. One who worked for the palace seamstresses. “You’re late for your fitting.”

“What fitting?”

“Your dress fitting.”

Asha frowned. Right now she needed fresh hunting clothes, not a fancy dress.

“It’s your wedding dress, Iskari.”

It was like walking into a trap, one laid just for her. Because at that exact same moment, Jarek stepped directly into her path.

Asha stopped dead.

“I did remind you,” the slave said.

Jarek eyed the bundle of armor beneath her arm, then the kaftan she wore. A kaftan that clearly wasn’t hers. She watched him thinking behind his eyes, pondering her strange attire, wondering why she would be carrying dragon-hunting gear but not wearing it. Trying to piece things together but missing bits of the puzzle.

Asha suddenly wanted nothing more than to be hidden away in her room, being measured for a dress. Before he could question her, she brushed past him.

“I’m late for my fitting.”

Jarek reached to grab her, but she stepped away quickly.

“Have you seen Safire?” he called.

Asha stopped. She turned to find a smirk marring Jarek’s handsome face.

“Neither have I,” he said.

Asha turned her back on the commandant. Despite the panic swelling inside her, despite the ice at the base of her spine, she kept her steps measured and calm.

As soon as she turned down the corridor, she started to run.

She didn’t go to her room. She went to Safire’s, which was empty. The door had been fixed—Asha had asked a slave to swap it with a stronger, newer door from a room down the hall—and there was no sign of any struggle. Everything was in its place.

Asha checked the sickroom next.

Empty. Empty and smelling like fresh-cut limes.

“Please, Iskari, this will go much faster if you hold still.”

Her arms ached and the stitched gash in her side bloomed with pain. She’d been holding still and straight for what seemed like days as the slave girls worked, pinning the delicate fabric where it was too loose and marking it where it was too tight. It was getting harder to keep still with her wound throbbing and her mind humming with worry.

It might be a trick. Jarek knew, better than anyone, how to upset her. He might have mentioned Safire just to unnerve her.

Asha gritted her teeth at the pain in her burned hand. She’d left her fireproof gloves on to keep it hidden. Forcing her outstretched arms to stay perfectly still, she turned her attention back to the slave before her. The one who’d come to fetch her.

“You can lower your arms now, Iskari.”

The slave turned away to mark something down. Relieved, Asha did as she said. The other two slaves turned to put away their pins, leaving Asha an unobstructed view of the mirror. Her dress shimmered like sunlight on the sea—which Asha had swum in long ago, on trips to Darmoor with her mother. The port city was surrounded on three sides by a vast expanse of salt water.

The long, petal-shaped sleeves were slit at the elbows and fell past her wrists. Embroidered flowers entwined themselves around her collar. There were two layers: gold underneath and white on top. From the waist down, the wedding dress flared out in shimmering layers of fabric so light, they felt like seafoam.

It was the prettiest thing she had ever seen.

It did not suit her.

The delicate elegance made her scar stand out even more than usual. The mottled, discolored skin ran from the right side of her forehead down to her ear and jaw and continued past her throat and shoulders, disappearing beneath the neckline. The rest of it hid beneath the fabric where no one else could see it.

Jarek’s slave had seen it, though. He had seen all of her.

The thought sent hot shame rushing through her.

The slave girl returned with a bolt of gold fabric, severing Asha from her reflection. “Can you raise your arms, Iskari?” she asked, holding a soon-to-be sash up to Asha’s waist.

Asha raised her arms.

The moment she did, a scream shattered the calm.

Asha and the slave girl looked to the door, where two soldats burst in without knocking, their steel morions askew.

“There’s a dragon in the city, Iskari!”

The slaves before her trembled in terror.

Asha slid the top layer of her dress off easily. The bottom layer was another matter. Jarek had this dress made to his exact specifications: the buttons were minuscule, climbing up the back, making it physically impossible for the wearer herself to undo, ensuring that only her husband could get her out of it on their wedding night.