The Last Namsara (Iskari #1)(42)

The city’s narrow, winding streets filled with slaves being fitted for collars. Gold for the palace. Silver for the wealthy. Iron for the rest.

The Namsara came to the dragon queen with a second warning. “The Old One will show mercy, but you must release the enemy. Break their collars and set them loose.”

The queen banished the Namsara from her sight.

The slaves were given roles, and rules were made to govern them: Never look a draksor in the eye or speak their name aloud. Never touch a draksor other than your master. Never drink out of a draksor’s cup or eat off their plate.

The Namsara came a third and final time. This time, he did not beseech the queen. Nor did he offer mercy. Instead, he declared, for all the city to hear:

“This will be a sign the Old One has left you. Your fiercest allies will turn against you. They will burn down your homes and attack your families, and their fleeing shadows will drive a wedge between all of Firgaard.”

And that’s exactly what happened.





Nineteen


The dragon was a liar.

Its story was all wrong. The skral were ruthless. They’d pillaged and burned every city they came across. They left only ruin in their wake. If the dragon queen let them go, their horror would continue. Asha’s grandmother had been protecting her people and everyone else.

The dragon was twisting the truth. Just like Asha herself had changed the end of her story, this dragon had changed his.

Later that night, Asha woke to the smell of smoke. Ready to yell at the slave reckless enough to make a fire and give their location away, she bolted to her feet. But the words fell silent on her lips in the presence of the man sitting opposite her. A fire roared between them, but it was no campfire. And there was no sign of the skral or the dragon.

Elorma sat across from her instead. “You’ve done well with your second gift,” he said. “The Old One is pleased.”

Asha’s temper curled around her like smoke. “The Old One can eat sand.”

His mouth quirked up at the side. “Let’s see how you do with your next gift.”

“No,” she said. “Please, no more.”

“You’ll like this one. I promise.” He pushed his hood back and his gaze slid to the burn scar running down her face. “I think you’ll find it . . . useful.”

Asha knew better. She gritted her teeth. Her fists clenched. “No matter how many times the Old One gets in my way, I’m still going to kill his dragon. I swear it.”

Elorma sighed, then got to his feet.

“The Old One bestows his third gift,” he said wearily. “Fireskin. You’ll need it to fulfill this next command.”

Fireskin?

Her fists uncurled.

“You will take the sacred flame from the thief who stole it and return it to where it belongs.”

A jolt of panic shot up through her legs. Her father took the sacred flame from the caves—where it belonged.

“You want me to commit treason . . . against my own father?”

Elorma’s silence confirmed it.

Suddenly she couldn’t catch her breath. As if she’d been running.

She felt dizzy. So dizzy, she sank to the ground and put her head on her knees, trying to make the world go still. Trying to force it to make sense again.

She thought of her father in the sickroom, holding her hand through the long, pain-filled nights. Standing fast at her side while her people hissed and spat at her feet. Looking at her with pride whenever she returned from a hunt with a dragon’s head on a platter.

Asha couldn’t. She wouldn’t betray him.

Even if she dared to, there was no way to succeed. A thief couldn’t just march in and take the sacred flame. She would be seen and stopped immediately.

“I can’t do it,” she said. “It’s impossible.”

“You’ll find a way,” said Elorma.

When Asha woke, the larks were singing the sky awake and the sun was a haze of gold setting the tops of the trees aglow. Nearby, the red dragon wheezed as it slept.

It was as if the world knew nothing of the wicked task the Old One had set for her.

Asha didn’t want to play this game anymore. In three days, she’d be bound to Jarek. She needed to hunt down Kozu. It was the only way to halt the coming tide.

She needed a plan—a way to outwit the Old One.

Asha rubbed the lingering sleep from her eyes, then stopped when she realized her burned hand didn’t hurt. She lifted the bandaged hand in front of her face, then started to unwrap it.

When the linen fell away, she stared in shock.

Yesterday her hand was raw and scorched. Today there was the tough skin of a scar. It took up the whole of her palm and some of her fingers. Her burn had healed completely.

Asha sat up. What was it Elorma had said about the Old One’s third gift?

Fireskin, he’d called it.

But what does that mean?

She had the tiniest spark of a notion.

Asha reached for the matches next to the lamp and lit one. When it flared to life, she held her breath. Very slowly, she held the quivering flame under her palm and started to count.

One. Two. Three.

Four. Five. Six.

Seven. Eight. Nine . . .

Nothing. No pain.

A slow smile spread across her lips. If she were impervious to fire, how much easier would killing Kozu be?