The Last Namsara (Iskari #1)(43)

A hand shot out, knocking the match from her fingers. It hit the earth and died.

“What is wrong with you?” The slave crouched beside her, breathless. On his shoulder perched a hawk as white as mist. It stared at Asha with silvery eyes.

The sight of it startled her. “Is that Roa’s hawk?”

He reached up to touch its white feathers, as if he’d forgotten it was there. “Her name’s Essie.” Shaking his head, he returned to the original subject. “Were you just trying to hurt yourself?” He frowned. As if Asha trying to hurt herself was something for him to be concerned about.

“Yes,” she said, looking up into his face. She reached for another match and lit it. Keeping her eyes locked on his stormy ones, she raised her hand above the flame and held it there. It tickled. It warmed. But it never burned.

“It’s my third gift.”

The frown in his brow deepened. “What?”

Asha shook out the match. “He wants me to use it to steal the sacred flame.”

“Who wants you to use it?” His eyebrows were two hard, dark lines. He seemed exceptionally agitated this morning. Asha looked to the hawk—Essie—wondering if its presence was the reason. “What are you talking about?”

Their voices woke the dragon, who sat up.

“The Old One gave me this,” she said, raising the scarred hand she’d tried to burn. “Just like he gave me that,” she said, nodding to the dragon—now prowling through the grass toward them. “Just like he gave me those.” She pointed to the slayers, sheathed on the ground beside her. “And every gift comes with a command.”

He reached for her hand. Surprised, Asha let him take it. He frowned as he studied it, his thumb brushing across the rough, discolored skin, sending warmth blooming through her.

“That’s not possible,” he said. From her perch on his shoulder, Essie peered down too. “I just bandaged this a few days ago. It was completely raw.”

Asha watched the smooth sweep of his thumb. Once again, she thought of her mother, of the way she’d reach out and tuck a strand of Asha’s hair behind her ear. Or grab Asha as she ran down the corridor and pull her into a hug. Asha always squirmed away—she’d had better things to do.

Now, though, she wondered what those things were.

He let go of her hand, snapping Asha out of her memories.

“What is the command?” His gaze slid to her hair.

She ran her fingers over her braid and found it coming undone. “I have to steal the sacred flame and return it to the caves.”

“And you’re going to?”

“I don’t know.” Maybe she could just steal it temporarily. Until she killed Kozu. After that, the flame wouldn’t matter anymore. Nothing connected to the old ways would.

The old stories were like the branches of an argan tree and Kozu the thirsty root: cut off the root and the branches withered and died. To silence the First Dragon’s heart was to silence the stories forever, and with them, the Old One’s link to his people.

The moment Kozu died, the old ways would crumble and turn to dust.

Asha shook out her dark hair, running her fingers through it.

When she looked up, she found the slave staring. He turned his face away so fast, Essie squawked at the sudden movement. She flapped her white wings and flew off his shoulder.

“You need me,” he said without looking at her.

“What?”

“You said yourself he follows you.” He looked to where the dragon pounced on the hawk, dust-red scales rippling. A blur of white flew out from under him, screeching in annoyance. “As soon as you go back, what’s to stop him from flying after you again into the city?”

Essie’s flapping wings sounded like the soft hush of Darmoor’s sea. The dragon stared into the sky, contemplating his lost prey, then slunk over to where Asha sat. He walked two circles around her and the slave, then sank to the ground, blocking the sunlight with his folded wings. Lying down, the dragon was roughly the height of a horse.

The slave was right: if she was going to complete this task, she’d need a way to keep the beast in place. She didn’t have time to teach it to stay. And she couldn’t risk it following her again.

The dragon nudged Asha’s arm. She ignored him. When he nudged harder, she moved away.

The slave clicked, dragging his attention from Asha and luring it to himself. He scratched the scaly chin, and the dragon’s eyes half closed with pleasure.

“Are you offering to watch the dragon for me?”

“For a price, yes.”

Asha’s skin prickled. “What price?”

“You promise to fly me to Darmoor when you finish your task.”

Asha started at him. Was he serious?

“If you fly me to Darmoor,” he said, “I can find work aboard a ship sailing far across the sea and you’ll never have to see me again.”

“I can’t just fly you wherever you want.”

“Why not?”

She looked to the dragon. “I—I’ve never ridden one.”

That’s how links between dragons and draksors were formed: in flight. This creature’s attachment was already an inconvenience. Asha didn’t want to deepen it.

“How hard can it be? Your ancestors did it.”