The Last Namsara (Iskari #1)(51)

She rarely told this story aloud because she didn’t like to think about it. But now, hearing it on her own lips, something didn’t make sense. The slave was right. A burn as severe as the one Kozu gave her would have to be treated immediately.

There must be a detail she was forgetting. She needed to pay more attention when her father told the story next.

Asha fixed her attention once more on the dragon, who stood behind the slave now, using him as a shield. She stalked him down.

The slave held out his arm, stopping her.

“Why did you need to end things?” he asked.

Because the stories killed my mother.

Asha remembered that last night. Her mother could no longer speak; it took strength she didn’t have. Asha sat with her in the dark, stroking her beautiful hair, only her fingers kept catching and the hair kept coming out in clumps. She remembered trying to get her mother to drink, and how the water dribbled down her chin. She remembered lying down beside her and covering her face in kisses.

Asha remembered falling asleep to the beat of her mother’s heart. . . .

And waking up to a body cold as ice.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“You don’t know,” she whispered, pushing past the slave. “You have no idea the kinds of wicked things the old stories are capable of.”

He caught her arm, stopping her. “Not Willa’s story. It seemed . . . the opposite of wicked.”

So na?ve, thought Asha. The old stories were like jewels: dazzling, beguiling, luring you in. “They’re dangerous,” she whispered, staring over his shoulder at the dragon staring back.

“Well then,” he said softly. “I guess I’m drawn to dangerous things.”

Asha felt her cheeks burn. She looked back into his face.

“I’ve been thinking,” he went on quickly, his gaze holding hers, “about the first time I ever saw you. You were eight—or maybe nine. My mistress invited your mother for tea, and you came along. While Greta served them in the gardens, you wandered into the library.”

Strangely, Asha remembered that day. Remembered the enormous dragon head mounted on the library wall. The lifeless glass eyes, the pale gold scales, the open mouth showing off a multitude of knifelike teeth . . .

“I was dusting the shelves,” he said. “I saw you enter, and I knew I was supposed to leave, to give you privacy, but”—he swallowed—“I didn’t. You were wearing a blue kaftan and your hair was loose around your shoulders. You reminded me of someone.”

Behind him, realizing their game was over, the dragon huffed a sigh and stalked off.

“I watched you trail your fingers along the wooden handles of the scrolls until you found the one you wanted. I watched you pull it down, then sit on the cushions and read it to the end. And then I watched you go back for more.”

The scrolls were the reason I wandered in there in the first place, she remembered. I was looking for stories.

That thought surprised Asha. Was she remembering that right? Had she been drawn to the stories before the Old One corrupted her?

“You came dangerously close to the shelf I hid behind. And I knew if you looked, you’d be able to see me through the space above the scrolls.”

Asha thought backward, trying to remember a skral boy in the library that day.

“I didn’t move.” The reflected light from the pool danced across his face. “I . . . wanted you to see me.”

“But I didn’t,” she whispered.

Asha felt suddenly exposed. Like when she stripped off her armor with a dragon lurking nearby. She turned quickly away from the skral, moving toward that same dragon now.

“Iskari.”

She stopped but didn’t look back.

“The day I found you in the sickroom, I knew things were about to change. And before they did”—he paused—“I needed you to see me. Just once.”

When Asha turned, there was no longer any steel in his eyes.

He lowered his gaze, as if suddenly shy, then gestured to the dragon. “Come on. I’ll help you tend him.”





Twenty-Three


Asha told the first story to lure the dragon to her. She told the second to keep the dragon calm as she cleaned the tear in his wing, and then the third as the slave stitched up the tear. As each story emptied out of her, the dragon filled her up with new ones. And each time, with Asha’s help, the creature’s stories were stronger. Less fragmented and clearer.

“Good boy,” she said when they finished, scratching his chin.

The slave—who’d been humming a half-finished song while he worked—looked up at them and smiled.

When the wing was mended and they flew Asha back to the clearing, the sun was well on its way to setting.

Asha fetched the lute case from where she’d dropped it in the trees.

“There’s just one thing,” she said, handing over the case.

“Oh?” he said, taking it.

“You can’t name him Redwing.”

He crouched down to unbuckle the case. “Do you have a better suggestion?”

“I do, actually.”

He stopped unbuckling to look up at her.

“Shadow is better.”

“Shadow.” He paused to consider it, then looked at the dragon stretching in the sunlight. “Shadow is . . . acceptable.”