The Last Namsara (Iskari #1)(52)

His eyes crinkled as he smiled. But when he pushed back the lid of the case, the smile slid away.

He stared at the lute, but didn’t reach for it.

“This isn’t mine,” he said. His voice sounded strange. Cracked at the edges.

“I know,” said Asha. “I bought it this morning to replace your other one.”

“Replace my other one? What happened to—”

“I burned it.”

“You . . .” Very slowly, he rose to his feet. “You . . . what?”

Asha raised her palms. “Jarek found the room you were hiding in, so I did the only thing I could think of: I burned the scrolls, the cot, the lute. All of it.”

He grabbed her wrist, startling her. His eyes were a storm as he said, “Do you realize how heartless you are?”

The words scorched her. They shouldn’t have, because of course she knew. She was worse than heartless. Her heart was a withered husk.

She could have easily slammed her elbow down on his forearm, forcing his fingers to release her. But she didn’t. She wanted him to believe her. “I was trying to protect you.”

“You were protecting yourself,” he said. And then, like she was a monster he could no longer bear to touch, he let go, turning away, running his hands roughly through his hair. “Greta gave me that lute.”

The image of the gray-haired slave flashed in Asha’s mind.

“She was the closest thing I had to a mother. And now she’s gone, along with the only thing I had to remember her by.”

Asha felt herself unravel. As if she were a carpet or a tapestry, and his words were claws tearing out all her threads.

“I didn’t . . .”

“And you don’t care, do you? It’s why you won’t speak the name of any slave. It’s the same reason you didn’t want to name that dragon.” He stepped toward her, closer than ever. “If you name us, you might start to care. And if you care, you might not be able to kill us when it suits you.”

Gone was the slave who hummed songs while he worked. In his place stood a stranger. An enemy. A part of her said to be afraid. But another part said: Look at the way his hands shake. Look at the ghosts in his eyes. Asha had lost her mother, but he’d lost so much more than that. And she’d just destroyed what was probably his most precious possession. Likely his only possession.

Her chest felt like someone had sunk an axe into it.

She didn’t realize what she was doing, or that she was doing it, until it was done. All she knew was, just like he’d bandaged her burn and stitched up her side, she wanted to dress this wound. She wanted to soothe this hurt.

Pressing her scarred palm to his chest, Asha broke her own rule.

“Torwin.”

His lips parted. He stared at her mouth as if he didn’t understand. As if she’d spoken another language entirely.

“I’m sorry.”

Very slowly, his fingers rose to touch her hand, checking to see if it was really there, really pressed against his chest.

She looked to the new lute, still in its case. “I’ll get it out of your sight.”

Her hand fell away from him.

“No.” He caught her wrist, stopping her. They both went still as his thumb trailed a circle around the bump of her wrist bone. “That wasn’t fair of me. You didn’t know.”

She stared up at him in the disappearing sunlight.

He dropped his hand to his side.

“You’re not heartless,” he said, staring into her eyes. “I hate myself for saying that.”

Asha looked away. “I should go.”

She gathered up her armor and buckled it on. After sheathing her slayers across her back, she reached for her axe, lying in the grass. Instead of putting it in her belt, though, she turned around.

“If they find you,” she said, holding the axe out to him, “don’t think. Just strike.”

He took the jeweled handle, his fingers brushing against hers.

Before making her way into the trees, she stopped, pausing in the spot where the sunlight ended and the darkness of the canopy began, still warm from where he’d touched her.

“Torwin?” she said, not daring to look back.

“Yes?”

“You could call me Asha. If you wanted to.”





Twenty-Four


A pair of soldats walked the street below. Asha held her breath and waited for them to turn the corner before jumping. Her boots landed with a soft thud, raising dust.

She avoided the main streets. When Asha heard footsteps or felt eyes in the darkness, she backtracked. The longer she could go without being seen, the better.

Getting up onto the palace roof was more difficult than getting down off it. But if Asha managed it as a child, she could certainly manage it now. She found the lowest wall and hoisted herself up and over. She ran across rooftops, past slaves rolling couscous and bringing in laundry, past the butcher preparing for his evening slaughter. No one saw her.

She went to her room, where yet another silver-lidded box sat waiting. Jarek’s gifts were starting to pile up: a kaftan, a ruby-studded necklace, and now a bolt of bright red sabra silk. She pushed them into a corner and got what she needed: a lantern made of copper, inset with colored glass. She unbuckled her slayers from her back and hid them under the bed, tucking them up into the frame, then stripped off the armor that made her immediately recognizable. She didn’t need these things to kill Kozu. All she needed was her fireskin and her axe—which was presently in the slave’s care.