The Last Namsara (Iskari #1)(53)

No. Not the slave.

Torwin.

Asha unbraided her hair, donned her plainest mantle, and went to the window. With the lantern gripped tight in her fist, she waited. Watching the horizon.

The red moon rose.

Two more days until my wedding.

The sky turned from blue to purple.

Two more days to hunt down Kozu.

The sun set over the Rift, and as it did . . .

The screams began. Soldats shouted: Dragon in the city!

If she hadn’t been so nervous, Asha might have smiled.

Torwin had impeccable timing.

A dragon in the city meant all the soldats would abandon their posts and, once the king was safe, head for the rooftops or the streets.

With the hood of her mantle flipped up, cloaking her face in shadow, Asha moved quickly through the chaos of running soldats.

As the archway of the throne room came into view, the hallways quieted. In the distance, Asha could hear the screams in the street, the shout of soldats keeping order; but here, deep in the palace, all was quiet.

As she stepped into the throne room, Asha’s palms were sweaty and her grip on the lantern handle was slick.

She moved swiftly toward the pedestal, her footsteps echoing loudly through the empty chamber. Peering down into the iron basin, she found the white flame burning silently. Mysteriously.

As a child, the wonder of it had mesmerized her. But no wonder filled her now. Only fear.

Asha unhooked the latch of her lantern. Sweat beaded on her temples and dripped down her back. She had no idea how Elorma brought the flame from the desert all the way to the city, but the lantern was all she had. She hoped it would be enough.

Asha reached into the shallow basin. Her hand closed around something smooth and heavy as a stone. The moment she touched the heart of the flame, it seared her—not her skin, though. Something far deeper. Perhaps her soul.

A thousand whispering voices rose in her mind, each one telling a sacred story. As if the voices of all the raconteurs from the beginning of time dwelled within.

Asha shoved the flame inside her lantern and locked it back up.

The voices went silent.

“You there!”

Asha spun, her heart skittering.

In the archway, a single soldat stood staring at her. Young. Maybe Dax’s age. His hand was on his hilt, but his morion was missing. It had probably fallen in the chaos.

“What do you think you’re . . . ?” He looked from the brightly lit lantern in her hand to the empty basin behind her. Realizing what she’d just done, he drew his saber.

Asha reached for an axe that wasn’t there and winced.

“Put it back, thief.”

He stepped through the archway, his brow furrowed, his blade pointed at her chest.

Asha had two choices: bolt and risk getting run through, or push back her hood and hope his fear of the Iskari would override all other sense. She was about to choose the latter when her brother entered the room.

“Well, this is interesting.”

“My lord,” said the soldat, who hadn’t recognized Asha yet. “She’s stolen the flame.”

When she didn’t move, Dax held out his hand. “Give me your sword. I’ll hold the thief here, you get help.”

The soldat nodded. Asha watched the young man run, shouting the alarm. Telling the entire palace about the thief in the throne room.

The moment he left, Dax lowered the blade.

“I don’t know what you’re doing, little sister”—he glanced over his shoulder—“but you’d better scurry.”

Asha’s eyes pricked with tears of relief.

“Go!”

Nodding, she ran past him, hiding the lantern in the folds of her mantle, snuffing out its unnatural glow.

As soon as she could turn the corner, she did. As soon as she could start to run without drawing attention, she ran. And as soon as there was an arching glassless window, she climbed out of it and onto the roof.

Which was when shouts of alarm rose up behind her.

The thief had been spotted.





Twenty-Five


Asha ran.

She ran across twilight-soaked rooftops and scrambled over plaster walls. She ran through crowded alleys and across chaotic squares.

But the sky was empty now. No dragon soared. Torwin had moved on to the second part of their plan. She needed to meet him at the temple.

She ducked into doorways and shop fronts when one or more soldats came into view. She stayed there until they passed, listened to them describe the cloaked thief from the palace.

Asha raced all the way to the temple, not even trying to keep to the shadows now. Beneath a pomegranate tree’s bright orange flowers, Asha buckled the lantern to her belt, then grabbed the lowest branch and hoisted herself up. She launched herself at the first-floor window and pulled herself inside, the lantern knocking loudly against the sill.

Asha flinched, waiting for the Old One to strike her down for being so careless with his sacred flame.

Mercifully, he stayed his hand.

Asha flew down the vaulted stairway and into the darkness of the temple crypt. She needed to get in, get to Torwin, and get out. As quickly as possible.

She passed the alcove that hid the entrance to her secret tunnel, but Torwin wasn’t there.

Asha moved deeper in, her heart racing, the blazing light of her lantern illuminating the rock walls.