The Last Namsara (Iskari #1)(57)

The soldats looked warily at one another before marching her down the corridor.

Safire met them at the gate to the pit, which was strangely devoid of protesters.

Asha’s heart leaped at the sight of her cousin. She almost didn’t recognize her, dressed as she was in a deep turquoise kaftan. Her chin-length black hair was braided back and pinned at the nape of her neck.

“Asha. Where have you been?”

Surrounded by shouting draksors, Asha’s first instinct was to keep her cousin close. But soldats flanked her, and she couldn’t reach Safire.

“What is this?” Asha asked through her line of escorts. “Why am I here?”

All around her were rows and rows of wooden benches, half full of spectators, circling the pit.

On either side of her, draksors stood at tables, pitching their voices loudly, jangling bags of money, placing their bets. But it was the pit itself that held her attention the longest.

Normally the iron stakes rimming the pit were turned up to the sky, keeping criminals from climbing out and spectators from falling in. Today, though, they were lowered so they fell across the top, crisscrossing themselves.

“It’s the morning of your binding,” Safire said, moving through the crowd in an attempt to keep up with Asha. “You’re supposed to exchange betrothal gifts with Jarek today.”

Asha didn’t have a gift. And even if she did, the idea of giving one to Jarek was ridiculous.

But why the arena? Usually betrothal gifts were exchanged in the city’s largest square, to build public anticipation for the binding, which always happened at moonrise. She looked around, thinking hard, searching for an escape.

Men dressed in silk tunics and women in elaborately stitched kaftans sat on benches ringing the pit. But for such an important occasion—the exchanging of gifts—the arena seemed emptier than ever. Even if Asha could get free of her escort and grab Safire . . . there was no crowd to get lost in. No way they’d make it to the exit undetected.

The Iskari was all too easy to identify. Even now, the crowd parted for her. Their fearful eyes fixed on her.

When she reached the crimson canopy, the highest point in the arena with the clearest sight of the fights below, she saw Jarek. His usual black tunic, emblazoned with his crest—two crossed sabers—was gone. Instead he wore a white one with gold edging. Betrothal colors. The dress in her room would have matched it.

Jarek pulled her to him. Asha tensed.

“I have the perfect gift for you,” he said, his body humming with a strange energy. He didn’t seem to notice her attire.

The dragon king sat with his back straight and his citrine medallion on his chest. His fingers glittered with rings. Beside him stood a slave holding a platter of nougat and dried apricots. The king nodded to Jarek, giving him permission to begin.

Jarek raised the hand that held Asha’s into the air. Silence descended. All the eyes in the arena were on them in an instant.

“Tonight, the Iskari and I will be bound! Let this gift of mine be a testament to our formidable union!”

Applause roared in Asha’s ears. When silence fell again, it was her turn. She looked to Safire outside the tent, remembering a joke she’d made not so long ago.

I hear dragon hearts are in fashion these days, for betrothal gifts especially.

The Iskari turned to face her people. She knew what she had to do.

“Tonight, the commandant and I will be bound.” Her voice was neither loud nor confident. “Let this gift of mine be a testament to our long-lasting union!”

The applause this time was much more subdued. But Asha wasn’t finished. She pulled herself free of Jarek and stepped in front of him.

“Today I hunt the First Dragon!”

The applause deadened.

“Today I strike the final blow to the old ways and carve the evil out of my own soul!” A cold silence reared up as she turned to her betrothed. “As a sign of my devotion, I will bring you Kozu’s heart. That will be my gift.”

No one clapped. No one breathed. All the eyes in the arena turned to the dragon king. When Asha herself turned to face her father, he raised his golden wine cup. Toasting her. Well played, his eyes seemed to say.

The arena erupted. But the reaction was divided: some draksors whooped and yelled; others spoke under their breaths, exchanging nervous glances.

Her hunt was out in the open now. They’d have to let Asha leave, so she could make good on her declaration.

“Let the fighting commence!” Jarek commanded, twining his fingers through Asha’s and drawing her down onto his lap.

Asha flinched. She wanted to rise. But she was playing a part now.

If she didn’t kill Kozu, she’d be playing it for the rest of her life.

A group of draksors below turned to the pit. They began to chant, pumping their fists in the air, awaiting the arrival of the fighters. More and more draksors took up the chant until the sound buzzed in Asha’s ears, drowning out everything else.

The interior of the pit was dark. The torches hadn’t been lit yet. All she could see were hordes of spectators—sitting or standing or betting at tables. Cheering and whooping. Waiting for the match to begin.

A sudden roar rippled through the crowd, disrupting the chanters and rattling Asha.

Jarek looped an arm around her waist, keeping her locked against him.

A dragon? She looked to the skies. Here?