The Last Namsara (Iskari #1)(8)

She looked to the floor. The shame of it made her throat prickle. Like she’d swallowed a handful of cactus spines.

Her father had too many things to worry about without Asha adding to them: war brewing with the scrublanders, the ever-present threat of another slave revolt, tension with the temple, and—though her father never spoke of it with Asha—the growing power of his commandant.

Asha’s bandaged hand throbbed beneath the silk glove, screaming of the crime she’d committed that very morning. As if it wanted to betray her. She held it against her side, hoping her father wouldn’t ask about the gloves.

“Don’t worry about me, Father. I always find my prey.”

The dragon king smiled at her. Behind him, an ornate mosaic was etched into the golden throne, a pattern of shapes within shapes and lines crossing back over lines. Just like the city’s labyrinthine streets or the palace’s maze of hallways and secret passageways.

“Tonight I want you to publicly present your kill. In honor of our guests.”

She looked up. “Guests?”

Her father’s smile broke. “You haven’t heard the news?”

Asha shook her head no.

“Your brother returned with a delegation of scrublanders.”

Asha’s mouth went dry. The scrublanders dwelled across the sand sea and refused to acknowledge the authority of the king. They didn’t agree with killing dragons almost as much as they didn’t agree with keeping slaves. It was why her father had had such trouble handling them in the past—that, and the fact that they kept trying to assassinate him.

“They’ve agreed to a truce,” her father explained. “They’re here to negotiate the terms of a peace treaty.”

Peace with scrublanders? Impossible.

Asha stepped closer to the throne, her voice tight. “They’re inside the palace walls?” How could Dax bring their oldest enemies into their home?

No one had expected Dax to succeed in the scrublands. If Asha were honest, no one expected Dax to survive in the scrublands.

“It’s too dangerous, Father.”

The dragon king leaned forward in his throne, looking down at her with warm eyes. His nose was long and thin and his beard neatly trimmed.

“Don’t worry, my dear.” His eyes traced the scar marring her face. “One look at you and they will never cross me again.”

Asha frowned. If they didn’t fear the chopping block—which was the punishment for attempted regicide—why would they fear the Iskari?

“But that isn’t why I summoned you.”

The dragon king rose from his throne and descended the seven steps to the floor. Knotting his hands behind his back, her father made a slow tour of the tapestries up the left side of the room. Asha followed him, ignoring the soldats standing guard in between each one, their eyes hidden by crested morions and their burnished breastplates gleaming in the dusty sunlight.

“I want to talk about Jarek.”

Asha’s chin jerked upward.

When the people of Firgaard lost lives and homes and loved ones in the wake of Kozu’s fire, they called for the death of the wicked girl responsible. The king, unable to put his own daughter to death, offered her a chance at redemption instead. He promised her hand in marriage to Jarek—the boy who saved her. The boy who’d lost both his parents in the fire that was her fault.

Their union, he said, would be the last act of Asha’s redemption. When they came of age, Jarek would bind himself to Asha and in doing so, prove his forgiveness. Jarek, who lost the most because of Asha, would show all of Firgaard they could forgive her too.

Furthermore, in exchange for Jarek’s heroism, the king groomed him to take over his father’s role as commandant.

It was an act of faith and gratitude.

In the years since, that heroic boy had grown into a powerful young man. At twenty-one, Jarek now held the army in his fist. His soldats were completely loyal. Too loyal, thought Asha. Once he married her, Jarek would be in very close proximity to the throne. A throne that would be very easy to take by force. It worried Asha.

“He mustn’t know about this conversation. Do you understand?”

Asha, who was lost in her thoughts, looked up to find them standing before a tapestry of her grandmother—the dragon queen who conquered and enslaved their fiercest enemy, the skral. The artist chose deep reds and maroons for the background and luminescent silvers and dark blues for her hair. The dragon queen’s eyes seemed to peer out at her granddaughter with deep disapproval. As if they could see straight into Asha’s heart, beholding all the secrets hidden there.

Asha held her injured hand closer to her body.

“You mustn’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you.”

Tearing her gaze away from the old queen, she looked to her father. His warm eyes were on hers.

A secret? Her every allegiance was to her father. She owed her life to him twice over. “Of course, Father.”

“A dragon was spotted in the Rift while you hunted,” he said. “One that hasn’t been seen in eight years. A black dragon with a scar through one eye.”

Lightning flickered up Asha’s legs. She nearly reached for the wall, in case they gave out on her.

“Kozu?”

It couldn’t be. The First Dragon hadn’t been seen since the day he attacked the city.