The master spoke. “I’m Lars, Leader of the Council of the Twelve Dragon Masters. This is Singlar. Welcome to Dragons’ Hold, Ezaara, Rider of Zaarusha, Queen of the Dragons.”
Ezaara staggered. How had Lars known her name?
“From your imprinting memories.” Singlar winked his purple eyelid. “Besides, Zaarusha told us earlier.”
Lars motioned to his right. A female master took her hand and laid it upon a green dragon’s head, covering it with hers. Ezaara relived her imprinting experience, emotions coursing through her again.
She repeated the experience with each of the dragons in the circle, until only two remained: a blue one and the lone bronze dragon, who regarded her with intense green eyes that reminded her of Pa’s.
Roberto led her to the blue dragon. “This is Erob. I’m his rider.”
“And the bronze?”
“He’s not a member of the council.” Roberto placed, not one, but both of Ezaara’s hands on Erob’s blue brow. “I need to test you more rigorously. Do you consent?”
She had no option. There was no way she was going to give up Zaarusha.
At her nod, Roberto put his hands on her temples.
Surprised, she flinched. Both Erob and Roberto gazed deep into Ezaara’s eyes, Roberto’s face a mask of concentration. Without a sneer—with his ebony eyes, high cheekbones and olive skin—his face was striking.
§
The girl had imprinted. Roberto was sure of it. Zaarusha had snorted at something, which showed they’d been mind-melding without touching—a sure sign of imprinting. But how solid was their bond? Ezaara had trembled at the sight of dragons, but she’d also stood her ground—so she had courage.
Courage or not, the Queen of Dragons’ Realm deserved the best. If Zaarusha had made a mistake, he had to find out. The other masters and their dragons had confirmed the imprinting bond existed. Now he had to test the quality of that bond. And the Queen’s Rider. If she wasn’t good enough, it was his task to fail this backward girl from Lush Valley, and she’d be dispatched to the Wastelands before dawn.
Roberto took a deep breath, steeling himself. He hated using his talent, paid for with people’s blood. He placed both of his hands on the girl’s temples. It always came back to using his cursed gift.
He was in her mind.
Zaarusha spiraled down to meet Ezaara. Fear curled in the girl’s stomach. Her limbs were paralyzed. She was petrified she’d be raked by talons, or die in the dragon’s maw. But even as Roberto wanted to scoff at her naive fear, he was awed at the intensity of her emotions; the sharpness of her memories.
He’d tested many folk. Their experiences had been vivid, but compared to this, they were nothing: an overcast day compared to summer sun.
No, a few halting notes compared to an intricate harmony.
Ezaara’s fear of the dragon queen melted into admiration, and her admiration to love. Zaarusha’s scales were bright, her voice thrilling. The breeze of the dragon’s wingbeats stirred Ezaara’s hair. Her emotions soared. This girl’s bond was the strongest he’d witnessed. Her jump onto the queen’s back was incredible. She’d harnessed Zaarusha’s power as if she’d trained for years at Dragons’ Hold, not like an ignorant, terrified ….
He’d been wrong. Ezaara’s love for the dragon queen was complete. Her imprinting bond was proven. The queen had a new rider.
He should break meld, and announce his conclusion to the council, but doubt nagged at him like a stone in his boot. Lars and Zaarusha were expecting him to be thorough. He didn’t like using his gifts—having them was bad enough—but he knew how easily folk could be turned by Zens and his tharuks. So, he delved deeper, searching for treachery.
On their journey to Dragons’ Hold, Zaarusha and Ezaara had fought tharuks, and buried warriors. That explained the soot and smears of black and red blood on her cheeks and tunic. He sifted through the experience. Anger pulsed through Ezaara—and grief. Only the queen’s wisdom had stopped her from jumping into battle.
She was true to the realm and had bravery in pailfuls. All she needed was training.
Just as he’d been trained. A memory shot into Roberto’s mind. Ten years old, he was crouched behind the kitchen door, clutching Adelina’s hand, listening to his parents.
No! That’s where the pain and betrayal had started. Roberto slammed the memory shut and yanked his hands away.
§
With Roberto’s hands on her temples and his black eyes gazing at her, Ezaara re-lived her imprinting with Zaarusha: the warmth of Zaarusha’s voice slid through her; the scent of the flowers in the clearing; the bright sun glinting off the dragon queen’s smooth scales; the bubble of color that had swept her up onto the queen; the rumble of Zaarusha’s roar; and the wind tugging at her hair.
Tears of joy slipped down Ezaara’s cheeks.
She re-lived her journey to Dragons’ Hold: the horror of tharuks killing those warriors; her sadness; the thermal pool and snuggling with Zaarusha; meadows and forests flying past beneath them; and then, the severe peaks of Dragon’s Teeth.
A scene entered her head: crouched behind a heavy door, holding the hand of a little dark-haired girl. Voices yelling. Despair. What was this? Where had it come from?
Him. It was from him. A memory.
Roberto flinched, then pulled his hands away, and her mind was her own again. His gaze never left her, although its intensity softened. His voice was soft, too. “It’s over.” He breathed deeply. “You’ve been proven.”
Proven? How? She didn’t feel any different. And what had she seen? The door … the raging hurt was his. Who was the little girl he’d been protecting?
Exhausted and dizzy, she stumbled, her hands falling from Erob’s head.
Roberto caught her. He smelled of sandalwood soap. She slumped against him, too tired to care what anyone thought.
His voice rang out, “Hail Ezaara, rider of Zaarusha,
