The last time he’d slept had been in a cave with Pa and Handel, two days ago, high above the forest. He’d had no idea how beautiful that landscape was. How great his freedom had been.
Tharuk 568 grunted and slammed the door. Its footfalls crunched along the valley.
Struggling to stay awake, Tomaaz gazed around the room. Candle stumps flickered. One guttered and died. Its life was snuffed out, just like Half Hand earlier. Had the same happened to Ma? Was she lying dead somewhere on the ground? Did that boy have family who didn’t know where he was? Or had they all died here, too?
A hollow ache gnawed at Tomaaz’s belly as he drifted to sleep, but nightmares of tharuk whips yanked Tomaaz awake. Around him a hundred sleeping slaves wheezed and muttered. A lone candle was still burning, so he couldn’t have slept that long. Outside, feet stomped toward the sleeping hut.
The door opened and a tharuk held a torch high. “All good here,” it growled.
“Of course,” another tharuk answered. “Numlock keeps slaves easy.”
“We got to check,” said the first. “I not give keepsakes for Zens’ tank.”
Lovina had mentioned a tank, too. What was that about? And where was Zens?
“Let’s go. Check the other sheds.” They closed the door, their voices getting fainter as they moved away.
How soon would they be back? Should he slip out now? No, he didn’t know their routine. Tomaaz lay in the dark, counting his breaths.
Sure enough, after about three hundred and fifty breaths, the tharuks returned, chortling at a joke. The door opened, the torch flared in the room, then they were gone again. Rising to a crouch, Tomaaz took his boots off and tucked them under his blanket, leaving a lump in the bed. The crude wooden floor was cold on his feet, but his socks would be quieter outside than boots. He didn’t have long.
Tomaaz eased the door open and stepped outside.
Dim moonlight filtered through the mist wisping from the cracks in the hills as Tomaaz picked his way past the eating area and the cold fire pits. Sticking to the shadowy cliffsides, he soon reached Half Hand. Tomaaz rolled him over. The boy’s skin was pale in the wan light, and his eyes glassy. He felt for the pulse at his throat, just in case. Dead.
He’d had to check. Could he bury him? No, the tharuks would get suspicious if the body disappeared.
Besides, he had to find Ma. He couldn’t get sidetracked by some slave he didn’t even know.
But that was the problem. Tomaaz wanted to help them all—to free these poor people from this living, dying hell. Straightening, he sighed and cast about. Where could Ma be?
“Strange scent,” a tharuk’s voice carried across the valley. “Someone outside.”
“I not seen anyone, 701.”
“Course not. You’re no tracker, 131. Let’s get one.”
A tracker! Panic clawed at Tomaaz’s throat. He had to hide, but the voices were between him and the sleeping shed. There wasn’t another shed nearby—only a rubble pile and the boy’s body.
He took off his shirt. Kneeling, he unbuttoned the boy’s shirt, and slipped it on. Then he put his shirt on the boy. Hopefully, that would disguise his scent. He ducked in among the rubble. Whatever Zens’ slaves were doing in the hillside, it produced a lot of debris.
Tomaaz’s heart pounded as the tracker traced his scent to the dead boy.
Moonlight glinted off the tracker’s tusks as it cast about, circling the rubble pile. “Lost the trail,” it snarled. “Scents are mixed. Are you two skiving off patrol?”
“No. Slave stole his shirt,” muttered a tharuk. “One slave is thinking.”
“Zens will be angry,” said another. “Should double their numlock.”
“Zens must not find out,” the tracker agreed. “I mix strong numlock tonight, so no one will know. Now, get back to patrol.”
The tracker took one last sniff, and the beasts moved on.
So, trackers were smarter than the usual tharuk grunts. With a tracker on the prowl, it was too dangerous to keep searching for Ma. Sweat slicking his brow, Tomaaz sneaked back to the sleeping shed.
Piaua’s Promise
Marlies hadn’t had food or water for a day and a half. Her head was throbbing, her face was swollen, and every time she moved, fire shot through her ribs. Even breathing hurt. She’d tried to get out of the barred door, but … oh, shards, she was exhausted.
“Zaarusha,” Marlies murmured, “I’ve failed you.” And she’d failed Hans, Ezaara and Tomaaz …. Maybe, if she slept, she’d feel better.
A while later, Marlies woke—not better, but worse.
Zens was right: if he tortured her again, she’d crack. In fact, if he visited right now, she didn’t have the strength to put up a fight. She no longer knew the latest secrets of Dragons’ Hold and the Council of the Twelve Dragon Masters, so that wasn’t a danger, but Zens would find out about her family. And Zens never did things by halves. He’d discover Ezaara was the new Queen’s Rider. His tharuks would hunt down Ezaara and all Marlies’ loved ones and murder them all.
Marlies would never let that happen.
With sudden clarity, she understood why Zaarusha’s dragonet had sacrificed its life so she could have the twins.
Sometimes, it was worth it to give your life for others.
She reached into her healer’s pouch and silently thanked the piaua tree as she pulled the stem of blue berries out. No one was coming to save her. No one even knew of her plight. She would never be able to repay Zaarusha. It was time to become a witch of blue.
A tear tracked down her cheek.
Marlies ate the berries and tucked the stem back in her pouch.
A Terrible Discovery
Tomaaz tossed and turned all night, his belly rumbling. He
