Her pacing took her past Maazini. Zaarusha had wanted her to rescue him, but unless they could get his chain loose, there wasn’t much chance of that. Perhaps she could pry one of the links open. Rummaging through her pack, she hunted for her knife, but it was gone. That clumsy tharuk had left her bow and arrows and food, but taken her knives and the calling stone. Where was the logic in that? Maybe it assumed she couldn’t use an arrow at close range. More likely it didn’t think she’d seen it hide her pack.
Maazini lifted his head.
There was one job she could get done while she waited here: it was time to face her past. She approached Maazini, laying her hand on his head so they could mind-meld. “Maazini, I am thrilled that you have imprinted with my son. May your bond grow deep and be long-lasting.” Like her bond with Liesar—who’d risked her life to help her and Hans flee from Zaarusha’s wrath. Marlies hadn’t seen her dragon for years, but she had no doubt that they were still bonded.
“I recognize the timbre of your mind,” Maazini replied. “You seem familiar.” He cocked his head, gazing at her with solemn green eyes. “Have I met you before?”
Only when he was a shell-bound dragonet.
Zaarusha’s purple dragonet sprang to mind, floating dead in its translucent golden egg. Marlies gasped, yanking her hand off Maazini’s forehead. Oh Gods, had he seen? Would he hate her for killing his sibling? She shrank back, Zaarusha’s words echoing in her head: You fled—that was an act of cowardice.
She’d lived the last eighteen years in hiding. Would she live the next twenty the same way?
No, she couldn’t let cowardice color her actions—not anymore. Holding the image firmly in her mind, Marlies took a step toward Maazini and laid her hand on his snout.
Seeing her memory of the dragonet’s death, Maazini flinched. “That was you!” His tail twitched.
“Yes, it was me. I’m sorry I killed your sibling.” Marlies bowed her head, waiting for his wrath.
“His name was Dyanmar,” Maazini said, his voice rumbling in her mind. “As dragonets, even when shell-bound, we are linked, sharing thoughts and memories, and having access to the memories of all our dragon ancestors since the First Egg. I sensed you through him.”
“So that’s how you knew me.” The bitterness of her actions stung afresh.
“Yes. My brother recognized your gift of healing, because he, too, was a healer. He saw a vision and knew your line was destined for great things. So, he sacrificed himself, passing his healing energy through the shell of his egg to heal you, so you could have children.”
Marlies gasped. “He knew what he was doing? He willingly died for me and my children?”
“Yes.” Maazini tilted his head. “Tomaaz reminds me of Dyanmar, but I can’t understand why.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure. There’s something about him …”
That wee dragonet had sacrificed his life to help her. She hadn’t murdered him. It had been his choice. The mantle of pain and regret that had nearly suffocated her slowly eased from Marlies’ shoulders.
§
Yelping, a man was cowering in the corner, a tharuk looming over him. Under his blanket, Tomaaz gripped his pallet, trying not to act, for Ma’s sake. The fabric ripped beneath his fingers. He thrust his hand inside, grabbing a fistful of straw, the ends poking into his palms, trying to restrain himself from leaping up to help. Then he sighed in relief as the tharuk turned away from the man, yelling for everyone to get up.
They traipsed to the eating area and chewed their crusts of stale bread. Another day in the latrines. He was so exhausted, he could crawl back onto his pallet and sleep for a week.
“If only I could lend you energy,” Maazini melded, “but I’m too weak, now.”
“If only I could set you free.”
“We’ll find a way.”
Tomaaz didn’t reply. How could he? He’d been racking his brain all night and hadn’t come up with a way to free Maazini.
“Get to work, you lot,” 568 bellowed.
Slaves went to the tool piles.
“You,” 568 bellowed again, pointing at Tomaaz. “Feed the beast. Now. Zens wants that beast soon.”
Zens wanted Maazini. No! Pa was coming tomorrow night. If they left Maazini behind, he’d be doomed. Tomaaz plodded to the tool pile.
At his feet was a thin saw. Its curved handle was hooked on the stem of a shovel. No one was watching. Casually, Tomaaz stepped on the saw blade and yanked the shovel handle, snapping the blade. He dropped the shovel, letting it clatter to the pile to mask any noise. Used to clumsy slaves dropping tools, the tharuks didn’t even look his way. Tomaaz bent to grab the shovel and tucked the broken saw end into his boot. At last, a chance to free Maazini.
§
555 stood before Zens, head bowed.
555 was trusty, a lot better than his sneaky underling, 316, had been. Then, why wasn’t the prisoner’s rucksack where 316 had left it? Zens sent the image to 555 again—the image of the crevice he’d seen in 316’s mind before he’d killed him.
“I checked there, sir. This morning,” 555 replied. “There’s nothing there. Just 316’s scent and some scuff marks.”
Zens pried through the beast’s mind, but found nothing untoward. “A rucksack can’t just disappear!”
000 shot him a mental message, “Perhaps another patrol member moved it. I’ll question them tomorrow morning. We’ll find it then.”
“Good idea,” Zens said. “Now, I must get back to my
