Their dragons flew out over the basin. Soon, duty would call, but for now they had time together.
§
On the ledge outside the mess cavern, Tonio interrupted himself mid-sentence and pointed over the basin at Maazini and Ajeurina. “Look at them, Lars.”
Maazini tilted his wing and banked, before descending. Ajeurina mimicked him a heartbeat later.
Lars sighed. Not this again. “I know what you’re going to say—but this doesn’t prove anything.”
“Ajeurina is a half a wingbeat behind Maazini,” said Tonio. “Tomaaz and Lovina are sitting differently, moving out of sync, so it’s obvious they’re not mind-melding. The dragons are close, brother and sister, to Zaarusha and Erob’s mother and son partnership, but it’s all four melding together that made those other partnerships so incredible. Hans, Handel, Marlies and Liesar. And Yanir, Syan and Anakisha and Zaarusha. You’ve seen them fly. Seen them think in battle; their speed and efficiency were a strategic advantage.”
“Yes, they had an advantage.” One Tonio and Lars had been envious of. Lars’ Lydia hadn’t imprinted and Tonio’s wife was dead. But that jealousy didn’t give Tonio license for a vendetta. This whole business was growing old. “And?”
Tonio whirled, eyes stormy. “Master Roberto was kissing his trainee. Antonika saw it. Dragons don’t lie. We’ve both seen them fly together. The four of them were mind-melding.”
“Master Roberto is stuck in Death Valley, and—”
“Where he belongs,” snapped Tonio. “Amato’s spawn is rotten to the core. Corrupting trainees, influencing the Queen’s Rider. I bet Zens is training him again, right now.”
Lars sighed. “Isn’t that all the more reason to rescue him?”
“What? Because our lovesick Queen’s Rider is missing him?”
Lars shrugged. No, because he was a valuable master on the council, but telling Tonio that would only antagonize him. Tonio had never wanted Roberto to become a master. It always came back to him hating Amato.
Tonio leaned in. “Roberto may have even persuaded Ezaara, using his mental talents. Who’s to say it’s genuine affection and not mental force that’s making her nag us to rescue him.”
Lars had never considered that. Until this was cleared up and the dragon race was done, he had no choice but to leave Roberto where he was. His conscience pricked, but at least it was better than Roberto being banished outright. This way there was still hope. He shook his head. That was crazy. Since when was being captive to Zens called hope?
Vengeance
It must be night again. 000 and Zens were gone and the torches had burned low, the sole indication of time passing in this underground hellhole. Roberto cricked his neck. At least, only one of his hands was chained.
He pulled on a thread in the cuff of his jerkin until a clear-mind berry popped out. With clumsy fingers he slid it off the thread and ate it—his only defense against Zens’ numlocked water. His grimy, blood-coated fingernails were starting to pink again. Reaching into a discreet pouch along the inside of his belt line, Roberto extracted a pinch of dragon’s scale and ate the gray powder. That should keep his fingernails and eyes gray, disguising the fact that he wasn’t numlocked.
He let his mind back up to the surface and reached out with his senses.
Ah, peace. Zens must be asleep. It was the only time he didn’t torture Roberto mentally. He tried to wet his cracked lips, but his tongue was parched. 000 would bring water in the morning. There was nothing to do, except wait and enjoy the peace while Zens slept.
His body was one dull mass of aches, with sharp pain in his ribs when he moved. He cast his mind out. What was that? Not a tharuk—the sense of intelligence was too keen. Not a slave—there was no numlock at play in this mind. By the shards of the First Egg, he was mind-melding with Zens. Roberto was about to withdraw when an image hit him.
Zens was having a nightmare.
He was trapped in a dark space, pushing against two heavy doors, a crack of light shining between them. Locked, the doors wouldn’t budge. Zen slammed his body into them, panic tightening his chest. He couldn’t get out. He pounded his fists against the wood.
Hang on. They were small fists, like a littling’s. In this dream, Zens was young.
Something thudded into the doors. Zens sprang back, hitting his head on a wall, and slid down, whimpering in a corner.
He was in a tiny dark space, like a cupboard.
“Shuddup, scummy kid,” someone bellowed.
Fear spiked through Zens’ belly and he trembled, huddling in the corner. Flashes of a face shot through his mind, too fast for Roberto to grasp. Zens sat for hours, fear building, his stomach a grinding mass of nerves. Gradually, a new sensation fought with his fear. Zens struggled to hold his bladder, but failed. Whimpering, he wet himself. His sobs were heartbreaking. Skin burning, he sat in his damp breeches for hours, waiting. Eventually, he fell asleep.
Zens pried his eyes open, wincing as the harsh light hit him.
“Not again, you stinking whelp.” Large arms yanked him out of the cupboard, dangling him in the air. A huge man with malicious yellow eyes snarled, “You’ll be cleaning that stink up yourself.”
Zens’ surroundings were strange. Whatever world he came from, it was nothing like Roberto’s.
Zens was in an enormous room with metal walls as shiny as a newly-forged blade. Strange tabletops and work benches lined the walls, littered with vials, glass tubes and stands. Something bubbled in a glass pot on a benchtop. The fire underneath it was not powered by wood, but came out of a metal stand with a red tube attached to it.
What sort of wizardry was this?
A metallic scent hit him. A human body lay upon a bench, cut open, flesh peeled back, with the entrails showing. Along the back
