“But I—”
“Stinking ignorant peasant from Lush Valley.” He spat on the floor. “Great Queen’s Rider you are. All you care about is yourself!” He strode off, his words echoing off the walls.
Heart hammering, she rushed along the corridor, ignoring her aching ankle. She shouldn’t have listened to Simeon, although he’d had her best interests at heart. Alban was right. She was selfish for sleeping so long. Selfish for not visiting Sofia immediately. Too selfish to be Queen’s Rider.
Ezaara entered the infirmary. Their backs to Ezaara, Fleur and Simeon were bending over Sofia while Fleur swabbed her leg. Sofia was asleep, curls splayed over her pillow. A blood-encrusted bandage lay on the bedside table. The stitches on her thigh were crooked and tight, making the wound pucker over an ugly bump. Ezaara cringed. It was worse than she’d thought. The gash was so awful, it wouldn’t stay flat when stitched.
Taking a tub of yellow unguent, Simeon smoothed it onto Sofia’s wound. The salve’s acrid smell stung Ezaara’s nostrils—that same smelly salve Simeon had given her.
When he was finished, Simeon turned, starting. “Oh, Ezaara. I didn’t hear you come in.” He shoved his medicinal supplies into a drawer in Sofia’s bedside table. “How are you feeling?”
Fleur smiled as she bandaged Sofia’s wound. “Good morning, Ezaara. Nice of you to visit.”
“How’s Sofia?”
“We gave her a pain draught so she could sleep, the poor thing,” Fleur spoke softly. “Perhaps you should visit another time. You look tired; maybe you should rest.”
Alban’s accusations bounced around Ezaara’s head. The last thing she needed was rest. She had to do something to help. Anything. “Perhaps you two would like an early breakfast while I sit with her? I mean, the accident was my fault.”
Fleur cleared the dirty bandage away. “That’s not really your role as Queen’s Rider, Ezaara. Simeon will tend to Sofia. I must go soon. I’ve been summoned to a council meeting.”
Fleur bustled about while Simeon sat by Sofia. Ezaara hovered, feeling useless.
“We don’t use that yellow salve in Lush Valley. What’s in it?” Ezaara asked.
“It’s my own healing salve containing expensive herbs brought to me by green guards,” Fleur replied.
“Green guards?”
“Dragon riders from Naobia, my dear. They ride green dragons. Being from Lush Valley, you wouldn’t have heard of them, or their herbs.” Fleur smiled. “I suppose you use old-fashioned remedies like arnica and peppermint?”
Ezaara nodded.
“Never mind, they do in a pinch.” Fleur bustled out the door.
Ezaara had thought Ma was a great healer, but then, what did she know? Alban was right. She was an ignorant peasant from Lush Valley.
Moaning, Sofia opened her eyes. She scowled at Ezaara. “You! What are you doing here? Come to stab me again?”
Gasping, Ezaara took a step back. “I didn’t mean—”
“Get away from me,” Sofia shrieked. “Go away!”
Ezaara fled.
She staggered out into the tunnels. Sofia hated her. Blamed her. She’d been so understanding yesterday—a shock reaction? Supporting herself against the tunnel walls, Ezaara stumbled along, her ankle screaming. She welcomed the pain. She deserved it. It was nothing compared to how she’d hurt Sofia.
Deadline
Roberto traipsed into the council chambers, Erob’s solid footfalls behind him. Council meetings weren’t usually at the crack of dawn with the sky tinged honey-gold like the highlights in Ezaara’s hair. He forced himself to focus. Zaarusha must have important news for them.
Curling his tail around his body and tucking his snout on his forelegs, Erob took his place behind Roberto’s seat, near the back of the cavern, among the other dragons. “I’ll catch a few winks while you humans solve the realm’s problems,” Erob melded. Although he never actually napped during council meetings, he always threatened to.
Not that Roberto blamed him—their meetings could be boring. “Don’t snore, or Zaarusha might nip you.”
Zaarusha blinked a greeting to Roberto, her scales reflecting a myriad of colors in the torchlight.
He inclined his head, enjoying that familiar surge of pride at being on her council. There was no higher honor than serving their queen. She’d believed in him when he’d first arrived here. He’d never disappoint her.
Lars was already seated, drumming his fingers on the granite horseshoe-shaped table, talking with Tonio and Bruno, the master of prophecy.
Roberto slid into his chair beside Bruno. He nodded at Hendrik, a burly blacksmith and their master of craft. On the opposite side of the horseshoe, Aidan, Jerrick and Jaevin were seated, waiting.
Master of Horticulture and Livestock, Shari, leaned around Hendrik. “Morning, Roberto. Early, isn’t it?”
Shari’s dragon wasn’t here. “How’s Ariana doing?”
“Much better,” Shari whispered, glancing at Bruno, Fleur’s husband, the beads on her tiny braids clicking. “Fleur’s tonic didn’t work, so I tried the herbs I use on sheep. Ariana’s sleeping, but I think they’ve done the trick.”
“Good thinking.”
“It’s a relief.” Shari smiled, white teeth flashing against her cinnamon skin. “A dragon with belly gripe is not a pretty sight—or sound.”
Or smell. Roberto chuckled.
On the ledge outside, thumps and the skitter of talons on rock heralded the arrival of more dragons. A blue guard, in riders’ grab with a blue armband, opened the chamber doors. Deep in conversation, Alyssa and Derek strode into the room followed by their dragons, who took their spots behind their masters. There were only two seats remaining: Fleur’s; and the Queen’s Rider’s seat, which had been empty for years. Hopefully, Ezaara would soon be qualified to sit in it—although yesterday’s abysmal knife incident made prickles of doubt play along Roberto’s spine.
Lars cleared his throat. “We need to start. Bruno, can your dragon let us know when your wife will arrive?”
The quiet rumble of conversation made Roberto drowsy. He stifled a yawn. His all-nighter, carving Ezaara’s cane, was catching up on him.
“They’re almost here,” Bruno announced.
Fleur and Ajeuria thudded onto the ledge and entered the council chamber.
