“Help me,” she grunted.
Ezaara applied pressure to the sides of his wound. A blood-smeared yellow stone—as long as Ezaara’s finger and twice as thick—slithered out onto Roberto’s back.
Roberto’s body tensed, then went limp.
“This stone is how Zens controls people?”
Ma nodded. “Fleur did the same to Sofia. We found that Unocco—the dragon that the traitor Bruno used to ride—had a crystal embedded under his wing.” Bitterness flashed across Ma’s face. “It’s strange, because Fleur only used swayweed with Ajeuria, yet they implanted Sofia and Unocco. I can’t figure out why.”
Why had Ma looked so bitter? Fleur and Bruno had been from Montanara, and Ma had grown up there. On a hunch, Ezaara asked, “Did you know Bruno?”
Ma gave her an odd look. “I just found out yesterday that Master Bruno was the same man who had run the Nightshader crew in Montanara—a terrible street gang who stole from littlings and beat people up. I’m glad he’s been banished. Now take that crystal to Zaarusha so she can destroy it.”
The crystal emanated an angry hum, like a swarm of bees, against her fingertips. Ezaara rushed outside.
“Drop it,” commanded Zaarusha. She blasted the stone with dragon flame until it was a bubbling mass, giving off a nasty stink. “Don’t breathe in the fumes,” Zaarusha warned. “Who knows what they’ll do.”
Erob sidestepped the bubbling mess, lowering his head to gaze at Ezaara with golden eyes. Ezaara rubbed his eye ridge. “What is it?”
“Zens nearly broke Roberto,” Erob said, the wave of his sorrow socking Ezaara’s stomach. “If Roberto had succeeded in killing you, he would’ve been filled with self-loathing. We would’ve lost our Queen’s Rider and one of our most valuable masters.”
Ezaara nodded, swallowing. They’d been lucky.
Prophecy
Roberto woke face down in bed, his back on fire. The swirling dark mist that had teased the edges of his mind was gone. So were the whispering voices, thank the Egg. His head was clear for the first time since leaving Death Valley. He stretched and winced. His right shoulder blade burned with pain.
He rolled onto his left side.
Ezaara was asleep in an armchair by the bed. A pale shaft of sunlight filtered through a crack in a stone shutter, falling across her cheek, highlighting the freckles on her nose. He’d first seen them when she’d flown her first loop on Zaarusha—the day he’d sworn to be her protector.
Strange, he hadn’t noticed her freckles in all these moons. He lay there, watching her breathe. He was so lucky.
Shards. Lucky she was alive. Memories of him holding a knife to her throat rushed through his head. Shame and remorse flooded him. He wasn’t her protector—he’d been a heartbeat away from murdering her. He was a worthless piece of shrot. His stomach tied itself in painful knots. Zens had been right. He’d made him his beast, no better than a stinking tharuk. He’d nearly killed the woman he loved—the Queen’s Rider, for the dragons gods’ sake.
Ezaara opened her eyes.
Skewered by his memories, Roberto froze, a dark pit gaping inside him.
He opened his mouth. No words came out. No excuse for making her bleed.
Her green eyes regarded him.
He saw the blade, him holding it. Lunging, slamming her against the wall. And using that sharding knife. Always the knife—again and again—glinting red with the promise of death. Her death, the woman he loved. The memory burned through his mind, worse than Zens’ torture.
Ezaara slipped into his mind. “Show me.”
He tried to hide the memories, the shame, but she wrapped her warm presence around his thoughts, and watched with him, her love shining through the darkness, like a beacon fire welcoming him home.
Tears wet on his cheeks, he stared at her unmoving.
Her eyes bright with tears, she whispered, “Welcome home. I’ve missed you.”
§
When she’d left Death Valley, Roberto had been a broken man, weeping on the stone floor. Now, he was home, but still broken, weeping beside her. His ebony eyes were filled with the horror of what he’d done. Anguish painted his features. His chest heaved with sobs.
As he’d been sleeping, Ezaara had wondered how she could ever trust him.
And here was her answer.
This is what Zens had wanted. To destroy the man she loved.
And so Ezaara reached down within herself, dragging up courage she didn’t know she had, and stroked his cheek. “Roberto, do you remember what you promised me?”
He stopped sobbing, eyes wide. Tentatively, he reached up and cupped her hand where it lay against his face. His touch was warm, gentle. “I remember,” he whispered, soft as a moth’s wing, husky with love and grief.
This was the Roberto she loved. The man who’d spent all night carving a cane for her when she’d first arrived here. The man who’d helped hone her skills, offered his life to protect her. Bled for her.
He was not the man who’d held a knife at her throat. No—that was Zens.
And so she said what she’d been wanting to say ever since he’d left. What she’d been saving up for when he returned. And what she wanted with all her heart.
“Are you ready to ask my parents?” She leaned in, brushing her lips across his.
He nodded and kissed her back, his lips as welcoming as a soft spring rain.
§
Roberto ran a hand through his hair, then tugged his jerkin. He paced outside the door, then scratched his chin. This was stupid. He’d faced the horrors of Death Valley, but couldn’t face Ezaara’s parents. He knocked on the door, then immediately wished he hadn’t.
Ezaara’s mother knew what he’d done. Would she forgive him? Or banish him like a rogue dragon?
Hans opened the door. “Come in, Roberto.”
He wiped his palm on
