Tomaaz sighed. “To save our skills for battle.”
“To practice in the meadows, not the market,” Ezaara added.
Pa nodded. “Tomaaz, could you take this sack of carrots to the smithy?”
“Sure, Pa.” Tomaaz shouldered the sack and left.
Ma glanced at Ezaara’s basket. “So, you sold everything. I heard you beat Tomaaz.”
“Only just, and through strategy, not skill.”
“Strategy is also a skill.” Ma put an arm around her shoulder. “Everyone’s good at different things. Remember, you were climbing trees way before Tomaaz, because you weren’t afraid of heights.”
“I guess so.” Tomaaz still couldn’t climb a ladder without turning green. Who was ever going to be impressed by a head for heights? No one she knew. Ezaara handed Ma the money and basket. “Ana wants owl-wort, today.”
“Owl-wort?” Her mother’s eyes widened. “Collect some supplies for healing salve while you’re at it.” She gave Ezaara back a copper. “Get something to eat before you head back into the forest.”
Pa winked. “Watch out for Lofty.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Heat rose in Ezaara’s cheeks. Had Pa heard already? Worse, had he seen Lofty mashing his lips on hers?
“Soon everyone will be gossiping about something else.” Ma patted her arm.
Ezaara groaned. This was worse than she’d thought. If only her first kiss had been private, special, not from her brother’s best friend. From someone who meant more.
She hurried through the stalls, buying melted cheese on flatbread, then headed down the road to the riverbank, eating it. Water surged around the stepping stones as she crossed the river. Following familiar trails, she tucked peppermint and sage into the leather healer’s pouch at her waist. Lifting fern fronds, Ezaara picked some feverweed. The gurgling of the river gradually faded.
Now, she needed arnica and owl-wort. Ezaara strolled deeper into the forest and came to the sacred clearing. Stepping into the sunlight, Ezaara stooped to pick arnica flowers. The ancient piaua, half as thick as a cottage, rose before her at the edge of the clearing, its bark pitted and gnarly. Blue berries peeked from its dark foliage. As a tree speaker, her mother often talked to the piaua whenever she collected its sacred healing juice. Placing her palm against the bark, Ezaara strained to feel a whisper. Nothing—again. She sighed. Not a tree speaker, then. What would her vocation be? Ma was happy as a healer and herbalist, and Ezaara didn’t mind helping her, but she wanted something more. Excitement. Adventure. Maybe love.
The owl-wort vines grew among the knobby piaua roots. She parted the undergrowth and plucked a handful of leaves. Rising from a crouch, she opened her pouch.
A strange tingle ran through Ezaara, then a shadow fell over her. Something swished, a sudden breeze stirring her hair. She jerked her head up.
A dragon was circling the treetops. Ezaara recoiled in fear. With a snap of fangs or a swipe of talons, it could kill her. The owl-wort fell from her shaking hands. She tensed to flee.
But hesitated.
Sunlight played across the dragon’s iridescent scales, making them shimmer. Its graceful wings swished ever closer, rippling with color. This beast was beautiful—beautiful, but deadly. She had to escape. But the tingling grew stronger. The amazing creature circled down toward her. Foliage rustled in the downdraught from the dragon’s wingbeats.
A voice hummed in her mind. “Ezaara,” it crooned.
This creature could talk to her?
“We’re mind-melding, sensing each other’s thoughts and emotions.”
She held her breath, drawn to the dragon. Rich colors cascaded through her mind. Sunshine poured into her soul. Ezaara wanted to soar. She glimpsed a vision—her riding the dragon, flying above the forest, over the Grande Alps and into the blue.
“This is your destiny, to ride with me.”
Warning cries reached her—villagers. If only they knew this dragon, they wouldn’t be afraid.
The dragon’s hum built to a roar inside her. It dived.
Familiar faces shot into her mind. Her family! She couldn’t leave them.
Ezaara’s love for her family was swept aside as energy rushed through her. She was enveloped in a prism of rainbow-colored light, like reflections in a dewdrop. Music from the purest flute filled her heart. For the first time in her life, she felt whole. The energy coiled inside her and she sprang, lifted by the wind, hair streaming out behind her. In a flash of color, the dragon’s scales were beneath her. Ezaara landed on a saddle in a hollow between its wings. She wrapped her arms around the dragon’s spinal ridge, hugging it tight.
It felt so right.
The dragon regarded her with yellow eyes. Ezaara could’ve sworn it was smiling. “I am Zaarusha. You were born to be my rider,” it thrummed. The beast turned. Its belly rumbled and flames shot from its maw.
They flew off, leaving her home and loved ones behind.
Western Pass
Ezaara clung to the dragon’s spinal ridge, wind tugging her hair. They soared above a carpet of bristling green. Her blood sang. Until today, she’d never lived.
Beyond the forest canopy, a patchwork of fields and cottages sprawled beneath the snow-tipped Western Grande Alps. Lazy twirls of smoke wound upward. They were nearly at Western Settlement, two days’ ride by horse. They’d come so far, so fast.
Just today, she’d vowed she’d never leave Lush Valley without Tomaaz. Now, she was winging further away with each moment—leaving Tomaaz and her parents behind.
She glanced back, the village swallowed by endless forest. Her belly tightened. Could she ever go back?
“You have another destiny—with me. You chose when we imprinted.”
She’d felt the connection, and still felt it now. Zaarusha was part of her. Their bond was like one of Ana’s scarves—a thing of beauty, of glorious colors, protective and warm.
“Going back means facing the pitchforks of Lush Valley,” the dragon mind-melded.
Ezaara
