“Erob, I’m ready!” she cried.
“Good, I’ll be back at my den shortly.”
A surge of energy ran through her. They were finally leaving.
The tunnels were dim, torches low, as Ezaara raced toward Roberto’s cavern, glad to be burning off some energy after caring for Leah for a night and a day. Jaevin’s poisoning, her being accused and Roberto’s banishment made no sense, but they were all connected. If only she could fit the pieces together, she’d be able—
A figure stepped out of the shadows. Simeon’s teeth flashed in a grin. “You seem to be in a hurry, My Honored Queen’s Rider. Going somewhere?” His eyes slid over her body, stopping on her face.
“Not really, I’ve just been busy and need exercise.”
“So late? With such a warm cloak?” He approached her.
The blizzard in the south-west was still raging. She’d need the cloak as she traveled. Ezaara stepped back. “It’s cold out.”
He moved closer. Ezaara backed away. Her foot hit the wall behind her. Simeon crowded her, his body only a hand’s breadth from hers. “I can keep you warm.” He ripped her cloak off, tossing it aside.
Ezaara snatched her sword. Before she could raise it, Simeon grabbed her wrist, squeezing. Gods, his grip was an iron vice. Her bones crunched and she let go, sword clattering onto the rock floor.
Simeon slammed her hands above her and thrust his knee against her groin, his body pinning her against the wall.
Ezaara bucked and twisted. It was no use.
His eyes slid to her breasts. Trapping both her hands with one of his, he ripped a button off her jerkin, yanking the fabric open.
His breath was hot, harsh in her ears. “You’re mine,” he growled. “No running off to rescue him. He won’t want you once I’ve had you.”
Ezaara opened her mouth to scream, but Simeon slammed his hand against it, knocking her head on the rock wall. She bit down, hard. Grabbing his flesh between her teeth, she ripped.
His hand slid out of her teeth, smacking into her head as he lurched backwards. Ezaara shoved him, and Simeon sprawled on the rock. Snatching up her sword, she held the tip at his chest.
Gret ran around the corner. In a flash, Gret had Simeon on his feet, her blade at his throat and his arm twisted up behind his back. “Caught in the act, you filthy rat!”
Simeon hung his head. “I’m sorry, Ezaara. I truly am. I shouldn’t have—”
“Shut up!” Gret snapped, then addressed Ezaara. “Let’s get him to Lars. With two witnesses …” Her eyes took in Ezaara, picking up her cloak, sheathing her sword. “You’re going, aren’t you?”
“Ezaara! Where are you?” Erob. It was time.
Ezaara nodded.
“But Lars won’t believe me without you to back me up. He’s always asking for proof. Please,” Gret pleaded.
Questions would turn into a trial, and a trial wouldn’t happen now, in the middle of the night. She didn’t have time. Roberto could be dying, right now.
“Ezaara.”
“Thank you, Gret, but I’m sorry.”
As Ezaara raced to Erob, Simeon’s gloating echoed down the deserted tunnel. “Once again, little Gret, it’s your pathetic biased word against mine.”
The Wastelands
Tangerine sand, as bright as the orange on Ana’s scarves, undulated in endless rippled hillocks. Ezaara’s nostrils burned, just from breathing. Stinging sand grains whipped into her eyes, and sweat slicked her back. She’d always imagined the Wastelands as bleak, but this cruel land was also breathtaking. The rolling hills were etched with mysterious patterns from the wind’s fingertips, and stretched so far they made her eyes ache.
“They’re called dunes,” said Erob, “those hills.”
“It’s hopeless, Erob. How will we ever find him?”
“Keep mind sweeping. Roberto’s got to be somewhere.”
“It’s been two days. I haven’t sensed a thing, except you. Apart from those tents near that oasis and a few Robandi tribes, the only thing we’ve seen is sand.”
“Don’t give up. We have to find him.”
Hopefully alive. Although the longer they searched, the less likely that was. Ezaara gripped Erob’s spinal ridge with tired fingers. Her throat ached and eyes stung—and it wasn’t from the sand.
§
The heat pressed against Roberto, like a scratchy blanket. Despite the undershirt wrapped around his head and mouth, his throat rasped. He shook his waterskin. Not a drop left—he’d drained the last trickle hours ago. It was a miracle the paltry contents had lasted that long.
He dragged his heavy legs through the endless shifting sand, longing for the cool kiss of night—although dark brought its own challenges. Last night had been so cold, he’d been wracked with shivers by the time the sun had glared over the dunes, but right now, that would be better than being scorched alive. Ezaara’s awful vision flashed through his mind: being burned alive by dragon flame. This furnace was burning his lungs—he was roasting alive, inside and out.
Shards! He had to pee.
Hope spurted inside him. Something to drink. By the Egg, had it really come to this?
He peed into the waterskin. Only a dribble, but it burned and his pee was so dark it was the color of this cursed sand. Shrugging, Roberto took a sniff, wrinkling his nose. Foul and stinking, but it was liquid. It could keep him alive. He raised the waterskin.
No, he couldn’t drink it. Dropping the skin, he staggered toward the next dune. If only he could fly on Erob’s back, traversing the desert by air. He blinked. Erob wasn’t here, but something was clinking over the next dune.
His brain was so foggy, he nearly rushed straight up the sand. No! Caution. He dropped to his belly and crawled until he crested the hill. Robandi. Two feuding tribes. If he read the
