“What are you doing here?” The woman’s voice was soft, sibilant, like the hissing of wind on sand.
“Ah, Ezaara,” melded Erob, “I know these people. You’d better be polite.”
That sounded dire. Were they Robandi? Their faces and hands were sun-darkened like Robandi, but they were dressed differently—clad in gauzy headdresses, breeches and shirts the same orange as the sand. “We were refreshing ourselves at these beautiful waters.” Ezaara inclined her head a fraction, as far as she could without being stabbed. “We also partook of your delicious fruit. Um, and a goat. Thank you for your hospitality.” Shards, what was she supposed to say?
The woman hissed, “Seize the scorpion with the flattering tongue and confine her lizard.” Swords flicked from her to Erob. Strong arms grasped Ezaara, removing her weapons in a heartbeat. “Now we’ll find out what you really want,” she whispered.
“We’re seeking a friend,” Ezaara said. “He may be injured. Dark hair, dark skin, black eyes.”
Snorting, the woman whispered again. “Convenient, but not believable. That could be any Robandi. Take them below.”
Below?
The warriors moved with lithe elegance and strength. They were women—all forty of them. They marched Ezaara and Erob at sword point to a grove of trees at the far end of the lake. Among the palms was a giant amber boulder with trees growing over it. A latticework of roots hung over the rock’s overhang, enveloping it like a spider’s web. Two figures stepped out from the overhang, their orange-and-brown-splotched clothing camouflaging them until they moved. They pulled aside some roots and the guards marched Ezaara down a tunnel leading underground.
“What about Erob?” she asked.
“He will be well-tended,” a guard answered in a hushed tone.
So, the tall warrior didn’t have a speech defect. All of these women whispered.
“Of course they do,” melded Erob. “They’re the Sathiri, the Wastelands’ infamous silent assassins. Whatever you do, don’t mention men, especially not Roberto.”
§
Kohl-rimmed deep-brown eyes studied Roberto. The woman’s skin was darker than his, the shade of rich pecans. Hawk-nosed, her face was a mask of tranquility. She was Robandi—and he was alive. High above her was a vaulted ceiling of amber rock. Still in the Wastelands, then. Fangs, his gut ached, a deep sharp throb that sent sparks of pain skittering across his skin whenever he thought of moving.
The woman lifted a cool compress to his brow, murmuring in Naobian, “Lie still. Rest.”
As if he could go anywhere. Gods, he probably couldn’t even sit up. More fire, pain. “Who—” His voice came out in a broken croak.
“Ssh. Let me tell you.”
Roberto had heard similar accents from the Robandi traders in the Naobian markets. She held a cup of sweet cool water to his lips and he swallowed. Bliss. A faint smile traced her lips and she stood, moving with strength and calculated economy. Clothed in orange breeches, headdress and a loose shirt, a saber hung at her hip. A warrior, then.
Who was she and where were they? That babbling was still here. Slowly, Roberto turned his head, not wanting to risk stabbing gut pain. A spring was trickling out of the rock into a pool, feeding an underground stream. He hadn’t dreamed the water. It was real.
“Robandi Duo slit your gut and left you to desiccate in the desert. The fools didn’t recognize you were Naobian or a dracha ryter. How do you call this in your tongue?”
So, she knew what rider’s garb looked like. “Dragon rider.” Still croaky, but his words were now recognizable.
“Ah, yes, those magnificent beasts, so fierce in combat.” A feral flash of teeth.
And she had an interest in dragons.
“Your road to healing will not be fast, but at least your fever has broken. Luckily, we found you and brought you here to the Retreat of the Silent Assassins.” Fire stirred in the depths of her dark eyes.
The band of women, renowned for their fighting prowess, who sat in judgment over feuding Robandi tribes. Their skills were many. Ruthless, most trained from the age of seven, learning the spiritual and fighting arts. “And you are the Prophetess of the Robandi Desert?”
A nod.
An assassin prophetess. He coughed, his throat dry, gritting his teeth against the ache in his stomach. If he survived this, he’d never take coughing or laughing for granted again.
“Rest. It is your first time waking in hours. Do not strain yourself.” She clicked her fingers, and a young girl of about thirteen approached his bedside.
There were other sounds, hidden by the spring: faint rustling, the chink of someone working. He lifted his head, stifling a groan of agony. Girls and women were working nearby, lit by shafts of sunlight angling through the ceiling. By the Egg, his guts. He’d never move again.
The prophetess frowned, voice stern. “Lie still. You must not rip the stitches.”
The young girl lifted the cup to his lips, her fingers twisted and scarred.
“Little and often,” the woman said to the girl. Then to Roberto, “Underestimate us at your peril. Every girl here is trained to kill.” She slipped the knife out of his discarded boots, and stalked away.
There must’ve been something in the liquid he’d sipped, because soon Roberto was dreaming again. He hung in a dark void dotted with stars, body endlessly spinning. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t move. Everything was numb—mind, body and emotions. Then he heard her.
“Roberto,” she called across time and space, her bright colors flashing through him. “Roberto!” Ezaara—the woman he loved. She’d brought vibrancy and meaning to his life, making him strive to be better.
He tried to answer, but his lips wouldn’t move and his limbs were rubbery. He struggled against the darkness dragging his body down, down, spinning … He thrust her name outwards, “E-zaa-ra,” then he was gone, suspended in the void again.
§
Ashewar turned her head from the
