“The dracha escaped, my highly-esteemed Beloved One.” Izoldia’s bow was so low her nose nearly scraped the floor. “But it’ll be back for food.”
Her darling sycophant had hoped she wouldn’t ask. “Trap the dracha. Or I’ll be tossing your hide to the rust vipers.”
“Yes, my Revered Prophetess.”
Ashewar turned back to the Naobian. Sathir was strong in him. She sensed a ruthless discipline in his spirit, or perhaps it was a disciplined ruthlessness, a darkness. He would serve her purpose well. With this core of steel, his seed would provide good lineage. She surveyed the geography of his face: hollows under defined cheekbones, high brow, strong chin, dark lashes. It was a shame she wouldn’t get to lie with him herself, but she had no need of more twisted progeny. Her loins had produced only bitterness: boys to be culled at birth and one daughter of inferior quality.
She needed good fruit. Strong female fruit, to be raised to carry on the legacy of the Sathiri. She’d selected ten protégés for the honor—women experienced in cajoling the seed from unwilling men. And when they were done with him, he would die. Just as he’d been about to die when they’d found him.
Izoldia appraised the male. “Good choice, Revered Prophetess. You show such excellent wisdom and foresight. He will give us many strong daughters.”
“He will indeed. It’s rare to find such a specimen, a man in his prime, on our doorstep. This is a good omen.” She hesitated. Izoldia was tough, cruel at times, but that would serve them well: if the others begot boys, Izoldia would have no hesitation in feeding their bodies to the carrion birds. “Would you like to oversee the process?”
Izoldia’s grin was fierce. “Thank you, Revered Prophetess. I’ll make sure he complies and kill him swiftly afterward.”
§
Roberto awoke with a start. “How long have I slept?”
“A day,” murmured the girl, bunching her twisted fingers in fists and hiding them in her sleeves.
“Was that a sleeping draught? That sweetness?”
“It promotes sleep and healing.”
His head was groggy, limbs still dead, but he was awake and his mind was his own. He’d dreamed of Ezaara, remembering the trial in horrible detail: Ezaara had believed him. Believed he’d poisoned Jaevin. By the Egg, that hurt—he’d only lied to save her. But even worse was the bleak expression on Adelina’s face: eyes hollow, face drained of hope. He knew that look. He’d been beside Adelina when Ma had died from injuries inflicted by Pa.
In saving Ezaara, he’d abandoned his sister.
“You must get strong and heal quickly.” The girl spoke quietly, her eyes slipping away.
Something in her glance sparked a memory: while he’d been dreaming, he’d heard Ashewar discussing him and harvesting some sort of fruit. What had it been?
Gods, his seed—they wanted to force him to give up his seed. Horror engulfed him.
When the girl offered him the sleeping draught again, he drank readily, falling back into the dark void.
Imprisoned
Guards marched Ezaara before the same imposing woman with kohl-lined eyes, now sitting on an ornately-carved throne. A prickle of dread ran down Ezaara’s back. Every carving on her throne was of a woman killing a man.
“Your name?” the woman whispered, torchlight glinting off three diamond studs in her beaked nose.
“Ezaara of Dragons’ Hold.” She didn’t belong there anymore, nor in Lush Valley—she was an outcast from the only homes she’d ever known.
“So, you are the new Queen’s Rider, but where is your queen?” Even whispering, this woman was haughty.
The woman had heard of her, but Ezaara had never heard of these silent assassins. Not in Lush Valley. Nor at Dragons’ Hold. “I have no queen,” Ezaara mumbled, staring at the floor.
“Without a dracha, you are not much use. Unless you can fight?” The woman clicked her fingers and her assistants lunged, swords aiming for Ezaara.
She ducked, instinctively thrusting her arms up to block—but their blows never came.
“With training, you might amount to something,” the woman hissed. “Izoldia, take her to the dungeon near the training room.”
With a sneer at Ezaara, a towering barrel-chested assassin squeezed her arm.
“But I have to—”
“Silence,” the burly Izoldia hissed. “You must not address Ashewar, Chief Prophetess of the Silent Assassins, until spoken to.” She raked a dagger along Ezaara’s arm. A line of red beads appeared. Ezaara sucked in her breath. That stung. Izoldia yanked her toward a narrow tunnel, more female guards in orange clothing trailing behind.
“Wait.” The prophetess’ eyes narrowed. “What is that pouch you wear?”
No, they couldn’t take her healer’s pouch. “My mother was a healer. I’ve learned some of her skills.”
Ashewar snapped her fingers and a guard brought the pouch over for her to examine. “Hmm. Let her keep her pouch. She can heal cuts from training skirmishes. Now, take her away.”
Roberto! Since they’d caught her, she’d forgotten to mind sweep. “Roberto.” Nothing. But she wouldn’t give up. He’d been alive a few hours ago. Why had Erob warned her off asking about him? “Roberto.”
They went through a catacomb of tunnels and crossed a large cavern, where women were moving in an elaborate dance, swords and bodies flowing in time to some unseen rhythm. The guards paused at an adjoining cell, unlocking a door of iron bars.
Izoldia’s fetid breath washed over her face. “If you’re useless, Ashewar will give me the pleasure of killing you, but if you train hard, you’ll become one of us.” The guard shoved her, sending Ezaara sprawling onto a lumpy mattress against the rocky wall. The bars clanged shut.
Marching to the center of the cavern, the guards joined the dance.
So, this was their training area.
And hers. She had to survive until she could escape. Shrouded in shadows, her cell was barely longer than the mattress. Torches in the
