The women in the cavern moved in unison with supple fluidity, their robes swishing, feet slapping on rock and their sabers flashing. Their dance was beautiful, but their moves were deadly. Kill or be killed.
Ezaara stayed in the shadows, copying them. With no sword, she used the dipper, thrusting the handle at imaginary opponents. The assassins ignored her.
“Roberto.”
“Don’t give up,” Erob melded. “I think he’s here. I’ve escaped, but I’ll be back. Find him.”
“I’m imprisoned. I’ll try.” Ezaara kept at the killers’ dance. Here, her right hand needed to be higher, her left leg more controlled. She danced. “Roberto!”
And danced.
An assassin’s sword clattered onto the rock. A chain of echoes bounced around the chamber. Everyone froze. In a swish of orange gauze, Ashewar swept into the cavern, striking the offending assassin’s face with her saber. The smack of metal against flesh echoed in through the cavern, ricocheting against the walls like a macabre drum beat. A bloody gash split the woman’s cheek, but she retrieved her sword, slipping back into stance. Ashewar stalked out as the women continued, not missing a move.
Izoldia unlocked Ezaara. “You. Heal her.” She stood over Ezaara while she rubbed healing salve onto the woman’s wound, then marched her back to her cell. “If you don’t shape up, you’ll need more than healing salve when I’m through with you,” she sneered.
Heart pounding, Ezaara slumped on the mattress, sweat beading her limbs and torso. It was hopeless. She lacked these assassins’ control and finesse. She was weak from hunger. She’d never be good enough.
“Roberto.” Would he ever answer?
Across the training hall was a girl in the shadows, as still as a marmot scenting a predator. She was watching Ezaara, clumsily holding a silver dish. Her hands were covered by the ends of her sleeves. Maybe the dish was hot. The girl approached and passed the dish through the bars.
Dates, oranges and a grainy cereal containing smoked meat—not hot food. Then why had the girl covered her hands? “Thank you,” Ezaara said.
The girl held a finger to her lips—a finger that was scarred and bent out of shape.
Silent assassins.
Ezaara took the dish, catching the girl’s hand in hers. The girl shrunk back with terrified eyes, but Ezaara didn’t let go. She set the dish down and examined the girl’s fingers. Her fingers had deep scarring, as if by fire, all ten digits bent and twisted. The scarring looked like burns, but burns wouldn’t melt bones and twist them. Had she been born that way?
Ezaara examined the girl’s fingers, one by one, then pressed the tips with her nail to see if she flinched. She had some nerve damage. It’d be difficult to work with such fingers. Ezaara reached into her healer’s pouch—thank the Egg, the assassins hadn’t taken it—and pulled out a vial of piaua. Quickly unscrewing the lid, Ezaara tipped a drop onto the girl’s smallest finger and rubbed it over the scar tissue.
A soft hiss escaped the girl. Her scars slowly faded into healthy tissue and her finger straightened. Wonder lit her features. Ezaara picked up her piaua vial to work on the girl’s next finger, but she shook her head. Her eyes flicked to the dancing assassins and she motioned to the dish.
Ezaara scooped the contents into her mouth, then handed the dish back.
“I am Ithsar,” the girl whispered.
“Ezaara,” she whispered back.
“To complete the training, you must sense sathir, the energy of all living things, interwoven in the rhythm of the dance.” With that, Ithsar melted back across the room and out the exit.
What did that mean? “Roberto,” Ezaara melded. No reply. She picked up her dipper and started the dance moves again. What was sathir?
The next morning, when Ithsar brought food, Ezaara healed another finger. In return, Ithsar mentioned the first step in sensing sathir: feeling your heartbeat in every movement, while reaching out to sense what was around you.
It took Ezaara hundreds of attempts before she could move in time with her heartbeat.
“Roberto.” Would he ever answer? Was he alive?
When Ithsar came again, Ezaara was prepared. A drop of piaua, rubbed along her next finger, with a whispered question. “There is a man I seek: dark hair, with olive-black eyes and a tiny crescent-shaped scar on his cheek. Do—”
Ithsar’s eyes flashed recognition. She stiffened and turned away, curling her healed fingers into her palms. Izoldia was approaching.
Picking up the dish, Ezaara used Ithsar as a shield to bolt some of her food, then made a show of chewing and eating while the small assassin waited.
With a hand signal, Izoldia dismissed Ithsar.
Ezaara practiced the intricate dance of killing again. For every ten beats of her heart, she sent out Roberto’s name. It was easier now, the rhythm of the exercises counted in heartbeats gave a fluidity to her movements, but she doubted she’d sensed whatever sathir was.
That night, Ezaara jolted awake. A lamp flickered in the shadows across the cavern. Someone was sneaking around the perimeter, toward her dungeon. She grabbed the water ladle and slipped into the back of the dungeon, waiting in the deepest shadow.
As the figure came closer, she let out a breath of relief. It was Ithsar. Ezaara dropped the ladle and rushed to the bars. “What is it?” she whispered, mindful of the cavern’s echo chamber.
“Thika is unwell.” Ithsar set down the lamp. She drew a wan-beige lizard with dark stripes from the folds of her robe, cradling him on the underside of her forearm. Its head was nestled in her palm and tail curled around her elbow.
“Tell me about Thika.”
“My father gave me Thika when he was a tiny lizard, only this
