Five fingers healed in total and five to go. Ezaara could give Ithsar the piaua to heal Roberto, but the girl might use all of the juice on herself or her friends, saving none for Roberto.
She breathed, staring into Ithsar’s eyes. One heartbeat.
Two. Three.
A connection, like a thread of color, wove between them, shimmering. The thread grew stronger, thicker, flowing between them. It felt right to trust this girl, as if their paths could influence each other’s destiny.
“Sathir is strong between us,” whispered Ithsar—she felt it too.
Ezaara handed Ithsar the piaua juice. “A few drops on the wound and two on the tongue. It’s precious.”
Ithsar retreated through the shadows.
Ezaara sank onto her mattress. She’d given her most precious healing remedy, the scarcest of her resources, to one of her captors. What had she done?
A Link Reforged
Roberto woke to the girl with the twisted fingers. By the Egg, he was sick of sleeping. The dark haze made his world turn upside-down and inside out. She lifted a cup to his lips. He shook his head. “Not the sweet water,” he croaked.
“It will soothe you,” she said, widening her eyes and shooting him a meaningful glance. She held the cup up, urging him to drink.
Strange. She meant something with that glance. Could he trust her? He took a sip. It was water, cool and pure, not tainted with the sickly-sweet draught that knocked him out. He gulped it down.
“Sleep now, while I change your bandages.” That widening of the eyes again, with a casual glance at the other workers behind her. She subtly wriggled her fingers. Some of them were no longer scarred and twisted.
Roberto shut his eyes, feigning sleep. She peeled back his bandage, a twinge rippling across the dull ache of his wound. Something dribbled on his injury, burning. He nearly cried out, until he remembered the burn of Ezaara’s piaua. Was it possible this girl had piaua too? Where from?
And then he heard Ezaara. Felt her.
“Roberto!” Vibrant colors flashed through him—with a potent wave of love.
“Ezaara!” He fought to keep an insane smile from his face. Ezaara was here. Ezaara believed him. Ezaara loved him. Every corner of his body was filled with light. He was a feather floating on the breeze, a bubble rising to the top of the sea.
The juice burned along his stomach. He opened his eyes. The girl re-bandaged his wound and shielded him from view as she leaned over, pretending to give him the cup, but slipping a drop of piaua onto his tongue. “For your insides,” she barely whispered. “Ezaara is here.”
“I know,” whispered Roberto, smiling. He closed his eyelids, pretending to sleep.
§
It was him—Roberto! Her whole body was singing with joy. A rush went through her, like she was imprinting all over again. He was here. Alive. Ezaara counted her heartbeats, concentrating on sathir, but it was hard to focus, especially when Ithsar made her way across the training room holding a dish of sliced oranges. She was clever, curling her fingers so they looked unhealed.
“Quick, my mother is coming,” Ithsar whispered.
Ezaara took the dish—and the vial of piaua hidden beneath the orange wedges. She pocketed the vial immediately, then sat down to eat her oranges while Ithsar watched, her face inscrutable.
Within moments, Ashewar, the chief prophetess of the silent assassins, appeared. So Ashewar was Ithsar’s mother. Ugh.
The assassins turned to face their leader, right hands on sword hilts, left fists over their hearts. Ashewar strode through the room on noiseless feet. As one, they followed her, their bodies like the hands of a giant clock, always facing their master.
The chief prophetess stopped in front of Ezaara’s cell. “Stand,” she hissed.
Ezaara passed the dish of empty orange peels back to Ithsar and stood.
“You were asking about a man when you arrived,” Ashewar said. “We have interrogated a Naobian man, found in the desert with his gut slit. He says you injured him in an attempt on his life.” She shook her head. “To forfeit a life in the desert, without our sanction, is a grave crime, so you will be executed tomorrow at dawn.”
“But I didn’t—”
“Silence.” Izoldia stabbed through the bars with her sword.
Ezaara leaped back.
Ashewar waved a hand at the assassins in the training area. “Choose who will kill you.”
Ezaara’s mind spun. She scanned the rows of stony-faced warriors. She pointed at Ithsar. “I choose her.”
Ithsar’s expression froze, her eyes piercing Ezaara.
Rage flashed across Ashewar’s face. Her voice turned to ice. “Very well, Ezaara formerly of Dragons’ Hold, soon queen of a shallow grave in the Robandi desert. May the buzzards pick your bones dry before they’re bleached by our sun.”
Ashewar gestured to Ithsar, and she joined the ranks of the trainees, keeping her fists in her sleeves to hide her healed fingers. She had no weapon.
Suddenly, Ezaara understood. She’d chosen the one assassin who couldn’t properly wield a sword, disgracing both mother and daughter.
Izoldia bowed to the prophetess.
“Speak, Izoldia,” commanded Ashewar.
Izoldia gave a nasty grin. “My Most Revered Prophetess, Ithsar may finally have her first kill.” She barked out a harsh laugh.
The prophetess gave a curt wave, cutting her off mid-laugh. “This is Ithsar’s last chance. If she is not successful in killing Ezaara, you will execute both of them.”
§
In the deepest night, the faint slap of feet woke Ezaara. Someone was coming. She felt for her sword but, of course, had none. She got up and crept to the side of her prison, gripping the dipper.
A light flared. Ithsar was there, a tiny lamp in her hands. She unlocked the dungeon door and gave Ezaara a bundle of orange clothing. Hurriedly, Ezaara pulled the garments
