“Where to?” Ezaara’s whisper sounded unnaturally loud, reverberating in the chamber. No! She’d forgotten the echo effect in the middle of the cavern.
Ithsar’s eyes flew wide. She doused the lamp, but it was too late. People were running along the tunnels toward them.
Grabbing Ezaara’s hand, Ithsar dashed with her into the darkness. Heartbeats. Ezaara tried to focus on her heartbeat to stay calm and stop her breath rasping. But her traitorous heart boomed like banishment drums.
Assassins pounded the stone behind them.
Racing along the network of tunnels, Ezaara was soon disoriented.
Ithsar pulled her to the floor, whispering, “Lie down. Squeeze under this bridge. Don’t move until I return.”
Ezaara obeyed. She wriggled under some planks—a hand’s breadth from her nose. Below, was the burble of distant water. Ithsar pushed her in further, then raced off to draw their pursuers away.
Moments later, footsteps thundered over the wood, so close their breeze brushed her face. Ezaara froze, counting her heartbeats until they passed.
Hundreds of beats after their steps had faded, Roberto melded with her. “Ezaara, what’s happening?”
“I’m trying to escape.”
“Me too, but—”
Ezaara tried to meld with him again, but couldn’t. Time crawled as she lay, squeezed in that confined space. Her fingertips grazed slatted wood above her. To her side, her other fingers met air. One wrong move and she’d tumble into the water far below. Swallowing, Ezaara kept counting.
§
Ithsar was used to hiding in the tunnels. Used to avoiding the unwanted gaze of her fellow assassins. Used to crawling into tiny spaces to escape their taunting. But she wasn’t used to the new strength in her fingers, the strange energy that had surged along her half-dead nerves as Ezaara, she of the golden hair and green eyes, had healed her. Ithsar had never experienced such kindness from anyone. And although the dracha ryter from a far-off land had given her a vial of healing juice, Ithsar honored Ezaara, so she hadn’t dared use any on herself.
So, Ithsar ran for her life and for Ezaara’s. Having hands that didn’t work well had helped her hone the rest of her body. Whenever she was off-duty, she practiced the sathir dance for hours on end, her limbs nearly brushing the walls of her tiny cavern. Her legs were strong, feet agile and her endurance was akin to the legendary Sathiri, who had established the ancient dance. Not that any of her fellow warriors realized. She’d hidden her prowess, deliberately acting clumsier than she was. Deliberately fooling everyone—especially her mother, Ashewar.
On through the dark, Ithsar ran, through winding tunnels to a hidey-hole they’d never suspect. When pursuers passed her, she doubled back until she reached an alcove near where the Naobian lay healing. Healed. She’d healed him. He of the dark eyes shining like ripe olives under the sun. No wonder Ezaara loved this man—it was evident in her sathir when she’d asked after him. And he had cried, calling Ezaara’s name in his fever with such love, babbling about her color. The color, Ithsar had understood. Ezaara’s presence radiated all the colors in her mother’s prism seer. Another talent Ashewar was unaware of—Ithsar could see without a prism. And she’d seen a vision of these two dracha ryter.
The Naobian had also ranted about banishment, murder and poison. It appeared he’d saved Ezaara, the healer. For that, Ithsar owed him.
Ashewar planned to kill him.
But no, Ashewar would not kill this man, loved by her healer. Ithsar would see to that. He would go free to love Ezaara. Perhaps one day, she, Ithsar, would have a man like this, who called her name with a voice that ached with tenderness.
Her breathing now quiet, Ithsar stepped out of the alcove. The Naobian had only one person guarding him at night—but tonight it was Izoldia. Ithsar’s birth defects meant she was smaller than other girls her age. Izoldia, the largest, had led the bullying, and was always the last to finish beating her—the most savage, the cruelest. Bruises, black eyes, and, later, cuts and burns had been Izoldia’s mark—until one day, Ithsar had wrestled the brand off her and burned Izoldia, keeping her brutality at bay.
Ashewar, noticing Ithsar’s hurts, had said nothing. Disciplined no one. If Ithsar had been the daughter of another assassin, Ashewar would’ve been ruthless in punishing Izoldia. But she wasn’t. She was Ithsar, Ashewar’s only daughter—the chief prophetess’ malformed disappointment.
Perhaps Ithsar owed Izoldia, for driving her to artistry in sathir, for making her stronger than she otherwise would have been, but Izoldia had also twisted what the Naobian had said, conjuring up stories so Ezaara—she of golden beauty the girls called her in hushed whispers over their evening meal—would die.
Not while Ithsar breathed.
Opening the healing room door, Ithsar kept the anger from her face, instead, offering congeniality and supplication.
“What do you want?” Izoldia snapped.
“Did you hear the disturbance?” Ithsar asked, eyes downcast.
“You think I’d miss that lot, thundering around like a herd of Robandi camels?”
“I came to fetch you because you’re much stronger. You’d be better at fighting an intruder than me.”
Izoldia sneered at Ithsar, her chest swelling with pride, but then her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
Although she hated groveling, Ithsar had to be quick. She held out her twisted fingers, hiding the healed ones in her palms. “My hands … I’m useless, afraid …” She let her lip wobble.
“You miserable wretch, Ithsar. I should make you go and face the danger.” Izoldia’s bark was harsh, loud. She’d never been good at silence—gloating didn’t sound right in a whisper. Izoldia got up, hand on her saber. “Watch that man.”
The moment Izoldia shut the door, the Naobian’s eyes flicked open.
