“My hands and legs are fastened.” His whisper was papyrus-thin. He was obviously used to stealth—good, that would serve them well tonight.
The ropes on his hands and feet were quick work for her saber. Ithsar thrust the cut ropes into her pocket and pulled some clothing and a headdress from a drawer. He threw them on. On close inspection, he wouldn’t pass for a woman, but it was better than the dracha ryter clothes he wore underneath. She passed him his sword and dagger. They slipped out the door, sliding through the shadows along the walls and nipping into side tunnels or alcoves whenever someone neared.
Finally, they made it back to Ezaara, hiding under the bridge.
When she’d crawled out and they’d retreated to a nearby side tunnel, Ezaara whispered, “Ithsar, quick, give me your unhealed fingers.”
In the darkness, something dripped onto Ithsar’s fingers, then Ezaara rubbed the oil into her skin. The slow healing burn built until her bones were on fire and moved and straightened. An ache pierced her chest and her eyes stung.
She was whole.
Ithsar clutched Ezaara’s hand for a moment longer, placing it on her wet cheek. “My life is yours.”
The Naobian’s hand rested atop theirs, enclosing them both. “Thank you, Ithsar,” he whispered. “Thank you for risking your life to save ours.”
They stood in the darkness, her and these two strangers, their breath flowing and ebbing together in the inky black. And then the vision descended upon Ithsar again—these strangers on mighty dracha, with her beside them on another. Sathir built around them, tangible, like a warm caress full of color and life, a force connecting the three of them. She belonged to these people. This was her destiny.
From Ezaara’s soft gasp and the grunt the Naobian gave, they’d sensed it too.
Footsteps slid over rock nearby. They froze, waiting until they retreated, then Ithsar led them into a tunnel far away from the main thoroughfares. Winding under the heart of the lake, deeper and deeper into the earth, she took them toward a hidden exit on the far side of the oasis.
§
Roberto rubbed Ezaara’s hand with the back of his thumb. Her palm was warm and soft in his as they followed the tiny silent assassin through the winding tunnel, guided by the light of her lantern. They stooped to avoid sharp rocks protruding from the ceiling and slithered over piles of rubble nearly as high as the tunnel itself. Thank the Egg, he could move again. Brilliant colors swirled at the edge of his mind—Ezaara was trying to communicate with him. How was he going to tell her? The assassins’ sleeping draught had set all his old nightmares writhing and churning inside him. Perhaps it was better to get it over with. Letting his barriers melt away, he melded, “Ezaara.”
“What’s wrong, Roberto? Why won’t you talk with me?”
She’d picked up on his emotions in spite of his effort to shield them. How could he ever protect her from himself, from the monster inside? He squeezed her hand. She was as bright as a thousand stars, her multi-colored light streaming through him. He reached for his resolve. “Ezaara, I won’t be coming back to Dragons’ Hold with you.”
Her steps faltered. “Why not?”
Because his past had caught up with him. Because he’d lived a life before he’d become a dragon master. Because he feared Tonio was right: sooner or later, he could turn traitor. It was not only in his blood, it was in his past. Before Erob.
He tugged Ezaara forward, keeping pace with the assassin.
“I thought you loved me.”
Pain speared through him. Exquisite pain. Shards, Zens’ words were still shaping him. Would he ever purge the evil from his soul?
Escape
There was a ripple in the fabric of the sathir, a rip in the cloak that surrounded them. “What is it? What ails you?” Ithsar turned to the dracha ryter, holding up her lantern.
They were no longer holding hands. The Naobian’s face was stoic.
Ezaara’s … Ezaara’s look haunted Ithsar. Hollow-eyed, bereft of hope.
“With such disunity, Ashewar will feel the disharmony and find us immediately. If you are to be reunited with your dracha, you must put this pain aside.”
§
Dragons’ Hold without Roberto? Every fiber inside Ezaara screamed. And she wasn’t Queen’s Rider anymore. Her life was meaningless. Worse than before she’d left Lush Valley. Then, she’d been ignorant of mind-melding, of the depth of love, the wonder of dragon flight, the potential of life.
She reached deep inside herself, stretching her mind out to Roberto, and showed him how to find sathir. He joined her and they found that place of peace, sensing the cord that bound them to nature, and to each other. And Ezaara found hope.
§
Ithsar’s lamp shone on a series of hand and foot holds in the rock, leading up a chimney into darkness. Ithsar went first, Roberto next and Ezaara took the rear. Melding with Erob, Roberto was surprised Ezaara was also talking to him.
“Erob, we’re climbing out a tunnel on the other side of the lake, apparently near a cluster of date trees,” she informed him.
“Date palms? With hundreds of palms around, that should be an easy landmark to spot in the middle of the night.”
Erob’s wry response made Roberto’s heart lurch. Could he take Erob away from Dragons’ Hold? Would Erob leave his mother and kin? Or would he lose Erob, too? What about Adelina?
“Stop disturbing the sathir with such morose thoughts,” Ezaara melded. “We’ll sort out what we’re doing once we’re out of here.”
She was right. He’d tell her everything when they got to Naobia. If they got to Naobia—there were still dozens of silent assassins to get past. His hands bit into dusty rock handholds. The footholds were gritty
