“Iskari . . .”
“This temple was a place of sanctuary once,” Asha said, starting to buckle. “Please. He needs sanctuary.”
The woman looked from Asha to the slave, trying to decide what to do. Just before Asha collapsed, the guardian made her decision: she ducked beneath the slave’s other arm, lifting most of his weight on herself, then helped them both inside.
The massive door closed behind them with a thud.
Within, it smelled like old and crumbling plaster. Candles burned in their alcoves on the walls, casting long shadows through the darkened corridors. Their footsteps echoed loudly as together Asha and the guardian helped the slave deeper into the temple.
“This way,” said the guardian. She led them past archways and down hallways, then up a narrow flight of old stairs.
At the top of the stairs stood a small, plain door made of cedar. A seven-petaled flower had been carved into the wood. A namsara. The ancient marking for places of healing. Sickrooms especially.
The guardian unlocked the door. Darkness cloaked the area beyond, but the woman moved easily through it, the dim flicker of her candle always just a little ahead. She lowered the slave until he was sitting on something soft and flat.
“What happened to him?” the guardian asked, setting the brass candleholder down beside the cot. She untied the mantle’s tassels. The slave cried out in pain as she gently pulled the woolly fabric from his lacerated back.
“The commandant,” said Asha, sinking to the floor.
The woman surveyed his wounds, the blood pooling and dripping. Sweat rolled down the slave’s face as he gripped the side of the cot, shaking with pain. His arms and chest were bare and streaked with blood.
“I’m Maya,” she said, pushing back her hood to reveal strong cheekbones and bright, wide eyes. “I’m going to boil some water and fetch a disinfecting salve. I’ll be right back.”
In her absence, the slave fixed his gaze on Asha. He stared at her, unblinking. As if the sight of the Iskari was the only thing keeping him from slipping into oblivion.
What use was it now, telling him to look away?
“Why?” The question scraped across his cracked lips.
She frowned at him. “What?”
“Why did you do it?”
Asha thought of Dax offering her their mother’s ring.
“My brother asked me to.”
His brow furrowed. “You never do what your brother asks.”
Asha’s lips parted. How does he know that?
He leaned forward. From the way he blinked and squinted, Asha knew his vision was blurring. “What’s the real reason?”
She stared him down. “I just told you.”
His gaze dropped to her arm.
Asha looked where he looked: down at the sling. She tried to flex her fingers. To her surprise they did as she directed—but only barely. While the slave watched, Asha untied the sling. Her arm fell limp into her lap. But if she focused, she could move her hand little by little.
The door creaked open and the slave straightened, eyes darting away from the Iskari sitting on the floor beside his cot. He focused on Maya instead, who held a bowl of water. Clean linen draped over her arm.
Asha meant to leave. To return to the palace.
She shouldn’t be here.
But her body felt heavy as stone and the thought of rising overwhelmed her.
So as the guardian washed and dressed the skral’s wounds, Asha curled up on the floor at the foot of the cot, her limp arm bent against her chest. She only meant to rest.
She didn’t mean to fall asleep.
Ten
“Iskari. It’s nearly midday.”
Asha opened her eyes and found Maya crouched over her. Her hood was pushed back and the light of a lantern illuminated the soft curves of her face.
Asha’s body groaned in protest. She was tired and sore, and it took considerable energy to push herself up into a sitting position. She tried with her burned hand first, and the pain jolted her to full wakefulness. Without thinking, she resumed the effort with her paralyzed hand.
Asha froze. Sitting now, she lifted the hand to her face, flexing her fingers one by one. The arm was no longer numb. No longer limp.
There was no time to marvel, though. She had a more pressing concern: her clothes were covered in dried blood. She couldn’t leave the temple like this. Not in broad daylight.
“There’s a spring,” Maya said, “where the guardians bathe.” She held a blue bundle tucked beneath one arm. “I have a clean kaftan you can wear.”
“Why are you helping me?” Asha asked, pushing herself to her feet. “I broke into the home of my own betrothed, drew a weapon on him, and stole his property. That makes me a criminal.”
“It’s like you said.” Maya smiled a little. “This temple is a place of sanctuary.”
Asha looked to the slave, stretched out across the cot, fast asleep. Wrapped around his shirtless torso were linen bandages, already bled through. Beyond him rose shelves full of scrolls, their carved wooden handles peeking out.
Asha remembered Maya turning the key in the lock. Remembered how deep into the temple they’d gone to get to this room. What in these scrolls warranted keeping them so safe?
“You need to wash and then leave. The entire city is assembling at the pit.”
“Is there a fight scheduled?”
Maya nodded.
Her brother would be there. Asha needed to tell him she’d done what he asked. And then, at last, she could return to hunting Kozu.
She took the blue bundle. “Show me the spring.”
At the opposite end of the city, near the south gate, sat the pit. Built during Asha’s grandmother’s reign, the walls of the arena rose up like jagged teeth. Its front entrance gaped open like a mouth, and—as usual—draksors stood just outside, protesting the fights. Just a few months ago, a protest got so out of hand, the soldats couldn’t control it and the fight had to be canceled.
Now, the protesters threw rocks at the soldats. They shouted in the faces of the attendees. By the time Asha arrived, more than half of the protesting draksors were clapped in irons. One of them glared at Asha as he was hauled off by a soldat.
Draksors like these, those who thought the skral should go free, would be enraged if they knew Asha was hunting Kozu for her father. They believed the old ways should be returned to, not snuffed out. They were no better than scrublanders.
But everyone knew what would happen if the skral were free: They would turn on their former masters and finish what they had come to do during Asha’s grandmother’s reign. They would take Firgaard for themselves.
These draksors were fools if they thought any different.
Inside the arena, Asha stuck out like a scrublander, dressed as she was in a simple blue kaftan, absent of beading or embroidery and years out of fashion. Worse than the kaftan, though, was her lack of armor and weapons. Asha had left both her slayers in the temple. She’d go back for them later.