Asha frowned. “What do you mean?”
“If the old stories were never deadly,” he said, looking at her, “what killed the raconteurs?”
Or rather, who killed them?
The question unearthed something in Asha.
She thought of a certain tapestry hanging in her father’s throne room. Of the woman who was queen at the time of the Severing. A queen who needed to prove the Old One had turned against her people.
“You think our grandmother poisoned the storytellers?”
Dax said nothing. He didn’t need to.
The world spun.
If the stories were never poisonous, if they never killed anyone, then they were never wicked. Which meant Asha was never wicked for telling them.
Not only had the dragon king turned his daughter against Kozu, the Old One, her own self . . . he had killed her mother. And then he had tried to kill her brother.
He’d tried to strip Asha of everything she ever loved. Which made her new purpose sparklingly clear: she would do the same to him.
Forty
Asha called twelve dragons over a span of five days. By the time the caravan arrived from the scrublands, she was beyond weary. She wanted to rest for a month. But the wedding was tonight, and tomorrow they went to war.
There was no time for rest.
At dusk, Asha and Safire set out for the center of camp, cleared of tents for the ceremony. Asha wore a dress the color of blood and fire. It was a simple, modest dress that laced up at the back and fell to her knees. It had been waiting in their tent. She asked Safire where it came from.
“Jas, I think. He came by earlier. He says he’s hoping to dance with you.”
“I hope you told him I don’t dance,” she said, looking around her. New Haven—full of dirty, stinking rogues just that morning—had transformed into a polished, respectable collection of scrublanders, skral, and draksors, all waiting for the bride to make her way to the binding circle. Lanterns were lit and placed on the ground, forming a circle in the dirt around Dax, who wore what seemed like the only clothes he’d brought with him.
Another crude circle made of cedar benches ringed the lanterns. The logs had been chopped and fastened that morning, and as Asha sat down on one, she breathed in the sweet smell.
From farther down the bench, a conversation caught her ear.
“How could I turn down that offer?” said an elderly skral with short, graying hair. She sat next to a young draksor, sharing her ale jug.
“But you’ve lived in Firgaard all your life. It’s your home.”
“Is it?” the old woman leaned toward the girl. “Or is it a cage I’ve just gotten free of?”
The draksor passed her the jug. “So you’ll go to the scrublands after all this is over.”
The skral woman took a swig, then wiped her mouth with her wrist. “I reckon most of us will. There’s land out there. The scrublanders say if we can work it, we can have it. If we stay in Firgaard, most of us will be homeless and starving by month’s end.”
“Lord Dax would never let that happen.”
“Lord Dax will have plenty more to worry about than us skral. Trust me, girl. I’ve lived through three uprisings.”
“Failed uprisings,” the draksor pointed out.
The skral woman only shrugged. “Even if Lord Dax wins tomorrow, he could fail the day or the month or the year after. He’ll be making a lot of enemies if he takes his father’s throne. And those enemies will want to take it out on someone. I’ve spent my whole life among you. I know exactly who that someone will be.” She tapped her chest with her index finger. “No one’s going to look out for us. We need to look out for ourselves.”
She offered the jug back to the girl, who shook her head.
“It might be worse out there.”
“I’ll take my chances,” said the skral, taking another full swig of ale.
A hush fell over the camp. Roa had left her tent. As the silence descended, Asha watched the scrublander girl move through the parted crowd. She wore a sleeveless cotton dress with a neckline that scooped wide but not low. Her skin gleamed in the lantern light and her eyes shone like dark pools.
The moment she stepped into the circle, something shifted. Asha saw a girl who was already a queen. Roa, daughter of the House of Song, was graceful, dignified, and . . . a little bit fierce.
“What is bound here tonight can never be unbound!” said Jas. There were no guardians present to perform the rites, so Roa’s brother had stepped in. “I weave these lives together as one. Only Death can break these threads and tear them asunder.”
Roa recited the words first, her voice shining like a blade: “May Death send his worst! Cold to freeze the love in my heart. Fire to burn my memories to ash. Wind to force me through his gate. And time to wear my loyalty away.”
Her eyes held Dax’s as Willa’s words spilled from her lips, ringing with power.
“I’ll wait for you, Dax, at Death’s gate.”
Shivers ran across Asha’s skin.
Dax repeated the lines. Where Roa’s voice had been steady, his trembled with emotion.
“May Death send his worst! Cold to freeze the love in my heart. Fire to burn my memories to ash. Wind to force me through his gate. And time to wear my loyalty away.”
He took her hand in his with a startling gentleness.
“I’ll wait for you, Roa, at Death’s gate.”
After their wrists were bound, they raised their clasped hands for the camp to bear witness. Cheers rose up like waves. Chaos descended as draksors lifted Dax high above their heads. Scrublanders lifted Roa, chanting now, intent on carrying them both to Dax’s tent.
Asha watched the couple’s eyes meet. Watched her brother smile a little nervously. And then they were gone, whisked out of sight.
Forty-One
After the ceremony, musicians played within the circle of lanterns as draksors and scrublanders danced around them. Asha sat on one of the benches ringing the dancers, waiting for Safire to return with food.
Separated from her by a sea of revelers, a certain lute player kept time in the dirt with his heel while his fingers coaxed song after song from his lute strings. The scrublander beside him, a broad-shouldered man with a round belly and sparkling eyes, beat out a rhythm on his hand drum, striking it with his palm and singing the words, while Callie played the reed pipes on Torwin’s other side, dancing as she did.
Suddenly, someone stepped in front of Asha, cutting the musicians off from view.
Asha looked up into kind eyes framed by thick lashes. Jas, in all his handsome glory, smiled down at her. He smelled like cardamom and citrus.
“I don’t dance,” Asha said before he could ask.
“So I’ve been told.” He pointed to the empty space on the bench beside her. “Can I sit with you?”
By the time she opened her mouth to say it was reserved for Safire, he had already taken it.