But Asha was meticulous about checking for signs. And so far, there hadn’t been any.
Her father commended his Iskari on her kill. He gave his usual speech on the danger and treachery of dragons, who had once been their allies before turning against their riders during his mother’s reign. He gave this speech after every kill. Which was why Asha was only half listening until he reached for her gloved hand—her burned hand—and she nearly cried out at the pain of it.
With his grip firm, the dragon king drew a flinching Asha out before him, giving the visiting scrublanders an example on which to feast their eyes.
“You see what they did to my daughter? This is what happens when you treat with dragons.” He let go, no doubt thinking of the day the city burned. Of the day Jarek brought back Asha’s charred body. “My Iskari has devoted her life to hunting down these beasts, and she won’t stop until the very last one is dead. Then, and only then, will we have peace.”
He smiled down at her. Asha tried to smile back, but found she couldn’t. Not with her burned hand right under his nose, flaring up in pain, proof of the old story she’d told aloud.
When the dragon king dismissed her hunting slaves and the music rose once more, Dax stepped up to Asha, smelling like peppermint tea.
“My fearsome little sister.” He grinned at her and Asha noticed the deep creases beside his mouth. Creases that hadn’t been there before he left. “Did you see what I brought home with me?”
He nodded in the direction of the scrublanders. As if anyone could miss them.
“Not quite as impressive as a dragon. . . .”
He wore his favorite tunic, one that came to his wrists and ended just above his knees. White scrolling embroidery lined the collar and the buttons down the front, offsetting the shimmering gold silk.
Gold for a golden-hearted boy, Asha thought.
Normally this garment fitted Dax perfectly, showing off his strong shoulders and tall form. But now it hung loose off his wasted frame. His normally starry eyes were dull as stones.
The stress of the scrublands, not to mention the long journey back across the desert, had obviously worn him out. The sight of him, so thin and tired looking, reminded Asha of someone, but she couldn’t think who.
“You missed the introductions,” he said, studying her the same way she studied him.
“I had things to do.” Like hide the evidence of my treachery.
“Do you want to meet our guests?” he asked, taking the cup of wine offered him by one of the serving slaves.
“Not really,” Asha said, refusing a cup from the same slave.
“Great!” said Dax. “I’ll introduce you. . . .”
Warily, Asha followed her brother through the throng until he stopped abruptly in front of someone. When he stepped aside, a young woman stood before them. She wore a finely spun cotton dress, the color of cream. The girl pushed back the sandskarf hooding her face, revealing clear, dark eyes and the proud lift of an elegant chin. On her gloved and fisted hand perched a hawk as white as the mist that gathered over the Rift in the early morning.
Asha stared at the bird. It stared back with eerie silver eyes.
This girl was a scrublander.
Instinctively, Asha stepped back. The girl didn’t notice. She was too busy staring at Asha’s scar.
“This is my sister,” Dax told the girl. “The Iskari.”
As he spoke, he stroked the hawk’s white breast with the backs of his fingers. They were clearly acquainted, because the bird nuzzled his hand with the crown of its head.
“Asha, this is Roa. Daughter of the House of Song. Her brother couldn’t be here, but he so wants to meet the infamous Iskari. I promised I’d bring you with me next time.”
He winked, knowing how she’d feel about that.
Asha had no desire to ever set foot in the scrublands. They were flat, dull, and impoverished—or so she’d been told. Worst of all, scrublanders were still devoted to the old ways. It made her wonder how in all the skies Dax enticed them here, to the secular capital they hated.
Asha loved her brother, but he wasn’t exactly a diplomat. The only reason he’d been sent to the scrublands in the first place was to get him out of the city. He’d picked a drunken fight with Jarek’s second-in-command, who fell from the roof and broke his spine. It caused a huge scandal and increased tensions between the king and his army.
But Dax collected scandals like trophies. He was always picking fights. Or gambling away money from the treasury. Or flirting with the daughters of all their father’s favorite officials.
The heir was an embarrassment, and the king’s patience was wearing thin. So he sent Dax to deal with the scrublanders, and told Jarek to accompany him. The king knew his commandant—who was furious at the loss of his second-in-command—would keep his son in line.
Roa pressed a tight fist over her heart in scrublander greeting, but her gaze remained fixed on Asha’s scar.
“The Iskari herself,” she said, in a voice like honey and thunder. Her fist uncurled and fell back to her side. “Dax says you can take down a dragon with your bare hands.”
Asha would have laughed—but the arrival of a young man interrupted her. As his shadow fell across them, Asha’s stomach clenched.
Jarek.
It was he who’d caught and put to death all three scrublander would-be assassins. He who’d ended the last slave rebellion. He who Asha would bind herself to by the time the red moon waned.
Unless she killed Kozu first.
In the presence of the commandant, Dax was reduced to a mere boy. Jarek towered over him. He stood square and strong, like the foundation of a mighty fortress. His silk shirt stretched across his broad chest, revealing just how solid he was.
Asha looked to Roa and found her eyes narrowed on the commandant.
It wasn’t the usual reaction. Usually, Jarek’s flawless physique made him impressive and alluring to women. But Roa seemed . . . on edge.
While Jarek eyed the heir to the throne and his new scrublander friend, his arm snaked around Asha’s waist, tucking her against him like a dagger or a saber, squeezing her hip until it hurt.
Jarek was one of the few who dared to touch her.
“Making friends, Asha?” He smelled sour, like alcohol.
She knew better than to squirm away or give any hint he was hurting her.
“Dax was just introducing me to—”
“We’ve met.” Jarek’s attention turned to the cut of Asha’s kaftan, his gaze consuming her. Like she was a goblet of wine. “You found your gift, I see.”
Asha stared into the space between Dax and Roa, her gaze settling on a collared slave serving tea beneath the gallery. She held the brass teapot high in the air, letting the golden liquid arch elegantly as the cups filled with froth.
Jarek leaned in close. “Tell me. Do you like it?”
He knew the answer to his own question.