After years of keeping the stories down, this place unearthed them easily. They surged to her surface, humming and alive, whispering of the First Dragon and the holy Namsaras and the Old One himself. It made her teeth ache to hold them all back.
Her steps led her to the shadow of a man, crouched behind a small, crackling fire. When he rose, the firelight lit up his face, revealing eyes like black onyx, a bald head, and a gray beard that came to a point just below his chin. A white robe shrouded his body, the hood flipped back.
The breath flew out of Asha at the sight of him.
She knew this man. An image of him graced the walls of a room she never should have been in. As a child, she’d heard his name spoken into the dark, always in her mother’s voice.
“Elorma.”The name was a snarl in her mouth.
This was the First Namsara. The man who brought the sacred flame out of the desert and founded Firgaard. A messenger of the Old One—who had betrayed them.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” His velvet voice echoed off the cavern walls. “Come closer.”
Asha didn’t dare.
The fire blazed up between them and she lifted her hand to shield her face from its heat. Elorma smiled at her. It made her uneasy. Like the smile of a slave plotting rebellion.
“As you wish,” he said, plunging his hands into the white-hot flames.
Asha gasped, sure the fire would eat the skin from his bones. But when his hands emerged, they were unsinged and gripping two shining black blades, curved like half-moons. White fire danced up their edges and went out.
“Sacred slayers from the Old One.” He held them out to her. “Take them.”
Asha knew better than to trust him. She knew better than to accept gifts from the Old One. She kept her hands at her sides.
“I have more weapons than I’ll ever need.”
“Ah,” he said, “but these were formed just for you, Asha. They’ll settle in your hands like no other. They’ll bend to your will and cut down your enemies faster than any axe.”
How do you know about my axe?
But if he knew her name, why shouldn’t he know her weapon of choice?
“Once you hold them, you’ll want nothing else.”
Asha thought of how satisfying it would be to kill dragons with weapons like this—quick, sharp, lethal. She shook her head. It was terrible enough telling the stories aloud. But dealing directly with the Old One? That would be much worse.She could imagine the look of horror on her father’s face if he ever found out.
She took a step back.
“Are you not called Iskari?” Elorma asked. “It’s an ill-fitted title, in my opinion. Iskari was fearless and fierce. But you are cowering and afraid.”
Her gaze snapped to his. He looked godlike in the firelight. His skin shone as if with inner light, and his eyes seemed ancient. All-seeing.
She looked back to the slayers.
How rewarding would it be to stop Kozu’s heart with weapons like these. How perfect to take the tools the Old One gave her and use them against him. Just like he’d used her against her own people. Her own father.
We must take great pains to steel ourselves against wickedness, her father told her all those years ago.
True. But this time, her eyes were wide open. This time, she wouldn’t let herself be used.
Her father wouldn’t have to know until it was over. Until she’d dropped Kozu’s bloody head at his feet. By then, he would understand. He would praise her for her cleverness.
Asha reached for the slayers. Elorma smiled a slow smile. As their inlaid hilts slid against her palms, Asha’s blood crackled and sparked. White fire flickered up her arms, sealing an invisible bond. Like a bolt locking into place. He hadn’t lied. They melted into her hands, perfectly balanced, light as air.
“The gift comes with a command, of course.”
Asha looked up into grinning white teeth.
