“Iskari,” he whispered between shallow breaths. “Trust me.”
She had no reason to trust him—except for the fact that he wanted to live more than she wanted him to. So Asha did as he suggested.
She hauled him out into the silent street. The salty smell of his sweat mingled with the sharp tang of his blood. The sooner she got him to safety, the sooner she could tell her brother she’d done as he asked, collect their mother’s ring, and get back to hunting Kozu.
She focused on that thought as she half carried the slave toward the pearl-white temple rising out of the gloom.
The temple was once the highest structure in the city, built into the sheer face of the mountain. The palace had long surpassed it. What had once been the center of power in Firgaard was reduced to an empty shell. An obsolete relic.
On the way there, it started to rain. If Asha believed in prayers, she might have sent one skyward. The rain washed away the trail of blood in their wake.
And then, her paralyzed arm began to tingle. As if someone had stuck hundreds of needles in it. By the time they arrived at the temple, Asha swore she could wiggle her fingers just a little.
She thought of her slayers strapped to her back.
They can only be used to make wrongs right.
Asha studied the slave clinging to her. Beneath the mantle’s hood, his jaw clenched and his forehead crumpled in a severe frown. His eyes clouded over with pain.
Watching him struggle to stay upright, to keep walking, Asha thought that maybe her own argument didn’t make sense. Yes, he’d broken the law. Yes, he’d touched the daughter of the dragon king. But he’d done it to stop her from getting hurt. Had he done nothing, would he not have been punished just as harshly? Wasn’t itbetterthat he caught her?
“It’s all right.” Asha’s arm tightened around him. “I won’t let you fall.”
As the slave cast a look her way, the frown in his forehead smoothed out and he relaxed against her.
No soldats stood guard outside the temple walls, with its chipped white paint and faded, crumbling friezes. The streetsthat bordered it were empty and silent.
Asha helped the slave up to the front archway. Inlaid in the cedarwood doors was the symbol of the Old One: a dragon cast in iron except its heart, whose blood-red glass mimicked a flame.
With one hand trapped in a sling and the other fully occupied, she couldn’t knock. So she shouted instead. When no one came, she shouted louder. The effort took all her remaining strength, which had been sapped by the weight of her load.
Finally, the doors opened and a hooded figure holding a candle looked out. The woman wore a crimson robe. In the candlelight, Asha couldn’t make out her face. But the robe marked her as a temple guardian, one of several women charged with performing the sacred rituals: bindings, burnings, and births.
When the guardian realized who stood on her threshold, she stepped quickly back.
“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 archwaysand 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.”
