“Looks like she’s going hunting,” said the slave, sitting down on the cot. He began to play his lute again, and this time Asha noticed the nameGretaelegantly engraved near the bottom. The slave winced every once in a while until whatever pain it caused him was forgotten in the joy of playing. In between plucking, he tapped out a rhythm on the belly of the instrument. He let the song build and build until Daxstarted tapping his foot to the beat, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
Asha stared at them, speechless.
She didn’t know what angered her more: her brother’s disregard for his own rank or his lack of concern at the noise—noise that would put this slavebackinto the danger Asha had just delivered him from.
She wanted to shake her brother. This was not the behavior of a king to be. It was the behavior of afool.
She couldn’t abide it.
“Is this the plan, then?” Asha towered over the skral. “To lead Jarek right to you?”
His fingers silenced the strings. He looked up at her.
“Someone’s prickly today.”
Her temper flared. Before she could respond, he went on.
“Areyou going hunting?” He looked her up and down. “Because the law says your hunting slaves have three days of rest before you can take them out again.”
Asha frowned. Why would a house slave know dragon-hunting laws? And anyway, Asha always gave her hunting slaves five days of rest. Well-rested slaves made better hunters.
“I’m not taking them.”
The slave set aside his instrument and rose, stepping toward Asha, his eyebrows drawn together in that curious look of his.
“You’re going alone?” His gaze flickered over her face. He stood so close, she could have counted all of his freckles if she wanted to. “Tell me again, which one of us has the death wish?”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
Dax put the scroll back on the shelf before stepping up beside the slave.
“Asha.” Her brother’s smile was long gone. “It isn’t safe to hunt alone.”
“Because stealing Jarek’s slave was safe?”
She thought of the shaxa. Of the jealous rage in Jarek’s eyes. Of being trapped beneath him, unable to breathe.
The room went quiet.
Once the memory started, Asha couldn’t stop it from unraveling completely. She saw Greta’s hands pushing Jarek off. Saw Greta giving her murderer permission to take her life. Saw Greta’s blood in the sand.
“Iskari? Are you all right?”
The slave’s eyes came into focus first. There was something tender in his gaze. Something worried. Out of habit, she almost told him to look away. But the truth was, no one looked at her the way this slave did: carefully, as if bandaging a wound; gently, so as not to hurt.
Asha looked back. She studied the straight line of his nose, the bumps of his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw. He was sharp and sure. Like her favorite axe.
And just like her favorite axe, he was dangerous.
Dangerous... but comforting.
No.
Panicking at her own thoughts, Asha pushed past him. She grabbed her helmet off the floor and lifted it over her head. It blocked out everything but the door, which she opened and stepped through, then shut behind her.
On the other side, Asha leaned against the wood, waiting for her racing heart to slow. When it did, she took the stairs two at a time, swearing to stay as far away from that skral as she could.
Twelve
