Asha wondered how much a skral would know about the link between the old stories and dragonfire.
She didn’t say the answer aloud. No one could know the truth: after all these years of trying to right her wrongs, Asha was still as corrupt as ever. If you opened her up and looked inside, you’d find a core that matched her scarred exterior. Hideous and horrible.
I told a story about Iskari and Namsara.
Iskari was the goddess from which Asha derived her title. These days, Iskari meantlife taker.
Namsara’s meaning had also changed over time. It was both the name of the healing flower on the floors of this room as well as a title. A title given to someone who fought for a noble cause—for his kingdom or his beliefs. The wordnamsaraconjured up the image of a hero.
“I killed a dragon,” Asha told the slave in the end, “and it burned me as it died.”
He tucked in the ends of her bandage, listening. To get a better grip, his fingers slid around her wrist, as if he’d completely forgotten who she was.
At his touch, Asha sucked in a breath. The moment she did, he realized his breach and went very still.
A command hovered on the tip of Asha’s tongue. But before it lashed out at him, he said, very softly, “How does that feel?”
As if he cared more about her burn than his own life.
As if he weren’t afraid of her at all.
The command died in Asha’s mouth. She looked to his fingers wrapped around her wrist. Not trembling or hesitant, but warm and sure and strong.
Wasn’t he afraid?
When she didn’t respond, he did something even worse. He raised his eyes to hers.
A startling heat surged through her as their gazes met. His eyes were as piercing as freshly sharpened steel. He should have looked away. Instead, that steely gaze moved from her eyes—black, like her mother’s—to her puckered scar, trailing down her face and neck until it disappeared beneath the collar of her shirt.
People always looked. Asha was used to it. Children liked to point and stare, but most eyes darted away in fear the moment they settled on her scar. This slave, though, took his time looking. His gaze was curious and attentive, as if Asha werea tapestry and he didn’t want to miss a single thread of detail.
Asha knew what he saw. She saw it every time she looked in a mirror. Mottled skin, pocked and discolored. It started at the top of her forehead, moving down her right cheek. It cut off the end of her eyebrow and took a chunk out of her hairline. It stretched over her ear, which never recovered its original shape and was now a deformed collection of bumps. The scar took up one-third of her face, half her neck, and continued down the right side of her body.
Safire once asked Asha if she hated the sight of it. But she didn’t. She’d been burned by the fiercest of all dragons and lived. Who else could say that?
Asha wore her scar like a crown.
The slave’s gaze moved lower. As if imagining the rest of the scar beneath her clothes. As if imagining the rest ofAshabeneath her clothes.
It snapped something inside of her. Asha sharpened her voice like a knife.
“Keep looking, skral, and soon you’ll have no eyes left to look with.”
His mouth tipped up at the side. Like she’d issued a challenge and he’d accepted.
It made her think of last year’s revolt, when a group of slaves took control of the furrow, keeping draksor hostages and killing any soldats who came near. It was Jarek who infiltrated the slave quarters and ended the revolt, personally putting to death each of the slaves responsible.
This skral is just as dangerous as the rest of them.
Asha suddenly wanted her axe again. She pushed herself off the table, putting space between them.
“I’ve decided on payment,” he said from behind her.
Her footsteps slowed. She turned to face him. He’d folded the extra linen and was now scraping the remaining salve from the bottom of the pot.
As if he hadn’t just broken the law.
“In exchange for my silence”—the wooden spoon clanged against the terra-cotta as he scraped—“I want one dance.”
