“Iskari.”
She stopped but didn’t look back.
“The day I found you in the sickroom, I knew things were about to change. And before they did”—he paused—“I needed you to see me. Just once.”
When Asha turned, there was no longer any steel in his eyes.
He lowered his gaze, as if suddenly shy, then gestured to the dragon. “Come on. I’ll help you tend him.”
Twenty-Three
Asha told the first story to lure the dragon to her. She told the second to keep the dragon calm as she cleaned the tear in his wing, and then the third as the slave stitched up the tear. As each story emptied out of her, the dragon filled her up with new ones. And each time, with Asha’s help, the creature’s stories were stronger. Less fragmented and clearer.
“Good boy,” she said when they finished, scratching his chin.
The slave—who’d been humming a half-finished song while he worked—looked up at them and smiled.
When the wing was mended and they flew Asha back to the clearing, the sun was well on its way to setting.
Asha fetched the lute case from where she’d dropped it in the trees.
“There’s just one thing,” she said, handing over the case.
“Oh?” he said, taking it.
“You can’t name him Redwing.”
He crouched down to unbuckle the case. “Do you have a better suggestion?”
“I do, actually.”
He stopped unbuckling to look up at her.
“Shadow is better.”
“Shadow.” He paused to consider it, then looked at the dragon stretching in the sunlight. “Shadow is... acceptable.”
His eyes crinkled as he smiled. But when he pushed back the lid of the case, the smile slid away.
He stared at the lute, but didn’t reach for it.
“This isn’t mine,” he said. His voice sounded strange. Cracked at the edges.
“I know,” said Asha. “I bought it this morning to replace your other one.”
“Replace my other one? What happened to—”
“I burned it.”
“You...” Very slowly, he rose to his feet. “You... what?”
Asha raised her palms. “Jarek found the room you were hiding in, so I did the only thing I could think of: I burned the scrolls, the cot, the lute. All of it.”
He grabbed her wrist, startling her. His eyes were a storm as he said, “Do you realize how heartless you are?”
The words scorched her. They shouldn’t have, because of course she knew. She was worse than heartless. Her heart was a withered husk.
She could have easily slammed her elbow down on his forearm, forcing his fingers to release her. But she didn’t. Shewanted him to believe her. “I was trying to protect you.”
