She avoided the main streets. When Asha heard footsteps or felt eyes in the darkness, she backtracked. The longer she could go without being seen, the better.
Getting up onto the palace roof was more difficult than getting down off it. But if Asha managed it as a child, she could certainly manage it now. She found the lowest wall and hoisted herself up and over. She ran across rooftops, past slaves rolling couscous and bringing in laundry, past the butcher preparing for his evening slaughter. No one saw her.
She went to her room, where yet another silver-lidded box sat waiting. Jarek’s gifts were starting to pile up: a kaftan, a ruby-studded necklace, and now a bolt of bright red sabra silk. She pushed them into a corner and got what she needed: a lantern made of copper, inset with colored glass. She unbuckledher slayers from her back and hid them under the bed, tucking them up into the frame, then stripped off the armor that made her immediately recognizable. She didn’t need these things to kill Kozu. All she needed was her fireskin and her axe—which was presently in the slave’s care.
No. Notthe slave.
Torwin.
Asha unbraided her hair, donned her plainest mantle, and went to the window. With the lantern gripped tight in her fist, she waited. Watching the horizon.
The red moon rose.
Two more days until my wedding.
The sky turned from blue to purple.
Two more days to hunt down Kozu.
The sun set over the Rift, and as it did...
The screams began. Soldats shouted:Dragon in the city!
If she hadn’t been so nervous, Asha might have smiled.
Torwin had impeccable timing.
A dragon in the city meant all the soldats would abandon their posts and, once the king was safe, head for the rooftops or the streets.
With the hood of her mantle flipped up, cloaking her face in shadow, Asha moved quickly through the chaos of running soldats.
As the archway of the throne room came into view, the hallways quieted. In the distance, Asha could hear the screams in the street, the shout of soldats keeping order; but here, deep inthe palace, all was quiet.
As she stepped into the throne room, Asha’s palms were sweaty and her grip on the lantern handle was slick.
She moved swiftly toward the pedestal, her footsteps echoing loudly through the empty chamber. Peering down into the iron basin, she found the white flame burning silently. Mysteriously.
As a child, the wonder of it had mesmerized her. But no wonder filled her now. Only fear.
Asha unhooked the latch of her lantern. Sweat beaded on her temples and dripped down her back. She had no idea how Elorma brought the flame from the desert all the way to the city, but the lantern was all she had. She hoped it would be enough.
Asha reached into the shallow basin. Her hand closed around something smooth and heavy as a stone. The moment she touched the heart of the flame, it seared her—not her skin, though. Something far deeper. Perhaps her soul.
A thousand whispering voices rose in her mind, each one telling a sacred story. As if the voices of all the raconteurs from the beginning of time dwelled within.
Asha shoved the flame inside her lantern and locked it back up.
The voices went silent.
“You there!”
Asha spun, her heart skittering.
In the archway, a single soldat stood staring at her. Young. Maybe Dax’s age. His hand was on his hilt, but his morion was missing. It had probably fallen in the chaos.
“What do you think you’re... ?” He looked from the brightly lit lantern in her hand to the empty basin behind her. Realizing what she’d just done, he drew his saber.
Asha reached for an axe that wasn’t there and winced.
