Asha slammed the door on them, then sank to her knees before her bed and felt up inside the frame where she’d hidden her slayers.
Still there.
She drew them out.
A dress was carefully laid out on the bed. It wasn’t her wedding dress, but Asha could see Jarek’s mark all over it—the heavy beading, the plunging neckline, the creamy gold silk.
The soldats knocked on the door, giving her a warning.
Asha didn’t put on the dress.
Instead, she went to the chest at the foot of her bed. Inside, her armor remained untouched. Setting down her slayers, Asha pulled each piece out and put it on, from her breastplate all the way down to her boots. The moment she got the chance, she would head straight to the Rift.
In her armor, Asha felt safe—hidden from Jarek’s ravenous gaze.
After braiding her hair into a simple plait over one shoulder, she strapped her slayers onto her back, then slid on her helmet.
The door was opening.
Asha grabbed her gifts from Jarek—the indigo kaftan, the ruby necklace, the bolt of sabra silk—and threw them into the hearth along with some kindling. Quickly, she found a matchand struck it. The moment a flame flared up, she threw it onto the pile. The bolt of silk caught fire first.
The sound of booted footsteps filled her ears.
They were in her room.
“Enough! Just grab her!”
Asha spun, reaching for the gold dress, needing it to burn too. But a soldat seized her, twisting her away, pulling her toward the door. “We’re going to be late, Iskari.”
Asha looked back over her shoulder, watching the fire crackle and spit. Watching her gifts blaze—all except one.
The soldats looked warily at one another before marching her down the corridor.
Safire met them at the gate to the pit, which was strangely devoid of protesters.
Asha’s heart leaped at the sight of her cousin. She almost didn’t recognize her, dressed as she was in a deep turquoise kaftan. Her chin-length black hair was braided back and pinned at the nape of her neck.
“Asha. Where have youbeen?”
Surrounded by shouting draksors, Asha’s first instinct was to keep her cousin close. But soldats flanked her, and she couldn’t reach Safire.
“What is this?” Asha asked through her line of escorts. “Why am I here?”
All around her were rows and rows of wooden benches, half full of spectators, circling the pit.
On either side of her, draksors stood at tables, pitching theirvoices loudly, jangling bags of money, placing their bets. But it was the pit itself that held her attention the longest.
Normally the iron stakes rimming the pit were turned up to the sky, keeping criminals from climbing out and spectators from falling in. Today, though, they were lowered so they fell across the top, crisscrossing themselves.
“It’s the morning of your binding,” Safire said, moving through the crowd in an attempt to keep up with Asha. “You’re supposed to exchange betrothal gifts with Jarek today.”
Asha didn’t have a gift. And even if she did, the idea of giving one to Jarek was ridiculous.
But why the arena?Usually betrothal gifts were exchanged in the city’s largest square, to build public anticipation for the binding, which always happened at moonrise. She looked around, thinking hard, searching for an escape.
Men dressed in silk tunics and women in elaborately stitched kaftans sat on benches ringing the pit. But for such an important occasion—the exchanging of gifts—the arena seemed emptier than ever. Even if Ashacouldget free of her escort and grab Safire... there was no crowd to get lost in. No way they’d make it to the exit undetected.
The Iskari was all too easy to identify. Even now, the crowd parted for her. Their fearful eyes fixed on her.
