Just before midnight the soldats led her through the palace and out the gates. Asha halted at the palace entrance, looking out. Watchers crowded the city streets. Candles illuminated their faces. Their flames were as numerous as the grains of sand scattered across the desert.
Here were the people who hated and feared her. What would they say if they found out the truth—that Asha wasn’t the one responsible for their burned homes, their dead loved ones? What would they do?
The soldats escorted Asha down the steps to the latticed littermade of fragrant thuya wood. Asha climbed onto the silk pillows. She gripped the holes in the wooden frame as the litter tipped, then righted itself while soldats hoisted it onto their shoulders.
Marching footsteps rang through the streets. The wind scuttled across the rooftops. Asha watched the sea of faces through the latticework as they passed.
She thought of Elorma waiting in the temple—like Jarek waited now—while his bride made her way to him through the streets. Willa might have died too young, but she’d found her place. She’d been loved and esteemed.
If Asha were to die tonight, how would her story get told?
The streets bordering the temple were packed wall to wall with draksors holding candles. Soldats lined the temple steps. The doors of the front archway were swung wide, keeping the symbol of the Old One out of view.
The soldats carved through the crowd and lowered the litter. A hush fell as Asha climbed out. The cut stones were cold against her slippered feet. The night air was even colder.
They took her into the temple corridor—lit by candles perched in alcoves, lined with soldats. When they marched her through the doors of the central chamber, Asha halted.
It had been years since she set foot here.
The chamber floors were laid with slabs of marble hewn from the mountains of the Rift. Columns rose ever upward, supporting the domed roof. Not so long ago, draksors would have knelt in this chamber, singing prayers or exultations, facing the low altar where hundreds of half-burned candles dribbledwax onto the floor. Asha remembered hearing their voices all the way from the market. Asha remembered joining them.
No candles burned now. No voices whispered.
Instead, huge red banners hung down the walls, all bearing her father’s emblem: the dragon with the sword through its heart. Behind the banners, Asha knew, were dazzling scenes from the old stories cut out of colored glass: the First Dragon, hatching from his embers; the sacred flame, burning bright in the night for Elorma to find; the building of Firgaard and the raising of the temple.
The central window held the likeness of the Old One—a black dragon with a heart of flame—and was itself as wide as a dragon. It too was blotted out by her father’s banners.
In the middle of the chamber, a ring of torches burned. Inside the firelit circle stood Jarek, the dragon king, and a robed temple guardian. Outside the circle, stationed along each column, stood a ring of six more guardians, there to bear witness.
In a ceremonial white tunic with gold embroidery, Jarek matched his betrothed. The flames of the torches caught in the hollows beneath his eyes and, despite lines of exhaustion bordering his mouth, desire flickered across his face as his gaze ran up and down Asha.
The dragon king stood a little beyond the commandant, shimmering in a golden robe. At the sight of him, all the hurt buried inside Asha swarmed to the surface.
“Why?” she demanded. “First, you turn me into a killer. And now, you’ll give me to someone I hate. Someone you yourself fear. Why are you doing this?”
Jarek looked to the king, confused. “Someone you fear?”
She turned to her betrothed. “He knows what you’re planning.”
Jarek frowned at her, his confusion deepening. “What am I planning?”
Her father stepped into the light of the torches. “That you intend to take my army and rise against me.”
Jarek shook his head. “Why would I rise against the man I owe everything to?”
What?
Her voice shook as she said, “Your parents are dead because of him!”
Jarek reached for her, his fingers clamping around her arm. Asha didn’t even try to twist free. Where would she go? Soldats lurked down every hallway. And beyond them was a city full of people who reviled her.
“My mother loved my father more than she ever loved me,” Jarek explained. “And my father loved his army more than both of us combined. I was an afterthought, if I was that much.” Jarek brought her hand to his mouth, kissing her palm. Asha shivered. “Were their deaths a terrible accident? Yes. But look at me, Asha. I wouldn’t be where I am today if they were alive. Their death was my glory.”
Asha stared at him.
Was everything she knew a lie?
And if Jarek wasn’t really a threat to her father, why would he offer to cancel the wedding?
