So Skyweaver lifted her knife...
and cut his soul loose from its mooring.
One
Her sister said it would take a year to raise an army, bring down a tyrant, and marry a king.
Roa had done it in just three months.
And now here she sat, at the carved acacia table polished to a sheen, in the smallest pavilion of her father’s house. It smelled smoky-sweet from the heart-fire, and Essie perched on her shoulder, her talons clenching and unclenching, while Roa’s bare feet tapped the woven rug impatiently.
Five days of negotiating peace terms was starting to get to the both of them.
The ceremonial weapons of every man and woman present were piled in the middle of the table—long and short knives, elegantly carved maces, gleaming scythes—laid out of reach as a show of trust. Only three chairs sat empty. They belonged to representatives from the House of Sky, and they’d been empty all week—a fact no one was talking about. Least of all Roa.
She stared at the empty chair on the left, imagining theyoung man who normally sat there. Strong shoulders. Wheat-gold eyes. Dark-brown hair pulled back from his handsome face.
Theo, heir to the House of Sky.
Roa’s former betrothed.
He’s always been stubborn.Essie’s thoughts flooded Roa’s mind as her claws dug into Roa’s skin.But neverthisstubborn.
Roa traced the delicate wing bone of the white hawk on her shoulder. The bond they shared—something Essie calledthe hum—glowed bright and warm between them.
I betrayed him,thought Roa.I won’t be surprised if he never speaks to me again.
Their silent conversation was suddenly interrupted by the sound of someone snoring.
The new queen and her hawk looked sharply away from Theo’s chair to the young man seated beside her. The warm afternoon sunlight pooled in through the windows, alighting on his unruly brown curls. His elbow was propped on the table, his cheek rested on his fist, and those long black lashes fluttered softly against his cheeks.
Thiswas the dragon king. Asleep in an important treaty meeting.
This...waste... was the person for whom Roa had given up everything.
She bristled at the sound of his snores and glanced up to the dozen men and women gathered around the table, all of them representatives of Great Houses in the scrublands.
She prayed they didn’t notice the snoring.
It was a useless prayer. Of course they noticed. Dax had been falling asleep in treaty meetings all week, revealing the truth to everyone: he didn’t care that his father’s sanctions hadn’t been lifted or that Roa’s people were still going hungry.
These were not the kinds of things Dax cared about.
Which was why Roa was here. She’d insisted on traveling across the sand sea and drawing up an official treaty document herself. With a signed treaty, Dax couldn’t continue to break his promises. Not without consequences.
It was why they were all here, in Roa’s childhood home, with their heads bowed over a scroll.
Roa looked past the sleeping king, past the pile of weapons, to find her father studying her. A man of almost fifty, his curly black hair was speckled with gray now, and he looked thinner and more tired than she remembered. Was that possible? In just the two months she’d been gone? He wore a cotton tunic, split at the throat, with the pattern of Song fading around the collar. It matched Roa’s own garment.
A proper dragon queen would have worn a brightly colored kaftan, finely stitched slippers, and a gold circlet on her head. But Roa was a scrublander first and foremost. She wore an undyed linen dress sewn by her mother and a necklace of pale blue beryl beads.
Her father’s eyes held Roa’s, then glanced to the young man snoring beside her. The look on his face was unmistakable.
He pitied her.
Roa’s stomach tightened like a fist.
She wouldnotbe pitied. Certainly not by her own father.
