As Torwin stepped toward the two cousins, then sat down in the dirt next to them, Sorrow crept toward Kozu, whose hulking black form was curled in the sun, soaking up the warmth. Sorrow’s ivory scales were a sharp contrast to Kozu’s obsidian.
“Everything’s packed,” said Torwin. He held a large knife in his hands, its silver sheath embossed with intricate star patterns. “If we leave at dawn, we should arrive before sundown.”
Despite having just returned from Firefall, Asha and Torwin were flying to the Star Isles tomorrow. The reason for their trip was currently gripped in Torwin’s hands: the Skyweaver’s knife.
The weapon had saved Roa’s sister a few weeks previous, and Roa now wanted it returned to where it came from. She believed it was too dangerous an artifact to keep here in Firgaard. So Asha and Torwin had gone through the accounts of the last man who’d bought it—one of Firgaard’s wealthiest barons—and tracked down its history to a place called the scrin.
“If Roa wasn’t so insistent, I’d drop this thing to the bottom of the sea and be done with it,” said Torwin, sliding the blade out of the sheath just enough to reveal the silver-blue blade concealed within. He shivered. Looking up, he squinted through the sunlight. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with us, Safire?”
“Come? To an archipelago known for its monsters, tempests, and ship wreckers?” Safire wrinkled her nose, thinking of the treacherous waters of the Silver Sea. “I think I’ll pass. Besides, Roa and Dax will be joining you in a few days.”
The empress of the Isles—a fearsome woman named Leandra who was rumored to be deathless—wanted to present the new dragon king and queen with a gift. One that Leandra hoped would help the dire situation in the scrublands. As Dax’s Namsara, Asha had been invited to the empress’s citadel, too, but she’d turned down the invitation.
I don’t have the time or the interest in rubbing shoulders with foreign monarchs, Asha told Safire when the invite came. That’s Dax’s role.
“Someone has to be the responsible one,” Safire said. “Someone has to stay behind to ensure this city doesn’t fall apart.”
Those were her official reasons for remaining in the capital. But as she spoke them, she thought of the criminal prowling through the palace like it was her own personal playground.
Safire would never leave Firgaard at the Death Dancer’s mercy.
Torwin, as if sensing her thoughts, said, “Caught that thief of yours yet?”
Sighing, Safire fell back into the grass. “No.”
That was why she was here on the dragon fields. The king’s commandant was running from her own failure. She’d hoped to have the Death Dancer locked in a cell by now. Instead, the criminal continued to elude her.
Sometimes she felt a . . . presence. In the middle of the day or the night. In the palace or in the street. Watching her. Trailing her. But when she turned, knife in hand, all she found was shadows. Sometimes, when she entered a room, she couldn’t shake the sense that her thief had been there just a heartbeat before. It felt as though they were playing a game of cat and mouse.
Only Safire wasn’t sure who was the cat and who was the mouse.
She needed to catch this Death Dancer. She wanted to see the look in the thief’s eyes when she locked her up for good.
Once she did, she could go back to sleeping through the night.
“Saf’s beginning to believe the rumors are true,” said Asha.
Torwin shot her a look. “Rumors?”
“They say the Death Dancer is uncatchable,” Asha explained. “That she’s half god, half shadow.”
Safire closed her eyes, letting the sun warm her face as she thought of Asha’s idea. One step ahead . . . a trap was what she needed. But with what could she bait it?
“Well,” Torwin said, “if anyone can catch her . . .”
His voice trailed off. Safire waited for him to finish, but the silence continued. And then, even with her eyes closed, Safire felt it: a cold darkness sliding across her face. It smelled like musk and smoke.
She opened her eyes.
The dragon called Sorrow stood over her. Ivory scales. Broken horn. Black eyes staring down into hers.
It amazed Safire how much sadness she always found in the depths of those eyes.
Normally, her first instinct would be to reach for her knife. But Safire knew what it was like to be at the mercy of brutes. She knew the horrible things that had been done to this creature and how little it took to frighten Sorrow.
So she lay still, forcing herself to relax.
Beside her, Torwin and Asha were tense and silent.
What they didn’t know was that when Safire couldn’t sleep, she liked to walk the hunting paths up into the Rift. Most often, they took her here—to the dragon fields. The fields were always bare beneath the stars, the riders gone, the dragons sleeping somewhere in the hilly terrain. All except one: Sorrow.
With no one else around, Safire told the dragon stories. Not old stories, though. Not the myths of gods and heroes Asha was so good at, the ones the dragons liked best. Safire didn’t know many of those. Instead, she told Sorrow the stories that kept her up at night.
She told him about being the daughter of an unlawful union and, as such, growing up forbidden to be touched. She told him about the revolt she helped lead—a revolt that put her cousin Dax on the throne. She told him about the day that same cousin made her his commandant.
And then, whenever she finished telling a story, they played a game. It involved Safire stepping as close as possible, and Sorrow standing as still as he dared.
Sorrow always bolted before Safire came close enough to touch.
That was why, when Safire reached her hand slowly toward the dragon’s ivory snout now, she expected Sorrow to flinch and run.
Except Safire hadn’t flinched when she’d opened her eyes. Hadn’t reached for her knife. And Sorrow sensed it—Safire’s instinct, as well as the suppression of it. Sorrow was doing the same now.
The dragon trembled with the fear of being touched, but he didn’t run.
When Safire’s fingertips touched the warm scales of Sorrow’s snout, her skin prickled. She felt the effort it took the dragon to keep himself still. Safire held her breath as more and more of her skin came in contact with the dragon’s scales. Soon, Safire cupped Sorrow’s snout and the dragon’s warm breath was moist on her palm.
Sweet boy, she thought. How could anyone want to hurt you?
And then, like the wind changing, Sorrow jerked away. Safire froze, but the dragon only lifted his head, turning into the wind. Sensing or smelling or hearing something Safire herself couldn’t. She sat up, looking where Sorrow did.
Safire felt it then—that same feeling that haunted her footsteps through the palace: that tingling sense of being watched.
Sunlight flickered through the dark green boughs of the forest’s edge, the trees bending in the wind.
“What is it?” Asha whispered.
Safire rose, striding toward the cedars, thinking of the Death Dancer. She was about to plunge into the pines when the strange pitch of her cousin’s voice stopped her.
“Saf . . .”
Safire turned to find both Torwin and Asha watching her with worried eyes. Only Sorrow still scanned the trees.
“What?”