Dragon Rift: Riders of Fire, Book Three - A Dragons’ Realm Novel Read online

  “You’ll recognize mind benders because their eyes are black, instead of red. Mind benders can find you by sensing your thoughts—unless you submerge by going so far inside yourself there’s no trace of what you’re thinking.” The tharuks in her head disappeared. “I’ll demonstrate. Stay melded and notice the difference.”

  Ezaara closed her eyes.

  Roberto’s mind was vibrant. His thoughts faded, slipping away like water through fingers, until they were barely a whisper. Then, like a candle snuffed out by a draft, he was gone.

  Ezaara cast out her mind. Strange, usually Roberto slammed a wall between them when he was blocking her, but there was nothing. She opened her eyes.

  He was still there.

  “How?”

  “Peel away your mental habits—your anxieties, thoughts, fears and passions—and reach a state of calm. Go to the true center of your being and remain still for as long as you can.”

  “Sathir.” That’s what he meant. “Feeling the connection with nature and becoming one with it.” She’d done this in the desert.

  “Sathir is life energy.”

  Ezaara shrugged. “To the silent ones, sathir also means reaching a meditative state.”

  “Try.” The sun cast a golden sheen on Roberto’s skin. His voice was soft, eyes warm. His mind, sharp.

  Ezaara submerged by sensing sathir and finding her still place. Roberto probed. He found her several times, when she was distracted by his dark eyes or soft laugh.

  She sighed. “It’s not exactly easy with you loving me.”

  “It’s not going to be easy in battle, either.” He raised an eyebrow. “Try again.”

  Twice, he couldn’t detect her.

  “Better. Now, I’ll teach you the hand signals.”

  “Hand signals?”

  “I’ve developed signals for each of these mental techniques, for communicating when a mind bender is near. A subtle circle with the thumb means fixate.” Roberto flicked his thumb around in a small circle.

  She copied him. “So, this is fixing an image in my mind?”

  “Right, and a twitch of your middle finger is for the silent witness, and lifting your smallest finger is the signal to submerge.”

  “I think I’ve got them.” Ezaara demonstrated each gesture. “Thumb circle for fixate, small finger for submerging, and middle finger for silent witness—whatever that is.”

  “We’ll get to that in a minute. The last signal is a flat hand, palm down, telling you to flee immediately.”

  “Flat hand, flee. I hope I never need it.”

  “So do I. Now, the last thing is the silent witness. You need to mind-meld with me, without leaving a trace of your own thoughts. I’ll show you.”

  “How would that be useful, melding if you can’t hear my thoughts?”

  “I’ll show you. There are two parts of your mind that are active in mind-melding, the part that reaches out to make a connection, and the part that produces thoughts. To perform the silent witness, you need to make the connection, but shield your thoughts. Observe.”

  Roberto placed his hands upon her temples.

  She was in the sacred grove in Lush Valley again, the alps rising high above the forest, and Zaarusha overhead. Sunlight blazed through her—she was imprinting with the queen.

  Roberto murmured in her mind, “I hope you enjoy this experien—” His voice was gone.

  “Roberto, are you still there?”

  In a swirl of colors, Ezaara was swept up onto Zaarusha’s back and, heart pounding, flew away from her family.

  “Could you sense me?” Roberto gently brought the experience to a stop.

  “Only at the start.”

  “You try.”

  Ezaara melded with Roberto. His mind was buzzing. He and his sister Adelina were swimming in a sparkling sapphire lake. She raced him, diving deep and entering a long channel in the rock. Roberto swam strongly, chasing Adelina, and they both came up inside a cavern, gasping for breath. “I love it here.” Adelina grinned.

  “I know. Pa will never find us here,” Roberto replied.

  “If we ever have to run away, I’ll meet you here.”

  Shards, what a life, scared of their own father.

  “Silent witness,” Roberto melded. “Submerge.”

  She quieted her thoughts, striving to become a silent witness.

  “Ezaara, you’re like an iron fortress standing in my path. Be gentle, simply fade away.”

  Ezaara blocked him out, but the vision of Adelina died.

  “Try again.”

  Perhaps it was like sleeping or dreaming, just relaxing and letting her mind slip away.

  “That’s it. You disappeared.” He broke mind-meld. “You could still see my memory, right?”

  “Phew, that’s easy, but still really hard work.” Ezaara wiped her brow. “Now that we’ve mastered the silent witness, how do tharuks mind bend?”

  “Using the silent witness lets you sense what someone’s thinking, unobserved. Mind benders inflict mental violence and terror. I won’t teach anyone those techniques. It was bad enough having them thrust upon me.”

  “So why are you teaching me?” she asked.

  “As Master of Mental Faculties and Imprinting I have to test people on trial. If you could perform tests too, we’d have a better chance of discovering spies and traitors, and if anything happened to me, my skills wouldn’t be lost. I’ve been trying to convince the council to train more people, but they’re too scared of mental powers.”

  So that was it. “You’re teaching me because you might not come back.”

  Roberto’s eyes slid away. “There is that,” he finally said, meeting her gaze. “These tools are valuable. I don’t want them lost.”

  “And I don’t want to lose you.”

  His eyes burned through her and he bent his head, kissing her again. Their sathir swirled around them, enveloping them in a protective cocoon—his dark blue flecked with silver dancing with her vibrant colors.

  Roberto smiled. “Now, let’s compose ourselves and go back to face the council so Tomaaz and I can receive our final instructions.”

  Unbidden, Handel’s vision rushed into Ezaara’s mind—Roberto lunging at her, his handsome face twisted with hatred.

  She clamped down on the vision. No, Roberto would never harm her. He’d nearly given his life for her, bleeding out on the desert sands with a gut wound inflicted by feuding Robandi. This awful prophecy had to be wrong. But Ezaara couldn’t help the dark feeling rising inside her. As Roberto took her hand and they walked back to their dragons, a shiver snaked down her spine.

  Dragons’ Hold

  Tomaaz was slumped in the saddle, his head leaning on Maazini’s spinal ridge, clinging on with aching arms. How many days had they been flying? It felt like forever. His hip throbbed like someone was pounding it on an anvil, the pain making him dizzy. His throat was parched and his stomach twisted with hunger, but he had no food and he was too weak to reach for the trickle left in the waterskin.

  Ahead, moonlight glanced off snow-clad slopes. Maazini beat his wings, ascending a mountainside. Tomaaz’s eyes blurred and drifted shut, darkness claiming him.

  The dragon’s voice rumbled in his mind, jolting his eyes open. “Tomaaz, we’re nearly there.”

  Tomaaz dimly registered the glance of moonlight on snow. If that was snow, he should be cold, but he was burning up, limbs trembling as he clung to his loyal dragon.

  Lovina’s face swam before his eyes, and he reached out to stroke her cheek, slipping sideways.

  “Tomaaz!” The sharpness of Maazini’s tone snapped him out of delirium.

  They swooped over a mountain peak, and plunged down the other side toward a dark forest. His head spun. Maazini headed across the basin, backwinging alongside a ledge. Grunting, the dragon scrabbled on the rock for a foothold, scattering shale and snow down the mountainside. “We’re at Dragons’ Hold.”

  “Made it … we made it.” Tomaaz fumbled to untie the saddle stra
ps around his waist—the only things that had stopped him from sliding out of the saddle. Sweat stung his eyes as his fingers fumbled with the knots. And then he was free.

  “Easy,” Maazini cautioned as Tomaaz gritted his teeth and hoisted his good leg over the saddle.

  Red hot pain seared like a poker in his hip, rippling up his side. He clamped his teeth down and drew blood, salty and wet. He sucked down the moisture. Jaw clenched, he slid out of the saddle, breaking his descent with the straps.

  “Ugh. Ah—” He landed on his uninjured leg. Leaning against Maazini, he struggled for breath. He had to see Ezaara, pass her a message. He haltingly put some weight on his injured leg, but his hip, awash with fire, gave out. Tomaaz slipped and struck his head on the stone floor, and everything went black.

  §

  Screams sliced through the night, waking Marlies. Throwing back the covers, she dashed to the next room, where her son Tomaaz usually slept. There, in the flickering candlelight was the nameless slave boy, thrashing in his tangled bedsheets. Marlies shook him awake. Scooping him into her arms, she carried him to the rocking chair. He was so light, the weight of a young littling. She settled in the chair, tucking a blanket around him.

  He stared up at her, his eyes wide with terror.

  The poor thing. Since Tomaaz had rescued him from Death Valley, he’d never slept through once, constantly plagued with night terrors. What had the poor boy been through? How many years had he lived there, and how had he survived? Most died within months of arriving, through starvation, sickness, sheer exhaustion or from the tharuks’ brutal beatings—Death Valley had earned its name, thousands of lives over.

  She smoothed back his dark hair, rocking and crooning. Although he’d been at Dragons’ Hold over a moon and a half, he still hadn’t spoken a word. They had no idea whether his family was alive or dead, how old he was, or even what his name was.

  “It’s all right,” she crooned, as she rocked him to sleep. “You’re safe.”

  His eyelids fluttered and closed. Soon his breathing was peaceful. Her own time in Death Valley was plaguing her too, Zens appearing in her dreams to mock and taunt her as he threw her around the room using the power of his mind. And now, Tomaaz, her son, could be facing that same horror. She pulled a calling stone from her pocket and rubbed the flat side of the oval crystal. Nothing happened—no flicker; no image of Tomaaz’s face. He hadn’t contacted them for a week, now. She grimaced and stowed the crystal.

  Rocking this boy reminded her of her twins when they’d been littlings. Tomaaz had always rescued injured insects and woodland creatures. Ezaara, on the other hand, had helped her with the healing arts since she’d been old enough to pick herbs.

  A while later, Marlies carried the boy back to bed and tucked his covers around him. If she was lucky, he’d sleep through the rest of the night.

  Marlies padded into the bedroom to Hans’ soft snores, his dark curls outlined on the pillow in the candlelight. He’d flown patrol tonight and was exhausted. She was just climbing back into their bed, when Liesar, her dragon, mind-melded. “Marlies! A wounded rider’s in Zaarusha’s den.”

  “Tell Zaarusha I’m on my way.” Marlies threw a warm jerkin on and raced through the infirmary next door, snatching her supplies, then out to Liesar’s den.

  Marlies picked up the dragon’s enormous saddle. “What’s wrong with the rider?”

  “He’s unconscious and there’s a lot of blood,” the silver dragon replied. “Marlies …” Liesar turned her turquoise eyes to her, lowering her head. “It’s Tomaaz—Maazini’s not sure if he’ll survive.”

  Dropping the saddle, Marlies swung onto Liesar’s bare back, her heart smacking her ribs like a battering ram.

  §

  “Ezaara!”

  Ezaara woke, sitting bolt upright in bed. Strange, she thought she’d heard two voices in her head—not just Zaarusha’s, but also Maazini’s. She must’ve been dreaming again. Nightmares of Tomaaz and Roberto had been bothering her since they’d left for Death Valley six weeks ago. She snuggled back under the covers.

  “Ezaara!” This time it was Maazini and Zaarusha.

  She yanked back the covers, shivering in the chilly air. “What is it?” she mind-melded with both dragons at once.

  Zaarusha answered. “Your brother’s injured, here in my den.”

  Gods, no. Ezaara shoved her feet into her boots and her jerkin on over her nightdress, then snatched up her healer’s pouch and ran from her cavern to Zaarusha’s den next door.

  Torchlight illuminated a horrifying scene. Her brother lay unconscious on the stone, blood seeping from his side. She knelt down and placed her fingers at his throat. He was still breathing. Heart, still beating. Around his hip, his blood-soaked breeches were in tatters. She pulled the fabric back.

  Her hand flew to her mouth. Tomaaz’s right hip was a gaping hole of torn and bloody flesh. His hip joint was shattered. Fragments of splintered bone gleamed in the torchlight among congealed blood and pus.

  By the First Egg, no. Ezaara turned away, dry retching. “Zaarusha, call my mother!”

  Zaarusha bent over Ezaara, nudging her with her snout. “The master healer and Liesar are on their way. Are you all right?” Behind Zaarusha, Maazini was slumped on the snow.

  “I’m fine. Please organize someone to take care of Maazini.” Ezaara turned back to her brother. Feeling his scalp, she found a gash where he’d whacked his head on the stone floor. There were also grazes on his arm, right thigh and side.

  Liesar landed with a whump. Ma leapt to the ground and sprinted over.

  Ezaara gestured to Tomaaz’s hip. “This is the worst, Ma. He has a gash on his head, but—”

  “We’ll have to move him off this cold floor.” Ma’s face was creased with worry. “You take his shoulders while I support his injured hip and legs.”

  Tomaaz was a deadweight, leaving a bloody trail behind them. Despite Zaarusha’s efforts to calm her, Ezaara’s heart pounded, mind racing. As they lifted Tomaaz onto her bed, he came to, shrieking in pain. Ezaara’s stomach wrenched.

  Ma’s forehead was slick with sweat as she barked instructions. “Make some woozy weed to knock him out again. Fetch powdered slippery elm bark, bone-knit, and piaua juice. Fast!”

  Ezaara grabbed the items from her supplies and brewed the woozy weed tea, feeding sips to Tomaaz until his eyes rolled back in his head and he slept.

  Grunting, Ma extracted splinters of bone from Tomaaz’s hip wound with her surgical knife, her hands a bloody mess. “Grab that bowl,” her mother snapped. “Three measures of slippery elm to two of bone-knit and a few drops of piaua.”

  Ezaara’s hands shook as she measured the powdered bone-knit, spilling some.

  Ma grabbed Ezaara’s wrist, Tomaaz’s blood trickling down Ezaara’s arm. “It’s all right, Ezaara, we can do this.” Her voice was steady, but anxiety puckered her brow.

  Do what? Help him die without pain? Amputate his leg? Keep him alive so he could never walk or run again? Ezaara nodded, not trusting her voice, and mixed the powder and liquid to form a thick paste.

  “Add a little more bone-knit.” Ma placed a few shards of Tomaaz’s shattered bone into a dish, arranging them in some order. “Piaua juice restores life, but the slippery elm and bone knit helps glue the bone back together, giving the restorative juice something to work with. The more pieces of bone we can stick together, the better.” Ma dropped two last bits of Tomaaz’s bone into the dish. “Ezaara, fasten his limbs to the bed so he doesn’t thrash.”

  Eyes pricking, Ezaara bound Tomaaz’s arms and legs. She checked his heartbeat, then mixed the ingredients in her bowl. The substance changed in texture, taking on a pale bone color. When the paste formed a thick clump, Ma scooped the substance out of the bowl and pushed it into the cracks in Tomaaz’s hip. “Bring that torch closer, please.” She painstakingly stuck pieces of his ball joint back together, adjusting them, and pushing them into place, until only a thin coating of mixture held them.


  It took forever.

  Ezaara kept checking Tomaaz’s pulse and breathing. His vibrant orange sathir was steady.

  At last, while wiping away the excess mixture, Ma said, “That’s all the largest pieces taken care off. The challenge will be getting the splinters back in.”

  “Do you think you got them all?” Ezaara asked, holding up a candle so Ma could see.

  Ma picked up a splinter. “There may be shards that have been washed away. Maybe tiny particles have caught in his muscle or connective tissue. That’d give him trouble later. We’ll just have to do our best.”

  Fitting the splinters back in took longer than the initial pieces of bone.

  When she was done, Ma called Liesar.

  The silver dragon snaked her neck through the archway of Ezaara’s cavern. “It’s all right, Ezaara, we’ve done this before, years ago. It’s unnerving, but might help.”

  Might help?

  Liesar stretched her neck down to Tomaaz’s wound, blowing over it. Her hot dragon’s breath solidified the ball joint and smoothened Ma’s work, hardening it into a slick replica of Tomaaz’s bone.

  An odd scent filled the cavern. “Zaarusha, have you seen that before?”

  The dragon queen peered through the doorway. “Anakisha, my former rider, had me use similar techniques,” Zaarusha melded.” But now, I leave healing to the healers.”

  “Anakisha taught me this after a battle,” Ma said. “We saved the leg of a young boy whose kneecap had been shattered. It’s not always perfect, but it’s better than amputation.” She shook her head at the mangled flesh of her son’s hip. “Mind you, it’s not always successful. Pass me my surgical knife.”

  Ezaara passed the knife.

  “We can’t have jagged edges catching in his flesh.” Ma scraped Tomaaz’s new ball joint with her knife, clearing the debris away from his wound.

  The blade rasped, setting Ezaara’s teeth on edge. Tomaaz’s eyes fluttered and he moaned and his head thrashed. They’d been working on him so long, the woozy weed had worn off. Ezaara clenched her teeth and held his hand. Even with his arms bound, he gripped her fingers so hard her eyes smarted.