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That night, while Shāhpuhr went off to find food, Abarōz lay in the soft grass. But she couldn’t relax as she thought of Sangal. Where would he strike first? Here in Razūr, or Dardan? And when would her zand be ready to defend themselves in new plate? She almost wished she were back in the zarr so Manuchehr could update her.
Shāhpuhr returned just before supper with a rabbit, and, to Abarōz’s puzzlement, a full sack of grain.
“Where did you get that?” she asked.
“Oh . . . I hide it in the forest.” He gave her a wink. “For unexpected guests.”
“I see.” This must be the source of his bread. “Well . . . good,” she said, pouring the grain in a bowl and mixing it with water. Then, using a branch as a pestle, she ground the grains, using small flat rocks to set out cakes of flat bread.
“You’re better at this than I,” said Shāhpuhr.
“I should be,” Abarōz told him. “I’ve done it all my life.”
He grinned, going off to gather sticks for a fire. Before long, he’d kindled a merry blaze, leading to a nice meal of rabbit garnished with mushrooms.
“I wonder how they are getting on,” she said, earning a puzzled glance. “That is, the Perils.”
“I wish we could find out,” said Shāhpuhr, “but going back to Dardan—”
“—Will surely get us killed,” she finished.
Abarōz sighed as she wiped her plate clean.
“I just wish that Manuchehr would send us some word.”
“Perhaps he is busy,” Shāhpuhr said. “Making flameproof plate cannot be a complex task.”
“Don’t you mean ‘simple’?”
He blushed.
“Sorry. Sometimes I still make mistakes.”
“But they have magick,” whined Abarōz. By the new god, she hated when she did that!
“Yes, and it must take all their effort to forge it.”
Abarōz huffed. She knew Shāhpuhr was being reasonable, but she felt a great impatience.
“Perhaps we will hear soon,” she said with a shrug.
“Perhaps.” He added more wood to the fire, illuminating Bükrek’s coils as she slid toward them.
“Mother?”
“You’re not going to like this,” she said, “but I must ask you to leave tomorrow. Securing more ebrens is the only way we can win.”
Abarōz went cold.
“You mean . . . dragons?”
Bükrek nodded.
“There are many in the Bērūn who distrust Sangal. They are somewhat loyal to me, but still completely wild. You must call on all your strength to become an Aswār of Ebrens—a Rider of Dragons.”
“But Mother,” Shāhpuhr protested, “there haven’t been Aswārs for hundreds of years!”
Bükrek gave him a sad smile.
“You must revive the tradition.”
Abarōz hugged her arms close.
“Dragons scare me,” she said. “I heard their screams and roars the night they took my father.”
“They can be fearsome,” nodded Bükrek. “but not all are brutes. There is also in our nature a loving, caring side.”
“To which Sangal is an exception.”
“It will be fine,” Shāhpuhr said, smiling down at her head. “I speak Dragon and basically know their ways. I will be there to protect you.”
“Where exactly is ‘there’?”
“The south,” he told her. “That is where the good ebren live.”
“And the bad?”
“To the north.”
Abarōz gulped, not wanting to doubt him but feeling a tremor like a quake beneath Dardan.
“We should rest,” said Shāhpuhr. He threw two blankets over the grass at the edge of his crackling fire.
Abarōz lay down but was consumed by worry.
“What,” she asked, “will prevent these ebrens from taking us hostage in return for Dardan gold?”
Shāhpuhr’s laugh echoed through the clearing.
“Who would pay our ransom?” he asked. “Besides, there is always my mother who, though kind, can be strict upon occasion.” He rubbed his rear. “I still have scars where she spanked me.”
“In other words, the nice dragons are scared of her?”
Her friend pursed his lips.
“If they’re not, they should be.”
She took this in, resting her head on her arms as she surveyed the sky.
“What are those?” she asked, pointing up to the twinkling dots.
“Axtars,” said Shāhpuhr. “Mother told me they were created by Ülgen, a god beholden to Tengri. Ülgen lives above us, on the sixteenth floor of the sky, and moves the axtars about.”
“But what do they do?” Abarōz asked. “Are they just meant to be pretty?”
“I can’t say,” said Shāhpuhr. “Mother says that some men believe they never move, but I have seen them drift across the sky.”
“I suppose,” Abarōz said, thinking of home, “that some think the new god created them. But that they themselves are not gods.”
Shāhpuhr sighed.
“Only Tengri would know.”
Abarōz stared at his crouching form. In the glow of their small blaze, he looked especially striking, his prominent nose and dark skin drawing her in.
Could we ever . . . ? she wondered, then stopped, dismissing her thoughts as nonsense. He was a boy of the forest, and she? A proper Dardan girl who only knew city life. How could they be more than friends with such dissimilar pasts?
Still . . .
Her mind continued to plague her as she tried to drift into sleep. Just as her dreams offered a tantalizing vision of the future, she felt a slight pressure on her upturned cheek.
If it were day, she would have flushed brighter than Mihr. As it was, she heard the roll of a tall body settling down to rest.
Had Shāhpuhr just kissed her?
