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ESSA

T he sky was blue, the sun was warm, my friends were with me, and my sister was dead. It was a perfect morning.

“What will you do if we find her?” Clua asked, sounding out of breath as her pony jogged along behind me.

“Essa would push her back into the sea,” Ollie joked from my other side.

Clua was a dwarf, and though her strong arms served her well at the forge, her short legs made riding horses difficult. Her pony had short legs too, and unfortunately my mare, Sisha, tended to gallop ahead. I tugged back gently on the reins to match Clua’s pace. My other arm—the one missing a hand—hung at my side, helping me keep my balance just as it did when I rode dragon-back.

“Push her into the sea? Why?” Clua asked. “With her gone, Essa would be the queen’s eldest daughter. That means…”

“She knows what it means,” Ollie said crossly. “We agreed we’d have a pleasant ride with no talk of…” he squirmed in his saddle. “Unpleasantness.”

Sweet Ollie, my Torouman. He was always protecting me—even from our other friends. I could feel Othura’s presence, too. Although she was back at the palace, napping after last evening’s flight, a dragon’s consciousness was never far from their rider, and I could feel her like a warm blanket wrapped around me. Yet despite being surrounded by friends, I couldn’t shake a nagging feeling of loneliness and foreboding. What if Paemalla really was gone?

Then death awaited me too, as inevitable as nightfall…

“Don’t worry about my feelings, Ollie,” I soothed him. “I have no feelings. Not about Paemalla, anyway.”

Feelings… Indeed, I’d felt every pinch and punch and jeer Paemalla had thrown at me over the years. She’d been crueler than anyone had a right to be to a sister who was four years younger, although I suspected she believed her meanness to be virtuous, as if by bullying me she might toughen me up—maybe even enough to compensate for my missing right hand. Whether that tactic had worked was debatable, but her cruelty had certainly made me hate her. And her ruthlessness had served her well as she’d fought her way to the rank of Irska, the top dragon rider of the entire Maethalian army.

Of course, being a bully didn’t mean she deserved death at the hands of those treacherous URA machine riders, if that was truly what had happened.

But I didn’t really believe she was gone. Paemalla was too stubborn to die. I did, however, relished the idea of being the one to find her crashed, waterlogged and humiliated. So, we rode on.

Maethalia in the spring was a sight that had inspired bards since the time before queens, when gods danced in the forests and faerie gazed out from each flower and stone. The sky shone above, a cloudless sapphire vault. The black cliffs to our right plummeted from grassy heights to white froth and dark ocean below. Blooming wildflowers, humming bees, and soaring gulls beset the ancient road, and smells of sea and blossom rode the breeze. A brisk wind pushed the hair from my face and golden sun warmed my cheeks.

But none of the loveliness surrounding me could compare to the beauty of the waterlogged man who suddenly stepped into our path.

Sisha reared, startled, and only through sheer force of will and a mighty squeeze of my legs was I able to keep my seat.

My sword rang from its sheath. Clua pulled out her mace and Ollie nocked an arrow in his bow.

It took only one glance to see this intruder was no Maethalian fisherman, nor a beachcomber from the surrounding villages. His clothes were soaked and strange. He wore a button-up shirt and tapered olive-green pants, not the normal Maethalian tunic and breaches. He bore no weapons I could see, but wore a cloth bag slung over his shoulder.

“Who are you?” I demanded.

The man hesitated. His body appeared well built, tall and broad-shouldered. And when he pushed his dark, wet hair from his face, I saw he was young. In his mid-twenties, perhaps—only a few years older than me. A gash on his forehead leaked blood, but that wasn’t what arrested my attention. It was his eyes. They were the same blue as the sea below us, dark and deep, and framed by dark lashes most girls in the court would have traded an emerald for. Something in the look of him set me on guard, and I aimed the tip of my sword at his throat.

The man arched an eyebrow, then winced.

“Ow, damn,” he muttered, bringing his fingertips to the gash on his forehead. I caught an odd accent to his words.

“The princess asked you a question,” Clua dismounted and came forward a step, brandishing her mace.

The stranger’s sharp eyes snapped to me once more.

“Princess…?” he breathed.

“Bah. He’s witless,” Clua growled. “Let’s keep going.”

“Not witless,” Ollie said. “Foreign.”

Clue looked back at the man, wide-eyed. “You don’t mean…?”

No one said it, but we all knew. This was one of the Admites, from across the sea—sworn enemies of our people. I’d never seen one up close before.

Still holding my sword and leaning the other elbow on Sisha’s back for balance, I dismounted and took a few steps towards the stranger.

His eyes were on my right arm. Or, I should say, on the place where my forearm would have been. “You’re the one-armed princess. Essaphine Torholt.”

I smiled. “See,” I called to my friends. “He’s not witless at all.”

“No, but he is insolent,” Clua said, moving forward with her mace ready. But I stayed her with a look.

Turning back to the soaked man, I raised my right arm—or what was left of it, as it ended just below the elbow joint.

“Get a good look,” I told him. I, too, gazed at the empty space where my forearm should have been. “I can still feel it sometimes, like the ghost of a hand that isn’t there. For example, right now it’s as if my middle finger is extended.”

Clua muffled a laugh.

The man gave a small, cockeyed grin. He was handsome, I saw, square-jawed with fine cheekbones, possessing the sort of masculine beauty even waterlogged clothes, bruises, and a drizzle of blood couldn’t erase.

“Your name,” I said again.

He cleared his throat and shifted the bag on his shoulder.

“My name is Kit. Kit Rowley. As you’ve noticed, I’m from the United Republic of Admar, across the sea. I’m a reporter for our largest newspaper, the Ironberg Times. My editor has been in touch with members of your court. I was supposed to do a story about your people—but the plane I was in crashed in the fog yesterday.”

Clua snorted. “A likely story.”

“Actually, Hoatan did mention something about a visitor from URA coming this week,” Ollie said.

“I have papers—” the man reached for his bag, then stopped when Ollie’s bow went taut. He put his hands up and glanced at Sisha, who stood pawing the ground with one hoof.

“I don’t suppose you’d mind giving me a ride to the castle—Princess?” he asked.

That crooked grin told me all I needed to know. This man was trouble of the worst kind. Fortunately for him, I enjoyed trouble.

I lowered my sword and sheathed it.

“We are known for our hospitality here in Maethalia.” I glanced to Clua. “Rope.”

She took a coiled rope from her saddlebag and tossed it to me. I caught it, stepped forward and kicked the Admite sharply in the back of the knee. His leg buckled and he fell to his knees, wincing. Another kick sent him face-down in the dirt and I mounted his back, ready to tie his hands, but he caught my leg and rolled, getting me on my back, his body pressing down on me, his hands on my arms, pinning me to the ground.

We locked eyes, both panting. Slowly, he looked up to find Ollie’s arrow tip and Clua’s mace hovering dangerously near his head.

“Sorry,” he grunted. “Force of habit.”

“Same,” I said through bared teeth. He had just enough time to give me a quizzical look before I brought my knee up—into his crotch. He convulsed, loosening his grip on my arms. I shoved him off me and he rolled away, groaning.

“He’s a surprisingly good wrestler for a bard,” I said, rising and dusting off my cloak.

“Hands in front,” Clua grunted. The foreigner complied, staggering to his feet and letting her tie his wrists without complaint.

I mounted Sisha. “Get him up behind me.”

“We should check him for weapons,” Ollie said.

“I’m not afraid of this spirit-burner,” I scoffed. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Suppose I don’t want to ride with you anymore?” the foreigner muttered.

“Suppose I crush your skull?” Clua said, nudging him with her mace.

Limping, the stranger made his way over to Sisha and glanced up at me, a look of plain hatred on his handsome face. “You always crush a man’s balls the moment you meet him?”

“Yes,” I said.

Clua nudged him again, less gently than before, and he put a foot in the stirrup and climbed up behind me, wincing.

“Hold on,” I commanded.

He hesitated for a second, then brought his bound wrists up over my head and down again, so that his arms were around my waist.

“What if he tries to pull you off as we’re riding?” Ollie said, his arrow still trained on the man’s head.

“Then he’ll lose another wrestling match,” I said.

“So, I’m a prisoner, then?” the stranger asked.

“Ha. Your bound wrists didn’t give you a clue?” Clua chuckled.

“There’s paperwork—in my satchel—” he nodded toward a bag still slung over his shoulder.

“There’ll be time for that back at the palace,” I assured him. “Hold on now, if you don’t want to get dumped off on your ass.”

His arms suddenly tightened around my stomach, yanking our bodies close with a force that took my breath away. I could feel his strength, his nearness—his anger.

Perhaps I was being a fool. Perhaps he was dangerous. After all, this was a real enemy from across the sea. He might attack at any moment—try to throw me from Sisha’s back, or strangle me. He might try anything. The thought sent a thrill of fear through me.

But I was a Skrathan. A dragon rider. We don’t bow to fear.

And so, I spurred Sisha on and we took off back toward the palace.