Page 28 of The Omega Slave

“Healer,” Kamir almost shrieked, but thankfully didn’t let go, even when an older man hurried over to the bed. Tsaria would have recognized the almost universal healer robes even if Kamir hadn’t yelled.

The man bowed. “I am Laronne, Master Healer. “How do you feel?”

He honestly didn’t know, but he vaguely remembered Laronne. “Nothing hurts.”

Tsaria heard the long, relieved sigh from Kamir and turned his head to look at him. Took in the way he was clinging to his hand, the paleness of his cheeks. His normally warm brown skin seemed almost gray. “I’m sorry,” Tsaria said, hating that he’d scared him. Then he flushed at the presumption that he could have that effect on the emir.

Kamir reached out with his other hand and smoothed away Tsaria’s hair. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I have assured your Highness there seems to be no lasting damage, except, of course, the marks.”

Tsaria turned back to the healer just as Attiker walked in. “Marks?” he queried, then for the first time glanced down at his arm and gaped. Intricate black markings ran all the way from his fingers up his arm. He let go of Kamir and yanked down the plain shirt he wore, only to see the markings spread across his chest and all the way down his other arm to his wrist. That hand—his left—was clear.

“What in seven hells?” Tsaria whispered.

“Which is what we’d like to know,” Attiker said. “Eldara touched you and you seemed almost to go up in flames. You collapsed, and she flew off, and she hasn’t answered my call since.” He hesitated. “To be honest, I think she scared herself at your reaction.”

“But what are they?” Tsaria asked, looking at the marks again.

“She called him Dragoran,” Kamir reminded them.

“I can’t reach her since we came back to the palace, but I have another dragon expert of sorts waiting to talk to us if you feel up to it,” Attiker offered.

“Please, can you give us a moment’s privacy first?”

Tsaria glanced at Kamir in surprise, but then almost immediately everyone left, and it was just them. Kamir took both his hands in his. “We haven’t had a moment,” Kamir said, but smiled. “Not to talk, anyway. I just want to say I know youdidn’t expect any of this.” His amber eyes darkened. “You have no reason to trust me, but I swear on the grave of my mother if you want to leave, no one will stop you.”

“And what will you do?” Tsaria was wavering. One minute he believed everything Kamir said, the next he heard his father’s voice telling him he was no good. Worthless.

“Whatever I can for my people,” he answered simply.

Tsaria thought about where they were, and not in the sense of geography, but with each other, and what he wanted. He glanced at his arm and knew he had to learn what it meant. “I think we should talk to their expert.” Which wasn’t what his heart wanted to say at all, but it was all that his mind trusted his mouth with.

Kamir stared at him for a long moment, then simply bent and kissed him. It was brief but felt meaningful. “When this is over, I want to take you to the ruins of Caheer and watch the sunset.”

He smiled because even though he’d never heard of them, they seemed important to Kamir, and they both readied themselves for whatever Attiker’s expert may say.

“Highnesses,” Attiker interrupted after Kamir rang the bell to indicate they were ready. “May I present Gerry Bentley.”

Tsaria gazed at the servant… groundskeeper? He was a huge man, probably nearing seventy summers, and wore a tan apron that generally demonstrated his specialty. He had dirt on his cheeks and carried a bag on his shoulder. He ripped his cloth cap off his head and bowed.

“Sire, pleasure to meet pals of ‘is ‘ighness.”

Tsaria loved him on sight. The fact that he beamed at Attiker and didn’t put on airs and graces. The word sire was even more ancient than caliph but reserved for trusted servants to use. He liked that this man called Kamir so.

Attiker grinned. “Gerry is head gardener for the estate and specializes in growing certain strains of flowers.”

Kamir shook his hand and assured him it was a pleasure to meet him, even sharing that their gardeners were struggling with flowering octopi, which Tsaria had never heard of. Gerry scratched his chin and said he’d had a little success with tea leaves to help the octopi. But only after they’d been properly steeped, mind you. He suggested the maids keep the tea after the pots had been drunk.

Kamir’s eyebrows rose and said he hoped at some point that the Rajpuran gardeners could come for a visit to be tutored. Gerry agreed, then said he s’posed it would be up to the “lad.”

“He means Raz,” Attiker translated.

“Excellent,” Kamir enthused and Tsaria met Attiker’s amused gaze. Neither the fact that the gardener had referred to the King of Cadmeera as a “lad” or that Kamir hadn’t so much as blinked but enthusiastically joined in the conversation seemed to bother anyone.

Cadmeera was certainly not what he was used to.

But neither is Kamir.

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