Vessel

by Sarah Beth Durst

  The old woman nodded. “But you’re still scared and sad.”

  He nodded, and a tear spilled out of one eye. He wiped it away with the back of his chubby fist. Liyana wanted to wrap her arms around him, but she stayed in the shadows. This visit was for him.

  “And I am supposed to tell you that they’re right, and death is a time to celebrate a life well lived.” The old woman beckoned him closer. “But I will tell you the truth: Death scares me. And it makes me sad. And it makes me angry. And this is the way it should be!”

  Jidali’s eyes widened.

  “Oh yes, I have lived more than my fair share of a full life,” she said. “Enough for two or three lives. But breathing every day . . . You are right to want to hold on to it, and you’re right to mourn it when it ends.”

  The old woman had died before Liyana was named the clan’s vessel. Liyana wondered what she would have said if she’d known that Liyana was destined to die young.

  But I am not supposed to die this way! Liyana thought.

  At the force of her thought, her eyes popped open.

  Sunlight cut in slices through the tent, illuminating the red and gold pillows and blankets that surrounded her. Beside her, she saw a gold basin perched on a three-legged stool. A damp cloth was draped over its rim. Beyond it, she saw a fire pit with a silver tea urn. Everything in the tent reeked of wealth and opulence. She inhaled incense.

  She should have woken in a healing tent. Or not woken at all.

  She touched her stomach and felt soft cotton. She looked down at a burgundy blouse with silver embroidery. She didn’t recognize the weave or cut. Someone had dressed her in clothes that weren’t her own. Tentatively she lifted the hem to see her stomach.

  No blood. No wound. But she had a scar.

  She traced the lump of hard skin. She’d had no scars before this. It looked like a star just below her sternum. “Korbyn,” she whispered. He had done this. And then what? What had happened to him? “Korbyn?”

  Liyana pushed herself up, trying to sit. Her head swam, and she collapsed backward into the pile of pillows. A woman leaned over her, and Liyana bit back a shriek at how suddenly she’d appeared.

  “Try again slowly,” the woman said. She braced Liyana with a hand under her back. Liyana eased up to sitting, and the woman tucked pillows behind her to prop her up. Liyana stared at her, mentally flogging herself both for failing to notice the woman was there and for showing alarm. Already the woman had her at a disadvantage.

  The woman had leathery skin, and her hair was streaked with white and silver. She wore a necklace of silver tassels that matched the chief’s belt—this was the chieftess of the Horse Clan, Liyana guessed. The chieftess pressed a waterskin to Liyana’s lips. “Drink. Sips only.” She tilted the waterskin, and water poured between Liyana’s lips. Liyana swallowed automatically. It tasted like silt, and it felt like a flame in her throat. She coughed, and pain shot through her body. She blacked out.

  Liyana opened her eyes again. She was lying down, and the chieftess sat cross-legged beside her. She had a crescent-shaped knife in her lap that she was polishing with a grayed rag. Liyana’s eyes fixed on the blade.

  “Where’s Korbyn?” Liyana asked. Her voice sounded like a rasp, and the words raked over her throat. She licked her lips and swallowed, which caused her body to shudder.

  “He speaks with the elders. Last I heard, he was being quite vivid in his description of what he planned to do to prove that my husband isn’t a god. I do not know if the discussion has progressed any further.”

  Liyana wanted to see him with such an intensity that it felt like a pull on her skin. She struggled to push herself up. “I must—”

  “You must drink some water,” the chieftess said. She held out a waterskin. “If that stays inside you, we will try a thin broth. Your insides need to remember how to function.” As Liyana reached for the waterskin, she felt as if her skull were being squeezed. She cried out. Leaning forward, the chieftess pressed her palm to Liyana’s forehead and concentrated. After a moment, the pressure in Liyana’s head lessened.

  “You’re the clan magician,” Liyana said. She was about to ask if Korbyn had been right, that their summoning ceremony had failed, when the tent flap was lifted.

  A young man poked his head inside. “Is Bayla’s vessel awake yet?” His voice boomed through the tent as if he were accustomed to bellowing across the desert.

  “You should be quiet when you enter a sickroom,” the magician-chieftess said. “Didn’t your mother teach you better manners?”

  He hung his head. “Sorry, Mother.”

  “Come in, Fennik. She’s awake.”

  Fennik trotted inside. Closer, Liyana saw the family resemblance: He had his mother’s amber-flecked eyes and his father’s wide shoulders. He squatted next to Liyana. As he squatted, his muscles compressed so that he looked spring-loaded. He was dressed as if for a traditional dance: an embroidered loincloth, several layers of gold necklaces, and black makeup in swirls over his cheeks and chest. His golden skin glistened as if he’d been rubbed with oil. His arms were bare, exposing the chiseled perfection of his arms as well as his tattoos. She knew those tattoos.

  “You’re Sendar’s vessel,” Liyana said.

  The chieftess rose. “You two have much to discuss.” She handed the crescent-shaped knife to her son and cryptically said, “The decision lies with you.”

  Liyana’s eyes fixed on the blade. He shifted the hilt from hand to hand as if testing its weight. The chieftess swept out of the tent. With her exit came a breeze that rustled the tassels that hung from the ceiling of the tent. Bells tinkled, and Liyana thought of the bells that she’d left for her family.

  “You believe the trickster?” Fennik asked.

  “I danced through the night, and Bayla didn’t come.”

  “And your clan?” He continued to toy with the knife. “Did they believe him?”

  “My clan went to Yubay to dreamwalk again in hopes Bayla would choose a new vessel, and they left me behind so as not to anger her further.” It hurt to think about it. But if anyone would understand, it was another vessel. His clan must have been bereft as well. “Korbyn came a day later.”

  “My clan would never reject me,” Fennik said, his confidence absolute.

  His words felt like a kick. She focused again on the knife. He continued to switch it from hand to hand. She couldn’t tell if it was habit or preparation. “Bayla didn’t reject me. She was taken. She must have been. I am worthy.”

  “So you say.”

  Liyana glared at him. She wished she were fast enough to snatch that knife out of his hands. “You must at least believe that I’m not Bayla.”

  After a brief hesitation, he nodded. “My father deeply regrets the pain that he caused you.”

  She noticed his father wasn’t here extending an apology. “I do wonder what he would have done if I had been Bayla. I cannot imagine that my goddess would have taken kindly to being stabbed through the stomach.”

  “He was prepared to die for his god.”

  “That’s not dying for your god; that’s dying for your stupidity.”

  Knife clenched in his hand, Fennik rose. “You do not take my family’s hospitality and then call my father stupid.”

  “I don’t call this ‘hospitality.’ ” She raised her shirt to show her scar. “If you plan to stab me again, there’s your target. Is that why Korbyn isn’t here? So he can’t save me twice?” She felt fury mix with her fear, and she grabbed onto the fury and let it fuel her. “We did not have to come here. Korbyn and I could have skipped your clan and rescued Bayla and left your god to rot in whatever false vessel he’s trapped in. But instead of a ‘thank-you,’ I’m greeted with a knife in my stomach, separated from my companion, and stuck in a tent with an oiled-up muscle boy who has a ‘decision’ to make that may or may not involve another knife. I did nothing to you or your clan! Whatever issue you have with Korbyn and Bayla has nothing to do with me. All I want is my goddess to
be where she belongs so that my little brother will not have to die before he has truly lived!” She was shouting, and she noticed that she had risen to sitting. Her whole body trembled. Liyana sank back into the pillows. “Ow. I still hurt. And I will scar. Bayla won’t be pleased about that. I have been so careful to keep this body unblemished for her. She won’t like that it’s been used as a pincushion. Later, if there is a later, you can justify it to her.”

  She heard applause from the entrance to the tent. Korbyn walked inside, clapping. “I should have waited and let you speak with the elders. That was masterful.”

  Liyana couldn’t help the smile that blossomed over her face. “You’re all right! Are you all right?” She tried to rise again, but her arms shook so badly that she collapsed backward.

  Ignoring Fennik and his knife, Korbyn knelt beside Liyana. “You were the one who was stabbed and yet you ask about me. Again you surprise me.”

  “I know how I am. You’re the unknown. You healed me, didn’t you? Have you recovered?” Healing her sand wolf gashes had knocked him out for hours. This had to have been far more serious. She studied his face and saw his eyes were sunken with deep lines as if he hadn’t slept.

  “After three days, yes, I am well.”

  Three days! She shot up to sitting. Her head spun. She cried in pain, and Korbyn helped her lie down. She felt his arms around her, warm and comforting.

  “You would heal faster if you would lie still,” Fennik commented.

  She ignored him. “Three days?”

  “I expressed my displeasure at the chief’s actions,” Korbyn said mildly.

  “You what?”

  “He attacked my father and his guards,” Fennik said, glaring at Korbyn. “Broke my father’s ribs, sliced one guard’s leg, and nearly cracked the skull of another. Other clan members joined in until the trickster god was subdued.”

  “Korbyn!” Liyana said. “Did they hurt you?”

  Korbyn stretched and twisted to demonstrate his fitness. “Afterwards, it took a while to heal you, the chief, his guards, and myself. In apology, the chief has offered us horses to help speed our journey and compensate for the lost time, though the damage may already be done.”

  She lay against the pillows with the words “three days” reverberating inside her. She didn’t know what that time loss would mean to the other vessels . . . or to Bayla.

  “My father’s actions were necessary,” Fennik said.

  Korbyn barely looked at him. “Who’s golden boy?” he asked Liyana.

  “He’s Fennik, the vessel of Sendar and the son of our esteemed hosts.” She wished she had her sky serpent knife to bat that blade out of his hands. Her scar was not necessary. Nor was the loss of three days. She glared at him as if it were his fault.

  In response to her introduction, Fennik inclined his head. He waited for a similar show of respect in return, but Korbyn did not oblige him. Instead he sniffed and then asked Liyana, “What do you think of him? Will he make a decent traveling companion?” Doubt infused his voice.

  Outrage blossomed on Fennik’s face.

  Liyana shrugged and then winced from the movement. “He seems strong. You never know when we might need to lift something heavy.”

  “True,” Korbyn said seriously. “There are many rocks in the desert. If memory serves, the hills of the Scorpion Clan are particularly rocky.”

  Fennik growled. “You mock me.”

  Korbyn’s face was innocent, like Jidali’s after he sneaked a cookie from Aunt Sabisa. “I would never mock such an illustrious personage,” Korbyn said.

  Liyana felt a twinge of guilt. This couldn’t have been easy for Fennik either. After all, he had suffered a failed summoning ceremony as well. “I am sorry, Fennik. It isn’t your fault that your father stabbed me.”

  “He acted in the best interests of the clan,” Fennik said stiffly. “In his place, I would have done the same. And I am still prepared to do so, should the need arise.”

  All her sympathy for him evaporated.

  Faster than her eyes could track, Korbyn’s fist darted out. It slammed into Fennik’s solar plexus as his other hand snatched the knife away from him. With a roar, Fennik lunged for him. Korbyn dodged. Skipping across the blankets and pillows, he evaded Fennik’s fists. Liyana struggled to sit, searching around her for anything to use as a weapon.

  After another failed lunge, Fennik halted. Still holding the knife, Korbyn waited. Liyana felt a wave of tiredness wash over her. “Enough,” she said. “Either you believe us or you don’t. Either you come or you don’t. Just decide so I can sleep.” This was the decision that the chieftess had meant, she realized. “Also, I want my knife back.”

  “You heard the lady,” Korbyn said. She heard amusement in his voice, but she noticed that his eyes tracked Fennik’s movements. He was ready to spring if necessary.

  “Exactly who is in charge here?” Fennik asked.

  “Does it matter?” Korbyn asked. “She’s correct. You have the opportunity to save your god. It is up to you whether or not you take it.”

  Fennik’s eyes narrowed. “Is it?”

  “No,” Liyana said. Her eyes flicked to Korbyn for confirmation.

  Korbyn sighed. “Bayla would be upset with me if I allowed Sendar’s clan to die because of the stubborn stupidity of a father and son. You will be coming with us.”

  * * *

  The Horse Clan supplied them with eight horses: one for each of them as well as the other vessels they hoped to find, plus two spare horses so they could rotate mounts. To Liyana’s shock, she saw that several large water containers had been loaded onto the horses. She remembered the silty taste of the water and knew their well had to be low. To donate this much water was an extraordinary gesture. The clan also loaded them with food pouches, grain for the horses, pots and pans, a larger tent (in place of Liyana’s travel tent), and six different kinds of bows for Fennik to use.

  “Do you really need six?” Korbyn asked as the bows were strapped to a horse.

  “Different game requires different tools,” Fennik said. “You wouldn’t ask me to use a mallet for the same task that needs a knife, would you?”

  “They’re bows,” Korbyn said. “You fit an arrow; you release it.”

  Fennik shook his head as if Korbyn were an object of pity.

  Liyana skirted the edge of their miniherd. She’d ridden once or twice, a treat from the clan’s hunters before she had become a vessel. She wasn’t convinced she could ride for miles on end without falling off and humiliating herself in front of the god and the horse warrior. She wished Korbyn would abandon this plan to ride so she could keep her feet firmly in the sand. And she wished it were still only her and Korbyn.

  Fennik leaped onto his horse’s back without touching the stirrups. He waved his hand to his clan, and they cheered. He was decked out as the departing hero with sky blue robes of the finest weave and a headcloth with gold tassels.

  Beside him, Korbyn slid up into his saddle with such grace that it looked as though he’d merely stepped onto a ladder. He didn’t preen; he merely waited. Fennik continued to play to the crowd, prancing his horse in front of Korbyn and Liyana. Taking a deep breath, Liyana grabbed the saddle with both hands and put her foot into the stirrup. She pulled her body up, and pain from her scar shot through her torso. She let go.

  “Allow me,” a voice said behind her. She was tossed gently and easily into the saddle. She looked down to see the chief beside her. Instinctively she shied back. Responding to her, the horse sidestepped away.

  Coming up beside her husband, the chieftess pressed a pouch into Liyana’s hand. “Herbs for the pain. Mix a few with your water each time you stop. It won’t eliminate the hurt altogether, but it should allow you to keep riding. There are more in the packs.”

  “We picked a horse with a smooth gait for you,” the chief said. “According to our traditions, you may name her.”

  Liyana managed a polite nod. She couldn’t bring herself to voice the words �
�thank you.” Her scar ached. She watched the chief and chieftess say good-bye to Fennik. Bending down, he embraced each of them. They pressed their foreheads together and talked softly. Each parent kissed him multiple times on his cheeks.

  Liyana wished she’d had that kind of good-bye with her parents. She missed her family with an ache that matched the pain from her wound.

  At last his parents stepped away.

  “Do not return to us,” his father said. “Either succeed in your quest and give your body to Sendar, or do not return at all.”

  Liyana saw a flash of an emotion in Fennik’s eyes—surprise perhaps, or hurt—but he recovered quickly. “I will not fail!” Fennik said. Raising his hands to wave at his people one more time, he shifted in the saddle. The horse surged forward. Sand kicked up behind him. He galloped south in a plume of sand and dust.

  Korbyn squeezed his knees around the barrel of his horse, and the horse trotted forward. Liyana kicked her heels into hers. After three kicks, the horse lurched into a walk. She followed Korbyn and Fennik, and the cheers of the Horse Clan faded behind them.

  Chapter Ten

  The Emperor

  All the farms in the west had withered. Mounted on a roan war- horse, the emperor rode at the front of the army caravan and forced himself to look at each dry field, the shriveled rows of dust and the twisted sickly trees. He rode past abandoned farmhouses and some that looked abandoned but weren’t. Men, women, and children clustered in the doorways and watched the army march by. Their faces wore the pinched, hollow look that he’d come to recognize as the look of his people, and their hungry eyes devoured the caravan.

  At the first few farms, he’d quietly had his soldiers shuttle food to the families. But after a while . . . He needed the supplies for the army. Just as quietly, he’d had his soldiers stop.

  Still his people drank in the sight of the army, consuming it with their empty eyes.

  “You give them hope,” General Xevi said. His two best generals flanked him. General Xevi, an older man who had counseled the emperor’s father, rode on his right. General Akkon, an even older man who had known the emperor’s grandfather, was on his left.