Vessel

by Sarah Beth Durst

  “My empire and your desert . . . We are all one land. The Great Drought affects us all.” He leaned forward. “But together, we can survive it. We are here to offer . . . cooperation. The desert people cannot survive alone.”

  “We are not alone,” Liyana said. “With our deities, we will survive it.” Raan had been so hopeful when they had neared the border. The truth must have crushed her.

  “And you would have given your body to your deity to ensure that?”

  She wondered what the magician had told him and whether the emperor believed she had escaped and wanted sanctuary. She chose a cautious answer. “I was chosen to do so.”

  “A shame,” he said.

  In that one word, she heard the condemnation of her people’s choices, their stories, and their way of life. It was worse than Raan’s condemnation. This stranger with his silk robes and jeweled fingers dared pass judgment on her people, when her people had survived the harsh desert for a thousand years. “My clan deserves to live, and I was honored to grant them that life.”

  “The empire can grant them life if they join us.”

  “How can it if it can’t feed its own people?” she countered.

  Abruptly he rose. She thought for a moment that she had gone too far and angered him. She waited for him to summon his guards, but instead he paced the breadth of the tent. At last he halted directly before her. Light from a lantern flickered over his face. “I have dreamed of an oval lake in a lush, green valley. Granite cliffs surround it, and it laps at a pebble shore. This lake holds the answers.”

  Liyana felt as though her ribs had pierced her lungs. He’d described her lake, the one she pictured when she worked magic, in perfect detail.

  Before she could formulate a response, servants entered the tent carrying an array of trays. One carried a silver platter of fluffed breads. Another held a bowl of fruit on his head. A third brought a tray of steaming spiced meats. The servants placed their bowls and platters on the mosaic table, bowed, and retreated.

  The emperor sank into his chair. She thought she saw tiredness around his eyes. He focused on the feast before them, but she suspected that he wasn’t seeing it. She wondered what thoughts were churning in his mind and how the emperor of the Crescent Empire could have dreamed of a lake she’d imagined.

  “Tell me about the Dreaming,” the emperor said, eyes on her. All trace of exhaustion vanished. He seemed intent on her response.

  “Once, the raven and the horse had a race. . . .” She told him the story of Korbyn and Sendar, and how Korbyn had bent the desert in the Dreaming in order to win. “The Dreaming is a place of pure magic.”

  He nodded as if the story had pleased him. “And the lake is made of that same magic, spilling into our world through the rift made by the star. Your magicians and your deities draw their power from that lake.”

  “I . . . I have heard that magicians imagine a lake to symbolize the source of magic.” She didn’t want to admit that she had done so herself in defiance of tradition. “But I don’t believe that it exists.” She had simply imagined it. Korbyn hadn’t even described it. Certainly not the granite cliffs or the pebble shore . . . “Stories are sometimes just stories.”

  “Nothing is ‘just’ a story,” the emperor said. He reminded her of an ember, quietly burning but with the potential inside to explode into a wildfire that would chase across the grasslands and destroy all life. “The lake is real.”

  “I don’t believe—”

  “There is a man, one of my soldiers, who has seen it. But the lake is guarded by glass sky serpents.” He pulled Jidali’s knife out of a pocket in his silk robes. “Your people know about the sky serpents. Tell me what you know. Tell me how to defeat them!”

  “I know of no one who has defeated them,” Liyana said. “And the sky serpents guard the mountains, not a lake.”

  “Tell me of the sky serpents and the mountains.”

  “Once, the sky serpents preyed on the people of the desert. Arrows could not pierce their scales. Swords could not slice their skin. The serpents attacked men, women, and children, and they left death in their wake. Seeing the destruction and fearing for their clans, the gods bargained with the sky serpents. The sky serpents would not harm any of the desert people, and in return no human would ever set foot in the mountains—”

  He leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him, his face alive with excitement. “You have never wondered what lies within those mountains? If there are peaks, there must be valleys! And if there are valleys . . . one of them could hold the lake.”

  “We call them the forbidden mountains for a reason. Break the promise with the sky serpents, and they’ll attack. That knife . . . My ancestor didn’t defeat a sky serpent. No one ever has!”

  “No one has ever directed an army such as this to the task.” The emperor spread his arms to indicate the whole encampment.

  “You can’t! You’ll be killed! And the sky serpents will turn on all of us!” There would be no defense. Her people would be slaughtered.

  “We have no choice but to try. My people are dying. We need the magic of the lake so that we can survive.” He clasped her hands. She’d expected his hands to feel as cool as gold, but his hands were warm as they enveloped hers. “I cannot allow my people to die. You of all people should understand that, vessel of the Goat Clan.”

  She stared at their hands, entwined. The crazy thing was that she did understand. She even admired him for it—after all, his plan to march into the desert mountains to find magic was not so different from her plan to march into an army encampment to find her goddess. Both were mad, and both were necessary. “There must be another way,” she said. “Pray to your gods! Ask them to join you as ours do.”

  Releasing her hands, he withdrew. “Let me tell you a story of my people. Once, there were only gods on our world, and each of them was an artist. The sculptor shaped the dirt to create the mountains, valleys, and plains. The weaver wove roots under the ground and grew the plants, trees, and flowers. The singer created the birds. The dancer created the animals. And the painter filled the world with light and shadow. When the gods finished, they looked at the world and said to one another, ‘But there is no one to enjoy this beauty.’ And so they worked together—sculptor, weaver, singer, dancer, painter—to create people to live in their world. When they finished, they were pleased. They said to one another, ‘Let us find a new world to fill,’ and so they departed, leaving us this world to enjoy.”

  He fell silent as the servants filed into the tent and filled two chalices with water that smelled like fruit. The emperor waved them away from the untouched food. Bowing, they exited.

  Liyana tried to imagine such horrible emptiness. Facing the world knowing that you were alone . . . “Your gods left you?”

  “They left us the gift of a world,” he corrected.

  “But that’s not enough,” Liyana said. “You can’t fix a drought alone.”

  “With the magic of the lake, I believe we can.”

  Liyana could only stare at the emperor, this handsome boy-king filled with such light in the glory of his impossible dream. “People will die,” she said flatly. “Yours. Mine. The clans will never allow you to violate the peace of the forbidden mountains.”

  He took her hands again. “That is why I need your help.”

  “Me?” Her voice squeaked.

  “Once we cross the desert border, we will begin to encounter the clans,” the emperor said. “Someone must explain our cause to them—prevent misunderstandings and encourage cooperation. You have met Mulaf. He is ill suited to such a task. But you, a vessel, one of the desert’s own precious jewels . . .”

  “I . . .” She pulled her hands away from his.

  “Think on it tonight,” the emperor said. “I will not force a free woman of the desert. But through your words and actions, you could save many lives.” He handed her a chalice of fruit-water. “Drink. Eat. You may answer me in the morning. We will speak of it no more now.”
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br />   She took the chalice.

  * * *

  Liyana’s dreams that night were filled with armies and sky serpents and an emperor with shining eyes who toasted her health with a gold chalice. She woke before dawn and discovered that her water pitcher had been refilled, and that a sapphire-blue robe, the same style as the emperor’s, had been left for her. She hesitated—her ceremonial dress was creased, but she did not want to lose it. On the other hand, she did not want to offend. Hoping her clan would forgive her, she dressed in the robe. The fine fabric felt like a whisper on her skin, but she felt as if she wore a nightshirt.

  She noticed a strip of gold silk that had fluttered to the floor. She retrieved it and tied it in the desert style, like a sash around her waist. She wondered if it had been the emperor who had ordered a sash to be provided or if the magician had shown her this kindness. She found herself hoping it was the emperor.

  Sitting on her thin cot, she held the sky serpent knife in her hand. Last night, between sharing stories and eating the meats and breads and rich, pungent soups, the emperor had given her back her brother’s knife.

  It would have been far easier to hate him if he hadn’t done that.

  She thought of his black eyes, so intense and so sincere. She couldn’t hate him. But she couldn’t help him either. He was chasing the moon, and he would never succeed. He’d only end up causing the deaths of his people and hers.

  Tucking the knife into her sash, Liyana rose. She didn’t know for certain that the guards would let her leave the tent. She was a “visiting dignitary,” but that could be a polite way to say “foreign prisoner.” It was time to test this freedom that Mulaf claimed she had and find Korbyn and the others. She opened the tent flap.

  “All the talk is of the desert princess who dines with the emperor,” a voice said behind her. “I knew it was you.”

  She spun around, and the flap fell shut behind her. Lounging in the shadows was the trickster god. He wore a soldier’s uniform, and he was smiling at her. “Korbyn?”

  In three strides he crossed to her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, scooped her into the air, and swung her in a half circle. “You are as infuriating, stubborn, and single-minded as a goat,” he whispered in her ear. “You were supposed to stay safe!” He set her down. As she opened her mouth to protest that comparison, he kissed her.

  Her eyes flew wide as his lips pressed against hers. His hands cradled her back, and hers wrapped around his neck. She felt as if the outside world had faded away, and the universe had shrunk to just her and Korbyn.

  And then it was over.

  He pulled away. “I . . . Liyana . . .”

  “Please, don’t,” she whispered, aware of the guards on the other side of the tent flap. She didn’t want to hear an apology or an explanation or any words at all. She turned away, unable to look at him. She still felt a tingling on her lips and the taste of his sweet breath. Abruptly, to shatter the choking silence, she said, “Pia and Raan were captured.”

  “Then we must free them,” he said. “I know where the prisoner tents are. Fennik was a prisoner for about a day . . . which probably accounts for Pia and Raan’s capture. Fennik is not skilled at deceit.” As if her change in subject had energized him, Korbyn strode past her toward the back of the tent and lifted up the base of the tarp—it had been slit with a knife, presumably his. “If anyone stops us, I’m under orders to take you to the doctor,” he said. “You feel ill and need immediate attention. If you can arrange to vomit on their shoes, so much the better. I found an abandoned medical tent, complete with uniforms. You’ll be safe there. And later we can use the uniforms to seek out the false vessels.”

  He held out his hand for her to take. His eyes were beseeching.

  She thought of how his hand had felt on her back. She had fit into his arms so perfectly. “I can’t.” She shouldn’t touch him again. She shouldn’t be near him. He belonged to Bayla, and Liyana . . . She had a different fate. “My absence will be noticed. Rescue the others first, and then come back for me.”

  “You can’t ask me to leave you here.” All trace of light cheer had been swept from his face and voice. She felt his eyes on her, and she knew he was seeing her, not the future Bayla. She wondered when that had begun, when he had started to see her for herself. She should have tried harder to stop it.

  “The emperor won’t hurt me,” Liyana said. “He needs me.” She summarized her conversations with the emperor, as well as her encounter with the magician Mulaf. “I’ll be safe, at least until I say no. And I have a chance to learn more about our deities. I am certain the magician knows where they are.”

  “Liyana . . .” He paused and then appeared to change what he had planned to say. She risked looking at him and was caught in his eyes. She felt as if her ribs squeezed her lungs. It hurt to breathe. “These people are dangerous.” He looked at her as if she was all that mattered in the world.

  “Just go, Korbyn. It would be better if you went.”

  “I will return for you,” Korbyn promised.

  He disappeared through the slit in the tarp, and she sank to her knees and put her face in her hands. She shouldn’t have danced with him. She shouldn’t have told him stories. Or laughed with him. She should never have noticed the way a smile would sneak over his face when he was delighted or the way a laugh would consume his whole body. She sucked in air and tried to calm herself. Once Bayla was here, he would forget her vessel, and everything would be as it should be.

  Forcing herself to sit still, Liyana focused on her breathing. She tried to erase all other thoughts from her mind. She had a purpose: rescue Bayla. Once she achieved that purpose, every problem she had would be solved.

  A soldier entered the tent. She was a copper-skinned woman with gold markings on the shoulders of her uniform and with intricate tattoos on her neck. “The emperor requests your presence.” She offered no other explanation.

  Without hesitation, Liyana rose to her feet and followed.

  * * *

  Liyana studied the emperor. He had asked her to wait while he completed a task. Bent over a stack of parchments, he scribbled notes on a scroll. His lips were pursed in concentration, and his forehead was furrowed as if he wore the worries of his people—which he did. We are not so different, she thought. She was startled by the thought, and she turned it over in her mind, poking at it. He’d become emperor so young. He may not have chosen his fate any more than she had chosen hers.

  “I have a little brother,” Liyana said into the silence.

  The emperor raised his head.

  “His name is Jidali, and he believes that I placed the moon in the sky just for him so that he won’t have to fear the dark. He has a laugh that shakes his entire body so that even his toes laugh with him. He thinks that bugs are the world’s best toy, and he can transform anything into a toy sword. What about you? There must be someone, a reason you are doing all of this. Who do you want to save?”

  Looking down, the emperor resumed reviewing his papers. “Every man, woman, and child in the empire are my reasons.”

  She knelt in front of his desk so that her face was even with his papers. He had to look at her. “Who do you think of when you have doubts? You must have doubts. The lake may not exist. And even if it does and you are able to reach it . . . you might not be able to end the drought. After all, our deities have access to the lake’s magic, and none of them has ended the drought. How can you have faith in your ability to succeed where gods have failed?”

  “I think of my parents,” the emperor said, his face blank. “I think of my mother and my father, who gave their lives to the empire. I can do no less than they did.”

  “How did they die?” she asked.

  He was silent, and she wished she hadn’t asked. She thought of her mother and father, of their faces as they had said they’d remain with her. . . . His hands clenched and unclenched, betraying his expressionless face. Noticing them, he stretched them flat on the parchments. When he spoke, his voice w
as as hard and lifeless as stone. “Once, in the kingdom of Gracin, there was a famine. The fields would not yield crops, and the skies would not yield rain. Children starved, and the elderly died. It was as if the land had forsaken them. And so the king, who was beloved by his people, took up a plow as if he were an ox and pulled it across field after field. He poured his blood in the furrows and commanded his people to spread his flesh across the land. From his body and blood grew plants so high they pierced the clouds. Red rain fell, then turned to clear water—and the people of Gracin were saved.”

  She watched him flex his hands. He had clenched them into fists again.

  “Gracin is in the northeast corner of our empire. One year into the Great Drought, my mother and father paid it a visit.” His voice was empty. She felt an ache inside her, hearing it, and she wanted to cover her ears, as if that could change whatever horror made his voice flatten. “There was a ritual that harks back to this myth of the King of the Fields. Wine for blood. Cakes for flesh. My father agreed to participate. But several traditionalists believed this was not enough. They killed my mother to reach my father.”

  She rose to her feet. She wanted to reach toward him, to fill that horrible emptiness, to find a way to heal . . . But she didn’t. And he wasn’t finished.

  “He could have defended himself. He chose not to. He was outnumbered, death was inevitable, and the myth required a willing sacrifice. And so, he lowered his sword.” He swept his hand out as if it were a sword, and a jar tipped over. Ink spilled onto the parchment. It stained his fingers, but he did not stop it. “But the myth failed, and the people of Gracin continued to starve with the rest of us.”

  “If it failed, why do you . . .” She trailed off. She shouldn’t ask. His parents, murdered by his people. Liyana could not imagine how it must have felt to hear that news.

  His mouth quirked, but the smile did not light up his eyes. He straightened the ink jar and wiped his fingers on a silken handkerchief. His movements were precise but jerky. “Why do I chase a myth when a myth killed my father to no purpose? Fair question.” He rose from his desk and turned his back. Hands clasped behind him, he faced the sculptures that lined his shelves. Liyana watched him, the tightness of his hands and the stiffness of his shoulders betraying him. This was a man who felt deeply and had learned to hide it. “Because he lowered his sword. When all hope was lost, he tried the impossible. And now that all hope is lost for my people, I can do no less than he.”