Memories of Ash (The Sunbolt Chronicles Book 2)

by Intisar Khanani

  Huda laughs and waves to her sister.

  “Sumeyya is still a little young,” she explains.

  “You brought a guest!” Sumeyya hollers as she nears us.

  “Yes, my sister. Shall we welcome her to our camp?”

  “Oh!” Sumeyya plows to a stop, face tilted up to stare at me: large brown eyes, a small nose, thin lips currently opened in surprise. “Please! Be welcome! Ahlan wa sahlan!”

  “I thank you,” I say, and I can’t help the smile spreading across my face. She must be no more than ten years old, possibly younger. She nearly jigs with excitement, biting her lip and looking toward Huda imploringly.

  Huda gives a faint shake of her head. “Go ahead and wake the fire for us, and we will eat together.”

  Sumeyya dashes off, and Huda urges the camel forward again. Their campsite consists of a small tent constructed of short poles and black cloth, the hard packed dirt beneath covered by a woven blanket. A small campfire set within a rectangle of stones burns before the tent. Sumeyya squats before it, setting a pot of milk against the stones to warm.

  The camel lowers itself to the ground in the same unnerving way as it stood, a steeply tilting rocking back and forth I fear will send me tumbling down. Only when I stop clinging to her does Huda hop down and turn to help me dismount.

  By the time I’m safely off the creature, Sumeyya has set out a platter heaped with separate mounds of goat cheese and dates, accompanied by a thick, hearty bread.

  I take a seat on the blanket beside the fire and Sumeyya immediately offers me a pitcher of water. “For your hands,” she says, and I hold my hands out over the side of the blanket while she wets them, then scrub them as best as I can. She pours a little more water to rinse them off, and then does the same for her sister.

  As we begin our meal, Sumeyya throws a pleading glance toward her elder sister. But neither sister asks any questions. Of course they won’t — this is the due of a traveler. I clear my throat, and Huda looks up at me. As my host, she won’t bring up my departure for fear of implying she wants me to leave. So it’s my role to ask. “Can you tell me how long to walk to Fidanya from here?”

  I’m fairly certain I accidentally used the male form of “you” in addressing her, but neither she nor Sumeyya laugh. “Two days’ ride,” Huda says. “It will be faster for you by camel than walking.”

  Is that an offer? My newly remembered language skills are far too uncertain to rely on for nuanced understandings.

  Huda tilts her head, clarifies. “The desert is vast. You will need a guide. I will take you there.”

  “Your sister needs you?” I ask.

  Sumeyya grins. “Oh, I have traveled alone with the herd before. There is no worry.”

  I turn my eyes toward the valley, consider the rise and fall of a land I know nothing about. I could easily lose my way, run out of water. This is not a land that knows forgiveness. Perhaps that is why its people show such kindness. But in Sumeyya’s bright smile and open face I catch a memory of another girl, one whose innocence I saw broken: Alia Degath, her small form lying limp and drained in a cage.

  “There are … dangers here?”

  Huda shakes her head. “We are well within our lands. Even if raiders were so cunning as to find the herd, they would not harm my sister regardless.”

  Sumeyya nods, and now I see a part of her that her earlier excitement obscured: she is serious, her eyes shrewd, her voice measured. “There is nothing else to fear in these lands that I have not already faced before.”

  That’s somewhat comforting, but I can’t push away the weight of my memories. What if something does happen? Could I forgive myself then?

  “It is our honor,” Huda says with a faint tone of reproof.

  It seems one doesn’t argue with the honor of a desert dweller. I bite my lip, embarrassed by the rush of relief flooding through my breast. I need her help, and I know it as well as she does.

  “It is I who am honored,” I attempt to say. I must get it close to right, for her demeanor relaxes and she leans back on her hand, her gaze moving to meet her sister’s before returning to me.

  “If you are willing, I suggest we rest through what remains of the day. The moon is full and we can travel through the night easily.”

  “Yes,” I say, nodding. “I go to a…” I trail off, decide better of speaking of a friend in need. “Important,” I say instead, grateful that my language skills make this incoherent statement perfectly acceptable, if not understandable.

  “Then we will travel by the fastest route,” Huda says.

  “Which way?” Sumeyya asks.

  “West around the howling caves,” Huda tells her sister. “From there it is only one day’s ride to our destination.”

  Sumeyya answers with a note of trepidation, “If you travel further north, the crossing will be shorter.”

  “But the path overall is longer,” Huda argues. “And we will still have to cross.”

  “There is … danger?” I ask, wishing I had more words at my disposal.

  Huda turns to me, and while her expression is somber, her eyes glimmer with some deeper emotion — amusement perhaps, or excitement? “We must pass through another tribe’s lands.”

  “They are friends?” I ask hopefully.

  “No.” Sumeyya’s emphatic response removes all doubt.

  “Our enemies have honor,” Huda says, tilting her face to look out over the far hills.

  I nod, expecting her to go on, but she doesn’t. Instead, Sumeyya chortles with understanding and says, “I hope while you are gone I have the honor of meeting another traveler.”

  “So you may,” Huda returns, although she clearly hopes nothing of the sort.

  After our meal is done, Huda leads me into the tent, furnishing me with a cushion and a light blanket. I stretch out to rest in the deep shadow thrown by the black cloth overhead, and find that I need the blanket. The tent is surprisingly cool, and I am more tired than I realized. I listen to the faint tap of plates and soft rustle of cloth as the sisters clean up the remains of our meal.

  “Did you speak with the phoenix, then?” Sumeyya asks quietly. I open my eyes and listen carefully. The tent walls don’t do much to obscure her voice. “I saw him fly down to you, and then you left,” she continues. “I knew you’d be back, but I’ve been waiting on thorns to hear about it!”

  Huda laughs gently. “I spoke with him,” she affirms. “What will our milk-brother think of that?”

  Sumeyya almost squeaks with excitement. “Kareem is going to weep. Imagine! The first time in weeks he isn’t with us, and we not only see the phoenix, but he actually spoke to you! What did he say?”

  “Just that he’d brought me a traveler.”

  “The words!” Sumeyya huffs. “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘I bring you a traveler, O Daughter of the Desert.’”

  Sumeyya lets out her breath in a sigh of such delight I want to laugh into my pillow.

  “To be called a daughter of the desert by the phoenix himself,” Sumeyya murmurs, as if this were the greatest possible achievement.

  “Well, I’m not sure what else he might have called me,” Huda observes. “Other than, ‘You with the camel!’”

  Sumeyya gurgles with laughter. “And then? You left at once!”

  “I told him that—”

  “The words!” Sumeyya reminds her sister. “The exact words!”

  Huda chuckles. “I said, ‘It is my honor to aid a traveler. Where will I find her?’”

  I raise my eyes to the tent roof. Even simple nouns have genders in the desert tongue. I must have inadvertently changed the gender of half the things I’ve mentioned so far.

  “And?” Sumeyya presses.

  “He said, ‘She waits at the bridge to the Burnt Lands. I would that you went to her at once.’”

  “So you did!” Sumeyya crows softly, clearly approving of this explanation.

  “So I did.”

  “Oh, I wish I could go with yo
u now.”

  “I doubt our guest cares to travel as slowly as a herd of goats,” Huda observes.

  Sumeyya accepts this without argument. Laughing, she says only, “Kareem will weep.”

  I wake to the distant bleating of goats. The little tent lies empty, the changed placement of cushions and blankets against the other side the only indication that Huda and Sumeyya have come and gone again. I check my boot, glad to find the phoenix’s feather still safely plastered to the inside, even though I don’t want it, want nothing more to do with the Burnt Lands. I am not the mage to unravel the spells that keep the Burnt Lands locked in a void of death and violence. If I were to take on an enemy, it would be Blackflame. Not his nameless predecessors that made such a cursed land.

  Admittedly, they probably weren’t his direct predecessors, except in political ambition. The Great Burning was led by mages hailing from the Eleven Kingdoms, not the Northlands. Even so, this land, these spells — I do not want to risk my life dismantling them. Perhaps I can find a way to avoid returning until … until I can’t avoid it anymore. I sigh. The trouble with being honor bound is you’re honor bound. At least I can plan my return, time it, ensure Stormwind is well first, then bring the charms and wards with me that might make the difference between survival and a violent death.

  All things to worry about after I know how Stormwind is.

  Rising, I duck through the tent’s low opening.

  Outside, Huda and Sumeyya have packed up all but the essentials of the camp. Huda greets me with a smile, pouring out a cup of warmed goat’s milk. The milk is fresh, seasoned and sweetened slightly, though I can’t tell what herb was used, or even what sweetener. Honey, perhaps. No doubt desert honey has a different flavor from high mountain honey.

  Sumeyya picks up a piece of bread from the plate before us and dunks it in her own cup of milk. Ah. That would explain why there was nothing to eat with the bread. I follow her example, and find the combination delicious.

  As I eat, Huda and Sumeyya chat briefly about the routes we will use — which paths Sumeyya will take the herd along, and a few more details of how Huda and I will make our way.

  “If you travel two days north, you should be able to meet up with Ruba and her sisters. You could continue with them until I return,” Huda suggests to her sister.

  Sumeyya agrees, her eyes alight at the prospect.

  We finish our meal quickly. Barely twenty minutes later, the girls have packed up the last of their supplies, taking down their tent and making ready for their departure with an ease and efficiency that speaks to a lifetime of nomadic travel. Huda gestures for me to join her at her camel, its saddlebags bulging with provisions. Sumeyya clasps my arms, standing on her toes to kiss my cheeks, and bids me safe travels and peace. I return her farewell, and clamber up on the camel, Huda helping me situate myself before she makes her own farewells.

  “I want to know everything,” Sumeyya tells her sister as they hug.

  Huda laughs. “And I will remember it all for you. Keep us in your prayers, little sister.”

  “And me in yours,” returns Sumeyya.

  Huda clicks her tongue at her camel and it rocks its way to its feet. We start across the valley, riding toward the setting sun. And even though I cannot recall praying very often, I send up a prayer for these two sisters and the quiet of their lives.

  We travel steadily through the day and into the darkening night, following no discernible path. Huda guides the camel with perfect confidence as the full moon lights the land, silvering the landscape. The desert is starkly beautiful in a way I did not expect: hills covered with flows of black rock leading down to wide valleys, dunes rising here and there, a scattering of bushes and hardy, wind-twisted trees.

  We stop once to stretch our legs, remaining on the camel otherwise. The creature is built for endurance, from its thick hide to its heavy-lidded eyes to its long, loping gait. Huda takes a string of prayer beads from her pocket, clicking through them slowly. I listen to the faint, comforting snick of stone upon stone, and give myself up to the gentle sway of the camel, the cool brush of the desert wind against my face.

  Some part of this desert was my father’s homeland. Did he grow up here, crossing this land of sand and rock and thorns as Huda has? Or did he hail from a different tribe, far across the sands? For all I know, the girl riding before me could be my cousin.

  Until a few days ago, my father had barely existed to me. There was nothing to consider of him except this: I knew he loved me, and that he was dead. But with Stonefall’s visit came the startling possibility that through my father I might have family … that the love he bore me might be rekindled in the people he left behind, uncles and aunts and cousins of whom I know nothing. I don’t want to leave this land without at least asking. I may not have given myself permission to seek them out — Stormwind may need me too urgently for that — but I can still ask.

  “You have many mages here?” As the words leave my mouth, I realize how abrupt the question sounds.

  Huda shakes her head. “No. In our tribe, we have not had a mage come back to us since Sheikha Noora. She returned to God three summers ago.”

  “Come back?” I echo, since it is easier than pulling together my own words.

  “When we find a Promise among our children, we keep them with us until the age of seven. Then, when they leave, they are old enough to understand that they must return to their family and tribe. Mages born in the desert always come back to the desert. It is our way.”

  Except my father had not. “What if one does not come back?”

  Huda considers this. “There was a mage from the lands we will pass through who did not return. Or rather, he came back to say that he could not remain in the desert.” Huda shakes her head, but I cannot tell if it is disgust or merely disapproval. “He loved a— a woman not of the desert. And he wished for power among the mages. So he left. His brother was also a mage, and he married as he was meant to, and lives with his tribe now.”

  I cross my arms over my chest, holding myself. There cannot be that many desert mages who married across cultures and moved up the ranks of mages. “What happened to the one who left?”

  “He died. We didn’t hear much of that. His family did not mourn him. He was already dead to them.”

  “Oh,” I manage. She twists to glance at me, and I quickly drop my hands to my thighs. “What happened to his wife? Children?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know. They’re our enemies, after all. We hear what the wind brings us, the stories shared in markets. Once we knew that they would have one less mage amongst them, we did not ask further.”

  “Yes,” I agree. It makes sense, of course. But the faint hope I nursed, the possibility of a family that would greet me with pleasure, slips into darkness. Even if my father isn’t the same mage Huda speaks of, he too didn’t return to the desert or marry a desert dweller. He’ll be dead to his family as well. There’s no one here for me.

  Huda looks at me a moment longer, as if she holds a question on the tip of her tongue. Then she turns back to watch the camel slowly pick its way through a flow of rocks. Where they are tall enough to throw shadows, it’s almost impossible to see the ground clearly.

  It’s odd Huda hasn’t used a glowstone yet. Or is it? Her tribe doesn’t have a mage. Charms must be precious, conserved to last as long as possible.

  “Here.” I offer my glowstone to Huda. It brightens with light, a gentle star cocooned in my hand. She exclaims with delight, taking it and quickly fixing it into a leather strap that hangs by her knee. It is the work of a moment to pass the strap around the camel’s neck and fasten it to the other side of the saddle, so the stone shines from the base of the camel’s neck. It casts enough light to ease our passage without creating shadows that might startle the creature.

  “Thank you,” she says as she sits back, balanced effortlessly on her knees.

  “You do not have?” I ask hesitantly. Surely, they should be able to trade easily for so
simple a charm.

  “Ours are old. We keep them for when we must use them. They are not half as bright as this! In three months’ time when we travel north to Wadi Qadeema, we will take them to the mage there to strengthen.”

  At least I’ve found one thing I can give her to repay some part of her kindness.

  We make camp near dawn. The hills have grown steadily higher, the stone they are built upon jutting out at angles here and there, and the valleys slightly more hospitable to growing things — at least as far as I can tell in the moonlight. As we come around the final hill to our destination, a faint, eerie whistling drifts across the hilltops toward us.

  I tense, shifting as I try to make out its direction.

  “The howling caves,” Huda tells me. “It’s just the wind. Nothing to fear.”

  Her explanation doesn’t stop the hair at the back of my neck from prickling. I’ve seen enough strange things in the last day that such a sound is hardly comforting.

  Thankfully, Huda leads us in a different direction from the whistling cries to what is clearly a well-established campsite, with a wide, flat area cleared of rocks and stones, two fire pits, and a well off to the side. The well is small but deep, surrounded by a low wall and covered over by a flat, circular stone. I help Huda push it aside and wait as she lowers her leather bucket down, down, down until it grows heavy in her hand and she lifts it out again. We refill the leather water bags, then offer a drink to the camel, who downs three bucketfuls before moving away.

  Huda spreads a blanket on the ground for us and, after a quick meal of bread and dates, we lie down to rest. I glance at her, the keening of the wind sounding faintly in my ears. She raises her eyebrows in question. I offer her a faint smile and roll on my side, facing away.

  She has no wards. Of course she doesn’t. If magic is so hard to come by as to make glowstones a treasured charm, wards would only be used in the most serious need, and young girls who are merely goatherds may not have access to them at all.