“And the others?” Iyana pressed.
“Their skin was pink, which is to say, it must have been pale. Like yours, but without the glow of the Faey.”
Iyana did not think the Faeykin had a glow. Given what she’d seen of the Faey themselves, they didn’t either.
“Your skin is like the light of the moon,” he continued unabated. “These men were light like the snow that dusts the Steps at the close of the Bright Days. They were larger than the others, and they wore their skins and furs in a different style. Silver-gray sashes instead of red.”
Iyana thought on it for a time. It was a curious image. The people Creyath described sounded like they belonged to entirely different groups. Perhaps they had, and had somehow come together. She wondered why.
“Captain Talmir won’t mention the Sage,” Iyana said. “He won’t mention the Red Waste.”
Creyath was nodding before she finished. “So you’ve noticed it, too.”
Iyana looked askance at him. “But the men already know, right?” she asked. “They have to.”
“The captain said as much before we left Hearth,” Creyath agreed, though his tone left room for argument. When Iyana did not put one forth, he continued. “Talmir refers to the past, and he does not give form to it.” Iyana frowned. “No matter what they tell you,” Creyath scanned those closest to them, “the men and women in this company are searching for the past, and for the promises of the future it might hold. Giving form to a thing like that invites failure. It invites disappointment.”
“You mean, if we don’t find him,” Iyana said. “They don’t believe he’s alive. Maybe they don’t want to believe.”
“Maybe,” Creyath said with a shrug. “Maybe they merely believe in the captain, and that is good enough for them. Maybe they just wanted to see the World.” He paused. “Talmir knows what’s in a name. He knows how many ways that can go.”
It wasn’t the answer she’d expected, but it made Iyana look at Captain Talmir in a new light. It seemed there were as many ways of looking at the man as there were ways of talking about him. And there were few among them who did not talk, of his exploits and of his failings. Talmir Caru had been one thing, the Bronze Star something else. The man Iyana saw leading the head of the twin columns—the man she spoke with in the mornings and in the evenings before and after making camp—he was the one warring between the two and all the images they called up.
For the first time, she pitied him for it where some might envy him the attention.
They rounded another bend and the ground fell away even more steeply. Creyath tightened his grip on the reins as calls came from the front. Soldiers ventured back to guide the wagons down, and Iyana heard what sounded like Karin calling instructions from a ledge out of sight.
The hill was all soft and shifting clay. Creyath thought it was better if they navigated on foot, so they did, leading the black charger by the bridle. Many of the others did likewise. At the bottom, the sand they had missed for most of the trek was piled thick, having been blown down from the eastern cliffs that curved like fangs over the thinning gap, making the going slower and more deliberate. The merchants grumbled as they were forced down from the cart on which they had dozed while the rest hitched the mounts to help guide the unwieldy things through the thickest mess at the bottom of the hill.
“All they brought is empty boxes,” Iyana said with a derisive laugh. Most of those had been lost when the other wagon had fallen in the gap. Lucky for the company, as their food stores were largely intact. Less so for the young enterprisers.
“What better symbol of hope than an empty box to fill with whatever we find out here?” Creyath said. He said it with a straight face, though it could have been a slight as easily as praise.
Talmir was one of the few who kept his horse, circling back with remarkable poise despite the shifting and uneven surface. He caught Iyana’s eye as he passed and did not linger, moving back towards the front with some haste. Creyath watched him go, considering.
“He seems tense,” Iyana said.
“We are in an unfamiliar land,” Creyath said.
“Is that why we haven’t used torches since we’ve been out here?”
Iyana was having difficulty navigating. Her short stature made for short strides. The desert was not as forgiving as the hard-packed Valley floor.
“We had no need for torches up above. But this place is …” he trailed off, and Iyana found herself staring into the shadows that seemed to leer from every direction.
They continued on foot for some time, stopping to pry the wagons loose on more than one occasion. All the while, things skittered among the crags, sending loose stones down to startle the horses, which snorted and even reared in places. It seemed the night had brought out what creatures the day hid, though Iyana had caught sight of little other than a wisp of tail or flutter of wings.
After a while, the sand was once more buoyed by the harder slate and clay beneath, and the going became easier. The way, however, was less obvious, with smaller trails carving out from the gap like earthen veins. Iyana placed her hand against the muscled flank of the charger as they walked, taking comfort in the animal’s steady strength. Her feet were sore, her heels chafed raw, but it took time to get her energies centered enough for healing, and Talmir seemed intent on keeping the company moving straight through to sunrise.
“You look to the west often,” Creyath remarked, looking down at her from the other side of the black charger. It seemed a silly thing to say, and Iyana guessed the Ember was trying to take her mind off her hurt now that her gait had taken on a lurching limp.
“That is where we are headed,” she said, trying to keep the annoyance from coloring her tone.
“You stare a long while,” he said, refusing to drop the thread.
“Better to look west than east.”
“Ah.”
Iyana stopped and the charger stopped with her. Creyath, oblivious, continued on before his arm was pulled back sharply as the horse tugged, refusing to leave her behind. She had some affinity for the animals. That, or they preferred to reward their lighter burdens with their loyalty.
Creyath turned as the others passed them by, some tossing glances that mixed confusion with offers to lend aid. The Second Keeper of Hearth waved them away and met Iyana’s steady stare, his eyes glowing like blown coals.
“You ask why I look to the west, Creyath Mit’Ahn,” she said, her voice almost startling her in how much it sounded like Ninyeva’s. Even Linn’s. “But now I ask you: why did you come with us? Why did you come west, and not east?”
Creyath continued to stare, unblinking. The horse craned its neck around, its long face and chestnut eyes seeming to look askance at Iyana as the rest of its fellows continued on without them.
“I think your question leans on its second part,” Creyath said. Iyana did not speak, only glared. She’d feel foolish for it later. For now, she let it do what work it would. “I think you mean to ask why I did not join Kole Reyna, Jenk Ganmeer and Misha Ve’Gah on their road to Center. I think you mean to ask why I did not join your sister.”
“I think you’re right.”
Iyana hadn’t truly realized how much the question had been gnawing until she had given voice to it, and the truth of it shocked her even as it rendered other feelings of the previous days more clear. Creyath was a mystery, to her and to most others. But he was a powerful one. The fact that such a power was out here, forging the desert paths to lands unknown to them and to a future uncertain, seemed frivolous.
She knew how it sounded. She knew it was unfair. After all, wasn’t she set on the same path?
Still, she could not help but feel that Creyath Mit’Ahn, the only Ember known to have faced a Night Lord alone and lived—even if it was a sorry perversion of the real thing—should have been with the others of his kind. They moved on Center with the intent of finding the Sage who called it his domain. Intent on confronting the King of Ember, who did not deserve the name but c
arried all the fire that came with it.
Creyath took a step toward her and she held steady.
“All roads are uncertain, Iyana,” he said. “You look at me and see a power beyond the others—”
“Some believe you’re even stronger than Garos Balsheer,” she argued. “Some even than Tu’Ren Kadeh.”
Creyath laughed, but he did not refute the claims.
“And what difference would my power make at Center?” he asked.
“It could make all the difference—”
“No.” He said it with finality, his eyes taking on a deeper hue than she’d seen before. “No. I think not.”
Iyana waited for him to continue. Something small squealed in the darkness and she shivered anew, suddenly aware of how far the others had got from them. She could see the nose of the caravan passing behind the next bend in the desert’s scar.
“Too much power begets chaos,” Creyath said. “What difference could I make in a company comprised of three Embers, a Rockbled and a woman who carries the latent power of the White Crest—the Sage our Valley counted as guardian against the World Apart? Against the Eastern Dark himself?”
He swept his hand out behind him.
“Out here, my fire can burn freely. If I need it to. If we need it to. Out here, my power is the difference.”
Spoken starkly, it was affecting coming from one whom Iyana knew as anything but the type to boast. She sighed and looked down past her yellowed trousers at her lightly-shod feet.
“They are good questions, Iyana Ve’Ran,” Creyath said. “Do not be ashamed for asking them.” He turned and tugged the horse along with him—or tried to. He let loose a small laugh as the animal pulled back once more. “I think Finn has made his allegiance clear.”
Iyana laughed and walked forward, affecting a dramatically haughty air. Finn the charger followed after, and Creyath followed him.
The sand grew cold enough underfoot that Iyana could feel it through the soles of her shoes. She stayed close to the Ember, keeping within his sheltering aura. Up ahead, the wagons and their trailing mules came into view, and Iyana breathed. She did not want to look up into the cracks and sheer cliffs, which now appeared like black, reaching fingers in the night.
They would not stop before sunrise.
The men thought it was Captain Talmir who kept them marching—no, trudging—throughout the night and into the next morning. In a manner of speaking, it was.
Talmir shouted at the stragglers, pulling on reins and even jumping down from his painted mare to help free the wagons on more than one occasion, when the deep blue night hid the soft sand slides and concealed cracks in the bedrock beneath. The soldiers showed him their respect, though Karin knew there were already the beginnings of a slow and simmering anger their nods and smiles hid. It was the sort of anger that only exhaustion and frustration could bring on, and it was his doing.
The First Runner had expected to feel better—less tense, in any event—when the sun first peeked over the eastern horizon. It warmed his cheek and set the paste of sand and sweat to sparkle in the amber light, but Karin did not feel better.
He paused atop a promontory to observe the scar in the land below and the tiny figures moving through it. It was like a trench in a sea of sand, and Karin tried to shake the thought of the desert folding back in to reclaim it and all who passed through it.
Jes and Mial had stopped trying to climb so high, and had instead taken to navigating the lower shelves closer to the caravan. It was for the better, Karin thought. The two soldiers of Hearth—one young, the other the oldest in the company—had acquitted themselves well, given the circumstances. Given the fact that Karin was no teacher. Sarise had always been more patient in all things but for battle.
He shook that thought too, and continued on, leaping across a narrow span and ignoring the sound the pebbles made as they bounced into the hollow chasms in the rock.
The night had passed them by without any undue distress. No attacks from the desert nomads and no slinking packs of beasts native to this land. The path had sunk deeper—or else the ridges had grown taller—throughout, but in the soft light of dawn Karin could see that their path was nearly at an end. He looked back to the south and east and could not see the beginning of the road they’d taken. Even the peaks of the southern Valley were mere suggestions against the faded blue.
He scanned the opposite ledge and saw nothing to betray danger, heard nothing but the coarse sound of sand sliding over slate and the steady howl of the wind through the gaps and chutes.
All seemed right, but Karin had learned long ago not to ignore his instincts. He was First Runner, and though that term might mean nothing in the wider World, he knew it was not native to the Valley core and the elders who’d settled them there. He knew it had come from this land, and he knew in his bones there were reasons for it, even if he shuddered to guess at what they were.
Talmir’s voice wafted up with the next uptick in the wind, and Karin felt a momentary regret at allowing the captain to shoulder the burden of blame that should have been his. But then, that was the way of leaders, and Karin had never pretended to be anything of the sort. He had no metal adorning his chest or poking holes into the soft cotton of his shirt, and he wanted none.
He tied his hair back in a tail and picked up speed, watching out of the corners of his eyes in a manner that made the sameness of the landscape less likely to trick him.
His boots were light and had fared well in the dryness, with none of the sucking mud or free-flowing water of the south to stymie them. His tight-fitting trousers—black and gray—absorbed the sun rather than reflected it, but Karin didn’t mind the heat. He imagined it felt something like the blood the Embers’ hearts pumped into their iron veins during a fight. He kept his torso bare, with his shirt tied around the waist. It made him easier to spot from down below and allowed his skin to drink in the energy the sun gave. He did not hide from it as so many others did.
As the morning gave way to afternoon, Karin considered going down for a drink. His body—slick with sweat just an hour before—was now dry in the cool cross-breeze coming in from the west. His lips had begun to crack and he tried to keep from licking them. His high road was taking its toll.
The gap had widened considerably. Now, it was more a miniature valley—a bowl carved from the desert’s heart. Either the ridges had sloped steadily downward, or the northwestern winds that blew the black bangs away from his eyes had filled in the section Talmir and the others crossed now.
Karin looked down to them, feeling like an eagle, and saw that all had dismounted. They had broken into pairs and small teams, helping to encourage the animals up the shifting incline. The wagons’ broad wheels—a source of complaint when they had first struck out from Hearth—were now proving a wise decision, as they parted and packed the sand enough to avoid getting mired for long.
He looked to the north and saw a monolith he had somehow missed before. It was a great boulder that seemed to grow out of the rocky base that protruded from the sand, and all around it the land was flat—at least, as flat as the frozen waves of earth would allow. And even beyond it, the ridges formed a half-circle, the lands beyond them giving way to open and even desert once more.
Untying the shirt from around his waist, he held it up as a white flag, waving it for all to see. There was a whistle he took for Mial’s, and he saw Talmir pause up at the front, bowed head tilting up toward the northeast as he shaded his eyes with one hand.
Once Karin had his attention, he retied the sash and framed his body so Talmir could see his profile. He took his hands and laid them horizontal, with just the tips of his fingers touching, then pointed toward the lone spur and signaled the flatness of the land ahead.
He couldn’t tell if the captain nodded from here, but he continued on, his pace picking up along with those who followed behind. Karin could hear voices on the wind and felt another pang at having made them push on through the gap, but there were deep shadows along
the boulder, and they still had plenty of water in the oiled drums in the wagons.
As he navigated the crumbling shelves and dusty stone, cutting a jagged path down toward the lower bowl, Karin thought of the tales he knew of this place. The tales he’d grown up on. That they all had. It was at once achingly familiar and frighteningly strange, and he knew it had yet to show him the first of its many secrets, for better or worse.
Mother Ninyeva had told of fresh lakes deep below the surface that the people of the Valley would count as oceans for their size. He doubted if she could truly remember them, but her descriptions had been detailed, and the Faey Mother had never been one to lie. More likely her parents had told her the truths the deserts held, and she had kept them close.
They would have to find a place like that within the week. The desert nomads they had seen twice in as many days seemed to keep no animals for milk, and carried skins as thin or thinner than any among the Valley caravan. They got their water from somewhere. Karin only hoped theirs wasn’t the only place.
Lost as he was in his thoughts, he nearly freed himself of them entirely when a thin outcropping that had appeared much thicker crumbled beneath him. The sheets fell slowly, drifting like leaves and landing with inaudible complaints below, and Karin paused there for a while, his leg dangling in the open air as he tensed and relaxed his muscles, checking for signs of strain.
He rose deliberately and scanned back toward the group. He sighted a pair of glimmering jewels he recognized as Iyana Ve’Ran’s eyes. She had paused at his falling and Karin held no doubts she’d sensed it in ways that had nothing to do with her sight; the more piercing belonged to her wayward sister.
Another thought to toss aside, given what it brought up.
Karin waved to Iyana to let her know he was all right and then continued his descent, picking his way more carefully among the uneven stones as he approached the desert floor.
The Midnight Dunes Page 3
