“The day Creyath Mit’Ahn grows restless is the day we’ve lingered too long,” Iyana said.
“Can’t argue with that.”
Karin followed the departing soldiers as they made their way up the spiral and Iyana followed him. It was easy to forget how dry the air was up above, the atmosphere thinning as they climbed. Looking down, Karin could almost see the vapors rising from the warm bedrock and mixing with the cooler currents from the upper vents. The sun was harsh at the surface, but the deepest parts of the desert were the warmest, and Karin was reminded of tales of the hearts beneath the sands of home.
By the time the ground leveled out, Karin had worked up a sweat. He saw that Iyana had as well, her white bangs sticking to her forehead, but those green eyes glinted with a determination he was not surprised to see, even if the soldiers of the caravan had been at first. Iyana had always been the stoutest of the children of Last Lake. She was the legacy of Mother Ninyeva, no matter what her parentage might say.
Ahead, the white light of the day framed the opening, the figures beyond it black smudges as their eyes worked to adjust to the glare. The ceiling and sloped floor, as well as the jagged and wide-cut walls, shone with a subdued brilliance like the sliding path of a jewel-encrusted snake. One of the red-sashed nomads waited by the opening to the northern tunnel where the horses were kept. He met Karin’s eyes and drew him in with the look while the other soldiers continued ahead, packing close together as they wondered how to go about approaching the nomads on the outer shelf, despite having been in their company for a span of days.
“The captain waits for you atop the shelf,” he said. His voice was lighter than his expression, which was as serious as the children below were playful.
“Will you be joining us on the hunt?” Karin asked. That actually drew a smile.
“I am not so brave,” he said. “Give me bloody teeth over hammerhorns.”
He said it lightly enough, but it sounded like foreboding. The look Iyana turned on Karin showed she felt the same.
They passed around the horses and their pool. There were only half a dozen standing in the filtered light below the opening, and Karin guessed the others—Talmir’s painted mare and Creyath’s black charger—were already on the shelf outside. Karin had gone this way before, but he was surprised to see Iyana take the lead, passing in front of him and turning up a narrow corridor that cut upward at a sharp angle so that they were climbing more than walking.
“You’ve been at the top?” Karin asked from behind.
“I’ve had trouble sleeping,” Iyana said. “I came up here in the night …”
She trailed off, and Karin knew she must be looking west, toward that same red-purple haze that lit the horizon even in the deep nights when the stars were out in full. It was a beautiful sight, but it seemed somehow strange, and Karin knew it was the direction the warriors had gone a few nights before. He also knew that an impression had led Iyana on this dogged path, which only Talmir seemed more set on blazing. Others in the Valley might wave such things away, but Karin knew not to doubt it. Whichever direction Iyana stared was the direction to be pointed in, or away from. It remained to be seen which this would be.
Another flare stung Karin’s eyes as Iyana pulled herself up out of the hole. He followed, feeling the sharp grains greet his palms as he pushed himself up, the black rock hot enough to come close to burning. It was windy, but the heat stole the pleasant kiss away from it.
“First Runner,” Creyath said, helping Karin to his feet.
“Second Keeper,” Karin said with a wink. Amber eyes regarded him above that white smile, and the two of them stood shoulder to shoulder. To the edge of the sloped shelf, Talmir Caru stood alongside Iyana, both looking to the west as if they could will its answers to come to them.
Or perhaps there was a more practical reason, today.
“Reyna,” Talmir said without turning. He sounded distracted and Karin saw Iyana shield her eyes with an upraised hand.
“What is it?” Karin asked as he and Creyath moved to join them.
The lower shelf was laid out below them. As Karin had suspected, two horses were there, standing muzzle to muzzle. Red-sashes and gray moved about, some of them carrying plants and bundles Karin could not guess the origins of while the folk of the caravan wandered between them. Ceth and two red-sashes stood on the edge, above the yellow river of sand that separated their complex from the black ridge across the way. They, too, stared west.
Karin half expected to see a great cloud of dust marring the distance—a sign of the herd they were meant to follow. Instead, he caught a spot of black, stark against the wavering outline of the dunes. As he squinted, he counted a second and then a third. They were figures, coming closer, the color of their sashes impossible to make out from the distance.
“They must be the warriors the last group replaced,” Iyana said. The men regarded her, Talmir with a frown.
“If so,” the captain said, “they have suffered losses.”
The figures drew closer, and now they could recognize two as male and one as female. Karin realized the two on the sides supported the one in the middle. How long had they been walking?
“Eight set out two nights ago,” Talmir said. “The group that one,” he jutted his chin toward Ceth on the lower shelf, “wanted to join. Three return. Hardly an even exchange.”
“All for their sacred charge,” Creyath said, and Karin had a hard time knowing if he jested.
“The Midnight Dunes,” Iyana said, her voice taking on a bit of that dream quality that made some uncomfortable.
Talmir nearly spat, and as he turned away from the edge, Karin caught a flash of just how tired he was.
“I heard he’s taking you hunting,” Talmir said, taking Iyana by the wrist in greeting before doing the same with Karin. His shake was loose and betrayed his weariness.
“The Landkist,” Karin said. “The old man sleeps below. It seems you’ve been at him enough to draw blood.”
“Good,” Talmir said with a bit of venom that made Karin wince. “I’ve spoken to him three times, now. Can’t have been more than a few hours, and we’ve been here just a short span, but already it feels like months.”
Iyana opened her mouth to speak and then closed it.
“What is it, Iyana?” Karin asked. She looked from him to Talmir as they waited, expectant. It was clear to Karin that she had the full confidence of both captain and Ember, and him as well. Perhaps it would take some time yet before she would earn her own.
“I spoke with him as well,” she said, halting at first and then more steady. “Pevah, I mean.” Talmir raised a brow at the name but did not interrupt. “There is something strange about him.” Her look recalled the unsettled energy she gave off around Sen and the other Faeykin, and Karin thought he might be wrong in assuming it was the strange healer who had her so rattled—at least, him alone.
“We are in agreement on that,” Talmir said, but Iyana was already shaking her head. “What is it?” he asked. “A concern?”
“For us, no,” Iyana said. “I don’t think so. But it might explain the duress he seems to be under. It might explain why your talks have felt so long. He has a way with time, I think.”
“Time,” Talmir said. He sounded disbelieving, but as he turned it over Karin could see the slight widening of his eyes, as if things were clicking into place.
“Sages,” Creyath muttered. He seemed uncomfortable, a rare enough thing.
Talmir seemed to feed off Creyath’s demeanor. “I thought him a coward at first,” he said. “But there is a strength to him. I’ll give him that.”
“He has given you nothing?” Karin asked.
“Plenty,” Talmir said, disgust evident. “Stories of the past. Stories of us, or who we were. Which is to say, nothing.” He shook his head. “What should keep him here when so much is happening in the wider World?”
“What is great to us may not be to him,” Creyath said. It was the wrong thing to say, but th
e Ember had ever spoken his mind, when he chose to speak.
“The end of the World, Mit’Ahn?” Talmir said, whirling. “That’s big enough for any.”
Their exchange went from verbal to something else, the amber eyes of the Second Keeper steady under the captain’s ire.
“Talmir,” Karin said, making his concern evident. “Perhaps you should rest. There will be a feast tonight—”
“The Sharing, yes,” he said, too sharply. He sighed, seeming to deflate as he stepped back from Creyath and placed a hand on Karin’s shoulder, squeezing with a bit of his usual firmness. “I am sorry, Karin. And to you as well, Iyana.” He paused and looked back toward the west at the distant figures growing closer. “Perhaps you are right. We are guests, after all, and I fear I have acted in a manner unbecoming.” He withdrew his hand and almost looked to waver a bit. Karin saw Creyath take half a step forward, as if he feared the captain might fall and dash his head upon the rock.
“Retire,” Karin said, injecting warmth into his tone. “Rest. Whatever answers are in these deserts, I don’t think they’re found by pulling or prying. Besides, some meat—and not of the dried and salted variety—might do you well.”
Talmir smiled a tired smile. “You’re as wise as your son is rash,” he said, and Karin had to laugh. Iyana did as well, and Creyath smiled, likely remembering his own run-in with Kole. “It’s a shame you aren’t as powerful, else we wouldn’t have the need to seek out gods from the past.”
“Not even a near thing,” Karin said with a shake.
Talmir exhaled and cast a last look toward the rolling dunes before turning for the stair. He clapped Karin on the shoulder as he passed. “Take my mare,” he said. “And take that Ember as well. He could use something to keep his blood up.”
“Always up, Captain,” Creyath said, but Talmir ignored him.
“And do not misplace my best Landkist,” Talmir said, and Iyana smiled as Creyath crossed his arms.
The captain withdrew. Karin, Creyath and Iyana exchanged concerned glances.
“Rest will do him well,” Creyath said. He sounded hopeful.
“Answers will do him better,” Karin said. “Perhaps the old man doesn’t trust us near as much as he seems to.”
“Maybe.” Iyana said it as if she knew it wasn’t the case. “Or maybe he’s afraid of something.”
“What might the Sage of the Red Waste fear?” Creyath asked. “Aside from one of his fellows.”
“The truth,” Iyana said. “And whatever it calls up.” She looked to the west, and Karin thought the blue in the sky looked different that way—murky and still. Karin and Creyath exchanged glances as Iyana came back to herself.
“Have you tried your Sight?” Karin asked, his memory jogged as her eyes took on that fairy glow. She looked at him quizzically. “Like you did with Linn at the peaks. Have you tried it here? Have you tried to find them in the east? At Center?”
Her concern was evident and Karin thought he might’ve called up something uninvited and unwanted, like a scar. In truth, he tried not to think of Kole and the others often. He was First Runner. He kept his eyes in front and his heels in back. Still, it was difficult not knowing, and Iyana was the only one who might know more than nothing.
“It is beyond me.” Iyana said it like a sigh, like some grave admission. She looked up at Karin, sheepish and ashamed. “I have not tried, but it was different in the Valley.” Karin tried to hold up a hand to stay her, but the thoughts tumbled out regardless. “For starters, it was closer. I know the Valley. Not all of it, but I know its feel. I know how the Between feels there. In all honesty, I thought it was there, in a way. I only learned very recently that its everywhere, even out here.” She almost shuddered. “But there’s something off about it, here. About the sight Ninyeva had. I wonder if she could have used it in a land like this. So full of death. So absent lights and tethers. In a way, I think the very abundance of the Valley fuels the Faey and those like me named their kin. I—”
“Iyana,” Karin said, stepping forward. He laid a hand on her shoulder and she stopped. He did not say any more, but it seemed to appease her. Creyath looked away.
“The warriors return,” the Ember said. “We should be going.”
“Do you wager this hunt is a distraction?” Karin asked. Creyath seemed to consider it while Iyana looked down at the collection of nomads and Valleyfolk as the former moved to greet the weary warriors and the latter gathered around them.
“I’m sure of it,” she said, meeting Karin’s eyes as she passed, heading toward the stair. “Question is, who is it a distraction for? Us, or Ceth?”
“Fair point,” Karin said under his breath. He tossed a last look at the group below and followed the Ember and Faeykin back down into the shelf, delighting in the cool kiss of the shade on his sweat-soaked skin.
The wind had changed, picking up even as they made the short transition from upper shelf to lower. Creyath greeted the horses as Karin and Iyana moved toward the lip where the black rock met the sand. Ceth and a clutch of red- and gray-sashes conversed with their road-weary fellows. The man who could not walk under his own power was still conscious, but his light face and silver-gray hair was crusted with blood and sand. Jes moved forward to take him under one arm as one of the nomads did the other, and together they dragged him up onto the lip and toward the cave mouth at their back. Mial shifted closer, making no pretense about his desire to eavesdrop as Ceth spoke with the man and woman. Though in better shape than their companion, they were not unmarred.
“Were they attacked on the road?” Iyana asked, saying what the lot of them were thinking. Ceth ignored her and spoke louder, while the woman he talked with grew increasingly irritated. Their voices rose, and it took some time before Karin noticed they were speaking another tongue, one that flowed from Ceth’s mouth like water or milk even as it came out jagged and used from the darker woman he accosted.
Soon enough, the other man stepped forward and Ceth quieted for a moment. The man’s curved blade swung precariously from a torn loop on his belt, the tattered remnants of its leather sheath spinning in the wind like it was caught in a spider’s web. He did not speak the strange tongue Karin guessed to be northern, either for lack of ability or in spite of Ceth, who had clearly agitated him.
“We kept to the charge,” he said, speaking it like it was a challenge. It had the effect of silencing Ceth and turning the eyes of his fellows in to the exchange—even those who had ignored it before.
“How many?” Ceth asked, seeming to choose his words more carefully now. “And from which direction?”
“A score. More,” the man said as the smaller woman watched him, bloodshot eyes intense. She nodded sharply. “From the north, and from the west.”
“There is no game in the west to support such numbers,” Ceth said. “It must have been north.”
Karin had to frown. It did not seem there was enough game to support the nomads who hosted them here. Then again, things did grow in the deeper caverns. Fungi and fruit he had yet to see. And though they were difficult to catch, there were birds aplenty, and the ever-present red shadows of the desert foxes seemed to suggest hares and the like.
“How many have you lost?” Iyana asked, and now the red-sashed woman took a step toward her that seemed menacing. Iyana stood her ground and something in the other woman’s face shifted. She was younger than Karin had thought, and she only seemed to realize now how many strangers stood among her people, similar as they might appear.
“Three,” she said. She looked at Ceth, accusation impossible to mistake. The Landkist looked as if he might take a step back, so evident was the guilt.
“He wanted to go,” Iyana said, her voice projecting its own challenge. “Pevah stopped him.”
Karin saw Mial shoot him a warning look and couldn’t blame him. Ket stepped off the lip of the ledge and plopped down into the sand behind Ceth as the soldiers in the caravan watched him, breathless. Karin knew without knowing that the strange North
man could kill them all, if he wanted. He knew it until he felt the familiar heat at his back that betrayed Creyath’s presence.
“Pevah,” the woman spat. She seemed to sway a bit, unsteady, and Ceth reached out a hand to her. She snatched her wrist away and stepped up onto the ledge, allowing some of her less prying fellows to guide her toward the cave mouth. Karin continued to observe the tense exchange between Ceth and the remaining warrior, red sash and gray blowing in the wind.
Ceth looked about to speak, but his eyes darted toward Iyana as she moved in closer. Then the shadow passed from his face and he stepped toward the tall, short-haired man who could have been Karin’s cousin, and embraced him, the other man’s eyes widening before they started to water.
“Brother,” Karin heard Ceth say. He thought the other man might weep, but he only closed his eyes and sighed, and Karin knew the sound well. They all did, even the Faeykin who kept their distance from the press. All on that shelf and the sand directly before it knew what it was to lose, and to be powerless to stop it.
The folk of Valley and desert stepped back to give the pair space, and Karin lowered his eyes as the red-sash passed him by, heading toward the caverns and the children who waited below. He wondered how many of them had parents who would not return from the western dunes. He wondered if that was why few seemed to stay by the same adults. It reminded him of the way the Emberfolk of the scattered villages raised their young in a communal manner rather than familial. There were advantages, Karin thought. He could not say if it was the right choice or not.
“I’ll fetch my horse,” Mial said. “How many do we need for the hunt?”
“No,” Karin said. “Just us.” The old scout-turned-Runner glanced at Iyana with a masked expression she was too busy staring at Ceth to see. “We have an Ember, after all.” Karin smiled and Mial shrugged and moved off.
Ceth appraised Karin, Creyath and Iyana as the other soldiers of the caravan went back to their tasks, which is to say, back to the task of discovering what they might be.
The Midnight Dunes (The Landkist Saga Book 3) Page 17
