by Erin Beaty
“Or you could just borrow Harold and Elliot’s,” said Henry.
“Harold’s using it to make his own head scarf.”
Henry rolled his eyes at Sage. “Have you ever tried to argue with a prince?”
“Only every afternoon,” she replied. She would’ve offered her own mending kit, but if the two squires were down to only one needle between them, it didn’t bode well for getting hers back. “Do you know where you’re going?”
“No one ever thinks to tell the squires, but they gave everyone an extra canteen and one of these.” Henry held up a water sling, which was basically a large waterskin that was carried across the back.
Water was plentiful in this area, so the need to carry extra water could only mean one thing: they were going into the desert.
Into Casmun.
36
SNEAKING INTO THE company was easier than Sage had expected. Henry had been agreeable to letting her go in his place once he realized it meant he could spend several days skipping duties and catching up on sleep. Rather than her usual belted tunic and hose, Sage wore a pair of torn, discarded trousers that had just enough serviceable fabric left to tailor into something that fit her small frame. The new breeches coupled with the loose squire’s tunic hid her shape rather well. She worried about standing out with the scarf wrapped around her head, but the night was cold and windy, and half the men assembled wore theirs already.
The trickiest moment came before they left. Sage was standing in her tent, loading Henry’s borrowed pack, when Alex came to see her. Fortunately, he didn’t just walk in like he had that first night.
“Sage?” he’d called from just outside the tent flap. “Are you dressed?”
“Yes,” she said without thinking, because she was dressed, then she’d nearly shouted, “No, wait! Don’t come in!”
The shadow of his hand dropped. “I just wanted to say good-bye.”
Sage crept to the entrance. “Where are you going?”
“Just on a training patrol.” He sounded tense and distracted. “It will be a longer one.”
He’d never bothered to say good-bye before. She didn’t know how to respond. “Be safe,” she finally said.
His fingers pressed against the canvas. “I love you,” he said quietly.
Sage reached out to touch the same spot, but he moved his hand. “I love you, too.” She never knew if he heard her.
They forded the river and headed downstream about a mile before Alex made everyone pause and drink from their canteens before refilling them. Then he led them south, away from the water, for another couple miles until they came to where the trees ended and the sands began. By the light of the half-moon, the dunes looked black and white, the edges of the shadows sharp and distinct.
Alex turned to face the men behind him. Sage ducked behind a soldier, not wanting to chance his noticing her. “Everyone will remain vigilant and alert,” he said. “If you see any sign of people, report it immediately. The area is uninhabited, but always be prepared to defend yourselves.” He nodded to Lieutenant Gramwell beside him, pulled his head scarf up to protect against the sand, and turned and walked into the desert without another word.
No one spoke for the first few hours, just focused on walking in the shifting sands. By sunrise, Sage could barely tell any of the Norsari apart, they were so coated in dust and grit. Alex led them south—or at least she thought it was south—for an indeterminate distance, then turned southeast. She wondered if Alex actually knew where he was going—she certainly couldn’t see any landmarks. The squires were generally ignored, except when the group stopped to rest, and they passed out provisions and refilled canteens from the “mules,” large bags of water carried by some of the bigger men. By midafternoon, when they stopped to pitch tents and rest through the hottest hours of the day, Sage was feeling fairly confident she’d be able to keep up this ruse, especially if everyone always kept their heads wrapped.
Complications arose on the first night.
They’d stopped again at sunset, to rest and wait for the moon to rise so they could see where they were going. She was bedding down in the small tent she shared with Harold, the other squire, when she caught a glimpse of red-gold hair on the head next to hers. Knowing exactly who she’d find, Sage tore the scarf away from his head. “Highness!” she hissed. “What in the Spirit’s name are you doing here?”
“Like you can talk.” The prince wore a sleepy grin as he rolled onto his back. “Let’s just say I was inspired by my admirable tutor.”
“You can’t be here!” she whispered furiously. “Do you have any idea what Captain Quinn will do when he finds out?”
“You didn’t seem worried about the consequences.”
“That’s because I have no intention of getting caught.” Sage punched him on the shoulder, hard.
“Ow! Neither do I.” Nicholas rubbed the spot she’d hit. “Besides, what can he do? Confine us both to the camp? How is that any different from the last six weeks?”
“He can do a lot more than that.”
“Then don’t get caught.” Nicholas shrugged and rolled to his side again, facing away from her.
If only it were that easy. Sage smacked his head for good measure and threw his scarf back at him. “You’d better wear this even in your dreams.”
37
ALEX HAD TWO objectives in the desert, besides not dying.
The first was to find Casmuni and ascertain what they were doing. Estimates from last year’s intrusion were approximately one hundred, so he brought forty men—handpicked from each platoon—plus Lieutenant Gramwell and two squires, figuring they could handle two-to-one odds fairly well. If the Casmuni numbered significantly more, it was better if none of the Demorans survived.
In the event the Norsari encountered no one, Alex’s backup plan was to have the first few miles into the desert charted out when they returned. Then at least he’d be able to present Colonel Traysden with something tangible.
The desert had disturbingly little to map, however. There were no rock formations or permanent hills among the rolling dunes. If Alex hadn’t had years of practice orienting himself by the sun and stars, the Norsari would’ve been completely lost by the first night. On the second morning, Alex led the group west, intending to have completed a wide triangle when he returned. He was doubly glad he’d chosen to travel on foot. Horses would’ve needed to drink the extra water they could’ve carried, and the deep sands might have caused them injury.
There were no signs of Casmuni.
The waning crescent moon rose later every night, giving them less light each time. He’d told Casseck to expect his return after the new moon, but unless the Norsari found water soon, they’d have to head back early. Alex tried to tell himself the mission wasn’t a complete loss. Just the experience of traversing the sand and learning how easy it was to become disoriented and dehydrated was valuable. None of the men along would ever underestimate the desert.
The wind picked up on the third morning, and visibility was so bad Alex ordered everyone to stay put until the hottest part of the day was over, a move that also conserved water. Weeks of sleepless nights were taking their toll on him, too, but the heat made sleeping damn near impossible. He only managed an hour or two before nightmares put an end to the attempt. Instead he lay in his sweltering tent, thinking. When they broke camp, he would lead the Norsari northeast. They’d be back at the river in two days with nothing to show for it.
He needed to see her.
Casseck would make Sage’s protection a priority, Alex had no doubt of that. Even so, her presence at the camp always tugged at him like a rope under strain, trying to drag him back to make sure she was all right. Now he wondered if he’d unconsciously played it safe in the last few weeks, not wanting to risk having to make the choice he always faced in his dreams. If so, he deserved his failure.
He should’ve told her, should’ve tried to explain, but doing so admitted he was unfit for duty. As long as he never said it o
ut loud, he could hold on to the hope that it wasn’t true.
Did it even matter anymore? He was about to lose his command.
There was so much sand in the air that the time of day was impossible to tell. Around sunset, the Norsari headed back toward the Kaz River, marching in the ever-deepening gloom. Every hundred yards or so Alex stopped to orient himself by the Northern Wheel. Sometimes it took a full minute to find the right stars, the dust was so thick.
Alex gave up and ordered the men to stop again and set up camp sometime around midnight. He was standing on the windward side, trying to decide if he wanted more guards on the perimeter, when he heard it: a voice carried on the wind, speaking a language he didn’t recognize.
He grabbed Lieutenant Gramwell. “Do you hear that?”
Gram listened for a few seconds, then nodded. “Doesn’t sound like Demoran. Two voices at least.”
“Keep setting up, but post more sentries. I’m taking a squad to investigate.”
“Do you want a big tent up?” The two-man tents they carried were designed to be combined into larger ones. The unspoken question was whether any “guests” Alex returned with would be held there.
Alex nodded. “Make one out of four.” With so many sentries posted, there would be less need for shelter among the men.
Gramwell saluted smartly but added, “Don’t get lost.”
Alex returned the salute. Fear of getting lost was first in his mind, too; with the wind, tracks in the sand disappeared in a matter of minutes. He selected and briefed eight men, then signaled for them to maintain silence, though the wind appeared to be in their favor for carrying sound. Alex counted his paces, keeping one eye on the wheel to the north.
After about a quarter hour, the voices stopped for a few minutes, but then were heard again, much louder this time, definitely not speaking Demoran. Alex checked his weapons’ readiness and headed toward the sound.
A voice suddenly called out. Alex stopped and looked around, catching the faint flicker of a light about thirty yards away.
“Uncover the lamp,” he whispered to the man next to him, who promptly lifted the shutter on the lantern he carried. “Wave it around.”
At the signal, two shapes came running toward them, at least as much as men could run in the wind and sand. Alex kept his hand on his sword but didn’t draw it.
“Wohlen Sperta!” the man without a lantern said, reaching out to clasp arms with one of the Norsari. Too late, he and his companion realized they were not among friends.
Nine against two wasn’t a fair fight, but Alex didn’t care.
* * *
The crescent moon was barely visible through the haze when Alex returned.
“Set a level-five perimeter,” he told Gramwell. It meant fewer men to guard the captives, but the pair had obviously been searching for lost companions. They’d come running toward the Demorans without hesitation, so it was safe to assume at least ten more Casmuni were still out there.
The combined tent Gram had set up was large enough to keep a clear space around the prisoners. Alex waited for the men to be tied up. He had no way of communicating with them, and both Casmuni looked as exhausted as he felt. Alex guessed they’d been wandering alone for a long time. Once the men were secure to his satisfaction, he left the tent.
Both squires were standing outside, watching from a safe distance. The pair had avoided him for the past few days, which wasn’t unusual under normal circumstances. All the boys were a little afraid of him, even the prince, but curiosity had apparently gotten the better of their fear this time. He’d had just as much awe for captains when he was their age—officers always seemed so sure of themselves. Now he knew commanders were stumbling through their duties as much as any squire, trying not to fail or get somebody killed. Alex suddenly envied the boys. Their lives and duties were so much simpler.
The prisoners would be impossible to hide from them. Alex figured it was better to let the boys see more, rather than let their imagination add details where they had none. He also knew what it was like to be in their boots, desperate to see one of their enemies for the first time—under safe conditions.
Alex smiled a little. “Get these men some water and camp biscuits,” he called, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. For a few seconds, he considered supervising the encounter, but decided against it. The squires were old enough to handle themselves, and they needed the confidence boost of their captain’s trust.
Also, he needed a nap.
38
SAGE ENTERED THE tent with quaking knees. Nicholas slipped in behind her, and the soldier on guard left to wait outside. Even the large tent couldn’t contain the five of them comfortably. Undoubtedly the man thought the squires were fine alone with two restrained and exhausted men.
The Casmuni sat back-to-back, resting bound wrists on their legs, which were stretched out with ankles also bound. Judging from the creases in their short, robelike shirts, they’d been wearing belts, but Alex must have taken them. Sage estimated the age of the man facing her to be about thirty. A long white scar ran across the deeply tanned skin of his forehead, and black stubble of about four days’ growth covered his face and neck. His hazel eyes were bright with intelligence as he studied her. She pushed her head scarf back and tugged it away to let him take in every detail of her face and hair. He sniffed a little but said nothing.
Sage took a deep breath. “Bas medari,” she said.
The man’s eyes widened. Too late she realized how ironic it was to wish a captured man “good fortune,” but then the man bowed his head slightly and replied, “Basmedar.”
He made it sound like one word, which could be the difference between spoken and written Casmuni or three hundred years of language evolving. Or he had a sheep herder’s accent or something. But he understood her. Nicholas remained silent as she’d instructed.
After water has been shared and good will established, said every document she’d studied, then shall negotiations begin.
Sage reached under her tunic and pulled out a small chalice, counting on its formality to distinguish it from anything the man might have already received. Turning to Nicholas, she gestured for him to fill it from his canteen. When he was done she pivoted back to the prisoner and took a slow, deliberate sip, knowing the Casmuni was watching her every move. Then she knelt and offered the cup to him.
After a long, silent moment, during which Sage’s courage nearly failed her, the man licked his lips and held up his bound hands to accept the chalice. He grasped it awkwardly but brought it to his mouth and drank all the water down. Sage motioned for Nicholas to fill it again, which he did. This time the Casmuni took a deliberate sip and offered it back to the prince. “Drink it,” she whispered, her voice barely carrying above the wind outside.
“I’m not stupid,” he muttered, taking it and doing as she said.
The Casmuni tilted his head toward his companion behind him, who watched everything over his shoulder. Nicholas rushed to fill the cup for him.
“Pala wohl seya,” the man before her said. I thank you.
“Pala wohlen bas,” Sage replied. I am well thanked. She sat back on her heels and put her hand on her chest. “Sage Fowler.”
“Saizsch Fahler,” he said gravely, then gestured to himself. “Darit Yamon.” He tipped his head to the man behind him, who had a green scarf still over his head. “Malamin Dar.”
She repeated the names, and he nodded. So far, so good.
“Sey basa tribanda?” she asked. Are you well accommodated? At least that’s what she hoped she said.
Darit’s eyebrows shot up, the white scar disappearing into the wrinkles on his forehead, and a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He raised his hands. “Palan pollay basa hastinan.”
She struggled to pick out and understand his words. Palan meant my or mine, basa was good or well. Darit was showing her his hands, so pollay likely referred to them. She filed the word in her mind and searched for anything that sounded like hastinan a
nd found hastin—an animal pen.
My hands are well confined.
Darit had a sense of humor. He would need it—and patience—if they were to understand each other.
“You lose your friends in the sands?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No, in the sera.”
“Sera?” she asked. It was a word she didn’t know.
Darit blew air out of his mouth in imitation of the wind raging outside the tent. Ah, wind. He was distinguishing that the storm had separated him from his companions, rather than the sand, which was interesting.
Sage was sure she would muddle conjugation, so she stuck to simple sentences. “Where travel you?”
The Casmuni considered the question for several seconds, then answered, “North.”
“Travel you in Demora?”
Darit’s expression hardened. “No, I stay in my own country.”
His point was obvious, and Sage couldn’t blame him for being angry. She wanted to ask more, but her time was running out. Sage gestured to Nicholas. “Give them the food.”
The prince moved forward and gave them each a dry biscuit. Darit chewed his slowly, screwing up his face, plainly not impressed with the taste. When both he and Malamin had finished, Sage and Nicholas gave them more water, this time from their canteens.
As they prepared to leave, Sage paused to face Darit. “Speak nothing,” she told him, putting her finger to her lips. Darit brought his eyebrows together and frowned, but she ducked out of the tent before he could speak.
39
THE WIND WAS finally dying down, thank the Spirit. Alex broke camp in the morning, wanting to get as far from where they’d found the Casmuni as possible. By sunset, the storm of sand had abated, leaving the land completely quiet other than the sounds of the marching Norsari. The silence was unnerving after going so long with the constant whistle of the wind. Alex walked near the front, close to the captives, hoping to catch their reaction if they saw or heard something. The scarred one kept looking around behind him at the column of men. Counting and assessing, no doubt. Alex would’ve done the same.
