by Erin Beaty
Sage tossed the blanket aside and headed for the spring to wash her hands and face, then rinsed sleep and desert grit from her mouth. Her stomach begged for food, but she made herself drink first. When she stood, Malamin held up a small bowl, and she tripped over her own feet in her eagerness to accept it. The meat in the stew appeared to be from some kind of bird, almost chicken-like in taste, and the grain swimming in the broth resembled barley. She drank it down, pausing only to accept a spoon. Nothing had ever tasted so delicious.
As soon as she finished, her bowl was refilled, and she picked out a piece of the meat. “What this?” she asked.
“Vargun,” he answered, producing a flat board on which a leathery skin was drying. Malamin smiled at her surprised expression. In all their years of living outdoors, Father had never suggested eating snakes. Sage shrugged and raised the bowl in salute before digging in again. First time for everything.
She finished her second helping much slower and forced herself not to ask for more. Her stomach was already protesting after being empty for so long. Darit and several others returned, carrying a few desert hares. Nicholas sat up and looked around like he was trying to remember where he was.
The Casmuni tossed the rabbits to Malamin, who pulled out a knife and started skinning, then went to the pool to drink and refill their waterskins. Darit approached her and touched his fingers to his forehead as Malamin had and offered her a hand up. “Saizsch,” he said solemnly.
“Darit,” she said, putting her hand over her heart. “I wish thank you,” she said in Casmuni. “For our safe.”
He smiled at her awkward speech. “I am well thanked. Please come with me now.” Taking hold of her arm, he gently pulled her in the direction he’d come from. Nicholas made to follow, but she shook her head. The Casmuni brought her to the edge of the trees where two of his men stood on either side of a third man on his knees. At Darit’s nod, the bound man’s gag was loosened.
The man dressed and looked like a Demoran, but from the hate in his blue-gray eyes, she knew he was Kimisar.
His clothes were wet with the blood of a wound in his side, and her hand unconsciously went to the knife on her belt.
“Why did you attack us? Why did you pursue us?” she demanded in her own language.
“I am only returning the favor,” he answered. “One enemy to another.”
He spoke Demoran. Very well, too.
She gripped the handle of her dagger. “Why were you in Demora?”
He sneered. “We came on invitation. We remained because of betrayal.”
“Is Kimisara planning an invasion?”
“How would I know? I’ve not been home in over a year.”
Sage blinked. “You’ve been here”—she remembered here was not actually Demora anymore but continued—“since last year? Why?”
The man snorted. “Do you think your king would let us leave?”
“Why did you attack the Norsari camp?”
The man turned his eyes away.
“Answer me.”
“I will not.” He looked back to her. “I am loyal to my captain.”
The vision of Alex tumbling backward off his horse flashed in her mind. Sage didn’t even realize she had her knife out and was reaching for the man’s throat until Darit caught her from behind and pulled her arms back, lifting her off her feet. She screeched and fought him as the other two men yanked the Kimisar away from her. The weapon was stripped from her fingers, but Sage twisted out of Darit’s hold and lunged for the prisoner again. Before she got two steps, Darit swept his leg out and knocked her off her feet. Within seconds he had her pinned to the ground.
“Stop!” Darit shouted in her ear. “You must stop!”
“Get off of her!” Nicholas tackled Darit from the side, but the Casmuni didn’t let her go, and they rolled and tumbled together in a tangle of arms and legs. By the time they were pulled apart, Sage had a bloody lip, and Nicholas’s tunic was ripped completely open. She sat sullenly, glaring at the Kimisar man, who was lying on his side several yards away, looking shaken.
The prince clutched his bound wrist. “Are you all right?” he asked Sage.
“Yes, fine.” She licked sand out of the gash on her lip and spat. “You?”
“If my wrist wasn’t broken before I think it is now.”
Sage looked up as Darit stood over her, offering her a waterskin. She accepted it and rinsed out her mouth while he knelt beside Nicholas to examine his arm.
“It is not well to let words affect you so much, Saizsch Fahler,” Darit lectured her over his shoulder. “I promise you his threats will come to nothing.”
Sage sipped water. “He made no threat,” she said.
Darit glanced at her. “Then you deserve your injury. Only children respond to taunts.” His expression lightened a little as he turned back to Nicholas. “But you may tell Nikkolaz he did well in coming to your aid.”
After rebinding the prince’s wrist with a splint of stiff palm leaves, Darit offered Sage her knife. Alex’s knife. She put it back on her belt, resisting the urge to trace her fingers over the initials. “You do not fear I will harm the man?” she asked.
Darit shrugged. “I think if you want to kill him, you will not be stopped by lack of a weapon.”
64
SERGEANT MILLER AND Private Wolfe were his volunteers. Both men had been in the desert with Alex the first time, for which he was glad—they already knew how to walk in the sand and conserve water. They’d left camp without head scarves or tents, so they improvised by wrapping their heads in undershirts donated by some of the men who’d returned with Casseck. As for tents, they did without, but luckily they found a small spring with a handful of short trees on the second day, and they were able to refill their canteens and take shelter during the hottest part of the day. The trees were a kind Alex had never seen—their leaves opened like paper fans to be larger than an archery target. Alex stripped several dead leaves down to their thick, arm-length stems to use for fuel. The Demorans walked through the night, but when they did stop to rest, it was damn cold and the fire was welcome.
Their luck ran out on the third day.
He and the two other soldiers had spread out to where they could see each other well enough to communicate if they saw something nestled in the dunes between them. As a consequence, Alex couldn’t be sure when exactly Sergeant Miller disappeared, but it was a full hour after noticing Miller was gone that he and Private Wolfe established that he’d vanished without a trace. Wolfe claimed to have heard what sounded like a scream. At the time, he’d thought it was one of the desert hawks they occasionally saw.
Sage would’ve known the difference.
After their fruitless search, Alex and Wolfe spread apart again, though not as far as before. Not that it mattered. It was nearly sunset when Wolfe shouted for attention. Alex ran at him, calling for him to wait, but Wolfe wasn’t moving as Alex had initially thought—he was sinking into the sand. While still fifty yards away, Alex’s boots sank over his knees within two steps. Alex crawled his way back in the direction he’d come as Wolfe’s cries became weaker and weaker. By the time Alex was on solid-enough ground to stand and turn back around, Private Wolfe was gone, swallowed by the sand.
For a long time Alex sat there, terrified to move, hoping against hope that Wolfe would emerge, clawing his way out, or that Miller would appear over a nearby dune, having only been lost. He wasn’t much for praying, but he prayed then, asking the Spirit to pass on to them how sorry he was for leading them to their deaths. Losses in battle were easy to bear in comparison. Those lives were currency spent to achieve an objective; these were like being robbed.
The right thing to have done would have been to have waited—waited for supplies, waited for permission, waited for more information. He deserved to lose his command, but given the chance, he’d have done everything the same, though he would have done it alone.
Eventually, Alex continued southwest—the only direction he knew to go in, wo
rrying every step would be his last. Sergeant Miller had been carrying their one water sling, and Alex was down to one empty and one partially full canteen. When night came, he hunkered down between dunes for a few hours and lit a fire. With nothing left to burn, he resorted to tearing the leather-bound cover and a few blank pages from Sage’s ledger. He should’ve rested, but instead Alex read and reread the letter she’d kept. She must have turned to it dozens of times in the last weeks for reassurance that he loved her. He would never give her a reason to doubt him again.
The heat of the fourth day brought hallucinations. Sometimes he thought Miller and Wolfe were walking next to him. Other times it was Sage. In both cases he wanted to cry and beg their forgiveness, but his eyes were too dry to make tears. Twice he thought he saw a spring like the first one, but neither was real. Alex stumbled from hill to hill, each time telling himself he would go just one more. His head throbbed with every step, and he began staying along the ridges of the dunes to prevent the cramps that seized his feet when he walked downhill.
At some point he started hoping the sand would swallow him, too.
The sun sat low and red in the sky when the black tops of trees appeared, silhouetted against the horizon. In a corner of his mind, he knew it wasn’t real, but the part that kept him walking believed it. If he pulled the makeshift scarf off his face, he could smell the greenery. He didn’t need his jacket, either. Alex left them both in the sand behind him. His legs were cramping. If he removed his boots, he’d be able to walk better. The sand was pleasantly warm under his feet.
The sword belt was slowing him down, too, and he struggled to undo the buckle with fingers that didn’t want to bend. His trembling legs suddenly gave out, and he fell, first to his knees and then forward onto his face. Alex tried to push himself up, but his arms shook so violently he barely rose enough to turn his head out of the sand to breathe. He felt he was sliding down the side of a dune though nothing around him changed.
Sliding into sleep, that’s what it was. He hadn’t slept in so long.
Alex closed his eyes and let the darkness take him.
65
DARIT’S GROUP TRAVELED outside the heat of day for the most part, and Sage’s sense of direction told her they didn’t take a straight path. The hours of walking in sand were brutal, but she was strangely grateful for the concentration required for each step—it kept her from thinking about Alex. When they stopped to rest, she was so tired she dropped instantly to sleep, but it never lasted. Bad dreams always woke her after only a few hours, and then she couldn’t stop the thoughts and memories. Sage would pull her legs in tight to her body and rock back and forth as wave after wave of grief swept over her. She never cried, though, just as she hadn’t when Father died.
Late in the second day, Darit stopped for several minutes and frowned over the dunes, which had settled into smaller hills in the last hour. All the Casmuni shifted nervously as they waited. At last, Darit shook his head and unfastened a long rope from his shoulder and handed it down the line. Everyone took a position on it with their left arm entwined—except the Kimisar, who grasped it with both bound hands—and Sage and Nicholas followed their example.
After about a mile of walking, Malamin, fourth in the line, took a step and sank to his waist before anyone could react. At his cry, everyone turned and braced their feet as best they could in the shifting sand and pulled the rope taut. The man called Yosher unshouldered another rope and made it into a loop that was thrown around Malamin, who pulled it tight across his chest.
With a quick, rhythmic count, the Casmuni heaved Malamin from the sand trap and dragged him away. For a full minute they lay flat, spreading their weight over as large an area as possible, gripping the rope and watching the sand for signs of another collapse. At Darit’s direction they pushed to their knees and crawled away. When he judged it safe, they stood and walked to a place they obviously felt wasn’t as dangerous, though Sage couldn’t see how it was any different from where Malamin had nearly disappeared.
Nicholas’s hands were still shaking. “That happened so fast,” he whispered.
Sage nodded, trying to work out how such a thing would be created. She handed the prince the waterskin Darit had given them to share and walked to Malamin. He looked as shaken as Nicholas as he removed his boots and dumped sand from them. She squatted next to him and picked up the boot he’d dropped, running her hand along the bottom. It felt cooler than she expected. Darit stood over her as she rubbed sand from the sole between her fingers. It was damp.
She cupped a bit in her hand and held it out for both men to see. “Drem,” she said, using their word for water.
Darit nodded. “Water flows beneath the sand.”
Fascinating. “How do you know where?” Sage asked him.
Darit wiped sweat from his brow before pointing to his nose and sniffing. “I smell it.”
He helped her to her feet and gestured for her to follow him. With his left hand wrapped in the rope, he led her back the way they’d come. Yosher held the other end of the rope as she grasped Darit’s free arm tightly. When he halted, he breathed deeply and indicated she should do the same.
She smelled only sand and heat. Standing in a spot Darit half expected to sink into the ground unnerved her. Sage closed her eyes and breathed again.
Moisture. It was barely there, but in the arid wind she could distinguish it like a thread of blue woven into a length of red cloth. Her eyes snapped open, and she found Darit smiling a little.
She waved at the area where Malamin had fallen. “How is it called?”
“Dremshadda.”
Watersand.
As she and Darit made their way back to the group, Sage sent a prayer to the Spirit that no one from Demora would try to follow them.
On the fourth day of walking, a brown spot appeared on the horizon around noon. When Darit pointed it out, a small cheer went through the band, and instead of stopping as before when the sun was high, the pace of travel picked up. As they drew closer, Sage noticed a regularity to what she’d first assumed was an outcrop of rock. It was, in fact, a group of tents clustered around an impressively large oasis, though Sage admitted to herself it was only the third she’d encountered so her experience was limited.
Sentries appeared and greeted Darit and his men with hands to foreheads followed by clasping arms up to the shoulder. They cast curious looks at Sage, Nicholas, and the Kimisar prisoner but asked for no explanation, and the group continued onward to the camp.
She smelled horses, iron, and cooking as they approached. The dun-colored tents were sturdy against the almost-constant wind, but nothing appeared permanent, not even the low growth of plants. Other than the horse paddock she caught a glimpse of between tents, there were no herd animals, leading her to conclude this wasn’t a nomadic group but a traveling camp, probably military in nature, if the heavy presence of weapons was any indicator.
What Alex wouldn’t give to see all this.
No, Alex would never see anything again. Suddenly Sage couldn’t breathe.
Darit paused to look at Sage where she’d stopped. “Are you well, Saizsch?” he said. “You need not fear.”
Nicholas, too, wore concern on his face. Sage took a deep breath and continued walking. “I am well” was all she said.
Darit took them to what appeared to be an equal in rank, judging by their greeting. They spoke rapidly, and though Sage had believed her Casmuni to have improved quite a bit in the last few days, she was instantly lost. One word Darit threw in her direction caught her attention: filami. Friend.
The man sent another off with a verbal message and called forth several more to take care of the prisoner. When his eyes settled on Sage, she tensed, but he only nodded and turned back to Darit and resumed their conversation. She felt like she was deliberately left out, yet there was a polite air to her exclusion.
When the messenger returned a few minutes later, Darit looked at her thoughtfully. “I will take you to wash and find some clean c
lothes,” he said, speaking in a slow manner for her benefit. “Please follow me.”
He led them to a tent with an open side. The men they’d traveled with were in its shade, scrubbing themselves at large basins of steaming water. Darit raised his arm to indicate Sage and Nicholas should join them.
The prince didn’t hesitate, but Sage stayed where she was. “With that man you called me your friend.”
“Of course I did.” Darit looked at her in confusion. “You have not shared water yet.”
Apparently there was more to the ritual than she’d realized. Her lack of knowledge now could get her into trouble. “I understand this not. Please tell me like I am a child,” she said.
“We do not speak or use names until water is shared. I thought you knew this.”
Thank the Spirit she’d shared water before trying to introduce herself the first time. “Then … you called me your friend…”
“Out of custom.” Darit smiled. “But if you are asking if we are friends, I think yes.”
His words comforted her more than anything else he’d done over the last four days. “Am I permitted to share water with others?” she asked. Maybe there was a message in that she hadn’t yet.
Darit nodded. “Yes, but first you must share with Palandret. After you are presentable, you will dine with him.”
Sage was about to ask who that was when her mind separated the name into two words: Pal andret.
My king.
66
CASMUNI CLOTHES WERE as comfortable as they looked—she moved easily in the loose garments, and they kept her skin cool while absorbing sweat. Sage wore her own boots, though, and fastened her belt and knife around her waist. The left side felt unbalanced without her second dagger. She assumed Darit still had it, but she’d been afraid to ask for it back.
At sunset Darit led them to the massive tent at the center of the camp. Sage pulled Nicholas to her as they followed Darit past two guards standing outside the curtain that acted like a door. Inside, the air was cooler and brighter than she expected, thanks to several horizontal vents in the peaked ceiling. The noise level dropped as well, absorbed by ornate tapestries hanging vertically around the outer walls, creating a sanctuary from the bustle outside. A low table had been laid out with quality but light and practical plates and flatware. Sage wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but it was something more exotic than the standard forks and spoons she was used to; it was almost disappointing. From the scents wafting from the covered dishes, however, the food was less likely to be so.
