Vessel

Chapter Twelve

Flute music, carried by the hot breezes that swept over the cracked land, drifted across the salt flats. Riding on Gray Luck—a gray mare she’d renamed because she had lived despite a worm bite inches from her jugular—Liyana listened to the plaintive melody. It was echoed by a second flute and then a third. The notes swooped and soared as they spiraled up toward the stars.

“Beautiful,” Liyana said.

Korbyn didn’t respond. Instead he coaxed Windfire into a trot. Salt dust rose in a cloud under the hooves of Korbyn’s horse. The other three horses plodded after him.

“What do we do if Fennik is in trouble?” Liyana called after him.

“Try to get him out of it.”

She glared at his back. “Your plan seems vague.”

He shrugged as if unconcerned.

“You could have warned us that the Silk Clan is dangerous,” she said. “You seem to think you’re doing this alone. You’re not.”

“I noticed that.” He waved his hand at her and the injured horses as if she were also a wounded animal that he had to shepherd across the desert.

Her voice low so that only Gray Luck could hear, she muttered, “I didn’t realize pigheadedness was a raven trait.” Following in the cloud of salt dust, she trailed him to the Silk Clan’s camp.

Clustered on the border of the salt flats, each tent was swathed in white cloth that reflected the light of the stars, the moon, and the torches until it seemed to glow. Beyond them, far in the distance, were the black silhouettes of the stone hills, cutting into the starscape.

Drums had joined the flute music. The soft rhythm rolled beneath the interwoven melodies. And then the voice started: a crystal clear voice that soared above the flutes and drums. A wordless melody, it was sweeter and clearer than any birdcall.

“She’s the vessel,” Korbyn said.

“How do you know?” Liyana asked.

“Oyri always chooses a vessel who can sing,” he said.

Liyana listened as the singer’s voice cascaded over several octaves. She thought of water running from a cup. Her voice was as beautiful as water. Liyana felt the notes seep into her skin, and she swayed in the saddle to the music. Her feet itched to dance to the drumbeat.

Ahead, the camp was still. No one came forward to intercept them. The outer circle of tents looked empty, as if they were waiting like shadows on the cusp of dawn, expectant and motionless. She thought that everyone must be with the musicians, obscured from view in the center of camp.

“Someday I’d like to see you dance.” His voice was so soft that she nearly missed his words. She wondered if he meant her or Bayla in her body. She felt herself shiver, and she told herself she merely felt the night wind worm through her clothes.

For an instant, she imagined dancing for him, feeling his eyes on her. . . . He must mean Bayla, she thought. She changed the subject, keeping her voice as light as she could, as if she were merely curious. “Did Bayla choose me because I can dance?”

“Are you asking ‘why me?’ If so, I cannot answer that for Bayla.”

“So how did you choose your vessel?” She tried to imagine another’s soul looking out of his eyes, and she couldn’t. Those eyes were Korbyn’s.

His face was in shadows, but she thought she saw a flash of sadness. He didn’t answer her question. “I do know you are not merely a dancer, Liyana. Only a few per generation can be vessels— and many of them become magicians instead.” He lowered his voice. They had reached the tents. Still no one approached them, and the music swelled louder. “Only someone whose soul came from the Dreaming instead of being born within his or her body can be a vessel or become a magician.”

“I have a reincarnated soul?”

“You do.”

“Whose?”

“Yours.”

Before Liyana could ask more, an elderly woman shuffled toward them. She held a torch in one hand, and the orange glow encircled her. Black soot stained the deep blue sky. Her skin was as dark as smudged charcoal, and in contrast, the whites of her eyes seemed to blaze in the torchlight. Wrinkles creased her face, swallowing her features, so that her cheeks resembled the inside of a fist.

Quietly to Liyana, Korbyn said, “I swear I will be more careful than I was with Sendar’s people. Even after burning my hand, I forgot there is true danger here. But I will not forget again, and I will not permit you to be harmed.”

Her breath caught in her throat at the vehemence in his voice, and she reminded herself that he had to preserve her for Bayla’s sake. Like the dancing, this wasn’t about Liyana.

Korbyn halted and dismounted. Holding the reins, he genuflected before the old woman. “We come with peace in our minds and song in our hearts.” Quickly Liyana dismounted and knelt beside him. She wondered if she should repeat his words as well. She opted for silence.

“I am Ilia, First Magician of the Silk Clan.” The woman closed her hand into a fist and thumped her chest with such force that she staggered back a step.

Korbyn continued to kneel. “It is said that Oyri of the Silk Clan once tamed one of the great salt worms to create the finest silk threads just for her. It lived beneath her feet wherever she walked, and when she wished to weave, it would spew threads from the earth in such quantities that it created new hills.”

“It is said, yes,” Ilia agreed.

“But do you know how Oyri tamed the great salt worm? She asked her friend the raven to create a river of water far beneath the ground that would follow her wherever she walked, leading the great salt worm to her.”

“We do not know this tale.”

“I am the raven,” Korbyn said.

“You claim friendship with Oyri?”

He bowed over his knee. “I am so honored.”

Ilia raised her arm. Her hand trembled, and the loose flesh on her arm shook. Then it stilled as her fingers splayed open—a clear signal. Suddenly and silently a dozen warriors stepped out from between the tents. Bows and spears were trained on Liyana and Korbyn. Liyana didn’t dare breathe. Her muscles felt locked in place. Korbyn’s pretty promise of safety would evaporate if they were both riddled with arrows. The magician Ilia lowered her hand, and the warriors lowered their bows and spears in perfect synchronization.

Retreating, the warriors disappeared into the shadows between the tents. Liyana felt prickles run up and down her spine. She knew the warriors were still there. “Fennik?” she whispered.

Korbyn shook his head nearly imperceptibly—either to say he didn’t know or not to ask. Or he could have meant that he suspected the worst. Fennik could have met these same guards and not fared as well.

“You may leave your horses here,” Ilia said. “My boys will tend to them.” She snapped her fingers, and two young men appeared from nearby tents. They scurried to the horses and unsaddled and brushed them.

“We thank you for your kindness,” Korbyn said. He bowed again.

Watching strangers curry the horses, Liyana wound her fingers in Gray Luck’s mane. The horse raised her head from the trough and nipped her shoulder with soft, wet lips. Liyana patted the horse’s neck and wondered if she would ever see the animals or gear again. She wondered if Fennik’s horse was here, hidden within other shadows. She saw hoof marks in the sand, but she lacked a tracker’s skill to distinguish them.

“Come,” Ilia said.

The old magician did not wait to see if her guests followed. Briskly she hobbled deeper into the heart of the camp. Korbyn trailed her. As they turned a corner, the torchlight stretched their shadows on the tent walls around them. Reluctantly leaving Gray Luck and the other horses, Liyana hurried after the god and the magician.

As they neared the center of camp, the music crescendoed. Other voices had joined in, but the soloist’s soared above them. She trilled impossible notes like some glorious bird.

“Oyri will be pleased with her,” Korbyn said.

“She is the finest singer we have had for generations,” Ilia said. “Even the winds quiet to listen to her.”

“May I ask for what she sings?”

“Judgment,” Ilia said.

The magician led them to an open circle. In the center, tied to a stake, was Fennik. He was shirtless, and his arms were bound behind him and twisted so that his tattoos were exposed to the starry sky. He was on his bare knees on the hard, salt ground. A silver dish lay below him. Sweat dripped from his face to his chin and then fell onto the dish with a ping. Gagged, he could not speak when his saw them, but his eyes widened and he strained against his bindings.

Around the stake were the drummers and other singers. Opposite them, in a throne draped with white silk, sat the soloist. She had straight, white hair, the same color as the salt, but her face was as soft as a child’s. She was tiny and thin, half the size of Ilia, and she looked fragile perched on the large throne. She didn’t look at Liyana and Korbyn. Others did, faltering in their drumbeats and losing their melodies as they stared. Soon only the soloist sang.

“May I ask what his crime is?” Korbyn sounded casual.

At his voice, the singing ceased.

The girl, the vessel, tilted her head toward Korbyn and Liyana. Liyana saw that her eyes were covered in a white haze, and she did not focus on anyone’s face. She seemed to stare at the air between the tents and the stars. “He came to us with no talk of friendship and no words of peace. He demanded obedience to his will,” the girl said. Her speaking voice was as beautiful as her singing voice. The words fell as if in a melody. “But ignorance alone would not condemn him. This man . . . this boy . . . this vessel abandoned his clan! Do you claim knowledge of this traitor?”

Ilia spoke. “This stranger claims to be the raven, the god Korbyn. His companion is yet unnamed.”

“He is not alone?” the girl asked. “Speak, companion, so I may know you.”

All eyes turned to Liyana, except for the girl’s. She continued to focus on nothing. Shrinking back, Liyana looked at Korbyn for help. His face was unreadable. “I am Liyana, vessel of the Goat Clan.” She heard murmurs around her. She added, “But I did not abandon my clan, and neither did Fennik!”

“A person who would abandon her people surely would not hesitate to lie to save herself.” Unwinding herself from the silk on her throne, the girl rose. Instantly two men flanked her side. Cupping her elbows with their hands, they guided her across the circle, past Fennik, and stopped in front of Liyana and Korbyn. Her milky eyes still did not fix on them. She’s blind, Liyana thought. She had never heard of a blind vessel. “You, trickster god, know all about lies. What lies did you tell these vessels to convince them to leave their clans?”

“Shockingly, none,” Korbyn said. He sounded vaguely surprised at himself.

She drew herself tall, her petite frame stiffening. “I am Pia, vessel to Oyri. Are you here to tell me your lies?” The power in her voice sent her words soaring across the camp.

Liyana noticed that the warriors had surrounded them again. Several had raised their bows. “My clan left me,” she said. “Bayla didn’t come. We do not lie!” She inched closer to Korbyn until her arm brushed against his. His hand found hers. She wondered if he was reassuring her or himself. His face remained calm.

“Five deities have been captured and imprisoned in false vessels,” Korbyn said. “We need five vessels to save them: Goat, Horse, Silk, Scorpion, and Falcon. We seek your help in the rescue of your goddess.”

“We do not believe my goddess needs rescuing,” Pia said. “She is Oyri. She is our strength and our light and our song.” She spread her arms wide and sang the final words.

Liyana heard Korbyn sigh. “For the first time in my existence, I tell the truth, and I am greeted with lack of belief. This is the universe laughing at me.”

“I believed you from the start,” Liyana said, continuing to hold his hand.

He looked at her, and he smiled. “Yes, you did.” His smile was like Pia’s song, beautiful and pure. It lit up his whole face, erasing the shadows that had deepened ever since they had entered the Silk Clan’s camp—truly, ever since they’d entered the Horse Clan’s camp. For an instant, she couldn’t breathe. She was lost in that smile.

As if her words had given him strength, Korbyn raised his voice, and she heard his old cheerfulness. “I am indeed attempting the greatest trick of my career, but the trick is not on you. It is on the thief who is stealing the heart of the desert.”

“We do not believe that is—” Pia began.

Enough, Liyana thought. She’d told the truth. Korbyn had told the truth. While they wasted time, Bayla remained trapped. Liyana interrupted Pia. “What you believe doesn’t matter. You can prove him right or wrong. Summon your goddess. If she does not come, then join us. If she does come, then punish us as you see fit.”

The Silk Clan was silent.

Softly Korbyn said, “You truly trust me.”

She met his glorious eyes. “Yes, I do.”

The moment hung in the air, and he laughed, the sound full of joy. She hadn’t heard that laugh in days. She began to smile as if his laugh were bubbling inside of her. “Go ahead,” Korbyn said to Pia. “Summon Oyri.”

“Very well,” Pia said. “I shall.”

Guards closed in on Liyana and Korbyn, and suddenly Liyana wished she hadn’t spoken. She lost sight of Pia through the wall of guards.

Ilia pulled a strip of white cloth from her pocket, and she tied it over Korbyn’s mouth. He didn’t protest. Liyana flinched as Ilia raised a cloth to her mouth. “Is this necessary?” she asked.

“You have submitted to judgment,” Ilia said. “This must be.”

Korbyn squeezed her fingers as if to reassure her, and then he released her hand and held out his arms so that the guards could bind his wrists with rope.

I trust him, she reminded herself. The Silk Clan goddess will not come.

Opening her mouth, Liyana let Ilia gag her. Mirroring Korbyn, she held out her arms so that her hands could be tied as well. She met Korbyn’s eyes. His eyes were warm on hers, as warm as an embrace, as if he saw only her.

They were led to Fennik. Hands on their shoulders pushed them down to their knees. She knelt on the hard salt-sand between Fennik and Korbyn. Fennik’s eyes were wild, and she could smell his sweat. On her other side, though, Korbyn seemed calm.

She thought of the accusations of the Horse Clan and the Silk Clan. He may be known as the trickster, she thought, but his tricks helped the desert clans. She knew a story about him, one of Jidali’s favorites, that said he was responsible for giving the clans fire. Once, long ago, only gods could start fires. Each clan treasured their fire, carrying it from camp to camp with greatest care. If the fire was lost before the clan’s deity returned, the result was disaster. This happened to the Raven Clan—a sandstorm wiped out their fire. So, on his next visit to the desert, the raven stole a chunk of flint from the mountains of the sky serpents and gave it to his clan so they would always be able to make fire for themselves. He then stole flint for each of the other clans. The sky serpents were furious that every clan now had a piece of their mountains, and they guarded their territory even more jealously against intruders. But the raven’s trick was done, and he never returned to face their wrath.

She wondered how much truth there was in the stories. Staring into his eyes, she decided she didn’t care. Oyri, goddess of the Silk Clan, would not come. She had to believe that for Bayla’s sake, if not her own.

Drums started across the circle. Surprised, Liyana tore her gaze away from Korbyn. She’d expected a delay. Pia must have people to say farewell to. Parents. Siblings. Friends. A teacher. But instead she spoke to no one. Alone in the center of the sand, Pia affixed silver bells to her ankles. She was barefoot, and her skirt was composed of strips of silk that fluttered around her like feathers. Her arms were bare to expose her tattoos. She reached up toward the night sky. “Begin!” Pia cried.

Ilia began to chant. In the circle, Pia twirled and leaped. As she danced, she sang a soaring tune that repeated the summoning words. She looked and sounded like a wild bird.

She’s magnificent, Liyana thought—and a tendril of fear crept into her heart. Pia was what a vessel should be. It did not matter that she was blind. She flowed and soared with effortless beauty. Every movement was perfect, and she danced with transcendent grace. She was the wind itself. As the drums beat louder, Pia leaped higher and spun faster. Her white hair whipped around her, and the silk skirt swirled and flowed. Her silver bells rang out, echoing across the desert.

Liyana thought of her bells, the ones she had left behind for her family. She’d worn those bells with such pride. She had believed that she’d molded herself into the ideal vessel. But now, seeing Pia . . . This was what she should have been. Maybe Bayla had deemed Liyana unfit.

Barely breathing, Liyana waited for the moment when the goddess would take Pia’s body. Pia danced faster and faster, and her voice cascaded from impossibly high notes. With each moment, Liyana became more convinced that this would be the moment.

Suddenly Pia fluttered her arms down to her side like a bird settling her wings. She raised her head, and the drums stilled. Ilia fell silent.

“Untie our guests,” Pia said. Her voice was crystal clear. The clan was silent. “I will accompany them and henceforth be dead to you.” Her final words fell like stones into water, and ripple-like, their effect spread through the clan. The men, women, and children of the Silk Clan bowed low with their fists over their hearts, and then one after another, they turned their backs on the center of the circle.

Alone, Pia swept into a tent. Liyana noticed that she raised her arms only once, to feel for the tent flap. Otherwise she moved with a smooth surety that no one and nothing would be in her way.

Liyana felt a blade slice through the ropes. Fingers untied the gag. She spat the cloth out into her hands, and she felt as if her insides were churning. Korbyn was right! She’d been right to trust him! Their deities truly were trapped. Oh, she’d believed it before in her heart, but now . . .

Beside her, Fennik’s ropes were cut, and he fell forward into the salty sand. She knelt by his side. “Fennik? Can you hear me? Are you all right?” She kept her voice low. Backs still turned, the men and women spoke only in hushed murmurs.

Fennik raised his head and crowed, “She was glorious!”

Shushing him, Liyana examined his wrists. The ropes had bitten into his skin. Fresh blood oozed at her touch. “You’ll need bandages until Korbyn can heal you. What did you say to them?”

“Only the truth,” he said. “But that girl—she commands! Did you hear her voice, how they obey? We have no one like her in the Horse Clan. No wonder her clan so reveres her.”

She helped him stand, and she turned to Korbyn. She wanted to ask how soon they could leave. Each day they delayed, Bayla was imprisoned longer. But Korbyn had crossed the circle to speak to Ilia. “We were right to trust him,” Liyana said, “but he needs to start trusting us, too. This should not have happened.”

“He’s a god,” Fennik said. “They aren’t used to needing humans.”

“They need our bodies,” Liyana said. “If he’d share information, we could help. We can do more than get ourselves tied to stakes.” Whatever Korbyn believed, they were not like the injured horses. Perhaps it was sacrilege to think so, but they could be partners . . . if he shared what he knew.

“This was not my fault.”

“Exactly.”

With Korbyn, Ilia crossed to them. “Judgment has been made,” she declared. “You will share our vessel’s fate. May the blessings of the divine Oyri be upon you in your quest.”

Craning his neck, Fennik strained to see the tent that Pia had disappeared into. “Can we speak to the vessel?” He sounded like an eager puppy.

Korbyn leveled a look at Fennik and said to Ilia, “We honor your judgment and thank you for the blessings.”

Ilia clapped her hands. Two men and one woman scurried forward. “Lead them to tents and see to their needs,” she ordered the three servants. To Fennik, she said, “No one may speak to the vessel within our hearing. She is now dead to us.”

“Our quest is urgent,” Liyana said. “If we could—”

“You will accept our hospitality,” Ilia said.

Liyana looked to Korbyn. She didn’t want to waste time with “hospitality.” They still had two more clans to reach—and that was before the true rescue mission could begin. She didn’t know how far they would have to journey for that. “But—” Liyana began.

After tossing a smile at her, Korbyn was escorted away by one of the men, and Fennik by the other. The smile was clearly meant to reassure her, and Liyana tried to feel reassured. She told herself that it was unreasonable to expect to leave instantly. They had to wait until dawn’s light to travel. And the horses had to recover from their ordeal. But still, after seeing the summoning ceremony fail . . .

Silently the woman led Liyana in the opposite direction. Liyana looked back over her shoulder as Korbyn disappeared around the corner of a tent. The Silk Clan had begun to disperse, vanishing into the shadows of the tents as if swallowed. She felt her anxiousness curl up like a creature inside her stomach. At the very least she wished she could have talked to Korbyn. She had many, many questions for him, and god or not, he couldn’t avoid answering them forever.

Opening a tent flap, the woman waited for Liyana. “Thank you,” Liyana said as she entered. Without a word and without meeting her eyes, her escort inclined her head and left Liyana alone.

Inside the tent was a bed of silk. A basin with a thin layer of salt-choked water was in one corner. Layers of cloth lay around it to absorb any stray drops. Liyana washed herself as best she could, and she crawled between the skeins of silk. The silence was absolute, and she lay for a long time waiting for dawn and wishing she could hear Korbyn breathing beside her. Eventually she slept.

At dawn she woke. Her dreams had chased her through the night, images of Pia dancing and of sand wolves attacking. She wondered what Korbyn had dreamed about and if he’d had nightmares without her there to wake him. Sitting up, she noticed that a tray with several pieces of flatbread and a strip of dried goat meat waited for her by the tent flap. There was also a cup of precious, drinkable water.

She drained the cup instantly. Eating the food, she listened for sounds of the camp waking. If she had been with the Goat Clan, she would have heard chickens, goats, and children clamoring to be fed. People would have been shouting morning greetings at one another as they bustled to complete tasks before the sun scorched the air. By contrast, the Silk Clan was disturbingly quiet. Liyana emerged from her tent to find the camp empty.

As she wound her way through the tents, she saw and heard no one. She found the troughs where they’d left the horses—the troughs were dry and the horses were gone. Her heart began to hammer harder. It felt as though everyone had sneaked away in the night. “Hello?” she called. “Is anyone here?”

A child peeked around a tent flap. She had dark, wide eyes and concave cheeks. She was so thin that her shoulder bones poked against her robe.

Liyana waved at her, and the girl gasped and retreated. “Wait, I don’t mean any harm!” Liyana called after her. But the girl was gone.

She saw no one else.

Alone, she crossed the camp.

On the outskirts of camp, she heard voices. She recognized Fennik’s voice and then the melodious cascade of Pia’s voice. A horse stamped its hoof. Picking up her pace, Liyana jogged to the edge of camp.

On the sands, Fennik was coaching Pia on how to mount. Korbyn was with the other horses, securing their saddles. He waved when he saw her. “Good morning, sunshine.”

“Did I oversleep? I didn’t sleep well.” She scanned the area. None of Pia’s people were nearby. Even Ilia and the guards were absent. “Where is everyone?”

“We aren’t enough?” Korbyn asked, mock-hurt.

“The camp feels deserted.”

He lowered his voice and switched to serious. “She declared herself dead. They do not wish to risk hearing her speak.”

“But . . . she leaves to save them. And where are her supplies?” Fennik’s clan had loaded them with supplies, water, and horses. Liyana’s parents had left her the pack, and her brother had braved the wrath of the clan to sneak her the sky serpent knife. But she saw no new supplies from the Silk Clan.

“The dead do not need supplies,” Korbyn said. And then in a merrier voice he said, “Or perhaps I am wrong, and they simply don’t want to watch this.”

Liyana watched Fennik lift Pia into the air. She swung onto the horse with a fluid grace and sat in the saddle. Pia smiled, a look like the gentle wind that swept over the horse and Fennik at once. Fennik smiled back goofily, though he must have known Pia couldn’t see him, and then he laid the reins in her hands as if gifting her with a glorious present. Pia held the reins lightly as if they were an accessory, not a tool.

“Oh my,” Liyana said. “She is going to be a problem.”

“She compensates for her blindness.”

Liyana shook her head. “That’s not the issue, and you know it.” She watched Fennik guide Pia through the basics. Liyana could have used such a lesson. “She’s too used to being the princess. Mark my words. She’ll slow us down.”

Laughing, Pia slid off the side of the horse. Fennik caught her, a bundle of fluttering silk that landed softly in his arms. Clearly, he had forgiven her for having him tied to a stake.

“How soon can we leave?” Liyana asked, her voice still low. Given how ritual-driven these people seemed to be, there had to be an elaborate farewell ceremony, even for the “dead.”

“We can leave now,” Pia said in her clear singsong bird voice.

Liyana winced.

“The princess has excellent hearing,” Korbyn commented.

“But your clan—” Liyana said to her.

“I will see them in the Dreaming.”

With Fennik’s assistance, Pia mounted a new horse, the more placid mare, Plum. Still no one came to say good-bye to her. No one was willing to break tradition to give her a single embrace. Liyana was grateful for her own clan—at least she knew they cared about her before they left her to die.

Liyana mounted Gray Luck and urged her horse into a walk. Guiding the other two horses, Korbyn rode after her on his favorite mount. Ahead, Fennik kept close to Pia as she started across the sands.

Because Pia couldn’t, Liyana looked back at the Silk Clan as they rode away. Emerging from every tent, silent men, women, and children watched them leave.

Leaving the salt flats behind them, they rode west across the cracked earth toward the rocky hills, the territory of the Scorpion Clan. Liyana and Korbyn led. Behind them, Fennik regaled Pia with horse tales in a voice not quite loud enough for Liyana to hear. Every few moments, Pia’s laugh would ring out like a bell or Fennik’s chuckle would boom.

“Once again, vessels surprise me,” Korbyn said.

“How so?” Liyana asked.

“Based on initial impressions, I was not aware that either of them had a sense of humor.”

“Believing you have a sense of humor and actually having one are two different things,” Liyana pointed out.

“Indeed,” he said. He winced as Fennik let out a loud cackle. “At least they are enjoying themselves.”

Liyana studied Korbyn for a moment. Worn by travel, he looked very different from the boy who had walked out of a sandstorm, unrumpled and untouched by the gritty air. Now his soft hair was matted and his cheeks were sunken in. Dark shadows highlighted his eyes. “Are you?”

“Not so much,” he admitted.

At midday they halted. Pia slid off her horse and promptly crumpled to the ground. She tried to rise, but her legs buckled under her again. Fennik leaped from his horse to assist her. He offered her water, lifting the waterskin to her lips so that she could drink more easily. “She needs healing,” Fennik said.

Pia moaned. “I do not wish to slow us.”

“You need to heal her,” Fennik said. “She’s a new rider. Her flesh is tender.” He patted Pia’s hand. “Continue to be brave,” he said to her. “All will be well.”

Korbyn sighed, but he dropped into a trance to heal her blisters and sores.

Massaging her own sores, Liyana pitched the tent. Once she had it ready, she laid her hand on Korbyn’s shoulder. After a moment, he opened his eyes. “The Silk Clan did not replenish our supplies. We need water for the horses,” she said gently. He heaved a sigh as he lurched onto his feet.

“Come inside and rest,” Fennik said to Pia.

He led her toward the tent while she favored him and the world with her beautiful smile.

Staying outside, Liyana checked the horses’ hooves. She left their hides matted with caked-on dirt and dust—it would protect them from the worst of the sun, plus Fennik preferred to curry them himself, or at least he did when he wasn’t doting on Pia.

Liyana kicked a barrel cactus and wondered why Pia’s frailty bothered her so much. The cactus broke at its stem. Carrying it into the shade of the tent, Liyana sliced it open with her sky serpent blade and scraped the insides out. She held a clump over her mouth and squeezed. Liquid dribbled onto her tongue. It tasted sweet.

“Fennik and Pia, are you thirsty?” She thrust the remainder of the scrapings into the tent. She listened as he offered it all to Pia. She refused, insisting he share. Liyana prevented herself from rolling her eyes at them by checking on Korbyn.

He was squatting next to a half-dead plant, and he was deep in a trance. His face looked too thin, as if he’d aged a year over the past week. This is why it bothers me, she thought. Pia’s needs on top of their survival needs were exhausting him. Keeping an eye on him, she started a cooking fire with a chunk of flint. She patted the dried cactus innards into cakes and baked them while she waited for Korbyn to finish. At last his eyes rolled back. She lunged forward past the fire and caught him before he slumped into it.

In front of him, the plant was covered with berries.

She dragged him by the armpits into the tent and laid him next to Pia, who was sleeping curled up like a cat with her head on Fennik’s thigh. Without a word, Liyana went back outside to pick the berries before the sun withered them. She then rescued the cactus cakes from the fire.

Tasks complete, she sat alone in the sand, looking out across the desert. Heat waved over the desiccated soil. The forbidden mountains rippled in the distance. She wished Korbyn were awake to sit with her. She would have told him a story to make him laugh. Gray Luck nipped her shoulder, and Liyana shared her portion of the berries with her favorite mare. She was beginning to hate the rest times. There were two vessels left to find, and Korbyn still would not share any details about their final destination. The lost deities could be on the other side of the sands. She was acutely aware of the vastness of the desert around them, and with every delay, the distances seemed to stretch. But she could think of no alternative or anything she could do to lessen the shadows under Korbyn’s eyes.

Late in the afternoon, after Korbyn and Pia woke, they continued on. But only a few hours later, they had to stop to camp for the night. Again Korbyn placed himself in a trance—he healed Pia’s new blisters, he sealed a wound in one of the horse’s hooves, he summoned water from the roots of nearby plants, and he flushed out desert rats from the rocks for Fennik to shoot. He finished after the moon was high, and then he collapsed. Liyana lay next to him in the tent, listening for the sound of his nightmares and waking him as needed. He woke three times. She didn’t ask what he had dreamed.

The next day was more of the same.

While Fennik catered to Pia, Liyana continued to watch Korbyn. His eyes began to look like hollowed-out rocks, and he shuffled when he walked. He’s getting worse, she thought. God or not, he had limits. He could only focus his magic on one task at a time, and there were simply too many tasks that needed to be done. As their only magician, he had no time to recuperate between trances, and with each additional task, they lost travel time. She found herself wanting to take him into her arms, like a mother with a child, and stroke his hair and say, “Stop. Stop before you hurt yourself.” But she didn’t.

On the fifth day, Liyana squatted beside Korbyn as he prepared to summon more water for the horses from a seemingly dead plant. “I was wrong,” she said. “Pia isn’t the problem.”

He nodded as if satisfied with her. “As I told you—”

“The problem is you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You told me that only people with reincarnated souls could become vessels,” Liyana said. “And you said ‘or magicians.’ ” She touched one of the brittle branches of the desert bush. It didn’t snap. Its inner core was still alive.

“I may have said that. I say a lot of things.”

She tried to imagine leaves bursting out on these branches—and what it would feel like to make that happen. “So can a vessel become a magician?”

Behind them, Pia gasped. “You cannot! Vessels do not work magic!”

“Can’t or don’t?” Liyana countered.

“Banish such thoughts from your head!” Pia said. “We must preserve these bodies and protect them from unnecessary harm. Working magic is too dangerous!”

“Starvation and dehydration are also dangerous,” Liyana said, eyes still on Korbyn. “You know you need the help.”

“Training a vessel—it’s forbidden,” Korbyn said.

“Like the mountains of the sky serpent were when you stole flint for the clans? What’s more important: tradition or success?” Liyana asked him. “You want the deities back. So do I.”

Pia’s voice rose to a squeak. “Fennik, tell her no! Expediency does not triumph over right. She risks too much!”

Korbyn studied Liyana’s face as if he were trying to read her thoughts. “It has never been done.”

She leaned closer to him, so close that she could feel his breath. “Once, the raven and the horse had three races. . . . You bent reality to win. And that was merely a race. This involves the fate of your beloved and five entire clans.”

His lips twitched and then broadened into his bright smile. His smile washed over her, and she realized how much she had missed it these last five days. “Very well,” he said.