Vessel

Chapter Seven

Korbyn peered into the pot. “It’s boiling. Tea leaves?”

Mechanically Liyana fetched a wad of leaves from her pack. Trust Mother to think to pack tea leaves. Korbyn dropped them into the boiling water. She watched him use a stick to stir. “Bayla . . . She didn’t . . .” Liyana licked her lips, swallowed, and finished in a rush. “I’m not unworthy?” Waiting for an answer, she didn’t breathe.

He patted her knee. “You’re lovely.”

Air whooshed out of her lungs.

Korbyn frowned at her. “Your breathing is rapid. Are you well?”

She placed her hands on her knees and hung her head between them. Bayla hadn’t rejected her! Or Jidali. Or Talu. Or her parents . . . Gulping air, she steadied herself. Her head quit spinning after a moment. When she looked up, Korbyn was pawing through her supply pack. “Cups?” he asked. “To drink the tea?” He abandoned his search before she could frame a reply. “Eh, no matter. Once it cools, we can sip directly from the pot.” A grin lit up his face as he said, “I am having all sorts of new experiences this time around.”

She thought of the string of delicacies that her clan had prepared for Bayla’s arrival—fried goat cheese, sugared date pastries, sun-baked tubers with spices, and the finest array of meats from the clan’s best-fed goats. “You should have been greeted with a feast and dancing.”

He waved her words away. “Once we have succeeded, the desert will celebrate.” Raising the pot to his lips, he took a sip. He winced and coughed. “Delicious!” He coughed again and then spit over his shoulder. Flashing her another bright smile, he said, “Do you know the story of the greatest lie that the raven ever told? The mountain was concerned that her beauty was fading—”

“Who stole the deities?” As soon as the question passed her lips, Liyana winced. Talu would be appalled if she’d heard Liyana interrupting a god. She bowed her head. “Forgive the interruption.” She added the formal apology to be used for an elder whom one has wronged.

When he didn’t reply, she dared to peek up at him. Again, he seemed far older than he looked. He was gazing across the oasis toward the desert mountains with an expression that she could not decipher. She followed his gaze. All traces of the sandstorm were gone. The sky was a bleached blue again, and sand swirled gently over the dunes. Each dune created a crescent shadow so that the desert looked like a sea of dark moons. “We will first need to find the other empty vessels in order to bring home all the missing gods.”

He hadn’t answered her question, but she nodded anyway. “How do we find them?”

“Horse Clan, Silk Clan, Scorpion Clan, and Falcon Clan.” He pointed to different spots on the horizon with each clan name. She marveled at his surety—all clans were nomadic, but he pointed with precision.

Her own clan was out there too, en route to Yubay. If she and Korbyn walked quickly enough, perhaps they could catch them. She spent several glorious seconds imagining that reunion. “My family can help—”

“I am sorry,” Korbyn said. She thought she heard true regret in his voice. “Your family is west, and we cannot afford the detour. Soon the other clans will conduct their summoning ceremonies. We must reach them all before any harm comes to their vessels. Not all vessels are as resourceful as you, and not all clans are as . . . forgiving as yours.”

“Oh.” Liyana studied the rip in the tent and fought to keep the lump of disappointment from clogging her throat. “Of course. I see.”

Putting the pot down, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and then leaped to his feet. “In fact, we should begin!”

“Right now?” She looked around the oasis, her link to her family. But the sandstorm had erased the imprints from the tents. There was no trace that her family and clan had lived there for the last month. The desert had reclaimed its own. Any ghosts of her family were now only in her head. “Yes,” she decided. “Right now.”

Taking the pot, she drank her share of the tea and then cleaned the pot with palm leaves before stowing it in her pack. Korbyn balanced on one of the rocks. He was, she thought, like a four-year-old child and an ancient elder at the same time. As he experimented with shifting from the ball of his foot to his heel, she shook the sand out of her tent, rolled the tent up tight, and stuffed it into her pack.

“Ready?” he asked.

Liyana held up the two waterskins. “Can your magic keep these full?”

“No one can create something out of nothing, not even a god,” Korbyn said. “Though once, the raven convinced the hawk that she had given birth to a lizard, even though she had no mate and had laid no egg. But that began with a lizard who did not want her child.”

“These won’t last us more than a day. Two, if we ration.” She spoke her thoughts out loud as she frowned at the two waterskins. They weren’t meant for extended treks.

“You won’t feel thirst with me.” His voice was intense, and she instinctively flinched. She hadn’t meant her words to sound censorious of the god.

“It would set my mind at ease if you could be more specific.” She thought that phrasing was diplomatic and was pleased with herself. Diplomacy wasn’t normally a required skill for a vessel. In fact, Mother had threatened to tie Liyana’s tongue in knots more than once.

“I crossed the sands to you by drawing moisture into the desert plants. I can do the same for two.” He reached toward her face, and his fingers brushed her cheek. “No fear, Liyana. I won’t let Bayla’s vessel suffer.”

She shivered at the touch of his fingers. He felt so human. His fingertips were warm and soft, and her skin remembered the trace of his touch after he lowered his hand. She kept expecting him to be ethereal, even though she, of all people, should know better.

“You can trust me,” he said. “I want Bayla to return as much as you do.”

“She’s my goddess. What is she to you?” She didn’t intend to sound disrespectful, but if she was to follow him, she had to know. He could be Bayla’s enemy. He could be responsible for her disappearance. This could be part of an elaborate plot to destroy her clan. Liyana didn’t know what transpired between the deities in the Dreaming, what alliances rose and fell.

“She’s my love,” Korbyn said. “Once her soul inhabits your body, we will be together again.” As Liyana stared at him, he lifted the waterskins out of her hands. “Allow me.” He headed toward the well.

Belatedly she hefted the pack onto her back. Her wounded arm sent sharp stabs of pain up into her shoulder. Gritting her teeth, she followed her goddess’s lover across the oasis and then into the desert.

The sun seared the desert. Liyana felt the heat rise through the soles of her feet, even through her beautiful shoes, and she felt the wind wick the moisture from her skin as it scoured her with sand. Over the distant dunes, the air waved and crinkled. She placed one foot in front of the other and tried not to think about how much her muscles still hurt from her endless dance or how much her arm throbbed from her wounds.

Korbyn seemed untouched by the heat. “Once, Bayla was the beloved of Sendar, the god of the Horse Clan, but he valued his horses more than her and lost her affection. He was irate when he learned that Bayla had chosen me to replace him, and he challenged me to three races. One, his choice of mounts. Two, my choice. And three, we would both choose our favorite.”

Every time Liyana breathed, her lungs felt raw, scraped from the sand she had inhaled during the storm. She tried to focus on his words to distract herself. “You have horses in the Dreaming?” Talking felt like scratching her larynx with a fistful of needles.

“We have whatever we wish in the Dreaming. One’s will determines one’s surroundings . . . unless, of course, you encounter someone with a stronger will. Keleena of the Sparrow Clan is so indecisive that the land changes around her like the surface of the sea. You can grow a city around her without . . . But I was telling you about the three races.”

On the horizon, the air wrinkled in the heat. Sand clung to her feet as she trudged with Korbyn up and down the red dunes. She flailed in the looser sand.

“First race, he chose horses. I lost dismally. Second race, we flew.”

She yanked her feet out of the sand with each step. It felt as if the dunes wanted to pull her down into them, sweep her into their slopes, until she was a part of the sandscape. “You can fly?”

“I cannot fly here.” He raised and lowered his arms as if to show her. His sleeves billowed. She thought of his totem animal, the raven, and she thought it was apt. He did move like a bird, fast and alert. “But in the Dreaming, there are no rules. It’s a place of pure spirit.”

She fell to one knee at the top of a dune. Struggling, she stood again and continued down the slope, jarring her knees painfully with each step. “Why would you ever want to leave?”

He grinned and raced down the slope past her. “For this! All this!” He stretched his arms wide as if to encompass the whole world, and then as she descended the dune, he caught her hand and pressed the top of her hand to his lips. “And this.” Releasing her, he unwound the bandage from his burnt hand. “Even this.”

She still felt his kiss tingling on her hand. Trying to ignore the sensation, she studied his burn. The blisters looked blotchy. “It needs more aloe.” She swung her pack off her back, and pain shot down her arm from the gashes, making her breath hiss.

He waved her away. “I can fix it.” His face became blank as he held his palm steady—a trance again. She marveled at how quickly he could enter a trance. Sweat beaded on his forehead and instantly dried. His hand shook, but he did not move. Slow at first and then faster, the skin smoothed, and the red faded. In a few minutes, his palm was smooth and perfect.

“You can heal,” she said flatly.

He beamed at her. “I have many tricks.”

She clenched her jaw. Of course he could heal. Even Talu had some basic skill with mending cuts and bruises. Liyana should have realized it sooner, but she hadn’t been thinking straight ever since Korbyn had walked out of the swirling sand. In as polite a voice as she could manage, she asked, “Would it be possible for you to heal me?”

“My pleasure.” He bowed.

Liyana rolled up her sleeve and unwound the bandages covering the claw marks. Red and oozing, the gashes were worse than before.

Korbyn flinched.

“Sand wolf,” she explained.

His voice was gentle. “I am sorry.”

“Sand wolves always come,” she said. “It wasn’t your fault.” Granted, if he had arrived a day earlier, it wouldn’t have happened—and her clan wouldn’t have left, thinking her unworthy. She didn’t say that out loud.

He took her hand in his left hand and then placed his right hand on her shoulder. He drew close to her. She didn’t move. She knew from Talu that proximity helped the magic. Still, being healed by Korbyn was very different from being healed by Talu. His body pressed against her so closely that she could feel him inhale and exhale. His breathing slowed, deep and steady.

She felt the skin on her arm tingle, and then heat spread from her shoulder to her elbow to her fingers. As she watched, the dried blood dissolved, and a thick scab wove itself over the wounds. Fresh skin blossomed at the edges of the scab, and then it began to spread bit by bit. She thought of a weaver, adding row after row to a blanket. New smooth skin inched across her arm, shrinking the wounds. Watching her skin knit itself whole, she lost track of time. It felt as if the world had shrunk to just her and Korbyn. She breathed in time with him.

Then he released her. Her arm was perfect, as smooth as sand-scoured stone. She ran her fingers over her skin and marveled at it. No scabs. No scars. No trace of the gashes. She had no pain in her arms or in the rest of her, either. She felt wonderful throughout, as if she had drunk her fill from a crystal clear well.

Korbyn staggered backward. His chest heaved as if he’d run for miles.

“Are you all right?” Liyana asked, reaching toward him but stopping just short of touching him, remembering he was a god. He might not want a mortal’s assistance.

He pitched forward. She caught him in her arms, sagging to her knees as his full weight sank against her. “Korbyn!” Oh, sweet goddess! Cradling him, she lowered him onto the sand. “Korbyn, are you all right? Korbyn!”

She checked his pulse. Still beating. He wasn’t dead. Just . . . asleep? Unconscious? “Wake up!” she said. “Please, wake up!”

He didn’t. But he continued to breathe, evenly and softly.

The sun beat down on them. Liyana checked his pulse again. His skin felt warm. “Oh, Bayla, what do I do?” She should get him into the shade. Working quickly, she pulled her tent out of her pack, and she unbent the poles. In a few minutes, she had pitched the tent. The rip fluttered in the wind.

“Korbyn?” She knelt next to him. “The tent is ready.” She touched his shoulder. She felt the curve of his muscles and noticed how strong he was. She snatched her hand away.

Still he didn’t wake.

“You’ll sleep better in the shade,” she said.

No response.

Gently she shook his shoulder. “You can’t stay out here.” She contemplated him for a moment. He looked so peaceful and so vulnerable and so beautiful. “Forgive this indignity.” Grabbing him under the armpits, Liyana dragged him toward the tent. As she braced herself to hoist him inside, his eyes popped open.

“What are you doing?” he asked in an ordinary voice.

She released him so fast that she fell backward onto her rear. “You’re all right!” Her heart beat so hard that it almost hurt. “I thought . . . You didn’t . . .”

“Too much healing. Plus there was the well water and the fire. . . .” He made a face. “So much for my illusion of omnipotence. You’re still impressed with me, right?”

“Yes, of course,” she said automatically.

“Excellent.” He crawled into the tent. “Then let’s pretend this never happened.”

Liyana crawled in behind him. There was very little space with two people plus the pack. Avoiding meeting his eyes, she squirmed past him. She tried to keep to the tarp wall, but her hip still brushed against his thigh. She instantly scooted against her pack.

Their breathing filled the silence. She was acutely aware he was only inches from her.

Inside the tent, the air was still, but at least they were shielded from the pounding sun. She unwrapped her headcloth and let her braids fall against her neck. She shook them out, and they sprinkled sand in the tent. She winced. “Forgive me.”

He nodded graciously.

The silence thickened. Liyana had never been alone in a tent with a male who wasn’t family. She couldn’t help noticing how lean, muscled, and handsome he was. Bayla will be pleased with him, she thought.

“I should . . . um, fix the rip,” she said. Twisting to face the pack, she accidentally elbowed him in the side. “Forgive me!”

He rubbed his ribs. “Of course.”

Hands shaking, she pulled out the needle and thread. Mother had sensibly packed the thick sinewy thread, not the silk embroidery thread. Liyana threaded the needle and then pinched the two sides of the rift. She started at the top, making tight stitches, the way that Aunt Sabisa had taught her when she was deemed old enough to not stab herself too badly with the needle. She glanced over her shoulder and saw he was still watching her. She wondered what he thought when he looked at her, if he thought of her or Bayla. She broke the silence. “You didn’t finish telling me about your race. Second race, you flew.”

“We flew on birds, and I won easily. Sendar created a massive condor, large enough to accommodate his substantial girth. Even in the Dreaming, you see, he prefers as many muscles as possible. He likes to match his size to his ego. But I selected an ordinary-size raven and shrunk myself. His condor crashed from the weight, and I flew to the finish line with time to spare.”

Behind her, she felt Korbyn shift, as if seeking a better position. She tried to scoot her feet farther under her so he’d have more room, but that just caused her knee to bump against his shoulder. She flinched as if the touch had burned.

“He chose a horse for the third race, of course, and at the appointed time, he charged forward. He tore across the desert with sand billowing in his wake. Some say he created his own sandstorms. But when he reached the finish line, I was already there.”

The wind teased the edges of the rip, trying to tug the tarp out of her hands. She held it tightly and speared the canvas with the needle. She tried to ignore the warmth of his body beside her. Once Bayla inhabited her body . . .

“You are supposed to be so intensely curious that you ask me how I managed to accomplish such a miraculous feat,” Korbyn said.

Midstitch, she froze. “Please, forgive me.”

He sighed. “You do not need to show me continuous deference. I’m not your god.”

“You’re my goddess’s lover.”

“True,” he said.

She felt his eyes on her, and she wondered again if he were picturing her as Bayla. She wondered if he was evaluating her body. Or imagining it. She tried to focus on the stitches, but her fingers shook. She wondered if he planned to speak again. “Could you please tell me how you won?”

“Since you asked so nicely . . . I won the race by moving the finish line to me.”

Looking over her shoulder at him, she tried to puzzle what he meant.

“Remember, this was in the Dreaming. I simply . . . bent the desert. Sendar believed he was racing straight to the finish line, but in truth, he completed a vast circle. I curved it as he ran until the finish line was at my feet. I never moved from the starting line.”

“That’s brilliant.”

“I thought so. But I’m glad you agree. It will make this journey much more pleasant if you are impressed with my brilliance.” He flashed her a smile.

She laughed. It felt good to laugh, as if her ribs were remembering some old game that they used to be fond of.

“Well, that’s a surprise,” he said.

“What is?”

“You can laugh.”

“Of course I can laugh,” she said. “Life simply hasn’t been very amusing lately, with the exception of the lizard in my aunt’s hair.”

“Your aunt wears lizards in her hair?”

She told him about the lizard that had graced Aunt Sabisa’s hair on the morning of the summoning ceremony and how she had stomped around like a human sandstorm. To her surprise, he laughed, filling the tent with untamed joy. They continued to trade stories and laugh until both of them sank into sleep.

Liyana snapped awake. She blinked once to prove to herself that her eyes were open. She was enveloped by darkness. She felt a warm body pressed against her side. Her cheek lay against the cool tarp of a tent wall. Usually she slept between her cousins, and for an instant she could not comprehend how she had rolled across them to reach the wall. But then she realized that the deep, steady breathing beside her was from a male.

Korbyn.

Like a sandstorm, memory swept through her, and she felt as choked as if she had swallowed sand. She forced herself to breathe evenly as she focused on a sliver of moonlight that gleamed through the door flap. She was aware of how close the man . . . boy . . . god . . . next to her was. She felt his warmth beside her, a sharp contrast to the chill of the tarp. She listened to him breathe. So close, she could smell his skin. He smelled of spices, like an expensive tea.

Still asleep, Korbyn cried out. She felt his body stiffen. His arm, splayed across her, tensed. She flattened against her side of the tent as he made a sound like an animal’s cry. He flailed again, and his arm hit the opposite side of the tent. “Korbyn?” she whispered in the darkness. Louder: “Korbyn!”

The whimpered cry ceased. His voice was soft in the darkness. “You woke me.”

“Forgive me,” she said. “But you were dreaming.”

“I am unused to dreams. In the Dreaming, there is no need for sleep, and therefore there are no dreams.” His voice was conversational, even loud. Outside, the desert was silent except for the wind. “I suppose that is ironic, given the name. Tell me of your dreams, Liyana.”

She thought of the jumble of images that cluttered her dreams. Often she saw Jidali shimmying up a date palm tree. Sometimes he fell. She dreamed about dancing, and she’d wake with her blankets tangled around her legs. Once, she dreamed of a sea of hip-high wheat that bowed in the breeze. “I dream about my family,” Liyana said. “But if you mean bad dreams . . . in those, I dream I’m alone.”

He didn’t reply with details of his own dream. She wished she dared to ask. She wished she could see his face. If he were family, she would have comforted him. She listened to him breathe. Tentatively she said, “Stories say that sand wolves were born from bad dreams.”

She heard him chuckle.

Emboldened, she continued, “Long ago, the rains didn’t come to the hunting grounds of the Jackal Clan. Days were filled with thirst and hunger, and nights were filled with dreams of death. When the jackal god came to them, he filled the wells with water and brought the gazelle to the hunters. Days were filled with water and food, but nights were still filled with dreams of death—the memories of the time with no rain.” She hesitated. She used to tell this story to Jidali when he woke from a nightmare, but Korbyn wasn’t a child. He didn’t stop her, though, and the silence expanded until she wanted to fill it. “One night, the jackal god bade his people to fall asleep, and then he gathered up their dreams and threw them into a storm. There, stirred by the wind, they mixed with the sand and became the sand wolves. And that is why we fear the sand wolves and why they continue to plague us—they are our nightmares and they want to return to us. But they cannot leave their wind to hurt us, just as your dreams cannot leave your mind to hurt you.”

She fell silent. He didn’t speak.

Searching for something to say, Liyana said, “My little brother loves that story.”

“In the absence of truth, a story will do,” Korbyn said.

“What is the truth?” she asked. She wished she could suck the words back in. It wasn’t her place to ask to hear divine truths. She wondered what sort of secrets were in his mind—and what kind of horrors. He had seen generations of humans with their flaws and their failures. She wondered how she measured up against the thousands of lives that he had seen come and go.

“Once, there was a lizard who was obsessed with the truth . . . ,” he said.

She knew this one, about a lizard who learned the value of a delicate lie and thus mastered the art of camouflage, but she let him tell it anyway. If he did not want to share his thoughts and secrets with her, that was his right.

But if he had a nightmare again, then god or not, she would wake him.

At dawn Liyana rolled up the tent. She didn’t speak of dreams or wolves, but she watched Korbyn as he stretched on top of a dune. He folded his body over, laid his palms in the sand, and balanced himself in a handstand. She checked over their supplies.

“Our food won’t last more than two days,” she commented. She shook the waterskins. Some water sloshed in one, but the other was empty. “Water won’t last the day. That has to be the priority.”

He flipped upright and executed a bow. “Your wish is my command.”

She blinked. She hadn’t meant that as an order. Oh, goddess, have I offended him? She thought of how familiar she’d acted with him last night, waking him from his sleep and swapping stories in the darkness. Had she overstepped then, too? Liyana dropped to her knees. “My continued lapses in discretion would be a source of vast embarrassment to my family and clan if they knew. Please pardon my behavior.” She bowed her head and hoped that had been enough to cover the myriad of offenses she was certain she’d caused over the last day.

When he didn’t answer, she raised her head. He looked amused. “There is a fine line between deference and sarcasm,” he said. “You leaped over it.”

Liyana winced. “I was never supposed to meet a deity! I don’t know how you want me to behave.” She noticed that he had packed the tent and was hefting the pack onto his shoulders. “At least let me carry that.”

He refused, skipping backward as she reached toward the pack. “This body is as strong and healthy as yours.”

“But you’re a god!”

“I never asked for your deference, Liyana. So long as you do nothing to hinder our goal, you may behave however you wish. If you want to howl like a wolf, I won’t stop you. If you want to cross the desert on all fours, please be my guest. If you want to pass the journey by telling bawdy stories . . .” He paused. “Do you know any bawdy stories?”

She couldn’t help smiling. “I don’t know you nearly well enough for those.”

“Aha! So that means you do know some!” Carrying the pack, he began to walk across the sands. She scooped up the waterskins and followed. “So, what will it take to get to know me well enough? Do you want to hear about the first time I inhabited a vessel and how I failed to take into account the urgency of certain bodily needs?”

Liyana laughed. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes. Almost all deities pee themselves at least once in the middle of performing a miracle.” He strode across the dunes, and she matched his pace.

“Even Bayla?” she asked.

“She was summoning water from deep underground to create a new well. It is a difficult task. It’s far easier to fill an existing well because the water is already present. Far more difficult to coax water into the bedrock of an area without it. At any rate, the task required fierce concentration over an extended length of time.” He paused. “It is a blessing that you won’t be able to tell Bayla that I told you this. She is far more concerned about her dignity than I am.”

Her smile faded. “What is Bayla like?”

“Glorious! Also punctual.”

Liyana nearly smiled again, but it was difficult when she couldn’t help thinking of how Bayla should have come the night before last. She had not been punctual then.

“She values order and cultivates precision. Her section of the Dreaming has smooth, unblemished sand, and she does not tolerate imperfection.”

“She sounds like my mother.” Liyana tried to keep her voice even, as if this were an ordinary conversation, but she failed. She wondered what Mother would say if she saw her daughter trekking across the desert with Korbyn, and she felt an ache inside as sharp as the sand wolf’s claws. Mother must think I am dead.

“Our clans often come to value our characteristics,” Korbyn said. “In many ways, I am her opposite. I am imperfection personified. I am the rule-bender. I am the trickster. I am—”

“The raven,” Liyana said.

“Yes.”

“And proud of it?” It was a gentle tease, just enough to test the waters and see if he meant what he said about not needing deference. If so . . . Well, she had never been very good at deference. It would be a relief to abandon it.

“Justifiably,” Korbyn said. “Do you know of the time when the raven—”

“So if she’s so perfect and you’re so imperfect, how did you fall in love?”

He weathered the interruption without blinking. “Bayla loves to laugh. And I can make her laugh.” His voice was soft, as if he were filled with memories. Liyana wished she were filled with memories like that, ones that could fill her voice with warmth. As a vessel, that had never been possible. In a cheerful voice he asked, “Do you want to hear how I won her heart?”

“Of course,” she said. She thought of Ger and Esti and the warmth in their eyes. She wasn’t destined to ever experience that. She had another purpose, she reminded herself, and with each step across the sand, she walked closer to it.

She continued to walk with purpose as Korbyn launched into an outrageous tale of how he’d impressed Bayla by rearranging her carefully laid out constellations in the sky above her portion of the Dreaming. Bayla had retaliated in kind until all the stars were woven together in a bright path across the sky, which they then walked upon.