Chapter Eight
In the mornings, as the sun slowly cooked the air, Liyana and Korbyn covered as many miles as they could. Once the desert reached what felt like fire pit temperatures, Liyana pitched the tent. She waited in the shade while Korbyn coaxed moisture from the nearby desert plants. He returned with full waterskins, as well as tubers that shouldn’t have been ripe yet and clutches of lizard eggs that shouldn’t have been laid yet. He then collapsed inside the tent while she took a turn outside, shredding the tubers and frying the eggs over a tiny fire. In the late afternoons, when the air didn’t sear their lungs as badly, they continued on, trading stories as they walked. Liyana laughed so much that her ribs ached, and the dunes rang with the sound of Korbyn’s laughter. They followed this routine for nine days, leaving the sand dunes and entering an area of caked earth pockmarked by patches of yellowed grasses and barrel-shaped cacti.
On the tenth day, Liyana saw the silhouette of date palm trees. They clustered in a grove of seven or eight with narrow trunks that curved up to crowns of leaves. “Real or a mirage?”
“Real,” Korbyn said.
She squinted at the oasis, and the palm trees wavered and stretched. “How can you tell?” He couldn’t have used magic. Even though he was a god, he had to be in a trance to work magic like any magician, and she didn’t think he could enter a trance while he walked.
“I used my divine wisdom and superior intellect.”
Liyana shielded her eyes and spotted a plume of sand. It billowed around three figures on horseback who were riding toward them. “Or you saw them.” She pointed.
“Or I saw them,” he agreed. Sloughing off the pack, Korbyn plopped down in the sand. “Let’s eat lunch.”
She halted. “Now? But we’re so close!”
“Us walking will save them ten minutes of riding,” Korbyn said. “Let them come to us. We can then ride into camp refreshed.” He glugged water from the waterskin and then handed it to Liyana. Digging into the pack, he produced a flat cake composed of baked tuber. He bit into it. “Needs spices,” he commented. “We can borrow some from Sendar’s people. Oh, and I should warn you that Sendar’s clan may or may not hate me, thanks to that whole incident with the race. Sendar’s a sore loser.”
Liyana choked down a bite of the baked tuber and then gave it back to Korbyn, who gobbled it up. “Have they had their summoning ceremony yet?” She wondered how this clan would react to their news. She wished she could have told hers. Instead they were bound for Yubay, not knowing their dreamwalk was doomed to fail.
“We will know soon enough,” Korbyn said.
As they came, she saw that the riders were wrapped head to toe in blue. Thin slits in the cloth showed their eyes and mouths. Swords were strapped to their backs, and bows and arrows were affixed to their saddles. She wondered if they were hunters or warriors. She knew the Horse Clan had an ample supply of both. Their magnificent horses needed to be defended against thieves, especially during the annual fair. “What if they think we’re horse thieves?” she asked.
“They’ll cut off our hands, gouge out our eyes, and feed us to the vultures.” He chomped on the tuber. “Or they’ll feed us to the horses, if food is scarce enough.”
“This doesn’t worry you?” Liyana asked.
“I’d prefer not to lose my eyes.”
She dropped down in the sand next to him and drank deeply from the waterskin. “With your divine wisdom and superior intellect, do you have a plan?”
He flashed her a smile. “I plan . . . to tell the truth.” He spread both his hands, palms out, as if to show his innocence. “I know, it’s a rash course of action, one that I personally have never attempted, but I believe it’s worth a try.”
“I hope they give you a chance.” The riders had shifted into a canter. The horses thundered toward Korbyn and Liyana, kicking up sand under their hooves.
“As do I,” he said softly.
Sand sprayed over Liyana and Korbyn as the riders reined in their horses a few feet away. One horse pawed the ground and snorted, as if it wanted to continue to run. The other two held as still as soldiers. None of the riders dismounted.
Korbyn held up his hand in greeting.
“You trespass on Horse Clan territory during the sacred time,” the first said—it was a woman’s voice, harsh and low. Liyana couldn’t see the woman’s face through the cloth. Only her eyes were visible.
The second, a man, added, “If you are in need of water and sustenance, we will share what we carry, but we cannot invite you to share the hospitality of our camp at this time.”
The third didn’t speak. He held a knife in his beefy hand.
Korbyn gestured at the tuber cakes and waterskins. “Please, we invite you to share our food and water. The tubers are not bad, albeit a bit bland.”
“Your names and clan,” the woman demanded.
“We have come to offer assistance to the Horse Clan,” Korbyn said.
Liyana thought it was wise that Korbyn hadn’t volunteered his identity, despite his resolution to tell the truth. The third rider had not loosened his grip on his knife.
“We do not need assistance from strangers,” the woman said.
“Your clan chief will wish to speak with us,” Korbyn said merrily. “At present our needs and interests coincide.”
The third rider grunted, and his horse huffed as if echoing him.
“ ‘At present’ is an interesting word choice,” the second rider said. “Are we to presume that your intentions are honest and peaceful ‘at present’?”
The first rider shifted in her saddle. Her horse strained at the bridle as if the mare wanted to run again. “You cannot be considering—” she began.
“One man, one woman, no mounts,” the second said, waving at them. “One supply pack. Two waterskins. And the nearest well is a week’s journey.”
“Nine days, actually,” Korbyn volunteered.
Ignoring him, the second rider continued. “The chief asked for anything unusual, and I believe this qualifies.”
“This is a mistake,” the first rider growled.
“Your objection is noted,” the second rider said.
Korbyn rose in a smooth movement. Belatedly Liyana scrambled to her feet. Her muscles, sore from the endless trek, protested. Korbyn noticed and reached out to steady her. “Could we ride with you?” he asked the riders. “It has been a long and tiring journey.”
“Only if you give us your weapons,” the first rider said.
Liyana was not giving up Jidali’s knife. “I’ll walk.”
Korbyn raised both his eyebrows at her. “You surprise me,” he said to her. “It has been a long time since I met anyone who surprised me.” She wanted to ask if that was good or bad. If they’d been alone, she would have. Instead she began walking toward the oasis. Korbyn trudged along with her, and the three riders spread out on either side and behind them.
“If they touch their weapons on their way through camp,” the second rider said to the third, “you have my permission to skewer them.”
Through the mouth slit in the facecloth, Liyana saw the third rider’s lips curve into a smile. His eyes remained as flat and expressionless as a diamond cobra’s. She shivered and kept walking. She kept her hands by her sides, away from her knife.
* * *
The Horse Clan tents circled the date palm trees. Made of burgundy, black, and spotted hide, the tents were tall and round as opposed to low triangles—a visual reminder that this wasn’t Liyana’s clan. Men, women, and children were engaged in ordinary and familiar tasks: Clothes were being mended, bread was being kneaded, blankets were being woven, and animals were being cared for. Inside the circle of tents, the green heart of the oasis belonged to the horses. They grazed on the tufts of dried grasses and nibbled at the peeling bark of the trees. Seeking shade, foals leaned against their mothers. Under one tree, two stallions butted chests in a mock battle. From a distance, it looked idyllic. But as they passed the outer circle of tents, Li
yana noticed that the horses’ hides were as dull and patchy as worn blankets, and their ribs pressed against their flesh. Flies buzzed around the face of one chestnut mare, and pus leaked from her eyes. The horse troughs were empty.
“Sendar’s herd used to be the jewel of the desert,” Korbyn said in a soft voice.
Even more than her clan needed Bayla, these people needed their deity. Horses couldn’t digest the brittle desert bushes that the goats ate in times of severe draught. “Who would take our gods away from us?” Liyana asked.
Again Korbyn didn’t answer.
As they passed through the camp, Liyana scanned the faces, trying to spot a friendly expression. Most faces were covered in blue or white cloth, and those that weren’t looked gaunt with prominent cheekbones and sunken cheeks—they mirrored their bony horses. Men and women dropped their tasks and followed. She heard whispers that rose to a steady locust-like hum.
The riders led them to an ornate tent covered in tassels. The hide walls were desert tan but decorated with images of hoofprints and swirls. The peak of the tent was higher than that of any of the other tents, and its girth was double. She guessed that this was the clan’s council tent.
As they approached, the tent flap was tossed open, and the largest man that Liyana had ever seen emerged. He had to twist sideways to pass through the tent opening. Framed by the prevalent blue cloth, his long, horselike face tapered into a twisted beard that reminded Liyana of a horse’s tail. He wore tan, leather robes with golden tassels. A fat sword hung from his beaded belt, and he held a horse whip in one hand. He scowled at them. “I am the chief of the Horse Clan. You trespass at a sacred time.”
Korbyn bowed. “Please accept our apologies for this untimely intrusion, though once you hear why we have come, I think you will agree that it is, in fact, timely indeed.”
The chief grunted in response.
“You are a man of few words, I see,” Korbyn said.
His scowl deepened, and Liyana shrank back as if from a looming storm. She wondered if Korbyn could sense the chief’s growing hostility. Perhaps this was part of his plan.
“Let me cut straight to the point,” Korbyn said. “We need to speak with your vessel.”
“He prepares for the summoning ceremony,” the chief said, his voice a rumble.
“Ahh . . . in that case, please interrupt him,” Korbyn said cheerfully. “What we need to discuss is directly relevant.”
The chief flicked his arm, and the horse whip snaked out. It cracked in the sand at their feet. Liyana jumped. Korbyn didn’t even flinch. Whinnying, the nearby horses shied away. Liyana thought of how he’d burned his hand. Perhaps he’d forgotten that he was in a mortal body. “You disrespect us,” the chief said.
“He doesn’t!” Liyana said. “Korbyn, tell him.”
“As you wish,” Korbyn said. All humor drained from his face, and when he addressed the chief again, his tone was serious. “Several of the desert deities, including Sendar, were summoned from the Dreaming but never arrived at their clans. Their souls have been, in essence, kidnapped.”
“Lies,” the clan chief said. “No one can kidnap a god.”
“It’s happened already,” Korbyn said. To Liyana, he said, “Show them who you are.”
Liyana pushed up her sleeves. “I’m the vessel of Bayla of the Goat Clan. We conducted the summoning ceremony. . . .” She felt a lump in her throat, and she swallowed hard. “She didn’t come.” Even knowing the truth, it was hard to say. She felt the weight of her failure all over again. She bowed her head. “Bayla was supposed to enter me, and she didn’t.”
“She couldn’t,” Korbyn said. “Like Sendar couldn’t.” He tapped his nose. “I can smell a lie. Your vessel isn’t preparing for the ceremony. You have already completed it, and it failed. Hence the hostility in our greeting from your guards. Hence the lack of hospitality now.”
Around them, murmurs rose into shouts.
The chief held up his hand.
Instant silence.
“Lies,” the chief said. “Lies and tricks.” He pointed at Korbyn with the whip. “Identify your name and clan.”
Liyana inched closer to Korbyn. Like the tents surrounding the oasis, the Horse Clan encircled the two of them. She felt as if their stares were stones ready to be thrown. The pressure of Jidali’s knife in her sash wasn’t much comfort.
“I am a friend to all desert clans,” Korbyn said.
The chief did not lower the whip. “You are Korbyn, trickster god of the Raven Clan, who has heaped countless humiliations on my god and stole his beloved Bayla through flattery and lies.” He spat at Korbyn’s feet.
Korbyn spread his hands in a show of innocence. “Your deity and I may have had our differences, but never at the cost of harm to any of our people.”
“And you”—the chief pointed the whip at Liyana—“have joined the trickster to humiliate my people. We are not fooled. You are Bayla herself.”
Liyana’s mouth dropped open. “I . . .”
“I wish this were a trick,” Korbyn said, “but for once, I am telling the truth. I can see how you would be confused. This honesty and nobility is new to me as well—”
“Seize them,” the chief ordered.
Two men strode forward and caught Liyana’s arms from behind. Two others grabbed Korbyn. Liyana yelped and struggled, but Korbyn held still. “For the good of your clan, I hope you will hear sense,” Korbyn said. His voice was mild. “I believe that the souls of the lost deities have been captured in false vessels. They must be freed from their prisons and then transferred into true vessels. I can perform the summoning chant for the transfer, but the vessels must be there to dance. Liyana has agreed to accompany me on behalf of her clan. We hope that your vessel will too, as well as the vessels from the Silk Clan, the Scorpion Clan, and the Falcon Clan. Together, we can rescue your deities.”
The chief glowered at Liyana. “You abandoned your clan to perpetuate this trick? I believed better of Sendar’s beloved than to keep our god from us. You have fallen low.”
“I’m not Sendar’s beloved! I’m a vessel! And I didn’t abandon anyone. My clan left me to die in the desert because Bayla never came.” She pulled forward, straining against the hands that were clasped hard around her forearms. They squeezed, and tears sprang into her eyes.
“If you are human, then prove it.” The chief strode toward Liyana.
For the first time, she heard worry in Korbyn’s voice. “Let’s not be hasty. Sendar would not want harm—”
The chief drew his sword.
Liyana’s eyes fixed on the blade, but her mind couldn’t understand what it meant. Surely he didn’t intend to—
He plunged his sword into her stomach. “Heal yourself, goddess.”
Chapter Nine
Liyana felt stillness for one endless moment. Everything seemed hushed. She saw faces twist and mouths stretch as if they were shouting, but she heard only the whoosh of wind. Her body felt light. She knew that two men held her arms, but she couldn’t feel their grip. She looked down at her stomach. The sword hilt protruded. Red blossomed around it and spread through her sash, soaking the fabric.
The chief yanked the hilt, and the sword pulled out of her with a sucking sound that reverberated in her head—the only sound she heard. She felt as if all the air had been pulled out of her with the sword. She covered her stomach with her hands. Wetness poured over her fingers. She tried to hold the liquid back, but her wet fingers slid over one another.
Her stomach started to throb, a dull pulse of pain that intensified with each second. It spread like a fire eating the grasslands, overwhelming the feel of her arms and legs until the only sensation she felt was fire. She was burning inside and out. Hands lowered her down as she slumped into the sand. Blackness crawled into her eyes, and her vision narrowed to only the sand by her cheek.
And then she was cradled against a chest. She focused on a face. Korbyn.
She wanted to say she was sorry she’d failed to fin
ish their quest. But her throat felt full of liquid. She coughed, and red spattered Korbyn. His face stilled, as if it had hardened into stone, while his eyes focused on her with a gaze as searing as the sun. Her vision contracted until all she saw was his eyes. And then even they were gone. She floated in a sea of darkness.
Colors came and went. Warmth. Coldness. Softness. Shooting, searing pain.
And then nothing.
Eventually she noticed cushions. Pillows were nestled all around her, and she was swaddled in blankets. She fluttered her eyes open, but she saw only shadows that swayed above her. She closed her eyes and drifted away again.
The next time she woke, she heard voices. They were hushed, and the words ran together like poured water. She listened to the trickle for a while, and it lulled her back to sleep.
She dreamed about Jidali.
“Liyana, am I going to die?” her little brother asked.
“Not for a long time,” she said.
“But someday?”
“Why don’t you ask Father about this?”
“He said to ask you.”
She remembered this conversation. It wasn’t a dream; it was a memory. She’d tried to change the topic. She’d tried to distract him with games. She’d even offered up a sugared date as a bribe. But in the end, she had told Jidali yes, and he’d cried.
The next day, Mother had let them shirk their chores. Liyana remembered that she had taken Jidali to visit Talu’s mother, a woman so old that she had resembled a tortoise.
“You’re seeking wisdom, little man?”
“I want to know about death,” he’d said in his tiny, birdlike voice.
“Ah, and I look like I have seen death.” She’d sounded amused.
“Everyone says not to be scared or sad because we go to the Dreaming and it doesn’t hurt there and all my wishes can come true there.”
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