“All right,” Soren said. “Let’s stop for an hour and get out of this heat.”
The men reached the oasis after a few more minutes. They took off their horses’ saddles and chuckled as they watched the beasts roll around in the grass on their backs. Soren did not realize until he had his mouth full of bread just how famished he was. He had fucked all night, stopping only to hydrate. Soren popped an olive in his mouth and bit down through its meat to the pit. He used his front teeth to peel away the olive and then spat the seed into the rough grass. His thoughts gnawed at him as he ate. If he had just paid attention—if he had not thrown himself into his lust—he would have noticed Sillara was missing.
Nathen sat down beside him with his own bowl of food. “What could you have done?” It was as if he had read Soren’s mind. Was Soren’s regret so plain on his face?
“I just,” Soren said, “I just shouldn’t have let her run off with Konas.”
“Run off?”
Soren immediately wished he had not said that, not revealed his fears to Nathen. “You know what I mean.”
Nathen tore at a hunk of bread, chewed, and swallowed it. “You think she wanted to be alone with him?”
Soren’s worry crushed him. “I don’t know.” But he did know. Sillara had not sought the privacy. That had been Konas all along, and that is what worried Soren so.
“I hope not,” Nathen said. “It’d be a waste.”
Soren sensed Nathen’s admiration for Sillara, and though he could not blame him for feeling that way, he leaped to her defense. “She’s betrothed to the Ausir King.”
“I know that. I wonder what her voice will sound like in those royal Ausir halls.”
Nathen still thought of the welcome party, when Sillara had sung in many voices at once. She had charmed the whole assembly, but Soren knew that she had impressed Nathen deeply. He talked about her in a different way—softly, reverently. He looked at her with love in his eyes. The presumption disgusted Soren. Nathen was a gnat in the radiance of Sillara’s countenance. He could never—nor could anyone—aspire to her hand.
Soren finished his lunch quickly, keeping his mouth full to keep from saying anything he might regret. Then he lay back and closed his eyes. “I’ll sleep for an hour or so. Wake me.”
****
The panicked whinnying of a horse awoke Soren. He jumped to his feet and was instantly alert, thanks to the soldierly vigilance he learned while at sea. Nathen was already mounted, and he rode his horse out across the sands. But a dust cloud roiled before him, and his horse reared back in fright. A sandwurm. Soren’s sprinted to his horse, but it was not saddled. He did not stop to think. He bounded onto the beast’s back, grabbed its mane, and squeezed its flanks with his knees. The horse sprang forward.
Out of the dust cloud the wurm stuck its spiny head. Its mandibles snapped at Nathen, and he barely avoided being bitten in half by dropping off his saddle and riding alongside his horse. He whirled around, but the wurm coiled back and struck again. This time its jaws ripped through horseflesh and brought the animal down. Nathen was thrown far from his mount, and the sand soaked up the horse’s blood. The wurm rose up, its many legs wiggling, and fell upon the dying beast. Nathen scrambled to his feet, but there was nowhere to go. No man could outrun a sandwurm.
The wurm devoured the horse in one piece, picking up the still-living animal with its mandibles that served to shove it down its gullet. It screeched and moved its long, flat body around to bear down on Nathen. It swam through the sand, its body half submerged. Along its back ran a series of angled plates that parted the sand, making it easier to achieve speed. Its tail, which ended in a long spike, flailed in the air, high above the dust cloud.
Nathen was dead. He knew it. He cried out in despair, tripped, and scrambled forward. He had no hope. The wurm scurried forward on its many legs, closing in for the kill. But Soren was faster. He spurred his horse on, and just as the wurm rose to strike, he rose between the monster and its prey, swept Nathen up with one arm, and pulled him over his saddle. He did not allow the horse to break its stride but kept it galloping through the dust cloud. Soren rode right alongside the wurm’s long body. He saw the lump where the other horse was inside, but he kept riding through the cloud. This limited visibility for both predator and prey, but the alternative was to be eaten by the wurm. Soren would take his chances.
When he reached the tail, he glanced back to see that the wurm was turning toward him. Soren banked right, turning his horse back toward the oasis. The wurm crossed over its own body as Soren exited the dust cloud. He rode hard for the oasis. He had javelins there. In one swift move, he tossed Nathen from his saddle. He could not have the extra weight, and he would need his balance. Then he rose by his pack, leaned down while trotting, and snatched up a javelin. Wurms were cowards. If hurt, they would go in search of other prey. Besides, it already had a full belly. Now it was just being greedy.
Soren rode straight for the sandwurm, testing the weight of the javelin in his hand, moving it forward slightly to sit perfectly balanced. When the wurm’s mandibles were right above him ready to strike, Soren pulled his horse sharply to the left. The wurm struck sand, and Soren let his javelin fly. It pierced soft flesh between two large plates on the back of its head. The wurm screeched and thrashed and then sounded. Soren watched the rippling sands move off in another direction.
They were safe, though they had lost a horse.
“What in Veirakai’s black dick were you doing?” Soren pulled his horse to a stop right where Nathen was dusting himself off.
Shame filled Nathen’s face. “I was going ahead just a bit to see what I could see.” The lie was obvious. He was sneaking off, and he would have gotten away if the wurm had not popped up.
Soren dismounted and stood before Nathen. He clenched his fists. “Where were you going?”
Nathen glanced down at Soren’s hands. “There is another oasis, one I’ve never told you or anyone about. I shouldn’t even call it an oasis, for it’s larger than any I’ve ever seen.”
“What about it? Is that where my sister is?” Soren knew Nathen tried to abandon him for Sillara. Nathen wanted to find her by himself, but to what end Soren could not fathom. Konas would be there with her, so what did Nathen hope to accomplish?
“It’s possible she’s there. If they went west far enough, they couldn’t have missed it. An entire civilization lives there among several lakes.”
Soren relaxed a bit. “How do you know about that place?”
“I ran across it when I got lost on a wurm hunt once. Years ago.”
“A people in the desert that the Sunjaa know nothing about?” Soren found Nathen’s story hard to believe.
“I don’t know anything about them,” Nathen said. “I didn’t actually go among them.” His confidence grew as he spoke. “I just thought if I could get there first, I would be able to ascertain whether or not they were dangerous. No point in losing both the Itenu children to hostiles.”
Soren did not believe that excuse for a second, but it did not matter. Nathen could go nowhere without Soren now. He was at his mercy.
“Get the gear, and get on,” Soren said. “We’re riding out.”
Just then, terror struck Soren. Panic. Fear. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Sillara was in danger. Death approached.
Soren ran out into the desert and cried to the desolate dunes, “I’m coming, Sillara! Wait for me!”
Chapter Thirteen
Three days. The words continued to repeat themselves over in her mind. Three days since I have seen Soren. Two days since we crashed. Sillara felt her eyes prick and sting as though she were about to cry, but there was no water in her body for tears. She tried to lick her lips, but the movement brought only pain. Around her the silent desert stretched out, purple under the moonslight, and cold wind stung her. She pulled up the hood of her cloak, trying to keep out the sand.
“Forgive me, Sillara.” Konas's voice was cracked and broken, and Sillara knew fro
m her own condition that speech was painful. “I shouldn't have … brought you into … the desert.”
Sillara reached over and patted his hand. They were walking, or rather, barely creeping, west, and Konas was wrapped like a Sunjaa mummy. She wanted to comfort him, but there was no comfort to give. Had he not faked the crash in the first place, she would not now be in danger of death.
Death. And Soren nowhere near. She was going to die, and she could not bid her brother farewell. Sorrow choked her, and she despaired. Soren would look for her, but he would never find her. She was nowhere, lost in the billowing dunes, and there her corpse would rest, far from the roses of her dream, far from Soren.
Soren's agony filled her mind. He was sorrowing, and she knew that she must be the cause. Soren knew her danger, and it hurt him. If Sillara had had anything in her belly, she would have vomited it. Instead, as her body was empty, she endured the sickening nausea of fear. Her own dread of death rebounded from Soren, doubled by taking his fear up into it.
Beside her Konas stumbled, and Sillara reached out, letting him lean on her. His fairer skin had made these past two days harder for him, and he had, she was sure, been giving her part of his share of the water, water that had run out after the first day. Furthermore, his eyes were still strained from the sand-storm, and he walked, most of the time, with his eyes closed and bandaged.
“I love you.” Konas murmured the words as he leaned his head on her shoulder. “So … sorry.”
Sillara was sorry, too, but she did not wish to add to Konas's burden. Instead she stroked his hair, the only part of him visible through the strips of white silk—remnants of the balloon—in which he had wrapped himself.
“We have … no hope.” Konas, despite his words, did not stop his slow westward trudge. “I have … killed you.”
Sillara shook her head. “Hope while we breathe.” But her heart was crying the tears her eyes could not shed, and she did not want to die. She resolved not to fall asleep that morning. They traveled by night and during the day took refuge beneath the shade of balloon silk. Sillara knew that there was no water left in her, nor was there any strength. When she next closed her eyes to sleep, she would not wake, and she did not wish for death to find her sleeping. No, she would go to Nistaran's halls with her eyes open, like a Tamari should.
Sillara's steps grew slower, and she felt Konas, too, wobbling unsteadily on his legs.
“I am glad … I could … have you,” said Konas. “Even if … only for a day.”
Sillara forced a smile, despite the cracking of her lips. She did not reproach Konas, though she knew that, were it not for this love of his for her, she would now be laughing and teasing Soren over the orgy, listening to him talk, sitting beneath the green palms of the oasis, swimming in the water in the cool of the evening.
She closed her eyes, almost seeing it. Yes, when she died, she would remember the most joyful days of her life. It would be pleasant. Sillara opened her eyes, and she sighed. This was it then. Death.
For before her waking eyes she saw the green palms of the oasis, saw the glimmering pools, brilliant in the moonslight, and Sillara pressed Konas's hand in farewell.
“Sillara?” Konas's voice was a mere breath, more croak than speech.
But Sillara did not reply. She had never seen such an oasis as this. The trees were many, and there were not only the two pools as at the oasis where she had left Soren and the others. No, here were dozens of pools, some so large she would have to call them lakes. Among them she could make out low, brick dwellings. Still Sillara did not quite believe it. Could this be a mirage, the cruelest trick of the desert?
“Look, Konas,” she said at last.
Konas unbound his eyes, and Sillara waited, staring at the image before her.
“Abrexa's cunt.” Konas's favorite oath slipped out.
Sillara knew then that he, too, saw it, and she laughed, despite the pain in her lips, when he crushed her against him. Their strength welled up fresh within them, and they walked, still too weak for running, at a better pace than since their water had run out.
It was the longest mile of Sillara's life, but at last she and Konas stumbled out of the desert dunes into what she could only call a city. It was not, of course, anywhere near the size of Arinport, but it was large enough. There were more buildings than she could at once count, and the trees were taller than she had ever seen in any oasis.
As she and Konas took the last step out of the sand and into the harder, damper ground of the oasis—for she knew not what else to call it—she heard voices. People came from every doorway, and she and Konas were surrounded by strangers.
“Water,” said Konas. “Please.”
He spoke in Ausir, as he had been doing since they had left Soren, but Sillara saw no understanding in the eyes of those who met them. She did not think it very material, however, for she saw some two or three people making their way to what appeared to be a well. Instead of trying to speak, Sillara listened and observed. The people of this city were, obviously, Men. She saw no sign of the high cheekbones and overly-large eyes of the Ausir, let alone their horns or ears. No, these people were Men.
Half-bloods.
It struck Sillara suddenly that these people were part Sunjaa, but only part. Their skin was, like her own, a shade like that of coffee mixed with milk, a creamy golden-brown, and of all the tribes of Men, only the Sunjaa were so dark as to make this shade possible. They wore cloaks, of course, for the desert winds were cold; but she caught glimpses beneath of scraps of clothing. The men wore what seemed to be loincloths, but not the fine linen of Sunjaa skirts, rather some sort of animal skin or leather. The women wore the same, along with a scrap of the same fabric tied across their breasts.
Someone put a tin cup into Sillara's hand, saying something as he did so. Sillara concentrated on the words, trying to understand. He accompanied his speech with gestures, so Sillara understood he was warning her not to drink too much.
She smiled inwardly. She knew in theory, if not practice, how to handle dehydration, and she obeyed by sipping only the tiniest mouthful. The water stung her throat as it went down, and Sillara slowly dropped to her knees. Konas had already unwrapped his face, and the gasps that accompanied the revelation of his face and of the fact that his horns were attached, not part of some headdress, told Sillara that these people had never seen an Ausir.
Sillara took another sip, still listening to the words of those around her. This mouthful stung a little less, and she dared a slightly larger mouthful the third time.
These people must have been part Sunjaa, part some fair-skinned people. Probably Vadal or Fihdal. Then Sillara caught a word she recognized, an archaic Sunjaa term for water.
“Nw,” said Sillara.
The people stopped still and stared at her. No one spoke, and Sillara repeated herself. “Nw.” She took another sip.
“They can understand you.” Konas's voice was still ragged, but he spoke more clearly than he had in two days. “You know what they are saying?”
Sillara shook her head. “I think they speak something related to ancient Sunjaa.” She tried another word. “Tni?”
The people shook their heads, obviously not understanding.
“Not exactly the same as ancient Sunjaa.” Sillara smiled wryly. But then, they are not purely Sunjaa, are they? She tried again, using an ancient Fihdal dialect she had never heard spoken, only read. “Dovay?”
“Tambril's City.”
Sillara blinked. Why should this people, who had no knowledge of Ausir, name their city after an Ausir?
“Why did they say 'tambril'?” asked Konas.
“They said this is his city.” She turned to the man who had spoken, who seemed to be the leader of them all, or at least their chief speaker. “Tambril dovay?”
“What did you ask them?” whispered Konas.
“I think I asked where Tambril is.” Sillara did not have to wait long. The same speaker offered her his arm, helping her to her feet. Ko
nas struggled to stand, too.
“I don't think we should separate,” said Konas.
Sillara nodded, but there seemed no need for Konas's concern. These strangers were being kind, and they did not make any attempt to sweep her away from Konas. As she walked, leaning on the arm of the man who had helped her stand, Sillara attempted once more to communicate. “Sillara,” she said, touching her chest. Then she touched his chest. “Ptr?”
“Vaelus.” He pointed to Konas. “Ptr?”
“Konas Seranimesti,” she said.
“You are making progress,” said Konas. “Maybe when we get a chance to rest, you can explain what languages you are using.”
They now entered one of the largest of the white brick buildings, one that, Sillara judged, was as close to the center of the city as the location of the lakes and pools allowed. She looked at the bas-relief carvings along the walls as she sipped some more water from the tin cup. It no longer stung at all, but she knew she needed to go slowly. If she took in too much too quickly, she would vomit up everything she had drunk.
The carvings were magnificently done, obviously by someone with a true artist's eye. She wished she could have time to appreciate the images, but Vaelus was sweeping her forward. She went up several steps to what she had no doubt was an altar. There, at the top of the altar, she saw a sarcophagus, similar in style to those used by the Sunjaa, but the features painted on it were not those of a Sunjaa. Rather she saw depicted a fair-skinned Ausir man.
No. Not Ausir. Half-blood. A half-Ausir? But there was no Sunjaa blood in the man whose image she saw.
“This is Tambril,” said Vaelus, and Sillara understood him.
She bowed her head and touched her fingers to her forehead in the gesture of Sunjaa respect. As she stood back up, the hood of her cloak, loosened by her motions, fell back, revealing her black hair and golden horns.
“Our Queen!” Vaelus dropped to his knees and took Sillara's hand. He raised it to his lips, and Sillara heard Konas growl low in his throat.
The Lotus Ascension Page 14