Reawakening

by Amy Rae Durreson

  Then she turned to him with a sunny grin and said, “So now I understand why you’ve been cleaning the sheets before you leave.”

  Tarn felt the blush sweep over him but managed to say, “I did not mean to disturb you.”

  “Oh, you’re quiet enough, but your boy there isn’t shy, is he?” She snorted laughter and patted his knee. “Don’t worry. I sent the boys away to ride with the twins so they wouldn’t get all flustered. Male noises don’t bother me at all. I’m glad you’ve found something to enjoy, despite the circumstances.”

  “I’ll try to keep him quieter,” Tarn promised.

  She laughed again and changed the subject. “We should make Istel today. Ever been there?”

  “No.”

  “Funny place. Only fresh water in a week’s ride, and the town’s grown up around the lakes. You’d think they’d be all dull and religious, being so close to Tiallat and their awful rules of morality, but it’s the opposite. I suppose that every refugee running from the Savattin stops there first and discovers sex and alcohol. A lot never leave.”

  “A place of pleasure or depravity?” Tarn asked.

  “Depends on your definitions. Me, I like it. Even if you’re not one for wild parties”—she gave him a dubious look—“you should go dancing in Istel. Take your boy to the Whalebone and show him off.”

  “The Whalebone?”

  “One of the dance halls. Sparkly-friendly. It’s open to the sky, except for this partial roof made of metal bones. They say it was once a gigantic whale, that somehow got stranded in the desert. Some old wizard turned the bones to steel, and now it’s a place to get drunk with pretty people.”

  Tarn liked the idea of dancing with Gard, in a safe place, under the desert stars. First, though, they had to get to Istel.

  THEY BEGAN to see the walls of Istel in the distance a few hours after that. Within minutes, the first of the dead appeared.

  They were weak ones, already rotting, but several of the archers hesitated, seeing them by daylight for the first time.

  “Give them back an honorable death!” Tarn roared, riding down the line. They were coming from the direction of Istel. He pulled his horse to a stop at the head of the line and threw the reins to Gard before he rolled out of the saddle. “Ia….”

  “We need eyes on the town,” she agreed. “Don’t show all your cards.”

  “Trust me,” he snapped and took off at a run between the half-buried flags that marked the road to Istel. Most of the dead kept stumbling toward the caravan, falling to well-placed arrows, but some turned toward him.

  He made it to the top of the next dune and pulled on the fire within him. This time, he did not let his flames open out into his true form, but held himself halfway through the transformation, a creature of pure fire.

  It was not the draconic form he had been born into, nor the human shell he preferred. It was a third form, of sorts, one which allowed him to channel pure fire and fly ahead of the wind. It burned through the power he gathered and held, and he could only hold it for a while before it became too dangerous. He could still remember the younger sister he had lost eons before the rise of man and how she had laughed in delight as she dissolved into pure flame, dancing between her vast and slower kin as they twisted through the sulfurous air. None of them had been ready for the bitter wind that gusted between them, and they had all watched helplessly as it tore their sister apart. She had been sparks on the wind before they could try to help her, scattered too finely across the sky to ever draw together again. Sometimes, still, when a candle guttered in the wind or a spark flew out of the fire, he thought he heard the echo of her laughter, but she had never returned to an intelligent form. She lived forever in their memory, the only dragon ever to have died.

  It was strange to feel unsafe, and it made him eager to rush and be done with this form, the only one where he could ever be destroyed. He threw himself into the wind, manipulating air temperatures to push himself close to the town.

  The dead had surrounded Istel. They were clawing at the walls, scrambling over each other to paw higher. There were defenders on the walls, pouring burning oil onto the mindless rabble, but the dead kept coming, even as burnt chunks fell from their bones.

  And the caravan would have to fight through that horde to reach the gates of Istel.

  Chapter 12: Riding

  HE TRANSFORMED before he got back to the caravan, wary of panicking the horses, and ran back toward the bunched line, trusting the archers to keep the dead away from him.

  Gard was waiting for him, pulling him back behind the line of archers with eager hands. He took Tarn’s weight as he tried to catch his breath, walking him toward Ia, Cayl, and Sethan.

  “Well?” Ia demanded.

  “Town’s surrounded,” he gasped. “The defenders are using fire.”

  “We don’t have time to wait for them all to burn,” Cayl said. “More and more are being drawn to us.”

  “How good is the road?” Gard asked. “Does it run straight?”

  “From the bottom of the next dune,” Tarn confirmed.

  Gard nodded, chewing his lip. “Get the wagons up to the top of the dune,” he said. “I need Tarn and an archer.”

  “What’s the plan?” Ia asked.

  “I’m going to keep them off the road.”

  She studied him for a moment before she nodded. “Fine. Don’t waste time we don’t have. Jancis!”

  Within moments they were all riding hard for the top of the dune as the wagons rumbled back into motion behind them. At the crest, they reined in, and Gard slid out of the saddle and bent down to scrabble at his bootlaces.

  “What are you doing?” Tarn demanded.

  “I need my feet in the sand for this. Can you lay a wall of fire along the edges of the road?”

  “It won’t stop them,” Tarn warned, but called it up anyway.

  Gard drew in a quick impatient breath. “Not alone, no.” Then he closed his eyes and clenched his fists hard.

  On either side of the road, the sand suddenly fell away, whirling outward to leave deep ditches below the flicker of flames. The dust devils raced away on either side, collapsing onto the dead who were turning back toward the caravan.

  “Now,” Gard grated out, the sand still dancing at his command. “Heat the sand below the road. Melt it.”

  Tarn let the heat from the fire slide down, raising the temperature. As he did, he felt the sand stiffen and merge under the lick of the flames. He worked his way along the road, piece by piece, until his flames were brushing against the gate of the town and he stopped lest he singe it.

  “Good,” Gard breathed as Jancis’s bow sang, felling one of the approaching dead. “Now the sides of the ditch. Follow my lead.”

  They did one ditch at a time, shoring up the outer wall until it locked into solidity. By the time they finished the second ditch, Tarn was losing his hold on the flames on the road itself.

  “We don’t need them. Use them to smooth off the sides.”

  Tarn obeyed him and then stepped back, breathless. What was easy in his true form exhausted him in this shape.

  Then he looked at what they had created and breathed in wonder. The road now stood on walls of rough cloudy glass. As he watched, one of the dead stumbled into it and then scrabbled helplessly at the sides.

  “It won’t hold them forever,” Gard said, and Tarn realized the rest of the caravan had caught up. “We’ll have to ride hard, and keep our archers at our backs.”

  “Do it,” Sethan said and began to call out names, his cool voice carrying clearly. “Jirell! Tal! Move out! Cayl, go with them to speak for the caravan, please.”

  As the wheels of the wagons scraped against the solidified road, they let out occasional squeals like fingernails on slate. The whistle of arrows merged with it in an eerie cacophony.

  The dead rushed toward the road as the wagons approached, hurling themselves into the polished ditches. They were easy targets for both the guards and the defenders on the
wall there, but their bodies started to heap high.

  Tarn, in the middle of the line, summoned more effort and burned them in fast flashes that made their ashes spin and flurry in the sand-weighted winds. He was aware that Gard was holding him in the saddle.

  It was with relief that he heard the gates of Istel creak open. He stopped at the gate, watching the wagons clatter past as he concentrated his flame on the crawling masses in the ditches below. When the archers finally rushed past them, it was Gard who took the reins and kneed the horse through.

  The gates began to close even as they crossed under the shadow of the wall.

  On the other side, it was chaotic, horses and wagons milling in the narrow street. A man Tarn didn’t recognize had grasped Sethan’s sleeve and was talking to him urgently as Sethan leaned out of his saddle. With a grim face, Sethan rode back toward them. “Cayl, get everyone into the usual camping place. Ia, I need you with me. It seems all incoming caravan masters now need to report to the governor.”

  “Since when did Istel have a governor?” Cayl asked, rubbing his forehead. “Be careful.”

  By the time they got to the camping ground, Tarn was too tired to notice much. It seemed like a very quiet town, though, with no people on the streets and no color on the walls or in the shop windows. He had been expecting something livelier, from Jirell’s description.

  Then they were all parking up, and Barrett was waving him over. He stumbled into the offered bed with a sigh of relief and was asleep before his face had quite hit the pillow.

  Chapter 13: Hallowing

  THE STREETS of Istel were still quiet when they ventured out later. The houses here were all low and white, bright under the sun. Little downward-pointing triangles had been cut out of the archways above every stair and alley. Other signs suggested that there had been more decoration once—nails hanging above blank walls, with colored threads still fluttering off them; places where the walls weren’t dulled by sand, but brighter patches showed where intricate shapes had hung; an empty plinth in the middle of an abandoned marketplace where some statue once had stood.

  “There’s no music playing,” Dit said, looking around with a shudder. “Every time I’ve been here, there’s been music, and people—the coffee houses spill onto the streets, and everyone gathers there to drink and argue and pass the day.”

  “What did Sethan say about the governor?” Tarn asked. He’d been barely conscious when Dit and Gard shook him awake and marched him out to explore.

  “Not much,” Dit said. “The man claims to have been appointed by the will of the people of Istel. He denies he’s got any link with Tiallat, but Sethan said his clothes and manner were just like the Savattin.”

  “Is this their first move across the desert?” Ellia wondered. She had been allowed out of bed this morning and had insisted on accompanying them before she went mad with the confinement. She was still moving slowly, though, and Tarn hoped they wouldn’t meet trouble. “They’ve disguised conquests by claiming they were local revolutions before. It’s how they took control of Tiallat.”

  “I can’t see that working in Istel,” Jancis said. “Everyone here hates them.”

  Ellia shrugged. “It only needs to convince the rest of the world, and not many of them know what Istel should be. Oh, look, they’ve closed the Whalebone!” She pointed across the square to a collection of arching pillars. Red tape had been tied across the entrance, making it impassable, and slogans had been daubed in paint across the front.

  “Now that,” Gard said softly, “makes me angry.” He’d stepped away from the rest of them into the middle of the square and was gazing at the vandalized dance floor. He was completely still, but the dust was stirring at his feet. “Is that really all that’s needed to stop the dancing?”

  “That, and the hordes of the dead,” Jancis said. She had her back to Gard, but Tarn registered that the other two were watching him, their bodies suddenly tensed for trouble.

  “We could make Istel dance again,” Gard murmured, and the dust around his feet rose into tiny spirals, twisting around his feet in quick, interlacing patterns. “It would be easy. Just a little music on the wind, a few sweet smells in the air, and the promise of love. This shouldn’t be such a sad town.”

  This, Tarn realized belatedly, must be the biggest collection of people anywhere in the desert. This town was the closest Alagard had to a hoard of his own.

  “They’ve stopped dancing for a reason,” Ellia said, nudging Jancis to turn her around. “We’re only passing through, Gard. Let’s not make more trouble for these people.”

  Gard didn’t seem to be listening, but at that moment they were hailed angrily.

  The man advancing toward them was clearly a guard, solid and square-shouldered. He wore black from head to foot, and sweat was beading on his face. His hair was bound back under a red cloth and his tabard bore the symbol of a scarlet clenched fist. Tarn knew that symbol—had hoped never to see it again.

  “Disperse!” he barked at them. “Public gatherings have been forbidden by the governor’s decree.”

  To Tarn’s surprise, Jancis, who was usually the most sober and reliable sounding of them all, kept her mouth shut, stepping lightly on Ellia’s foot. It was Dit who spoke, his voice very careful, as he pressed his closed fist to his chest and bowed his head. “Hail the Fist of God. We are not worthy. Forgive us, but we are new to Istel, and do not know about this decree.”

  “How did you enter the town?” the guard demanded.

  “We came with the caravan,” Dit said.

  “Trade or return to your assigned place,” the guard commanded. “Pray and be thankful the governor acts for the Fist of God, who will protect the righteous against the dead.”

  “At once,” Dit agreed and then asked, “Have the armies of the Fist of God come to Istel’s defense?”

  “At the request of the people of Istel, who have seen the way of righteousness and now repent of their sins.”

  “Praise be,” Dit said and bowed again. “We will return and tell our companions this news.”

  But when he turned out of the square, with Jancis and Ellia close on his heels, Gard did not move.

  “Move along!” the guard commanded, his hand going to his sword.

  Gazing at him in baffled loathing, Tarn moved between him and Gard. The guard was living, not one of the tortured dead, yet he wore that symbol. What manner of man was he, to give up the best part of his humanity for nothing more than a chance to bully strangers in the street?

  “Gard,” Dit said urgently.

  Gard finally moved, swinging round to walk past the guard in the opposite direction from the camp. “I’m going to see my sister.”

  “Identify her. Visits from foreigners are not authorized without prior agreement.”

  “I am no foreigner,” Gard said, still walking. “This desert gave me birth. My sister is called Esen, in the language of the desert. I do not know what name she is given in the town.”

  The guard’s face twisted in disgust. He jerked his head. “The Selar quarter is that way.”

  Gard walked off without another word, so Tarn nodded to Dit and went with him.

  “I don’t need you to come,” Gard said shortly. “Stop trying to look after me.”

  Tarn saw no benefit in even bothering to answer that. Instead, he kept walking quietly, checking his sword was loose in its scabbard, and then rolling his shoulders.

  After a few moments, Gard sighed heavily but slowed down. “I’ll never be rid of you, will I?”

  “Do you want to be?” Tarn asked, a little worried. He’d thought he was finally winning Gard over, if the noises he made in ecstasy were any indicator.

  Gard sighed again and bumped shoulders with him.

  Reassured, Tarn asked, “A sister? Truly?”

  “No,” Gard said. His eyes went distant and dreamy again. “But I know there’s a girl, and I know where she is. She needs me.”

  “A summons, then,” Tarn said flatly. “I certai
nly will not leave now.”

  Gard shot him a puzzled glance as they turned into a narrow side street. Here arches crossed the street in white curves, the wind humming through them. A lone, quiet bell sounded, and Tarn looked up to see it hanging from one of the inlets in the arches. Broken hooks showed where others had been torn down. Ahead of them, blue water gleamed.

  “That’s Is-Malas,” Gard said, pointing. “The smallest of the three lakes. On feast days, before the town was born, the Selar tribes used to camp on the banks. They roasted fish straight from the water and sang thanks to the winds of the desert who had spared them from destruction since they last met.”

  “The Shadow caught you before,” Tarn said, refusing to be distracted. “We must be wary.” Then, because Gard looked cross, he asked, “Where are the Selar now?”

  “Riding,” Gard said, and hunched his shoulders. “I think many of the dead who came out of the desert must have been the people of the wind. I hope some have survived.”

  Tarn put a hand on his shoulder, mindful they might be watched. “If they can live and prosper in the desert, they are too tough to die. They will have found high ground to defend.” Then to lighten the subject he asked, “Where do they hold their feast days, now the town has grown?”

  “Oh, they still come here,” Gard said and laughed. “Three times a year, the town triples in size as the Selar flood the streets to trade, and dance, and mock the brick and trade folk. Such fun.”

  “You like them?”

  “I think I might be Selar,” Gard confided. “I still can’t remember, not beyond knowing where I am in the world, but I can see them riding across the high dunes and know how they dance under the spring moon. I wouldn’t know that if I wasn’t one of them, would I?”