“You’re talking about the waste, Ness,” Morash said. He held many roles within the village, including butcher and cook and fletcher, and did them all well. In addition, he was next in line to join the council leading the village.
“I’m talking survival,” her father said. “And the waste. Perhaps for our people, they are the same.” He took a deep breath and looked to the west—the direction the draasin had disappeared. “The decision does not have to come tonight, but we have lost much. And water is scarce. We will have to decide soon.”
He turned away, leaving the others standing and watching. Some sobbed softly, others tended to injuries, but a few—mostly those on the council—stared after her father, wondering if he truly intended to bring them across the waste.
Ciara had a different concern, but no less pressing. If they attempted the crossing, if they attempted to bring all their people across the waste, they would need scouts to determine the safest path. With Eshan gone, that responsibility fell to Fas, only Fas was injured.
Was she ready?
For so long, she’d wanted nothing more than to be nya’shin. With the spear, she at least could be, but what happened if she sensed water but had no ability to pull it from the ground? What would happen if her inability to manipulate water was the reason her people suffered?
She pushed back those thoughts and hurried after her father.
12
Ciara
Between Rens and the land claimed by the Hyaln lay the expanse of the waste, a great desert of shifting dunes. Nothing survives in the waste, not even the elementals.
—Lren Atunal, Cardinal of the College of Scholars
The day grew long, the sun fading slowly in the distance, leaving orange swirls of color from sky to sand, almost as if the sand itself were burned by the sun. Ciara stood with the villagers, staying on the outside edge as they prepared to make their way across the waste, to head steadily south toward the rising dunes only now visible.
She resisted the urge to go to the litter carrying Fas. They had found him on the outer edge of the village, somehow still alive, his breathing irregular but his heart beating steadily. Her father had tapped his j’na onto the ground again and whispered something softly toward him. As he did, Fas’s breathing had eased. Perhaps she had imagined that as well.
Had Fas not been a water shaper, and had he not been one of the nya’shin, would the village have taken the pains to carry him, or would they have let him return to the sand? Would they do the same with her? She had been given her spear, so technically she had been elevated to nya’shin, but without the ability to manipulate water as well as seek it, she was not as valuable as Fas.
Ciara looked toward the front of the line of villagers. Most prepared to walk, though some would ride the lanky chemel that thrived in the desert, requiring little water. Ancient tents pulled from deep within the caverns were stored in the five wagons the village owned, prized possessions each of them. The strongest of the chemel would lead the wagons, pulling them across the sand.
They still hadn’t seen any sign of the Ter shapers.
Ciara was still surprised that the village moved. Most of her people were scared, and more than one person glanced nervously to the sky every time a strange sound echoed toward them. Few spoke much.
“Are you certain about this move, Ness? What if there is no water? What if none survive the crossing?”
Ciara looked over to Usal. The older woman leaned over the litter holding Fas, and was near enough that Ciara clearly heard. A few others gathered around and listened. Most were nervous about making a crossing, fearing what she suggested. Usal rubbed her ointment into Fas’s skin and wiped the edge of her elouf across his face, clearing the blood from his brow and making it so that he almost looked peaceful.
“I saw one of the draasin flying south,” Ciara said.
Usal glanced over and frowned. A few voices murmured, but Ciara didn’t look over, curious about the healer’s reaction. Usal continued to rub ointment into Fas’s skin. “Some would suggest we should avoid the draasin after what happened,” she said. “Especially with the way they’ve been acting.”
“It flying south means—”
“Means water,” Usal said, standing. The others listening fell silent.
Her father watched Usal without comment and glanced at Ciara. She nodded to him. He didn’t need to stand by her. She would be fine on her own. The risk of moving south fell to her, and she would be asked to seek, but she was ready, wasn’t she? She might not have the ability to manipulate water, and some would say that because of that, she could never really be one of the nya’shin, regardless of the length of j’na spear that now hung from her belt. Already the spear felt comfortable there, and she longed to find a worthy piece of osidan to add to it, to complete it. Only then would she really feel like one of the nya’shin.
“You are a strong seeker,” Usal went on.
Ciara looked over at Usal. The woman’s lined face stared forward, her gray eyes peering out toward the distant dunes of the waste, almost as if trying to determine whether they would be able to make the climb with the wagons. Ciara had the same concerns, worried that the wagons would get stuck in the sand or that the chemel would seize and die, or that the village wouldn’t survive the crossing. Any of a dozen worries played through her mind.
“I cannot manipulate water, if that’s what you want to know.”
Usal’s mouth pinched into a smile. “Do you really think that matters so much out here? Perhaps once, it mattered, but now that we’re forced to move, we need water seekers more than al’asan. Your ability, and your strength, can keep the village alive, much like the ala’shin keeps us alive.” Usal turned to Ciara. “Strange though, that with such strength, you do not manifest the other ability. Seeking strength usually comes with al’asan.”
Ciara swallowed and resisted the urge to lick her lips. It would only make her thirstier. She’d had many of the same thoughts and often lay awake, staring at the stars with warm sand pressing beneath her back as she wondered why she should be cursed never to shape, to know only the ability to seek water, when others could sense less strongly than she and still shape. If she were stronger, she would be better able to help her people.
“The Stormbringer chooses the blessings he gives,” Ciara said through her dry throat.
Usal nodded as if the answer satisfied her.
The fading light stole the heat from the day and brought with it the sharper northern wind and the crispness that came with it. During the day, it was almost as if the sun prevented the north wind from blowing in and pushing with it the scents from Ter, but at night, they were taunted by their tormenters, almost as if the dark weren’t frightening enough in the desert with creatures that wanted nothing more than to survive, that the village had to be tormented by what they feared most: another Ter attack.
Fas suddenly coughed softly.
Ciara and Usal turned to him. A faint sheen across his brow caught the fading light of the day, and she wondered whether it came from the liniment used on him or whether sweat beaded.
He smiled up at her, and even sick, the sharp line of his jaw made her heart flutter slightly. She flushed, thankful for the growing dark. Was he aware of the effect he had on her, much as she sensed the way blood pulsed in others? Fas was skilled with water and a potent seeker, so of course he would be aware. Her flush deepened with the thought.
“You’re awake,” she said, trying to pull attention away from her reaction to him.
“Might be better if I were dead,” he muttered. “How much of the stores did I waste?”
Ciara hadn’t taken the time to learn, but with so many dead, Fas pulling on the water stores to ensure his survival didn’t seem quite as concerning as it had before. “Ness says it doesn’t matter. The nya’shin are more important to the village.”
Usal leaned over him briefly and checked a few things before grunting to herself. She stood and wiped her hands on her elouf, then nodded to Cia
ra as she left them alone.
Fas rolled his head upon the litter and looked up at the sky, the movement causing the stretcher to rock slightly. “If the village doesn’t survive, what does it matter that I do?” His voice was thick, and he licked his lips.
Ciara pulled out her waterskin and poured a few swallows into his mouth. He drank them hungrily and raised a hand when she tried giving him more.
“Why am I here?” he asked.
“We’re preparing to move south.”
“South,” he repeated. The way he spoke made it seem as if he struggled to comprehend what she was saying.
She nodded. “After the attack, Father decided that it was no longer safe to remain here.”
“And he thinks we will be safer moving south?”
Ciara wasn’t sure whether he doubted her or if there was another reason for the question. “He thinks we might survive.”
Fas sighed. “Ness is wise to trust you. When do we leave?”
“Soon. When the rest of the village is ready. Until then…”
“How long do you think it will take until we reach the waste?”
“The village? A few days.” At the pace they could move, it might be less, especially with everyone determined to push through the night, to risk the dangers of the desert in the dark so long as it brought them to safety, keeping them away from Ter shapers and their attacks.
“Will the stores last that long?” Fas asked.
Always the nya’shin, Ciara decided, and always concerned about the stores of water. “Ness thinks they will.” She hesitated, but Fas needed to know what happened. “We lost nearly fifty villagers, Fas.”
“So many,” Fas said softly. “How can we suffer so much? How much more will the Stormbringer give us?” He licked his lips again, and Ciara tipped the waterskin to his lips, letting him drink a few more mouthfuls. There would be less of her ration for her to use, but Fas needed it more than her. The village needed him to survive. After the attack, losing another nya’shin, especially a water shaper, would be devastating.
Almost as if in answer, a cry worked through the line of villagers. Ciara looked up and saw a draasin flying in the distance, moving south once more before circling back toward the village. Most of the villagers dropped to the ground, as though that would somehow protect them. Even Ciara dropped, crawling along beside Fas. The wounded nya’shin took her hand and squeezed.
Ciara saw her father standing along the edge of the village, staring defiantly at the sky. Ness raised his j’na and a powerful shaping built, the osidan tip of the spear beginning to glow.
Then the draasin pulled up, snorted a streamer of fire, and climbed back into the sky to disappear out over the sandy dunes.
Ciara watched her father. The way he used his j’na was different than any water manipulation that she’d seen. What secret did he possess that allowed him to scare off one of the draasin?
13
Ciara
The first ala’shin of Rens appeared after Endless War began, demonstrating a unique ability in calling the elements, though one they did not take full advantage of. Unlike in Ter, shapers in Rens were specialized and equally prized, especially those who could call upon water.
—Lren Atunal, Cardinal of the College of Scholars
Night had fallen in full by the time the villagers stopped for the evening. Rather than being fatigued from the walk and the attack earlier, Ciara felt a restless sort of energy filling her. She helped with the placement of tents, quickly getting everyone situated, but wasn’t willing to sit by the small cook fires and share songs with the others.
Fas rested near one of the fires. Whatever healing had been done to him eased his pain and the fracture was healed, but he remained weakened. He spoke little, other than to comment on the risk they took attempting to cross the waste. She didn’t even have any way of arguing with him. For all she knew, he was right.
They saw no further sign of the draasin, but that didn’t make anyone less nervous.
As they made their way toward the waste, Ciara began to feel the nagging sense of distant water. At first, she wasn’t sure that was what she detected, but the farther they went, the more certain she became. The sense came from beyond the waste.
She said nothing, but the longer they walked, the stronger the pull of water became. Did Fas, even injured, note the distant sense? What of her father?
Ciara walked along the edge of the encampment, past the row of tents—now so many fewer than there should have been—feeling the cool biting at her face. Not like it had during the attack, but it was not the steady, warm wind that gusted during the daylight. Even the rock was different at night, no longer painful to walk across, now cold and almost lifeless. Rens seemed to die at night.
A few small grasses grew in spots along the edge of the villagers’ camp, but they were brown and dried, like a memory of the last storm that blew through here. After storms, life bloomed, even on the edge of the waste, but it had been months since the last storm of any significance.
Ciara no longer wondered when the next storm would come. The Stormcallers claimed it was a matter of weeks, but they had made that promise for the past month. Were they even water seekers, she might have more faith in their predictions, but their only ability was to call to the empty sky, as if demanding the Stormbringer bring rain.
She stopped before she’d moved too far from the others. Out beyond the rim of safety provided by the camped villagers, the ever-shifting dunes in the distance posed a risk. Nothing lived in the waste and none from Rens had ever attempted a crossing. Those who ventured too far into the waste were often lost, never seen again. And now she intended for the entire village to cross.
She pulled on the shaft of her j’na, freeing it from her belt loop, and planted it into the rock. She ran one hand along the shaft of smooth wood, feeling the carvings made by her father, wondering if she would ever learn even a portion of what he knew or if she’d always be nothing more than a seeker.
“You seem unsettled.”
Ciara turned and saw her father standing cloaked in shadows, a thin shaft of moonlight spilling across his face, giving him a grim appearance and making the hard lines around his mouth seem even harder. Like her, he held his j’na, but unlike her, he did so with a casual stance, and the osidan tip of the spear reflected the wan light.
“Unsettled,” Ciara repeated. “That would be a fair assessment.” She looked away from him and stared south, toward the dunes and the distant call of water.
“You have questions,” Ness said.
“None that you’ll answer.”
He stood next to her, and she felt the solid weight of his presence mixing with the steady beating within his veins. “Let me tell you a story about our people,” her father began.
Ciara didn’t have the energy to listen to a story, nor the desire, but stories were the way the history of the people was handed down. Some managed better tales than others and served as the storytellers. Ciara rarely heard her father tell stories. He usually sat and listened intently, so she should want to listen when he offered to share.
“These lands have always been harsh. The sun burns brightly, and life struggles to grow out here, but the Stormbringer has granted us the gift of water. The al’asan have always managed to pull water from the deepest streams and divert the flow of distant rivers to pull water into Rens, providing all that we need.”
Why would he torment her with stories of al’asan? She was nothing but a seeker, never able to manipulate water.
Ciara squeezed her j’na and considered turning from him, but he was more than her father. He was the ala’shin.
“Rens flourished. Villages became cities, and some cities, like Jornas and Pa’shu, situated as they were near the great Foash River, became great. The Stormbringer smiled upon us, granting Rens strength.”
Ciara had never been alive when the great cities of Rens had thrived. Jornas had fallen nearly two decades ago, and Pa’shu was now occupied by shapers of Ter
who turned the great architecture of that city into something else, destroying the culture of the people of Rens. Even the Foash, the wide river that once flowed through Jornas and around Pa’shu, had changed course, likely shaped away from those cities, though water shapers of Rens could do nothing to stop it.
“Why tell me this, Father? To show what we’ve lost? I’ve never seen the Rens you describe.”
Her father lifted his j’na and made a tracing in the sand, drawing the borders of ancient Rens in the time before Ter first attacked. How long had their people been chased by Ter? Longer than Ciara had lived, long enough that all she knew was thirst. But her father had lived in a different time. She’d never asked, but had he seen those ancient cities?
He made a few more marks in the sand and nodded toward them. “This is old Rens. Here—” he poked the sand with the j’na—“and here are where the cities of Jornas and Pa’shu can be found.” He smiled as he said the names of the cities, and Ciara wondered what there would be to smile about. The cities were gone; the Rens her father described was gone. Now they were nothing more than tribes of people, eking out a survival. “Once, there were cities all along here,” he continued, making smaller dots in the sand. Most were along where the Foash ran; at least, where Ciara suspected it ran. To Rens, water had always meant survival. “Even at that time, the waste meant death, and to cross it risked everyone.”
Ciara felt her heart flutter. Was he trying to tell her that this attempted crossing was foolish?
Journey of Fire and Night (The Endless War Book 1) Page 11