Banreh told her that they weren’t really in the desert yet; when they got to the desert, he said, there would be naught but sand. They would sleep during the day and travel at night.
But she knew this had to be the desert. There couldn’t be anywhere hotter than this.
“When you get to the capital,” Banreh said, sitting still as if the heat and his leg did not pain him, “they will give you silks to keep you cool, and there will be tiled baths where you can soothe your feet.”
“I don’t want to get my feet wet,” Mesema said, annoyed he’d used the formal tone.
Banreh smiled.
And she heard it, off in the distance, the bright jingle of little bells. She leaned forwards, listening, as Banreh’s smile froze on his face and his eyes grew sharp and wary. He reminded Mesema of the god-statues up on the Great Plateau: still, but sharp. Hooves sounded on faraway rock, faded, sounded again. They were coming closer. She tried to count the bells. Six, a dozen, riders.
“Red Hooves,” she whispered, putting a hand on the door.
Banreh grabbed her wrist. “They won’t attack the Cerani. That’s why you’re in here.”
Mesema paused. She could feel her pulse against Banreh’s fingers. Those fingers belonged to her father.
“Wait,” he said.
She nodded. The horses drew close now, so close she could hear their neighing and the murmurs of their riders. The coarse accents left no doubt: they were surrounded by Red Hooves, the least worthy of the Felting tribes, hardly of the People at all. She didn’t dare look out of the window; instead she flattened herself against the wood, hoping no one would look in. Banreh’s hand slipped from her wrist and wrapped itself around her shaking fingers.
“Listen,” he said, “you are a Windreader. Windreader spears are coated with the blood of Red Hooves. You have nothing to fear.”
His soft words gave her confidence. How strange that Banreh, who sometimes seemed so alien with his languages and his writing, knew exactly what to say in this moment.
“My brother was avenged a dozen times ten. His sacrifice made us ever victorious.”
“Ever so.” Banreh was not afraid. He looked her straight in the eye.
Mesema listened. She heard no clash of metal on metal, nor the shouts of injured men. The Cerani spoke to the Red Hooves. Their discussion sounded relaxed, almost casual. She could make out only a few words, but the ones she did hear made her shiver again.
“They’re talking about a girl. Someone is going to give up a girl. Banreh, it’s me!”
Banreh shook his head and slipped into the intimate tone.
“No, I don’t think so.”
She clutched his hand. She couldn’t stop thinking about the Red Hoof thralls in her father’s camp, their resentment, their unspoken fury. She’d felt it every time one of them was near. It was they who frightened her. She could easily imagine herself in the same position, abused and hateful, in disgrace.
The talking came to an end and bells tinkled as the Red horses drew away. Somebody shouted, “Don’t bring her back unless she’s proven!” and someone, another man, laughed. A horse neighed, excited, ready to run. And then the Red Hooves departed in a clatter.
Mesema fell to her knees and threw her arms around Banreh’s middle. He was solid, not soft as she’d expected, and he smelled of ink and sweat.
He patted her hair. “When you are married, you will be safe. No one will dare harm you.”
She didn’t say what she was thinking: I am safe now.
At that moment the Cerani named Arigu stuck his head through the carriage window. He sneered at their embrace before turning to Banreh and speaking to him in his guttural language. Mesema recognised two Cerantic words, but she politely waited for Banreh to translate.
As she settled back on the bench, straightening her hair, he told her, “A Red Hoof woman has joined our caravan.”
At sunset, Mesema walked along the stony ground to where two Felting horses stood side by side. One wore brightly coloured wool braided into its mane; the other showed hooves dyed deep red. The Red Hooves said their horses’ feet were stained with the blood of their enemies, but Mesema knew it was only the dye from shelac berries-the Windreaders used the same dye to color their winter felt. She examined the Red horse. It was docile, so not a warhorse like Arigu’s.
She ran a hand over her Tumble’s flank. How he must hate this heat! Perhaps it was a cruelty to bring him to Nooria. She checked to make sure he had plenty of water. There was nothing else to do; the soldiers fed and brushed him, and Arigu wouldn’t let her ride. Banreh said noble Cerani ladies rarely appeared in public, especially on the back of a horse, but he promised her the prince would let her ride within the castle grounds. It was written, he said.
She worried that Banreh put so much stock in his lamb-skins and symbols. Ink had no honour; ink had no history.
Mesema pulled her shawl around her. Ahead lay grey rock, dead land, except for the occasional scrubby bush. Their path stretched ahead, one plateau after another, lower and lower, until the mountains ended. It looked like water there, except for the colour, a band of white stretching out under the moon.
“The desert,” came a woman’s voice beside her. “The place where no thing grows.”
Mesema didn’t need to look; she knew from the accent that this was the Red Hoof woman. “My mother keeps a Red Hoof spear by our fire,” she said. “She pulled it out of my dead brother herself.”
“I pulled a Windreader spear from my sister’s neck. After she died, I threw it out over the plains.”
“That’s not true,” said Mesema. “No Windreader would kill a woman.”
The Red Hoof did not speak for a while. Then she said, “These men are Cerani, but we are both Felt, the children of the grass. Shall we not be friends?”
“What’s your name?” Mesema looked at her now. She was lovely, with creamy skin, light curly hair and roomy hips.
“My name is Eldra.” Eldra wrapped both arms around her waist and shivered. She didn’t have a warm jacket or shawl, but Mesema didn’t care. A Windreader shouldn’t care if a Red Hoof plunged right off the edge of a cliff. And who was Mesema, if not a Windreader?
“Why should I be your friend, Eldra?”
Eldra smiled. “I can tell you about my god.”
The god of the Red Hooves had come over the eastern mountains to oppose the Windreaders even in death. And their god was dead, if the thralls in her father’s care could be believed. He had passed from this world long ago, so he could speak to his believers only through old stories and songs. He was a useless god, blind, deaf, and dumb.
In the lands of the People many gods were acknowledged. Gods of the herd and harvest, water and winter, all were given their due at the appropriate times; but only the Hidden God kept the fate of the People in His heart. Only the Hidden God watched over them.
“We will not be friends, Eldra.” Mesema turned and walked to her tent. At the flap, she looked back and saw Arigu dropping a cloak around the woman’s shoulders. He talked to her a moment, gesturing with hands big as her head, before leading her towards his tent. With a shudder, Mesema crawled under her blankets. She still had time before she had to give herself to a Cerani man. Time to think, time to learn, and time to stay with Banreh.
Before she fell asleep, she made a prayer to the Hidden God, a living god among many. Her god did not fight for dominance, or to prove Himself to mortals. The Hidden God showed Himself only to those who looked for Him. She looked for Him now, in her heart and mind, because that was the only way she could carry Him into Nooria. As she closed her eyes, she felt the hint of a gentle wind on her face. It was enough.