Chapter Fifteen
Eyul woke to the whispers of men and the sound of dripping water. A cool rag rested on his forehead. The air felt still and warm against his skin; he guessed he lay inside a tent.
“He wakes,” a nomad said.
The last thing Eyul remembered was dozing in the saddle. Amalya. He tried to sit up, but hands, more than two, pressed him down onto his blanket.
“You put something in my water.”
Someone else spoke. “You wouldn’t have let us take care of the woman if they hadn’t. We had a hard enough time of it as it was.” The voice was cool and rich. A river in the sands.
“You sons of whores! If you-” His hand went to his hip. The emperor’s Knife was gone. He reached for his eye bandages and tore the first layer away, but once again, hands stopped him.
“Such impatience.” The voice felt familiar. “Not the temperament for desert travel.” Water dribbled into Eyul’s mouth and the man continued, “Your friend is alive.”
Eyul ceased his struggles. “Where is she?”
“Elsewhere.”
“I need to get to the hermit.” Laughter rang out around him.
“You don’t know my voice, assassin? You have arrived. And once you are well enough, you will have a choice to make.”
Eyul lay on his back and allowed the hermit to tend to him. First the old man rubbed a harsh-smelling salve on his burned hand. Then he washed the wounds on his face and leg with cold water. Eyul considered the hermit’s words. An assassin didn’t make choices.
“Does your role still fit you like a tight slipper, Eyul? Do those boys still haunt your dreams?” The tone was conversational. Eyul didn’t reply. He remembered the last time he’d come to see the hermit. The hermit couldn’t stop the nightmares, but he’d offered his water pipe, and that had eased Eyul’s mind for a time.
Fabric rustled as the hermit finished his ministrations. A waft of air told Eyul that one of the nomads had either come in or gone out of the tent.
“I regret what happened in the desert. I was powerless to change those events.” The hermit’s voice was still close.
Eyul considered this a moment. “You saw?”
“I saw,” the hermit said.
Eyul tried to gauge how many people were listening. The nomads could hold their silence for hours if they needed to, a skill gained from years of hunting sandcats or ambushing hapless merchants. They could sit motionless in their dun-colored robes until their prey was tricked into foolishness. His mother, from the sands herself, used to sit by his bedside with the same rocklike silence.
“A taste of what you’ve come for,” said the hermit. “The Carriers share a common vision: what one sees, they all see. Each Carrier is a piece of the whole, a part of a larger pattern, and the pattern itself is like a river, or a song, flowing into itself, writing itself, making itself heard.”
“The pattern is of nature?”
“No, the pattern is man-made; that is for certain. But that is not to say it doesn’t have a life of its own.”
Eyul listened again, but heard nothing but the hermit’s slow breathing. He would not ask Tuvaini’s question; the hermit could not live past answering it, knowing the pattern had found Beyon, and Eyul doubted now that he could kill him.
“Who is the enemy?” Eyul made a new question.
“Ah, now you are riding ahead of me.” A whisper of sand, and then the hermit’s voice came from above him. “You will learn more after you’ve made your choice. I give no information for free, Eyul, especially to those who’ve come to kill me.”
“I am not here to kill you.” Eyul spoke the truth.
“Disobedient in your old age?” The hermit didn’t wait for an answer. “I require the wizard’s protection. Leave her with me and I will tell you what you need to know.”
Eyul rolled his head from side to side. “That’s not my decision to make.”
“It is now,” said the hermit. Cloth rustled, and Eyul caught another gust of fresh air. He was alone.
“Amalya,” he said out loud. Nobody answered.
Mesema kicked the sand beneath her slippers. It still held the night’s chill, though the sun threatened in the east. She could see why Arigu called this land the White Sea: its waves, some cresting higher than ten horses, rippled away into the western darkness. The Bright One blinked above them, making his last few steps towards the moon before the sun chased him away.
Eldra brushed Mesema’s elbow with her fingers and offered a fig. They stood together, taking small bites, facing the west. Once, Mesema had seen Eldra as a woman and herself as a girl, but now when she looked at their shadows she saw the same curved hips, the same narrowing at the waist. They were of a height, and sand-coloured curls fell around both of their faces. A stranger might take them for twins. A Red Hoof and a Windreader; it was no longer so strange.
“Tell me about your prince,” said Eldra.
Banreh had asked Arigu about the prince, but he hadn’t received an answer. Perhaps Arigu didn’t know him, or maybe he kept silent for another reason. She told herself it didn’t matter-only the child mattered. “You know as much as I do,” she said.
“Maybe he has the nose of a rat, or the wool of a sheep,” Eldra said with a giggle.
Mesema had to laugh too. “I shall close my eyes.”
“There’s only one part of him that needs to work right.” Eldra nudged her with an elbow.
Mesema drew in her breath, feigning shock. “Eldra! You are truly wicked!” “Does that mean you won’t speak well of me to Banreh?”
Mesema tried to smile at that, but her cheeks felt stiff as old leather. She turned away, buying time. As she struggled for something to say, something sparkled at the corner of her eye. She turned to catch it in her sight, and heard the desert groan, low and resonant, bringing a tremble to her legs. “Eldra…’
The dunes shifted and whispered. The sand fell off them in sheets, spilling into the valleys between, revealing shapes of glimmering silver in the fresh sunlight. A pattern lay across the sand, a geometric weaving from dune to dune, beginning at a point she could not see and ending just where her slippers cast their shadows. Triangle, underscore, circle, dash, square: this was the same pattern she’d seen in the grass at home, when the hare had made his mad run to safety.
Something urged her feet forwards along the hare’s path. Curiosity, dread, rebellion: it was all of a piece as she walked away from Eldra and into the mystery laid across the sand. Follow this arc, this line, turn here where the circles intersect… Yes.
She heard someone shouting her name-Eldra!
Wait.
The hare had dashed under these two parallel lines. Turn here where the circle is not quite complete; pass through the diamond.
Here Mesema stopped, confused. Where had he gone next? Through one of these smaller shapes, into the paths that hid, small as lace-point? She knelt and stared into the depths. Perhaps he had.
“Mesema!”
Banreh ran up behind her; she knew it was him from the sound of the sand under his boot where he dragged his right foot. He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her back, away from the hare’s hidden ways. She was surprised by the strength of Banreh’s arms. He had pulled her well away from the edge of the pattern, almost to the camp, before she even had a chance to protest.
“What are you doing?” he said, tightening his grip and pressing her back against his chest. “Are you mad?”
“You’re the one who said to look for patterns.” She relaxed against him, tilting her head back against his neck, and he let her go.
“But look-”
She followed the motion of his hand, and in the distance, at what must be the centre of the pattern, a building shone in the sunlight, the tallest Mesema had ever seen. Its white stone rose in a series of jagged points that cut away at the sky, and at the centre was a tower, rising even higher into the blue, straining towards heaven. As she looked, the shapes and lines that had surrounded it flashed and disappeared.