He, Barda, and Jasmine may as well have been dropped from the sky into a part of the Sands they had never seen before. Only the low, droning sound was the same.
“Lief will not speak to me!” he heard Jasmine say to Barda in a frightened voice. She sounded very far away.
The sun was still blanketed by the clouds above. Lief could not tell which way was east and which way west. And he had been spun and tumbled so many times that he had no idea from which direction he had come.
So this is the beginning, he thought.
His glazed eyes fell on a mark in the sand, quite close to where he was lying. His throat seemed to close as he stared at it, and understood its meaning.
Lief felt Barda take him by the shoulder and shake him. He licked his lips and forced himself to speak. “Do not worry. I am all right,” he said huskily.
“You do not seem all right,” Barda growled. “You are acting as though you have lost your wits!”
“It is Jasmine who has lost something,” murmured Lief. “She has lost her dagger — the dagger with the carved crystal set in the hilt.”
“Oh, did you find it?” Jasmine exclaimed. “I am so glad. I dropped it just before the sandstorm ended. It was my father’s. I thought it was gone for good!”
“So it is, I fear.” Lief pointed to the drawing on the sand.
Jasmine and Barda gaped, speechless.
“The thing whose anger caused the storm accepted the dagger as tribute and left us in peace while it took it away,” Lief murmured.
“The circles in the sand! They were not tracks, but pictures of the gold coins, and the medal!” Barda gritted his teeth. “What sort of creature is this? Why does it leave marks to show what it has taken?”
Lief shrugged. “Why do sculptors carve figures of stone, or shop owners list their wares upon their windows, or fools write their names upon trees and walls? To show what they love. To show what they own. To leave a message for all who pass by that way.”
Jasmine was looking wary. “You are talking very strangely, Lief,” she said. “I do not like it. You speak as if you know this thing.”
Lief shook his head. “It is beyond knowing,” he said.
The verse they had seen carved on the stone at the crossroads kept running through his mind.
Death swarms within its rocky wall
Where all are one, one will rules all.
Be now the dead, the living strive
With mindless will to … survive.
He knew that he did not have the last lines quite right. But two words he was quite sure about.
Mindless will.
A thing of mindless will ruled the Shifting Sands and all that was precious in that fearsome place it gathered to itself. The terrifying creatures who shared its domain could have the flesh of their victims. The Guardian wanted only the treasure the victims carried.
For the first time since entering the Sands, Lief touched the Belt under his shirt, checking that the fastening was secure. As he did, his fingers brushed the topaz, and suddenly his mind cleared.
It was as though a dusty veil had been ripped from a window, allowing light and air to enter. But somehow he knew that the flash would not last long. There was another power at work here, and it was ancient and terrible.
He whirled around to Barda. “We must move on,” he said urgently. “Light is fading, and the place we seek is far from here, for the Belt is not yet warm. But I want you to fasten us together so that we cannot be separated. I must be in the middle, tied very tightly.”
Grimly, Barda did as he asked, using the rope they had bought from Mother Brightly. It was light, but very strong. Lief tested it, and nodded. “Do not release me, whatever I say,” he muttered.
His companions nodded, asking no questions.
They drank a little water. Then they set off, weapons drawn, linked together by their lifeline, as darkness slowly fell.
The night brought no moon, no stars. The cloud hung above them black, black, and it was very cold. They had lit a torch, but the light it gave was small, and they jumped at every shadow. For a long time Barda and Jasmine had wanted to stop, but always Lief had urged them on.
At last, however, they refused to listen to him any longer.
“We cannot go on like this, Lief,” Barda said firmly. “We must eat, and rest.”
Lief stood shaking his head, swaying on his feet. All he wanted was to lie down, yet somehow he knew that if he slept he would be in danger.
But already Jasmine had untied her end of the rope, dropped to her knees, and begun fumbling in her pack. In moments she had scraped a shallow hole in the sand and thrown the Guards’ clubs into it.
“Never have these been put to better use,” she said, laying the torch on top of the smooth, hard wood and adding some of Mother Brightly’s fire chips for good measure. “Soon we will have a fine, cheering blaze.”
She beckoned impatiently and Lief, unable to resist any longer, flopped down beside her. Barda, too, came to the fire. Seeing that Lief lay still, he groaned with relief, untied the binding cord from his own waist and stretched out.
The fire rose, crackling. The heavy sticks began to glow. The heat grew and spread.
Barda held out his hands. “Ah, wonderful!” he sighed with satisfaction.
And that was the last Lief heard. For the next moment, there was a great roar, the sand heaved, and the world about him seemed to explode.
Lief was alone, among rippling dunes that had no ending. He knew that somehow the night had passed. Light was filtering through the thick, yellow cloud. The sand beneath his feet was warm.
It was day. His terrible vision had come to pass, as he had always known it would.
He remembered the sand rising beneath him in darkness and tossing him into the air. He remembered the sound of Jasmine’s and Barda’s voices shouting his name. He remembered the burning coals of the fire spraying through the night, dying as they flew.
But that was all. Now there were only his own tracks trailing off into the distance over smooth, sandy wastes. Now there were only the dragging, useless tails of the rope still tied around his waist. Now there was only the droning sound, louder now, filling his ears, filling his mind.
He was clutching something in his hand. He looked down, and willed his fingers to open.
It was the painted wooden bird that Jasmine had put in her pocket in Rithmere. He must have found it, picked it up, after …
Numbly, he slipped the little object into the top pocket of his shirt. His legs were aching. His throat was parched — dry as the sand itself. His eyes were prickling. He could hardly see. He knew he must have walked for many hours, but he had no memory of it.
The Center.
He was being drawn towards the Center. That much he knew. His strength was almost gone. He knew that, too. But he could not stop, for if he stopped he would sleep. And if he slept, death would come. That he knew most of all.
He staggered on, reached the foot of another dune, took a step to begin climbing. Without warning his legs gave way underneath him and he fell. The sand cushioned him, soft as a feather bed. He rolled onto his back, but could move no farther.
Sleep.
His eyes closed …
In Del, friends are laughing, splashing in the choked and overflowing gutters, picking up gold coins. He wants to go to them. But his mother and father are calling … And now he sees that the gutters are choked not with garbage but with buzzing red bees. The gutters are overflowing with Queen Bee Cider that is pouring from broken barrels lying in the street, running to waste. The bees rise up in an angry cloud. His friends are being stung, and Grey Guards are watching, laughing … His friends are dying, calling to him, but he is so tired, so tired. His eyes keep closing as he staggers into the humming red cloud. His arms and legs are heavy, weighed down. Behind him his mother says, “Softly, softly, boy!” and he turns to her. But her face has turned into the face of Queen Bee. Bees cover her back and arms and swarm in her hair. She is frowning, screeching harshly at him, shaking her fist. “Smoke, not fire! Smoke, not fire …”