Book Three

Atop the deck of the Eagle’s Fury, Joach studied the surrounding lands far below. The sun beat mercilessly, and the heat could not be escaped. Taught by the elv’in sailors, Joach wore a bit of folded tartan atop his head, keeping the sun from his face and neck. Standing middeck, he stared out past the rails.

The terrain below was a broken waste of sand and rock. Sun-blasted mesas and deep canyons crisscrossed the landscape under the keel of the mighty windship. The region, known as the Crumbling Mounds, was where the southern end of the mountainous Teeth waned down into dry foothills before disappearing completely into the endless sands of the Southern Wastes. Few lived among the scrabbled cliffs and flinty scarps. At night, occasional camps could be seen by their campfires, most likely silk caravans crossing the harsh land. The only true inhabitants were the thick-browed giants who roamed these lands, living in deep caves away from the sun, coming out only to hunt at night.

Behind him, Joach heard a delighted giggle. He turned. Under the shade of the sails, the assassin Kesla was playing a game with a tiny child. The pair knelt over a tumble of thin sticks, carefully attempting to remove each piece of wood without disturbing the others.

Kesla bent with her nose almost touching the pile, her fingers teasing free a sliver of wood. Suddenly her hand jerked, and the pile of sticks crumbled.

On the other side, the small child clapped her hands with delight, laughing brightly. “I win! I win!” Kesla straightened up. “You’re too good at this, little flower.” The child clambered to her feet and dove at the, assassin, giving her a firm hug.

Kesla returned the affection, squeezing her tightly, and slid smoothly to her feet, pulling the girl up into her arms. Turning, she found Joach staring at her. The slim smile on her face hardened.

With a final squeeze, Kesla lowered the child to the planks and patted her on the backside. “Sheeshon, why don’t you find Hunt? Get him to fetch you a treat for winning.” The girl bobbed her head vigorously and ran off, all legs and a flag of black hair.

Wearing a frown, Joach watched her disappear down the aft hatch. Though the girl had been born among the Dre’rendi, she bore the likeness of the mer’ai: webbed fingers and toes, glassy inner eyelids.

Joach was still not comfortable with a youngster of just six winters joining them on this risky venture. But the child, Sheeshon, had come aboard with Hunt, the high keel’s son. The odd pair shared some strange bond, tied to magicks and old oaths. “She is my charge,” Hunt had said firmly as he boarded. “I swore a blood oath to her grandfather to watch over her.”

Kesla knelt back down and began to collect the sticks from the deck.

Joach stepped to her side. They had been en route toward the Southwall for almost a quarter moon, and he had spoken barely a word to her. She glanced up at him. Her deep violet eyes flashed in the bright light, cutting to his heart.

Swallowing hard, he turned away. He still had trouble reconciling the kitchen scullion named Marta with this smooth assassin. How easily his heart had been tricked.

Kesla cleared her throat. “Why don’t you come try your hand at this game? It’s not as easy as it appears.”

“I have no time for games,” he said coldly, but his legs refused to move.

“Yes, you looked so busy there standing by the rail. Besides, it’s not just a game. It’s a guild exercise tool, used to train apprentices in the subtle movements of fingers and hand.” loach scowled. “An assassin’s game. Then I’ll have nothing to do with it.”

“ ‘Fraid I’ll win?”

He turned and found her staring up at him with one eyebrow raised coyly. He hesitated, feeling his neck growing red, then swung to the far side of the pile and collapsed to his knees. “Throw the sticks.” She collected the remaining bits of wood, tapped them into order in both her fists, then tossed them into a thick pile, like a tumbled deadfall in the deep wood. “You have to choose carefully. Pluck a twig without moving any others.”

“I know how to play.”

“So you’ve been spying on us.”

Joach glanced up. She cocked her head. Her amber hair, braided into a tail, hung over one shoulder.

“It’s a simple enough game,” he answered.

“Sometimes the simplest games are the most tricky. Pick a stick.” Joach chose carefully. A stick from the top of the pile. A deft pluck should leave those under it undisturbed. He used his left hand, since his right was missing two fingers. As he reached, concentrating, his fingers trembled. He pulled back, clenched a fist, then reached again. This time he tweezed the small sliver of wood and removed it cleanly. He sat back up. “Done!”

“Very good,” Kesla whispered, and bent over the pile. She studied it with narrowed eyes. First from the right, then the left. From top to bottom. Finally, she chose a stick near the very bottom—a risky move with the other sticks piled atop it. Her fingers darted forward, almost too fast for the eye to follow, and the stick appeared in her hand. “Done,” she said, placing her token near her bare knee.

Joach stared at the pile. How had she done that? He reached to another stick from the top and removed it without disturbing the rest.

She nodded and took another twig from the middle of the pile.

After six more exchanges—Joach plucking from the top and Kesla removing slivers from the bottom—Joach’s brow was beaded with sweat. His palms were damp. She moved with such assurance, lightning quick. Joach knew he was outmatched and that Kesla had let Sheeshon win the earlier games.

His fingers reached again, trembling. He felt her eyes drilling into him. He could hear her breathing, smell her pleasant scent. Lavender. Distracted, he glanced up at her.

She nodded to the pile. “Your move.”

Joach bit his lower lip and leaned close to the pile, beetling his brow with concentration. He reached for a twig balanced on the top. An easy target. Across the pile, Kesla made a chirping noise deep in her throat, warning him away.

Joach scowled. He would not be tricked. His fingers steadied. He reached and plucked the stick without disturbing any of the others. He held it up proudly. “Done. Now it’s your—” Kesla pointed to the pile. It trembled and collapsed in upon itself. Joach stared, stunned, suspecting some trickery. “How… ?”

“Sometimes,a wall is only as strong as its roof.” Joach’s mouth hung open. He knew he had not only been outplayed, but outfoxed, too. She had skillfully hollowed out the support in such a way that by his lessening the weight on top, the underlying structure could no longer stand and had collapsed.

“Loser picks up the sticks,” Kesla said, standing and moving to the rail.

Joach watched her step away: her slender figure, the swell of her breast, the tilt of her hip as she stood, the way the wind played with stray bits of unbraided hair. He was suddenly glad he had to pick up the sticks. He was not ready to stand, not in these tight breeches. He concentrated on his work, moving slowly, trying to find his way back to his anger for the woman—but he found he could not.

With the stray bits of wood collected, he composed himself and shoved to his feet. Perhaps it was time they finally talked—really talked.

As he moved to her side, standing close, she lifted an arm and pointed. “The dragon returns.” Joach searched the skies and saw nothing at first. Then, against the backdrop of the blinding sun, a black shape dropped out of the glare and swept toward them. It was Sy-wen and Ragnar’k.

The pair had left at dawn to search the country ahead as the ship approached the western edge of the Crumbling Mounds. They had not been expected back until dusk.

As he watched, Joach saw the dragon lurch, tumbling down toward the broken landscape. He gasped, clutching the rail. Then the wings sprang wide, catching an updraft. The plummeting fall evened out into a long swoop, shooting upward, back toward the ship- “Something’s wrong,” Joach said. “Fetch Hunt and Richald!”

He glanced to his side but found Kesla already gone. Turning farther, he saw her ducking through a hatch, a call for help already being sounded. Joach returned to his study of the sky.

What could be wrong?

Sy-wen hugged tight to the mighty dragon, her feet clamped tight in the ridge folds at base of his neck.

“You can do it, Ragnar’k. It’s not much farther.”

The dragon’s voice whispered in her head, so unlike his usual brass voice. No fear, my bonded. My heart is strong as sky and sea together.

“I know, my great dragon.” She ran her webbed fingers along his scales. “I never doubted it.” A throaty growl of pride sounded from his long neck. He swept his black wings and struck for the higher skies. To the east, the Eagle’s Fury hung even higher. It would be a difficult climb.

Sy-wen tried to straighten in her seat, but her link to Ragnar’k meant she felt his pain. The skin of her belly and legs burned with a phantom fire. She bit back a cry. She could only imagine how much worse it must be for Ragnar’k. The attack had flayed his entire underside, searing it, blistering it.

Bonded…?

“I’m fine, Ragnar’k.” She gasped between clenched teeth. “You need to catch another updraft. We’ll need more height to reach our roost.”

/ try. His muscles bunched under him, and he beat his wings, scrabbling upward, straining.

Sy-wen leaned back down over her friend. Agony spread down her arms as he fought for more sky.

Tears ran down her face. “Higher, my sweet beast…” She tilted her head and saw a miracle.

The sleek windship dove toward them, sweeping in a graceful arc to intercept. They had been spotted, their distress noted.

“The ship comes. Hold out a little longer.”

For you…forever.

Behind the beast’s thoughts, she sensed Kast. Ever since the trials of the War of the Isles, the two had not been so separated. She sensed the man behind the beast. She pressed a palm to the dragon’s scaled flank and, closing her eyes, sent out her love to both hearts buried deep—dragon and man.

Ragnar’k shifted under her. Without opening her eyes, Sy-wen sensed the approach of the ship and felt her mount prepare to alight on its aft deck. She clung tight as he tucked his wings. “Careful,” she whispered.

She need not have worried. The landing was sure. She opened her eyes and saw Richald, the captain of the Eagle’s Fury, climb up the ladder from the middeck. She raised an arm in greeting as the dragon under her collapsed to the planks. “Ragnar’k!” Tired… sleep now.

Sy-wen rolled from his back, keeping one hand on the beast to maintain the magick. His chest heaved, and the breath from his wide nostrils was ragged. Her feet slipped a bit on the deck as she edged forward. Glancing to the wet deck, she realized it was blood—from Ragnar’k. “Oh, no…” She swung to the elv’in captain. “I need dragon’s blood— now’t”

Richald nodded. The copper streak in his silver hair glowed like a streak of fire. “It comes.” He pointed back to the ladder where Hunt climbed the rungs, a large cask balanced on his shoulder.

“Hurry!” Sy-wen urged. She felt her own breath growing short, gasping, but it was only her shared senses with the dragon.

Richald whisked over to the Bloodrider’s side and relieved him of the barrel. The elv’in captain rushed to the dragon’s snout.

Sy-wen maneuvered to join him, fingers trailing along the scales. “Drink, my sweet giant,” she urged.

Richald struggled with the cask’s lid, face growing red with the effort. Then Hunt was there, a short ax in hand. He cleaved into the lid and ripped the cracked planks with his fingers.

“How is he?” a voice asked behind Sy-wen. It was Joach. He and the girl Kesla climbed to the deck.

Sy-wen waved away his inquiry and leaned her forehead against Ragnar’k‘s neck. “Smell the blood.

Drink.”

Near her elbow, the cavernous nostrils twitched. She felt muscles strain, but he was unable to raise his head. Bending, using her shoulder, she struggled to lift his head. “H-help me!” On either side, the group lifted the beast’s snout. Hunt shoved the barrel closer. A long, snaking tongue slid out and tasted its thick contents. The others strained under the bulk. The tongue lashed out again and scooped up a large draught.

Good. . ¦ the dragon sent to her weakly.

“Keep drinking.”

“I think he’s doing better,” Joach said at her side.

Muscles moved under the thick scales, and Ragnar’k ducked his nose into the cracked barrel, snuffling and drinking. In moments, the group was able to step back as the dragon began supporting himself.

Ragnar’k slurped at the thick blood of his brethren, strength returning as he healed.

Once the cask was empty, Ragnar’k flipped it over the far rail with a toss of his nose, trumpeting his satisfaction.

Sy-wen hugged his thick neck. “Now you can rest, my giant.” Have large… big heart… he echoed.

“As big as the sea and sky together.”

A gentle feeling of pride and contentment overwhelmed her, coming from the dragon like the purr of a kitten on a lap.

“Sleep now,” she said softly, and stepped back.

As her fingers left his scales, the transformation reversed. Scale and wing exploded outward in a spinning whirlwind of bone and claw. The sails nearby flapped, caught in the edge of the maelstrom. Then the storm of scale collapsed in on itself, winding down and around, forming at last into the large frame of man lying on the planks belly down, naked.

“Kast?” she asked tentatively. She always worried that sometime the transformation would fail to return the man she loved.

The tall Bloodrider groaned and rolled over onto his back. His belly and the tops of his legs were seared red, raw and blistered.

Sy-wen covered her mouth fearfully and dropped to her knees beside him. But as she reached out a hand, the healing of the dragon’s blood continued its magick. Yellowed blisters sank. Red skin grew pink, then pale. Singed hair across his broad chest grew back into familiar landscapes. She touched his cheek as his eyes fluttered open.

“We made it?” he asked, thick-tongued and dazed.

She nodded. “Back on the Eagle’s Fury. Do you know what happened?” He nodded. “The more times I become Ragnar’k, the more the dragon’s memories merge with mine.” He struggled to sit up but winced in pain.

Joach flipped off his own cloak and drew it over Kast’s shoulder He and Sy-wen helped lift the big man to his feet.

“He needs to rest,” Joach said. “Let’s get him to your cabin.”

“No,” Kast said with returning strength. He ran a hand over his chest. “We must prepare.”

“I can tell them what we’ve seen,” Sy-wen argued. “You rest.” Kast struggled from their grips. “I’m fine.” But his next step toppled him back toward the planks. Joach caught him and held him up. Kast groaned. “Perhaps… a short rest.”

As a group, they assisted Kast to his cabin belowdecks, then returned to the large galley to discuss the events of Sy-wen’s journey. Everyone gathered around a long wooden table; the cook prepared a platter of fruits and cheeses and a pitcher of thin ale. “What happened?” Hunt asked.

Sy-wen chewed on the edge of a dry biscuit. “We flew away from the sun in a direct course, following a dry riverbed as a landmark. About forty leagues from here, we spotted a wide lake stretching north and south and went down to investigate. We figured it might be a good place to restore our water supplies for the desert journey. But as we neared it, we saw it was not water that reflected the sun so invitingly, but a field of flowers whose petals were silvered blue and reflected the sun’s light.” Kesla gasped. “Narcissus vine. But it doesn’t grow among the Mounds, only in the deep deserts, near the Southwall.”

“You’ve seen this flower before?”

Kesla shook her head. “No. Only a few blademen, those who hunt the deep wilds of the Blasted Fringe, have seen the vine and lived.”

“What sort of plant is it?” Hunt asked.

The assassin hesitated. “Some say it was born from the blood of the ghouls that once haunted the ruins of Tular. As I said before, the vine usually grows only along the sandstone cliffs of the Southwall. Rootless, it’s able to crawl along the wall’s length, hunting its prey. All who approach too near the Southwall must be wary of its path. A single bloom by itself is harmless, but the vine, as it stretches across the sand or drapes along the sandstone cliffs of the Southwall, will i a i duce hundreds, thousands, of palm-sized blossoms. Each is able collect the sun’s heat in its shiny petals ro

and reflect it back on an enemy- Multiply this by a thousand and it can produce a blaze as hot the sun itself, capable of burning a man down to a smoking skeleton in mere heartbeats.“ She gaped at Sy-wen.

”You were lucky to have survived.“

“We almost didn’t. But Ragnar’k‘s scales are as hard as stone. He shielded me and took the brunt of the attack on his belly. Yet even his scales could not protect him from the flames.”

“So what are we to do?” Richald asked. “I can’t take the Eagle’s Fury across there.”

“We’ll have to go around it,” Kesla said. “It’ll delay us reaching Alcazar, but it’s better than burning to cinders.”

“Time runs short already,” Joach mumbled, then turned to Kesla. “How many days until the next tithing of children is demanded by the demons of Tular?”

Kesla frowned. “Haifa moon.”

“So any delays could lead to more deaths,” Joach said. “How about if we just crossed the field at night?

After the sun has set?”

“It won’t help. At sunset, the petals close, storing the day’s sunlight. The vine uses this stored heat to hunt prey at night. I’ve seen their lights from far across the desert—flashes along the wall as the vine attacked mice and lizards. Night is no haven from the narcissus.”

Everyone grew quiet.

“Then we go around,” Richald said. “Find another way to reach Alcazar.” Sy-wen sighed. “It’ll be a long way. Even Ragnar’k could not see where the fields ended. It is a solid barrier for endless leagues.” She turned back to Kesla, searching for some other answer. “There must be a weakness. When the vines attack at night, is their heat as intense?”

“I… I’m not sure. But I’ve heard tales that once a bloom casts its heat, it won’t be able to renew until the next dawn.”

Sy-wen leaned back in her chair, thinking. “So it can only shoot one burning volley; then it’s harmless.” Kesla nodded. “That’s according to old stories. But I’m not sure if it’s true or not. So little is known about the narcissus.”

Hunt stood up. “So either we add days to our journey, searching for a break in the weed, or we take our chances on a nighttime flight across the fields.”

Richald frowned. “I will not risk my ship.”

Sy-wen stared across at the elv’in lord. “You may not have to.” As THE SUN SET, GrESHYM SHAMBLED OUT OF THE LAST CANYON AND

into the empty sands. He was wrapped from head to toe in flows of linen and rough-spun cotton. As darkness spread and stars began to shine, Greshym hardly noticed the change in heat or the drop in light.

He had a small spell cast around his body, keeping him cool and his sight keen. As he walked, he clutched his staff of petrified wood in his left hand. The magick trapped in its crystalline structure throbbed dully with his own pulse. Its energy was weak.

Free of the canyons, Greshym glanced skyward, calculating his bearings. He still had far to go.

Rocks skittered down a slope to his right. Slowing to a stop, Greshym cocked his head, extending his senses. It was Rukh returning. The stump gnome hopped down a slope of boulders, his split hooves moving with goatlike skill. At the bottom, he fell to his knees before Greshym. “M-master…”

“Did you do as I asked?”

“Y-yes, Master.” Rukh’s porcine face groveled in the rough sand. He held up his claws, dripping with blood. Clenched in each grip was a bloody heart.

“The children of the caravan leader?”

“Yes.”

The darkmage noted the dried blood around the creature’s fanged muzzle. “You’ve fed?” Rukh ground his face into the sand at the tone of reprimand. “Hungry… much hungry.” Greshym lifted his staff threateningly, then lowered it back to the sand with a sigh. He could not blame the gnome. The journey through the Crumbling Mounds had been a long one, and they still had far to go.

Glancing to the stars, he wished he could have used his magick to bring himself directly to his target, but he dared not. When he had transported from his cave in the Stone Forest, he had sensed the vor-rex of energies swirling near the Southwall and knew it best to keep his magick to a whisper in its shadow. He could not risk any eyes turning in his direction.

So he had untied his magick and brought himself and his servant into the dry wastes of the neighboring Mounds. He had spent the past half moon hiking and climbing through this sun-seared terrain, using the barest touches of magick to bring strength to his decrepit body and to draw water up from the rocks.

Then, two days ago, he had run into an even worse challenge than the stubborn landscape— a field of deadly narcissus blooms blocking his way. Casting out his senses, he was able to divine that the infernal weed circled the entire region, a barrier protecting the foulness germinating at its heart. Determined not to turn back, he was forced to use more magick to cloak Rukh and himself so they could pass the weed unharmed. It had been a risk to cast such a strong spell, but he had no other choice—not if his gambit was to succeed.

Luckily, nothing seemed to notice his flare of magick. In fact, shortly after passing the weed, Greshym encountered a caravan, a mix of silk traders and ragged families carrying all they owned on their backs.

The group had been attempting to flee the Wastes, but they had been turned back by the narcissus.

Greshym had joined them, gladly accepting their hospitality and water, preserving his waning magick. He traveled in comfort with the group while Rukh tracked the caravan from a league away.

Then earlier this afternoon, with the open desert of the Wastes in sight, Greshym had cast the caravan into a sleep spell. He had no further use for his new companions. Upon leaving, he ordered Rukh to slay them and collect the hearts of the leader’s two girl children. Both were virgins, untouched, rich in the power that surges just before their first bleed.

“Enough groveling, Rukh. Hold the hearts higher for me.”

The beast’s long ears twitched in relief. He rose from the sands, sitting back on his heels, and held out the pair of hearts at arm’s length.

Greshym reached out with the heel of his staff, touching one of the hearts, then the other. With its touch, the two lumps of flesh began to beat anew, throbbing, squirting blood into the sands. Rising from the twin hearts, a distant wail could be heard. The spirits still trapped in the hearts cried for release.

“Patience, my two little ones… Patience.”

Greshym lowered his staff to the sand and leaned on it as he bent over the two hearts. He brought his lips to the throbbing bits of muscle and kissed them gently, inhaling as he did so. He felt their spirits and energy flow into him. Their magick of burgeoning womanhood drew into him, becoming part of him as tiny screams of horror filled his ears.

He straightened, feeling vastly renewed and invigorated. In the claws of the stump gnome, the two hearts were now just dried and wrinkled chunks of meat, like grapes gone to raisins in the sun. Greshym grinned and wiped the blood from his lips. “That was refreshing,” he whispered contentedly.

He patted the leathery skull of his servant as he thumped on past with his staff in hand. Suffused with fresh magick, he knew nothing could stop him from reaching his destination. Alcazar, the desert guild of the assassins.

In its tunneled and sculpted halls, he would lay the trap for his prey. As he moved into the desert, he spoke to the stars and empty sands. “I’ll be waiting for you, Joach.” Joach stood at the bowsprit of the Eagle’s Fury. He shivered and wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders, unable to escape an uneasy edginess. He glanced behind as if expecting an enemy to attack.

No one was there.

In the rigging, elv’in sailors climbed the masts and worked the sails. Richald was a figure in silver on the stern deck, hands in the air, drawing on the magick of the winds, ready to propel them swiftly across the deadly fields. Already stray gusts and wild flurries spat around the ship as energies gathered.

Kesla popped her head by the ladder. “Sy-wen and Kast are ready. Did you want to see them off?” He nodded, unable to shake off his misgivings. Joach had been blessed with the gift of prophetic dreams, and though he was awake, he could not dismiss his growing sense of catastrophe.

He crossed to the ladder and clambered down. On the middeck, Sy-wen and Kast held each other’s hands. The Bloodrider looked fully healed and rested. He would need to be. Sy-wen leaned on the man’s arm. The two would risk much to bring the ship swiftly over the fields of burning flowers.

As Joach stepped up to them, he heard Kast grumble, “The winds smell bad, like smoke in the air.” Joach’s eyes narrowed. Was the large man feeling the same misgivings he had felt? “It’s not too late to change course,” he offered. “We could still circle around the field.” Sy-wen shook her head. “No. The vine’s field extends to the northern and southern horizons. There will be no way around the vine, only through it.”

Kast hugged the mer’ai woman closer to his side. “She’s right. We must attempt this.” Joach reached out and shook the larger man’s hand. “Be careful.”

“And swift,” Kesla added at Joach’s side.

“Ragnar’k has never failed me,” Sy-wen answered them, then glanced up into Kast’s eyes. “Not when fueled with two strong hearts.”

The Bloodrider leaned down and kissed her fully on the mouth, passionately. Arms reached to pull each other tight. Sy-wen was lifted off her feet.

Joach glanced away, giving them a moment of privacy.

Then Richald called from the stern deck. “The winds come! We must be off!” The sails overhead snapped with more vigor.

Sy-wen and Kast broke their embrace, fire still in their eyes. “Are you ready?” she asked the tall Bloodrider.

He nodded.

Together, they moved to the starboard rail. The landscape below was limned in silver from the moon and stars.

“Safe journey,” Kesla whispered.

Kast nodded and shrugged out of his robe, standing naked. With a nod to Joach, he picked up Sy-wen in his arms again and toppled over the rail.

Joach leaned and watched them tumble through the air. “They’re off!” In response, the ship lurched forward as a fierce gust swelled the sails and sped the ship toward the fields. Kesla, off guard, slid into Joach’s side. He caught her under an arm and held her steady. Together the two searched below the keel of the windship.

Kast and Sy-wen were gone.

Sy-wen clutched Kast tight as they plummeted through the darkness toward the broken terrain below.

They, needed as much momentum as possible for their mission to succeed. Her green hair whipped like sea snakes about her head.

“Now, Sy-wen!” Kast yelled. His lips nuzzled her ear, but the wind almost ripped the words away. Still, she could hear his thrill and excitement, a Bloodrider at heart.

She shifted her fingers from his shoulder to his neck, then up to his cheek. As her skin met his tattooed flesh, her fingertips warmed. Kast stiffened under her, arms squeezing tight; then she spoke the words. “I have need of you.”

With these words, the ancient magick ignited. The world vanished around her into a whirlwind of roaring.

Clouds of magick burst forth. Scaled flesh spread apart her legs and slowed her fall, taking her weight.

She squeezed her thighs, holding tight. In another heartbeat, Sy-wen was no longer falling, but riding the back of the great black dragon, sweeping at amazing speeds.

Ragnar’k trumpeted his rebirth with an echoing cry. Bonded! Despite the tension, Sy-wen smiled. She heard the same excitement in the dragon’s voice as she had in Kast’s words a moment ago. “Do not slow. We must forge a path through the burning blooms,” Sy-wen instructed, then silently added additional directions to her mount.

Though he remained quiet, she sensed his confusion.

“At night, the weed can only shoot at us once. We must get the flowers to unleash their fury upon us, opening a safe passage for the ship that follows.”

Ragnar’k swept toward the fields, using the momentum of their plummeting fall to increase his speed.

Danger. Ris’t to bonded.

“I know, my brave heart. But this time we will not be caught by surprise. We }{now the danger. We must be swift, cunning. You must fly better than you’ve ever flown before!” The equivalent of a dragon chuckle filled her mind. Bonded has heart as big as dragon!

Sy-wen thumped the side of his neck. “It’s not bravery! I just know my dragon! I trust his heart and wings!”

Dragon laughter trailed behind them as he dove steeply toward the blooms, spinning in a curving arc.

Sy-wen leaned over his neck, hugging him tight. She felt the flare f wind under wing, sensed the dizzying o

spin of the landscape below. Instead of terror, she felt delight, sharing not only her dragon’s thrill but that of the man buried deeper, all three spirits merging in this common goal.

As the dragon roared, Sy-wen added her own voice, yelling her challenge into the wind.

From the bow rail, Joach watched the vine’s fiery attack begin. A quarter league away, the night was shattered by spears of brilliance blasting skyward. Some shot straight up, others striking at angles from the side. The lances of searing energy were so bright it hurt to stare at them directly. “Can you see the dragon?” he asked, grimacing.

Kesla stood at his side, a spyglass fixed to her right eye. “I… I’m not sure. I spotted a flicker of movement, a spark of reflection, but it moved faster than I could follow.”

“It must be them,” Joach said.

“I’d guess so, too.” She lowered the spyglass. “The vine is certainly hunting something.” As Joach watched, the sprout of bright spears traced farther away, deeper into the wide valley. Closer, the near edge of the field died back to dark, the blooms spent by their attack upon the dragon.

Joach half turned, lifting an arm. “Now, Richald! Steer a straight course!” Both the elv’in lord and Hunt stood ready at the stern. The Blood-rider raised a hand in acknowledgment, but Richald showed no sign of hearing his call. The elv’in lord stood stiff, his head thrown back, cascades of crackling energy coursing over his body, his mind lost to the winds.

Just as Joach wondered if he had been heard, the gales grew worse around the ship. Overhead, the rigging and ropes groaned, strained by the sails stretching even farther. The ship sped faster, its bow rising for a moment, then settling into an even flight.

Turning, Joach gripped the bow rail. Below, the ship’s keel crested over the deadly fields. He waited, holding his breath. Were they right? Had the blooms emptied their energies pursuing the dragon? Was it safe to cross?

He glanced up. The fiery display drifted even farther away. The dragon still fled, a lightning rod for the field’s energy, hopefully leaving a swath through which they could fly. Joach stared back down, leaning far over the rail.

The fields beneath the ship remained dark. He let out a long sigh, allowing hope to grow. “Oh, no…” Kesla said at his side. He straightened back up.

“Look,” Kesla said. She pointed to either side of the ship. In the distance, a weak glow flowed toward their position—from both the north and the south. “What is it?” Kesla passed him the spyglass. Joach pointed it toward the strange sight. Magnified, the continuous glow broke into a thousand gleaming snakes winding under the leaves and flowers, converging toward them.

“The field is one continuous vine,” Kesla said. “Its stalks are sucking energy from blooms elsewhere, siphoning power to fill this void, like roots moving water up a trunk.”

“Mother above…” Joach’s stomach tightened. “Once it reaches here, the blooms will be able to attack again. We’ll be snared.”

Joach dropped the spyglass and swung around. By now, they were thick in the fields. It was too late to swing the ship and retreat.

Turning back forward, Joach stared. Distantly, across the fields, the fiery display slowly died away.

Sy-wen and Ragnar’k must have reached the far side. Joach estimated the distance. At least another two leagues. He glanced north and south. The glow sped rapidly toward their position.

He shook his head. They would not make it in time.

Joach pushed away from the rails.

“Where are you going?” Kesla yelled.

“To warn Richald! We need more speed!” Joach fought to keep his footing in the gale blowing from the stern. He leaned into the wind.

“Let me!” Kesla argued. She danced from the rail, as if the wind didn’t exist, and sped forward, racing sure-footed across the rocking deck. Reaching the ladder to the middeck, she waved him back i o the bow rail. “Keep a watch!” Then she vanished down the ladder.

t

In a heartbeat, Joach spotted her again, running across the mid-deck toward the raised stern. He stared dumstruck after her. The i l was not only quick-limbed, but she had the balance of a jungle cat.

2 r

Relenting, Joach allowed himself to be blown back to his position at the bow rail.

To either side, the snakes of bright energy twisted and slithered toward them. A single bloom shot a spear of light off the starboard side. It angled toward them, splashing against the ship’s side. Though bright, the one flower did not have enough power to burn—but soon there would be more. As the glow swept under the ship’s keel, new pillars of light blasted into the skies on both sides, creating a forest of blazing trunks.

As Joach watched, more and more blooms ignited.

Sy-wen guided her dragon to a flat-topped pinnacle of sand-stone. Ragnar’k settled to the rocky perch, with a heaving sigh from his chest.

As he dug in his claws, Sy-wen rubbed her right arm, wincing, but the stinging burn would not subside.

She glanced to the dragon’s wing. Ragnar’k held it slightly out to the side, like a gull with a wound or a broken bone. The edge still smoked. The reek of burned dragon scale filled the night.

Thankfully it had been only a glancing strike. They had been lucky to escape with so little damage. The vine had fought fiercely, stabbing at them, chasing them to and fro across the sky. As they had flown, the vine had even seemed to grow wise to their evasive tactics, anticipating their moves. Luckily, they had reached the field’s end before the vine had grown too skilled at hunting dragons.

Ship comes, Ragnar’k said.

Sy-wen twisted in her seat. Across the field, she spotted the Eagle’s Fury in the skies. The slower ship was under attack.

“Sweet Mother…”

Lances of light streaked across the skies. As she watched, a sail caught flame and flared like an oiled torch.

“We must go help them,” Sy-wen said.

Cannot, my bonded. Ragnar’k tried to extend his wing. She felt the agony shoot up her own arm. Too far…

Sy-wen gasped with the pain. The burning strike had been worse than she had initially thought.

I have failed you, my bonded. The agony in his heart was worse than his wing.

She leaned down and rubbed his neck. “Never, my sweet dragon. Never.” She stared out at the beleaguered ship, a flaming cloud in the night sky, and prayed for them. It was all she could do.

As the Eagle’s Fury foundered above the blazing flowers, Joach raced to where the others were gathered atop the stern deck. Overhead, the burning foresail was cut free, and it napped away. In the rigging, a chain of elv’in sailors passed buckets, hand to hand, to drench ropes and stanch the smoldering of the foremast.

Joach climbed the stern ladder. Smoke began to rise all around the ship. Its planked sides were etched and burned from swiping passes of the fiery lances. Pulling himself up, Joach called to Hunt and Richald.

“We need more height! We need to keep the keel between us and the blooms!”

“Richald is trying,” Hunt said. “But he is tied to the ship; each strike weakens him.” As Joach neared, he heard the elv’in lord groan, his face a mask of pain. Kesla hovered around the tall figure. “We have to find a way to help him.”

Joach searched the skies for an answer, wishing his sister were here. They needed Elena’s magick.

Coldfire or wit’ch fire—either would be welcome now. Anything to fight this weed!

A ripping explosion sounded behind him. The ship’s deck bucked, tossing him to the planks. Joach rolled around. Sprouting from the middle of the ship, a spear of light shot into the sky, thrusting right through the belly of the ship. Bits of burning planks flew high, spinning away. The mainsail burst into flame.

A pair of the elv’in sailors, caught in the blaze, tumbled from the rigging and over the ship’s side. Another was incinerated where he stood on the deck, his seared bones standing for a moment, then toppling down.

As quickly as it had struck, the spear blinked off. The blooms that had generated the intense spike had exhausted their energy. But for how long? The vine was growing cunning, learning to coordinate its efforts.

“Joach! Help me!”

Half blind from the radiance, Joach turned and saw Kesla struggling to hold Richald up. The elv’in’s face was lined with horror and agony. “My ship…”

Hunt was already on his feet. “Help the captain. The fires need to be doused before they spread!” The Bloodrider vaulted over the rail to the middeck. He joined the dwindling crew of sailors in putting out these new flames.

Joach half crawled over to Richald and Kesla. Under him, the ship lurched, drifting down toward the deadly fields. Joach grabbed the elv’in lord’s other shoulder. “You must keep fighting!” he urged. “Don’t give up!”

“The Fury … I can’t…”

Joach shouldered the man to his feet with Kesla’s help. “Yes, you can. Or are you all wind and no substance? Prove your worth, prince of the Blood!”

Richald’s eyes flicked toward Joach. A flash of anger flared past the hopeless pain.

“You still have a ship! You still have sails! You’re supposed to be the heart of this vessel. Act like it, Richald! Meric wouldn’t give up like this and weep like a child!” Anger changed to prideful fury. The man shook free of Joach’s grip and shoved Kesla away. Richald glared at Joach, then turned his eyes to the skies. He lifted his arms, and elemental magick bloomed in crackling spurts along his raised limbs.

The gales resumed. The foundering ship pushed forward, edging upward again. Drawn by its movement, new flares of light attacked. Smoke and flames encircled the ship.

Off the port side, Joach saw several spears joining together, attempting to fuse into another dread spike.

The ship could not take a second such coordinated attack. Something had to be done. He leaned over the rail as wind whipped his lanky red hair. He held the locks from his eyes—then snapped upright, a sudden idea coming to him.

Why hadn’t he thought of this earlier? .He swung back to the elv’in lord. “Richald! We’re pointing the wind the wrong way! Drive it into the weeds! Lash the flowers with your gale. Don’t let them hone in on the Furyl”

Richald’s eyes slowly focused from the sky back to Joach.

Kesla straightened. “Sweet Mother, he’s right! Caught in the winds, the flowers won’t be able to focus!” Richald slowly nodded, too strained to speak. Overhead, the remaining few sails began to sag as some wind was stolen from them and diverted.

Joach returned to his watch by the port rail. The river of winds split, and a whirling tributary swept down upon the vine. As the winds shook petals and rattled stalks, the beams of fiery light were blown out like candles. Nearby, the growing spike of coordinated energy was driven into disarray.

“It’s working!” Kesla yelled. “They can’t aim!” Joach leaned and searched forward. They were only a quarter league from the end of the fields. Around them, the burning lances of light wobbled and spat sporadically. With luck, they might make it. Hunt yelled from the middeck, his voice booming with command. “Get back, everyone! Its no use! She’s lost!”

Joach had concentrated so fully on the fields that he had forgotten about the more immediate risk. He turned and saw the main mast explode into a flaming torch, catching another sail in its blaze. Other flames raced along ropes and rigging. Elv’in sailors leaped from their perches to the deck.

Hunt suddenly appeared, flying up the ladder to join them. He carried the girl Sheeshon in his arms. His face was blackened with smears of soot. “The fire’s in the lower holds. It’s burning from the inside out.

The ship is doomed.”

With his words, the winds ebbed. Behind them, Richald sagged, lowering his arms. “We can’t win.” Joach strode up to the elv’in prince and struck him hard across the cheek. “Don’t ever say that!” Richald’s eyes flew wide. He touched his bloodied lip as rage flared bright. “No one strikes—”

“Fly this ship, Richald!” Joach screamed. “As long as we live, there’s always hope! You’ll drive this ship until it burns out from under you.”

Richald stepped toward Joach.

“Enough!” Kesla said, stepping between them. “Use your anger to fuel the winds! We’re almost through the fields. The open sands lie ot much further.”

n

“I have only the one sail.”

“Then you must prove your skills, elv’in,” Kesla said.

Richald stared at her, then set his face to stone. He lifted his arms, and the winds grew sharp again.

“We’ll never reach the sands.”

“What does it hurt to try?” she challenged.

Around them, smoke billowed as the ship limped forward. The heat from the growing fires became a roaring hearth. Occasional lances of light chased after them, but the straggling winds kept the vine cowed.

No one spoke. Everyone held their breaths, clinging to handholds.

Joach searched beyond the rail, an arm across his nose and mouth, choking. Below the ship, the smoke parted. Under the keel, a broken terrain of dark canyons and sand-swept mesas appeared. He leaned closer, blinking the smoke and tears from his eyes.

No vines, no flowers!

Joach spun around, yelling, “We’re clear of the fields!”

Faces turned in his direction, a glimmer of hope—then an explosion blasted. A middeck hatch blew high into the air. Flames licked upward from the ship’s bowel, roaring like a netherworld demon. Under Joach’s feet, the entire ship shook and began to list. He grabbed the rail as the ship rolled.

Behind him, he heard Kesla call out. “Don’t falter, Richald.”

“Too weak…” the elv’in captain gasped.

The ship tilted, canting at a steep angle. Joach’s legs went out from under him. He hugged the rail with both arms.

“Hang on!” Kesla screamed.

The Eagle’s Fury slipped into a steep dive, a flaming stone crashing from the skies.

It took until dawn for Sy-wen to reach the wreck of the Eagle’s Fury. Her mount’s injured wing had limited their flights to short, feeble hops. Ragnar’k struggled for longer jaunts, but Sy-wen forced the dragon to proceed slowly. Sharing his spirit, she sensed his pain. Her right arm felt as if it had been thrust into fire, and when in flight, the agony almost overwhelmed her. Despite their injuries, they worked themselves across the scrabbled landscape of the Crumbling Mounds, following the path where the flaming ship had passed overhead.

As the sun crested the eastern horizon, Sy-wen and Ragnar’k finally reached the open sands and dunes of the great Southern Wastes. Sy-wen hung limp atop her mount—weak and thirsty. A thick column of smoke marked their goal.

Without being told, Ragnar’k shoved off the spur of rock that he had lighted upon and took wing, gliding low over the tall dunes. Sy-wen leaned on his neck and stared at the desert below. Like a great ocean of sand, she thought dully. It seemed endless, welling up into smooth waves, its constancy interrupted only by occasional rocky shoals.

As she clung to her mount, Ragnar’k crested over a tall dune and swept up in a wide circle. Bonded…

the ship . ..

Sy-wen straightened. A gouged trail of destruction led forward. Dunes lay blasted; hunks of wood flanked the path; a broken mast stood impaled in a shallow slope of sand.

Ragnar’k rose higher on a thermal.

“

In a deep valley ahead, Sy-wen spotted the bulk of the ship. It lay beached up against a dune, its hull cracked. Small fires still glowed and smoldered from its broken belly. Tiny figures moved around and over the husk of the ship. Rescued crates and supplies stood piled off to one side.

“Some still live,” Sy-wen said, pointing an arm. She silently directed her mount to land.

Ragnar’k circled the smoky column and spiraled to the sand.

Eyes watched them land. As the dragon settled with a loud huff of relief, figures moved toward them.

Sy-wen spotted Joach and the Bloodrider Hunt. She slid from her seat and lifted an arm.

Joach approached, his clothes torn, a large bruise on his cheek. “You survived,” he said, exhaustion heavy in his voice.

She nodded. “But Ragnar’k is wounded. He’ll need a draught of dragon’s blood to heal. I don’t think he can fly any farther.”

Hunt shook his head. The large man was covered from crown to foot with soot. “I’m sorry. The casks were burned or shattered. The little that survived was used to help those injured by the crash. There’s not a drop left.”

Sy-wen groaned and turned, still resting a hand on the dragon. “We’ll manage.” Ragnar’k swung his head around and snuffled at her hair. Strong heart… will heal.

“I know you will,” she said, “but perhaps you should sleep. We can mend the wounds easier as Kast.” Man… not as big heart. He pouted.

She smiled tiredly. “But he has smaller wings.”

Ragnar’k nuzzled her again, sending a silent but reluctant consent. She hugged him and willed him her love and thanks, then stepped back. The ancient spell reversed, and scale and claw wound back down to bare legs and arms.

As Kast stumbled forward out of the spell, he clutched his arm to his chest. His forearm was seared and blistered, but he kept his face stoic. “How many survived?” he asked, ignoring his own injury.

Joach offered the naked man his cloak, torn and soot-stained. As Kast tied it around his waist, Joach answered his question. “Besides us, not many.” He pointed to the piled supplies. “The girl Sheeshon and the assassin Kesla were bruised and shaken up, but they’re doing Well.” H UATE

Sy-wen spotted the young woman rocking the girl in her lap.

Joach continued. “Richald survived the crash, but he shattered his leg and now won’t speak. He keeps with the other elv’in. More than his broken leg, I think it’s the loss of his ship that has truly crippl j him.” ec

“What of his crew?” Kast asked.

“Three survived. Four died in the crash.”

Kast surveyed the broken and smoldering wreck. “What now?”

“We continue on foot. Kesla says Alcazar lies about seven leagues from here—a hard trek but manageable. This day, we’ll gather what we can, then rest. After the sun goes down, we’ll load a litter and travel by night.”

Sy-wen stared up at the pillar of smoke. “Will it be safe until then? Eyes—not all of them friendly, I imagine—are sure to see this and investigate.”

Kesla suddenly appeared at her elbow, startling Sy-wen. The assassin moved so silently. Turning, Sy-wen saw that not a single footstep marred the smooth sand.

Kesla answered her question. “Sy-wen is correct. It’s not safe. Not only will eyes see the smoke, but the sands of the Wastes hide even worse beasts. They’ll be attracted to the blood. We should build a pyre and burn the bodies. Leave no trail and leave as soon as possible.” Joach shook his head. “We have no water. We’re all exhausted. It’ll be cooler to walk the night.”

“And more deadly,” Kesla argued sternly.

Sy-wen watched Kesla and Joach stare each other down. Clearly the friction between them was piqued by more than just their current situation.

Kast spoke up. “I think we should heed Kesla’s guidance. She knows the Wastes better than any of us.

These are her homelands.”

“I agree,” Sy-wen said.

Joach stared a moment longer, then turned on a heel. “Fine. I’ll let the elv’in know.” Kesla stared at his back, then sighed. “I should get Sheeshon ready.”

“I’ll help you,” Hunt said, following after her. Alone, Sy-wen turned to Kast. She stared up at him with a weary smile, glad to have him back at her side. “How’s your arm?”

“I’ll live.”

“You’d better.” She leaned into him, careful of his burns.

j-Ie put his good arm around her and pulled her tight. “We’ve a 1 ng journey ahead of us. Perhaps we should find a bit of shade and t while we can.”

reS

She trailed a finger down his chest. “Rest?”

Kast stared down into her eyes. “Did you have something else in mind?” She reached up with her lips and spoke huskily. “I have need of you.” A ghost of a smile shadowed his face as he leaned down to meet her mouth—but before their lips could touch, a scream arose from near the shipwreck.

GUILDMASTER BeLGAN KNELT WITH THE SHAMAN IN THE DARKENED

private courtyard. Though the morning sun climbed the blue sky, it had yet to rise above the heights of Alcazar to shine down into the tall, narrow yard. In shadows, the pair crouched beside the tiled mouth of a small well. Around them, flowering bushes dotted the small garden amid bits of sandstone statuary.

Atop the red paving stones, Shaman Parthus tossed a set of bleached bones: tiny vertebrae, knobbed knuckles, lizard skulls, and other bits of bird bones. The bones danced and clattered, then settled to a scattered pattern. The shaman’s head cocked as he studied the bits of white bone against the red stone.

Belgan brushed back his white hair and tried to peer at the bones himself, but they made no sense. He did not have the gift. “What does it show?”

Parthus held up a hand that was just withered bones itself, wrapped in sun-cured leather. The old shaman leaned and sniffed at the scrying bones, eyeing the pattern with one eye then the other, like a bird studying an intriguing beetle. His long nose and sharp features added to the hawkish image.

Belgan sat back on his heels, waiting impatiently. Both men were wrapped in red desert cloaks, their hoods tossed back—but it was their only common feature. Where the shaman was bald, all bones and leather, Belgan was large boned, pale of skin, with long, flowing white hair. Belgan had been nicknamed the “Ghost of Alcazar,” both for his skill at moving unseen and for his pale form.

Though so dissimilar in appearance, the two men shared a common purpose. For the past two moons, the pair had come each morning to toss the bones, to search for some sign of hope. In only ten days, the next tithing would be demanded. More children would be led to their doom.

As the master of the Assassins’ Guild, Belgan had accepted the charge to free the Wastes of the corruption that now roosted in Tu-lar. He, in turn, had put the fates of the desert people into the small hands of a young girl, an assassin trained in the arts of stealth—one of his best students. Before she left, her blood had been dribbled on the bones, allowing them to track her progress. For the past two moons, the shaman had discerned vague clues to her whereabouts. Then, half a moon ago, the bones went silent, no sign nor clue, as if the girl had vanished completely from the lands.

Belgan wrung his hands together. As each morning passed with no further word, his hopes for success dimmed. If there were no answers by tomorrow, Belgan would have to send word to the tribes to gather their children, to again choose who would live and who would die. They had no other option. The demand for blood would have to be answered.

Across the tossed bones, the shaman’s eyes narrowed. His head jerked up. “I see her.” Belgan froze, afraid he had heard him wrong. Parthus growled. “She is near. Already in the sands.”

“Kesla? Are you sure?” He nodded.

Belgan gasped with relief. The girl had made it back to the Wastes! “Thank the Sweet Mother. I knew she was a strong one.”

The shaman held up a hand of warning. “Before you rejoice. The bones also warn of a danger surrounding her.”

“What danger?”

“The bones are not clear. Blood and smoke… teeth and torn flesh.”

“Will she survive? Will she make it back here?” Parthus frowned. He reached and shifted the slivered jawbone of a desert rat. “Not even the bones can answer that.” the makeshift awning, Kesla held up a rumpled blanket s a scream echoed over the sands. It was a child’s cry of terror, coming horn the far a

side of the smoldering wreck.

Hunt, a few steps away, called out, “Sheeshon!”

Kesla dropped the blanket and ran toward the ship. “I left the child there, napping.” Hunt followed. Even with his longer legs, she kept well ahead of him, moving swiftly across the sand. The pair raced around the broken stern of the wreck. Others were converging from all around.

First to round the hull, Kesla immediately saw the danger. The elv’in, in respect for their dead, had built a small shelter on the leeward side of the ship. It shadowed the four dead bodies from the blistering sun.

As she watched, one of the bodies was dragged from the shelter and drawn under the sand. The thief could be seen by its thin white fin and muscled tail protruding from the sand. It thrashed, throwing sand high into the air. Thin elv’in bones cracked, and the body disappeared along with the predator into the cooler depths of the sand. All that remained was a bloody stain.

Another scream arose.

“There she is!” Hunt said, coming around the ship and pointing.

Sheeshon stood atop a spit of sandstone, balanced precariously, a look of terror on her tiny face.

Hunt moved toward her as others rushed up behind them.

“No,” Kesla said, pulling him back by an arm, holding the others in place, too. “Don’t move.” Hunt began to protest, but a pair of fins rose ominously from the sand and circled the rock, sweeping up and around the bank of a dune.

“Sand sharks,” Kesla said. “They’re drawn by the blood of the dead.” Sheeshon had spotted them by now. She reached her arms out, pleadingly, tears running down her face.

“I need you!” she called out, eyes staring straight at Hunt.

The tall Bloodrider suddenly stiffened beside Kesla and broke her grip. He plodded toward the stranded girl.

“No!” Kesla yelled. “Stand still! Besides blood, they’re attracted by movement!” Hunt seemed deaf and continued onward.

“It’s the spell,” Sy-wen said. “Between mer’ai and Bloodrider. He’s enthralled.” Kast whipped off his cloak, naked again, and rushed forward. He tossed the wrap over Hunt’s head, breaking contact between the girl and the tall Bloodrider. Hunt sagged as if a string had been cut between him and the girl. Confused, he tried to rip away the cloak, but Kast restrained him. “Keep your tattoo covered, Hunt.”

Nodding his understanding, Hunt slid the cloak down to his shoulders and wore it as a scarf over the tattoo around his neck. “No one move!” Kesla ordered. Other fins surfaced, over a dozen.

At the shelter, two more elv’in bodies were dragged under the sands. Another was torn between two of the predators fighting for meat. Bloody gobbets were tossed, only to be consumed by smaller sharks darting up and snagging the bits with a flash of serrated white teeth.

“Will they attack us?” Joach asked.

“They’re mostly scavengers. They seldom attack the living. But in a feeding frenzy, they’ve been known to attack anything that moves. Just stand still. They should leave once they’ve fed.” Kesla sensed the tension in the others. It was difficult to stand frozen with the girl sobbing and crying for help. But they had no choice. To move would draw the attention of the bloody jaws under the sand.

As they waited, the sun climbed the sky.

With the bodies now devoured and gone, the fins sank back into the sands with swishes of powerful tails until there was only one remaining. Kesla watched the last fin through narrowed eyes. It was the tallest of the group—the bull shark. It led and herded the others. Its fin circled the bloody sand, clearly scenting for any traces of remaining meat. It swept up the far dune bank, sinking away, then was gone.

She allowed the breath trapped in her chest to slowly escape. They had survived.

The child began to clamber off the stone. Hunt moved toward her. Then Kesla saw a ripple in the bank of sand, something drifting just under the surface. Hiding.

“No!” she yelled. “Get back!” gut she was too late. The small girl had reached the sand and ran toward the tall Bloodrider, arms raised to be picked up. Neither noticed the tall fin rise again from the sand and surge toward them.

The others screamed warnings, too.

Turning, Hunt finally recognized the approaching danger. He darted forward and snatched up the girl, diving to the side as the fin swept up and passed by him, missing his heels by a hairbreadth. Cut off from both the spit of sandstone and the ship, he twisted around and struggled to climb the neighboring dune.

But the loose sand fought him. The fin of the bull shark swept toward him in pursuit.

Other fins arose, hungry, circling, cutting off any means of rescue.

Kesla jerked Joach around. “The nightglass dagger! Give it to me!” Joach’s brows knit suspiciously.

“It’s the only thing to fight sand beasts. Trust me!”

Joach hesitated—then a scream arose from Sheeshon. He yanked the dagger from its sheath under his cloak and thrust it at her. She grabbed the cold handle, wrapping fingers around the coiled basilisk.

Kesla glanced to the group, her voice as sharp as the blade’s edge. “No one move until I tell you!” She ran forward as even more fins rose from the depths, cutting and crisscrossing each other in a hunting pattern. Kesla danced up and through the thrashing tangle. Trained as an assassin, she knew how to run the sands without disturbing a single grain. None of the predators noticed her passage through their territory.

Past the smaller fins, Kesla raced to the far dune. “I’ll draw it off!” she yelled up to Hunt. “But you have to stop moving!”

Hunt tried to stop, but his feet slid in the loose sand. Sheeshon clutched his neck. The fin aimed straight for them. Kesla recognized the rising panic in the tall Bloodrider’s eyes as death swept in, but he fought to obey her orders. He slid to a stop, teetering, up to his shins in the loose sand.

Kesla angled away from them, trotting up the dune’s face. This time she did not try to hide her steps but used her skill to accentuate them: pounding the sand with the flats of her feet, slapping with each footstep.

As she did this, she watched over her shoulder.

The fin continued to sweep toward Hunt and Sheeshon—but it slowed, coming to a stop only a step from the Bloodnder’s legs.

Kesla slowed also, stopping and pounding one foot harder. “Hear me,” she pleaded between clenched teeth. The fin did not move. It needed more coaxing. She drew the nightglass dagger across her palm, the blade so sharp she hardly felt its bite. Blood welled up, creating a dark pool in her palm. Turning her hand, she squeezed her fist and dribbled blood into the dry sand.

Near Hunt, the fin sank a bit. Then, in a burst of sand, the sand shark heaved itself around, its tail thrashing. Hunt was knocked backward, landing on his backside in the sand, cradling Sheeshon. But the bull shark seemed not to notice, fixed on the scent of fresh blood. The fin aimed toward Kesla.

Kesla backed up the dune, still walking flat-footed, ensuring her steps echoed deep into the sand, dribbling blood at the same time. At the peak of the dune, she paused. “C’mon, hunter. Prove your hunger.”

In the valley below, she saw her companions staring up at her, worried expressions fixed on their faces.

Around them, the other smaller sharks continued to circle, not interfering with their leader.

Kesla crouched, ready.

The fin angled toward her position, sweeping up the face of the dune. Kesla waited until the beast was only two steps away—then ran directly at the fin. This close, the beast sensed its prey and surged up out of the sand, a maw of teeth and black throat. Kesla leaped, rolling through the air, and landed atop the fin. Raising her dagger high, she plunged its full length deep into the beast’s back.

Impaled, the beast bucked under her. It bulged up from the sand, its tail whipping viciously. She rode the shark, her fingers clenched to the fin’s edge. One hand reached out and yanked the dagger free. Black blood poured over the sand and down the dune’s face. As it thrashed, she plunged the dagger in again, more to anchor her perch than as a true attack.

The shark attempted to flee, diving back into the sandy deep. Kesla was almost dragged down with it, but at the last moment, she tugged free her weapon and vaulted clear, rolling down the dune.

At the bottom, she slid to her feet, blade raised against any further attack. The smaller sharks circled a moment more, then slipped back under the sand, following their wounded bull. She signaled her com-JAMES

nions to remain where they were. She wanted the pod of sand harks well away from the area before a

anyone moved.

he wrapped her sliced palm into the edge of her cloak. She did t want her blood attracting stragglers.

nO

As she stood, she saw movement among her companions gathered on the valley floor.

It was Joach. His arm shot up, his mouth opening… The tiny hairs on Kesla’s nape quivered. Joach was pointing to the slope behind her.

Spinning on a heel, Kesla dropped.

“Watch out!” Joach’s scream echoed behind her.

From the bank of the dune, a huge shape leaped forth, a monstrous wall of muscle and teeth. The bull shark, blind with anger and blood lust, flew its full length out of the sand, hurtling through the air toward Kesla. Its fleshy mouth stretched wide, baring rows of razored teeth. Kesla could have walked upright between its open jaws.

Instead, while still crouched, she dove forward—low, under the beast’s maw. As the shark flew over her, she thrust her dagger high. The magick-fed nightglass cut cleanly, as if through air.

As the monster’s bulk hurtled by, the dagger sliced its belly from end to end. But the tip of its tail clipped Kesla’s shoulder, throwing her hard to the sand. The blow knocked the dagger from her hand and sent it twirling away.

Weaponless, she rolled to her belly, tiny lights dancing before her eyes. The bull shark crashed to the valley floor, landing on its side. Intestines and blood spilled from its gutted belly. Writhing, its cavernous mouth gnashed at the sand. The others backed away warily. But its twitching quickly grew still. Blood spread in a widening lake.

Kesla pushed to her feet. “We should be safe for the moment,” she gasped out, bruised, the air knocked from her lungs. “The bull’s blood will drive away its brethren. But there are other predators. We must keep moving.”

Joach collected the dagger and came to her side, offering his arm for support. “What you did… Your speed…”

She smiled weakly. “So you’ve finally found a use for an assassin’s skills.” Hunt came up on her other side, Sheeshon still in his arms. Tears and sand stained the girl’s face. She scowled at the shark’s corpse. “Big bad fish,” she scolded in childish anger, holding her nose against the rising smell.

Kesla reached up to touch the girl’s cheek, but her legs wobbl j with sudden exhaustion. She stumbled ec

back toward the sand. “I’ve got you,” Joach said, catching her. Kesla stared up into his eyes. “Thanks.” He slid the nightglass dagger into her belt. “I think you should keep this. You’ve earned it.” Kesla glanced down at this clear token of trust. She turned away to hide her welling tears and cleared her throat. “We… we should head out as soon as possible.” She straightened and stared at the dead bulk of the shark. “The tribes have an old adage: ‘In the sands, only the dead stop moving.’ ”

“Then let’s break camp,” Kast said, and stepped ahead with Sy-wen, leading the way back to the smoldering wreck of the Eagle’s Fury.

Joach kept near to Kesla’s side. She noticed his gaze on her as she followed the others. Instead of his usual smoldering anger, she sensed something else—something she hadn’t felt since back at the kitchens of A’loa Glen, when she had posed as a scullion maid.

She glanced out of the corner of an eye. Joach shuffled beside her, biting his lower lip, eyes thoughtful.

Turning, she kept her face hidden and allowed a small smile to shine.

Belgan stood at his high window and studied the spread of des-erts around Alcazar. A moon, near to full, climbed the skies and cast the sands, dunes, and rocks in silver. It was so bright that he could see far into the distance.

“Where are you, Kesla?” he whispered to the desert. Worry kept him far from sleep this night. The shaman’s scrying bones were mixed with omens, both glad and dire. Kesla had reached the desert—but she was far from safe.

After reading the bones, the shaman had left Alcazar. He would send some of his tribesmen out into the desert to watch for the girl. Belgan prayed they would find her safe, prayed she had succeeded in priming the ancient dagger in wit’ch blood. So much depended on someone so young.

But he knew Kesla was more than she appeared. He was the one who had found her a decade ago, walking the desert sands. She’d been naked, less than five winters of age, with no knowledge of her lv or past—but he had known right away that she was special.

, harsh sun had not marked her. Her tawny hair was long, drag-in the sand behind her as if its strands had never been sheared.

had walked into his night camp as if birthed by the desert itself.

p r one so lost and alone, she appeared unnaturally calm, though she ould not speak. He had first believed her addled, but she had arned quickly: speaking within the year, reading the next, quickly mastering any and every skill and challenge posed her.

There was something special about Kesla. It shone from her. When the task came to wet the nightglass dagger in wit’ch blood, there was no other choice. Even if the shaman’s bones had pointed another way, Belgan would have chosen Kesla. To him, she was the desert’s best hope.

A knock sounded behind him.

He turned, wondering who could be disturbing him at this late hour. “Enter,” he called out.

The door to his room opened, and an apprentice bowed into the room. “Master Belgan. I apologize for disturbing you so late.”

“What is it, Seth?”

“There comes to the gate a wanderer, someone begging entrance to Alcazar.”

“Is he alone?”

“Yes.”

Belgan frowned. To walk the desert alone was the act of a fool. The dangers were too plentiful for a single pair of eyes to guard against. And at this late hour, he did not have the patience to tolerate fools.

“What does this wanderer want?”

“That’s why I disturbed you. He wishes to speak to you. He says that he comes with a warning.” Belgan sighed. He had better investigate. Plucking his cloak from its peg, he drew its red folds around his pale form. “Have you let him inside?”

“No, Master. He waits outside the gate.”

He nodded. Good. With the dangers and diseased creatures loose in the desert, the gates were ordered locked at twilight and were not to be opened until dawn. “Take me to him.” Seth held the door open for his master, then scurried ahead, leading the way down the stairs and through the sandstone halls.

Ages ago, the keep of Alcazar had been hollowed and sculpted from a tall outcropping of sandstone.

Approached from the desert Alcazar appeared to be a plain pinnacle of stone, hut a natural vertical crack in its northern face led into an inner central courtyyard open to the sky above. The keep itself had been carved from this yard’s surrounding cliffs, sculpted into straight towers, corkscrewing spires, and gigantic sculptures of ancient kings. It was a castle encased in a shell of sandstone, the private keep and hold of the Assassins’ Guild.

Seth pushed through a thick ash door and held it open. Belgan stepped out of his tower and onto the paving stones of the central yard. From here, Belgan continued ahead, Seth trailing at his heels.

As he crossed the yards, the moon hung high overhead, shining down into the heart of Alcazar. To the right, the stables housing the desert malluks whispered with their mewls and chuffing. The usually stoic beasts were clearly agitated, frightened. Even the stable-master had been roused. Belgan saw Humph, dressed only in his nightclothes, hauling the door open to check on his charges.

As he stared, a stray breeze wound under Belgan’s cloak and shivered his skin. He wrapped his garment tighter to his thin shoulders, hugging his sides. Strange omens ride this night.

Seth caught up and passed him. “This way, Master Belgan.” On the far side of the yard, the crack in the sandstone cliff led out to the open desert, but it had been sealed from top to bottom with a Crosshatch of iron bars, each as thick as a man’s wrist. Spikes of poisoned barbs festooned the far side, discouraging any thief from attempting to climb the construction. The only opening in its iron face was a portcullis that could be raised or lowered by winches and counterbalances.

Seth led the way to the closed gate. In the dimness beyond the portal, Belgan spotted a shadowed lump.

As he neared, two apprentices stood to either side, spears in hand: the night’s sentries. Belgan nodded to the pair, then slipped a flaming brand from a sconce and approached the gate.

The desert wanderer glanced up from where he knelt at the door.

Belgan gasped and fell back. The face under the cloak’s hood was all wrinkles and milky eyes. It was as if an ancient mummified corpse stood at his portal. But this was no dead man. Leaning on a h of gray‘sn wood, the stranger dragged to his feet. Hoary joints tpped and creaked. Belgan composed t

himself. “How… How may I help you, old man?’

The figure revealed a stumped wrist and shoved down his hood.

The man’s staff swiped before his wrinkled face as if waving away a biting fly- Now that the stranger was standing and fully exposed to view, Belgan realized his first impression of the wanderer had been mistaken, a trick of flickering torchlight. Certainly the man was old, but not as corrupted as he had first thought.

Belgan cast aside his initial trepidation. There was nothing to fear. The wanderer’s voice, when he spoke, was rich and deep, though coarse with age around the edges. “I come not seeking your help, Master Belgan, but to offer you my assistance.“

“How so? Who are you? Where do you come from?”

“I have many names, but you may call me Dismarum. I am a nomad, wandering the many lands of Alasea.”

The staff again waved before the man’s face as he shifted his tired limbs. The old face suddenly reminded Belgan of his grandfather.

He felt a twinge of guilt at his own lack of hospitality—but he kept his tone even. “Why have you come to my gates?”

“To warn of an enemy coming this way.” Belgan lifted one eyebrow. “What enemy might that be?”

“A boy cloaked in black magicks. He goes by the name Joach.”

“And what makes you think he might be coming here?” Dismarum leaned heavily on his staff, clearly weak and hungry.

“He’s the brother of a wit’ch.”

Belgan jerked with these last words, shocked. “How did you… a wit’ch?”

“I’ve heard rumors on the road. He comes seeking to avenge the death of his sister.” Belgan felt the blood drain out of his limbs. The torch trembled.

What had Kesla done?

“I would tell you more, but the desert has worn me, drained me.” The visitor’s words seemed to worm into Belgan’s skull. “I would beg a boon. Let me in.” Belgan’s suspicions flared, but the man’s staff waved again. Belgan blinked, staring back at the guileless old man. How could he distrust this wanderer who had risked so much to bring him news? Guilt ar his rudeness surged again. He stepped back. “Raise the gate,” he in structed Seth.

“Master?”

Belgan noticed the worried look on the apprentice’s face. “We’ll offer this desert wanderer a drink and a warm meal. Now open these gates.”

Seth hesitated, glancing past the gate’s bars with disgust. Belgan remembered with shame his own initial revulsion of Dis-marum and scowled at Seth. “Do as I say!”

Seth’s eyes widened as he rushed over to the winch. Belgan touched his forehead, surprised at his own outburst. He never raised his voice. It must be the lack of sleep, the days of worry for Kesla. His eyes drifted back to the old man behind the gates. Dis-marum lifted the staff, rolling it in his palm—and all Belgan’s concerns vanished. What was he thinking? He must treat this elder with the utmost compassion.

Perhaps he should even offer him his own room for the night, compensation for his lack of hospitality so far.

Gears cranked, and iron groaned. Slowly the portcullis rose, its speared lower tips drawn from the sandstone. Soon the way lay open. Belgan hurried forward and offered Dismarum his arm. The man smiled gratefully, all warmth and friendship. Belgan smiled back, content that he had pleased his guest.

He led Dismarum under the gate and into the central yard.

For just a moment, Belgan thought he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. A blur of something hulking, a glimpse of claw and cloven hoof. Then it was gone, leaving the scent of goats in the air.

Belgan slowed, his brow furrowing. In his chest, his heart beat faster, panicked. Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong. His feet tripped.

Then the old man was there, catching him up, brushing him with his staff. With its touch, Belgan sighed with relief, all fears gone.

He shook his head at his own foolishness and continued toward the sculpted towers and spires. His ears ignored the burst of panicked nickering rising from the stables as he passed with his guest.

Instead, he patted the old man’s arm. “Welcome, Dismarum. Welcome to Alcazar.” On the second day of trekking through the desert, Joach marched beside the litter bearing the broken-limbed Richald. They were the last in the line of marchers. Kesla led. Hunt walked beside her, bearing Sheeshon in his arms. Ahead of Joach, Kast and Sy-wen strode side by side, wrapped head to toe in drapes of cloak and cloth. The only skin exposed to the sun were their two hands, fingers interlocked as they crossed the sands.

Joach glanced skyward, squinting. He shaded his eyes. The sun touched the western horizon. Soon they would need to seek another campsite for the night—and it could not come quick enough. The entire party was hot, sunburned, and thirsty.

Last night, Kesla had led them to a site amid a tumble of rocks. Off the sands, the risk of attack from the desert’s nighttime prowlers was less. As they had set up camp, she had also directed them to prop up sections of the singed sails. “To collect the night’s dew,” she had explained.

It proved a wise move. By morning, the cups and pans positioned under the lower edge of the canopies were filled with fresh water. It was not enough to wash the sand and dried sweat from their bodies, but it did allow them each to drink a small amount and to fill leather flasks for the day’s journey.

But now, as the sun lowered to the west, Joach’s small water supply had long been used up. His lips were cracked, and his tongue felt like a sticky piece of hide. Kesla had shown him how to keep a pebble in his cheek to help stave off thirst and moisten his mouth, but he had spat it out long ago. As he walked, every joint and crevice in his body was chafed raw by the sand. Joach’s eyes ached from the blinding reflection of the sun off the surrounding dunes. It seemed as if they had been marching for moons instead of days. Even Joach’s dreams had been of sand and of endless, empty skies.

And he was not alone in his suffering. Each member of the party slogged through the desert, head hanging, beaten down by the sun. The litter bearers bore the worst, carrying Richald slung between thin poles. The elv’in prince used traces of his magick to lighten his body and make his burden less for them, but the desert sun sapped everyone’s energy. At times, Richald would allow his bearers to rest and would limp with a crutch across the sands, his stoic face lined with pain. But he could not do this for long and would have to return to the litter.

“Joach?” A hoarse whisper rose from the litter’s rumple of cloths and sails.

Turning, Joach shifted the scarf of cloth from his face to stare at Richald. It was the first word the elv’in prince had spoken since the crash of the Eagle’s Fury. “What is it, Richald?” Richald shifted to one elbow. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I failed you all.”

Joach crinkled his brow. “How so?”

“I should not have lost the Fury. It brings shame to my family.” Joach sighed. He recognized the pain in the other’s eyes. Living among the clouds, Richald had seldom been so seriously challenged as he had been two nights ago. The experience had taken the winds out of his haughty sails.

Reaching up, Joach touched the other’s wrist. Richald tried to pull away, but Joach tightened his fingers, gripping the man’s arm. “I’m sorry you lost your ship, Richald. Truly I am. But you sailed us through the narcissus fields and made it possible to continue our journey here. You have not shamed your name or family.”

“But the Fury …”

“It was just wood and sail. As long as you live, another ship can be built. You are the true Fury.” Richald’s wounded face softened a few degrees. He stared at Joach for a moment, then pulled his arm free. “Thank you,” he whispered, then rolled away.

prom ahead, Kesla lifted an arm. “We’ll camp just over the next rise.” T ach groaned with relief, glad this long day was over. According o

Kesla, they should reach Alcazar by midday tomorrow.

As Joach trudged forward, he found renewed strength. The entire up increased its pace with the end of the day’s trek in sight. The last slope was a monstrous dune, sweeping up to the height of a steep foothill-The team climbed the ridge of sand, passing back and forth in ascending switchbacks.

At long last, as the sun sank into the western horizons and shadows stretched into a twilight gloom, they reached the summit. Joach, last in line behind the litter, saw the party stop with gasps of surprise on their lips. He trudged the final distance and stared into the next valley.

“Sweet Mother!”

Below was a wonderland. A small grove of tall, thin trees crowned with canopied leaves lay in the valley.

The twilight gloom was even thicker in the deep trough, but there was no mistaking the glint of water—a wide pond! Beside the water, tiny lanterns glowed, illuminating a scatter of tents. The tinkling whisper of some stringed instrument floated up to them.

“The oasis of Oo’shal,” Kesla said with delight. She swept back her hood. The last rays of sunlight lit her cascade of tawny curls into strands of gold.

“Why didn’t you tell us you were heading here?” Kast asked, mildly irritated. The same question was on Joach’s mind, too.

“I could not. It is taboo to speak of an oasis until you are at it. The desert tribes believe that to waste the moisture of one’s breath to name or speak of an oasis will offend the gods of this land. As punishment, they might drain the waters back into the sand or hide it from your path.” Kesla searched their faces with a trace of a smile. And you wouldn’t want that to have happened, would you?“ Hunt answered. “Not for all the gold in the sea.” He began to hurry down the slope.

Four masked men suddenly rose from the sand, stepping out of hiding behind small boulders and slipping from under camouflaged flaps of cloth. In their hands were long, sickle-shaped blades.

Kesla stepped forward, empty palms raised. “Naato o’shi ryt,” she said calmly to the guards.

The lead swordsman’s eyes grew large when he spotted her. swept back his own desert hood and mask.

“Kesla?”

She grinned and bowed. “It is good to see you again, Innsu.” The man sheathed his sword and ran up the slope. Joach noticed how tall and broad-shouldered the young man was. His skin was darkly complexioned, and he had deep, penetrating black eyes and a small, neatly trimmed beard and mustache. The dome of his head was shaved bald, as were all the other guards‘.

Reaching Kesla, he picked her up in his arms and swung her around. “We’ve been watching for you.”

“Watching for me?” Kesla asked, breathless from the greeting as he set her back on her feet.

“Shaman Parthus is down at the camp.” Innsu nodded to the collection of low tents. “His bones warned of danger along your path through the desert. We came searching for you. I knew you’d come here to Oo’shal.”

Her grin broadened. “You always know me so well.”

“And why wouldn’t I? How many times have we been out here training? I couldn’t keep you away from the water.” As Innsu turned, Joach spotted a small daggered tattoo behind the man’s left ear marking him as another assassin.

“How’s Master Belgan?” she asked.

The tall young man rolled his eyes. “Worried, as usual.”

This raised a bit of laughter from Kesla.

Joach frowned, irritated by the man’s familiarity with the tawny-haired girl.

As if sensing his emotions, Kesla glanced back to him. “We’ve had a long day’s trek, Innsu. Perhaps we’d better get these folks cleaned, fed, and settled. Then we can catch up.” He sobered. “Of course.” Straightening, he addressed the rest of them formally. “Be welcome to Oo’shal. Come share our waters.” It was clearly a common greeting, spoken rotely without true emotion.

Innsu turned and spoke in the desert tongue to his companions. One darted away and ran down the slope toward the valley, evidently to spread the word of their arrival.

Kesla waved them all down toward the trees and waters. “Come. We’ve all traveled through hardship, and I imagine the road will grow even harder from here. But this night, let us honor the gods of Wastes and enjoy the hospitality of Oo’shal without worry or 1 ‘ She led them with Innsu at her side.

She le

Toach glanced behind him. The other two guards vanished into he sand, returning to guard the valley.

t

Turning back around, he found Kesla’s eyes upon him again. Her olet eyes matched the deep twilight waters below. Joach’s breath ausht in his throat. She slowed her pace to come abreast of him and touch his elbow, leaning close. “We’ll be safe tonight. There’ll be nothing to fear.” He nodded, noticing the hard, studied look Innsu gave him from behind Kesla’s shoulder. A desert eagle studying a scurrying mouse.

Joach met his gaze, unblinking. An unspoken challenge passed between them.

With a slight narrowing of his eyes, Innsu turned away.

Kesla, seemingly oblivious to the exchange, continued to speak. “Oo’shal is a desert name. It means

‘jewel of the sand.’ ”

“A jewel indeed,” Sy-wen said, holding Kast’s hand. “It’s beautiful.” The small pond’s color deepened to a midnight blue as they worked down the slope and into the shadows. It stood in sharp contrast to the red sand and green trees. After the unending landscape of wind-sculpted dunes and jutting rock, the oasis seemed a paradise of splendor and color.

As they neared the outskirts of the oasis, the noises of the camp grew in volume. Voices called across the valley in ululating echoes, sounding the arrival of the newcomers and the return of Kesla from her journey.

The single stringed instrument was joined by the strike and beat of scintillating cymbals, a much merrier tune than the previous melancholy one.

Stepping under the fronds of the tall, narrow trees, Joach stared up. Pendulous gourds of a purplish hue hung from the high canopy. Kesla caught his gaze. “Gre’nesh fruit. Its flesh is very succulent and sweet.

The tribesmen make a potent ale from its mashed and strained seeds, while shamans chew the seed whole to walk the dream desert.”

Joach’s ears pricked up. “To walk the dream desert? What do you mean:

“It’s a shaman’s ritual. In truth, I never fully understood it.” Joach was disappointed. Since his loss of Flint and Meric, he’d had no one to instruct him in his own talent of drearnweaving. After his near-disastrous misinterpretation of one of his dreams, Joach had grown to consider his talent more a threat than a gift. Over the past moon, he had sensed the occasional twinge of magick attempting to infuse his dreams, but Joach had shunned it like an unwanted guest A voice spoke out the shadows ahead. “You ask of the dream desert. Maybe I can explain it better after you’ve rested.” A thin figure stepped across their path. He was gaunt, all worn bone and gristle, with skin burned to a deep bronze.

Only his eyes seemed fresh and bright, almost aglow in the twilight murk.

“Shaman Parthus!” Kesla exclaimed, rushing forward to hug the old man. She quickly made introductions.

“Come,” the shaman finished. “We’ve healers to help the injured, and food and drink—but first I imagine you’d all like to wash the sand from your feet.”

“And hair, and mouth, and ears, and arse,” Kast said.

This earned a small smile. “Fear not, Oo’shal will cleanse your body and spirit. Innsu will lead the men to their bathing pool; Kesla will take the girl child and woman. In the meantime, I’ll guide the injured to the healer’s tent.” Parthus waved a hand, and a group of tribesmen led Richald and his litter bearers down a side path.

Kesla scooped up Sheeshon, whose eyes were wide at the new surroundings. “This way.” Sy-wen kissed Kast on the cheek and followed the lithe assassin. The remaining men were led down another path toward the waters.

Joach noticed the shaman’s eyes following him as he left. Caught staring, the shaman nodded knowingly.

The shaman’s lips moved in words meant only for Joach, and though the man was a distance away, Joach heard him as clearly as if he had whispered in his ear. “We’ll speak after the moon sets,” the old man said.

Still pondering the shaman’s strange words, Joach found himself at the edge of the pool. As the sun finished setting, stars began to appear in the sky, mirrored in the waters here. As Joach stared, he was surprised by the size of the pool. From this shore, the far bank was almost indiscernible, more a small lake than a pond.

Kast tugged off one boot and reached a foot into the water. “It’s nice and cool.” Tnnsu explained, arms crossed over his chest. “Oo’shal is fed from derground springs deep beneath the desert.”

Kast nodded and pulled his other boot off, then quickly shed his rrnents. Joach and Hunt did not hesitate, stripping off their sandy

J sweat-stained cloaks and undergarments. Kast ran and dove to the waters, Hunt and Joach at his n

heels. Their whoops of delight st have been heard far across desert.

mU

Innsu just stood on the bank, arms still crossed, face stoic as stone.

After rubbing the sand and grime from their bodies, the trio floated and swam. None of them wanted to leave the balm of the cool lake. But eventually Innsu waved them back to the shore. Climbing from the waters, they found clean, loose robes to don.

“Your clothes will be washed tonight,” Innsu said. “Now we must hurry. A small feast is being prepared.” Joach quickly learned that small was a subjective term. In a clearing at the center of the low tents, a large woven blanket had been spread. Bright sitting pillows interwoven with thin strands of silver dotted the edges, but it was the platters and bowls of fruits and roasted meats and the flagons of ale that drew Joach’s eyes. His mouth watered at the sight. And the rich scent of spices and sizzling roasts almost made him swoon on his feet.

Sy-wen, Sheeshon, and Kesla were already seated, waiting with clear impatience. “It’s high time you men showed up,” Sy-wen said, wearing a scolding smile. “It seems these desert tribesmen have the odd custom of allowing their men to eat first.”

Kast crossed and settled to a pillow next to his mate. “Sounds like a fitting rule to me.” His statement earned him an elbow jabbed in his side. He laughed as Joach and Hunt took pillows on the far side of the spread of food.

Innsu bowed. “I must return to my watch. I bid thee a good meal.” Kesla smiled up at her fellow assassin. “Thank you, Innsu.” Before he left, he glanced to Joach, his face again stone, unreadable. Then he swung away. The other tribesmen also gave them privacy to enjoy their meal, retreating to their tents, though somewhere a pair of musicians continued to ply the night with soft chords and the tinkle of bells.

Now settled, Kesla showed them how to partake of the meal. There were no plates, knives, forks, or spoons. All that rested before each pillow was a short spear, about as long as Joach’s forearm. Kesla demonstrated how to use the tool to jab a morsel and bring it to one’s lips.

She did not eat what she speared but nodded to Joach. “Men must eat first.” Joach smiled and speared a chunk of sizzling meat. “Roasted owl,” Kesla explained.

Joach brought it to his lips. His eyes closed with satisfaction as his teeth sank through the charred skin to the tender meat. He sighed with appreciation, tasting the sweet juices used in the marinade. He had never experienced anything so wonderful.

Noises of appreciation arose from the others. With the men having sampled the fare, the women began to spear and jab at the feast. As the night wore on and the moon climbed high in the sky, laughter and ale flowed, easing residual tensions and aches. Joach could almost forget that he sat in the middle of the Southern Wastes, one of Alasea’s harshest lands. Finally, his stomach full, he groaned with pleasure and put down his spear. “More?” Kesla teased.

Joach shook his head. “I couldn’t stand another morsel of your people’s hospitality—Not without bursting like an overripe pumpkin.” The group shared his views. Sy-wen and Kast were soon retreating to their assigned tent, arms locked around each other. Hunt stirred, too. “I should get Sheeshon to bed.” The child leaned against the Bloodrider’s side, gently snoring. She had fallen asleep long ago. He picked her small form up under one arm and stood. Sheeshon did not even stir. Weaving slightly from the ale, Hunt strode toward the tents. “Sleep well,” Kesla called after him.

He lifted an arm in acknowledgment, then disappeared into a tent. Turning, Kesla’s eyes found Joach’s.

They were alone now. She glanced shyly away. “I told Shaman Parthus about the nightglass dagger. He’ll join us on the journey to Alcazar tomorrow.”

“That’s good,” Joach mumbled, suddenly awkward. He rolled his feet under him, pushing up. “I guess I should find my tent.” Cross-legged, Kesla stared at her toes. “Already?” Joach felt his heart jump. He shuffled his feet. “Well, I… I’m actually not that sleepy.” She slid smoothly to her feet. “It’s good to walk a bit after a large meal. Better for the digestion.”

“So I’ve heard. But walk where?”

She finally lifted her eyes back to his face. “I’ll show you.” Kesla d him to a trail between a dense grove of trees. “There’s something you should see.” ve

Kesla led, but Joach quickly stepped beside her. “Where are we going‘” he asked. E “You’ll see.” In silence, they wound through the trees. Small bats roosting in the canopies took flight at their approach.

But soon the trees were behind them, and they were climbing a path up the face of a dune. Joach’s feet kept slipping in the sand, but Kesla moved lightly up the slope. She reached back and helped him.

Her hand was an ember in his palm.

“If you walk with the inner edge of your feet, you’ll not need to fight the sand as much.” Joach did as she instructed and discovered she was right. But though he moved more easily, she never released his hand. He did not object. In fact, he moved closer to her side. He could smell the water of Oo’shal in her hair, and the soft scent of her skin.

All too soon, they reached the crest of the dune.

The desert, etched in silver by the bright moon, stretched forever. “It’s beautiful,” he mumbled.

She leaned closer to him and pointed her free arm. “Do you see that spear of rock near the horizon?” Joach squinted. He could just make out a lone mountain in the distance, its slopes limned in moonlight.

“What is it?”

“It’s Alcazar. My home.”

Joach stared down at her. Her eyes brimmed with tears. He let go of her hand and draped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to his side, hugging and holding her.

The cold assassin melted into his side, now just a woman.

RlCHALD LAY ATOP THE THIN BLANKET, THE SAND BENEATH SCULPTED TO

his contours. The camp had long gone quiet, but sleep escaped him. The tribe’s healer had given him medicines to dull his pain, but the ache in his broken leg still nagged. His remaining crew lay around the wide tent, curled in slumber; a whistling chorus of snores surrounded him.

each pillow was a short spear, about as long as Joach’s forearm. Kesla demonstrated how to use the tool to jab a morsel and bring it to one’s lips.

She did not eat what she speared but nodded to Joach. “Men must eat first.” Joach smiled and speared a chunk of sizzling meat.

“Roasted owl,” Kesla explained.

Joach brought it to his lips. His eyes closed with satisfaction as his teeth sank through the charred skin to the tender meat. He sighed with appreciation, tasting the sweet juices used in the marinade. He had never experienced anything so wonderful.

Noises of appreciation arose from the others. With the men having sampled the fare, the women began to spear and jab at the feast. As the night wore on and the moon climbed high in the sky, laughter and ale flowed, easing residual tensions and aches. Joach could almost forget that he sat in the middle of the Southern Wastes, one of Alasea’s harshest lands. Finally, his stomach full, he groaned with pleasure and put down his spear.

“More?” Kesla teased.

Joach shook his head. “I couldn’t stand another morsel of your people’s hospitality—Not without bursting like an overripe pumpkin.”

The group shared his views. Sy-wen and Kast were soon retreating to their assigned tent, arms locked around each other. Hunt stirred, too. “I should get Sheeshon to bed.” The child leaned against the Bloodrider’s side, gently snoring. She had fallen asleep long ago. He picked her small form up under one arm and stood. Sheeshon did not even stir. Weaving slightly from the ale, Hunt strode toward the tents.

“Sleep well,” Kesla called after him.

He lifted an arm in acknowledgment, then disappeared into a tent.

Turning, Kesla’s eyes found Joach’s. They were alone now. She glanced shyly away. “I told Shaman Parthus about the nightglass dagger. He’ll join us on the journey to Alcazar tomorrow.”

“That’s good,” Joach mumbled, suddenly awkward. He rolled his feet under him, pushing up. “I guess I should find my tent.”

Cross-legged, Kesla stared at her toes. “Already?”

Joach felt his heart jump. He shuffled his feet. “Well, I… I’m actually not that sleepy.” She slid smoothly to her feet. “It’s good to walk a bit after a large meal. Better for the digestion.”

“So I’ve heard. But walk where?”

She finally lifted her eyes back to his face. “I’ll show you.” Kesla vvaved him to a trail between a dense grove of trees. “There’s something you should see.”

Kesla led, but Joach quickly stepped beside her. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“You’ll see.”

In silence, they wound through the trees. Small bats roosting in the canopies took flight at their approach.

But soon the trees were behind them, and they were climbing a path up the face of a dune. Joach’s feet kept slipping in the sand, but Kesla moved lightly up the slope. She reached back and helped him.

Her hand was an ember in his palm.

“If you walk with the inner edge of your feet, you’ll not need to fight the sand as much.” Joach did as she instructed and discovered she was right. But though he moved more easily, she never released his hand. He did not object. In fact, he moved closer to her side. He could smell the water of Oo’shal in her hair, and the soft scent of her skin.

All too soon, they reached the crest of the dune.

The desert, etched in silver by the bright moon, stretched forever.

“It’s beautiful,” he mumbled.

She leaned closer to him and pointed her free arm. “Do you see that spear of rock near the horizon?” Joach squinted. He could just make out a lone mountain in the distance, its slopes limned in moonlight.

“What is it?”

“It’s Alcazar. My home.”

Joach stared down at her. Her eyes brimmed with tears. He let go of her hand and draped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her to his side, hugging and holding her.

The cold assassin melted into his side, now just a woman.

RlCHALD LAY ATOP THE THIN BLANKET, THE SAND BENEATH SCULPTED TO

his contours. The camp had long gone quiet, but sleep escaped him. The tribe’s healer had given him medicines to dull his pain, but the ache in his broken leg still nagged. His remaining crew lay around the wide tent, curled in slumber; a whistling chorus of snores surrounded him.

Wit ch (.tatf.

He closed his eyes. He could still sense his ship, even from leagues away. During his life, he had seldom left its planked decks. To lose the Fury was like losing a part of himself. He felt naked, vulnerable.

He remembered his distraught words to Joach. Foolish, he thought to himself. It was not proper for a prince of the Blood to show weakness, to ask for forgiveness, especially from a half-breed like Joach.

But in his heart, he knew he needed the comfort of the young man’s counsel. As much as he sniped at Joach, Richald had grown to respect the man. He had proven his royal blood, both in the past and even on this journey. It had been Joach who had goaded him into finding that last bit of strength necessary to guide his ship over the vine’s fields. If it hadn’t been for the boy, they all might have died. Joach had given Richald the strength to find his honor, to ply his elemental skills to their fullest.

And as much as the loss of his ship was a wound in his heart, Richald relished that final flight: the rush of wind, the snap of sailcloth, the dance of flames, even the overwhelming pain as the ship broke apart under him. At that moment, he had never felt more alive and vigorous. Lives had depended on him. His skill was all that had stood between life and death.

Tears filled his eyes. He owed the experience to Joach.

Richald shifted his hip, triggering a flash of agony up his leg. The pain helped focus his thoughts. Injured, he was more a burden than an asset to the mission here in the deserts. The plan was for him to recuperate at Alcazar while the others continued in their efforts to destroy the Basilisk Gate. And this rankled him—it was the true reason sleep escaped him this night. He owed Joach a debt, and he meant to honor it.

But how? How could he be of use in his current broken state?

Richald stared at the tent’s roof. If there ever was a way to repay Joach, he would.

“This I swear on the blood of my family,” he muttered softly.

Content with his spoken promise, Richald rolled to his side, guarding his leg, and knew he could finally sleep.

In the thick of the night, Joach woke with a start, as if someone had called his name in the dark. He sat up, his heart pounding harshly. He stared around the small tent. It was empty—some stored oils and bags, but nothing more. He tossed aside his blanket and oiled from the thin bed, naked except for a pair of cotton breeches.

The cool desert night chilled his bare flesh. His ears strained for what had startled him awake.

The only noise outside was the soft whisper of tree fronds wafting in the gentle night breezes. Still, Joach shivered.

Stepping to the tent flap, he pushed a corner open and peeked outside. The night had grown darker than when he had climbed into his bedroll after his walk with Kesla.

Beyond the tent, past a few trees, Joach spotted the central clearing. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he spotted a shadowy figure standing out there. The stranger waved an arm, indicating Joach should approach.

Glancing right and left, Joach hesitated. Not a single light glowed anywhere around the oasis. But he knew guards had been posted around the valley. No intruder should have been able to enter the area without raising an alarm.

Joach bit his lower lip and slipped through the tent flap. Out of the shelter, the night breeze chilled him to the bone. He wrapped his arms around his bare chest.

Ahead, the dark figure waited, unmoving.

Joach stepped forward, swallowing back his fear. Once closer, the features of the lurker grew clearer: his bald head, his burnt-copper skin, and his piercing eyes that glowed as bright as the moon. Joach recognized the tribe’s shaman.

He strode more confidently forward. “Shaman Parthus.”

“Joach Morin’stal.” The shaman’s voice rasped like flowing sand. “How may I help you?” Joach asked hesitantly, not fully able to shake his nervousness.

The shaman did not answer. He simply waved Joach to sit with him in the sand. The old man folded to the ground, cross-legged.

Joach felt uncomfortable looming over the elder, so he settled to the sand, too. Only then did he spot a small bone bowl resting before the shaman’s knees. It was filled with thumb-sized nuts.

Parthus noticed his attention. “Gre’nesh seeds.”

Joach remembered Kesla’s description of the fruit’s seed. Diluted, it made a strong, intoxicating ale, but when taken whole, it supposedly helped the shamans of the tribes in some mysterious ways.

Parthus picked up the bowl and offered its contents to Joach. The young man took one of the offered seeds, as did the shaman.

“I don’t understand,” Joach mumbled.

“You are a shaman. I spotted it in your eyes when you first came to Oo’shal.” Joach shook his head. “I have the gift of dreamweaving, nothing more. I am no shaman.” Parthus stared at Joach with those intense bright eyes. “That will be seen.” The shaman popped a gre’nesh seed into his mouth. A loud crack sounded as his teeth bit into the nut. Parthus nodded for Joach to do the same.

He hesitated, then did as instructed. He popped the seed between his molars and crunched down on it.

Almost instantly, a bitter taste filled his mouth. He swallowed back a gag.

“Do not fight it,” the shaman said, but his voice was dreamy, almost as if he were drifting away.

Joach stared across the small space, eye to eye. His mouth filled with saliva as his tongue fought the bitterness, trying to wash away the taste. With his fingers clenched on his knees, Joach swallowed hard.

For a moment, he felt nothing, just relief to get the foulness off his tongue.

With a nod, the shaman spit out the empty husk of his seed; Joach did the same.

Joach coughed on the residual bitterness. “What now? Is there some—” Then the world dissolved around him. Trees and tents, water and sky—all washed away. All that remained were two things: the endless sand and the lone figure of Parthus still seated across from him.

Joach craned his neck. Overhead, the night sky was empty—no stars, just an endless blank expanse that spread to all horizons. Yet instead of finding this strange landscape dark, Joach had to squint against the brightness. All the sands around them glowed with the same shine found in the shaman’s eyes.

Joach gawked at the landscape. As strange as this all was, Joach felt a twinge of familiarity. He had been here before. Last night, as he slept, he had dreamed of this place. In the morning, he had thought the sandy dream a mere reflection of the day’s arduous trek. But here he was again.

parthus rose smoothly to his feet and held out a hand. “Come. It is • e you walked the dream desert.” m

Joach, his mouth still hanging open, accepted the man’s firm grip d allowed himself to be pulled to his n

feet. “Where exactly are we?

V/hat is this dream desert?“

“The gre’nesh seed freed our spirits from our bodies. Once un-tethered, those attuned to the elemental energy of sand are drawn into the desert’s endless dream.”

“But I have no skill in sand magick.”

Parthus nodded. “I know this. But you thrum to all things dreaming. You were drawn not by the sand, but by the dream itself.”

Joach frowned and stared around him. Not a creature stirred, not a wind blew. But even though it was quiet, he sensed a great pressure all around him, as if he were submerged deep under the sea and something large were examining him for dinner. He wrapped his arms around his bare chest and wished he had thought to don a shirt. Turning back to the shaman he asked, “But where exactly are we? Why did you bring me here?”

“Follow me.” Parthus swept his cloak around his thin shoulders and struck out across the smooth landscape.

Joach matched his stride. As they walked, Joach sensed great distances were crossed with each step.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To the heart of the dreaming… To the Southwall itself.” Joach cringed. “Is it safe?”

“As long as you stay at my side. Don’t wander off.” Joach studied the landscape of empty glowing sands and emptier skies. Where could he go?

As if reading his thoughts, Parthus spoke. “To walk alone here can threaten your very spirit. Occasionally other dreams will intersect with this plane and bring nightmares to the sands. Here they have the strength of real beasts. They can kill or worse.”

“Worse?”

“Sometimes as you engage another’s night figment, you can become drawn out of this landscape and into the dreamer’s mind. If that happens, you will be lost forever.” Joach’s belly became queasy. He studied the sands more closely. Was that a flicker of movement at the corner of his eye? His gaze darted all around him.

“Do not search too closely. It gives the figments power, sapping your own spirit through your attention.

Instead, focus on your own goal. Do not be distracted.”

Joach nodded, but his eyes spotted a shimmer to his left. He looked. A handsome silvery woman appeared from the sands wrapped in diaphanous silks, barely hiding a lithe body of long legs and inviting curves. Joach stared.

The figure noticed his gaze and smiled. Joach found his own lip curling to match her expression. She s

raised a slender arm and, with a single red-nailed ringer, motioned for him to come nearer.

Joach stepped away from the shaman—but a bony grip clenched his elbow. The shaman held him tight.

“Look closer, boy,” Parthus hissed in his ear.

Blinking, Joach opened his mouth to protest, but the shaman’s words cast the glamor from his eyes. The slender woman still stood in the sands, inviting, alluring—but from the waist down, Joach realized her body was that of a monstrous coiled snake, writhing in the sands.

Joach jumped away, bumping into the shaman behind him.

The nightmare hissed, lips parting to reveal silvered fangs.

“Keep moving,” the shaman said, shoving Joach forward. “It’s nothing. A figment. But a moment longer, and your attention would have pulled it fully from the sands.” Joach swallowed the terror down into his belly, suddenly sick.

The shaman steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. “Take deep breaths. The figment drew some of your energy. It’ll take a moment for you to gain it back.”

Joach nodded and kept marching. He drew great gasps into his chest, and after a few moments, the queasiness did indeed fade away. “I’m feeling better,” he mumbled as Parthus drew beside him.

“Good, because we’re almost to the Wall.”

Joach frowned. Ahead the desert stretched just as featureless as usual. “Where?” The shaman motioned him to silence. “No further words from here.” He reached and took Joach’s hand.

Together, they walked across the desert. Again Joach was struck by the odd sensation of great distances being traveled, but soon this feeling waned. Though they walked at the same pace, Joach felt as if they were slowing, less distance being crossed with each step.

At last, Joach noted a slight ripple in the sand ahead. He squinted, u r it was too far away. They continued on in silence. Slowly details merged as they approached. Movement—the ripple grew into a sil-x river cutting across their path, with only a slight meander to its course.

As they neared, Joach saw it was not water that flowed along this channel but what looked like molten silver. Parthus drew Joach up to the nearest bank. He could feel the power here, like a pressure in his ears. The sand led at a gentle slope to the silver’s edge. Parthus pointed into its depths.

Leaning over the river, Joach saw his own reflected face, as clear as in any looking glass—but that was not all! He bit back a gasp, covering his mouth with a hand. Reflected in the silver was the night sky filled with stars and a massive wall towering behind Joach. He glanced over his shoulder but saw nothing—just the endless smooth desert. He returned to his study of the reflection. Glancing to the left and right, he saw the wall’s length was reflected along the silver river’s entire course.

“The Southwall,” Parthus whispered. “The desert dreams of it here.” Joach’s eyes widened in wonder.

Before he could comment, Parthus hushed him and led the way along the bank’s edge, heading to the left. Joach followed. He found it hard for his eyes to leave the river. Along the silver channel, he watched their images striding along the length of the Southwall. Amazing.

But after a bit of time, the reflection in the river began to fade, growing darker. It was a subtle change, but with each step, the silver seemed to lose its luster. Joach also noticed that the constant pressure of power wavered, too. He glanced questioningly to the shaman.

The elder held a finger to his lips. He led the way over a slight slope. The river swept around the sandy hill in a gentle curve. As they crested over the low mound, Joach cringed at what came into view.

A short distance ahead, the river swept around the slope and into a cauldron of blackness, where it was swallowed away. The sick flow churned in on itself, forming a swirling vortex, a whirlpool of disease.

Beyond this cauldron, Joach spotted a trace of the silver river continuing deeper into the desert, winding toward the endless horizon. But even from the distance, Joach could tell the flow was feeble, weakened and corrupted by its passage through this black stain.

Joach returned his attention to the vortex of corrupted energy. He saw that the stain was not limited to the river’s course, but tendrils ran under the sandy banks and spread into the desert, shadowy veins that burrowed far, dimming the glow of the dream sand.

Joach shuddered. He remembered Kesla’s description of a spreading poison that tainted the Southern Wastes. He knew he was staring at the cause.

At his side, Parthus raised an arm and pointed to the black cauldron of swirling corruption. A single word formed on his lips, a name. “Tular.”

With this revelation, the shaman drew Joach back down the slope and away from the river, heading back the way they had come. Joach marched in silence, stunned by what he had just been shown. The evil at Tular was feeding off a vein of the Land’s energy, twisting this font of power to its own fetid purposes.

As he walked, Joach recalled the manner by which the ill’guard were forged, how certain elementals’

energies were corrupted and bent to the Black Heart’s cause. The same was going on here—only on a grander scale. Horror ran like ice through Joach’s veins. Could the Dark Lord twist the Land itself into an ill’guard slave? Was such a thing possible? If it came to be, if the Land itself turned against their side, no one would be able to withstand the Gul’gotha—not even Elena.

Joach’s hands formed tight fists. That must not happen.

Joach was tugged to a stop. His eyes refocused back to the dream desert.

“We’ve returned,” the shaman said, folding his legs and sitting. He indicated for Joach to do the same.

Joach settled to the sand, too shocked to resist, and asked the question foremost in his mind. “Why did you show me this?”

The shaman closed his eyes and raised his hands, holding two fist-fuls of sand. He tossed the glowing grains high into the air, sweeping it over both men. As the sand fell, it drew back the real world, like drawing down a curtain. Trees and tents reappeared around them. Over the shoulder of the shaman, the waters of Oo’shal again reflected the starlight.

Parthus opened his eyes. In them, Joach recognized the glow of the dream desert. After a lifetime of communing on the dream plane, the shaman now shone outwardly with its magick.

“Why did I reveal this to you?” the elder repeated. “Why you?”

“Y-yes.”

“Because you are strong, yet do not know your full strength.” Joach frowned.

“You are no ordinary dreamweaver, a mere prophet of dreams. Has no one mentioned how infinitely deep your dreaming power runs?”

Joach remembered Brother Flint’s statement of long ago: how the old mage had claimed Joach was one of the strongest elementals in dream magick. He shook his head. “I still don’t understand the significance.”

“Most dreamweavers are just passive bystanders, reading the writing on the wall, watching things happen from a distance. But you, Joach, have the ability to do so much more. The dream plane is your canvas.

Rather than be a passive player, you can be a participant. You can be a dream sculptor, someone with the ability to craft elements from the land of dreams and bring them into the real world.” Joach made a scoffing noise. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Because you’re the first sculptor to appear in countless generations. It was an art thought forever lost.

But we sand shamans have never forgotten. It is seared into our most secret histories.”

“I don’t understand. What histories?” Parthus sighed. “The histories of Tular.” Joach blinked with shock. The image of the black vortex flashed across his vision. “Tular?”

“Long ago, when the South wall was new, the Land drew certain desert people to its sandstone walls. It grew the castle of Tular to house these special guardians and gifted them with a part of the desert’s dreaming magick. They ruled the Southern Wastes with honor and justice. During this time, the desert flourished, and the tribes grew in number. It was a wonderful age.”

“So what happened?”

The shaman’s face darkened. “Slowly the power began to corrupt the leaders of Tular. Guardians became ghouls. They learned to bring demons and beasts from the dreamscape to terrorize the Wastes.

One of their most fearsome was the great basilisk, a feathered serpent with an undying thirst for blood.

For centuries, the ghouls of Tular ruled with an iron fist. Until one day, the Wit’ch of Spirit and Stone came to our aid.”

“Sisa’kofa?”

Parthus nodded. “She rallied our people and used her own blood to create weapons that could slay the dream beasts. The ghouls were torn from their roosts and the misshapen beasts destroyed. Tular was left empty and abandoned. And the magick of dream sculpting died with it.” The shaman eyed Joach. “That is, until now.”

Joach licked his lips nervously. “How can you be so sure I have this power?” The shaman studied Joach hard and long. “I don’t know if you’re ready for that answer. Can you simply trust that I know?”

Joach’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me why you suspect such a thing.”

“I do not just suspect—I know?

“How can you be so certain?”

“Because Kesla found you and brought you here.”

Joach waved away his answer. “She found me because she needed to prime the nightglass dagger with my sister’s blood. Nothing more.”

Parthus frowned. He took out a small pouch, opened it, and poured tiny white bones into his palm. “I use these to study the unseen paths in life. But not all roads are clearly marked. Kesla was sent with the dagger, but was it solely to wet its blade in wit’ch blood—or was there another reason? A path to another end?” Parthus glanced up at Joach.

“What? To find me? To bring me here?”

He slowly nodded, rolling the bones from one hand to the other. “Many paths twine and wind. It is often hard to say which is the truest path.”

Joach sighed. “I still don’t see the significance. So I came here. So I’m strongly gifted in dream magicks.

How does any of this make me one of these dream sculptors?” The shaman closed his eyes, his face pained. “Because as soon as the two of you walked into the oasis, I could read your hearts, see the ties that bound you two together. She loves you like she has loved no other.” The shaman opened his eyes. “And I suspect the same could be said of you toward her.” Joach’s cheeks grew warm with a fierce blush. He attempted to rebut the shaman’s words, but all that came out was a nonsensical stammer.

“po not deny your heart, boy,” Parthus spat angrily. “I will hear lies spoken in Oo’shal.” loach 0

swallowed back any further protest. Cowed, he nodded for the shaman to continue.

With a grumble, Parthus calmed his voice. “Before Kesla left on the iourney to A’loa Glen, her blood was dribbled over these bones. It is a trick shamans use to keep track of a person from afar.” He rattled the bits in his fist. “But on the first tossing, I learned much more. The bones spoke Kesla’s true name and from where she had come.”

Joach crinkled his brow. Kesla had claimed she had been found wandering in the desert by the head of the Assassins’ Guild, then fostered at Alcazar and trained in the guild’s ways. Was there more she hadn’t revealed? “What did you learn?”

“It is difficult to speak aloud. I have told no one, not even Guild-master Belgan.” The shaman dropped the bones into the sand and stood.

Joach stared at the spread of the fallen bones, then up at the thin shaman. “What did they reveal about Kesla?”

“It is late,” Parthus said, partially turning away. “We have a hard trek to reach Alcazar tomorrow.” Joach stood up quickly, kicking sand over the bones. He grabbed for the shaman’s elbow, but the man moved beyond his reach.

Parthus turned. “One last time—do you truly want the truth? About Kesla, about her connection to you?

Why she marks you as a sculptor?”

Joach felt a momentary twinge of doubt, fearful of the answer.

But a part of him had to know this secret, could not be satisfied with mere faith. Not trusting his voice, Joach nodded.

“No,” Parthus said. “I want to hear it in your own voice.”

Joach cleared his throat with great difficulty. “Tell me,” he croaked out.

“You must swear to tell no others. Not your friends, not even Kesla.“

“I swear.” Parthus sighed, his body sagging. “The girl you love, Kesla—she is not what she appears.”

“I don’t understand.” Parthus turned away. “Kesla is a dream, a figment sculpted by the desert and given form and substance to walk this world. As she has chosen you, so the desert has also chosen. It has drawn a sculptor back to the sands of the Wastes, to call you back to guardianship, marking you as the one to rid the deserts of the pestilence that festers in Tular.” The shaman moved away, leaving Joach standing stunned. “But Kesla, the girl—she is not real.”

Joach stood in the clearing, frozen. The shaman’s words bound him in place as surely as any ropes.

Trembling, Joach pictured Kesla’s tawny hair, her crooked smile, the way she tilted on a hip when joking, how her hand fit so snugly into his palm. As he stood, a thick tear rolled down his cheek—while deep inside, something shattered into a thousand sharp and brittle pieces.

His pained voice whispered over the waters of Oo’shal. “Kesla…” With the sun directly overhead, Kesla climbed the ridge ahead of the slower caravan. She wanted to be the first to glimpse Alcazar, to share a moment of private homecoming. She cast off her sweep of silk scarf from her face and shook loose the hood of her desert cloak.

Haifa league away, the red sandstone cliff of Alcazar thrust sheer from the desert, a solitary behemoth, a great ship in the sand. Its sweeping bluffs glowed in the sunlight, its dense silicate crystals sparkling like jewels. It took a keen eye to discern that this mountain of wind-sculpted rock harbored a castle in its heart. But Kesla knew the hulking rock as well as her own face. Alcazar was the only home she had ever known, and to her, its secrets could never be hidden in shadow and stone. From the dune’s ridge, she spotted small crevices and cracks high up the cliffs that masked windows and spy holes. She imagined eyes staring back at her, sentries alert to the approach of others.

She lifted an arm to these unseen watchers, a salute of welcome.

As she waited, no acknowledgment came, not even the customary flash of a signal mirror. Kesla lowered her arm with a frown. At dawn, Shaman Parthus had sent ahead two sand runners to carry advance word to Master Belgan. Surely they had arrived a quarter of a day ahead of them.

Kesla sighed and glanced over a shoulder. Her companions worked up the last of the switchbacks toward her position. She shifted her feet, impatient to continue ahead. With Alcazar in sight, she could hardly constrain herself. It had been so many moons since she had last seen her friends and caretakers: Shargyll, the rotund matron who had trained Kesla in her scullion’s skills; Humph, the long-eared stablemaster and his herd of ornery malluks; and Crannus, the master of poisons who told the most vile jokes. But most of all she missed Master Belgan—her teacher, her counselor, her confessor. In many ways, he was the father she had never known.

This last thought made her melancholy. She stared at the great spread of the Wastes. Where had she come from? Where in this sand-blown landscape was her true home? Her gaze settled back on the great rock of Alcazar. She knew the answer: there stood her home.

Sighing, she turned again as the caravan of desert tribesmen and her fellow companions worked their way up to the ridge. Joach was the first to join her. His eyes were instantly drawn to the cliffs and sandy ledges of Alcazar.

“It’s so large,” he said, craning for a better view. She nodded with a shy smile. “It houses over four hundred apprentices, journeymen, and masters of the guild.”

“You can’t even tell anyone resides there.”

“That was done purposefully. Five centuries ago, when the keep of Alcazar was first carved from the rock, the guild was fleeing from the sinking of Castle Drakk in southern Alasea. They wanted privacy, a secure place away from prying eyes and their Gul’gothal pursuers, a strong citadel in which to regroup and rebuild the Assassins’ Guild.”

“I see,” Joach mumbled.

Kesla moved a step closer, but Joach shifted away from her. She noticed how he seemed to sink deeper into his cloak. From the corner of her eye, she watched him. All day he had been distant like this: refusing to meet her gaze, communicating with terse words, always seeming to be too busy to talk. Though his attitude was not as rude and distrustful as it had been on the journey from A’loa Glen, it was markedly more cold than the warmth they had shared under the desert stars.

“Joach…” she began softly, gently trying to coax some answers.

But he twisted away as the litter bearing Richald neared. “I should help them.” He hurried to lend his shoulder with the elv’in in lifting their captain up and over the ridge. Behind them, Hunt trudged up the last slope with Sheeshon riding his shoulders.

“Lookie, Kesla!” Sheeshon called to her. “Hunt’s a malluk.” JCesla smiled. “He certainly is.” The girl had been enchanted by the desert’s beasts of burden, plaguing the drovers as they loaded and prepared the shaggy creatures for the journey.

Hunt rolled his eyes as he moved past Kesla’s post. “After trekking here, I must smell like a malluk, too.” The large Bloodrider continued over the ridge, following after the litter.

Slowly the rest of the caravan trundled past. Sy-wen and Kast climbed over the ridge, only pausing to share a sip from a waterskin. From the way Kast had to squeeze the leathery malluk bladder, it was the last of their share. As he drank, Kesla noted that the wide-shouldered man’s singed arm was slathered in yellowish serpent tongue oil, a potent healing balm. Already Kast’s arm looked much less red, the blistering subsiding. If there was one thing desert healers knew how to mend, it was skin burns; the sun of the Southern Wastes was merciless.

As the two lovers moved down the slope toward Alcazar, the desert tribesmen with their drovers and laden malluks swept past. The malluks, as usual, were unfazed by the trek, shambling along with their riders half dozing in their saddles. The beasts towered twice the height of an ordinary man and had a thick insulating coat of sandy-red hair that blended almost perfectly with the desert. Their wide, flat-splayed feet padded across the loose sand, and their large brown eyes studied Kesla as they passed.

One of the beasts leaned toward her and snuffled at her, checking to see if she had something good to eat. She gently but firmly nudged him away.

Soon the caravan was past, and Kesla stood with Shaman Parthus at the ridgeline.

The leathery elder leaned on a length of sandalwood. “Are you glad to be almost home, child?”

“I will be happy to see Master Belgan again.”

He offered his elbow to her. “Then let’s not keep him waiting.” Together the pair worked down the slope.

“I talked to the young man with the red hair last night.” The shaman’s words were spoken casually, but it was clearly forced. Parthus wanted to tell her something. His feet also moved slower as he feigned disability, leaning on her arm and on his staff. The rest of the caravan moved farther and farther ahead.

“You spoke to Joach?”

“Yes. We shared the fruit of the gre’nesh.”

Kesla now slowed their pace even more, surprise hobbling her feet. She had never heard of any shaman sharing the magick of the desert fruit with someone uninitiated into their brotherhood. “What happened ?” He shrugged. “The man is quite rich in the dreaming magicks. He will be a strong ally in the coming assault against the ghouls of Tular.”

Kesla touched the hilt of her sheathed weapon. “All I need is the nightglass dagger. If its blade is sharp enough to kill the basilisk, I will not fail. I can be in and out of Tular before any of their minions grow wise.”

“I do not doubt your skill, Kesla. But I believe the true battle against Tular will prove more of a challenge.”

“You tossed the bones?”

“I did.” Frowning, he eyed the windblown heights of Alcazar. “But it does not always take prophecy to see the future. One simply has to open one’s eyes and look.” Kesla found her gaze following the shaman’s. The heights remained as empty as when she had been atop the ridge. By now, the front of the caravan was winding into the black crack that led into the rock’s interior. She listened but heard no horn announcing their return. No one moved on the sentry ledges. She squinted her eyes, trying to spot the camouflaged guards at their high rocky posts. Either they were well hidden, or no one was there.

Twinges of unease skittered across her skin like the tickle of spiders in the dark, but ahead, the last of the caravan was swallowed into the narrow canyon with no signs of distress.

Kesla glanced over at the shaman. He continued to amble after the others, apparently unconcerned, but why then had he spoken to her? Why hint at something wrong but not voice it?

“A test,” he mumbled, seeming to read her heart. “A rite of passage.”