“We are,” Tyrus said, and then motioned for him to return to the tent and fetch food for the journey. Annon did so, stuffing his pack with dried meats and fruits, nuts, and seeds. The Boeotians did not make things like cheeses or breads. Their fare was hunted or collected among the roots or other edible plants that were unfamiliar to Annon. He missed Dame Nestra’s bread and honey, wishing selfishly that he could borrow the Tay al-Ard for just a moment to return to Wayland and fetch some for them. He longed for the simple Druidecht life he had left behind when he had chosen to answer Tyrus’s summons.
Annon secured the straps of his pack and shouldered it. There was still plenty of food left behind, and Tyrus gave instructions to the drovers to take it back along the path they had come from. He described a rock formation that he had pointed out to them earlier, one with a distinctive tower-like structure that stood above the rest. He instructed the drovers to leave the food there and that it would be used after their quest was finished. The drovers glanced at each other and looked at Tyrus in wary disbelief. Annon could see that they did not believe any of them would survive. But they agreed to do as they were bid out of loyalty to the Empress.
Tyrus explained his plan to the others and they set off into the darkening night. The storm had left so much dust in the air that the stars were invisible. The heat from the day was still oppressive, even though the sun had set. Annon trudged through the sandy dunes and noticed Hettie scouting ahead. She stopped and studied the series of tracks left by the Vecses. Crouching by them, she gazed at the shape and followed the trail a short distance.
Annon approached her. “I wish I had your skill,” he muttered softly. “Are those even tracks at all?”
Hettie looked up at him and nodded. “Heavy creatures, judging by the depth of the prints. These are still fresh. See how their tails drag behind it, like this? I’ve never seen such tracks before.”
Her eyes showed her alarm and unease. He knelt and gripped her shoulder. “Be careful, Hettie. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
She could have said the same thing in return, but she did not. They stared at each other, feeling a sudden surge of intense emotions. Their mother had been pregnant when she had ventured into the Scourgelands. Eighteen years ago, under a similar starlit sky. Annon and Hettie were children of the Scourgelands in a way. The thought sent a black chill through him. They both rose and Hettie gave him a quick, forceful hug.
Into the night they walked, keeping close, remaining silent. Like Paedrin, Annon preferred being on his feet instead of riding the truculent camels. He watched for signs of spirit life and observed nothing. The land was full of dead, wasted dunes. He had always envisioned the Scourgelands as a forest, yet he wondered what he would find when they reached there. Mapmakers were completely unable to chart the vastness of its domains and usually labeled the northern edge of their work with threatening words, as if to warn away curious adventurers. That was also likely Shirikant’s influence, to make the place seem even more forbidding.
Annon’s legs and ankles felt strong as he walked, hearing the soft tread of Nizeera’s paws behind him. He was grateful for her presence, even though she kept her mind veiled.
The night was dark and lonely and the sweltering heat from the day had vanished at last and turned to bone-chilling cold. On they walked, deeper into the gloom. The dust cloud finally vanished, revealing a startlingly small sliver of moon. The night wore on as the myriad stars spun overhead. Often he had stared up at the vast heavens, wondering what lay deeper in that vast, jeweled expanse. Was it merely a screen that hid from view glimpses of scenes too wonderful to behold?
Yes.
Annon glanced back at Nizeera, grateful for the contact at last. He did not chide her for her reticence, for he was grateful to have earned her companionship again. Gazing back at the sky, he was overwhelmed by the sheer immensity of the horizon.
In a while, a touch of brightness began to thread the eastern horizon, though they were still marching northward. Annon glanced at each of his companions in turn, trying to commit the moment to memory. What a disparate group they made. Khiara spoke softly to Prince Aran in the Vaettir tongue, her look forlorn and nervous. Baylen walked with grim determination, gazing ahead periodically to judge the distance. Kiranrao skulked, keeping apart from the others. Hettie and Paedrin bantered with each other, the Bhikhu always ready with a quip. Phae and Shion were walking near each other. Neither of them spoke. So many differences. The only commonality really was Tyrus Paracelsus, the mastermind behind the expedition. Annon watched him more than the others, wondering why he always seemed to call out Annon to counsel with or position as potential leader. Annon felt the ring on his finger that would summon the Tay al-Ard into his hand. He kept that knowledge secret and wondered if there were other secrets to be learned.
The Scourgelands.