DARIT’S GROUP TRAVELED outside the heat of day for the most part, and Sage’s sense of direction told her they didn’t take a straight path. The hours of walking in sand were brutal, but she was strangely grateful for the concentration required for each step—it kept her from thinking about Alex. When they stopped to rest, she was so tired she dropped instantly to sleep, but it never lasted. Bad dreams always woke her after only a few hours, and then she couldn’t stop the thoughts and memories. Sage would pull her legs in tight to her body and rock back and forth as wave after wave of grief swept over her. She never cried, though, just as she hadn’t when Father died.
Late in the second day, Darit stopped for several minutes and frowned over the dunes, which had settled into smaller hills in the last hour. All the Casmuni shifted nervously as they waited. At last, Darit shook his head and unfastened a long rope from his shoulder and handed it down the line. Everyone took a position on it with their left arm entwined—except the Kimisar, who grasped it with both bound hands—and Sage and Nicholas followed their example.
After about a mile of walking, Malamin, fourth in the line, took a step and sank to his waist before anyone could react. At his cry, everyone turned and braced their feet as best they could in the shifting sand and pulled the rope taut. The man called Yosher unshouldered another rope and made it into a loop that was thrown around Malamin, who pulled it tight across his chest.
With a quick, rhythmic count, the Casmuni heaved Malamin from the sand trap and dragged him away. For a full minute they lay flat, spreading their weight over as large an area as possible, gripping the rope and watching the sand for signs of another collapse. At Darit’s direction they pushed to their knees and crawled away. When he judged it safe, they stood and walked to a place they obviously felt wasn’t as dangerous, though Sage couldn’t see how it was any different from where Malamin had nearly disappeared.
Nicholas’s hands were still shaking. “That happened so fast,” he whispered.
Sage nodded, trying to work out how such a thing would be created. She handed the prince the waterskin Darit had given them to share and walked to Malamin. He looked as shaken as Nicholas as he removed his boots and dumped sand from them. She squatted next to him and picked up the boot he’d dropped, running her hand along the bottom. It felt cooler than she expected. Darit stood over her as she rubbed sand from the sole between her fingers. It was damp.
She cupped a bit in her hand and held it out for both men to see. “Drem,” she said, using their word for water.
Darit nodded. “Water flows beneath the sand.”
Fascinating. “How do you know where?” Sage asked him.
Darit wiped sweat from his brow before pointing to his nose and sniffing. “I smell it.”
He helped her to her feet and gestured for her to follow him. With his left hand wrapped in the rope, he led her back the way they’d come. Yosher held the other end of the rope as she grasped Darit’s free arm tightly. When he halted, he breathed deeply and indicated she should do the same.
She smelled only sand and heat. Standing in a spot Darit half expected to sink into the ground unnerved her. Sage closed her eyes and breathed again.
Moisture. It was barely there, but in the arid wind she could distinguish it like a thread of blue woven into a length of red cloth. Her eyes snapped open, and she found Darit smiling a little.
She waved at the area where Malamin had fallen. “How is it called?”
“Dremshadda.”
Watersand.
As she and Darit made their way back to the group, Sage sent a prayer to the Spirit that no one from Demora would try to follow them.
On the fourth day of walking, a brown spot appeared on the horizon around noon. When Darit pointed it out, a small cheer went through the band, and instead of stopping as before when the sun was high, the pace of travel picked up. As they drew closer, Sage noticed a regularity to what she’d first assumed was an outcrop of rock. It was, in fact, a group of tents clustered around an impressively large oasis, though Sage admitted to herself it was only the third she’d encountered so her experience was limited.
Sentries appeared and greeted Darit and his men with hands to foreheads followed by clasping arms up to the shoulder. They cast curious looks at Sage, Nicholas, and the Kimisar prisoner but asked for no explanation, and the group continued onward to the camp.
She smelled horses, iron, and cooking as they approached. The dun-colored tents were sturdy against the almost-constant wind, but nothing appeared permanent, not even the low growth of plants. Other than the horse paddock she caught a glimpse of between tents, there were no herd animals, leading her to conclude this wasn’t a nomadic group but a traveling camp, probably military in nature, if the heavy presence of weapons was any indicator.
What Alex wouldn’t give to see all this.
No, Alex would never see anything again. Suddenly Sage couldn’t breathe.
Darit paused to look at Sage where she’d stopped. “Are you well, Saizsch?” he said. “You need not fear.”
Nicholas, too, wore concern on his face. Sage took a deep breath and continued walking. “I am well” was all she said.
Darit took them to what appeared to be an equal in rank, judging by their greeting. They spoke rapidly, and though Sage had believed her Casmuni to have improved quite a bit in the last few days, she was instantly lost. One word Darit threw in her direction caught her attention: filami. Friend.
The man sent another off with a verbal message and called forth several more to take care of the prisoner. When his eyes settled on Sage, she tensed, but he only nodded and turned back to Darit and resumed their conversation. She felt like she was deliberately left out, yet there was a polite air to her exclusion.
When the messenger returned a few minutes later, Darit looked at her thoughtfully. “I will take you to wash and find some clean clothes,” he said, speaking in a slow manner for her benefit. “Please follow me.”
He led them to a tent with an open side. The men they’d traveled with were in its shade, scrubbing themselves at large basins of steaming water. Darit raised his arm to indicate Sage and Nicholas should join them.
The prince didn’t hesitate, but Sage stayed where she was. “With that man you called me your friend.”
“Of course I did.” Darit looked at her in confusion. “You have not shared water yet.”
Apparently there was more to the ritual than she’d realized. Her lack of knowledge now could get her into trouble. “I understand this not. Please tell me like I am a child,” she said.
“We do not speak or use names until water is shared. I thought you knew this.”
Thank the Spirit she’d shared water before trying to introduce herself the first time. “Then … you called me your friend…”
“Out of custom.” Darit smiled. “But if you are asking if we are friends, I think yes.”
His words comforted her more than anything else he’d done over the last four days. “Am I permitted to share water with others?” she asked. Maybe there was a message in that she hadn’t yet.
Darit nodded. “Yes, but first you must share with Palandret. After you are presentable, you will dine with him.”
Sage was about to ask who that was when her mind separated the name into two words: Pal andret.
My king.
66
CASMUNI CLOTHES WERE as comfortable as they looked—she moved easily in the loose garments, and they kept her skin cool while absorbing sweat. Sage wore her own boots, though, and fastened her belt and knife around her waist. The left side felt unbalanced without her second dagger. She assumed Darit still had it, but she’d been afraid to ask for it back.