Twice before daybreak he was half awakened and given more water. When the sun came up, Alex was feeling nearly human again.
Throughout the day, they fed him doses of the tart concoction, which had a bizarre, herbal aftertaste from something the cook started adding. Alex had to trust that the desert men were experts at treating his condition. He was certainly feeling better—the muscle cramps had abated, and he wasn’t always thirsty. By evening he was permitted to eat a few solid foods. Afterward they took him to a pool of water at the center of the trees where he was allowed to wash himself, at least as well as he could with his hands tied.
Early the next morning, Alex was given as much water as he wanted to drink and some of the thick porridge the rest of the men ate for breakfast. He had to drink his portion rather than use utensils, as they wouldn’t untie him, though he asked. With some trepidation he watched them pack up the camp. Would they make him walk barefoot and bareheaded, or would they leave him here? He wasn’t sure which would be worse.
Then Alex saw his sword belt among their things. He couldn’t remember if he’d gotten it off before collapsing, but if they knew it was his, it marked him as a warrior. No wonder they didn’t trust him. The man he’d picked out as the leader of the group approached, carrying an armload of leather clothing. They’d found his abandoned jacket and boots. Alex wondered how far he’d gotten without them.
Everyone looked impatient to go, and thankfully they untied him long enough for him to dress himself. Though he knew it wouldn’t matter after a mile of walking, Alex took a little extra time shaking sand out of his socks to give his chafed wrists a respite. Before putting on the head scarf made from Casseck’s shirt, he tore a few wide strips of fabric from it and wrapped them around his wrists, then offered his hands to the man waiting to bind him again. Demoran army policy was not to be a compliant prisoner of war, but these men had saved his life, and he was grateful.
When all was ready, they returned one of his canteens to him—empty; he had to go to the spring to fill it—and headed into the rising sun.
69
BANNETH ALLOWED SAGE and Nicholas to roam the camp freely, but she knew their every move was watched. They spent the first day orienting themselves and watching the posted guards. She had no desire to escape at the moment, but she had to be ready, just in case. All the tents were set in an orderly manner, and Banneth’s was by far the grandest. Most were large enough to house four to six men, though, and the preferred design was circular, around a central pole. They radiated from the spring-fed lake, which was round, but the wave of the dunes made the area of plants grow in a teardrop shape.
Shortly after sunrise on the second day, Sage and Nicholas witnessed Casmuni combat exercises. They stood on the edge of the training circle, observing the men spar without weapons. She watched in awe, unconsciously adjusting her feet in the sand in imitation of the stances.
Banneth slipped up behind them, but her attention wasn’t so focused that she didn’t see him approach. She turned and bowed with her hands crossed over her chest, and Nicholas followed her example.
Before the king could say anything, she waved her hand at the pairs in the ring. “This is beautiful,” she said in Kimisar, glad the shared language gave her more words to use.
His eyebrows shot up. “Beautiful was not the word I expected.”
Her gaze was drawn back to the fighters. “The moves are smooth like water, but fast like lightning.”
“Demoran fighting is different?”
“I cannot speak for your weapons fighting, but with respect to this, yes. Our fights are … heavier. Does this make sense?”
Banneth nodded. “It is a style we call tashaivar. It roughly means whip strike for its lightness, flow, and speed.”
“Tashaivar,” she repeated. “A lovely name.” This time she used Casmuni words.
The king stepped into the training ring and offered her his hand. “Would you like to learn?” he asked, also in his own language.
Sage didn’t even hesitate. Banneth led her a few steps away from Nicholas and took a fighting position. She stepped up beside him and mirrored it, then looked back to the king’s unreadable expression. “Let us begin,” he said.
*
Her willingness to learn opened some kind of door within Banneth. He spent the whole morning teaching her the basic stances and moves of tashaivar, as well as the words for them and the body parts they involved. She also picked up the terms for quickly and slowly, pointed and blunt, forward and backward and sideways, and several others.
When the training session broke up, Banneth led her and Nicholas around the camp, giving her more Casmuni words for things they saw. He was a natural teacher, unable to hide his satisfaction in helping her understand. When they stopped at the horse paddock, Banneth explained that soon the semi-permanent pen would be all that was left of the oasis. Sage silently theorized the spring was fed by an underground river flowing from the mountain snows of the Catrix to the west. Perhaps it also created the dremshadda, the watersand they had encountered.
“The spring here is the largest and will remain for several more weeks,” he said in Kimisar. “But it is not the only one we must rely on to cross the desert.”
“Where will you go from here, Palandret?” she asked.
“To Osthiza, the capital city. It lies many days to the south and east.”
“And us?” she ventured.
He looked down at her. “It would please me that you should come with us to Osthiza. As my honored guests.”
Honored guests. A euphemism for prisoners. That was what she and Nicholas were, for all they were well treated.
She hesitated for so long that Banneth spoke again. “Darit can attempt to take you back to where he found you, if that is your wish.”
“Attempt?”
“As the springs fade, the dremshadda expand in unpredictable ways,” the king explained. “Every day the journey becomes more dangerous.”
It wasn’t the drying springs so much as the dremshadda that made the desert impassable. “I would not wish to ask Darit to risk his life twice more for me,” she said, meaning it.
“A true friend would not,” Banneth agreed. The king was trying to make it seem as if they would go with him by choice, but whether that was for his benefit or theirs, she wasn’t sure.
In the end, it didn’t matter. There was no other option.
Deep down she’d known it would be almost impossible to return right away, but Sage looked away to hide the moisture gathering in her eyes. “We are not important enough to be honored guests,” she said at last. “But we will accept your hospitality.”
Nicholas had moved out of earshot and was stroking the nose of a dusty bay. Banneth stepped closer to Sage and lowered his voice. “Do not be afraid to accept this honor, Saizsch Fahler. It is for your protection but also because I do believe you are important.”
Her stomach twisted in anxiety. “Important how?”
“I have long wished to reconcile our nations,” Banneth said. “While I hoped for an ambassador or a prince to open talks with, I will not waste what I have been given to work with.”
He already had one of those. To change the subject, Sage gestured to the horses. “Shall we ride, then, to Osthiza?”
Banneth nodded. “We do not take horses into the dunes due to the risk of dremshadda. Men are light enough to have a chance of escape, but a horse can be buried to its neck in a matter of seconds. To the south the ground is firmer.” He looked her up and down. “Can you ride?”
“I can, assuming the horses are taught similar control.”
“And Nikkolaz?”
“Better than I,” she said. “When do we leave?”