She frowned as she remembered the beggars and workers in the square. Were they being punished for wrongs committed in their lifetime? She was tainted. Perhaps when Valhan had invited her to his world he had really meant to punish her. Perhaps she had been abandoned here as penance. Perhaps, instead of tearing apart tainted souls, the Angels sent them here to die a second, slow and torturous death.
Perhaps she wouldn’t die, and her punishment was to never be released from the torment of thirst and sunburn.
No, he said I would join the artisans in his world and make beautiful things. He simply hasn’t noticed I’ve arrived, or worked out where I am.
From time to time she spoke a prayer, in case he was listening. She also checked the night sky, making sure she walked straight and not in circles. As time stretched she tried to keep from worrying too much by remembering the stories Sa-Mica had told her, during their long trek from Fyre to the Mountain Temple. Stories of tainted who had used far more magic than she ever had, and been forgiven. Tainted who had generated more magic than they had stolen from the Angels by spending the rest of their lives creating. As she had–though it had only taken five years.
She wondered how much magic she’d generated by weaving tapestries. Once or twice she had thought she could sense energy as she’d worked, but it could easily have been her imagination. Most of the time she had been too absorbed to notice anything else. A few times she had watched the other weavers working, hoping to sense the magic they were creating, but nobody got to sit idly in the workshop for long and she was soon given a task to do.
More magic would be created by artisans in her own world to replace what Valhan had used, but in the meantime it was empty of magic. That saddened her. Though magic had brought her and others so much trouble, in the hands of priests it was used to heal the sick. They would have to turn to the sorts of remedies and cures women cooked up in their kitchens, which were not as effective. People would die. Though probably not as many as die in wars fought with magic, she reminded herself.
Though the desert was cold it was still dry, and when her spit thickened she stopped praying aloud, instead reciting the words in her thoughts instead. Her stockings wore through, first one foot letting sand in, then the other. The soles of her feet, used to smooth inner soles, grew sore.
Her calves began to ache, too. Walking on soft sand was hard work. She stopped a few times but only long enough to massage the stiffness out. The chill air soon set her shivering, anyway, keeping her moving. When a glow appeared on the horizon relief mingled with apprehension. Her body longed for warmth, but her mind dreaded the heat to come and how it would add to the constant thirst. She decided to sleep in a dune’s shadow while it was long enough to shelter in, but first she would see what the dawn revealed of the land around her.
A bright crescent of fire crested the horizon, growing steadily and casting beams of red then orange then yellow-white light across the desert. The heat it brought grew steadily and her skin prickled as it began to produce sweat. As the sun stretched upwards, edges swelling outwards then curving back in to form a circle, it became too bright to look at. She averted her eyes and turned her attention to the land.
Dunes stretched out in all directions. The view was no different to what had greeted her the previous day. If she had not been so confident that she had travelled in a straight line she’d have concluded she’d walked in a circle.
Sighing, she prayed aloud then found a long shadow to sleep in.
A dream in which she stumbled into a camp fire woke her with a start. She looked down to see that the holes in her stockings had grown so large that her feet now protruded, leaving them exposed to the sunlight. Judging by the sun’s position she had only slept an hour or two. Hunger now joined her relentless thirst. Her mouth was so dry she could barely swallow, and her lips were hard and crusty. As she opened them they split, and she let out a gasp that only stretched them more painfully.
Fear consumed her. Fear she would not find water. Fear of dying before the Angel found her.
If artisans live here, there must be water somewhere, she reminded herself. There must be an end to the desert.
Repeating that thought over and over, she rose stiffly and resumed walking. If she stayed still she would grow thirstier; if she moved she would grow thirstier faster but at least there was a chance she’d find water. Though she would lose even more moisture walking in the heat of the day, she didn’t think she’d last another day even if she rested.
This time she had only the sun to navigate by. Keeping it at her back at least meant her face was protected by her own shadow. She kept her jacket on, but reknotted her underskirt into a head covering. She put on her boots, tying them close to her sunburned ankles with her stockings to keep out as much sand as possible, and wished she’d thought of that earlier.