The next day is much the same as the last—with the exception that now I’m going on three hours of sleep instead of twenty-three.
Once again, me and Kiddu march in the far rear along with Jaruna. But today, Ayan doesn’t join us.
“My sister stayed with the women up ahead,” Jaruna explains. “One of the babies died last night, and two of the men as well. They were injured in Libri and their wounds festered. Their women need comforting.”
The mystic pauses to shoot a wind astra behind him. He looks as haggard as I feel, like he was up half the night too.
The dunes soon begin to tower over us. Vast waves of sand. Perfectly smooth slopes. Edged crests as fine and sharp as spear blades. Where the wind is strong the dune peaks emit wispy tendrils floating up into the sky like yellow smoke. The valleys between the huge dunes broaden and the blue-and-tan river of natives spreads out to fill the space.
I keep my distance from Kiddu. Despite our truce, she looks like she’s up to something. Nonetheless, I’m sort of glad for the forced paranoia. It helps keep me awake. The desert is trying to hypnotize me into sleepwalking.
By noon, the sharuq looms noticeably closer on the eastern horizon. I can hear a new sound lacing the ambient wind—a back and forth rhythm. A swoosh, then a howl, then a swoosh, then a howl, and so on, over and over again. Like demons washing laundry.
The dunes start to take new shapes. Pyramids give way to barchans curving outwards from the direction of the sharuq like giant waves spreading out from a waterspout.
The natives cluster within the half-circle of one of these barchans for the Noon Prayer. Jaruna wordlessly jogs down and joins them.
I climb up the massive dune alone and take a sip of water—my first for the day. I slosh the mostly-full flask around, proud of my water restraint so far.
I lay down, just below the lip of the dune’s sharp crest. Then I close my eyes and tilt my face to the sun.
The feel of sunlight from my dream last night is still fresh in my mind. It was so nourishing. More like water than light. But the sun here just feels hot and dry. An oppressive force. It penetrates my eyelids with pink-white glare. There is no hiding from the Eye of Asham in the desert.
It suddenly occurs to me that I have never actually prayed to Asham.
I say the words in my head, mulling them over, not quite certain what tone to take. It’s been a while since I prayed to any God—let alone the most powerful and judgmental God of them all.
But if I’m a mystic, I suppose I’ll have to start praying to Asham sooner or later.
I lick my cracked lips, still facing the sun with closed eyes, and begin.
“Lord Asham … merciful and wise and just and all-seeing. Please, tell me—what are you trying to show me? What do you want from me?”
Something drops on my chest. Something hard and sort of prickly.
I jump up. It falls to the sand, black and shiny—
“GYAAAAAAAHHH!”
A scorpion. Huge and black. All curving tail and spindly legs and nightmare eye-orbs.
I brush my hands over my torso crazily, screaming and stumbling backwards away from the creature.
“Heh, heh, heh…”
“KIDDU!”
She pokes her head above the crest of the dune. She must have tossed it at me.
“You really do scream like a girl.”
“It could have STUNG my NECK!”
“Will you relax? It was dead! And now we’re even.”
My whole body is shaking with terror and rage. What really gets me—even more than the fact that she broke our truce—is that she knows perfectly well how much insects scare me. In fact, that was probably the whole point. Before, we were just being playful. This time she had gone too far. I clench my fists, ready to actually fight her in earnest, even though she’s a girl, even though I’m not even sure I could win in a real fight against her—but then I hear footsteps behind us plodding up the sand.
“Ready to go?” says Jaruna. He’s holding a long blue robe.
“I am!” says Kiddu. “How close are we?”
“Two days march from the sharuq, more or less. Kiddu, please put this on.”
She takes the robe, warily sniffs it, slips it on. The shapes and curves of her body disappear.
After an afternoon of marching the air glows yellow-orange in the sunset and the wind is flecked with sand.
It’s especially bad near the ground. My old robe is my savior. Kiddu always made fun of it because it’s—supposedly—too big on me. But it covers my feet nicely.
The natives set up their camp behind the outer curve of a barchan, now a stark orange wall in the dying light, as tall as the highest building in Libri. But even in the shelter of the dune the wind is terrible.
Hatvan and Kripa attempt to set up our prison-tent faraway from the main camp but it keeps on blowing away. They resign themselves to driving the pole into the sand only a stone’s throw from the rest of the native tents.
I’m eager to get inside and escape the wind. But I spot Ayan walking towards us, accompanied by what looks like a leper wrapped in bandages and rough brown cloth.
The leper speaks to our guards: “Kripa, Hatvan, there is no need to stand guard in these conditions. Go to your own tents. Get a good night’s sleep.”
“As you command,” says Kripa, and they both head off towards the mass of tents, pulling their head coverings close to their faces. Meanwhile Ayan ushers me and Kiddu inside.
“It is good to see you two again,” she says. “I hope the journey has not been too difficult.”
The bandaged man stands at the tent entrance and watches the princess sit down and take out a sunstone from the folds of her robe. She also brings out two pieces of flatbread and a small clay jar. “Here is some honey,” she says. “Recompense for your poor treatment.”
Kiddu uncovers the jar and digs in, smearing her flatbread with the golden ooze.
I try not to stare at the bandaged man. But he catches my eye.
“Hyah!” the man says, voice scratchy and muffled. “What, you do not recognize me?”
“Dronaja!” says Kiddu, and swallows. “I thought you got blown up!”
“Bah! The Akkadians will have to try harder than that to kill me!”
“Chief Dronaja is the leader of the Azkazraj Tribe,” Ayan says. “Next to my brother, he is the most respected man here. You would do well to remember that, Kiddu. And I am glad to see you have decided to dress more modestly. Asham willing, once we have sorted out your situation with the rest of the Azkazraj, the two of you can join us in our prayers.”
Kiddu continues eating, nonplussed at the suggestion.
“Gil,” says Dronaja. “The princess and I have been discussing how we might let the others know. I should warn you, they will not be happy. But until we figure out how to tell them, your secret is safe with me.”
My stomach drops. I glare at Ayan. “You told HIM about my dreams too? What the hell! What part of—”
“Dreams?” says Dronaja. “What dreams? Ahem! I meant that, despite appearances, you are not actually the mujashatriya’s prisoners.”
“Oh…”
“Please try to get some sleep. The worst of the march will be tomorrow. It is truly good to see you again, Gil and Kiddu.”
“It’s, um, nice to see you too,” says Kiddu.
“Bah, ha, ha! Now that is funny. I cannot imagine I look so nice to see. I am curious, though. Asham willing, they will have reflecting pools in Harrappa!”