were worse than before.
Korbyn flinched.
“Sand wolf,” she explained.
His voice was gentle. “I am sorry.”
“Sand wolves always come,” she said. “It wasn’t your fault.” Granted, if he had arrived a day earlier, it wouldn’t have happened—and her clan wouldn’t have left, thinking her unworthy. She didn’t say that out loud.
He took her hand in his left hand and then placed his right hand on her shoulder. He drew close to her. She didn’t move. She knew from Talu that proximity helped the magic. Still, being healed by Korbyn was very different from being healed by Talu. His body pressed against her so closely that she could feel him inhale and exhale. His breathing slowed, deep and steady.
She felt the skin on her arm tingle, and then heat spread from her shoulder to her elbow to her fingers. As she watched, the dried blood dissolved, and a thick scab wove itself over the wounds. Fresh skin blossomed at the edges of the scab, and then it began to spread bit by bit. She thought of a weaver, adding row after row to a blanket. New smooth skin inched across her arm, shrinking the wounds. Watching her skin knit itself whole, she lost track of time. It felt as if the world had shrunk to just her and Korbyn. She breathed in time with him.
Then he released her. Her arm was perfect, as smooth as sand-scoured stone. She ran her fingers over her skin and marveled at it. No scabs. No scars. No trace of the gashes. She had no pain in her arms or in the rest of her, either. She felt wonderful throughout, as if she had drunk her fill from a crystal clear well.
Korbyn staggered backward. His chest heaved as if he’d run for miles.
“Are you all right?” Liyana asked, reaching toward him but stopping just short of touching him, remembering he was a god. He might not want a mortal’s assistance.
He pitched forward. She caught him in her arms, sagging to her knees as his full weight sank against her. “Korbyn!”
She checked his pulse. Still beating. He wasn’t dead. Just . . . asleep? Unconscious? “Wake up!” she said. “Please, wake up!”
He didn’t. But he continued to breathe, evenly and softly.
The sun beat down on them. Liyana checked his pulse again. His skin felt warm. “Oh, Bayla, what do I do?” She should get him into the shade. Working quickly, she pulled her tent out of her pack, and she unbent the poles. In a few minutes, she had pitched the tent. The rip fluttered in the wind.
“Korbyn?” She knelt next to him. “The tent is ready.” She touched his shoulder. She felt the curve of his muscles and noticed how strong he was. She snatched her hand away.
Still he didn’t wake.
“You’ll sleep better in the shade,” she said.
No response.
Gently she shook his shoulder. “You can’t stay out here.” She contemplated him for a moment. He looked so peaceful and so vulnerable and so beautiful. “Forgive this indignity.” Grabbing him under the armpits, Liyana dragged him toward the tent. As she braced herself to hoist him inside, his eyes popped open.
“What are you doing?” he asked in an ordinary voice.
She released him so fast that she fell backward onto her rear. “You’re all right!” Her heart beat so hard that it almost hurt. “I thought . . . You didn’t . . .”
“Too much healing. Plus there was the well water and the fire. . . .” He made a face. “So much for my illusion of omnipotence. You’re still impressed with me, right?”
“Yes, of course,” she said automatically.
“Excellent.” He crawled into the tent. “Then let’s pretend this never happened.”
Liyana crawled in behind him. There was very little space with two people plus the pack. Avoiding meeting his eyes, she squirmed past him. She tried to keep to the tarp wall, but her hip still brushed against his thigh. She instantly scooted against her pack.
Their breathing filled the silence. She was acutely aware he was only inches from her.
Inside the tent, the air was still, but at least they were shielded from the pounding sun. She unwrapped her headcloth and let her braids fall against her neck. She shook them out, and they sprinkled sand in the tent. She winced. “Forgive me.”
He nodded graciously.
The silence thickened. Liyana had never been alone in a tent with a male who wasn’t family. She couldn’t help noticing how lean, muscled, and handsome he was.
“I should . . . um, fix the rip,” she said. Twisting to face the pack, she accidentally elbowed him in the side. “Forgive me!”
He rubbed his ribs. “Of course.”
Hands shaking, she pulled out the needle and thread. Mother had sensibly packed the thick sinewy thread, not the silk embroidery thread. Liyana threaded the needle and then pinched the two sides of the rift. She started at the top, making tight stitches, the way that Aunt Sabisa had taught her when she was deemed old enough to not stab herself too badly with the needle. She glanced over her shoulder and saw he was still watching her. She wondered what he thought when he looked at her, if he thought of her or Bayla. She broke the silence. “You didn’t finish telling me about your race. Second race, you flew.”
“We flew on birds, and I won easily. Sendar created a massive condor, large enough to accommodate his substantial girth. Even in the Dreaming, you see, he prefers as many muscles as possible. He likes to match his size to his ego. But I selected an ordinary-size raven and shrunk myself. His condor crashed from the weight, and I flew to the finish line with time to spare.”
Behind her, she felt Korbyn shift, as if seeking a better position. She tried to scoot her feet farther under her so he’d have more room, but that just caused her knee to bump against his shoulder. She flinched as if the touch had burned.
“He chose a horse for the third race, of course, and at the appointed time, he charged forward. He tore across the desert with sand billowing in his wake. Some say he created his own sandstorms. But when he reached the finish line, I was already there.”
The wind teased the edges of the rip, trying to tug the tarp out of her hands. She held it tightly and speared the canvas with the needle. She tried to ignore the warmth of his body beside her. Once Bayla inhabited her body . . .
“You are supposed to be so intensely curious that you ask me how I managed to accomplish such a miraculous feat,” Korbyn said.
Midstitch, she froze. “Please, forgive me.”
He sighed. “You do not need to show me continuous deference. I’m not
“You’re my goddess’s lover.”
“True,” he said.
She felt his eyes on her, and she wondered again if he were picturing her as Bayla. She wondered if he was evaluating her body. Or imagining it. She tried to focus on the stitches, but her fingers shook. She wondered if he planned to speak again. “Could you please tell me how you won?”
“Since you asked so nicely . . . I won the race by moving the finish line to me.”
Looking over her shoulder at him, she tried to puzzle what he meant.
“Remember, this was in the Dreaming. I simply . . . bent the desert. Sendar believed he was racing straight to the finish line, but in truth, he completed a vast circle. I curved it as he ran until the finish line was at my feet. I never moved from the starting line.”
“That’s brilliant.”
“I thought so. But I’m glad you agree. It will make this journey much more pleasant if you are impressed with my brilliance.” He flashed her a smile.
She laughed. It felt good to laugh, as if her ribs were remembering some old game that they used to be fond of.
“Well, that’s a surprise,” he said.
