she does not tolerate imperfection.”
“She sounds like my mother.” Liyana tried to keep her voice even, as if this were an ordinary conversation, but she failed. She wondered what Mother would say if she saw her daughter trekking across the desert with Korbyn, and she felt an ache inside as sharp as the sand wolf’s claws.
“Our clans often come to value our characteristics,” Korbyn said. “In many ways, I am her opposite. I am imperfection personified. I am the rule-bender. I am the trickster. I am—”
“The raven,” Liyana said.
“Yes.”
“And proud of it?” It was a gentle tease, just enough to test the waters and see if he meant what he said about not needing deference. If so . . . Well, she had never been very good at deference. It would be a relief to abandon it.
“Justifiably,” Korbyn said. “Do you know of the time when the raven—”
“So if she’s so perfect and you’re so imperfect, how did you fall in love?”
He weathered the interruption without blinking. “Bayla loves to laugh. And I can make her laugh.” His voice was soft, as if he were filled with memories. Liyana wished she were filled with memories like that, ones that could fill her voice with warmth. As a vessel, that had never been possible. In a cheerful voice he asked, “Do you want to hear how I won her heart?”
“Of course,” she said. She thought of Ger and Esti and the warmth in their eyes. She wasn’t destined to ever experience that. She had another purpose, she reminded herself, and with each step across the sand, she walked closer to it.
She continued to walk with purpose as Korbyn launched into an outrageous tale of how he’d impressed Bayla by rearranging her carefully laid out constellations in the sky above her portion of the Dreaming. Bayla had retaliated in kind until all the stars were woven together in a bright path across the sky, which they then walked upon.
Chapter Eight
In the mornings, as the sun slowly cooked the air, Liyana and Korbyn covered as many miles as they could. Once the desert reached what felt like fire pit temperatures, Liyana pitched the tent. She waited in the shade while Korbyn coaxed moisture from the nearby desert plants. He returned with full waterskins, as well as tubers that shouldn’t have been ripe yet and clutches of lizard eggs that shouldn’t have been laid yet. He then collapsed inside the tent while she took a turn outside, shredding the tubers and frying the eggs over a tiny fire. In the late afternoons, when the air didn’t sear their lungs as badly, they continued on, trading stories as they walked. Liyana laughed so much that her ribs ached, and the dunes rang with the sound of Korbyn’s laughter. They followed this routine for nine days, leaving the sand dunes and entering an area of caked earth pockmarked by patches of yellowed grasses and barrel-shaped cacti.
On the tenth day, Liyana saw the silhouette of date palm trees. They clustered in a grove of seven or eight with narrow trunks that curved up to crowns of leaves. “Real or a mirage?”
“Real,” Korbyn said.
She squinted at the oasis, and the palm trees wavered and stretched. “How can you tell?” He couldn’t have used magic. Even though he was a god, he had to be in a trance to work magic like any magician, and she didn’t think he could enter a trance while he walked.
“I used my divine wisdom and superior intellect.”
Liyana shielded her eyes and spotted a plume of sand. It billowed around three figures on horseback who were riding toward them. “Or you saw them.” She pointed.
“Or I saw them,” he agreed. Sloughing off the pack, Korbyn plopped down in the sand. “Let’s eat lunch.”
She halted. “Now? But we’re so close!”
“Us walking will save them ten minutes of riding,” Korbyn said. “Let them come to us. We can then ride into camp refreshed.” He glugged water from the waterskin and then handed it to Liyana. Digging into the pack, he produced a flat cake composed of baked tuber. He bit into it. “Needs spices,” he commented. “We can borrow some from Sendar’s people. Oh, and I should warn you that Sendar’s clan may or may not hate me, thanks to that whole incident with the race. Sendar’s a sore loser.”
Liyana choked down a bite of the baked tuber and then gave it back to Korbyn, who gobbled it up. “Have they had their summoning ceremony yet?” She wondered how this clan would react to their news. She wished she could have told hers. Instead they were bound for Yubay, not knowing their dreamwalk was doomed to fail.
“We will know soon enough,” Korbyn said.
As they came, she saw that the riders were wrapped head to toe in blue. Thin slits in the cloth showed their eyes and mouths. Swords were strapped to their backs, and bows and arrows were affixed to their saddles. She wondered if they were hunters or warriors. She knew the Horse Clan had an ample supply of both. Their magnificent horses needed to be defended against thieves, especially during the annual fair. “What if they think we’re horse thieves?” she asked.
“They’ll cut off our hands, gouge out our eyes, and feed us to the vultures.” He chomped on the tuber. “Or they’ll feed us to the horses, if food is scarce enough.”
“This doesn’t worry you?” Liyana asked.
“I’d prefer not to lose my eyes.”
She dropped down in the sand next to him and drank deeply from the waterskin. “With your divine wisdom and superior intellect, do you have a plan?”
He flashed her a smile. “I plan . . . to tell the truth.” He spread both his hands, palms out, as if to show his innocence. “I know, it’s a rash course of action, one that I personally have never attempted, but I believe it’s worth a try.”
“I hope they give you a chance.” The riders had shifted into a canter. The horses thundered toward Korbyn and Liyana, kicking up sand under their hooves.
“As do I,” he said softly.
Sand sprayed over Liyana and Korbyn as the riders reined in their horses a few feet away. One horse pawed the ground and snorted, as if it wanted to continue to run. The other two held as still as soldiers. None of the riders dismounted.
Korbyn held up his hand in greeting.
“You trespass on Horse Clan territory during the sacred time,” the first said—it was a woman’s voice, harsh and low. Liyana couldn’t see the woman’s face through the cloth. Only her eyes were visible.
The second, a man, added, “If you are in need of water and sustenance, we will share what we carry, but we cannot invite you to share the hospitality of our camp at this time.”
The third didn’t speak. He held a knife in his beefy hand.
Korbyn gestured at the tuber cakes and waterskins. “Please, we invite you to share our food and water. The tubers are not bad, albeit a bit bland.”
“Your names and clan,” the woman demanded.
“We have come to offer assistance to the Horse Clan,” Korbyn said.
Liyana thought it was wise that Korbyn hadn’t volunteered his identity, despite his resolution to tell the truth. The third rider had not loosened his grip on his knife.
“We do not need assistance from strangers,” the woman said.
“Your clan chief will wish to speak with us,” Korbyn said merrily. “At present our needs and interests coincide.”
The third rider grunted, and his horse huffed as if echoing him.
“ ‘At present’ is an interesting word choice,” the second rider said. “Are we to presume that your intentions are honest and peaceful ‘at present’?”
The first rider shifted in her saddle. Her horse strained at the bridle as if the mare wanted to run again. “You cannot be considering—” she began.
