“One man, one woman, no mounts,” the second said, waving at them. “One supply pack. Two waterskins. And the nearest well is a week’s journey.”
“Nine days, actually,” Korbyn volunteered.
Ignoring him, the second rider continued. “The chief asked for anything unusual, and I believe this qualifies.”
“This is a mistake,” the first rider growled.
“Your objection is noted,” the second rider said.
Korbyn rose in a smooth movement. Belatedly Liyana scrambled to her feet. Her muscles, sore from the endless trek, protested. Korbyn noticed and reached out to steady her. “Could we ride with you?” he asked the riders. “It has been a long and tiring journey.”
“Only if you give us your weapons,” the first rider said.
Liyana was not giving up Jidali’s knife. “I’ll walk.”
Korbyn raised both his eyebrows at her. “You surprise me,” he said to her. “It has been a long time since I met anyone who surprised me.” She wanted to ask if that was good or bad. If they’d been alone, she would have. Instead she began walking toward the oasis. Korbyn trudged along with her, and the three riders spread out on either side and behind them.
“If they touch their weapons on their way through camp,” the second rider said to the third, “you have my permission to skewer them.”
Through the mouth slit in the facecloth, Liyana saw the third rider’s lips curve into a smile. His eyes remained as flat and expressionless as a diamond cobra’s. She shivered and kept walking. She kept her hands by her sides, away from her knife.
The Horse Clan tents circled the date palm trees. Made of burgundy, black, and spotted hide, the tents were tall and round as opposed to low triangles—a visual reminder that this wasn’t Liyana’s clan. Men, women, and children were engaged in ordinary and familiar tasks: Clothes were being mended, bread was being kneaded, blankets were being woven, and animals were being cared for. Inside the circle of tents, the green heart of the oasis belonged to the horses. They grazed on the tufts of dried grasses and nibbled at the peeling bark of the trees. Seeking shade, foals leaned against their mothers. Under one tree, two stallions butted chests in a mock battle. From a distance, it looked idyllic. But as they passed the outer circle of tents, Liyana noticed that the horses’ hides were as dull and patchy as worn blankets, and their ribs pressed against their flesh. Flies buzzed around the face of one chestnut mare, and pus leaked from her eyes. The horse troughs were empty.
“Sendar’s herd used to be the jewel of the desert,” Korbyn said in a soft voice.
Even more than her clan needed Bayla, these people needed their deity. Horses couldn’t digest the brittle desert bushes that the goats ate in times of severe draught. “Who would take our gods away from us?” Liyana asked.
Again Korbyn didn’t answer.
As they passed through the camp, Liyana scanned the faces, trying to spot a friendly expression. Most faces were covered in blue or white cloth, and those that weren’t looked gaunt with prominent cheekbones and sunken cheeks—they mirrored their bony horses. Men and women dropped their tasks and followed. She heard whispers that rose to a steady locust-like hum.
The riders led them to an ornate tent covered in tassels. The hide walls were desert tan but decorated with images of hoofprints and swirls. The peak of the tent was higher than that of any of the other tents, and its girth was double. She guessed that this was the clan’s council tent.
As they approached, the tent flap was tossed open, and the largest man that Liyana had ever seen emerged. He had to twist sideways to pass through the tent opening. Framed by the prevalent blue cloth, his long, horselike face tapered into a twisted beard that reminded Liyana of a horse’s tail. He wore tan, leather robes with golden tassels. A fat sword hung from his beaded belt, and he held a horse whip in one hand. He scowled at them. “I am the chief of the Horse Clan. You trespass at a sacred time.”
Korbyn bowed. “Please accept our apologies for this untimely intrusion, though once you hear why we have come, I think you will agree that it is, in fact, timely indeed.”
The chief grunted in response.
“You are a man of few words, I see,” Korbyn said.
His scowl deepened, and Liyana shrank back as if from a looming storm. She wondered if Korbyn could sense the chief’s growing hostility. Perhaps this was part of his plan.
“Let me cut straight to the point,” Korbyn said. “We need to speak with your vessel.”
“He prepares for the summoning ceremony,” the chief said, his voice a rumble.
“Ahh . . . in that case, please interrupt him,” Korbyn said cheerfully. “What we need to discuss is directly relevant.”
The chief flicked his arm, and the horse whip snaked out. It cracked in the sand at their feet. Liyana jumped. Korbyn didn’t even flinch. Whinnying, the nearby horses shied away. Liyana thought of how he’d burned his hand. Perhaps he’d forgotten that he was in a mortal body. “You disrespect us,” the chief said.
“He doesn’t!” Liyana said. “Korbyn, tell him.”
“As you wish,” Korbyn said. All humor drained from his face, and when he addressed the chief again, his tone was serious. “Several of the desert deities, including Sendar, were summoned from the Dreaming but never arrived at their clans. Their souls have been, in essence, kidnapped.”
“Lies,” the clan chief said. “No one can kidnap a god.”
“It’s happened already,” Korbyn said. To Liyana, he said, “Show them who you are.”
Liyana pushed up her sleeves. “I’m the vessel of Bayla of the Goat Clan. We conducted the summoning ceremony. . . .” She felt a lump in her throat, and she swallowed hard. “She didn’t come.” Even knowing the truth, it was hard to say. She felt the weight of her failure all over again. She bowed her head. “Bayla was supposed to enter me, and she didn’t.”
“She couldn’t,” Korbyn said. “Like Sendar couldn’t.” He tapped his nose. “I can smell a lie. Your vessel isn’t preparing for the ceremony. You have already completed it, and it failed. Hence the hostility in our greeting from your guards. Hence the lack of hospitality now.”
Around them, murmurs rose into shouts.
The chief held up his hand.
Instant silence.
“Lies,” the chief said. “Lies and tricks.” He pointed at Korbyn with the whip. “Identify your name and clan.”
Liyana inched closer to Korbyn. Like the tents surrounding the oasis, the Horse Clan encircled the two of them. She felt as if their stares were stones ready to be thrown. The pressure of Jidali’s knife in her sash wasn’t much comfort.
“I am a friend to all desert clans,” Korbyn said.
The chief did not lower the whip. “You are Korbyn, trickster god of the Raven Clan, who has heaped countless humiliations on my god and stole his beloved Bayla through flattery and lies.” He spat at Korbyn’s feet.
Korbyn spread his hands in a show of innocence. “Your deity and I may have had our differences, but never at the cost of harm to any of our people.”
“And you”—the chief pointed the whip at Liyana—“have joined the trickster to humiliate my people. We are not fooled. You are Bayla herself.”
Liyana’s mouth dropped open. “I . . .”
“I wish this were a trick,” Korbyn said, “but for once, I am telling the truth. I can see how you would be confused. This honesty and nobility is new to me as well—”
“Seize them,” the chief ordered.
Two men strode forward and caught Liyana’s arms from behind. Two others grabbed Korbyn. Liyana yelped and struggled, but Korbyn held still. “For the good of your clan, I hope you will hear sense,” Korbyn said. His voice was mild. “I believe that the souls of the lost deities have been captured in false vessels. They must be freed from their prisons and then transferred into true vessels. I can perform the summoning chant for the transfer, but the vessels must be there to dance. Liyana has agreed to accompany me on behalf of her clan. We hope that your vessel will too, as well as the vessels from the Silk Clan, the Scorpion Clan, and the Falcon Clan. Together, we can
