Liyana felt a twinge of guilt. This couldn’t have been easy for Fennik either. After all, he had suffered a failed summoning ceremony as well. “I am sorry, Fennik. It isn’t your fault that your father stabbed me.”
“He acted in the best interests of the clan,” Fennik said stiffly. “In his place, I would have done the same. And I am still prepared to do so, should the need arise.”
All her sympathy for him evaporated.
Faster than her eyes could track, Korbyn’s fist darted out. It slammed into Fennik’s solar plexus as his other hand snatched the knife away from him. With a roar, Fennik lunged for him. Korbyn dodged. Skipping across the blankets and pillows, he evaded Fennik’s fists. Liyana struggled to sit, searching around her for anything to use as a weapon.
After another failed lunge, Fennik halted. Still holding the knife, Korbyn waited. Liyana felt a wave of tiredness wash over her. “Enough,” she said. “Either you believe us or you don’t. Either you come or you don’t. Just decide so I can sleep.” This was the decision that the chieftess had meant, she realized. “Also, I want my knife back.”
“You heard the lady,” Korbyn said. She heard amusement in his voice, but she noticed that his eyes tracked Fennik’s movements. He was ready to spring if necessary.
“Exactly who is in charge here?” Fennik asked.
“Does it matter?” Korbyn asked. “She’s correct. You have the opportunity to save your god. It is up to you whether or not you take it.”
Fennik’s eyes narrowed. “Is it?”
“No,” Liyana said. Her eyes flicked to Korbyn for confirmation.
Korbyn sighed. “Bayla would be upset with me if I allowed Sendar’s clan to die because of the stubborn stupidity of a father and son. You will be coming with us.”
The Horse Clan supplied them with eight horses: one for each of them as well as the other vessels they hoped to find, plus two spare horses so they could rotate mounts. To Liyana’s shock, she saw that several large water containers had been loaded onto the horses. She remembered the silty taste of the water and knew their well had to be low. To donate this much water was an extraordinary gesture. The clan also loaded them with food pouches, grain for the horses, pots and pans, a larger tent (in place of Liyana’s travel tent), and six different kinds of bows for Fennik to use.
“Do you really need six?” Korbyn asked as the bows were strapped to a horse.
“Different game requires different tools,” Fennik said. “You wouldn’t ask me to use a mallet for the same task that needs a knife, would you?”
“They’re bows,” Korbyn said. “You fit an arrow; you release it.”
Fennik shook his head as if Korbyn were an object of pity.
Liyana skirted the edge of their miniherd. She’d ridden once or twice, a treat from the clan’s hunters before she had become a vessel. She wasn’t convinced she could ride for miles on end without falling off and humiliating herself in front of the god and the horse warrior. She wished Korbyn would abandon this plan to ride so she could keep her feet firmly in the sand. And she wished it were still only her and Korbyn.
Fennik leaped onto his horse’s back without touching the stirrups. He waved his hand to his clan, and they cheered. He was decked out as the departing hero with sky blue robes of the finest weave and a headcloth with gold tassels.
Beside him, Korbyn slid up into his saddle with such grace that it looked as though he’d merely stepped onto a ladder. He didn’t preen; he merely waited. Fennik continued to play to the crowd, prancing his horse in front of Korbyn and Liyana. Taking a deep breath, Liyana grabbed the saddle with both hands and put her foot into the stirrup. She pulled her body up, and pain from her scar shot through her torso. She let go.
“Allow me,” a voice said behind her. She was tossed gently and easily into the saddle. She looked down to see the chief beside her. Instinctively she shied back. Responding to her, the horse sidestepped away.
Coming up beside her husband, the chieftess pressed a pouch into Liyana’s hand. “Herbs for the pain. Mix a few with your water each time you stop. It won’t eliminate the hurt altogether, but it should allow you to keep riding. There are more in the packs.”
“We picked a horse with a smooth gait for you,” the chief said. “According to our traditions, you may name her.”
Liyana managed a polite nod. She couldn’t bring herself to voice the words “thank you.” Her scar ached. She watched the chief and chieftess say good-bye to Fennik. Bending down, he embraced each of them. They pressed their foreheads together and talked softly. Each parent kissed him multiple times on his cheeks.
Liyana wished she’d had that kind of good-bye with her parents. She missed her family with an ache that matched the pain from her wound.
At last his parents stepped away.
“Do not return to us,” his father said. “Either succeed in your quest and give your body to Sendar, or do not return at all.”
Liyana saw a flash of an emotion in Fennik’s eyes—surprise perhaps, or hurt—but he recovered quickly. “I will not fail!” Fennik said. Raising his hands to wave at his people one more time, he shifted in the saddle. The horse surged forward. Sand kicked up behind him. He galloped south in a plume of sand and dust.
Korbyn squeezed his knees around the barrel of his horse, and the horse trotted forward. Liyana kicked her heels into hers. After three kicks, the horse lurched into a walk. She followed Korbyn and Fennik, and the cheers of the Horse Clan faded behind them.
Chapter Ten
The Emperor
All the farms in the west had withered. Mounted on a roan war- horse, the emperor rode at the front of the army caravan and forced himself to look at each dry field, the shriveled rows of dust and the twisted sickly trees. He rode past abandoned farmhouses and some that looked abandoned but weren’t. Men, women, and children clustered in the doorways and watched the army march by. Their faces wore the pinched, hollow look that he’d come to recognize as the look of his people, and their hungry eyes devoured the caravan.
At the first few farms, he’d quietly had his soldiers shuttle food to the families. But after a while . . . He needed the supplies for the army. Just as quietly, he’d had his soldiers stop.
Still his people drank in the sight of the army, consuming it with their empty eyes.
“You give them hope,” General Xevi said. His two best generals flanked him. General Xevi, an older man who had counseled the emperor’s father, rode on his right. General Akkon, an even older man who had known the emperor’s grandfather, was on his left.
“False hope,” General Akkon said.
“Hope is a powerful tool if it is not abused,” General Xevi said.
The criticism was there, unspoken. “You think this is madness,” the emperor said.
“It is not my place to cast such judgments,” General Xevi said.
The emperor’s mouth quirked. It was almost a smile, though it didn’t warm him. “Of course it is. I trust you to advise me, and that includes speaking up if you believe that I am acting like a nightmare-addled lunatic.”
“To base so much on a dream and a myth—”
“And the claims of a madman,” General Akkon added.
“The magician is not mad,” the emperor said, “though I admit he has his moments of . . .” He cast about for the proper euphemism, and words failed him. The magician was indeed flawed. “You did not speak your concerns before.”
“The court is filled with fools,” General Xevi said, “but they are powerful fools. You needed the full confidence of the military when you stood before them.”
“And do I have the full confidence of the military?” the emperor asked. He did not let either his voice or his face betray the way his insides clenched.
For a moment, General Xevi did not answer. They rode past another farmstead. The wooden door swung open and shut in the wind, as if in rhythm with the footfalls and hoofbeats of the army. Torn curtains fluttered in the
