Vessel

to be right. Stop trying to prove you’re better than he is. Take the horse and find help.”

Fennik fell silent for a moment. “Bayla chose him over Sendar too.”

“I’m not Bayla and you’re not Sendar. And if he dies, then neither of us ever will be. Go!” Liyana bent over Korbyn.

She heard Fennik leave the tent. She heard him murmur to the horses, and then the sound of a horse being saddled. And then he rode away over the hard salt.

Alone, she listened to Korbyn’s harsh and fast breathing.

She felt his forehead for signs of a fever. His skin was slippery with sweat. Don’t you die on me, she thought at him. Fingers shaking, she checked her stock of medicinal leaves. She’d used up half her supply already, and the remaining stash was a pathetic handful of dried weeds. She’d have to be more sparing in the future, if there was a future. Liyana banished that thought.

After a while, she ducked out of the tent to tend to the last horse. She was a roan mare, though it was difficult to tell beneath the salt, dried blood, and pus. Liyana remembered that Fennik had named her Plum after her fondness for date plums. Gently Liyana peeled back the bandages Fennik had applied to check on the wounds. Most seemed clean, and none oozed. She secured the bandages again. Plum was in better shape than Korbyn. Patting the horse’s neck, Liyana looked out across the salt flats. She saw no one and nothing. All was still.

Carefully she offered the horse a few sips of water. She drained the dish gratefully and whinnied for more. Liyana poured her a handful of horse-meal pellets instead.

Returning to the tent, she checked her own wounds, and then lay down beside Korbyn. She closed her eyes but her muscles stayed tense, waiting to feel the earth shake again. Eventually she slept.

She woke to the sound of a horse whickering. Poking her head out the tent flap, she asked, “Plum, what is it?” In the distance, she spotted a cloud of salt dust. In its center was a horse, walking toward them. “Fennik!” She waved. But as the horse drew closer, she saw it wasn’t the same horse—this horse was black and white, and it had no rider. Korbyn had named this horse Windfire.

The horse swayed as she walked, but she didn’t slow. She trudged toward them step by painful step. After nearly an hour, Windfire reached them, and her legs folded underneath her. Plum nuzzled the other mare’s neck.

“Good to see you,” Liyana said as she lifted off the saddle and the supply packs. She poured the horse-meal pellets and (very carefully) a small amount of water, and then she examined Windfire’s wounds. She saw only superficial cuts, which had ceased bleeding and dried in the hot air. The horse should recover— assuming we don’t all die, Liyana thought.

She spent the rest of the day alternating between Korbyn and the horses. She tried not to think about how little water remained or to count the hours since Fennik had left. She listened to Korbyn’s shallow breathing, and she tried not to think at all. As night fell, Liyana remained outside the tent with the horses and watched the stars spread across the sky. She located the goat constellation (Bayla’s stars) above the forbidden mountains and then the raven constellation near the eastern horizon.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” a voice said behind her.

She twisted around to see Korbyn emerge from the tent. He plopped down beside her and proceeded to strip off his bandages. The skin underneath was healed. Liyana touched the smooth skin, and then all of a sudden her cheeks were wet.

Kneeling, he cupped her face in his hands and caught her tears in his palms. “Don’t bring back our writhing friends,” he said gently.

She stared into his eyes and gulped hard once, twice, until she no longer felt as if she were splintering. He was alive! Her skin shivered where he touched it. “Whatever you did worked,” she said evenly. “They left.”

“I summoned water elsewhere.” He studied her. “Let me fix you.”

She wanted to object—he’d only just recovered—but before she could frame a reply, he’d rolled up her sleeves. Concentrating, he focused on her. In a few minutes, the bite sealed shut. He repeated this for the other bite marks. Everywhere he touched tingled, and it took all her strength not to scream, You’re alive! She told herself that it was relief on behalf of her goddess. When he finished, she touched her healed skin and then his. His skin felt warm and smooth, and her fingers lingered.

He was watching her fingers. “Surface wounds are simpler than a knife through internal organs.” His voice sounded rough, and she met his eyes. They stared at each other in silence for a moment. He then looked away. “What happened to the other horses? I only see two sets of bones.”

The worms had stripped the two fallen horses bare. Poor Misery, Liyana thought. “They ran off. Only this one, Windfire, has returned so far.” She was pleased that her voice sounded normal. Her ribs felt tight, as if they’d been knit closely together, squeezing her lungs.

“I’ll call them to us,” he said. He dropped into another trance. Liyana watched him silently. He was so perfectly beautiful. She breathed with him, evenly and deeply, and she wished she dared reach over and touch him again—just to reassure herself that he was alive. After a few minutes, he broke the trance and reported, “Only located three. One is in bad shape but close. Two others are on their way.” His voice light, Korbyn asked, “And where is our favorite warrior boy? Out searching for the horses?”

Liyana scanned the starlit flats. The moon bathed the white earth in a soft blue. She thought she saw shadows stir. “He took the healthiest horse and rode for help.”

She heard Korbyn’s breath catch in his throat.

“We didn’t know when you’d wake,” Liyana explained, “and we don’t have much water left. It was the sensible option.”

Korbyn shot toward the tent and quickly began to collapse it. “We need to catch him,” he said. “You pack. I’ll heal the horses.”

She began to pack up their camp. “Why do we need to catch him? What’s wrong?”

Laying his hands on Windfire, he focused on the horse’s wounds. As he worked and as she packed, she heard the clip-clop of hooves on the hardened salt. One by one, the other three horses trotted and limped to them, and one by one, he healed them.

When he finished, he lay down in the sand. She let him rest, either unconscious or asleep. Only a few minutes later, he opened his eyes and lurched to his feet. “Ready?”

Liyana reached toward him to steady him, but he turned toward Windfire and checked the saddle. “You need more rest,” she said. “Why can’t we wait until dawn?”

“The Silk Clan . . . does not like strangers.” He mounted Windfire, and she climbed onto another horse. She stroked her mare’s neck as the horse protested. Korbyn held the lead ropes of the other horses.

With the stars above, they rode over the salt flats.

Chapter Twelve

Flute music, carried by the hot breezes that swept over the cracked land, drifted across the salt flats. Riding on Gray Luck—a gray mare she’d renamed because she had lived despite a worm bite inches from her jugular— Liyana listened to the plaintive melody. It was echoed by a second flute and then a third. The notes swooped and soared as they spiraled up toward the stars.

“Beautiful,” Liyana said.

Korbyn didn’t respond. Instead he coaxed Windfire into a trot. Salt dust rose in a cloud under the hooves of Korbyn’s horse. The other three horses plodded after him.

“What do we do if Fennik is in trouble?” Liyana called after him.

“Try to get him out of it.”

She glared at his back. “Your plan seems vague.”

He shrugged as if unconcerned.

“You could have warned us that the Silk Clan is dangerous,” she said. “You seem to think you’re doing this alone. You’re not.”

“I noticed that.” He waved his hand at her and the injured horses as if she were also a wounded animal that he had to shepherd across the desert.