Vessel

Her voice low so that only Gray Luck could hear, she muttered, “I didn’t realize pigheadedness was a raven trait.” Following in the cloud of salt dust, she trailed him to the Silk Clan’s camp.

Clustered on the border of the salt flats, each tent was swathed in white cloth that reflected the light of the stars, the moon, and the torches until it seemed to glow. Beyond them, far in the distance, were the black silhouettes of the stone hills, cutting into the starscape.

Drums had joined the flute music. The soft rhythm rolled beneath the interwoven melodies. And then the voice started: a crystal clear voice that soared above the flutes and drums. A wordless melody, it was sweeter and clearer than any birdcall.

“She’s the vessel,” Korbyn said.

“How do you know?” Liyana asked.

“Oyri always chooses a vessel who can sing,” he said.

Liyana listened as the singer’s voice cascaded over several octaves. She thought of water running from a cup. Her voice was as beautiful as water. Liyana felt the notes seep into her skin, and she swayed in the saddle to the music. Her feet itched to dance to the drumbeat.

Ahead, the camp was still. No one came forward to intercept them. The outer circle of tents looked empty, as if they were waiting like shadows on the cusp of dawn, expectant and motionless. She thought that everyone must be with the musicians, obscured from view in the center of camp.

“Someday I’d like to see you dance.” His voice was so soft that she nearly missed his words. She wondered if he meant her or Bayla in her body. She felt herself shiver, and she told herself she merely felt the night wind worm through her clothes.

For an instant, she imagined dancing for him, feeling his eyes on her. . . . He must mean Bayla, she thought. She changed the subject, keeping her voice as light as she could, as if she were merely curious. “Did Bayla choose me because I can dance?”

“Are you asking ‘why me?’ If so, I cannot answer that for Bayla.”

“So how did you choose your vessel?” She tried to imagine another’s soul looking out of his eyes, and she couldn’t. Those eyes were Korbyn’s.

His face was in shadows, but she thought she saw a flash of sadness. He didn’t answer her question. “I do know you are not merely a dancer, Liyana. Only a few per generation can be vessels— and many of them become magicians instead.” He lowered his voice. They had reached the tents. Still no one approached them, and the music swelled louder. “Only someone whose soul came from the Dreaming instead of being born within his or her body can be a vessel or become a magician.”

“I have a reincarnated soul?”

“You do.”

“Whose?”

“Yours.”

Before Liyana could ask more, an elderly woman shuffled toward them. She held a torch in one hand, and the orange glow encircled her. Black soot stained the deep blue sky. Her skin was as dark as smudged charcoal, and in contrast, the whites of her eyes seemed to blaze in the torchlight. Wrinkles creased her face, swallowing her features, so that her cheeks resembled the inside of a fist.

Quietly to Liyana, Korbyn said, “I swear I will be more careful than I was with Sendar’s people. Even after burning my hand, I forgot there is true danger here. But I will not forget again, and I will not permit you to be harmed.”

Her breath caught in her throat at the vehemence in his voice, and she reminded herself that he had to preserve her for Bayla’s sake. Like the dancing, this wasn’t about Liyana.

Korbyn halted and dismounted. Holding the reins, he genuflected before the old woman. “We come with peace in our minds and song in our hearts.” Quickly Liyana dismounted and knelt beside him. She wondered if she should repeat his words as well. She opted for silence.

“I am Ilia, First Magician of the Silk Clan.” The woman closed her hand into a fist and thumped her chest with such force that she staggered back a step.

Korbyn continued to kneel. “It is said that Oyri of the Silk Clan once tamed one of the great salt worms to create the finest silk threads just for her. It lived beneath her feet wherever she walked, and when she wished to weave, it would spew threads from the earth in such quantities that it created new hills.”

“It is said, yes,” Ilia agreed.

“But do you know how Oyri tamed the great salt worm? She asked her friend the raven to create a river of water far beneath the ground that would follow her wherever she walked, leading the great salt worm to her.”

“We do not know this tale.”

“I am the raven,” Korbyn said.

“You claim friendship with Oyri?”

He bowed over his knee. “I am so honored.”

Ilia raised her arm. Her hand trembled, and the loose flesh on her arm shook. Then it stilled as her fingers splayed open—a clear signal. Suddenly and silently a dozen warriors stepped out from between the tents. Bows and spears were trained on Liyana and Korbyn. Liyana didn’t dare breathe. Her muscles felt locked in place. Korbyn’s pretty promise of safety would evaporate if they were both riddled with arrows. The magician Ilia lowered her hand, and the warriors lowered their bows and spears in perfect synchronization.

Retreating, the warriors disappeared into the shadows between the tents. Liyana felt prickles run up and down her spine. She knew the warriors were still there. “Fennik?” she whispered.

Korbyn shook his head nearly imperceptibly—either to say he didn’t know or not to ask. Or he could have meant that he suspected the worst. Fennik could have met these same guards and not fared as well.

“You may leave your horses here,” Ilia said. “My boys will tend to them.” She snapped her fingers, and two young men appeared from nearby tents. They scurried to the horses and unsaddled and brushed them.

“We thank you for your kindness,” Korbyn said. He bowed again.

Watching strangers curry the horses, Liyana wound her fingers in Gray Luck’s mane. The horse raised her head from the trough and nipped her shoulder with soft, wet lips. Liyana patted the horse’s neck and wondered if she would ever see the animals or gear again. She wondered if Fennik’s horse was here, hidden within other shadows. She saw hoof marks in the sand, but she lacked a tracker’s skill to distinguish them.

“Come,” Ilia said.

The old magician did not wait to see if her guests followed. Briskly she hobbled deeper into the heart of the camp. Korbyn trailed her. As they turned a corner, the torchlight stretched their shadows on the tent walls around them. Reluctantly leaving Gray Luck and the other horses, Liyana hurried after the god and the magician.

As they neared the center of camp, the music crescendoed. Other voices had joined in, but the soloist’s soared above them. She trilled impossible notes like some glorious bird.

“Oyri will be pleased with her,” Korbyn said.

“She is the finest singer we have had for generations,” Ilia said. “Even the winds quiet to listen to her.”

“May I ask for what she sings?”

“Judgment,” Ilia said.

The magician led them to an open circle. In the center, tied to a stake, was Fennik. He was shirtless, and his arms were bound behind him and twisted so that his tattoos were exposed to the starry sky. He was on his bare knees on the hard, salt ground. A silver dish lay below him. Sweat dripped from his face to his chin and then fell onto the dish with a ping. Gagged, he could not speak when his saw them, but his eyes widened and he strained against his bindings.

Around the stake were the drummers and other singers. Opposite them, in a throne draped with white silk, sat the soloist. She had straight, white hair, the same color as the salt, but her face was as soft as a child’s. She was tiny and thin, half the size of Ilia, and she looked fragile perched on the large throne. She didn’t look at Liyana and Korbyn. Others did, faltering in their drumbeats and losing their melodies as they stared. Soon only the soloist sang.

“May I ask what his crime is?” Korbyn sounded casual.

At his voice, the singing ceased.

The girl, the vessel, tilted her head toward Korbyn and Liyana. Liyana saw that her eyes were covered in a