“Have I ever told you the story of how the parrot once cheated the raven? Once, the raven was a bird with jewel-colored feathers brilliant enough to dazzle the sun itself. The parrot, a drab, brown bird at the time, was jealous. . . .”
Jerking upright, Raan slammed her heels into Plum. The horse jolted forward, and Raan urged her into a gallop. She raced across the desert.
“She’s the parrot,” Korbyn said.
Fennik yanked his horse’s head in her direction, preparing to chase after her.
Korbyn stopped him. “Let her run,” he said. “It may make her feel better.”
Liyana watched the sand billow in the wake of Raan’s horse. She hoped that Raan didn’t allow Plum to overheat. “She’s heading toward her clan.” Without water for herself and her horse, she’d never make it.
“Poor Raan,” Pia said. “So much rage to so little effect.”
“What happened to the parrot?” Liyana asked.
“He plucked the raven, and then, fearing punishment, fled the desert to live in the rain forest. But once there, he discovered that he was no more beautiful than any other bird or flower. So every night, he flies above the forest canopy and pines for the desert he left.”
They watched the shadow of dust recede. “She will have to run very far to reach a rain forest,” Fennik commented. He dismounted and tended to the horses.
Setting up the tent, they rested in its shade. Liyana used her magic to corral several scorpions. Once she sliced off their tails, she added their bodies to their food supply. She buried the stingers.
Soon Korbyn pointed to a cloud on the horizon. “She’s returning.” Together, they watched her fight with the horse’s reins as a determined Plum bore down on their camp. Pia shared her tuber cake, and they each nibbled it as they waited for Raan and Plum to cross the sand. When the cake was gone, Fennik stretched out to full length and propped his legs up on a rock. Liyana rested her chin on her knees.
“You used magic on the horse,” Liyana said.
“I might have . . . influenced her,” Korbyn conceded.
“Clever.”
“Delighted you noticed.”
As she got closer, Raan shouted a string of obscenities at them. Pia gasped with each one. Fennik looked disgusted.
“Impressive vocabulary,” Korbyn said. “I feel as though I should take notes.”
“I think she’s making them up,” Liyana said. “Half of them are not anatomically possible.”
“And the rest is . . . ill-advised,” Pia said.
Continuing to curse them out, Raan dismounted. Liyana packed up camp while Fennik fussed over Plum. Once the mare had recovered enough, they rode on without a word to Raan.
Her second escape attempt came that night. She didn’t take a horse, and Fennik caught her before she’d made it a hundred yards. He carried her kicking back to the camp and deposited her inside the tent.
“Are you trying to make a point?” Liyana asked. “If so, we get it. You don’t want to be with us. Well, we don’t want to be with you either, but we aren’t about to condemn your entire clan because of your personality flaws.”
“My clan could find another way to survive,” Raan said.
“They won’t, though,” Liyana said. “None of our people will leave the desert.”
“You don’t know that. If you”—she glared at Korbyn—“hadn’t given them false hope, maybe they would. If I return, they’ll know hope is gone, and they’ll find another way. Maybe a better way!”
“There is no other way!” Liyana said. Her fists clenched, and she had to fight the urge to shake Raan. “We can’t survive the Great Drought without the deities!”
“If we leave the desert, we could escape it! We wouldn’t need the deities!” Raan said. “Why should we follow them? Why follow
He smiled coldly. “Because you don’t have a choice.” He then walked away from them. They watched his silhouette fade into the blackness of the desert night.
In a panic-filled voice, Pia asked, “Did he leave us?”
“He’ll return,” Liyana said. “I don’t think he has a choice either.”
Chapter Fourteen
The Emperor
Golden grasses snapped beneath the emperor’s feet. Holding his horse’s reins, he surveyed the plain. Already his soldiers spread throughout the grasses. With expert precision, they sliced the stalks to store for later—he’d been told they made adequate horse feed, though humans could not consume them. Other soldiers scurried behind, establishing rows in which to erect the tents.
Beyond the plain, the land sloped up into a ridge that ran north-south. A few twisty black trees crowned the peak of the nearest hill. Leaving his horse, he strode toward it. His guard followed him.
He nodded to soldiers as they passed, and they paused to bow to him. He heard voices, cheerful, around him. The mood was light—the march was, for now, finished—and they’d camp here until they had collected enough supplies to proceed. He kept his face pleasant to maintain the mood around him, but was grateful when he’d passed the last of the working men and women. His stomach was a hard knot inside him, and his heart thudded fast within his chest. He climbed the hill, and then he stood on top of the ridge.
He was here, the border of the Crescent Empire, the border of the desert.
The emperor gazed across the sands.
Brittle plants pockmarked the sand, bumps of brown and deep green in a spread of tan. Groves of leafless trees huddled in spots closer to the border. But beyond . . . the desert spread and stretched. He felt his hands begin to sweat as he absorbed the enormity of it all.
Far in the distance, the mountains seemed to crack the sky. He fixed his eyes on them. The lake was there. He could feel it deep inside with the kind of certainty that he normally reserved for proven facts. In the middle of this barren wasteland was his people’s best hope for survival.
His two best generals climbed onto the hilltop beside him.
“Hostile,” General Akkon observed.
“It is a wonder that anyone survives such an environment,” General Xevi agreed.
“And it is the source of that wonder that will save us,” the emperor said.
The two generals studied the desert and the outline of the mountains with him. “The desert people will not take kindly to our invasion of their land,” General Xevi said.
“Hence the army,” the emperor said dryly.
“They are rumored to be a highly superstitious people,” the general continued, as if the emperor hadn’t spoken. “To them, those are the forbidden mountains.”
The emperor knew this far better than the general did. But the general never spoke without purpose so the emperor allowed him his speech.
“You must be prepared for resistance,” General Xevi said.
“You think I am not?” the emperor said. “Again, I did bring an army.”
“I think you are young,” General Xevi said bluntly. “And the scouting party has not returned.”
The emperor switched his gaze from the mountains to his two generals. “We have not yet crossed the border. Do you believe that we should turn back? Turn away from the only hope, faint as you may believe it to be, that we have seen for the past three years? Return without the miracle our people need?”
“I believe that your miracle will come with blood,” General Xevi said. “And you must be ready to both spill it and have it be spilled.”
The emperor kept his face impassive, as always. “You believe I am not.”
General Akkon snorted. “You are not.”
The emperor studied the desert again. “I will be,” he said.
