rocked back and forth.
“People of the Goat Clan, your elders will discuss this matter,” Chief Roke said. He strode to the council tent, and he raised the tent flap. Slowly the elders filed into the tent.
Chieftess Ratha addressed the clan. “Leave here and begin your day. You have tasks that will not complete themselves.” She fixed her formidable glare on each of them, as if her eyes could burn them like the noonday sun.
Slowly the clan dispersed.
Rocking Jidali, Liyana listened to the footfalls as her people retreated from the circle. Ordinary noises returned. Above, wind rustled through the dry leaves of the parched palm trees. Across the camp, the herd bleated for breakfast. Inside a tent, a baby cried.
She lifted her head and met the eyes of the master weaver. The woman spat into the circle, and then the weaver’s sister forced her to leave. On the opposite side of the circle, Ger led Esti away, and Liyana’s childhood friend kept looking back at Liyana. At last only Liyana’s family remained.
Checking right and left, Aunt Sabisa scurried across the line in the sand and into the circle. She pried Jidali’s arms off Liyana. Liyana let him go. Clucking to the boy, Aunt Sabisa led him beyond the circle and away toward the family tent. Liyana’s cousins, aunts, and uncles trudged after them.
Her parents did not move.
Liyana couldn’t bring herself to speak to them. She laid her cheek against the sand. Talu still sat cross-legged a few feet away. She hadn’t moved from that position, even when the stones were thrown. Liyana wondered if she sat by choice or if her old bones had betrayed her. As her student, Liyana knew she should help her mentor stand, should fetch her cane, should seek to make her comfortable. But Liyana felt as if she had melted into the sand.
Talu didn’t speak. Neither did Liyana.
Overhead, the sun bleached the sky. As it rose higher, the heat soaked into the sand and rocks. Liyana felt it searing her skin, the skin she had been so careful to protect because it wouldn’t always be hers. She let it burn until her father brought a makeshift shelter, a blanket propped up on two sticks, for her and Talu. He also pressed a waterskin into each of their hands.
“Drink,” he said.
Talu let the waterskin drop from her fingers.
Her father replaced it in Talu’s hands. “Drink,” he repeated.
Three more times, they repeated this, with Talu letting the waterskin fall out of her fingers and Liyana’s father patiently replacing it. At last Liyana raised herself to her knees, drank her own water, and then leaned over and lifted Talu’s water to her lips. “The elders will know what to do,” Liyana said. “You must drink so that you’re ready to do it.”
Talu sipped once and then withdrew. Liyana tilted the water to her teacher’s lips until the precious liquid poured out over her chin and Talu drank. Liyana persisted until half the water was gone. She then let the old woman rest. She didn’t look at her father.
“You don’t need to stay here on display,” her father said. “Come inside our tent.”
Liyana shook her head so hard that her vision tilted. She steadied herself with a hand on the sand. Her palm landed in one of the depressions she’d made as she’d danced.
“Let her stay if she wishes,” Mother said.
Her father retreated to outside the circle, and he sat with Mother in the shadow of the council tent. Side by side, they kept vigil over the circle. And the sun moved on in the sky.
Late in the afternoon, as the heat baked the oasis and the wind failed to stir the sand, the elders emerged from the council tent. Chief Roke placed a goat horn to his lips and blasted a single note. As the note died, it was replaced by the sound of footsteps in sand and over rock as the clan returned. In minutes, everyone that Liyana had ever known surrounded the ceremonial circle. Kneeling, Liyana bowed her head and waited.
“Talu,” the chief said. “Hear our verdict.”
The magician lifted her head. Her face was lined with deep creases, as if she’d aged another decade during her time in the circle. She looked so sunken that Liyana feared her bones would collapse inward.
“We heard you chant the words of our ancestors. Indeed, we chanted with you,” Chieftess Ratha said. “And so, we know your words were pure and true.”
“My words were pure and true,” Talu said, “and they journeyed far.”
“You have never failed in your magic,” Chieftess Ratha said. “Yet Bayla did not come.”
Talu lifted her chin higher. Some of the shadows faded from her face, and her voice strengthened. “Bayla would never forsake us. We are her people.”
Murmurs spread through the crowd. The chieftess inclined her head to show that she’d heard Talu’s words as the chief said, “Liyana, hear our verdict.”
Chieftess Ratha addressed Liyana. “Talu’s words flew true and far, and we do not doubt the goddess’s love. Therefore, there is only one explanation: Bayla has deemed you an unfit vessel.” Her voice was kind, though her words were knives.
Other elders spoke, echoing this verdict, but Liyana did not hear them. She felt the weight of the words press her against the sand. She wanted to sink deeper and deeper until the desert poured into her ears and her mind, and erased the horror of her failure.
Her mother’s voice broke through the downward spiral of Liyana’s thoughts. “You saw my daughter dance. She did not falter. All night she danced beyond any reasonable expectation. She does not deserve your blame.” Mother’s fists were planted on her hips.
“Whom do you blame? Our goddess?” The chief’s voice was like the rumble that preceded a lightning storm.
Liyana’s father laid a hand on Mother’s arm.
“This is not about blame, and we do not act to punish,” Chieftess Ratha said, her voice smooth but expressionless. “We act only for the good of the tribe. We will travel to Yubay without Liyana. There we will dreamwalk anew and hope to discover the true vessel.”
Liyana felt as if her blood had congealed within her veins. Every breath hurt.
“We travel on, and she remains.” Her father’s voice was flat. “She’ll die. You want us to abandon our daughter to death.”
“If Bayla chooses her, then the goddess will claim her body here and rejoin us. If Bayla does not, then we will be free of the taint of an unworthy vessel and can try again.”
“There is no ‘try again’!” Aunt Sabisa said. She wagged her finger at the chief and chieftess, and also at Talu. “You read the dreams. You consulted your hearts. You said Liyana was our vessel!”
Shakily Talu pushed herself to her knees and slowly, painfully she rose to her feet. “The verdict of the elders is for the good of the tribe. We must try to find another, or else we are all doomed.”
Liyana felt as if Talu had stabbed her. For years Talu had trained her. For hours every day, she had lectured her and coached her and prepared Liyana for her sacrifice. She had waxed poetic about her pride in Liyana, and she had bolstered her every time Liyana had felt any doubt.
“But I am your vessel!” Liyana raised her arms so that her tattoos were displayed. “In my dreamwalk, Bayla chose me!”
Talu met her eyes. “In the ceremony, she did not.” Deliberately, ceremonially, she turned her back on Liyana.
“In Yubay,” Chieftess Ratha declared, “we will draw a new circle and weave a new untainted dress for a more worthy vessel.” Others turned their backs on Liyana as well.
“I can dance again!” Liyana jumped to her feet. She felt pain shoot through her aching leg muscles. Her breath hissed out. She mastered it and continued, “If we made another circle now . . . or tried another oasis . . . or chose another night . . .”
“The night does not matter. The place does not matter. And the circle is tradition, not necessity,” Talu said, still facing away from Liyana. “The goddess comes when a vessel dances and a magician chants. But the chant must be magic, and the vessel must be worthy.”
“Please, then let me come to Yubay,” Liyana begged. “Let me dreamwalk again. Let me prove my worth to
