“Pretty,” Elieve said, slipping out of her saddle, wandering from Mark to Pellin’s side.
Growling, he spun, but his remonstrance died on his lips. Elieve pointed to a stretch of soft sand and thrust her hand toward its surface. When she raised it, she held a shard of light green in her fist.
Pellin took the stone. “Aer be praised,” he said, blessing and prayer and relief mingling together. “Thank you, Elieve.” He looked at the wall, still distant but looming, growing. “Hurry.”
Dukasti mounted and rode, his own scrying stone, blue, held against his ear, working desperately to guide his horse with one hand. The initial burst of fear that had propelled the horses as they galloped across the dunes had begun to fade. Already they were showing signs of tiring. Pellin darted a glance back at the oncoming storm.
The wall raced toward them, looming over their party as it came boiling out of the northwest. Bits of grit and dirt filled the air, and he coughed. Dukasti stopped, reining in his horse with a curse and screaming above the sound of the storm. “I can barely hear him, Eldest.” He flung an arm in the direction they’d been riding. “Igesia sees the storm in the distance, but the smoke from any fire he lights will be lost.”
“Why?” Mark asked.
Dukasti spat an oath in a different language. “It’s going to be dark as nightfall in a few moments.”
“Then we must find shelter,” Allta said.
Dukasti shook his head as if Pellin’s guard had gone mad. “There is no shelter here. There is nothing between us and Igesia except the dunes. When the storm hits, the wind will turn the sand into carpenter’s cloth.” He swallowed and coughed, turning to face east as he drew the intersecting arcs on his forehead. “I’m sorry, Eldest. Will you pray with me?” He darted a look at the storm. “We don’t have much time.”
Allta’s hand lashed out, grabbing the southerner by his arm. “How close are we to Igesia?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Pellin’s guard shook him like doll. “How close, curse you?”
Dukasti shook his head, his expression dark. “We’re going to die, you fool northerner. Let me say my prayers!”
Allta thrust Dukasti away. Gathering the reins of all their horses, he pulled his sword. At the last, he turned to Mark. “She shouldn’t see this. Keep her head down.”
Mark pulled Elieve into his embrace, sheltering her eyes and ears. The wind rose to a whine that swept all other sounds before it. Already, Pellin could barely see past the length of his arm. With strokes too fast to follow, Allta put the horses down, their screams merging with the wind. Straining with effort, Pellin’s guard worked to stack the bodies into position, creating a barrier to the wind.
The desert sun shrank to a pinpoint of white and disappeared.
Pellin fell toward the shelter, felt hands move him toward the bodies of the horses and cover him with a cloak. Someone—Mark, he thought—pressed against him on his left. Hands moved behind him, working to protect him.
Allta’s voice, right by his ear, sounded in the darkness. “How long will the storm last, Dukasti?”
When he answered, his voice held a hint of wonder. “They vary. Some only a few minutes—others may last for hours or even days. You’ve given me cause to wonder and hope, good Allta. It may be that Aer will see fit to deliver us from the storm.”
Their heads were no more than a couple of hands apart, and Pellin could smell their breakfast on Dukasti’s breath. Someone moved beneath the confines of their cloaks, and for a moment a bit of wind and sand swirled among them.
“Mark,” Allta said with grit in his voice, “be still.”
The boy quieted, but a moment later, a soft glow appeared in their midst, though it lacked the strength to illuminate. Indeed, Pellin could only make out the outline of Mark’s hand by it, but it cheered him, and darkness retreated from it, however slightly.
Pellin nodded in the darkness, but the gesture was for himself. “Thank you, Mark. Even a soft bit of light is welcome.”
“And I bid you welcome as well,” Elieve’s voice came to them from the darkness. “Welcome to my demesne.”
“Hold her!” Pellin’s voice rasped beneath their covering. The wind howled as Allta surged forward to bring Elieve into the circle of his arms. Flying sand stung Pellin’s skin as the storm howled and screamed.
“I have her,” Allta yelled over the sound of the storm. “Mark, anchor the blanket back over us.”
A semblance of order returned to their makeshift shelter and a portion of quiet as well once the thick blanket covered them again. Harsh breathing filled the space, and Pellin struggled to quiet the thunder of his heart. “Mark, check to ensure Elieve holds no weapon. Dukasti and I cannot risk touching her.”
“Risk?” Dukasti asked. “We’ve strayed into the Maveth. We have to leave!”
“You said yourself, the storm means death,” Allta said.
“Better death than the Maveth,” Dukasti said.
Mark’s voice, disembodied by the darkness, came to him. “She’s unarmed, Eldest.” He paused. “What’s happened to her?”
Pellin ignored the question—it would be answered soon enough. He tried to wet his lips, but dust caked them. “Can you hold her, Allta?”
“Yes, Eldest, but if she lashes out with her feet, she could injure or kill you before I have a chance to stop her.”
“I assure you, such precautions are unnecessary,” Elieve said.
Despite the heat, gooseflesh pebbled Pellin’s skin. While the voice was undeniably Elieve’s, the cadence and diction of the words were alien, had never had a part of the girl’s experience.
“Who are you?”
“So young.” Elieve’s voice carried a smile with it. “And so ignorant.”
“Are you the curse of the Maveth?” Dukasti asked.
Soft laughter, breathy and mocking, came from Elieve’s mouth. “So, your race is equipped with some knowledge after all. Over the centuries, the few who’ve stumbled into my domain have exhibited no awareness of me other than a child’s fear of the dark.” More laughter. “Tell me,
