he’s everyone’s god.”
“Well, I understand that,” Mesema allowed. “Anyone can worship a god, even if he belongs to other people.”
“Mesema, listen. My god is everyone’s god.”
Mesema felt the heat of the sun on her back; she looked to the Bright One and was relieved to find him gone. “Why did your family send you to Arigu, Eldra? Are you to marry him?” Eldra glanced over her shoulder at the camp. “No… I never proved myself, and anyway, Arigu doesn’t really care for me. I can tell.” She turned back and squared her shoulders.
“Then what?”
“Never mind.”
Mesema thought about Eldra’s arrival. Banreh didn’t appear to know why she was with them. Arigu had some design they couldn’t see. Instead of one girl from the Felt, Arigu was bringing two. An honest assessment forced Mesema to allow that Eldra was prettier and more womanly than she was, but Eldra had two points against her. She wasn’t a virgin, and she couldn’t bear children, so she couldn’t be meant for the prince. It bothered Eldra, the not-knowing; Mesema could see that now. All her jokes and flirtations served to disguise her worry.
“Well,” Mesema said, taking Eldra’s hand, “you’re my companion, perhaps.”
Eldra giggled. “I’d rather be Banreh’s companion.”
“You’d have to talk to him about that,” said Mesema, hiding her stab of annoyance.
Eldra looked over her shoulder. “The general.” She rolled her eyes and squeezed Mesema’s hand. “I’ll see you in the afternoon.”
Mesema felt sorry for the girl. It was supposed to be fun, trying for a plainschild—or perhaps it was a sandchild in this case—but Eldra and Arigu didn’t have a real romance, and as long as Arigu dominated their caravan, Eldra could never be with the man she really cared for. Mesema’s cheeks grew hot when she realised she was glad of that. She wished the Hidden God had chosen a more blessed birthday for her, but instead she had been born selfish, under the Scorpion’s tail. He’d also chosen her fate, in being sent away; she had yet to understand if that was a punishment or a reward.
She turned and looked for her tent. Banreh always tied a Windreader scarf to the pointed top so that she could find it. She crawled in and lay down on her mat, not bothering with her nightdress. She would ask for water to wash herself when she woke. The soldiers washed in the sand; they would consider it a waste, but they might allow it.
And then, without quite knowing why, Mesema cried herself to sleep.
Chapter Thirteen
"Let me see it,” Eyul said. Amalya hunched in his arms, her back to him, as if even his gaze would sear her arm. He could see her pain, written into the lines of her neck and
shoulders. He gritted his teeth as he drew himself up. Somehow he’d injured his own back.
Amalya turned slowly, holding her elbow with care, like a brimming cup. The sand had given her a new skin where the flesh had been scraped raw; only here and there could Eyul see the glistening of stripped muscle in patches the desert had not yet found. “Have you magic for wounds?” Eyul asked. The flies would come, and with them the taint that would sour the arm.
Her eyes held the glazed amazement of a man stabbed in the stomach.
He knew that look. “Have you a cure-spell?” He reached for her shoulder with his unburned hand.
She blinked, and some intelligence returned. “Herb law,” she whispered, “I know a little herb law. My true magic lies in fire and in smoke.” She managed a grimace and looked around.
“Herbs seem to be in short supply.”
Eyul was relieved: she had her wits, at least. A Tower mage could be relied on for a well-trained mind.
“Wait here,” he said, “I’ll bring the camels.”
Amalya crouched down, slow and stiff, sheltering her arm as though it were the most precious infant.
The stars lit Eyul’s path across the dunes and he found Amalya’s camel in the depths, between the starlit crests, where the darkness was almost tangible. He walked stiffly, dragging his wounded leg, as he scanned the ridges for the dappling of tracks left by his own camel. “An assassin wears the dark like a cloak,” he quoted from the Book of the Knife. Darkness had ever been his friend.
No night terrors for Eyul.
And yet his breath came unevenly and his heart’s rhythm guided his steps. For a moment he saw Pelar’s ball, bouncing with every beat. Behind him Amalya’s camel passed wind with unusual vigour,