altogether.” “I’m sorry, my friend; I will try to wake.”
It took days. When at last he opened his eyes, Eyul could make out the
blurry faces and hands of those who tended him. As day passed dry thirsty day, he dreamed less and moved about more. Soon he was able to see to his own needs in the morning, so that by the time the female nomad arrived with his tea he had shaved and bathed in the sand. A man could not remain an invalid too long in this harsh land. He wondered if they’d have killed one of their own as helpless as he had been.
Eyul decided he was ready, though he was not sure of the days; at least six had passed since the woman first brought him tea. He dressed in a fresh linen tunic and waited for her, sitting cross-legged on the ground. After a time she pushed aside the tent flap and entered, tray in hand. The light of the desert shot through his eyes, leaving a spiderweb after-image. He covered his face, but the sun had already driven its nails deep. Through the pounding in his head he could hear the woman pouring tea, respectfully ignoring his weaknesses. From prior experience Eyul knew she didn’t speak Cerantic, but she understood one word, and he gritted it out through his teeth: “Hermit.”
“Arapikah.” Coming. He uncovered his eyes and tried to meet her gaze, but her face remained blurred.
He tried a second word—“Amalya?”—but the woman shook her head and moved towards the flap.
This time Eyul turned his face away.
He took a swig of the strong, dark tea and let the dimness of the tent soothe his pain. He would have to depend on his tongue today. His words would come out blunt and transparent, but there was nothing to be done about that. Tuvaini was the master of words, knowing when to thrust, when to parry, and when to leave himself open, while Eyul was the Knife, always pointing.
He protected his eyes and looked away as the flap shifted once more.
“Eyul,” the hermit said, as if praising a dog. He was not what Eyul had been expecting. Ten years ago, the hermit had been thin and wasted, with a beard grown past his knees. Then, as now, he’d worn nothing but a loincloth. But this man was more muscular and cast a heavier shadow. He was older than Eyul by at least a quarter of a century, but the way he sank into a squat, with no stiffness or hesitation, spoke of a man far younger. Eyul squinted past the hermit to where shadows played against the fabric of the tent. Two nomads, standing guard.
The hermit smiled. “I suppose you are anxious to get back to your master. Time is running out. Will you make that deal?”
Time is running out for you, perhaps. “Amalya carries a Star of Cerana. She’s not mine to barter.”
“I see.” The hermit ran a finger across his mouth. “Is she Beyon’s, then, or the vizier’s, or do you mean she is her own person?”
“I mean she is not mine.”
“And that’s the essence of it.” The hermit’s eyes were all that Eyul could make out of his face, and they were so coppery bright that it hurt to look at them.
Eyul thrust his fist into the sand. “I want to see her. If she’s agreeable, then I’ll make the deal.”
“I have anticipated you.” The hermit’s eyes turned to the flap. “Arapiki!”
Eyul turned his head to the side again as the desert sun filled the opening, making a show of reaching for his empty knife belt. Island-pepper tickled his nose, and beneath that, blood. Amalya. She settled on her knees between them. Again he wondered how long he’d lain drugged and blind in the tent. Amalya’s generous curves had gone to angles. One arm lay inside a sling. He searched, but her eyes remained in shadow.
He would not leave her here.
The hermit watched both of them. “It doesn’t matter who asked the question you carry. I have the answer, and I need this wizard. Will you trade, Eyul of Nooria, son of Klemet, Fifty-third Knife-Sworn?”
Eyul turned to Amalya. He couldn’t make out her expression. “What say you, Amalya of the Tower, of the Islands?”
Movement, as if she wet her tongue in preparation to speak, but in the end Amalya only nodded. Eyul watched her for a long moment, but heard nothing beyond the wind against the sides of the tent.
“I have to hear