in grass and the river running high, filling its banks. “Fields?”
Tomas nodded.
“What happened, sire?”
Tomas shrugged. “The grass died, the trees died, the river dried up.”
“When?”
“More than a thousand years ago.”
“Magic?” Prince Harkeld asked. “A curse?”
“What else could it be?”
Innis chewed on a piece of sausage. She studied the cliffs, the sand dunes. She couldn’t see any signs of an ancient curse.
“It was natural,” Dareus said. He sat across from them. “A drought.”
“But the tales say—”
“Do you believe every story you hear?”
Tomas closed his mouth. His expression was mulish. Innis read his thoughts clearly on his face: You think I’d trust the word of a witch?
AS THE AFTERNOON progressed, wind began to gust off the desert. With it, came swirling clouds of red sand. When they finally halted for the night, Harkeld slid wearily from his horse. Sand grains were gritty in his eyes, in his mouth. He unslung his waterskin and drained it, gulping the lukewarm water greedily.
They sat around two small campfires and ate a stringy stew made from dried fish. Sand crunched between Harkeld’s teeth as he chewed. “How far ahead is Ditmer now?” Tomas asked the shapeshifters. He put his bowl to one side and unrolled the map.
“He was setting up camp...there.” Ebril pointed with his spoon. “Where the river enters the canyon again.”
“We’ve gained on him, then.”
Harkeld leaned forward to look at the map. The distance they’d covered seemed tiny. “How many days to Ner?”
“A week or so. We’ll catch up with Ditmer before then.” Tomas traced the river’s course on the map with one finger. “Somewhere here. In the canyon.” He grimaced. “Horrible place.”
“Horrible? Why?”
“You’ll understand once we get there.”
One of the soldiers around the second campfire shouted.
Tomas surged to his feet, half-drawing his sword.
Harkeld stopped chewing. The soldiers were stamping at an object in the sand.
“Scorpions.” Tomas sheathed his sword and sat again. “They like fires. The heat, the light. It draws them.” But his manner wasn’t as nonchalant as his words; he glanced uneasily at the ground before picking up his bowl.
“Are they poisonous?” Harkeld asked.
“They won’t kill you,” Tomas said. “But for a day or so you’ll wish they had.”
“Painful?”
“Very.”
Harkeld half-choked on a mouthful of stew as shouts rose from the soldiers again. There was a note of pain inone of the voices.
“Someone’s been stung.” The girl, Innis, put down her bowl and hurried across to the other fire. Dareus and Tomas followed her.
After a moment, Harkeld rose and followed them.
Innis crouched beside the stricken man. The sting was on the soldier’s calf; his face was twisted into a grimace of pain.
The girl laid her hand over the puncture wound. She closed her eyes for a long moment, an expression of concentration on her face.
“Well?” Dareus asked, crouching alongside her.
Innis opened her eyes. “It’s a strong poison, but not deadly.”
“Can you heal him?” Tomas asked.
She glanced up. “I can’t draw out the poison, if that’s what you’re asking. But I can alleviate some of the symptoms.”
“Poison’s difficult for us,” Dareus told Tomas. “It’s much easier to fix a broken bone or repair torn tissue.” He reached for one of the soldier’s hands, turned it palm up, and laid his own hand on it. “To remove poison from the bloodstream requires us to clean each drop of blood—a task that would take many mages many days.”
The soldier was shivering. Sweat stood out on his face.
“Will he be well enough to travel tomorrow?” Tomas asked.
“We’ll do our best.”
At Tomas’s order, they extinguished the campfires, smothering them with sand, then retrieving the precious, half-charred wood.
Without the firelight to coax them in, no more scorpions came scuttling over the sand dunes. Even so, Harkeld slept fitfully, jerking awake several times to the sound of the witches working on the soldier—the low murmur of their voices, the man groaning.
By morning, the soldier was well enough to travel—after a fashion. He lurched and stumbled towards his horse, blinking as if his vision were blurred. Despite the chilly dawn, a sheen of sweat covered his face.
Dareus rode beside the soldier, easing the cramps that periodically racked him. “How long does it take a man to recover?” Harkeld asked Tomas.
“Three or four days before they can even stand upright.”
Harkeld glanced at the soldier riding hunched over on his horse, at Dareus alongside, his hand resting on the man’s arm.
“We’re lucky we’ve got the witches with us,” Tomas said. He pulled a face and laughed. “Never thought I’d hear myself say that!”