The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.) (47 page)

She awoke the next morning to a sun already burning hot. As she emerged from her dark niche in the rocks, a salamander skittered past her hand. After a night spent with bugs, the lizard barely startled her. Driven by thirst, Salina went at once to the spring, kneeling down in the warm mud surrounding it. She saw her reflection in the cool water bubbling up from some miraculous source, and realizing how horrible she looked, gasped at the sight of herself. The storm had teased her hair in every direction and lines of dirt smudged her face. To Salina, she looked old, as if she’d been wandering the desert for decades. She spread her hands through the water to clear it of debris, then cupped a drink for herself, dribbling the water into her mouth. This she did again and again until the burning left her throat. Then, satisfied, she leaned back on her haunches and looked around. There was fruit to eat and the things she had managed to salvage from her packs, but fear had mostly banished her hunger, and all she really wanted was a drowa to take her home.

‘Home.’

Could she go home any more? Or would her father hang her the way he had Kamag? It was her father’s sternness that had driven her away, his absolute unwillingness to see the goodness in what she’d done. He had imprisoned her, but that wound had already healed. Rather, it was the deep cut of his willingness to side against her that hurt the most. And though Salina longed for the safety of the palace, she knew she could never return there. She had cast her lot with the desert, knowing all its many risks.

‘I have to go on,’ she told herself. ‘Somehow.’

She looked south, the way the storm had come. There were no roads in the desert, but there were established passes that the kreel riders of Jador used in the days when they frequented Ganjor. The passes were mostly abandoned now, because the Jadori no longer came to Ganjor and because Aztar’s war on the northerners had frightened others off. But to Salina, the southern routes seemed her only hope. If she could come across a caravan . . .

Her odds were nearly hopeless, but Princess Salina of Ganjor refused to cower. She could die in the oasis, long and slow, or take her chances in the Desert of Tears, where the condors might feast on her by nightfall. With only a sliver of hope to bolster her, Salina made her decision. She rose from the spring and made her preparations, first using the blanket as a sling to gather all the fruits she could. The fruits were full of water, she knew, enough to keep her alive. When she had filled the blanket full, she tied it like a sack. She then took the bags she had salvaged from her drowa, wondering if either of them could hold water. Emptying them
both of their food, she dipped the first into the spring, filling it with water before lifting it up. The test failed at once as the leather bag quickly leaked its contents. The second bag, more sturdy then the first, fared better. The water held – mostly. Salina watched as it soaked the dark leather, saturating it then starting to drip slowly from the bottom.

‘Good enough,’ she determined, and cinched the bag closed. Finally, she gathered her things, tying them around the belt of her robes and closing the gaka around her face. Because it was still morning the sand remained cool. Salina knew she could travel three or four hours before the heat turned unbearable. How far could she get in that time? She grimaced at the question, for she knew that on foot she would not get far before the sun slowly roasted her.

‘No fear,’ she told herself. ‘No fear . . .’

She took one last look at the oasis, then proceeded southwest across the sand, confidently walking away from the only refuge she would see for miles. She walked south because that’s where the passes lay, and west because Aztar’s camp was west, somewhere in the Skein. According to Dahj, the Skein was a full day’s ride from the oasis, and there was no way of knowing where in that scrubby patch of tangled trees and rocky earth Aztar’s camp was hidden. With her packs and blanket full of fruit wearing her down, Salina conserved her energy as she walked, avoiding soft spots in the sand as best she could to keep from getting bogged down. Luckily, she found the sand beneath her feet firm in places, enough to keep her going. And as she walked she scanned the horizon for witch winds, knowing that if another came she would not survive it.

After nearly an hour of walking, though, Salina was already exhausted. Her back ached from carrying her supplies. Her feet burned with blisters. The oasis had long ago disappeared amidst the dunes, and the mountains on the western horizon – the ones that never seemed to get closer – remained hopelessly out of reach. Salina paused to catch her breath, taking a fruit from her pack and biting into the sour citrus. The juice made her mouth pucker but quenched her thirst, and she quickly devoured the fruit before again setting off, tossing the rind over her shoulder. Up in the sky, the condors that had accompanied her the day before returned, eyeing her hungrily. Salina raised her hand in an obscene gesture.

‘You won’t eat me today,’ she spat. ‘Maybe tomorrow.’

She went on for an hour more, not stopping again, blindly ignoring the pain growing in her body. Beneath her gaka her face began to sweat, soaking the fabric of her wraps while the sunlight grew intensely on her back. The sand shimmered with the mirage-making light, dazzling her eyes. Salina kept her head down as she slogged through the sand. The minutes passed with tortuous silence, slowly slipping from one to
another. Her unchanging surroundings began to madden her. Fear kept constantly at her heels, nipping at her, driving her on, and though she did her best to banish it she could not help but feel its grip tightening around her throat. When an hour more had passed and the sunshine became unbearable, she wished she had never left the oasis.

Exhausted, she dropped to her knees for a rest. From her knees she fell onto her back. The relentless light stuck her covered face, steaming through her closed eyelids and making her see spots. She licked her lips and felt how dry they were, already cracked, and with effort took the pack from her belt that had all along been dripping water. She had drunk from it slowly but continuously, and now she opened it fully, letting the water flood her mouth.

Don’t
, she told herself.
Not too much
. . .

But she could not stop herself. The delicious water felt so good, and she was so thirsty. Convincing herself it would leak out anyway, she finished the water in a glorious lapse of judgement. When it was empty, she left the leather bag at the side of her head, using it to cool her cheek.

‘I won’t make it,’ she whispered.

She opened her eyes and saw the condors circling, spiraling closer. The horrible sight snapped her dread.

‘No!’

With all her strength she rose from the sand and stood, steadied herself, and proceeded on again with renewed vigour. Her skin burned but it did not matter. Her feet screamed but she ignored them. Only the horizon kept her focus, and she nailed her eyes to it firmly, refusing to look away.

And then, amazingly, she saw something.

Salina kept walking, but slowly now. What looked like drowas moved across the vista. When she was sure there were people atop them, she stopped.

‘Here!’ she cried, her voice painful and hoarse. ‘Look here!’

If they heard her, the distant riders paid no heed. Forgetting her exhaustion, Salina dropped her blanket full of fruit and ran toward them.

Their names were Fahlan and Rakaar, and in their dark gakas Salina had quickly realized what they were. She had seen Aztar’s Voruni men come to the palace many times, and because they dressed so unmistakably Salina had not been surprised by their accents. When she had run to them, they took care of her. But when she questioned them, Fahlan and Rakaar were silent.

The two Voruni men – who the folks of Jador called Raiders – rode silently back toward Aztar’s camp. They had given Salina food and water, invited her to rest before going on, then hoisted Salina onto the back of Fahlan’s drowa for the long ride to the Skein. Still reeling from her good luck, Salina leaned against Fahlan’s chest as they rode, her head wrapped carefully in her own white gaka. The two riders had somehow happened upon her, seemingly unsurprised when they found the princess, and when she told them her name and identity they had simply nodded, doing their best to avoid her queries. In their thick Voruni tongue – a language similar to Salina’s own – they told her that they were indeed men of Aztar, loyalists to the wounded Tiger of the Desert, and that they would take her to see him.

Now, her body rested and a full waterskin at her side, Salina whiled away the hours as the bouncing motion of the drowa lulled her to sleep. After her agonizing ordeal in the desert she could hardly keep her eyes open, and was glad when she noticed the sun going down. Not much earlier, Rakaar, the more quiet of the silent duo, had commented that they would have to bed down in the desert for the night, but would arrive at the camp sometime the next morning. Perhaps it was her glee over being rescued, but Salina trusted the two riders implicitly, and the thought of sleeping near them barely made her anxious. She was safe now, on her way to Aztar by some unexplained miracle, and that was all that mattered.

As promised, the riders found a suitable place for them to spend the night, near one of the desert’s occasional hillsides of rock. Scraggly brush
and cacti sprouted from the sun-baked earth, the kind of hiding places adored by rass. As they dismounted, Salina looked around suspiciously, voicing her fears to the men. Both Fahlan and Rakaar laughed and patted their scimitars. Fahlan smiled at Salina as he stroked his oiled beard, bragging about how easy it would be for him to protect her.

‘You are Salina of Ganjor,’ said the desert man. ‘If harm comes to you, what do you think Aztar would do to us?’

Salina saw her opening. So far, she had avoided discussing Aztar with her rescuers. ‘It’s been months since I have seen Aztar. How is he?’

Fahlan shrugged and began unpacking his things from the drowa’s back. ‘Well enough,’ he said.

Salina looked to Rakaar, who had his back to her. He too seemed eager to avoid the subject.

‘He was burned in the battle with Jador,’ said Salina. ‘I know. I heard of this in Ganjor. Please, I only want to know what’s been happening with him.’

‘You will see him soon, Princess,’ said Rakaar without turning around. ‘We should rest now.’

Frustrated, Salina asked no more questions, and her tight-lipped companions continued their silence as they made camp for the night. Rakaar made a fire to stave off the coming chill while Fahlan rolled out their bed blankets beneath a sky already popping with stars. Her body aching for sleep, Salina declined the food the men offered and went straight for her blanket, closing her eyes as dusk disappeared and the moon came out to light the sand. She awoke periodically, worried about rass or some other desert calamity, but mostly she slept, replenishing the strength she had lost through the day. By the time the first slivers of morning light crept over the dunes, Salina felt as through she had been gone for days. Groggy, she sat up and saw Fahlan already breaking camp.

‘Good, you’re awake,’ he said with a smile that creased his bearded face. ‘We should go.’

Leaving their comfortable camp behind, the trio once again mounted their drowas for the trip to the Skein. According to Fahlan, they were only hours away now, and Salina could see the landscape changing, becoming more like the Skein she had always imagined. Dried bushes curled up from the earth, spreading their dead tendrils toward the sun, and now there were creatures skittering across the rocks, mostly rodents chasing bugs and scorpions. Towering rocks studded the dunes, shaped by the wind into fearsome reliefs. Salina settled back against Fahlan to study them. While he drove the drowa, she relaxed and watched the world go from an endless sea of sand to a brooding hulk of stones and scrub.

They did not break at all that morning, instead eating and drinking from the backs of their mounts. Fahlan and Rakaar exchanged occasional
conversations, mostly commenting how close they were coming to home. Salina began running her fingers through her hair to untangle it, wishing she could bathe or at least see a mirror. They were very near Aztar’s camp now. The drowa picked up their pace, almost imperceptibly. The ground flattened and the dunes disappeared, and suddenly on the horizon Salina saw pavilions twinkling in the light, their red and white canopies like brightly coloured flags against the dreary backdrop.

‘That is it, Princess,’ declared Fahlan. ‘That is home.’

Home for Fahlan was a collection of tents and wells dug into the ground. A handful of fires blazed in the camp, spiraling smoke into the air, and stunted olive trees poked up between the pavilions. Livestock roamed the areas surrounded the camp, and Salina could see women working at long tables and children playing around them. It was larger than she had thought, stretching a good distance between the rocks and groves of twisted flora. As they neared it, the drowas sensed the end of their long journey and guided them into camp. At once the women and children gathered to see them, calling to their men, and soon Salina was surrounded by excited Voruni. Fahlan and Rakaar spoke quickly to them, telling them that they had found the Princess walking in the desert. The speech between them rifled so quickly that Salina could barely understand, but it seemed to her that somehow they were expecting her. Before she could ask, a woman came out of the crowd and took hold of their drowa.

‘Princess, welcome,’ she said, smiling up at Salina. Her voice had a Ganjeese quality to it, like one who had spent a good deal of time the city. ‘Come down, please.’

‘I will help,’ said Fahlan, who dismounted and then offered Salina a hand. Salina slid carefully off the drowa’s back, standing in the centre of the growing throng. Rakaar dismounted as well, telling the people to give the princess some space. The woman with the Ganjeese tone took hold of Salina’s hand.

‘Look at you,’ she said with a grin. ‘You have been through so much!’

‘Yes,’ Salina agreed. She looked around for Aztar. Confused, she frowned. ‘Why so many people?’

The woman smiled. ‘My name is Harani. I will take care of you. Come, please . . .’

She tugged at Salina’s hand, urging her to follow. Salina glanced at Fahlan.

‘Go with her,’ said Fahlan. ‘She will look after you.’

‘But Aztar . . .’

‘The Master will see you, Princess. But you must rest first. Go with Harani. I promise, you will be safe.’

Before Salina could protest Fahlan and Rakaar both turned away from
her, speaking quickly to the crowd as a group of boys hurriedly took away their tired drowas. Some of the group tried to follow Salina as Harani guided her away, but Harani hissed at them to keep back. A pretty child with dark hair began to cry. The girl’s mother knelt to comfort her. Eager to be away from the crowd, Salina let Harani take her through the rows of pavilions, past the cooking fires and the livestock grazing on the scrub. Her mind reeled with questions, but the suddenness of everything had muted her.

‘Here,’ said Harani, approaching a small but pleasant looking pavilion near the edge of the camp. ‘This is a quiet place for you.’

A flap of greyish fabric covered the entrance to the tent. Harani, who Salina guessed to be only slightly older than herself, pulled aside the flap and bid the princess to enter. Crossing the threshold, Salina noted the comfortable interior, which looked a good deal larger than the deceptive outline of the pavilion. A low bed with coloured pillows lay in one corner. Beside it sat a basin and golden pitcher. Incense burned in a tiny urn, and a low table rested in the centre of the tent, the kind desert people used for meals. The table reminded Salina how hungry she was. She drifted into the chamber, loving the cool darkness.

‘Harani?’

The woman was quickly at her side. ‘Yes, Princess?’

‘I’m confused.’

Harani nodded. ‘You are tired. And you must be hungry.’ She gestured toward the bed. ‘Rest. I will bring you food and clean clothes.’

‘And a brush for my hair?’

‘Yes,’ laughed Harani. ‘And a brush for your beautiful hair.’

Too tired to pursue the woman, Salina simply let her leave, then collapsed into the bed of silk pillows.

By the time Salina awoke, the sun had already gone down. Throughout her sleep she heard Harani enter the pavilion, speaking to her softly as she laid food on the table and fresh, clean clothing near her bedside. Salina vaguely remembered thanking the woman before falling back asleep, and Harani did not come again to disturb her. The bed and pillows cradled Salina as though she were an infant, and her battered body surrendered to its plush caress, drifting easily into unconsciousness. When at last her eyes fluttered open, Salina could see that the sunlight had gone. Outside the flap of the pavilion, there was only darkness. Unafraid, Salina walked slowly to the table and sat herself down. By this time she was ravenous, and did not wait for anyone to join her. She tore into the meat and bread and dates Harani had provided, washing it down with liberal cups of sweet-tasting wine and the best tasting water she’d ever had.

When she had finished her meal, Salina turned to the clothes Harani had provided. They were simple desert woman clothes, a white shirt with
a vest and a long pleated skirt of wool to keep off the sand. Plain and unadorned, they were nevertheless clean and Salina was grateful to have them. Confident she would not be interrupted, Salina stripped off her own filthy garments, discarding them in a heap, and washed herself in the water from the pitcher, watching the filth of the road collect in the basin. After that she slipped on the fresh clothes. The transformation was immediate; she felt like a woman again. Just as Harani had promised, she had also left a brush for Salina, and a silver, hand-held mirror. Salina picked up the mirror, grimacing when she saw her reflection. The ordeal in the desert had sapped her face of moisture. Desperate to regain her looks, she started brushing her long black hair, pulling roughly through its tangles. Gradually, her unruly hair yielded to the brush, at last bringing a smile back to Salina’s face. Relaxing, she sat back on her feet as she worked the brush, luxuriating in the simple pleasure. She barely noticed the sound of the tent flap opening.

‘Harani, thank you,’ she sighed, not turning around. ‘I feel much better now.’

When the woman did not reply, Salina turned around to greet her. But what she saw in the threshold made the smile fall from her face. She knew who he was, though he said not a word. Though his face was scarred, she saw the familiar glint in his eyes. Prince Aztar had come a single pace inside and moved no further. His body had lost its lean, powerful look, ravaged by the fire that had seared his face and hands. His drab brown cloak hung down to his saddled feet, hiding the worst of his scars, and his dark hair curtained his face, falling into his penetrating eyes. His lips curled back unnaturally, his maimed skin tugging them backward. One missing eyebrow had been replaced by a knotted wound. He watched her, trying to smile, his gaze brightening as their eyes met. Salina let the brush and mirror drop from her hands. Slowly, she got to her feet.

‘I can hardly believe it is you,’ he said. ‘That you would come here.’

His voice remained unmistakable. Untouched by the fire, it reminded Salina of music.

‘I had to come,’ she offered. She studied his face. ‘Are you displeased?’

‘No.’

They had never known each other well, yet every time they were together the same connection quickly ensued. Salina felt drawn to him, and the love she had always seen in his eyes was still there, fighting to come out. Aztar resisted it, however, and did not move.

‘I wondered when you would come,’ said Salina. ‘I thought maybe in the morning.’ She shrugged, not sure what to say. ‘Your woman Harani, she looked after me. I’ve slept most of the day.’

Aztar looked at her as if in disbelief. ‘What you did was beyond stupid, Salina. If my men had not found you—’