Chapter Thirty-Three
Dietan
At sundown, I find Aren outside the stables, petting a majestic white mare with unusual flat hooves wider than dinner plates.
The horses here have adapted to enable them to trek across the soft sand without sinking.
The horse beside it, also white, is already loaded with our packs and eagerly stamps its hooves.
Aren is dressed as I am, in long, draping white linen. While mine is a loose tunic and trousers, hers has clasps that secure it close to her body, cinching her waist and complimenting her figure. I’ve never seen her wear such a fitted outfit, defining her every curve.
I’m staring so intently that when she turns around, I almost drop the goggles I’m holding. I hand them to her, attempting to be smooth. This isn’t the time or the place, I remind myself, trying to assume a nonchalant air, even though every nerve in my body comes alive in her presence.
“Thanks,” she says, looking at me curiously as she takes the goggles and rests them on the crown of her head.
“You look ready for the desert,” I say, trying to regain my cool. Stop wanting what you can’t have, I tell myself. She likes kissing you, but that’s all she’ll ever want from you. She thinks you’re spoiled and stupid.
“Pretty great, right?” she says with a smile, as if the earlier awkwardness of our interrupted kiss never happened. “This side protects me from the heat, while the other side”—she shows me the black lining of her coat—“protects from the cold.”
I nod, trying to focus on her words instead of how good she looks. I’ve been given a coat like it, too. The fabric is handwoven, the hood large and sturdy, sheltering me no matter the temperature outside.
“I meant what I said back there,” I tell her. “About you being the most loyal person I know.”
We can be friends. I can do that—be the bigger man. Try not to murder anyone who looks at her the way I look at her. I can let her go…after a few more of those kisses.
Aren looks at me from beneath her lashes before tearing her gaze away and smiling. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get all sappy on me.”
Definitely friends. Or? This woman confounds me.
Before we leave, Katharine, Jingu, and their daughter come to wish us goodbye. The girl, who can’t be more than eight, stares at Aren and me, her awed expression making me smile.
“Engel lies west of here,” Katharine says. “Follow the brightest star, the Lady of the Lost, and she will guide you through the night. In three nights’ time, you’ll see the city.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Truly. I vow, as prince of Loegria, you have an ally in me.”
I hold out my hand, and Katharine takes it, her grip strong. We shake firmly.
“Go, cousin,” she says. “Since I cannot dissuade you, I hope you find what you seek.”
Without further delay, Aren and I leave the village, riding west, taking a barely visible path toward the fading red-orange sunset. Already, I’m feeling more confident than ever.
Now that I’m not freezing during the night, I’m better able to appreciate the stars that glimmer overhead.
The heat of the desert warps their light, making them undulate in blue and orange hues.
It’s as if some godly hand spilled diamonds across the sky, so vast and so deep.
When I tear my gaze away and look at Aren, I find that she, too, is enraptured by the light above.
“There she is,” she says, pointing at one that shines more than the others. “Right on time. The Lady of the Lost, the brightest star in the sky, to guide us on.”
But I find it hard to look away from Aren. I allow my smile to answer her own.
…
When we stop just before daybreak after our third night of travel, we make camp on top of a sand dune so high, I might have believed it was a mountain.
In the distance, I can just make out a flicker of light on the horizon.
The sun is rising behind us, so we’re facing directly west. That light ahead can only mean one thing.
“Engel,” Aren says. “We’re almost there.”
I look at her, a spark of hope blooming in my chest. Her bright eyes fill me with a lightness I haven’t felt in so long.
Maybe I’m not the greatest fool in Albion for embarking on this quest. After all, if I had done things differently, I would never have met Aren, and that thought is too much to bear.
Maybe all will be well in the end. The Rings of Fate removed from my body, returned to my father, and the Usurper defeated. Aren makes me feel like I can conquer the world.
“Let’s make a break for it,” she says, with a naughty smile unfurling across her face.
“Now? It’s almost dawn.”
“All the more reason to make haste,” she says. She smiles at me, mounts her horse, and adds, “The sooner you remove the Rings, the sooner your real life can begin. We are so close.”
It’s hard to argue with her, especially when she has that gleam in her eye like she’s challenging me. I mount my horse, and together, we make for the shining city rising from the desert waste.
Several hours later, we pause at the top of a dune. The horses huff and paw at the sand restlessly. “What is that?” Aren asks. “It doesn’t look like a cloud.”
I squint into the bright daylight through my goggles, which Katharine said would lay bare any illusions. But the midday sun is high in the sky, and we still haven’t reached the city. If it’s not another mirage, Engel is farther than I anticipated.
Is the Great Waste nothing but mirages and magic?
Because now, a great cloud suddenly blocks our path. It looms like a monumental wall, so thick even the ferocious desert sun can’t pierce it. Sand churns within it. Where we stand, everything has gone unnaturally still, as if the land itself is holding its breath, waiting for impact.
The ground trembles, and there’s a rumble that grows louder and more menacing with every pounding heartbeat.
“It’s not a cloud,” I say, dread filling my veins as the wall plummets toward us. “It’s a sandstorm.”
My horse rears up, almost bucking me off. I grip the reins, trying my best not to panic, because if the horse is worried, then I should be, too. “Get to cover!” I shout.
Aren doesn’t need to be told twice. She kicks her horse into a gallop toward the wall of sand. I almost cry out for her to stop, to turn around, but then I see where she’s headed. There are ruins half buried in the dune just ahead of us. Shelter.
I give chase, kicking my heels into my horse’s sides as hard as I can, desperate to catch up to her. My breath comes in sharp, shallow bursts, and my chest tightens as the storm looms high ahead, swallowing half the sky in darkness.
The ground trembles beneath us, a deep rumble vibrating through my bones. The storm is alive, a monstrous, growling beast bearing down on us.
It swallows us whole in an instant.
It’s as if we’ve crossed into another world.
Grains of sand slice into my skin like a thousand tiny daggers, stinging every exposed inch.
My goggles fog up and scratch against my face.
I have to close my eyes, trusting my horse to follow Aren’s.
My heart pounds so violently in my chest it feels like it might burst. I grit my teeth and forge on.
The sand deepens.
My horse slows, snorting and stamping as massive drifts block our path. The wind howls, drowning out my own panicked thoughts. As the sand shifts beneath us, the horse rears with a desperate scream, and I’m thrown violently from the saddle.
I hit the ground hard, the impact rattling my teeth and sending a sharp pain through my shoulder. Sand engulfs me, dragging me into the suffocating darkness as I claw and kick to keep my head above the rising tide.
“Aren!” I scream, but the wind rips her name from my throat and scatters it into the void.
I kick my legs, forcing my body to move through the heavy sand.
My limbs feel like lead, my muscles scream in protest, and my lungs burn with every breath.
The horses’ cries pierce the storm. They’re sinking fast. The sand has buried their legs up to their bellies.
They thrash and kick, but it only pulls them deeper.
The sand is relentless, swallowing everything.
I can’t find her.
She’s gone.
The realization slams into me like a fist to the gut. A cold, sickening dread grips me, hollowing out my chest. My breath hitches as images of Aren buried alive, suffocating under the sand, flash behind my eyes.
No. No, no. I can’t lose her. I can’t.
The Rings in my back stir. They feed on my fear like a parasite. Their hum grows louder, vibrating through my spine, taunting me. They want to help.
Use us, they whisper.
The temptation claws at the edges of my mind. I could stop the storm—I should stop it. But I don’t trust them. I don’t trust myself.
What if I make it worse? She’s out there, somewhere.
What if I kill her?
I clench my fists so hard my nails dig into my palms, the sting grounding me.
The Whisting’s wild power churns inside me, feeding on my desperation, begging to be unleashed.
My entire body shakes. My head pounds with the effort of holding it back.
I feel tears streaking down my face, mixing with the grit of sand.
I have to find her.
“Aren!” I scream again, my voice cracking with anguish, but the storm consumes her name like it consumes everything else. My throat is raw, my voice lost. I stagger forward, nearly blinded by the sand that slips beneath my goggles and stings my eyes.
Then I see it. A shadow, crawling beneath a collapsed wall.
Aren.
I drag my body through the unrelenting storm. The sand presses against me, pushing me backward, but I don’t stop. My knees buckle, and I slam into the ground. I claw my way forward, ignoring the searing pain in my hands and the sharp sting of tears streaming down my scratched cheeks.
When I reach her, she’s pressed against the wall, her arms covering her head, trembling as the storm rages around her.
Relief washes over me so fiercely it nearly steals the breath from my lungs.
I throw myself on top of her, wrapping my arms around her as tightly as I can, shielding her with my body.
“You’re okay!” I yell, though I don’t know if she can hear me over the roaring storm.
She clutches at me, her fingers digging into my back as she hides her face in my chest. Sand pours over the wall, piling around us, burying us inch by inch.
I kick at it, trying to keep it at bay, but it’s too fast. Too much. It’s going to bury us alive.
The Rings grow louder now, a steady, insistent thrum that radiates through every nerve in my body. They mock my fear, my weakness.
Use us. Stop this. Save her. Save yourself.
“No!” I scream, my voice raw, throat burning. “No, I won’t! I can’t!” What if I make it worse? What if instead of saving us, I doom us? I can’t give in.
My chest tightens, the anguish suffocating me as much as the sand and the wind. I futilely try to push us both above the rising tide. Pain rips through my shoulder like fire, but it’s nothing compared to the fear. The fear of losing her.
I close my eyes, my forehead pressing against hers. “Please,” I whisper, not even sure who I’m begging—her, myself, the gods. “Please don’t let me lose her.”
The sand is at our chests now. My magic rears up inside me as it senses the deadly weight crushing in on all sides. My fingers twitch of their own accord, and I clench my fists tight, fighting it.
I can’t—not when Aren is right here. Not if I might hurt her instead of helping her. Each breath I take is shallower, sharper, the weight of the sand squeezing the air out of my lungs.
The Whisting screams to be used.
I don’t think I can hold it back anymore.
A furious scream tears from my throat, a sound born of desperation and fury. The sand starts to overwhelm us, rising over our heads.
The storm rages above us, violent and all-encompassing, and then—suddenly—there’s only silence.
The world is still.
I kick furiously, pulling Aren with me by the arm.
My head breaks the surface of the sand, and I gasp for air.
Sand covers every inch of me—my ears, my nose, my mouth.
I cough and spit, shaking out my hair, clawing at my face to free myself from its suffocating grip.
Beside me, Aren takes a ragged breath, choking on sand as we swim up through the loose grains, freeing ourselves inch by inch.
The storm hasn’t vanished. It’s all around us, but it’s…frozen. Suspended in time. Sand particles hang in midair, shimmering and still, as if caught in some unseen web. Everything is silent, the unnatural stillness broken only by our retching and coughing.
“You did it,” Aren says, her voice hoarse as she stares wide-eyed at the frozen storm.
“It’s not me,” I say, barely above a whisper.
“What?” She looks at me in confusion.
“I didn’t do this.” I look around, awe and dread twisting in my chest as I take in the surreal scene.
Through the suspended storm, a figure emerges, walking toward us with deliberate, measured steps.
The sand shifts away from him. The Whisting clears a path, blowing the grains aside like a gentle breeze.
It’s a young man, probably a few years younger than me.
His skin is pale, his tall nose sharp and angular.
His dark hair is smooth and brushed back from his face, not a single strand out of place.
He walks with his hands clasped behind his back, as if he’s taking a casual stroll in a pleasant garden.
His expression is flat, bored, utterly indifferent to the storm around us.
He could be handsome, I think distantly, if he didn’t look so unimpressed by everything.
I struggle to get to my feet, sand pouring off me.
My body is heavy and sluggish with exhaustion as I offer Aren a hand.
She takes it, and manages to rise as well, though the sand clings to her.
She is still buried up to her knees. She braces herself, her breathing shallow, her gaze fixed on the stranger.
The man stops several paces away. He’s cool and calculating as he peers down his nose at us. We’re insects he’s discovered crawling in the dirt.
His posture has gone from casual to rigid, his presence unnervingly commanding.
For a long, agonizing moment, he says nothing, letting the silence stretch.
Then he snaps his fingers, and the frozen particles are released from their paralysis, but instead of resuming the storm, the sand falls gently back to earth.
Finally, in a voice as smooth and cold as the edge of a blade, the stranger says, “Prince Dietan, I presume?”