Chapter Seventeen
By the fourth day, Eden was certain that she was never going to make it out of the desert alive.
Even with the protection of a linen scarf and the most practical of wide-brimmed hats, the sunlight was brutal, a grinding weight that pressed at her crown, worked its way through her skull, and parched her tongue.
Sunburn made her face and the back of her neck tight and itchy.
Her back ached, her thighs stung, and her knees resented every rise and fall of the camel’s awkward gait.
If the rest of her group felt like she did, they gave no sign.
She found herself watching Max, looking for the tiniest crack in his stoic demeanor, something to convince her that she wasn’t alone in her misery, but she didn’t find any.
And of course, the Bedouin crew was used to this.
So, she kept her expression neutral, only the most decorous squint betraying any hint of discomfort.
The sound of the wind was also driving her to distraction.
Dune crests rippled from horizon to horizon, some new and some ancient, all in ceaseless migration.
On the first day, Eden had found the bleak grandeur almost sublime.
By the third, she found it repetitive, then punishing, and now she hated it.
Max, on the lead camel, seemed carved from the same unyielding stuff as the desert.
He sat so straight in the saddle it hurt to look at him, eyes hidden behind battered cavalryman’s goggles.
She suspected he was counting the minutes until she faltered.
He’d told her that he would call the whole thing off if she couldn’t handle it.
He’d made her promise that she wouldn’t fight him on it if he made that decision, for he wouldn’t make it lightly.
She would not give him the satisfaction. Not today.
But deep down, she wondered how much longer she could endure this. It wasn’t what she’d imagined it would be. Not at all.
Amir was wrapped from head to toe in indigo robes.
His face was a study in economy: no movement wasted, each blink or sidelong glance measured.
He navigated by the sun, by the whispering winds, and by secrets Eden knew she’d never be privy to.
She’d grown to respect him, which was more than she could say for most of the men back in London who deemed themselves experts on this place.
The camels grumbled and spat, as if mocking their foreign burdens.
Two days into the trek, Eden’s knees had adjusted to the awkward rhythm, but her mind had not.
She caught herself slipping into fugue states, only to be yanked back by the scent of animal sweat and the lash of sand across her cheeks.
Then, early in the afternoon, the wind changed.
What had been a persistent, needling breeze became an upwelling, then a blast, then a drawn-out wail.
Amir called a halt. He slid from his saddle with the boneless grace of a much younger man and unspooled a length of battered canvas, rigging it in the lee of a dune, gesturing for Max and Eden to huddle close beneath it.
The camels dropped obligingly to their knees as a further barrier in front of them, rolling their lips as though amused.
“What’s going on?” Eden asked, her heart racing as they all clustered beneath the canvas, the wind growing stronger. Everyone else seemed more resigned than anything, as though this were simply a normal break in their day.
“Sandstorm,” Max murmured, putting his back against the dune and pulling her against him, wrapping his arm around her shoulders.
She sank against him, pressing her face against his chest, some of the tension leaving her.
This was the first time they’d really touched since they’d left Cairo.
He radiated a sunbaked warmth even through the layers of cloth between them, and she leaned into him even more, taking comfort in his strength and surprised to still catch a hint of sandalwood. “Should I be concerned?”
“It will pass,” Amir said from a few feet in front of them, his voice muffled but calm. “Maybe an hour. We will be safe here until it is over.”
The storm rattled the canvas. Eden could see only the smallest patch of sky over the camels’ humps, but what she could see was terrifying. “Will the pass be buried? Will this make it harder to get where we’re going?”
Amir considered. “Not likely. The sand will move, but the stones remember.” He tapped his temple. “The desert has no time for forgetfulness.” Then he pulled his robes tight and went silent, as if retreating to a private monastery somewhere behind his eyes.
She had absolutely no idea what he’d meant by that.
“Relax,” Max whispered, stretching his legs out in front of her and pulling her even closer if such a thing was possible. “You’ve been doing very well, but I know you’re tired. Sleep for a while. I’ll wake you if there’s a reason to.”
She wanted to protest, to assure him she wasn’t tired at all, but that would be a blatant lie. She didn’t think she’d ever been this exhausted in her life, and there were still weeks left of their journey.
Sighing deeply, she stared up at him through the dim light, brushing her fingertips through the days’ growth of beard on his usually clean-shaven face.
She missed the handsome ruggedness of his features but found herself beguiled by this new version of him as well.
A few strands of silver threaded the gold, but it did not make him look old.
It made him even more rugged and handsome in her eyes.
“Thank you,” she told him softly, brushing her lips lingeringly against his and then pressing her head once more against his chest. “I always feel safe when I’m with you.”
He hugged her tightly in response, and she burrowed against him, thinking how much easier she would have fallen asleep all these nights on the trail if only she’d been able to share her bed with him.
But she had no time to think more about it, because even though the wind sounded like a herd of demons circling their makeshift tent, she almost immediately drifted off.
She wasn’t certain how long she slept, but when she woke, the wind had stopped, and the Bedouins were no longer under the canvas with them. She could hear them moving around outside, probably assessing the damage.
“Did you sleep well?” Max asked, stretching as she moved away from him. She hoped he hadn’t been uncomfortable.
“Yes,” she said, meaning it. She felt wholly rested for the first time since they’d left Cairo.
“Sometimes a little nap makes everything better,” he said with a grin. “I think I may have drifted off for a while myself.”
“Good,” she murmured, running a hand over her face, which was covered with grit. She was surprised she’d managed to sleep at all with so much sand choking the air. “How long was I out?”
“I’d say an hour or so,” he told her, standing as best he could under the canvas and pulling her outside.
The wind had died, but it had left the world changed: the route ahead bore little resemblance to what it had before. “How are our supplies?” she asked Amir.
“Not too much damage,” he assured her. “In ten minutes, we’ll be underway again.”
“Thank you,” she told him, relieved. As much as she’d appreciated the break, she wanted to make it to their predetermined campsite still tonight. She didn’t think she could handle any significant delays that meant more days trekking through the desert.
“Are you all right?” Max asked her, his voice low enough so that no one else could hear. “We can stop here for the night if you want.”
She shook her head stubbornly. “No, I can continue. I need to continue. We have to get to the oasis before the new moon.”
“You amaze me,” he said with a smile. “I’m so proud of you.”
Her heart swelled with something she hesitated to put a name to. His praise meant more to her than any of those stuffy old men back in London she’d wanted so badly to impress ever could. “Thank you,” she said simply, feeling as though she could go hours more on the strength of his words alone.
As promised, they were soon on their way again, and the rest of the afternoon was not nearly as difficult for her, thanks to the rest she’d gotten.
A few hours later, they reached their destination.
They made camp at the base of a limestone outcrop, the only landmark for miles.
Amir prepared a simple meal—dried dates, chickpeas, a handful of black olives—while Max and the rest of the men set about pitching the tents.
Eden excused herself to inspect the rocks.
If she was correct, these rocks were one of the markers she’d been looking for. In fact, if she didn’t find what she was looking for here, she might be forced to admit she’d been wrong about all of it.
Dusk arrived dramatically. The sun dropped, the world turned dark, and the desert floor cooled enough that the camels’ breath showed white in the air. She’d never get used to the temperature swings. At this time of year, the days were hot, but the nights could be quite cold.
Alone on the ridge, she ran her hands over the fossil-studded stone, tracing the memory of an ancient seabed.
She thought of the scroll, hidden safely in her trunk, and the message it contained: a litany of symbols, so much older than Rome or even Memphis.
If the translation was correct, it meant the labyrinth they sought was real—and that it had never been breached.
Not even by the grave-robbers who haunted every worthwhile site from Alexandria to Luxor.
“Careful,” Max called from below, his voice cutting through her reverie. “The rock is brittle. One bad step and you’ll be a fossil yourself.”
She didn’t dignify that with a reply. Instead, she watched the stars emerge—at first just a few, then in wild profusion. She let herself linger, counted the constellations, and recited their old Egyptian names under her breath. It soothed her.