13
Valine’s gift was death, and she was certain that it was coming that day. It wasn’t that she could tell if someone sick was about to die with any more accuracy than the average person, but there was a tenebrous tension in the air. She knew their company had been touched by Mrithun.
Upon waking that morning the guards had everything packed and loaded onto the horses. That morning Valine did not reveal she did not sleep. She had listened to the sounds of Sarim’s breathing, the crackle of the fire, the rustle of the wind on the tents. Sarim had not been any wiser to her careful evening of breaths and so when she arose with a yawn, he smiled and bid her good morning. She returned the smile with mirth she did not feel.
Excusing herself to the Lazuli, she relieved her bladder behind some bushes and gave herself a whore’s bath with the cold river water. Splashing her face was no match for caffeine to energize, but it certainly helped dispel the dredges of sloth that pervaded her.
She was afraid and unwilling to take the next step. No one in their right mind crossed the Twilight Sands, not when the Muravo Mountain Pass existed. Even the kraken-infested seas were a safer bet. It didn’t matter that the mountain pass was home to the arachne, the carriage-sized spiders did not bother travelers. They were fair and just creatures, symbols of justice and vengeance. They only sought to equal the scales of the native law of the land. Highwaymen were hesitant to thieve in the pass, fearful to stoke the arachne’s wrath and be devoured. But the plan. That was the problem.
Sarim found her sitting on the edge of the river, watching the rushing current ripple beneath her feet. He took a seat next to her silently as she plucked reeds and shredded them in her anxious fingertips.
“You really think something is going to go wrong, don’t you?” Sarim asked her quietly.
She tore the papyrus apart. “I know something is going to happen.”
“Are you…are you a divinamancer? Malik figured you were a mage, but we didn’t know what. I suspected aethermancer from the Luneth assignment.”
“No, I’m no clairvoyant nor a wind wielder.”
“So, what are you?”
“What a curt thing to ask a lady,” Valine deflected.
Sarim smiled, exasperated. “I thought we were friends. Shouldn’t friends tell each other these things?”
Valine narrowed her eyes at the echoed sentiment. Tossing her remaining handful of reeds into the river, she got to her feet. “Tell you what; if we survive, I’ll tell you.”
“Oh, come on!” Sarim complained to her retreating back as he scrambled to his feet. “This friendship is beginning to feel awfully one-sided.”
She laughed despite the fear and saddled her horse.
From astride her horse, she surveyed their encampment, all evidence of their stay removed and buried. The ashes had been doused in sand, the flat squares where the tents had been were already disturbed by the wind, new ripples forming, every scrap of their belongings accounted for. It was as if they’d never been there, and no one in Luneth would remember them.
“Everyone ready?” Sarim called out, pulling up on his palomino quarter horse. Its sandy coat was gilded beneath the morning sun.
Valine’s chestnut stallion cantered from side to side, picking up on her nervous energy. She wondered why everyone else wasn’t as terrified as she was. The others’ horses content beneath their riders. Did the legends of the sand snakes fall to myth in Adraali? In Runell they were nightmare bedtime stories. Survivors of the sands wove elaborate tales in taverns and at parties. Valine had heard their horror growing up, and as someone who’d lived near basilisk territory, where the kingdom’s male royals were riders, she dared not underestimate the other creatures in Enneive.
“Let’s do this,” she said in a quick breath, pulling linen up over her face.
And with that, they took off, traversing the sands, the hooves eating up the miles between Luneth and Talloh. Turning the hourglass on death’s watch. The hoofbeats were a low rumble, like steady thunder from Styrmir’s own mages. Sarim and Valine took the lead, three guards flanking each of them, their party of eight stirring up sand and golden clouds.
Valine’s thighs ached with every clench and bounce in the saddle, her dark eyes burned with the bite of dust, her teeth twinged in her jaw. Leaning forward, she forced her breathing to steady, pulling ahead to get out of the cloud of dust they were tossing up. Valine and her steed crested the top of a dune, and she stopped dead in her tracks. The others quickly caught up and they too, paused.
Her heart hammered as she saw the sand below the steep curve of the dune turn dusky. The muted purple shade of the Twilight Sands was a massive expanse before them, the darkness more present by the looming mountains to the west. Valine looked wistfully at the Muravo Mountain Pass, the semblance of safety. She knew they couldn’t risk nearing it. The sand serpents were drawn to the constant vibration of travel through the pass but could not penetrate the rock. It was also wise to avoid the east, where the ocean lapped against the shore and pounded like a heartbeat upon the earth. A heartbeat the serpents wanted to consume. In all the insanity of the sands, the safest route through the most dangerous crossing was directly through the middle of it.
What was the saying?
The eye of the storm.
Valine knew without looking up that they were crossing the border into Talloh. Even though she need not look, she gazed upwards, and there, she saw two of Talloh’s three moons hanging in the sky.
Without a word, Valine began to descend the dune. With every second they drew closer to those dark sands, the dread in her gut gained weight, from a cannonball to an anvil. With every hoofbeat, the knot in her throat transformed from a walnut to an apple. She could not speak; she could scarcely breathe. Her hands shook on the pommel as her stallion chuffed, and when his hoof finally touched upon the Twilight Sands, a bolt of terror pierced her.
It was real. It was truly happening, and it was happening now.
The rest of the group continued behind her, a little more reserved now that the shadows loomed upon them. Valine’s horse became increasingly agitated as her anxiety threaded around her like a noose. He chuffed and whinnied, pulled on the reins, and pulled off course.
“He’s normally much better behaved,” Sarim said, suddenly coming up beside her.
She jumped, and her horse startled, quickly tapping his forelegs on the sand. Sarim exclaimed a woah and immediately flashed a hand out, rubbing her horse’s neck in reassurance. Valine’s nerves were shattered, but Sarim kept calming her horse, murmuring soft praise and gentle pats, all while seated on his own.
She suddenly felt very silly, like a stupid little girl playing pretend. He made her furious. It was that fury that began to burn off some of the stress she was pouring out.
“It’s not him,” she told him, the hindrance of her emotions abating. “It’s me. Horses are natural empaths, and I am far too on edge right now. He’s picking up on that.”
“It seems all is going well, though.”
“You knock on wood right now!” she gasped.
Sarim searched comically, suddenly a light in his eyes as he made a fist and motioned to his crotch. “Will this do?”
A laugh burst out of her. “You’re impossible.”
His laugh joined hers, and her horse settled significantly. “It’s okay, Valine, I’ll keep you safe.”
Touched by his words, Valine carefully twirled her fingers, her necromancy swirling tentatively about him but hitting a wall. She slowly prodded along the edges of his aura, trying to find a weak spot with no luck.
“Are you wearing a Veritasium Medallion?”
He startled. “Yes, why?” he asked, brows narrowing.
“Do you trust me?”
He paused, taking her in, and she didn’t take it for a hesitation but rather a contemplation. “Not entirely, but enough.”
“Take it off. Put it in your bag for now.”
Sarim kept his brows lowered but slowly reached into the neckline of his tunic and pulled forth a silver chain with a silver labyrinth medallion hanging from it. Pulling it over his head, he watched her and then tucked it into the front pocket of his satchel.
“Now what?”
“I’m taking precautionary measures.” And with that, she allowed her necromancy to creep into him, sinking her hooks in and keeping him tethered to the earthly plane.
A little-known fact about necromancers was that a person could be resurrected “wrong,” and of that wrong way, there were two possible results. The first wrong was when the necromancer’s magic was not tied to the deceased, and they could only be brought back as a mindless slave—an automaton cursed to the commands of their mage. The second wrong was also when the magic was not connected to the dead first, but instead of being brought back as a shell, the necromancer could sacrifice a piece of their soul and return the living to their body without repercussions. The only catch was the previously deceased were now tied to the lifespan of the necromancer who’d resurrected them.
The “right” way involved the necromancer keeping their “hooks” into the victim and killing them while tied to the magic. Under those conditions, the mage could bring the dead back to life as many times as the magic user wished without the risk of turning them into husks. When doing so, they could reanimate with a command tied to their lifeline that would kill them if they broke the oath. Of course, there was the risk of the mind shattering over successive resurrections, but the insanity was irrelevant to the current situation.
Sarim massaged his chest directly where her invisible smoky magic pierced him. It wasn’t painful, but there was a touch of pressure. She was only ensuring that if he somehow were to come to pass on this journey, she could bring him back easily.
“What did you do?” he asked.
“I hope you never have to find out.”