Chapter 2 #2
When I return to the table—the only space to sit and share the flickering glow of firelight—Ezran avoids my gaze, pulling out the marbles he’s been grinding smooth from nubs of hardwood.
He probably has schoolwork, but I won’t pick a fight with him in front of Gramps.
Not with the unnatural storm over the hut, tilting us too easily toward anger.
Besides, Gramps looks so pleased, watching Ez lose himself in something he’s good at, something he can do with his hands.
While I watch, Ezran nicks his finger with his knife, yelps, then shoves it into his mouth, sucking while making frustrated noises.
This is the same brother who wants to lead expeditions out onto the sand.
I look pointedly away, already preparing cutting words for the conversation we’ll be having in the morning.
Distracting myself, I tally the bundles: two whistleweed, four cliffrose, another two tangles of desert’s claw.
I can replace the inventory for those, but I’ll have to get up at dawn—if the storm has passed—to see if I can scavenge more yarrow before the sands come too high.
Then get to the apothecary early to make the salve for Ezran.
I’m still staring at the wall when Gramps shifts in his sturdy birch chair, arms bending to press himself up. The fire has burned low, and I clamber to my feet.
“I’ve got it,” I say, grabbing another log to stoke the hearth—rationing our meager supply.
I should have brought more firewood in earlier.
I grit my teeth. It’s one of Ezran’s chores, which he likes to treat like a game of chicken until either I do it or he’s scrabbling right before sunset and I’m yelling for him to get back inside in time.
I jab at the coals, then lift the kettle and pour water over the bowl of herbs that I left prepared on the counter earlier. I carry the tea to Gramps, glowering at my brother where he lounges. But at least for tonight, it’s us against the desert. I’ll just have to hope the storm dies by morning.
Luckily for Ezran, I finished my own chores.
There’s plenty of water to wash away the remnants of dinner—which I do—as well as rinse the most recent layer of orangish grime from my hands and face before I pour a fresh bowl and take it to my brother.
I unroll a clean strip of linen, tug up the leg of his pants, and assess his ankle.
“Ayye!” He jerks his head away.
I frown at the angry red of the sting. No stinger, at least. I wash the area carefully, not paying any heed to his muttered curses. The familiar work helps clear the last of my terror at what might have happened to him if I hadn’t been there.
“That hurts,” he grumbles.
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry.” And it’s the truth. I’m angry with him, but if I could banish his pain, I would. I don’t have the herbs to waste. Our debts are already piling up this week, and even the sarsaparilla cost more pennies than all of our meals.
When I finish cleaning his ankle, Ezran yawns. My head snaps up, alarm flaring.
“Did you want to play a game?” I ask quickly.
“No. You always win.” He glowers at me, then mutters, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to fall asleep.”
“Good.” My shoulders drop a fraction. Ezran is stubborn, but at least we know when to agree—with a storm like this pressing overhead. I glance at Gramps, who watches the fire with drooping eyes and a serene expression.
“I’m not dozing,” Gramps assures me, not looking away from the low flames. “Besides, if the desert wanted me, it would have taken me years ago.”
I nod, uneasy. With Ezran’s leg tended, I go back to the pitcher and pour myself a cup of water. My headache is starting to take on a queasy edge. I sip slowly, replenishing what I must have sweated out on the way back.
We know when the sun sets, not because it gets dark—it’s already dark beneath the howling sand—but because that’s when the whispers come.
The murmurs slip between unseen cracks, whirling around us with unintelligible hisses and fragments of voices, saturating the air.
I stiffen. Gramps presses his lips together, and Ezran sets his jaw.
We continue exactly as we were before the hushed, indecipherable noises began cackling around us.
With the storm rattling against the door, whispers isn’t even the right word.
The voices are excited tonight, morphing into groans and wails that prickle up my spine.
The voices of mages.
I stand, double-check the barred door and run my fingers along the locks securing the window. No glass, of course. Everything is tightly shut. My pulse slows, but my jaw stays tight. I don’t know what I fear more: being eaten alive by sand or ushered to my doom by the whispers.
Before long, however, the storm surprises me.
Instead of roaring on, the wind—along with the cursed, electrifying hum of magic it carries—quiets to nothing. In seconds, only the whispers are left. The storm passed strangely quickly, unsettling me, but the hollow its absence leaves in my chest is worse.
Don’t think about the sand.
I stretch out on my sleeping mat, no longer needing to stay awake to fend off the dreams. Gramps raises his thick gray brows at the quiet before pushing himself up from his chair with a grunt.
He lowers onto his straw mattress—the only real bed in the hut—and his snores soon rattle out.
Ez, of course, passes out the moment his floppy brown hair hits his own mat.
My body is exhausted, but my mind won’t settle.
The storm felt like a warning.
I calm myself by making a mental list of each herb, the ones I’ll earn a commission on, the ones I’ll have to buy from the apothecary: those missing for Ez’s salve and Gramps’s medicine.
I try to calculate the small debt each ingredient will add to the ledgers, but the numbers muddle in my head, and I huff out a sigh.
With more education, I could easily solve these problems. And not just the numbers.
With real training as a healer, my wage would be high enough that I could purchase it all without a worry.
It always comes back to coins, especially when there aren’t enough. A few extra pennies and Ezran would never have been stung by the scorpion. His tough brown feet would have been protected by a real pair of boots.
A pounding on the door jerks me upright. My heart rattles in my chest.
I stare, breathless, at the shadowed door. I must have imagined it. The hut is swallowed by darkness, aside from the faint red glow of the coals. There shouldn’t be enough light for anyone outside to know we’re here. Not that anyone is really outside the door.
But if there were, I know not to open it.
I glance at my brother. Ezran—the doofus—hasn’t even awoken. I almost laugh; at least he won’t be opening the door to anyone in the night. But that leaves me, frozen, unsure what to do.
Several more hard raps on the door.
Clambering off my mat, I lunge for the fire poker and wrap both hands around the sooty iron rod. I position myself between Ezran, Gramps, and whoever—whatever—is out there.
“Ez!” I shout. “Gramps!”
I wince at how loud I am, clearly signaling our presence. Ezran groans, muttering something, then squints at me standing in the center of the room, wielding the fire poker. He scrambles to his feet, favoring his good ankle. Gramps sits up and blinks.
More banging against the door.
“What in the desert—” My brother’s eyes grow wild with fear. He fumbles with his belt, whipping out his own knife, holds it shakily in front of him.
Gramps’s face is pale, his eyes more serious than I’ve ever seen them. His reaction trickles into my veins like ice. Gramps is never afraid.
“What’s going on?” Ezran hisses.
“I don’t know,” I whisper.
No one—no one—should be out there. And no one in the village would open their door to a stranger after sundown.
The knocks grow blunt, faster. Desperate.
Ezran and I lock eyes; his pure terror mirrors my own.