Chapter 4
Taera
The knocks on the door slow.
Neither Ezran nor I move. Terror locks my body.
“Please—help—I need help!” a young woman cries out, muffled. I stiffen. That voice. I know it the way I know the rude bell over the door to the apothecary.
My brother’s brow twists. “It’s—”
“We don’t know it’s her,” I mutter. Ezran’s eyes harden with the same realization.
Recognizing the voice doesn’t mean it’s Clarice.
“Who’s there?” Ezran shouts, digging low into the new depths of his voice.
“It’s me, Clarice!” the voice calls, pained. “Please, you know me! I need your help.”
I want to help, but I hold back. “Prove it.”
“How in the desert am I supposed to do that?” She sounds miserable, upset.
I exhale shakily as I rifle through memories for something that only Clarice and I share. When one comes to me, I wince. I don’t look at Ezran.
“What’s the last thing you told me before you left for the city?” I shout, louder than I want to.
Silence. Then, “That I shouldn’t be going in your place.”
I grimace. Ezran turns, shock clear across his face.
“It really is Clarice,” I say. He tries to catch my gaze, but I keep my eyes fixed on the door as I step forward and lift the bar.
The hinges creak as I crack it open. Blood pounds in my ears, helping drown out the whispers that swell at the opportunity to slip inside.
My head throbs, but I shove the pain back.
In front of the door stands my friend. Her wide chest heaves up and down like she’s been running. Was she being chased? By what? A giant sand puma, eyes glowing red in the dark? Why was she outside to begin with?
With another shaky exhale, I wave her furiously inside and she stumbles in.
The bar over the door slams back into place, and I step between her and Ezran.
Not a mage, I remind myself. I won’t fall for the same tricks that stole my mother. But I can’t calm down.
“What in the sands are you doing here?” I demand.
She isn’t even dressed sensibly, no face covering, no protection. Her pleated skirt glows pink in the growing firelight—Gramps must have put on the last of our logs—and not a single thread is dusted orange. The fingers she keeps clasping and unclasping are delicate, untouched by stains or calluses.
A pang of ravenous envy knots my stomach. I didn’t expect to have to confront just how drastically she’s changed. The harvest will be rough on her unworked hands, I think bitterly, but shame courses through me at my own pettiness.
“Taera, please,” she blurts, “I don’t know who else to ask.”
Her lashes flutter rapidly, her eyes turning shiny with tears. They’re red and puffy already, and not just from the sand. Telltale lines of silt smudge her cheeks.
A cold dread pools low.
“What happened?” I make myself ask.
Ezran steps beside me. His jaw is hard, but he combs a hand through his hair, something he does when he’s nervous.
“It’s my dad.” She swallows. “He fell ill last night.”
My stomach turns to stone, dropping within me. I croak out, “You mean the night before this one, or…”
“This night,” she whimpers.
My mouth dries.
I make myself inhale. With it, I drag in a horrible guilt. Perhaps Ezran defied the odds last night when I hauled him home and the sand was angry. I try, futilely, to shove down my twisted relief that Ezran was spared—that someone else was taken instead.
“Desert sickness?” The words barely form.
She nods. Ezran’s eyes fly wide, and he swallows, his mouth bobbing open and then closed.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
It isn’t enough.
But—although it’s horrible to ask—if her father has fallen victim to the storm, and her family needs her, why in the sands is Clarice here? I guard my expression as she presses her trembling lips together.
“Please,” she whispers, “there has to be something you can do.”
I gawk at her. Slowly, horrified, I shake my head.
This girl was intelligent enough to take the apprenticeship in my place. She knows there’s nothing that can be done. A true healer might be able to help, but she’s the one with formal training, not me. The desert stole that possibility along with my mother.
Hard words bite at the back of my tongue. She’s not thinking straight. I wasn’t either, once.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat.
“There—there must be something. Anything.” Her sobs break free.
My heart crumbles around the edges. At the same time, I’m appalled.
How could she let this happen? She knows to never, never fall asleep beneath a sandstorm.
If the nightmares don’t take you, the madness will.
Her father should have known better. Clarice should have known better. There’s nothing to be done now.
“If there’s anyone who can help”—Ezran’s voice surprises me, more steady than I feel—“Taera can.”
I glare at him, then at Clarice, letting out a short, cruel laugh. “Perhaps if I had more training.”
Regret hits, even before Clarice flinches.
“I know—I know it should have been you.” Anger and hurt flash across her face. “I just thought—after your mother…”
My mouth turns gritty and painful, like I’m trying to swallow a thick lump.
I shouldn’t be caught up in my own feelings like this, shouldn’t be angry, when her father has just been taken and her suffering is so fresh.
But one glance at Gramps guts me; it’s like he’s been struck, his face pale, eyes unfocused.
“I couldn’t save her,” I whisper, my voice like sand. That was back when our family still owned the apothecary, before we had to sell it. My breathing quickens, and I look away—my eyes burning—refusing to be overcome by feeling.
“I know, but—” she says quickly, and I wince. “But maybe there’s something you could do. I’ve tried everything: cool compresses, jasmine incense, ink of argyle.”
Dragging Gramps through this again feels cruel, but I listen. Clarice needs this much, at least. She names every remedy, each one snuffing out another ember of hope. Just like last time. The old misery clamps around my ribs, squeezing until breathing hurts.
“There has to be something more,” she says, voice cracking.
“There isn’t,” I say softly.
Her face crumples. Clarice chokes on a sob, smearing her white-cotton sleeve with dirty tears before straightening. “Fine, then. I’ll just go.”
I stare at her, guilt still devouring me. But when she turns to the door, I jolt out of my stupor.
“You can’t,” I blurt out.
“No!” Ezran says at the same time.
But Clarice is already fumbling with the latch, between sniffles, trying to pry off the heavy wood bar. My hands land on top of hers, stilling her movements.
“Please,” I say. “Please stay until dawn. I—I’ll make tea.”
Her delicate jaw clenches and she knocks my hand away, redoubling her efforts. “I have to get back to my father. My mother is alone with him now. She’s terrified.”
“Please, Clarice, don’t go out into the night,” I say.
“Let me go,” she hisses and spins to face me. “This whole village is backward, with everyone scared of the dark and muttering about mages. It’s all superstition.”
I choke on a laugh. “Superstition? Your father has desert sickness. You were just begging me to save him.”
“We use glass, you know.” She sneers. “In the city, they put glass in windows, use glass jars and tools.”
I jerk back like I’ve been stung.
“They don’t fear the mages, like you,” she presses. “I bet that’s why you were too scared to ever go.”
“Taera was trying to help,” Ezran cuts in.
Clarice shakes her head, muttering, “I shouldn’t have come. You’re right, you don’t have any training. You never will, if you never leave this village.”
I clench my teeth, my throat blazing with hatred. She wants to go out there in the dark? She deserves to be eaten by a sand puma. To be stolen away in the night by the nightmares she dismisses.
I let out a long, hissed breath that feels like hot steam.
Logic forces its way past spite. I don’t want Clarice to be taken. Her family can’t afford for her to be taken, especially with her father gone. Just like my family can’t afford to lose me.
“If we wait until dawn,” I say in a tight, controlled tone, “I’ll go with you to visit your father. I’ll see if there’s anything I can do.”
The false promise in my words leaves a chalky taste.
Clarice stills. I hold my breath, praying I’ve said the right thing to keep her safe, just for tonight. For her family.
“Thank you.” She throws her arms around me, practically weeping, and clings to my neck.
I go rigid, still reeling from her hostility moments ago.
Gently, but firmly, I ease her off and step away, busying myself with the kettle, hoping to entice her into a few hours of sleep. But I suspect it will be a long night.
Hot water sputters over and sizzles against the heat of the hearth. Exhaling slowly, I prepare the tea.
I’ve agreed to try to do the impossible. My stomach clenches, and I sway, dizzy in the aftermath of so much terror. I haven’t seen someone with desert sickness since…
I feel sick. It isn’t the same, I know that, but every instinct revolts at the idea of visiting Clarice’s father. Unwanted memories surge—pain, desperation, raging anger—flashing through me before I can quell them. Glimpses of my mother’s hollowed face. I hate the desert for what it did to her.
For doing it again.
Worse is the impossible hope curling in my chest: that maybe I can help.
Maybe, after a three-year mishmash of erratic practice, I might be able to do something against the magic corrupting his soul.
The idea is too much for me. If I can help Clarice’s father now…
then there might have been something I could have done for Mom.
Something that could have saved her after the attack. I can’t even look at Gramps.
I’d rather pull cactus spines from my own feet than follow Clarice back tomorrow. But I’ve given my word. I won’t let the desert make me a liar.
* * *
Until this morning, I’ve always been eager for the whispers to fade.
“I can’t promise anything,” I say again.