Queen of

Sand and Stone

Bloodline Chronicles:

Progenitors: Volume 1

Leigh Saunders

Camden Park Press

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Bloodline Chronicles: Progenitors

Also by Leigh Saunders

Copyrights

Chapter 1

The wind howled across the Kushari Desert, carrying a roiling cloud of sand that tinted the sky in shades of dull yellow and dirty red. A caravan, racing at the leading edge of the sandstorm, fled as though driven by the stinging lash of the blowing sand, a dozen large, shaggy camels out-pacing the half-dozen horses that struggled for footing in their wake.

“Can you see the city?” shouted Yolara, spitting the fabric of her head-scarf from her mouth so she could speak, only to have it blow back between her lips as her horse plunged forward through the sand.

Kusan, who rode alongside her, said nothing, pointing toward the dark shadow of the mountains and the golden-brown smear of Nizam’s ochre walls at their foot, just visible through the cloud of dust kicked up by the camel’s hooves.

Leaning low over their horses’ necks, the pair pressed forward, their mounts laboring for each precious length. Sweat caked their haunches and spittle flew from their foaming mouths, but the dull pounding of their hooves was lost in the roar of the wind. Behind them, the whirling sands closed in, scouring away all evidence of their passage.

Then, as though they had passed through an invisible wall, the wind stopped.

Yolara pulled up sharply, her mare dancing skittishly and shaking its head in nervous exhaustion. A moment later, Kusan reined in his own horse, circling back to put himself between Yolara and the storm, even as the other horse-riders burst from the churning cloud and skidded to a stop behind her.

Ahead of them, Nizam rose from the desert, deep, sloping piles of sand at the base of city walls in the same shade of golden brown. The walls towered above the sands, creating the illusion of the city having risen from the depths. The massive wooden gates were closed against the storm, but a smaller, inset door stood open, the last of the caravan’s camels disappearing through it.

Behind them, the storm churned in place, a towering mass of swirling sand rising like a great wall that extended to the right and left as far as the eye could see. The cloud loomed over them, blotting out the sky, but no longer advanced.

“How...?” Yolara asked, pressing her legs against her restless horse’s flanks to control it as she unwound her head-scarf. Her dark, sweat-soaked hair tumbled down over her shoulders and lay there, unruffled by even the slightest of breezes. She stared, wide-eyed, at the raging – yet impossibly immobile – storm, the sand that caked the strip of skin around her dark eyes framing them like a yellow mask against her golden-brown skin.

Kusan gazed at the billowing cloud, a slight frown wrinkling his brow as he pulled his own sand-encrusted head-scarf from his sun-bronzed face, folding it over to find a clean spot to clean the grit from around his dark eyes. “That is the work of the weather witch, my lady.” He turned his hooded gaze to Yolara. “Your grandmother, Queen Nayira, Daughter of the Wind.”

⬧

Outside the city, the storm raged on.

Inside the walls, it was as though there was no storm, nor ever had been. Yolara stared, amazed.

As the group passed through the long tunnel formed by the thick, earthen wall, the blistering heat of the open desert gave way to the relative cool of an oasis. No waves of heat shimmered before her eyes here, no hazy images hovered at the edges of her vision.

Yolara gasped in surprise as the grove of slender, emerald-leafed palms came into view, rising gracefully from the banks of a narrow, clear blue river that pressed against the inside of the great wall surrounding the city like a moat. In contrast to the churning, yellow-brown sky outside the wall, the glimpses of sky she saw between the bushy leaves of tall palms was brilliantly blue, colorful birds adding splashes of red, orange, and yellow as they winged their way from tree to tree.

As she and Kusan rode across the bridge spanning the water, Yolara marveled at the contrast. Only moments before, they had been running for their lives – her heart hammered in her chest, even now – yet here, in the safety of Nizam’s walls, laughing children in brightly-colored clothing scrambled over large, moss-covered rocks and splashed slim golden-brown legs and feet in the water under their mothers’ dark, watchful eyes.

The main course of the river encircled the city, Yolara remembered, fed by many small canals that wound their way along the streets and under bridges, frequently flowing through shallow, tiled pools. She could almost feel the wet porcelain beneath her feet. Looking more closely as they rode past, she could see the colorful patterns lining the broad steps leading into one of the pools at the river’s edge.

Memories washed over her, childhood recollections of summer days where gentle breezes tickled the palm fronds and the air smelled of dates and desert flowers and rounds of chapatti flatbread cooking on small skillets over open flames. Yolara’s stomach grumbled and she smiled, her thoughts returning to the present.

The caravan left the bridge and moved off to the left, drivers sliding off the camels, stamping their feet and shaking off clouds of sand while the camels pushed their way to the river and plunged their noses into the water. Yolara and Kusan and their guards caught up to them, watered their horses, and conferred briefly with the still-dusty driver whose camel was loaded with Yolara’s personal belongings.

When the animals were ready, they remounted and headed through the grove and into the heart of the city, one of the guards leading the single baggage camel. The remainder of the caravan turned to the right, following the wide road that bordered the river, leading to the marketplace, and the adjacent caravanserai, where they would take their rest.

Yolara looked around in interest as Kusan led them through the narrow, winding streets of the oasis city, their horses’ hooves clattering on the fused-stone bricks. Many buildings shared walls or courtyards with their neighbors, some covered with a thick coating of stucco in shades of pale yellow, green, and blue, though most appeared to be built of the same orangish-red or golden-yellow ochre bricks. Vines laden with flowers in bright pink, orange, red, and yellow climbed the walls and spilled over the edges of roofs and railings, filling the air with their sweet fragrance. Bees and tiny hummingbirds darted amid the flowers in a flurry of activity.

There were trees everywhere. Tall palms towered overhead, swaying on their impossibly thin trunks, while shorter, fatter date palms with their long, sweeping fronds lined the streets and graced courtyards. Sunlight filtered through the feathery leaves of the olive trees that grew along the banks of the many canals that wound throughout the city. After the unrelenting openness of the desert, riding slowly in the shade was a relief, and Yolara was grateful to no longer need the headscarf that had protected her from the fierce sun.

At many intersections, they passed beneath stone arches that served as bridges for upper-story homes, where the gently sloping roofs were topped with thick layers of dried palm fronds. Awnings – some of palm fronds others of brightly-colored lengths of woolen fabric stretched on long, thin poles – provided additional shade for the men and women who sat beneath them, cooking, and weaving baskets.

Unlike the countries of her fosterage, which were predominantly populated by people of a single heritage, from the fair-skinned Tusyans and Gerlachi of the mountainous regions in the north and west, to the dark-haired, swarthy Kusharim of the southern steppes, where Yolara’s own, golden-brown skin was considered fair, the population of Nizam was emblematic of the trade routes. Here desert-born and mountain-bred worked side-by-side, conducted business, married, and raised children in many shades, from light tan to golden-brown, sun-bronzed to deep mahogany. Yolara’s own heritage was no less mixed than that of her people, with her mother’s line descended from the ruling houses of the desert traders, while her father’s people were golden-haired Gerlachi nobles.

Like Kusan, Yolara had thick, black hair, but amid the varying shades of black, brown, blond, and russet that surrounded her, she also saw that the city held a surprising number of cultivators, their magical gifts evident in the verdant green hair that lay like waves of early spring grass against their skin. Their bright lime and emerald tresses, which marked the beginning of the growing season, were just beginning to deepen into the rich, jade-like tones of early summer. The cultivators plucked lemons and apricots from small, potted trees, presided over displays of fruit and vegetables, and haggled over the prices of baskets of grain and jars of spices.

Nearby, the city’s stoneworkers formed bricks from the sand and molded clay into shallow bowls and large jars, the calcified nails on their skilled fingers dancing across their creations. Yolara saw no noticeable division amongst the people; regardless of their gifts. All gossiped casually with their neighbors in the sing-song, multi-lingual hybrid tongue spoken not only across all of the small country, but adopted as the common language of the nomads of the Kushari Desert.

Often, as their small party rode past, those conversations would grow quiet, only to resume with a buzz of excited chatter in their wake.

“I thought Nizam was a regular stop on the trade routes,” Yolara said quietly to Kusan, guiding her horse alongside his. Though the warrior was the captain of the Queen’s Guard, and nearly ten years her senior, Kusan had also proven to be a good traveling companion – observant of their surroundings, and patient with her many questions.

“Yes, my lady,” he replied. “The Nizami River carries the melting snow from the mountains to the desert, but it quickly dries beneath the sun and sands outside the city walls. Your ancestors altered the river’s path from its original course turning it into a canal that encircles the city—”

“To prevent the water from being lost to the desert?” Yolara asked.

“Even so. Many caravans replenish their food and water and conduct trade here. The next nearest oases are Aywhai, three days’ travel to the west, and Hatu, five days’ journey to the east.”

“Then why do the people look at us like this?” Yolara asked, pointing out the odd behavior of virtually everyone they passed. “Surely they are well accustomed to travelers.”

“Nizam is not large, as compared to the cities you have lived in, my lady. Secrets are rare here, and news travels quickly. The people know who you are,” Kusan said. He angled his head as though reconsidering his words. “Rather, they know who I was sent for.”

Yolara nodded, feeling suddenly self-conscious. Their princess, returning as a stranger. How must she appear to them? Dressed in a dull, travel-stained tunic, the full sleeves tucked into gloves of soft camel hide, the carved-bone hilt of a Gerlachi dagger visible above the folds of cloth at her waist, she looked anything but regal. Her golden-brown skin was streaked with dirt, her dark hair stringy with sweat, and both her once brightly-colored cloak and the strips of cloth binding her boots and loose-fitting pants close to her legs were heavy with sand, which swirled in her wake. Even her mare’s tail left little puffs of dust with each swish. While she had never been particularly interested in adhering to the courtly fashions of the kingdoms to which she had been fostered, she would have at least liked to have taken a bath and put on a clean tunic before parading down the street.

But, as there was nothing she could do about it now, Yolara took a deep breath, sat tall on her horse, and met their stares with a nod and a polite, if somewhat awkward, smile.

They rode on in silence for some distance before Kusan spoke again, his quiet words answering her unspoken concerns. “It will be some time before the Queen is able to receive you,” he said. “When we reach the palace, you will have the opportunity to refresh yourself while you wait.”

“I would like that very much,” she murmured as a group of young girls ran up to her, giggling, their dark hair swirling around their laughing faces. The mare shied away from them, crossing into the path of Kusan’s horse, and getting her nose tangled in its reins. Yolara glanced back at Kusan, then quickly looked away, barely stifling her own amusement at the idea of having survived the storm only to tumble off their horses at the mercy of a group of children.

Then Kusan succeeded in untangling their horses. The group of girls again burst into laughter, one of them thrusting a small clay pot holding a cluster of fleshy green succulents bearing bright pink and white flowers onto Yolara’s lap before they scampered away.

Tears sprang to Yolara’s eyes as she looked down at the tiny blossoms, and she hastily blinked them away.

“My lady?” Kusan said gently.

Yolara nudged her mare forward, cradling the flowers in her lap. “My mother had one of these plants,” she said softly. “Alyssa and I would creep into our mother’s chambers in the early morning to watch the flowers wake with the sunrise, and race back to see them close their eyes at sunset.” She smiled at the memory. “After the fever took them, I carried the flowers with me for weeks – I was only nine at the time,” she added, as though trying to excuse her childish behavior.

“You know what the plant is called, do you not?”

“The cultivators in the Gerlachi court call it the ‘ice plant,’ because it remains green throughout the winter.”

Kusan nodded. “It is hardy, and thrives where others fail. Here, in its native land, we call it by a different name than you were taught in Gerlach. This is yolara, the desert flower.”

⬧

Kusan was glad to be back in Nizam, the familiar clay walls, scents of spiced meats, and cool air of the oasis a welcome relief after over three months of travel. As Captain of the Queen’s Guard, he had taken a small contingent of his fellow soldiers and had ridden westward into Tusya to collect the Princess, release her from fosterage, and return her to Nizam.

It should have been a simple enough task, but he had been met with confusion at the Tusyan royal court, where, he was informed, Princess Yolara had left some years before, it being the court of her first fosterage, when she was but a child of nine years old.

They headed east, toward Gerlach, through high mountain valleys, men and sturdy desert horses suffering from the cold as they followed roads that were often little more than narrow, tracks through deep snow that was only beginning its spring thaw. Half-frozen though they were, Kusan allowed no grumbling from his men at their prolonged journey, even after they lost a horse to the harsh conditions. Rather, when the opportunity presented itself, he simply sent one of his companions back to Nizam to inform Queen Nayira of their altered route.

Privately, however, he believed her having sent him in the wrong direction was but one more indication of the Queen’s advancing years. This only increased his urgency to find the Princess and return her to Nizam with all possible haste.

But when they reached the Court of Gerlach, the Princess was not there, either.

“This is most unusual,” the Gerlachi fosterage mistress said, frowning over the massive book that held the records of each noble youth’s placements. “Princess Yolara began her fosterage very early...” She looked up at Kusan. “I remember – it was the year of the fevers. Her parents were both taken by the illness and she was sent to Tusya. Poor child, to be set adrift so.”

“Where might I find her?” Kusan asked, thinking it would have been helpful if the Tusyan fosterage mistress had kept such comprehensive records.

The fosterage mistress turned back to the book. “She came to us from Erembourg, and remained with us for an additional year at the request of the king, her uncle. But when she left here, she was sent to Zuria, and from there...” her finger moved down the page, “...on to Kushar two years ago.” She looked up at Kusan. “She is there yet. Surely Queen Nayira is aware of this.”

“The error is mine, of course” Kusan said politely, for he would not speak ill of his queen, He pulled on his gloves. “I shall ride for Kushar immediately.”

“You will want to keep to the eastern roads as much as possible,” the fosterage mistress advised. “It is early in the season, but I am told the desert sandstorms are not to be endured. If you have the time, you may wish to travel along the western coastline.”

Kusan well knew the Kushari sandstorms, having endured them all his life. After sending a falcon to Queen Nayira bearing a message informing her of yet another alteration to their route, he and the remaining two men who accompanied him rode hard across the grassy plains that formed the eastern border of the desert, choosing speed over the safety of the coastal route. They considered themselves fortunate to encounter only one storm of only a few hours’ duration during the journey to the Court of Kushar and to have lost only one horse in the crossing. The storm that pursued them across the open desert to the gates of Nizam had been much more powerful. Kusan had seen the remains of unprepared travelers who had been trapped in those storms, the flesh sliced from their bones by the wind-driven sand. They were lucky to have reached Nizam alive.

He looked at Princess Yolara, now riding calmly beside him through the streets of Nizam. She was not what he had expected, this sober beauty nearly ten years his junior, and whose unexpected laughter was like the ringing of tiny silver bells and as refreshing as falling water. When he had been shown into her chambers in Kushar, she had met his request to travel immediately to Nizam with a steady gaze, as though she had been expecting it – and having already reached twenty years of age, she probably had.

“I will need a few hours to gather my belongings,” she said, turning briefly aside to murmur instructions to a handmaid who hurried hastily away. “And to bid farewell to my sisters.”

“Of course, my lady.”

“I am told that the crossing to Nizam is perilous, and will take nearly a month,” she had continued. “A caravan is leaving at dawn; we will travel with them.”

“As you wish,” Kusan murmured.

And so Princess Yolara had taken charge of the journey, and captured his interest. It was only after he had left the room that Kusan had realized that there were no clouds in her eyes and that her fingers were tipped in stone.

He was grateful now that she had not yet removed her gloves. While he had gladly answered her many questions about Nizam and its people during their journey across the desert, there were certain topics that were best left to the Queen to address.

Chapter 2

Yolara approached Queen Nayira’s palace with a combined sense of anticipation, vague recollection, and intense curiosity. Like so many palaces, this one was comprised of a series of buildings. It was larger than she remembered, and had expanded to encompass both sides of a wide stone bridge which spanned the river where it flowed beneath the northern wall. Wide stone steps led to gates on either side of the river, framing a series of short cascades as it left the palace grounds and broke into the many canals that wound throughout the city.

Near the entrance, they dismounted, giving their animals over to the care of a young whisperer. The boy must have only recently come into his gift, the outlines of a horse, camel, and donkey still faint on his scalp where his dark brown hair was just beginning to recede. But the animals responded to his magic without hesitation, and followed him willingly as he led them away. Yolara did not remember exactly where the stables and accommodations for the household staff and Queen’s Guard were located, only that they were tucked away nearby, just out of sight.

She tried not to stare as they entered, nodding politely to the guards that flanked the doorway, and murmuring greetings as she was introduced to the household staff. But a large portion of her attention was engaged in comparing her childhood memory of the palace with her current surroundings.

The main level of the complex surrounded a large, lush courtyard, built directly on the stone bridge, and scattered with well-like openings to the river below through which she heard the gurgling of the water. While the buildings surrounding the courtyard were of the same ochre-colored, baked-clay bricks and gently sloped, palm-frond rooftops as the rest of the city, the rooms she could see into looked larger, the ceilings higher, and the arched columns supporting terraces more delicate.

“You will remember that the kitchens and dining hall are this way,” the steward said, gesturing toward doors in a wide, shaded passageway along one side of the courtyard. He was an elderly man named Dashir, who Yolara thought must have already been old before she was born, as his long gray beard, lined face, and slightly stooped shoulders were almost exactly as she remembered. “And the Great Hall remains ever at the far end of the courtyard. But over here,” Dashir indicated the passageway on the opposite side of the courtyard from where they stood, “we have added rooms for conducting such business as is necessary for any city along the trade route. You will doubtless spend a great deal of time in the Council Chamber, my lady.”

“I daresay,” Yolara murmured.

“The Princess has traveled far,” Kusan said softly, interrupting Dashir just as he was beginning to launch into a description of each of the new rooms in the palace.

“Yes, yes of course,” Dashir said. He clapped his hands and one of the serving-girls came forward. “My lady, this is Respa. She will show you to your chambers and assist you in any way you require.”

The residences for the royal family were upstairs. Grateful to have finally arrived after the hot, dusty desert crossing, Yolara bathed, letting the hot water ease the sand from her skin and the tension from her muscles. When she finally emerged from the bath, she twisted her hair into a long, tight queue that snaked down her back, and dressed in a clean, light-colored, linen tunic over fitted pants and supple leather slippers. With the dust of the desert no longer filling her mouth and nose, Yolara wrapped an embroidered blue silk scarf around her shoulders, eager to investigate the palace further.

She was pleased to find that her chambers were located in a corner at the back of the palace, providing her with windows on two walls, one facing the rising sun, and the second offering a view of the mountains to the north of the city.

The foothills were a soft, golden color, and she smiled at the thought of the herd of giant, sleeping camels they resembled. The river snaked its way between the foothills and the city in a thin, blue line, paralleled by the grayish path of a road, dotted with tiny figures who moved along it in either direction. Beyond the foothills, the Tzigani Mountains rose in sharp, jagged spikes, the tallest of the granite peaks still bearing the last of the winter’s snow.

Like all of the rooms on the upper level, the door to her chambers opened onto a wide balcony that ran around the entire upper level of the palace’s inner courtyard. Heavy vines covered with deep, green leaves and bright, coral flowers wound up along a portion of the railing, their honeyed fragrance a familiar reminder of her childhood. Yolara had so few clear memories of this place, but she remembered racing the length of the balcony with her older sister, Alyssa, the two of them leaping into their father’s open arms. Both were distant memories now, and she shook off the momentary wistfulness that threatened to settle on her, instead stepping to the railing to look down at the courtyard.

Yolara stared down at the lush, pleasant space in amazement as she took in the details. She had forgotten so much. From this angle, she could see that the openings to the river had been cut to form an elaborate mandala in the floor of the courtyard, the pattern dark against the sand that covered the stone. Pots filled with small trees, herbs, and succulents were nestled in corners or formed pleasant groupings near stone benches, so that visitors might always be assured of a shaded space in which to rest.

At one corner of the palace, on the side of the river opposite her room, rose a tall tower, easily the height of the palms that were scattered across the city to provide shade to the residents. The tower was sheathed from ground to its flat roof in a spiraling pattern of blue, white, and yellow tiles which drew the eye upward. It had been late morning when they had arrived, and now was only a little past midday, and yellow tiles glowed in the afternoon sun. Yolara did not recall seeing any other building in all of Nizam that was so tall or so elaborately adorned.

“Come,” whispered a gentle breeze, teasing at her scarf and lifting the edge of the fabric to point in the direction of the tower.

Yolara hesitated. It had been more than ten years since a voice had whispered to her on a breeze, and she felt a pang of loss at this memory of her mother.

“Yolara, come,” the voice on the breeze whispered again.

Yolara followed the breeze. It led her around the balcony until she reached an ornately carved archway leading to the interior of the tower.

The door stood open.

A stairway wound along the inside wall of the tower, sconces with lit torches set in the wall at regular intervals, their flickering light chasing away the shadows and making the bricks shine like burnished gold. At the top of the tower, a circular opening in the ceiling revealed a splash of blue – more like gazing into a deep well than a glimpse of sky, Yolara thought. She glanced at the stairs heading down toward the courtyard, but the breeze encouraged her upward, so she turned toward the rising stairs and began the ascent.

She found Nayira resting on a divan near the waist-high wall that ran around the outer edge of the rooftop, a potted palm nearby providing a few, narrow strips of shade. Her eyes were closed, and her weathered, brown hands lay folded on her lap. Tendrils of silver hair had escaped from the neat coil at the nape of her neck and spread out along the cushion behind her head.

“I am awake,” Nayira said, her voice barely louder than the breeze that had whispered to Yolara. “The storm has nearly spent itself – managing them takes more out of me than it used to – but I wanted to see you before I retired to my bed. I am grateful to your father’s brother for overseeing your fosterage, but Reinhard kept you away from home for far too long.”

Yolara walked over to the divan and knelt beside it. “Grandmother.”

Nayira smiled and opened her eyes, and for a moment Yolara thought she was looking into her mother’s eyes – deep blue, flecked with gold, and set in a sea of gray stormclouds.

Then the moment passed, along with Nayira’s smile. Staring intensely at Yolara and taking her arm in a firm grip, the old Queen pulled herself upright, her expression grim.

“Your eyes... there are no clouds,” she gasped. “You are not a weather witch!”

“No,” Yolara said, pulling her arm away and holding up her hands so her grandmother could see the red sandstone of her fingernails. “I am a stone-worker, like my father and his father.”

Nayira glanced at Yolara’s hands, but said nothing.

“There is no shame in working the stone, grandmother,” Yolara said, attempting to keep the defensive tone from her voice. “I also have some skill with healing; but no, I cannot speak to the wind.”

A tear slid down Nayira’s cheek as she released Yolara’s arm and fell back against the divan, her eyes closed, murmuring softly.

“Grandmother? What is it?” Yolara asked.

Nayira’s voice was low, heavy with exhaustion and grief, and Yolara had to bend close to hear her. She jerked away when she understood her grandmother’s words, a single phrase repeated over and over.

“Nizam is lost.”

⬧

Yolara did not see her grandmother for the rest of that day.

It was understandable, she thought. Nayira was old and tired from her exertions. So Yolara waited patiently, and busied herself unpacking her belongings and putting them away, stitching a pattern in gold thread along the edge of a silk scarf, playing her sitar.

Each time Respa, a quiet girl only a few years younger than herself, appeared, whether bearing a carafe of fruit nectar, a dish of flatbread and skewers of grilled lamb, or a bowl of plump figs, they had the same conversation.

“Is the Queen well?” Yolara would ask.

“Yes, my lady,” Respa would reply.

“Has she sent for me?”

“No, my lady, she has not.”

Respa brought an old, heavy scroll with Yolara’s evening refreshment. “Forgive the presumption, my lady. But I thought his might help you pass the time,” she said, bowing deeply as she placed the scroll on the table.

Yolara sat up late, reading. She learned of the earthquake, many centuries past, that had split the Nizami River into two branches. In the years that followed, it had been her ancestors who established the oasis cities at Aywhai and Nizam, small islands of plenty nestled along the borders between the desert and the foothills where the branches of the river met the desert. While Nizam was now nearly twice the size of its sister-city, and served as the capital of the small desert country, both oases had flourished under the reign of the Nizami queens, becoming important stops on the trade routes in the generations that followed.

Another earthquake, this during her great-great-grandmother’s youth, had split the river once again. This wider, slower branch wound eastward through the lowlands of southern Gerlach, before it, too, came to its end in the oasis at Hatu, which sat in the foothills at the intersection of the trade routes. According to the scroll, this had often been a source of friction between the Gerlachi and the Kusahrim, both of whom had claimed Hatu at one time or another. The small city was presently held by Gerlach, but fear that the Kusharim would attempt to reclaim it had caused it to grow slowly, in spite of its otherwise favorable location. The caravans took their rest in Hatu but then moved on.

She read also of the weather witches who had held back the storms, allowing the oasis at Nizam to grow notwithstanding its perilous location at the heart of the storm-prone region. Under the weather witches’ protection, the ancient stoneworkers laid the foundations of the city, building the great wall that encircled the precious river waters and lining the riverbed with thick porcelain tiles to preserve every valuable drop. The cultivators had followed, using their magic to transform the walled oasis into a lush garden.

And she read the tales of the first weather witches from whom all the queens of Nizam were descended, including Yolara’s grandmother, Nayira. According to the stories, these ancient, powerful queens had each been taken by their magic at the end of their reigns, transformed into the four winds of legend. From that time forward, the queens of Nizam had been called the Daughters of the Wind.

Yolara was fascinated by the stories, though the old script was sometimes difficult to read by the light of the oil lanterns, which flickered in the gentle breeze drifting in through the ornately carved wooden doors, which she had opened to the balcony. The sound of the river rushing below filtered up to her, accompanied by the occasional murmur of voices in the courtyard and the chirruping of night insects. In the distance, someone played a flute.

As a visitor to Nizam, and in keeping with the courtly customs she had been schooled in throughout her fosterage, Yolara was obliged to pass the time in her chambers, awaiting her grandmother’s pleasure – a restriction she chafed at. She would much rather join the conversations in the courtyard, or wander the city in search of the music. Anything but sit in in her chambers.

This was her home, the city of her birth. Surely the obligations of a visiting noble did not apply to her here. And while she would not risk insulting her grandmother by leaving the palace unescorted, surely there was no reason why she could not explore the palace itself. Perhaps she would even find Kusan, and ask him to show her more of the city. Her grandmother could not possibly object to that.

With that thought in mind, when Respa took away the dishes after her midday meal on the third day, and Nayira still had not sent for her, Yolara glanced at the latest stack of scrolls the serving-girl had brought and sighed. The histories of the city and its people were interesting, and the accounts of trade between Nizam and neighboring countries educational, but she was tired of reading. Instead, she reached for the silk scarf she had finished embroidering the previous day, threw it over her shoulder, and slipped out of her room, making her way along the balcony and down a winding stair to the lower level.

She had just reached the bottom of the stairs, when a group of merchants burst into the courtyard, pushing past the pair of guards, all shouting in an incoherent chaos. Yolara ducked behind a pillar, out of sight of the merchants, and watched as Dashir rushed toward them, the old steward’s long, striped robes fluttering behind him.

“Please, please, this is no place for raised voices,” Dashir said, his long gray beard bouncing as he shook his head and waved his hands as though sweeping the intruders back toward the gate. “The Queen is resting.”

“Where is she?” demanded one of the merchants, a tall, blocky man who pushed past Dashir, looking up toward the many doorways along the balcony. The elaborate embroidery on his red and black robes, golden chains that tumbled down his chest, and jeweled rings on his fingers were a declaration of his wealth and power.

Even more noticeable were the tattoos surrounding the strip of thick, black hair, growing like a horse’s mane from his forehead, and running over the top of his head and down the back of his neck. It was the mark of a whisperer – one of those who could speak with, understand, and often command animals. He had applied colored dyes to the normally bluish, tattoo-like images of the animals outlined by the raised blood vessels on his bare, bronzed scalp, his whisperer’s gift identifying the animals with which he shared easy communication. Even from where she stood, Yolara could clearly see a golden camel, gray donkey, reddish-brown jackal, and large, charcoal-colored rat in the menagerie of images, the rat’s long, narrow tail winding down along the side of the merchant’s neck before disappearing beneath the trader’s tunic.

“Go no further, Tabour,” Dashir said, as additional guards rushed over to block the merchant. “As I said, the Queen is resting—”

“Not the Queen,” Tabour said, turning back so quickly that his loose robes flared open, revealing the short, curved sword tucked into the sash at his waist. “We are looking for the Princess.”

Yolara bit back a gasp. She had lived long enough among the Kusharim to recognize the style of Tabour’s blade; but these men were dressed as merchants, not nomadic warriors, in the brightly-colored, loose-fitting, long tunics and pants she had seen both men and women wearing when she arrived in Nizam. What could they possibly want with her? Automatically, she reached for her dagger, cursing silently when she realized that she had left it in her chambers. She pressed herself closer to the pillar, peering more cautiously at the merchants as they argued with Dashir.

“Who disturbs my rest?”

Yolara looked up. Queen Nayira stood at the balcony railing, her long, white hair tumbling over her shoulders and down the dark green fabric of her simple, sleeveless gown. She showed none of the exhaustion Yolara had seen the previous day as she stared down at the merchants, a slight tremble in her hands as they rested on the railing the only indication of her advanced age.

The merchants fell silent, and Dashir turned toward Nayira and bowed.

“They seek an audience with the Princess Yolara,” he said as he stood.

“To what purpose?”

Dashir looked at Tabour. The merchant stepped forward, a hint of a swagger in his manner, and merely dipped his head to the Queen before answering. “There are rumors,” he said. “We have heard that the Princess has not yet come into her abilities.”

Nayira looked down at them. “And so you burst into my home thus in a show of interest?”

“With respect, Great Lady, but ours is not idle curiosity. The safety of Nizam is at stake.”

“And you believe an audience with the Princess will change matters?”

“It will put the rumors to rest.”

There was a long pause as the Queen and the merchants stared at each other. Yolara noticed that Tabour held his ground without wavering, while the other merchants had begun to shift from side to side, the shushing of their sandals and leather shoes on the sand of the courtyard the only sound breaking the strained silence.

Then Nayira’s voice whispered on the breeze to Yolara. “I had hoped to avoid this, child.”

Yolara jerked her gaze from the merchants and toward her grandmother. But the Queen was not looking at her, though the fingers of one hand fluttered on the railing.

“Yes, I see you there,” the voice on the breeze continued. “I can send them away, but they will return – and in greater numbers, more difficult to control. Or you can face them now. I leave it to you.”

Yolara looked from Nayira and back toward the merchants. In addition to Dashir and the gate guards, Kusan and a half-dozen members of the Queen’s Guard – four men and two women – had come to stand a few feet behind the merchants. They had slipped into the courtyard quietly, their ochre-colored boots and loose-fitting pants blending so well with the sand at their feet that their bodies, clad in deep brown, almost knee-length coats appeared to hover above the ground like a row of identical shadows. Only the heavy gold embroidery at his wrist and collar marked Kusan as their captain. The guards made no sound, but watched with sharp, dark eyes, hands resting lightly on the swords hanging from the wide brown and gold sashes at their waists.

Yolara looked back at Nayira and nodded, uncertain how else to reply. She removed her leather slippers, then stepped out from behind the pillar, the sand that lightly dusted the shaded courtyard cool beneath her bare feet as she walked up to Dashir. The old man was standing with his feet spread wide apart and his fists balled at his narrow hips, as though trying to make himself look intimidating. Yolara placed her hand lightly on his arm.

“I believe these... gentlemen... have come to see me?”

Startled, Dashir looked at Yolara in alarm and then turned to look up at Nayira. But the Queen merely nodded, so the steward cleared his throat and bowed to Yolara. “Yes, my lady,” he said, gesturing with one gnarled hand toward Tabour and his companions. “They are most... eager... to meet you.”

Yolara looked toward the merchants as though seeing them for the first time.

“I am honored to receive these representatives of the city’s merchants.” She motioned toward a seating area that was shaded by a large date palm. “Please, join me. Dashir, will you see to refreshments for our guests?”

Dashir murmured his acknowledgment, bowed, and hurried away as Yolara moved toward the stone bench. Five of the six merchants began to follow her, but stopped when Tabour stretched out his arm to block them.

“Have you come into your power?” he asked bluntly.

Yolara stopped, turning slowly to face him. “I have been away from Nizam for many years,” she said calmly. “So perhaps I am unaccustomed to the proper forms of address here. Has rudeness become customary, then?”

The cluster of merchants murmured apologies, their heads bobbing as they bowed in deference. But Tabour stood firm, meeting Yolara’s gaze with his own.

“I see no clouds in your eyes, no evidence that you are a Daughter of the Wind, and rightful heir to the crown of Nizam,” he said, pushing his robe open and resting his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Answer me now, Princess—” he all but spat the word “—are you a weather witch? Or are you merely another useless noble, come to grace us with your presence and tax us with your excesses?”

Kusan and the other guards began to move forward, in response to the threat to their Princess, but Yolara shook her head, digging her toes into the sand. She felt the frisson of energy flow upward, through her legs and into her core, then gathered it into her hands, which she held loosely at her sides.

“You answer me with more rudeness, rather than observe the courtesies of the royal court?” she said, arching an eyebrow. “Very well, I shall be equally direct. No, I am not a weather witch. But neither am I useless.”

She raised her arm in a sweeping motion, until her sandstone-tipped fingers pointed toward Tabour. At her unspoken command, the sand at his feet rose, quickly covering his shoes and rising to his knees before fusing into a small cone of sandstone, holding him in place. As the other merchants jumped away from him, jabbering in fear, Yolara raised her other hand, turning her hand in a circular, cupping gesture. Sand leapt into the air, swirling around the group, then solidified, trapping them from ground to shoulder in a coil of stone.

“There are magics other than control of the weather, Tabour,” Yolara said as the dust settled. “You, of all people, should know this.”

Tabour glared at her, his face contorting into a mass of fury. “Of what use is a Queen who cannot hold back the storms?” he demanded. “The city will be consumed by the desert, and we will all die.”

Yolara studied them all, her gaze flicking from Tabour to the other merchants, and even the guards. Dashir had returned with a serving-boy, and she could sense her grandmother’s presence behind her. Everyone seemed to be waiting for her reply.

“Then we shall have to find another way,” she said simply.

Turning her back on the merchants, and leaving them to manage their own release from the stone traps she had created, she looked up at Nayira.

“We must talk,” she said, her voice a cold whisper on the wind. There was no need to speak louder. The grim set of Nayira’s lips told her that she had heard everything.

⬧

Kusan watched in stunned silence as Yolara climbed the stairs and disappeared into the Queen’s chambers. He had observed many skilled stoneworkers at their craft, but never had he seen anyone manipulate the sand as the Princess had – for that matter, had anyone told him of the scene he had just witnessed, he would not have believed them.

She had called the sand with the flick of her fingers... and Tabour! Kusan nearly laughed out loud as he recalled the look on the whisperer’s face, half outrage, half terror, as the sand rose like a living creature at Yolara’s command, trapping him and his companions where they stood.

Kusan strode forward to Tabour, a cone of fused stone covering the merchant’s legs to the knees. “It would seem that the Princess is not as powerless as you assumed,” he said. He spoke casually, but the warning was clear.

Tabour shrugged, as though unimpressed with Yolara’s control over the sand. “We shall see,” he said. “After all, what did she say? Oh, yes, ‘there are many kinds of magic.’ Or something like that.”

Kusan turned away, looking next at the merchants, shaking his head as they cursed and struggled to free themselves from the coiled stone that held them prisoner, and Dashir, who hovered anxiously around them, his robe and long beard both fluttering in the slight breeze.

He went back to his men. “Fetch hammers,” he said. “And try not to hurt any of them.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Leave Tabour until the last.”

His men chuckled and started to move off, but he stopped them.

“Hold,” he said, lowering his voice so they had to lean closer to hear his words. “Though it was well-deserved, Tabour will not easily forgive this insult. It is our duty to protect the Princess. See to it that she is never unprotected, and do not let her go into the city alone.”

Chapter 3

“Why did no one tell me what was at stake? The Captain had to have known – yet though we journeyed together for nearly a month, he said nothing.” Yolara paced barefoot back and forth across Nayira’s chambers, fuming, her slippers still in the courtyard below.

“And when I arrived, you took one look at me and dismissed me, with no explanation of what I had done to earn your displeasure.”

“Your mother—” Nayira began, but Yolara whirled on her.

“Died when I was nine years old,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “As did my father. And my sister.” She choked out a hoarse laugh. “Had she lived, Alyssa would probably have become the weather witch you all were counting on.” Yolara stopped her pacing, and looked at Nayira with a glimmer of hope. “There are still the twins... we could send for them.”

“Your sisters are too young,” Nayira said, shaking her head. She was sitting in a cushioned chair, her feet resting on an embroidered ottoman, and a lace blanket covering her lap. “I thought of them as soon as I saw you, but they are barely eleven years old, just beginning their fosterage.”

“One might argue that their fosterage began at birth.”

Nayira waved that off. “No matter. You saw them in Kushar?”

“Yes.”

“Does either have clouds in her eyes?”

“No,” Yolara said. “Neither has yet come into her power.”

Nayira sighed. “It could be another year or more – and even then, there is no guarantee either will have the weather-working gift.”

“Surely there is another weather witch somewhere?”

Nayira shook her head. “I have never heard of another outside our family line. The gift is rare, even among the children of those who have entered into marriages with foreign nobles.”

“My aunt...”

“Rasha had the gift, yes, but died in childbirth, and her child with her, leaving your mother as my sole heir. That was fifteen years ago,” Nayira said, then paused, a sad smile on her face.

“I was strong, then,” she continued. “It was said by many that I was the most powerful Daughter of the Wind that had been seen in generations. You and Alyssa were young, and your mother was such a free spirit. Jaisa wanted to see the world before she took her place here, as a queen bound to her city till the end of her days.” Nayira held out her hand to Yolara, who came and knelt on the floor by her grandmother’s side.

“But Nizam is more than just this city,” Yolara said, frowning. “Who protects Aywhai? Or the settlements in the foothills?”

“The foothills themselves slow the wind enough to protect the smaller settlements,” Nayira said. “and Aywhai rarely sees storms as powerful as those that plague us here. It is as though a mighty Kusharim warrior aims his bow directly at us from spring until fall, sending storms our way until his quiver is emptied.”

Yolara thought for a moment, remembering her travels in Kushar and what she had learned of the land. “A great wall of mountains runs from east to west, through the center of Kushar,” she said, “dividing the steppes and desert of the north from the lush jungles in the south. But there is a place in the east, where the wall is broken. The Kusharim call it ‘the Valley of Sighs.’ They say that the wind coming in from the sea always blows there.”

“It is no sea wind that carries the sand to our walls,” Nayira said.

“After the desert has consumed the rain, only the wind remains,” Yolara countered. “If we were to look at a map, I suspect we could draw a line across the desert from the Valley of Sighs to Nizam – the same path where the wind from your warrior’s bow sweeps across the land unhindered.”

Nayira considered the idea for a moment. “You may be correct,” she said finally. “It would do much to explain why the winds blow toward us so unerringly from year to year. If it were not for the river, it is unlikely a city would ever have been built in this place.”

Yolara nodded. “If not for the river and the presence of a weather witch to protect it.”

Nayira shrugged, but said nothing.

“Why did my mother not take her place on the throne?” Yolara asked. “What happened?”

“I agreed to rule Nizam for another five years, while your mother traveled. In turn, she agreed to return here once you and your sister were fostered,” Nayira said. “Neither of us anticipated her to be so weakened by her last pregnancy, or for the fever to sweep through Gerlach. I was devastated when I heard the news, and sent for you and the twins immediately, but the infants were too young and too frail to travel, and though you were only nine years old, Reinhard had already sent you away to begin your fosterage – to protect you from the fever, he said, though I never fully believed him.”

“You have been trying to find us for eleven years?” Yolara looked up at Nayira, raising an eyebrow in skepticism.

“I would be lying if I claimed that,” the old queen admitted with a shrug. “I should have sent for you sooner – and the twins – to protect our family line, if nothing else. But Reinhard and Angelina had lost their only child to the fever as well, so I allowed them to raise the twins as their own.”

“Aunt Angelina has borne two sons since then.”

“No matter. Your sisters are not desert-born, and have been raised as princesses of the Gerlachi court. While it is possible that one or both of them may become a weather witch, and return to Nizam as an adult to claim her throne, it is far more likely that Reinhard will set them in favorable marriages elsewhere.”

Yolara shuddered.

“To be traded as currency—” she began, but her grandmother dismissed her protest.

“Only one child in a royal house can inherit the throne, all others must do their duty to keep alliances strong. Surely you learned that much during your fosterage.”

“I did. But I never thought of it being applied to my own house.”

“Such is politics,” said Nayira, waving the argument away. “Speaking of which, that was a nice bit of stone work in the courtyard. I have never seen Tabour bested so effectively. Be careful of him, my girl – he is as stubborn as a goat and mean as a jackal, and he never lets go of a grudge. You shamed him in the sight of his peers, and he will not forget that.”

⬧

Word of the merchants’ encounter with Yolara spread quickly through the city – as did the fact that the Princess was not a weather witch. Yolara was certain Tabour was behind most of the rumors. Only days after the confrontation, falcons bearing panicked messages for Queen Nayira arrived from the governing merchant council of Aywhai, begging to know the truth of the matter, while a large group of merchants and craftsmen from the smaller city simply rode to Nizam to see their new Princess and judge her worthiness for themselves.

As she walked through the city each morning, Yolara had never felt so on display. With each passing day and every small interaction, she was acutely aware of the mixed reactions from the people.

There were those who believed in her – that she would somehow find a way to save them from the storms. Yolara was surprised to discover four of the merchants she had wrapped in the stone coil shared this belief, and she hoped that she would find a way to meet their expectations.

Those who believed as Tabour did, that she was of no use to them, were openly hostile, scoffing or jeering as she passed, and Yolara began to carry her dagger in plain sight, tucked into the folds of fabric wound around her waist like a belt over her loose-fitting tunics and dresses. While the townspeople were careful of their words and actions when within sight of the palace guards, who always followed at a discreet distance, many of those who did not openly criticize her acted as though she carried some sort of plague. Some turned away as she drew near, or ignored her when she spoke to them, while others went so far as to close the doors of their shops when they saw her walking down the narrow stone streets.

It was unsettling to discover that this was a growing segment of the population; their discontent fueled by Tabour’s rousing, public denunciations of her abilities. Many had simply accepted his assessment and packed up their belongings, choosing to leave Nizam before the next storm befell them.

But it was the stoneworkers’ reaction that most astonished Yolara. Though none approached her directly, as word of the incident in the courtyard spread throughout the city, small stone figurines began to appear on the steps and landing outside the palace door, to the great annoyance of the old steward, Dashir.

“There has never been a stoneworker in our royal family before,” said Nayira, attempting to soothe Dashir, who had found Yolara and the Queen in Nayira’s chambers. He held up a woven basket, into which he had placed nearly a dozen of the figurines.

“But must they leave their gifts in the doorway for me to step on?” he asked.

Yolara smiled, taking the basket from him, and setting it on a small table near the door. “Here, sit,” she told the old steward.

Dashir seated himself on a tufted ottoman. Yolara knelt beside him and reached for his injured foot.

“No, my lady,” Dashir said, jerking his foot from her. “It is not seemly.”

Yolara reached again for his foot, taking it firmly in her hand. “Then we shall not speak of it outside this room,” she said.

Above his heavy gray beard, Dashir’s tanned face reddened in embarrassment, but he nodded in agreement, and allowed Yolara to remove his sandal and examine his foot.

The injury was a minor one, just a little bit of bruising; the purpling blotchy against the sand-colored tan skin on the sole of his foot, but there was no real damage. Yolara rested his foot in her lap, then placed her hands to either side of the injured spot and slowed her breathing. Gradually, waves of cool energy began to move between her hands, passing through Dashir’s foot. Yolara heard the old man gasp in surprise, but she kept her own focus on the energy, building a pulsing golden bubble around his foot, replacing the dark energy of the injury with her own.

It took only a moment, no more than a few deep, slow breaths, before the energy coming back to her was clear and clean. Pressing her hands closer to his foot now, Yolara directed the bubble into Dashir’s foot, watching with satisfaction as the healing waves radiated up his leg and throughout his body.

When the bubble had dissipated, Yolara lowered her hands, and looked up at the steward. “Better?” she asked.

Dashir was staring at her in amazement, tears streaming down his leathery face.

Confused by his reaction, Yolara looked from the steward to her grandmother. “Surely you have healers here?”

“Yes, my lady, we do,” Dashir said, moving his foot from her lap and reaching for his sandal. “But for you to give of yourself so, to an old man such as I... I know what it cost you. I am humbled, and grateful.”

“It cost me nothing more than a moment of my time,” Yolara said. She rose and crossed to a small table where she poured herself a glass of apricot nectar.

“It is well known among our people that a healer gives of their own life-energy when they heal another,” Nayira said. “It is for this reason that our healers seldom attend to minor illnesses or injuries. Even I ask little of Ananya, my own healer, out of respect for her well-being.”

Yolara nearly choked on her drink. “That is not true, grandmother,” she said. When both Dashir and Nayira began to protest, she held up her hand to stop them. “No, it is not true,” she repeated. “Listen to me. Since I came into my power, I have been instructed in the healing arts by master healers of five royal houses. I have practiced my art since I was ten years old. I know of what I speak. A healer gives of their own energy, yes, as does any cultivator in the fields, craftsman to his art, or traveler to his journey; but with food and rest in sufficient proportion to the gift given, that energy is restored.”

She finished the last swallow of her juice and set down the glass. “I have not been at all harmed or diminished by the act of healing Dashir’s foot. Whoever told you otherwise was either ignorant of the truth, or being selfish with their gifts.”

Nayira shook her head. “The healers who attended to your mother perished with her—”

“Because they had been working tirelessly to heal so many, with no thought for themselves,” Yolara countered. “Because my mother commanded them to protect my unborn sisters from the fever that was killing her.” She lowered her voice. “Because there are some ailments that cannot be healed.”

She went over to Nayira and knelt before her, taking her grandmother’s hands in her own. “There was nothing the healers could have done for her, grandmother. Everyone begged her to let them care for her, but she was already so weak... she knew she would never survive giving birth. She did not want the twins to die with her.”

“Reinhard never told me,” Nayira whispered.

“And for several years I had only the confused recollections of a frightened child. When my fosterage took me back to Gerlach, I sought out the answers, I studied the records. I pressed Uncle Reinhard until he told me the truth.”

Yolara fell silent, holding her grandmother’s hands for several moments as she and Nayira each relived her own, private grief. It was not until Dashir’s voice, murmuring from across the room, reminded her of his presence that she turned to look at him.

He was standing near the ottoman where she had left him, his arms stretched out in front of him as he stretched his hands, flexing and twisting his fingers. He stared at them in amazement, as though he had never seen them before.

Yolara squeezed her grandmother’s hand, then gestured silently toward Dashir, raising her brows in an unspoken question.

“Is something amiss, Dashir?” Nayira asked.

Dashir looked at her, a wide smile spreading across his face. “Look at my hands, my lady,” he said, raising his hands in front of his face and wiggling his gnarled fingers like a child. “There is no pain in the movement!”

Yolara understood then. The bubble of clear healing energy she had pushed into the old steward’s body had done its work, relieving minor infirmities – including the stiffness that had previously afflicted his joints.

She explained what she had done. “The court healer in Zuria taught me that,” she finished, returning Dashir’s smile.

Dashir folded his arms, tucking his hands into the ends of his broad sleeves, and bowed to Yolara, his long white curls falling forward past his shoulders. “I have often questioned the benefit of the fosterage,” he said, rising. “Now I see that perhaps we have much to learn from our neighbors.”

“And to share with them,” Yolara said. “I lived in five of the Seven Kingdoms during my fosterage. Much of the strength of these nations comes in the knowledge they freely share.”

“You remind me of your mother,” Nayira said, stroking Yolara’s glossy black hair. “She, too, believed as you do. Her deepest desire was to see the world and share its wonders with her children.”

Yolara rested her head on her grandmother’s leg, and the two fell into a companionable silence, until, once again, Dashir interrupted them. This time, however, he simply coughed awkwardly, as though trying to remind them he was there.

She raised her head and looked at him.

“What shall I do with the stoneworkers’ gifts, my lady?”

Yolara glanced over at the basket of figurines, which she had completely forgotten about. “Do you know which of the stoneworkers left them?”

“Some bear maker’s-marks,” Dashir said. “But most do not.”

Yolara nodded. “Leave the figurines with me, I would like to look at them more closely. And... and if it is possible, I would like to meet with any the stoneworkers you can identify.”

“A formal audience?” asked Nayira.

“Oh, no,” Yolara said. “Informal. In the courtyard – it is so pleasant there, beneath the trees. Perhaps with some light refreshment?”

“I will make the arrangements,” said Dashir. “When would you like this to take place?”

“Is this afternoon too soon?” Yolara asked.

“Not at all, my lady,” replied the steward. “We are fortunate that Nizam is a small city with few stoneworkers in residence. There is little stone here for them to work with,” he added by way of explanation.

“But surely they know...” Yolara began, then stopped, shaking her head. “Very well, invite them all – there is room in the courtyard, then?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Yolara studied her sandstone-tipped fingers thoughtfully. “I look forward to meeting my fellow stoneworkers.”

Chapter 4

Yolara looked at the five dozen stoneworkers – men and women of various ages, from eager young teens looking around the courtyard with evident curiosity to white-haired elders who had required assistance to hobble to the stone benches. All were desert-born, with the same rich, bronze skin as Kusan and Respa. But like, herself, each bore the stone fingernails that marked them as stoneworkers, their composition ranging from speckled granite to glittering quartz and polished onyx.

She had welcomed them all, and seen that everyone had been offered food and drink. Then she selected one of the stone figurines – a seated camel – from the basket at her side and stood, raising the small camel for all to see.

“One of you made this lovely token,” she said. She indicated the basket, “And there are several more such gifts, each of which I have received with gratitude.”

There were nods and whispers among her guests, which continued as she placed the stone camel on the table, and then silently set each of the other figurines near it, until all but one of them sat in a row in front of her.

Then she lifted the last one from the basket. This one was larger than the others, about the size of a ripe mango, and was a replica of the palace, complete with the delicate latticework of the wall and door carvings, and small people and plants in the courtyard. Glittering blue jewels formed the river, and a band of shimmering quartz wound in a spiral up the Queen’s Tower.

The other stoneworkers gasped in amazement.

Yolara held the heavy piece up with both hands. “I have seen no finer work in all my travels.” She looked at the stoneworkers. “I thank you all for your gifts.”

She set it down with the rest, then looked at her guests. “I invited you here to thank you all for welcoming me to Nizam as you have. But that is not the only purpose of this gathering.” She moved from behind the table, and walked barefoot among the stoneworkers as she talked. “As you are aware, Queen Nayira will not be able to protect the city from the desert storms for much longer. And as I cannot push the storms back on the wind, we must protect the city in another way.”

Reaching into a pocket of her dress, Yolara withdrew a small gray stone, about the size of a fig. She turned to the nearest stoneworker – a slim, middle-aged man who had introduced himself as Kabir – and asked him. “What could you make of this?”

“A frog, a small bird, or other small creature,” he said. “Perhaps a cluster of fruit. There is little to work with, my lady.”

“Show me.”

Kabir took the stone and held it for a moment, the pale gray in soft contrast to the skin of his palm. Then he closed his other hand over it. He sat there, the stone cupped in his hands for several seconds, an expression of intense concentration on his face. When he opened his hands, the shape of the stone had been transformed into a small dish with a cluster of yolara flowers.

He held it up to Yolara.

“Very nice,” she said with a smile. “Now tell me, as you worked the stone, did you feel anything about it that was at all unusual?”

He shook his head. “No, my lady. It was simply a stone.”

“Even so. May I?” she held out her hand for the small figurine. Kabir set it on her palm, and she closed her fingers over it. “The flowers were lovely, Kabir; I hope you understand that I mean you no disrespect.”

“Of course,” he said, though his forehead furrowed in confusion.

And then Yolara opened her hand. The dish of yolara flowers had transformed into a small frog, which looked so lifelike that several of those gathered jumped back in surprise.

“My lady is skilled,” Kabir said, nodding in approval.

“You gave that no thought at all,” gasped the young woman at his side.

“On the contrary,” said Yolara with a smile. “Thought is exactly what I gave it.” She had learned many techniques of stoneworking during her fosterage, but it was the stoneworkers of Kushar who taught her to see the stone as a fluid. To shape it with a thought. As she spoke, the frog on her open palm shifted, the stone melting and reforming itself into a small bird, its beak open, its wings outstretched.

“It is a technique I would be pleased to teach any of you,” Yolara said. “But it is only a start. As Kabir said, this small stone provides little for us to work with...” Again the stone shifted, this time stretching and extending until Yolara held a delicate cluster of lilies, their slim stems nearly the length of her forearm, the broad leaves and curved petals translucent. Smiling, she held it out to the woman, who accepted it in stunned silence. “...but there is much we can do with it.”

“This is sorcery!”

Yolara whipped her head up to see who had spoken. One of the older stoneworkers had leapt to his feet and stood there, shaking, fists clenched at his sides. At either side, his companions grasped his arms to hold him in place.

“No,” Yolara said calmly, sinking her toes into the sand and gathering the energy into her core. “This is stoneworking. It goes beyond your experience, true, but that should not frighten you.”

“We heard...” someone began, but did not finish.

Yolara looked around, but though several people shifted uncomfortably on their seats, she could not tell who had spoken. “Yes? What have you heard?”

“We have all heard of your encounter with the merchants,” Kabir said, speaking for the group. “How was that done? They say you used sand, my lady.”

“What is sand but stone that the desert has ground into powder? The streets of Nizam are paved with bricks of fused sand.”

“They are difficult to make,” said Kabir.

“I should like to observe the process,” Yolara replied. “But to answer your question, when the merchants accosted me, I simply directed the sand into the shape I desired, and fused it into place.”

As she spoke, Yolara began to turn one hand in lazy circles. A few feet from where she stood, the courtyard sand began to swirl, rising in a gentle spiral until it was the height of a man. As the dust fell away, only a slim coil of stone remained. The stoneworkers leaned forward, some craning their necks to see around the others.

Yolara gave them time to study the coil, inviting any who desired to come forward to touch it, to satisfy themselves that she had truly fused the sand into a solid form. The first few approached it hesitantly, then urged others forward with greater excitement as the implications of the technique began to dawn on them.

Yolara moved casually among the stoneworkers, and for several minutes she answered questions and generally enjoyed herself in their company. But after answering the same question for the third time, and overhearing Kabir passing along her answers to the cluster of stoneworkers who stood near him, she stepped away from the group and clapped her hands for attention.

“I am gratified by your interest and enthusiasm,” she said, “but there are other matters we must still discuss.” She waved her hand and the coil collapsed; then, with a second wave, the pile of sand re-formed itself into a rough depiction of Nizam and the mountain range beyond. Facing the small city, a cloud of sand tumbled in the air.

“If we do nothing,” she said, “the storms will soon bury us. We might be able to survive the first, and even the second, but by the end of a single season, the desert will have claimed the city.”

Heads nodded around the courtyard, and there was murmured agreement from above, the household staff and even the Queen having gathered along the upper balcony to listen.

“But as the earth breaks around the blade of a plow, I propose that we create a shield to protect the city.” With another flick of her hand, a tall wedge of sand rose between the model of the city and the storm.

One of the stoneworkers said, “There is already a wall around the city. The wind will simply carry the sand over it.”

“Then we must build our shield higher.”

The energetic conversation of moments before forgotten, the stoneworkers began to grumble, then shout.

“It cannot be done,” said the woman holding the translucent lily. “No one can build that high.”

Yolara dug her toes in the sand, then silently swept both hands upward, holding them high above her head. In response to her command, a pillar of sand flew into the sky from the center of the courtyard, a second a few meters to one side, a third an equal distance past beyond the first. Sand rushed across the courtyard toward them, first in a whisper, then in a rushing torrent sliding between the legs of the stoneworkers and from beneath their feet. Like living creatures, the grains of sand climbed the pillars, pushing them higher – first above the roof of the palace, then above the height of the Queen’s Tower and the palms that swayed nearby – and still they rose, reaching for the sky.

Then Yolara flicked her fingers wide and the sand stretched between the pillars, creating a fine lattice. As the last grains of sand from the courtyard slid from the now-polished stone floor and up the center pillar, the openings in the latticework closed. With a twist of her wrist, the sand fused into a glittering curtain through which no light could be seen.

Yolara lowered her arms and glared at the stoneworkers. “Do not tell me it cannot be done,” she said, her voice low. “Tell me, rather, that you wish to learn how you can help me save our city.”

With that, she released the sand from the pillars.

⬧

Yolara began working with the stoneworkers the next morning. Kabir, who she had learned was regarded by all as the city’s master stoneworker, had organized them into six groups, according to their skill. Now the first group – comprised of the most adept – joined Yolara at dawn on the hard-packed, sand-swept ground that surrounded the city outside the city wall, Kusan and two of the Queen’s Guard never far away.

She greeted them barefoot, dressed in the same long, full-sleeved tunic over loose-fitting pants she had worn during much of the journey across the desert. Strips of cloth bound the fabric around her forearms and the lower part of her legs to keep the sand from creeping into her clothing, and the carved bone hilt of her dagger was visible in the sash at her waist. She had braided her hair tightly to her head, winding the long tail in a coil that twisted back on itself in multiple loops to keep it out of her face. Yolara was certain that her appearance was not how the stoneworkers had expected to encounter her this morning. So be it.

This was no royal audience, informal or otherwise. This was training, and no occasion to stand on formalities.

“Good morning,” she said, greeting the stoneworkers. “Let us begin.”

She ran the stoneworkers through the same series of exercises her own instructors had repeatedly demanded of her – gathering the sand into a simple cube on the flattened palms of their hands. She watched them closely, assessing their skill as they struggled with the forms, and nodded approvingly at each when the sand remained in its shape instead of slipping through their fingers.

And then she assigned them a different form. A sphere. A knot. Each form slightly more complex than the one before.

At the end of the hour, she released them, in spite of their protests to continue.

“No, even now the next group approaches,” she said with a smile. “Go now, take refreshment and tend to your daily business. But return in the hour after the midday meal. We shall see how well you perform after the sun has heated the sands.”

She worked with each group for an hour, demonstrating and teaching techniques, demanding, yet patient with her instruction. And at the end of each hour, she sent the group away, bidding them to rest and replenish their strength, and then return later in the day.

⬧

“You should also rest and refresh yourself, my lady,” Kusan said, coming up to stand beside her as the third group of stoneworkers crossed paths with the fourth near the city gates. He indicated the pavilion that had been set up a short distance from the training sands. “There is water, dried meat and fruit – simple fare, it is true; but you should at least take a few moments shelter from the sun.”

“There is no time,” Yolara said, turning away from the city and looking out across the desert, a hand raised to shield her eyes. Kusan followed her gaze. Already heat was rising off the sand in visible waves at the horizon, blurring the line between the golden-brown sands and the brilliant blue sky.

“I mean no disrespect, but have your tutors also taught you some secret that allows you to work without depleting your own energy?” Kusan asked. “For I have never seen any practitioner of the magical arts manage that feat. Even my soldiers and I require rest and refreshment after intense training or in preparation for battle – and we lack your magical gifts.”

Yolara turned back and met his steady gaze, and it seemed to Kusan as though she was considering her answer. After a moment, she dipped her head in acknowledgement. “You are correct, of course, Captain. I am filled with such a sense of urgency that I have allowed it to distract me.”

He wondered what she had been about to say, but withheld his question, gesturing instead for her to precede him to the pavilion. As they entered the shaded space, the Princess smiled as she saw her leather slippers, which she had discarded on the training sands, now sitting neatly in the shade near the open tent flap.

Kusan noticed the direction of her gaze. “Why is it that you work barefoot, my lady?” he asked, offering her a cup of cool water.

“It is easier to work with the sand and the stone when I am in contact with it,” she said.

“And you experience no ill effects from the hard ground beneath your feet? Or from the heat of the sands?”

“I have spent the last two years among the Kusharim,” she said, a touch of laughter in her voice. “This stone has been smoothed by the sand, and the sand itself is like warm silk. It is a pleasure to walk here, compared to scrambling barefoot over the rocky fields of the steppes.”

“Why would you do that?”

“The Kusharim do not suffer weakness on the part of their stoneworkers,” she explained, “and even less from members of the ruling family. In truth, I am now more comfortable barefoot than wearing even the lightest of slippers – though that was not always the case.”

Kusan nodded in understanding. “Ah, yes. The Kusharim are a formidable people. Was it your time with them that taught you to carry a blade?”

Yolara brushed a finger over the carved bone hilt of her dagger. “No, this was a gift to me from my first blademaster, a knight in my uncle’s court.” She colored slightly. “My Kushari blademaster considered my skills to be merely adequate.”

“I see,” Kusan said with a slight bow. “If it pleases you, I shall be happy to continue your training.”

“I would like that,” Yolara said, smiling. Looking past him at the group of stoneworkers waiting for her, Yolara finished her drink and gave the cup back to Kusan. “Thank you,” she said. “And now I must get back to my students.”

As she walked back out onto the training sands, Kusan watched her from the opening of the pavilion, a thoughtful expression on his face. This princess was proving to be less and less the fragile creature he had expected her to be. Despite having lived for so long in the luxury of the neighboring kingdoms, there was much of her grandmother’s strength, about her, the strength of the desert-born. He found himself looking forward to getting to know her better.

⬧

As the last group of stoneworkers headed back toward the city at the end of the day, Yolara gratefully accepted the waterskin Kusan held out to her. He had spent much of the day on the training sands as well, returning to the city only briefly in the mid-morning, but leaving another guard there to watch over her during his absence. Now he stood near, holding the reins of both her horse and his own.

“You had a productive day?” he asked.

Yolara nodded, wiping a stray droplet of water from her mouth before re-corking the waterskin and handing it back to him. “Yes,” she said. “Some of them will quickly become adept at working with the sand. Others... will need more practice.”

Kusan nodded, tying the waterskin to his horse’s saddle. “As in all things,” he said. He turned to her, extending her mare’s reins to her. “Are you ready to return to the palace, my lady?”

The late afternoon sun shone off the ochre walls of the city, lighting it with a golden glow. Nizam was her city now, the place where, like her grandmother and all her grandmothers before, she would be bound for the rest of her life.

Yolara took the reins, but instead of mounting the horse, she began to lead it toward the city gate. It had been a long day, and she was both tired and hungry, but oddly energized at the same time. It had felt good to work with the sand, to teach the groups of stoneworkers. To do something that truly mattered. But it was not enough.

Yolara stopped and turned to Kusan, who was following a couple of paces behind her. “This city, her people, and their ways are foreign to me, Kusan – and yet I am to become their queen. Nayira and her advisors can instruct me in the particulars of Nizam’s politics and commerce, but who can teach me the ways of her people and their lives?”

“You will come to know them, as you live among them,” Kusan said.

He was right – but he was also wrong, Yolara thought. Throughout her fosterage, she had been taught that her life would be filled with the business of overseeing and running her kingdom. And while there would surely be opportunities to interact with the people, she feared they would be limited. Too limited to really serve her need.

They walked together through the gate, across the bridge and into the city. The market streets were quiet, with only a few of the shopkeepers still doing business with late customers. But from the side streets she smelled the scents of sizzling meat, heavy with spices, and fragrant rice.

Her stomach growled.

She pressed her hand to her belly. “It has been a long day,” she said with a shrug.

“So it has.” Kusan smiled, then paused, glancing down a narrow alley. He turned to her. “You truly want to learn about the people, yes?”

“Yes, I do,” she said.

He gestured down the alley, taking a step in that direction. “Then you should meet some of them.”

“Oh, Kusan, no,” Yolara said, holding up a hand to stop her mare from following his horse. “I could not barge in on anyone without an invitation. It would be such an imposition.”

“You are my guest,” he said. “And I have a standing invitation in this house.”

Without another word, he walked away.

Yolara stood there, indecisive, but for only a moment as she looked down the alley. The buildings rose two and three stories down its length, the early evening shadows broken by the golden light shining from many of the upper windows and balconies.

The mare nudged her shoulder.

“Very well,” Yolara murmured, and led the mare into the alley, jogging forward to catch up with Kusan.

Halfway down the block, Kusan stopped outside the entrance to a textiles shop. He tied his horse to a small iron ring set into the wall, then stepped aside so Yolara could do likewise.

“The shop is closed, Kusan,” she whispered, gesturing to the heavy fabric panel that had been pulled down over the entry. “There is no lantern lit here.”

“That is not where we are going,” he said. Leading her a few steps past the shop entrance, he stopped in front of a wooden door, painted blue, but with no other adornment. He opened it, revealing a long, narrow flight of stairs.

“After you, my lady.”

Yolara looked up at him. “You are certain?”

Kusan smiled. “I am.” He gestured her forward. “Please.”

“A moment,” she said. She rested her fingertips lightly on his arm. Instantly the desert sand that still clung to their clothes and dusted their hair jumped from them. The golden cloud hung suspended in the air a foot away for only a second before dropping lightly to the ground.

Kusan looked at his sand-free clothing in surprise and then at Yolara. “Nicely done,” he said.

“The Kushari fosterage mistress would not agree,” she said. “She considered such displays ‘frivolous arrogance’ that served no purpose other than to elevate ourselves above those who do not possess such gifts. She encouraged us to be free with our magic in service to others, but also mindful.” Yolara gestured at her informal attire. “I have no magic to make myself more presentable before meeting your friends, but at least we will not carry the sand indoors with us.”

The scent of food and sound of voices raised in laughter and conversation increased as Yolara ascended the stairs.

“Whose home is this, Kusan?” Yolara asked when they reached the top, pausing on a small landing outside a second door.

Kusan did not answer, he just reached past her to open the door.

Yolara put her hand on his to stop him. “Kusan, tell me where we are.”

He answered then, pulling the latch and pushing the door inward as he spoke.

“This is the house of my father and my mother, my sister and her husband, and my youngest brother. I know of no one better to teach you the ways of the Nizami people.”

And then the door swung open, flooding the landing with light and laughter and the heavy fragrance of spiced meat.

⬧

“You look like a Kushari,” Kusan’s mother, Sahana, said to Yolara, studying her sand-and-tan colored clothing as they took seats on cushions around the family’s large, low table. They had given her the seat at the head of the table, which she had at first protested, but Arjun, Kusan’s father, had insisted, and plied her with cushions until she assured him that she was quite comfortable.

“I have spent the last two years in Kushar,” Yolara said.

“The Kusharim dress to blend into the rocks and the desert,” Kusan added.

“You are in Nizam now,” Sahana said, waving away their explanations. “You should dress like a Nizami.” She stared hard at Yolara, then abruptly turned to Kiara. “Bring up the sapphire tunic from the third shelf on the left side and the apricot from the fifth shelf, in the back,” she instructed her daughter. “Choose appropriate pants and scarves for each. Go now.”

As Kiara headed downstairs to the shop, Sahana turned back to Yolara.

“Do you have suitable dresses? Daywear? No, of course you do not. Come back in four days, and we will see you properly attired.” She turned to Kusan, shaking her head at him. “You should have brought her to me straightaway,” she chided him.

Kusan tilted his head in acknowledgment, but Yolara thought she saw him hiding a smile, just as she was biting the inside of her mouth to keep from laughing. Sahana was a small, compact woman, less than half the size of either her son or her husband, yet she clearly ruled the family – firmly, though not unkindly.

“My lady Yolara wishes to acquaint herself with the people and customs of Nizam,” Kusan said.

Sahana leaned back against her cushions and folded her hands in her lap. “Is this true?” she asked Yolara.

“It is,” Yolara said.

“Why?” Sahana asked.

Yolara had not expected the question, but responded quickly, feeling much the same as when she was being examined on matters of language or history or statecraft by her many instructors.

“The rains fall freely in Tusya,” she said. “Here, I am told they fall infrequently. In Gerlach, the tree branches spread to offer shelter to people and animals alike, here, the palms reach upward with only a single trunk topped by a handful of broad leaves.”

She dipped a torn pita into the warm hummus on her plate and raised it. “The Zurians would not offer pitas and hummus to a guest, but a thinner, sweeter bread rolled tightly and covered with berries and sweetened sauce. In Erembourg, they give no thought to the desert sands, but spend their winters wrapped in furs and gathered around large fires while the snow falls outside.”

They were all listening now, even Kiara, who had returned from her errand and was standing quietly just inside the door.

“I have traveled far, and learned the ways of the people of distant lands,” Yolara said. “Now it is my wish to know and understand the Nizami people.”

Sahana nodded. “And when you have learned all you came to Nizam to learn?” she asked. “What then? Where will your travels take you?”

Someone gasped at Sahana’s boldness – Yolara thought it was Kiara – but it was a fair question. And not that surprising, considering the rumors she knew Tabour had been spreading. Sahana had simply given voice to the question she knew many had wanted to ask.

Yolara looked directly across the table at the older woman, meeting her gaze. “I am desert born,” she said. “And while it has been many years since I lived in Nizam, all of my travels and all that I have learned was with a single purpose: to prepare me for my return. My travels are at an end. Now that I am here, I wish to learn so that I may once again call Nizam my home and my people.”

Silence settled over the room. Kiara came over, her slippered footsteps brushing against the woven carpets loud in the stillness. She placed the small bundle of folded clothing on the cushion beside Yolara, then gave her a little smile before going around the table and taking her seat next to her husband.

Yolara waited. She had said all she had to say, and would not diminish it by elaborating further. Sahana’s reaction would determine anything she might say next.

After nearly five full minutes, Sahana finally spoke. “They tell me you were outside the city with several of the stoneworkers today,” she said.

“Yes,” Yolara said. “I was teaching them some of the sandworking techniques I learned in Kushar.”

“Hmm,” Sahana said.

“The Princess has been most generous with her time,” Kusan said, from his seat at the opposite end of the table. “She will be working with the stoneworkers again tomorrow, and for the next several days.”

Yolara was almost certain Kusan had referred to her by her title rather than her name as a reminder to his mother, but if Sahana felt any sort of chastisement for her bluntness in speaking to a member of the royal household, she did not show it.

“Very well,” she said, as if she had come to some sort of decision. She looked over at her eldest son, “Bring her here every day, at the noon hour, and we will see that you are fed—”

“Really, no—” Yolara protested.

When Kusan nodded his agreement, Sahana continued, turning her sharp gaze to Yolara. “—and I will introduce you to the families of your stoneworkers, the shopkeepers who line our streets, and the cultivators who grow the food that fills our tables. When you have more time, Arjun and Rehan can introduce you to the merchants and traders with whom we all do business.” She was still looking at Yolara, but her husband and son both nodded their agreement of the plan.

Yolara again opened her mouth to protest, then stopped herself. Sahana was offering her exactly the opportunity she had asked for. Taking two hours out of the middle of each training day would mean regrouping the stoneworkers into five groups instead of six, but that was easily enough done. And it would have the added benefit of allowing them all a respite from the hottest hours of the day – a luxury her Kusharim mentors would have scoffed at, but a kindness Yolara knew would inspire the stoneworkers to even greater effort during the rest of the day.

She looked around the table at Kusan’s family. On her right, Arjun was smiling broadly, looking at Sahana with pride and affection. On the left, Kiara and Samar had leaned back against the cushions, sitting close together as the newly married do. Just beyond them, Rehan was feigning indifference, but his gaze kept travelling from his mother to his older brother and then back to Yolara.

And at the end of the table, Kusan wore an expression of inscrutable calm, as though they were playing a game of strategy and he was waiting to see what she would do next.

“I thank you for your kind offer, Sahana,” Yolara said. “It will give me great pleasure to join you for the midday meal.”

⬧

For the next several days, Yolara worked with the stoneworkers from sunrise until midday, and again in the afternoon until the sun dipped toward the horizon. And each day, as the crowd watching them from the city wall grew, she recognized more of the faces from the all-too-short lunches with Sahana and Kiara, who she quickly began to think of as friends.

Out on the sands, Yolara ignored their audience, focusing all her attention on the stoneworkers, training them to manipulate the sand into increasingly complex shapes with only a thought, and then fuse them into stone with a gesture.

As the more skilled mastered the techniques, the quiet, often contemplative Kabir foremost among them, she reorganized the groups, letting them help teach each other. This allowed her to move from group to group, offering suggestions, teaching them to build the shield they would need to protect the city.

Each night she returned to her chambers exhausted, nearly too tired to eat the simple meals of savory rice, vegetable stew, and flatbread Respa set out for her before falling into her bed. While the days were hot and clear, her dreams were filled with storms.

And though prophecy was not among her gifts, Yolara knew the next storm would not be long in coming.

Chapter 5

Yolara awoke in a cold sweat, gasping for air. Disoriented, she sat bolt upright, struggling with the blanket tangled around her legs, and looking around in confusion for several seconds before the sandstorm haze of the dream finally faded.

The room was dark, but she recognized the grillwork covering the windows, where the moonlight shone through, casting patterned shadows across the floor.

She was in Nizam. In the palace. In her own chambers.

Drawing her knees to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her legs and leaned forward, resting her forehead on her knees. She sat there for some time, catching her breath, seeking comfort in her familiar surroundings. But each time she closed her eyes, she saw them: her father, mother, and older sister, feverish and delirious; but instead of lying there, weak and helpless on their deathbeds, they chased her through a sandstorm, their images twisting and blurring until they were no longer the people she loved, but had become part of the raging storm which threatened to consume her.

Finally, she rose and poured herself a cup of water, which she sipped at as she paced back and forth in the shadows. When she finished, she wrapped a long scarf around her shoulders and left her chambers.

The night was cold, the gentle desert breeze lifting her hair, tugging at her scarf, and cooling her sweat-soaked sleeping gown. Yolara shuddered and pulled the scarf closer, but did not return to her room. The air felt good on her skin, cleansing the last remnants of the dream.

She followed the balcony to the Queen’s Tower, climbing the winding stair cautiously in the darkness, with only the starlit opening above to light her way. When she reached the rooftop, she moved quickly to the low, waist-high wall that surrounded the tower, rested her hand on the cool stone, and stood there for several minutes, looking beyond the city for any sign of a storm on the horizon. But the desert was still – a dark, velvet blanket extending as far as she could see, until it met the glittering expanse of the star-filled sky.

She turned, then, her back to the desert as she faced the mountains, the moonlight glinting off the jagged line where the peaks met the sky and blotted out the stars. She stared longingly at the rugged peaks. Though she had been born in Nizam, she had few memories of her childhood here. Her memories of the three years of her fosterage in Gerlach, when she returned as a young teenager to her uncle’s mountainous kingdom, were far more vivid. Uncle Reinhard had often teased her about her love of the mountains, but when she came into her stoneworker’s magic, he had looked down at her with tenderness. “You are of your father’s blood,” he said, “and can trace your lineage to the very mountains. You should always have a place of stone you can call your own.”

Uncle Reinhard paused for a moment, then smiled. “The Tzigani Mountains shake from time to time, but they also border your homeland. When you marry, I will gift them to you as a wedding present.”

Yolara smiled, looking out at the mountains. Uncle Reinhard had not meant it, to be sure – one did not give a mountain as a gift – but it gave her comfort to think of the mountains as hers, and she finally felt the tension of the nightmare begin to ease.

She was surrounded by the darkness and the night – even the moon only showed half of its face, revealing the buildings below in shallow shadows. It was quiet here, peaceful, the sound of the river only a soft gurgle and chuckle, the breeze a whisper that carried with it the song of frogs along the riverbanks and camels belching in their sleep. In the distance, either heard or imagined, the rhythmic thrum of drums, barely louder than her own heartbeat, accompanied singing that may have been voices somewhere in the city below or nothing more than the wind whispering in her ears.

The sound of a footstep behind her startled her, and Yolara turned just as someone emerged from the stairway.

“Who is there?” she whispered.

“It is I, Kusan,” the shadow replied, taking a step closer. “My lady? Is that you?”

“I could not sleep.”

“Nor I,” he said. “I saw movement here...” He bowed and stepped back toward the stairs. “Forgive my intrusion. I will leave you to your meditations.”

“Kusan, wait,” Yolara said, holding out her hand toward him.

“My lady?”

She hesitated. She was not sure why she stopped him, only that she was not yet ready to attempt to sleep, but no longer wished to be alone. Kusan was as close to a friend as she had in Nizam. “I thought I heard drums. And singing,” she said finally.

Kusan stepped away from the stairs, coming over to stand near her. He listened for a moment, his head tilted. “Yes,” he said. “It comes from the caravanserai – just there, where the caravans make their camp. You see?” he pointed over the rooftops toward a place where fingers of golden light flickered through the leaves of the surrounding trees and danced with the shadows on the walls.

“I should like to see it.”

In the moonlight, Kusan’s expression seemed quizzical, and it was only then that Yolara realized that he was no longer wearing the knee-length, dark coat identifying him as Captain of the Queen’s Guard, but had changed into a long, sleeveless tunic and loose trousers, both in a pale color that caught the moonlight. She was suddenly reminded that she was wearing a light sleeping gown, covered only by the thin silk of the scarf wrapped around her shoulders. “But if you are heading to your bed...”

“No, my lady. Sleep eludes me this night as well. I would be pleased to escort you.”

“I will change into something more suitable,” she said, grateful for the darkness that hid the color she felt warming her face.

“Very well. I shall await you in the courtyard.”

⬧

Kusan stepped aside, allowing Yolara to precede him down the winding tower stairs, the swish of her gown like a whisper in the darkness. When they reached the balcony level, the Princess paused, turning back toward him. Her long, hair fell in a thick, dark wave, cascading over her shoulder, and Kusan found himself rendered momentarily speechless.

“I will not be long,” Yolara said.

“Take what time you need,” he replied with a slight bow, glad she had not changed her mind. “You need not hurry on my account.”

He watched her as she walked away, the moonlight reflecting off the pale silk of her gown as she moved, wraith-like and silent, along the smooth wooden balcony. When she reached the end and turned toward her chambers, Kusan stepped deeper into the shadow of the tower, the idea that she might look back and see him watching her sending an inexplicable wave of embarrassment through him. He brushed away the unfamiliar feeling like a bit of dust. He was the Captain of the Queen’s Guard; it was his responsibility to watch over the Princess.

But even as he reminded himself of his position, Kusan was forced to admit that his current actions were not borne purely from a sense of duty.

He wanted to spend time with Yolara. Not as a guard, watching out for his charge, but as a man in the company of an intelligent, beautiful woman. A woman whose birthright and position put her far beyond his reach, it was true, but such was the nature of the dreams that woke him in the night, driving him from his bed and into the cold – only to place the object of his imagination in his path.

And yet, he couldn’t help but notice that she rarely called him “Captain” any more, but now nearly always called him by name.

He shook his head, dispelling the notion. She was simply more relaxed with him now that they were both part of her grandmother’s household. The familiarity meant nothing more.

With a sigh, he turned away, continuing down the winding stairs to the courtyard, then quickly making his way to his own quarters. He had thrown on the first articles of clothing that had come to hand when the inability to sleep had finally agitated him to the point of abandoning the attempt. The lightweight tunic and trousers he now wore would have been suitable for the series of exercises he had intended to perform in an effort to exhaust his body sufficiently that the mind would have no choice but to follow it into sleep. But, like the Princess, he, too, needed to change into more appropriate attire before going out into the city.

It was an interesting choice, he thought as he dressed, for the Princess to ask to go out to the caravanserai. The nobles who occasionally visited Nizam had never expressed interest in such common entertainments, preferring instead to sit on cushions in the Queen’s audience chambers, amid lavish displays of food and drink while musicians played and dancers performed for them. In this, he suspected that Princess Yolara was more like Queen Nayira, who provided the extravagant feasts for her visitors, but had little use for them herself, withdrawing from the festivities as soon as it was politic to do so.

Kusan tucked the ends of a colorful sash, interwoven in patterns of black and orange and gold, around his waist, then slid his short, curved sword into the folds of fabric. In deference to the Princess, who was almost certainly anticipating an hours’ pleasant amusement, he had chosen the brightly-colored sash and a long, black coat instead of the usual uniform of gold and dark brown he wore in his position as a guard. But officially or not, he was the Princess’ protector, and he would not venture out into the night with her without his sword.

Plucking a heavy woolen cloak from a peg on the wall, he left his room, settling the fabric over his shoulders as he strode into the courtyard to await the Lady Yolara.

⬧

Suppressing a shiver, Yolara drew up her hood, grateful that she had thought to catch up the long, woolen coat before going down to meet Kusan. The green silk tunic and leggings she had changed into would have been comfortable enough in the heat of the day, but the thin fabric was inadequate against the cold night air.

The half-circle of the moon lit their way, filtering through the canopy of the trees as she and Kusan walked toward the caravanserai. Rather than navigate the maze of streets and their moonlit shadows, Kusan turned to the left, leading them along the wide road that followed the curve of the river as it circled the city. The drumming beckoned them onward, moonlight glinting off the water and outlining the irregular shapes of the fused-sand bricks that paved the road.

The caravanserai was situated along a broad field of oft-trampled grass on the far side of the southwestern curve of the river, between the river and the city wall. There were fewer trees here, and only scattered clusters of tall palms grew near the long row of stables with their temporary lodgings above. The field was dotted with numerous tents, and separated by the dark mounds of sleeping camels. Only three large caravans were in the city at the moment, though there was room enough for more than triple that number.

The drumming was coming from the third caravan, and Yolara could see the outlines of men swaying to the rhythm in the flickering firelight. As they crossed the bridge and started across the field, Yolara hesitated, laying her hand on Kusan’s arm.

“Beyond our limited time with those we accompanied on our journey here, I do not know the ways of caravaners. Will they resent the intrusion?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Listen. That is Tusyan drumming. They will welcome you. I would be more reluctant to impose on a Kushari caravan.”

Yolara laughed. “The Kusharim are fierce,” she said, “but they enjoy life with as much passion as they fight. I would have no fear joining in their revels with you at my side.” Then, as if lured by a burst of laughter from the Tusyan camp, she started forward, tugging at Kusan’s sleeve. “Come. I have had enough of work since you brought me to Nizam – and still more to look forward to. For this night, let us join in the merriment.”

And so they did. The Tusyan caravaners bid them welcome, inviting them to sit on the blankets spread around their large fire, over which roasted a pig and several chickens. They offered skins of bitter wine and small bowls of kumis, the fermented horse milk they cooled by submerging clay jugs of the brew into the river. Seated on a blanket on the other side of the fire, a lean, white-haired wind dancer watched them, his brilliant blue eyes glinting in the firelight, his long, pale fingers stroking the goat curled by his side. In his other hand, he raised his own drinking bowl in salute.

Yolara nodded back, then sipped at the kumis, savoring the slight flavor of almonds on her tongue beneath the bite of the cool liquid. With each sip, the tension that had been building for the past days drained from her, and soon she was tapping her foot in time to the drumming and swaying from side to side with the spirited music. Nearby, a trio of Tusyans danced, their heavy boots raising clouds of dust. They whirled in such tight, fast circles that their cloaks rose around them like fluttering wings and the fire billowed in the breeze.

Twirling her fingers, Yolara caught the dust and sent it swirling high above their heads, to the delight and amazement of the caravaners. Then the wind dancer joined in the dance, his bare feet barely skimming the ground as the air currents at his control lifted his lithe, slender frame.

“Dance with me,” Yolara said to Kusan when the music had slowed to a less breathtaking pace. Setting aside her empty cup she grabbed him by the arm, dragging him into the circle with her. She laughed with the Tusyans as they stumbled through the complicated dance, and lifted her voice with the caravaners’ when they broke into a merry folk tune she recognized from her fosterage in their lands.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” she told Kusan much later, as they began to make their way back to the palace. The music, drink, and dancing had done their work, and she felt more lighthearted now than she had for many weeks. “It is good to remember the people we work so diligently to protect.”

They were retracing their steps along the river, the partially hidden face of the moon now much too low in the sky to provide any useful light in the shaded, narrow city streets. A rustling in the tall grass at the water’s edge caught her attention, and a moment later a large rat ran out of the grass, paused to look up at Yolara, then crossed the road and disappeared into the shadows between the buildings, followed almost immediately by a second rat, that behaved in a similar manner.

Yolara looked after the rodents. “That was unusual,” she said.

Kusan touched her elbow and urged her to walk faster. “We must hurry, my lady,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I fear you are not safe here.”

“You fear the rats?” Yolara said, quickening her steps to keep pace with Kusan.

“Not the rats,” he replied. “But their master—”

Before he could complete his sentence, several men stepped from the shadows into the road ahead. Yolara counted eight, but could identify none of them, the darkness combining with the hoods of their heavy cloaks to obscure their features.

Kusan stepped forward, putting himself between Yolara and the group and drawing his sword. “Let us pass,” he said.

“I do not think so,” said one of the hooded men. Though she could not see either his face or distinctive tattoos beneath the hood, Yolara thought she recognized the whisperer’s harsh voice.

“I had not thought to find you sneaking about in the night like a common thief, Tabour,” Kusan said, confirming Yolara’s suspicion. “I thought your thievery limited to the exorbitant prices you charge for your merchandise.”

Tabour pushed back his hood and grinned, his expression feral in the dim light. “A good merchant seizes opportunities where and when they present themselves.” He gestured toward Yolara, who had moved to stand at Kusan’s side. “And I have been looking forward to the chance to return the Princess’s hospitality.”

Tabour and his men began to move forward, all bearing short, curving Kushari swords.

“Stay back,” Kusan whispered to Yolara as he tossed his cloak to the side of the road and raised his sword, preparing to fight their attackers.

But though Yolara had her hand on her dagger, and was prepared to draw it, she was watching Tabour. He was an animal whisperer; he would not rely on the strength of his blade alone.

And then she saw it – a slight movement, little more than a parting of his lips as he silently whispered to his small followers, his call answered by the scrabbling sound of claws on stone. Yolara glanced behind her.

The road was filling with rats.

They poured from the shadows between the buildings, rose from the grasses at the river’s edge; dozens of them, then hundreds, transforming the road into a seething, squealing, river of fur and fang. The nearest of the rodents was little more than a meter away, creeping cautiously toward her.

Yolara shuddered involuntarily, stepping away from the oncoming horde only to find her back pressing against Kusan’s. He glanced at her in concern, but she shook her head and drew away from him. He had enough to occupy him; she would deal with the rodents.

Keeping a close eye on the advancing rats, Yolara lifted one foot, reaching behind her to push off her leather slipper.

As it dropped to the road, the rats surged forward.

Yolara stamped her bare foot on the fused stone bricks. A wave of power coursed through her and out in an arc toward the oncoming rodents. There was no time to send sand spiraling up to ensnare them individually or even in groups – they were moving too quickly. Instead, she broke the bonds holding the fused bricks together, reducing them to fine sand.

It was not enough.

The rats leading the horde stumbled, caught unawares by the shifting surface beneath their feet. Undaunted, those behind simply ran over the backs of their unfortunate brethren, their glittering eyes intent on Yolara.

She threw up a wave of sand, tossing the rats back onto each other, against the nearby buildings and into the river.

They quickly righted themselves and renewed their attack.

She raised a wall to block them.

The rats scrabbled over each other, a pile of squirming, squealing, hissing creatures supporting the others as they climbed higher and higher. Others avoided the barrier altogether, diving into the river and swimming around it. Yolara pushed the wall higher – until she could barely see over it – and wider, until it extended from the building at her left, across the road, and through the water to the city wall on the opposite side of the river.

The pile of rats continued to rise. In a matter of moments, they would pour over the wall.

Behind her, she heard the clang of steel on steel, grunts and cries of pain as Kusan and Tabour’s henchmen fought, but she could do nothing to help him until she had dealt with the rats.

Drawing deeply on the energy of the stone beneath her single bare foot, Yolara opened a deep chasm beneath the throng of rodents, using the wall of sand to push those that did not immediately fall into the gap. She pulled the wall in close around them now, using the barrier as a trap, forcing the rats into the chasm, burying them faster than they could dig themselves out, then fusing the sand into stone.

By the time the last rat was gone, Yolara was so drained from her efforts that it was only the energy flowing into her through her bare foot that allowed her to remain standing.

She turned, slowly.

Of the half-dozen men who had joined Tabour in the attack, five lay in crumpled heaps on the road. Only one still fought with Kusan – though he seemed to be failing under the warrior’s blows. Tabour himself was standing a short distance away, as though merely an observer at a sporting event.

Or waiting his turn to attack Kusan, after the warrior had spent his strength fighting the others.

Watching the fight, Yolara thought that Kusan seemed to have barely expended any energy at all – if anything, the fight appeared to have energized the warrior. The swords clashed and sang as metal slid against metal, then sprang apart before coming together again. Yolara gasped as Kusan spun, dodging his attacker’s blow, then swung his own blade with a terrifying ferocity, striking him across the back of the head with the flat of his blade. The man flew forward, landing face-first on the fused-brick road, and then lay still.

Kusan glanced over his shoulder at Yolara, then turned to face Tabour, his wide, wickedly-curved blade held at the ready.

“Well, Tabour?”

Tabour held up his free hand. “I have no argument with you, Kusan.”

“If you have an argument with Princess Yolara, you have an argument with me,” Kusan said, his voice a harsh, dry whisper, like the wind through dry palm fronds.

Yolara stepped forward, resting a hand on Kusan’s arm, as much for support as to get his attention. Kusan looked at her, worry evident in his dark eyes as she closed her hand tightly on his forearm.

“Hold,” she murmured, before he could speak. She was still too weak to stand for very long, and relied on the strength of his arm to camouflage her exhaustion. To Tabour, she said, “I am not yet Queen of Nizam, so it is not my place to pass judgement upon you.”

As a triumphant sneer twisted his thick lips, she continued, anger chilling her voice, “However, as a member of the royal family, I condemn you and your cohorts for this assault on me.”

Tabour laughed. “I never attacked you, Princess,” he said, spitting out her title as though the word offended him.

“There are a thousand dead rats who would prove the lie of that claim,” Yolara said calmly. Leaning on Kusan, she began to gather energy into her free hand.

“I see no rats,” Tabour said, looking past her with exaggerated motions.

“I will be happy to produce them when the need arises. In the meantime, I would not have you roaming the city harassing innocent people.”

She thrust her hand toward him, and the bricks beneath his feet turned to sand. Tabour stumbled, but Yolara was not finished. She clenched her fist and the sand rose around his legs in a ball, lifting him off his feet. Yolara made a gesture as if throwing the gathered energy, and like a striking cobra, the mound of sand holding Tabour flung him across the river at the city wall.

But instead of crashing into the hard surface, the sand and clay and stone opened to receive him, sucking the merchant in, limbs flailing, as his terrified screams grew muffled.

⬧

“My lady, do not do this,” Kusan whispered, his fingers light on her arm. She was trembling, whether from anger or exhaustion he could not tell.

Yolara closed her eyes for a moment, then nodded slightly and turned her hand upward, her sandstone-tipped fingers moving in a circling motion. Tabour’s body rotated beneath the shifting rock and sand of the wall, his face reappearing.

“You shall not summon any creature to your aid,” she said as the rough grains slid from his eyes and nose. With a gesture she drew a thin band of sand over his mouth, then fused it into stone, sealing his lips and locking his jaw in place.

“Do any of them have wounds that require attention?” she asked.

Kusan looked over at the ruffians he had fought. “No, my lady,” he said, sheathing his sword.

“Good,” she said, the exhaustion now evident in her voice. “I have no desire to wake a healer, and am too tired to attend them myself.”

He watched in fascination as she passed her hand from right to left in a broad, sweeping gesture. Beneath the unconscious fighters, the fused bricks softened, their unconscious bodies settling into the fine sand. After ensuring that their faces were fully exposed, Yolara then re-solidified the bricks around them, locking them in place.

“If jackals come in the hours before dawn, they have only themselves to blame,” she said.

“There are no jackals in Nizam,” said Kusan. “At least, not of the four-legged variety.”

“Then they have nothing to fear.” Yolara turned away from them and looked at Kusan. “Thank you.”

“My lady?”

Yolara glanced toward Tabour, then back to Kusan, meeting his gaze. “For not letting me become one of them,” she said, her voice soft.

Kusan nodded. “It is ever my pleasure to protect and defend the Princess... from whatever dangers present themselves.”

Yolara smiled weakly and dipped her own head.

As she did, her body suddenly seemed to grow as fluid as the sand she had recently been working, and she sank toward the ground.

Swiftly Kusan caught her in his arms, holding her limp form close to him.

“Are you ill?” he asked, his voice rough with concern.

“Tired, she whispered, resting her head against his shoulder. “Take me home, my friend. We have much to do tomorrow, and morning will come all too soon.”

As Kusan carried Yolara back to the palace, he marveled at the complicated woman he held in his arms. How quickly she had gone from the playful girl, laughing and dancing in the Tusyan camp, to the ferocious warrior, doing her part to battle their attackers without hesitation. And while her Kushari tutors would likely have expected more from her, he could not fault her performance.

Her breathing had slowed to the soft, rhythmic sighs of sleep as he walked, and Kusan was deeply touched by the trust that signified. He quickened his pace, and when he came in sight of the guards watching at the palace gate, shifted the Princess slightly so he could signal for silence.

“She sleeps, that is all,” he whispered in response to their worried queries. To the female guard, he said, “Follow.”

He carried the Princess up the stairs to her chambers, the guard opening the door wide so Kusan could pass easily. It was only after he had carefully deposited her on her bed and was reaching for a blanket that he noticed that she wore only one slipper.

Whether the other had fallen during the fight and been lost to the rats, or had dropped as he carried her and now lay forgotten on the street, he did not know. A sudden surge of emotion welled through him as he looked down at her, lying there so still, so quiet. She was such a blend of strength and vulnerability...

He reached out, almost touching her slim, bare foot, but checked himself at the last moment, remembering the guard he had assigned to stand watch in the doorway behind him. Catching up the blanket, he pulled it up, settling it gently on her shoulders.

“Sleep well, my lady,” he whispered. “No harm will come to you this night, or any other. I swear it.”

Chapter 6

Yolara stood in the great hall, facing the Queen. She was acutely aware of the stares and murmurs of the merchants and tradespeople who had pressed into the palace behind her, eager to hear the account of Tabour’s attack and how the Princess had defended herself.

News of the incident had spread through the city like a whirlwind after the sand-trapped ruffians had been discovered that morning. Nayira had sent guards, together with a pair of the stoneworkers Yolara had trained, to bring them back to the palace. The aging Queen had listened to the reports grim-faced, the stormclouds in her kohl-lined eyes darkening as her gaze moved from Yolara and Kusan to Tabour and his companions.

Yolara forced herself to stand tall, her breath calm, her hands relaxed at her sides, though the little rest she had gotten before being summoned to the hall had barely replenished her energy at all. She craved sleep; barring that, the feel of sand beneath her feet, and wished they had gathered in the courtyard, rather than on the polished wooden floor of the great hall.

At her side, Kusan was a reassuring presence. They had not spoken to each other, but just as they had stood together during the fight the night before, the warrior’s confidence strengthened her. She was tempted to stretch her fingers toward him and touch his hand for no reason she could clearly identify. But numerous lessons in proper court behavior during her fosterage won out over the exhaustion-induced temptation toward impropriety.

Then Nayira stood, regal in an elegant, maroon gown, the lantern-light of the hall reflecting off the strips of russet-colored silk that edged the long, full sleeves and high collar. The crowd stilled instantly, and the clink of her heavy bracelets of copper, gold, and silver echoed in the sudden silence.

“We live in a harsh land,” the Queen began. “And all here must work together to preserve our city. There is no place in Nizam for murderers – particularly for those who would endanger the life of a member of the royal family.”

Nayira looked to Kusan, the rubies in the slim copper circlet on her snow-white hair glittering like small fires. “You are Captain of the Queen’s Guard, and know the law. Yet you let these men live. Why?”

Kusan’s deep voice echoed through the great hall. “They attacked the Princess in secret, hidden by the shadows of the night. I believed that their punishment should be delivered in the full light of day, where no shadows protect them.”

Yolara listened as carefully to every word as did the crowd of onlookers, but for a different reason than idle curiosity. Her fosterage in the neighboring kingdoms had taught her a great deal of their varied laws and customs, but beyond the histories she had read when she first arrived, she had not been tutored in the ways of Nizami law. How her grandmother judged this matter would teach her much.

Nayira nodded. “And so it shall be.” She turned her attention to the criminals. “On this day, you will be taken to a place outside the walls of Nizam, where your blood will be spilled on the sands, and your bodies left for the carrion birds and the winds.”

The condemned men – who had been forced to their knees by the guards – gibbered in fear and begged for their lives and the lives of their families. Behind her, Yolara heard a woman choke back a sob.

“And what of our families?” Tabour asked. “Will you throw them off the wall while our blood soaks into the sand?” Like the others, he was on his knees, but he held his back straight, his head raised, his manner proud and defiant. Only the flush of color reddening the dark skin surrounding the colorful whisperer’s tattoos on his scalp bore witness to his internal agitation.

“If I wished to punish your families for your crimes, I would throw them off the wall while you watched,” Nayira replied, her voice brittle. “As they have done no wrong, they will not be harmed.”

“I do not believe you.”

As Nayira opened her mouth to speak, Yolara quietly moved a half-step forward. The Queen saw her, and paused, her fingers fluttering slightly as her voice whispered in Yolara’s ear. “I will give him to you to deal with, if you are ready.”

Yolara dipped her head in a barely-perceptible nod.

Nayira raised a hand, palm up, toward Tabour. “You should be more cautious with the lives of those you claim to value, Tabour. I was willing to be lenient, and not hold your families accountable for your crimes. I now retract that decision—”

“As you intended to do all along,” Tabour growled.

Nayira ignored him. “—and give the task of passing judgement to your intended victim, and heir to my crown, the Princess Yolara.” She extended a hand toward Yolara, who came forward to stand beside her.

“Do with them as you will,” Nayira said, then returned to her seat.

Yolara looked out at the gathering. Easily a hundred people had crowded into the great hall, with more filling the courtyard beyond. And everyone – merchants, tradespeople, guards, caravaners – all were watching her, waiting to see how she would judge Tabour and his followers.

“I will abide by Queen Nayira’s decision, punishing these men for their actions, while holding their wives and children blameless,” she began. A low murmur rippled through the crowd. She raised her hand for silence. “If you believe as Tabour does, that your lives are in any way endangered by this judgement, you are welcome to gather your belongings and leave Nizam. Forever. None should remain in our lands who do not feel safe within the city walls.”

The murmur rippled again through the crowd. Yolara stood in silence, watching their reactions. She did not feel particularly regal, dressed in a sleeveless indigo tunic over close-fitting leggings of the same shade, with a long silk scarf the creamy color of goat’s milk draped over one shoulder, the hilt of her dagger visible above the sash at her waist. She had been summoned directly from her bed, and barely had time to don clothes and brush her hair, which tumbled in long, loose waves over her shoulder. But her tutors had taught her that it was not her clothing that proclaimed her a princess in the eyes of her people, but her bearing and how she conducted herself. So as she stood there now, tall and unwavering, she watched as the crowd accepted her decision – and then waited to see what more she had to say.

“As for you, Tabour,” she said when the crowd finally settled. “You, who planned the attack on my life, who betrayed the rodents who responded to your whisperer’s summons – spilling your blood on the sands is too merciful a death for you.”

She looked at Tabour, meeting his hostile stare with her own, steady gaze, and when she spoke, her voice was as calm and chill as the ice that stilled running water in winter. “As I imprisoned you in the wall during the night, so shall you be imprisoned again – but not within the city, to torment the law-abiding residents who dwell here. Instead, you will be imprisoned in Nizam’s outer wall, where you will watch as your companions receive their reward for trusting in your treachery. You will see the carrion birds eat their flesh. And, if you are very fortunate, Tabour, the desert will take you before the carrion-eaters pry your living flesh from the walls.”

For a long moment after she finished, no one moved or spoke; the only sound in the great hall the rushing of the river below, buzzing of insects, and chirping of small birds from the courtyard.

Yolara turned her head toward Kusan. “See to the prisoners.”

Kusan nodded, and with a gesture, his guards pulled the condemned men to their feet and began to guide them out of the hall. Tabour fought against them, cursing and shouting until they subdued him. “Put no faith in this false Princess!” he cried. “She is a stoneworker, and will give Nizam to the desert. Flee while you can—”

The crowd pulled sharply back on either side to let them pass, then filled in behind them, voices rising as they followed.

It was like watching the sands sift through an hourglass, Yolara thought, trying not to hear Tabour’s condemnation ringing in her ears. Instead she watched the motion of the multicolored robes like so many grains pressing against each other, funneling toward the narrow opening as the people left first the hall, then flowed out of the courtyard and into the street beyond.

“You have never passed judgement before,” said Nayira from behind her. It was a statement, not a question.

“I have not.”

“You did well – and judged fairly.”

Yolara clasped her trembling hands together and did not turn to face the Queen. “Does it get easier?” she asked.

“No. And yes,” Nayira replied.

“I did not expect to be so nervous,” Yolara said. “This is what I have been trained for...” she let the thought trail off, unfinished.

“And your training will serve you well, until the day it does not,” Nayira said. “Do not look so surprised, my child. There will come a time – it happens to us all – when you are faced with a challenge that your mentors did not forsee, did not prepare you for. How you act in the face of that challenge will determine the queen you truly are.”

They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, each lost in their own thoughts.

“You told them that I am your heir,” Yolara said, her voice barely breaking the silence.

“I did.”

“I am not a weather witch.” Now Yolara did turn toward Nayira.

“No, you are not,” Nayira said. “But you are of my house, which makes you a Daughter of the Wind, regardless of your gifts. If there is a way to save Nizam without the benefit of weather magic, you will be the one to find it.” The Queen smiled gently and held out her hand. “I was wrong to judge you so harshly when you arrived. When the time comes, you will be queen of Nizam, and you will lead our people wisely and well.”

Yolara moved forward and took Nayira’s hand, noticing for the first time the fragile, bird-like bones, the fading color of the older woman’s hand, the delicate skin as fragile as the dry outer covering of an onion.

“Thank you, grandmother,” she whispered, afraid to speak properly for fear that her voice would break and the tears that filled her eyes would spill down her face as her healer’s touch told her that Nayira’s days were, like the sand in an hourglass, rapidly slipping away.

⬧

Kusan looked at Yolara across the sharp edge of his short dagger. The Princess stood opposite him in a relaxed posture, grinning wickedly. She had raised her arms in a loose “x” over her chest, her left hand closed into a fist while her right held her own dagger, the blade edge toward him.

After the previous night’s encounter with the traders, the Princess had insisted that they practice with actual blades, in the Kusharim style, rather than with the semi-hardened clay blades Kusan and his guards often used in their training sessions. Now they circled each other warily, their feet moving across the thin layer of sand that covered the courtyard, a soft shushing barely audible above the gurgling water below them.

Kusan’s eyes never left Yolara, noting the placement of her feet, the shifting of her weight as she slid to one side, loose tension in her arms. He noted the seeming vulnerability of her unprotected waist and suspected a trap if he were to strike at the too-obvious target.

Behind him, someone gasped, coming upon the unexpected scene. Yolara’s glance flicked past him and then back in an instant, but that was the opportunity he had been waiting for. Kusan moved toward her, closing the distance between them in two long steps, blade flashing as it arced toward her. He had chosen his target carefully. With her arms raised, her upper core was protected, and she could easily bring them down to defend her center mass. But she would have to overreach to protect her left arm with the blade in her right hand, and his greater height and longer arms gave him the advantage.

His blade sliced through green silk. From the balcony above them, someone – Respa, perhaps? – cried out. But as the blade slid free of the loose fabric, failing to find purchase in solid flesh, it was Kusan’s turn to be surprised.

A musical laugh drew his attention to where Yolara now stood, a half-step from her original position, the torn sleeve of her overshirt still fluttering from her movement.

“You nearly had me,” she said, shaking her head.

“I expected you to lunge toward me, return the blow,” Kusan said. “Not twist away.”

“Most men are larger and stronger,” Yolara said with a shrug. “I have to be selective in my attacks.” She glanced downward, at her right hand.

Kusan followed the direction of her glance and his face split into a broad grin. The Princess’s blade hovered a mere fraction of an inch from his exposed kidney. Had they actually been fighting, her defensive move would have put her in the perfect position to have easily injured him.

“Well done,” he said, meeting her satisfied gaze with his own. “But now that I know you actually have some level of skill—” he broke off abruptly, spinning away from her blade while sweeping his own between them in a wide, slashing motion.

Yolara’s response was immediate. She ducked beneath his blade, coming up inside his guard and grabbed his wrist with her free hand, twisting his hand back on itself.

Kusan held onto his blade, and brought his empty hand up, smacking Yolara hard between her shoulder blades. She stumbled forward, but recovered quickly, throwing herself into the motion and dropping to her knees, pulling Kusan over her shoulder. As they tumbled to the ground, Kusan released his grip on his blade, unwilling to risk injuring her.

In a blink, the Princess was back on her feet, slipping out of his reach, flipping her blade in her hands, her eyes dancing. Half crouching, Kusan watched her, tracking her movement like a jackal watching its prey, waiting for the opportune moment to strike. Around them, the various members of the palace staff observed from a discreet distance, the guards particularly watchful. Kusan was aware of them, could feel the pressure of the many pairs of eyes on them, hear their breathing, and in the same moment dismissed it. In this moment, only the Princess deserved his attention.

And then the moment he had been waiting for arrived. In her taunting, Yolara had moved too close – no more than a hand’s breadth nearer than she had been, but it was enough.

In a blur of motion, he leapt. She dodged, attempting to once again spin out of his path, but he had anticipated the move and was there to catch her when she came to a stop. With one arm he pinned her to his chest, while with the other he caught her knife hand, squeezing it until the blade clattered to the ground.

He looked down in triumph, only to find himself transfixed as he met her gaze. Her eyes were like amber, rich pools of golden-brown staring back up at him.

“I am glad that you are not a weather witch,” he murmured.

“Why is that?” Yolara asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“A weather witch would not have eyes like yours.”

Kusan realized what he had said only after the words were spoken, and the heat rushed to his face. Instantly, he released the Princess, immediately stepping back two full paces. “Well fought, my lady,” he said with a polite bow. “And now, if you will excuse me, I have duties to attend to...”

Before she could respond – and before he said anything else and further embarrass himself – Kusan caught up his blade and strode from the courtyard, acutely aware of the amber eyes that followed his departure.

⬧

The storm hit four days later.

The air, which had been fresh and clean when Yolara awoke in the pre-dawn light, began to taste of sand as the gentle breeze which seemed to always drift across the training sands gradually increased in strength. Eddies of dust blew across her feet and swirled around her legs, as though pushing her toward the city walls.

Kusan urged Yolara and the stoneworkers to return to the safety of the city, but while Yolara sent the stoneworkers ahead, with instructions to take their stations on the top of the wall and wait for her, she refused to move, shaking off Kusan’s hand on her arm.

“You have seen what the storms can do,” he said.

“I will not run to safety while those who serve me are in danger,” she said, digging her bare feet in the sand to the ankles, feeling the tiny tremors reverberating through the fine grains as the still-distant winds pounded the desert.

“You are the most stubborn...”

Yolara raised a dark eyebrow. “Berating me will not speed their efforts, Captain,” she said, a slight smile touching the corners of her mouth as she glanced past Kusan at the guards who worked to hastily dismantle the pavilion and bundle it and the other supplies onto the back of an agitated camel.

Kusan growled, then ran to assist the others.

As the men worked, Yolara drew on the energy of the golden desert beneath her feet, absorbing it more deeply than she had ever before attempted. The power surged into her, permeating flesh and bone, until it felt like every portion of her being was made of the trembling grains of sand in which she stood. She felt the coming storm in the throbbing of her blood, and her breathing deepened.

Behind her, the massive wooden gates rumbled closed on their heavy iron hinges, the thick bar that secured them dropping into place with a muffled boom. Only the small, inset door would remain open, she knew. That door would remain unlocked, offering a safe-haven to any travelers caught unawares by the oncoming storm, as it had welcomed her when she first arrived.

Yolara looked to the east, hoping that the caravan that had left Nizam two days before on its way to Hatu had traveled out of the path of the storm. Tabour’s entire household had been in that caravan, as well as a score of other families – a combination of craftsmen, merchants, and cultivators – who had believed his prophecy that Yolara would betray the city and had chosen exile. Curiously, the visitors from Aywhai had all remained, undoubtedly to see how she would handle the coming storm before returning report on Yolara’s efforts to the Council of Merchants in their city. But none of the stoneworkers had fled, for which she could only be grateful. She would need all of them if they were to succeed in holding back the storm.

At long last, the camel was calmed and loaded and began to trot toward the city, the guards running alongside. As they passed Yolara, Kusan stopped in front of her and bowed deeply.

“My lady, a storm approaches. Shall we take refuge within the city walls?” he asked, his manner casual, yet formal, as though he were speaking to her during a royal audience.

“Yes, it is time,” Yolara said, drawing a last, deep draught of the sand’s energy before meeting his gaze, slipping easily into the warmth of his dark, somber eyes. She allowed herself to linger for only a moment, then slid her feet from the sand, and silently fell into step alongside him.

As the small gate closed behind them, the voice of the wind began to howl in the distance.

Chapter 7

Yolara, Kabir, and the five stoneworkers they had determined to be the strongest and most adept at their craft, climbed the long stairways to the wide walkway at the top of the outer wall. As they had practiced on the training sands, they took their places, spreading out across the wall until they were each separated by several meters from the next, with Yolara at the center, standing directly above the city gates.

Nayira’s voice whispered on the breeze, “I am on the Queen’s Tower, but as you have requested, I will do nothing to control the storm unless you require it of me. All you need do is speak my name.”

“Thank you,” Yolara whispered, then looked up and down the wall and raised her arms. As the other stoneworkers followed suit, she abruptly dropped to one knee, her hands pressed flat on the stone at her feet.

At Yolara’s signal, the other stoneworkers also dropped to their knees, reaching into the stone and sand of the city wall, gathering the elemental energy of the massive structure, and forcing it down and out into the desert, racing away from the city.

Magic shot out from the base of the wall, each stoneworker pushing a rippling column of power into the sand, like great snakes sliding just beneath the surface and rushing out toward the desert. Then, when the movement reached the point the Queen had agreed was a safe distance from the city, the stoneworkers rose to their feet, raising their arms high above their heads.

As though guided by invisible reins, seven massive cobras formed of energy-charged sand rose, thrashing and swaying in the increasing wind as the stoneworkers thrust them into the air.

Higher and higher they soared, pulling sand from the open desert as they grew. Like the serpents they resembled, the pillars rested on coils of golden sand, broad bases supporting their ever-increasing weight. Finally, when their enormous heads had risen so high that they appeared as little more than small ovals touching the sky, the stoneworkers brought them to a halt.

Yolara looked up and down at the row of great cobras, which were aligned in a wedge-like formation between the city and the desert, and nodded her approval, her teeth bared in an almost feral smile. The energy still surged through her, and she raised her hands toward her snake, spreading her fingers open and gesturing toward the pillars to either side.

Thin filaments of sand flew from one snake to the next and to the next. All along the row the other stoneworkers were casting their own threads, pulling grains of sand from farther and farther in the desert toward the pillars.

Like weavers, the stoneworkers wound their strands with those of their neighbors, their fingers flicking in tiny gestures, directing the strands. With each passing breath, the lines grew thicker, from nearly-invisible threads that glittered in the sun like spider’s silk, to thin ropes, until thick cables filled the space between the towering snakes. And still they rose, disappearing into the sky far above the heads of the cobras, forming curtains of shifting sand where no individual panel was reliant on the strength of any single stoneworker.

The wind had picked up while they worked, a low howl that had become a constant rumbling, whistling through gaps in the weave. Yolara tasted the sand on her lips, felt the sting of the first grains striking her skin.

Her arms still raised high, she clenched her fists and the sands of the pillar forming her cobra fused instantly into stone. Across the curtains, every strand she had created began to solidify, and one by one the other stoneworkers followed suit, until the curtain was fully transformed into a sheet of solid stone.

The storm hit with a roar.

The curtain rocked back, the cobras swaying like living creatures, and as the pressure drove her backward, Yolara feared the entire construct would fall over, collapsing on the city.

“A nudge, grandmother,” she whispered.

Instantly a cool gust of wind surged at her back, as Nayira added her magical strength to the stoneworkers’ efforts. The curtain stabilized, giving the team of stoneworkers the additional moment they needed to push it forward, drawing together all of the loose sand filling the space between the curtain and the city and piling it against the backs of the cobras to form sloping supports.

Still it was not enough.

“This is not going to work,” Yolara murmured.

“Shall I drive back the storm?” Nayira asked.

“Not yet,” Yolara said. “There is one last thing we can try. But I am going to need your help.”

Working quickly, and delivering instructions to the other stoneworkers through Nayira, Yolara changed their strategy.

“We must relax the wall,” she told them. “Keep the cobras solid, but change the panels into a true curtain.”

If the stoneworkers had any doubts, none expressed them. As one, they eased back on the magic holding the wall in its solid form, shifting the construct from an immovable wall already being eaten away by the storm and into a swaying, fluid curtain.

Straining like the tightly stretched fabric panels of a caravaner’s tent against the onslaught of wind and sand that broke against, the curtain gathered the blowing sand onto itself. It snapped and billowed, but it held.

As Nayira released the wind she had been sending to assist them, the stoneworkers captured the sand slipping through the gaps the storm had carved into the curtain, mending the panels before the storm could shred them to ribbons. With each additional grain of sand pressed into it by the wind and fused into place by the stoneworker’s magic, the curtain grew taller, thicker, and stronger.

⬧

The stoneworkers took turns holding their sections of the curtain, allowing each other frequent periods of rest and refreshment as Yolara had insisted. For her own part, she stood firm, feet rooted in the sands that dusted the top of the city wall.

“See to it that no one works longer than two hours without rest and refreshment,” she told Kusan when the sun reached its zenith on the first day, “including yourself.”

“And you, my lady?”

“I will remain here until the storm abates.”

“That could be days!”

Yolara looked up at him, her eyes flashing. “When my grandmother held back the storms, did she leave her duties to take a nap?”

Kusan was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was full of concern. “She did not.”

Yolara returned her attention to the curtain. “This is why you brought me here, Kusan,” she said, her voice barely a whisper in the storm. She could not look at him, could not bear the worry in his eyes. She flicked a glance downward, to the bulge in the wall where Tabour’s body was embedded, then looked quickly away from that sight as well, her hands clenched into fists, the stone nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms.

“I will not give the city to the desert.”

“I will see that you have water and refreshment as needed,” Kusan said, “as I have done for Queen Nayira in similar circumstances.” He waited in silence for a moment, then, when she nodded in acknowledgement but said nothing more, he bowed and turned away.

Yolara looked after him as he strode down the wall, checking on the other stoneworkers, issuing orders to the guards and assorted family members who watched over them, carrying water and baskets of dried fruit. Her life had changed in so many ways since the day Kusan had brought her to Nizam. He had been a stranger then; now she would trust him with her life, and could not imagine a day when he was not at her side. But she could not allow her growing feelings for him to distract her from her duty to the city.

She turned her attention back to the storm and called more sand to her. As the warm grains slid across the wall toward her and rose up over her ankles, she smiled. Food and water were necessary for the body, of course, and she would accept them gratefully, but it was her connection to the stone that would sustain her in the face of the storm.

⬧

All that day and through the night, the storm raged on, a giant golden lion roaring in fury outside the curtain Yolara and the stoneworkers had built to shield the city.

As the sky lightened with the rising of the sun, and the city stirred, the shopkeepers and residents nearest the city wall were by turns surprised and confused to find no trace of sand on the ground. Bare stone gleamed as though polished, wood and leaves and fabric were bright with color as though fresh and new.

And on the city wall, the sand that had fled the streets of Nizam now surrounded Yolara.

She had drawn the sand to her through the night, grains sliding toward her and piling up in drifts, first to her ankles, then her knees, and to her waist. Now the drifts rose to just beneath her outstretched arms, the ever-shifting sand covering her like a living gown, holding her upright.

She gave little heed to the startled gasps of the passers-by, who, with their baskets of water and fruit, gave her a wide berth as they passed along the wall. Nor did she acknowledge the stoneworkers on their way to take their places on the wall who had clustered together at a respectful distance, exchanging curious whispers as they studied the phenomenon, noting the thin traces of sand that continued to slide from within the city, up the wall, and toward Yolara.

One of them placed his foot in the path of a thin thread, blocking it, and the sand simply slid up over the top of his sandal. Another disturbed the sand, swishing his foot through the path. Unimpeded, the grains of sand swirled and eddied, a small cloud flowing inexorably toward Yolara, and the stoneworker jumped away.

Each grain of sand that answered her call gave her one more minute, one more hour of strength. She would call every speck of dust from within the city if she needed to.

Yolara blocked out the murmuring voices that surrounded her, focusing her entire attention on the curtain, and the constant repairs that needed to be made to strengthen it, to keep the wind-driven sand from grinding it away. In time, she lost all awareness of anything beyond the sand and the storm.

⬧

Kusan climbed the stairs leading from the palace to the city wall, and strode briskly along it as the first rays of the morning sun crept above the horizon.

Like the awakening marketplace below, the usually quiet walkway was buzzing with people. Though only a dozen stoneworkers were at work at any time, most were accompanied by several family members who saw to their needs, bringing them food and drink, and remaining with them during their vigil. Their small cooking fires shone like small jewels set along the top of the wall as the families of the stoneworkers began their day.

He paused briefly as he reached the first of the stoneworkers, making sure the tall, muscular man had rested during the night and was well attended. As the Princess had directed, the stoneworkers had alternated working for two hours with four hour rest breaks between, but as Kusan moved from one stoneworker to the next, he could see that the irregular schedule and concentrated effort maintaining the curtain was beginning to show. He had barely slept during the night himself, only retiring for a few hours before anxiety drove him from his bed in the pre-dawn light.

As he left the last stoneworker on this section of the wall and headed toward the Princess, no more than a dark silhouette against the rising sun at this distance, he thought she looked like a statue. She stood motionless near the low barrier that bordered the walkway, her arms raised toward the shimmering curtain of sand that separated them from the raging storm beyond.

He frowned then. There was no cooking fire near the Princess, no attendants clustered nearby to attend to any needs she might have.

Yolara stood alone and unmoving.

Kusan quickened his pace, concern rising and mingling with a sense of dread. He should have stayed with her, protected her...

A family approaching from the opposite direction, shepherding their exhausted stoneworker to his bed, caught his eye. There was nothing unusual in this; the stoneworkers had often returned to their homes during their resting periods. But as the family neared the motionless Princess, they gave her a wide berth, the entire group pressing to the opposite side of the walkway, barely glancing toward her as they hurried past.

Now truly alarmed, Kusan ran forward. Then, when he was only a few steps from the Princess, he came to an abrupt stop, staring at her in stunned amazement.

Had he not known better, Kusan would have thought she had arisen from the mound of shifting sand at her feet like the work of a skilled artisan. A thin layer of sand covered her from head to foot, turning her golden-brown skin pale and transforming her thick, black braid into a tawny rope hanging down the middle of her back. Her eyelashes were crusted with the fine dust, and her lips were rough with it.

But though the Princess herself never moved, the sand covering her looked almost alive, sliding over her clothing, skin, and hair so that no portion of her remained uncovered. He had never seen such a sight.

Kusan watched her for several spellbound heartbeats before moving cautiously to her side.

“Water?” he asked, pulling a heavy leather waterskin from his shoulder and extending it toward her.

Yolara started at the sound of his voice, turning her face slightly toward him. When she moved, a golden cloud rose around her head and shoulders, settling on the mound below.

“Water? Yes, thank you,” she said, accepting the waterskin. She drank slowly, sipping at the water rather than gulping it down as he had expected.

While she drank, Kusan beckoned to a young girl carrying a basket of fruit. The girl approached cautiously, but when Yolara lowered the waterskin and looked at her, she abruptly shoved the basket into Kusan’s hands and scurried away.

Yolara frowned after her.

“You frighten them,” Kusan said.

“Why?”

Kusan ran a finger across her arm, brushing away the coating of pale yellow sand to reveal the golden-tan skin beneath, then watched as the remaining sand shifted to cover the bare skin. He gestured to the pile of sand surrounding her with a slight tilt of his head. “Truth be told, you frighten me a little, as well.”

Yolara smiled. “This? There is nothing to fear here. I simply draw on the energy and use it to sustain the curtain.”

Kusan looked out at the curtain, his brows furrowing at the sand that shifted across its face in much the same way as the sand that covered the Princess. “It moves – but why?” He looked again at Yolara. “I thought you were going to fuse it into stone.”

“The wind threatened to topple the wall,” she said. “So we had to adapt. I remembered the strength and resiliency of the textiles your mother weaves, and we have fused the sand into threads and used them to weave a curtain instead of a motionless solid. But as it is a fluid structure, not a solid wall, we must continually send the sands to and fro, seeking for weaknesses that we need to mend.”

“Amazing. I had no idea such a thing was possible.”

“It is difficult, but in many ways less-so than some of the tasks assigned to me by the tutors of my fosterage,” she said, a rueful smile crossing her face as she returned the waterskin to him. “The wind and storm, at least, are somewhat constant. My tutors could be... capricious.”

“May the storm remain tractable, then, my lady,” Kusan said.

“It will grow difficult to manage as it weakens,” she said, growing serious again. “That is when the winds will be at their least predictable. The stoneworkers will need to be at their best.”

“I shall summon healers to see to their needs.”

Yolara nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

“And you?”

Yolara gestured again at her coating of sand. “I am thirsty,” she said.

“Then I shall return often with fresh water,” Kusan said.

“And...” she trailed off, as though reluctant to continue.

“Yes, my lady?”

“I do enjoy our conversations,” she said, turning away from him to face the curtain as she spoke. “They make the hours pass more easily.”

“Then I will finish my rounds as quickly as possible and return to your side,” Kusan said, hoping his voice did not betray his pleasure at her words.

And though the Princess merely nodded before returning to her work, he was certain he saw a smile lift the corners of her mouth before the shifting sands once again covered her face in a golden mask.

⬧

The day passed quickly for Yolara as Kusan told her stories of the city and its visitors. Leaning against the wall, his back to the storm, his manner grew increasingly comfortable as he spoke of his family, and his adventures accompanying his father and brothers on the caravans before becoming one of the palace guards.

She, in turn, told him of her time in fosterage, of the wonders she had seen of the royal courts, and the rigorous training in courtly niceties, matters of laws and governance, and the mastery of her magical gifts.

It was midafternoon before the storm subsided. And while Yolara and the stoneworkers remained on the wall long after the wind had died down to ensure that it had truly spent its force, she was almost sad, knowing the end of the storm also meant the end of Kusan’s relaxed company.

But after two hours, she could no longer justify keeping the other stoneworkers at their posts solely to extend her own pleasure. Releasing Kusan to his other duties, which she knew he had postponed or assigned to others in order to spend so much time with her, she sent word along the wall that it was time to bring down the great curtain.

In much the same manner as they had worked together, layer by layer, to build the curtain, so, too, did the stoneworkers unravel the interwoven threads of sand and stone. Like great, golden fountains, the sand spewed from the mouths of the giant cobras. Small eddies and gusts of wind caught some of the loosened sand, tracing golden swirls high in the brilliant blue sky before it dusted down over the city, but most of the sand flew far into the now-quiet desert.

As the curtain thinned and slid away, the sand that had been used to support it was allowed to slip away like water, flowing in waves into the space between the curtain and the city wall, until finally only the seven cobras remained.

I like your serpents, Nayira’s voice whispered in Yolara’s ear.

“As do I,” Yolara whispered back. She and the stoneworkers had begun the task of gently coaxing the cobras back to earth, reducing the height of the towering pillars with as much caution as they would if dealing with living snakes.

In the end, they kept the seven enormous snakes in place, each now the height of the Queen’s Tower. The serpentine pillars rested on thick, heavy coils, facing out toward the open desert, with flames burning in their open mouths – the contribution of one of the younger stoneworkers who had the idea to use strands of woven sand to lift basins of oil and flaming lanterns to the tops of the pillars.

The flames burned well into the night, and on the sands below the serpents, the residents of Nizam celebrated with drums and dancing, singing and savory dishes. Chickens sizzled over open flames alongside skewers of lamb and small onions, while children ran laughing and shrieking amid the revelers.

Yolara and Nayira sat on cushions that had been brought from the palace. They said very little, smiling and nodding graciously as people stopped to greet them or express their gratitude for Yolara’s efforts.

“They understand that it was not my work alone?” asked Yolara, looking on in amazement as the visiting merchants from Aywhai bowed deeply before them. After requesting the favor of a formal audience with both Yolara and her own merchant council the next day, they had pledged their faith in her, placing gifts of fabric and exotic spices at her feet, tokens from their city.

“I am not you, grandmother,” she said when the merchants had moved off. “I could not have saved the city without your help, and that of Kabir and the other stoneworkers.”

“They know this,” Nayira said, her snow-white hair glowing golden in the firelight. “When I hold a storm at bay, the people go about their lives without a thought to what is happening beyond the wall. You are different. You walk among them, which is something I have not done for many years now. You carry a blade and stand in your own defense, rather than cower helplessly behind your guards as do the nobles who visit our city. You freely share your knowledge, and have taught our people that they must work together to survive – not just the stoneworkers, but all those who looked after you while you held back the storm.”

Nayira smiled, and reached out to take Yolara’s hand. “So while the words they use are ones of gratitude, what they are actually saying is that they have accepted you as their new Queen.”

Chapter 8

By the time the moon completed its next full cycle, Yolara and the stoneworkers had defended the city twice more from the storms. The first was brief, rising and falling in the space of an afternoon on the day following her coronation.

The coronation itself was a quiet affair, attended only by residents of Nizam and a small delegation from Aywhai. It was utterly unlike the display of pomp and circumstance Yolara had observed during her fosterage, when she was one of a thousand in attendance at the coronation of the new king of Zuira only a few years before.

“I have prepared my entire life for this day,” Yolara said to Nayira, as her grandmother, Respa, and a trio of serving girls helped her dress for the ceremony. “I do not know whether to be relieved to be free of the spectacle of a larger event, or disappointed by it.”

“We are a small kingdom,” Nayira reminded her, “and of little importance to all but the caravaners who take shelter in our walls. No kings will travel here, and few nobles grace us with their presence – and even then, only as a waypoint on their journeys.” She held her hand out to Yolara. “It is not a bad thing to be beneath the notice of the powerful, yet serve a vital role,” she said when Yolara stepped to her and clasped her hand.

Nayira stood, then, picked up Yolara’s stole and began to gather it into wide pleats. Like her long, flowing gown, the heavy stole was the color of the desert sand, a rich gold, trimmed in scarlet and heavily encrusted with glittering gems. Fingers trembling, Nayira reached up and draped the long stole over Yolara’s right shoulder, adjusting it so it would stay in place.

“Please, sit, grandmother,” Yolara urged her. “You should not overexert yourself. Respa can assist me.”

She guided Nayira back to her divan and helped settle her among her cushions while one of the serving girls poured a cool glass of apricot nectar.

“There was a time, not so long ago, when I did not tire so quickly,” Nayira said after a few sips of the refreshing juice.

“Now let us finish attending to you,” Respa said, directing Yolara back to the center of the room. Respa caught the opposite end of the stole, gently pulled it around Yolara’s back so it hung in a loose drape, and wove the end through the bangles she wore on her left wrist.

Nayira clapped her hands together when Respa was done. “So elegant,” she said to Yolara. “And when I place the jewels of your office around your neck, everyone who sees you will know you for the queen you are.” A tear slid down her face, unnoticed.

“Respa, go, give us a moment alone,” Yolara said. “Tell the others to gather in the great hall. I shall attend the Queen.”

Respa nodded, ushering the serving girls out of the room, and closing the door. Yolara moved to the divan and sat on the edge, near her grandmother, and took her frail hands in her own.

“Let me lend you some of my strength,” she said softly.

Nayira laughed. “Oh, my sweet child, you do not need to do that,” she said. “This is your day, and you will need all of your power to accept the responsibilities being placed on your young shoulders.”

“But grandmother—” Yolara began.

Nayira slid a hand from Yolara’s grasp and rested a finger on her lips. “I appreciate your generosity,” she said. “But it is not needed.” Her expression grew serious. “I do not speak in jest, Yolara. You may draw on your  magic to sustain you through the coronation, but you cannot use it during the trials. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Yolara said, though she was not sure she actually did.

“Good,” Nayira said. She looked toward the shuttered window. “Now, open the window.”

Puzzled, Yolara complied, throwing the shutters wide. When she turned back to Nayira, she saw her sitting upright on the divan, eyes closed, her lips moving soundlessly. The old queen’s hands rested on her lap, palms upward, her fingers fluttering like leaves on the wind.

A warm breeze curled around Yolara, tickling the back of her neck. She moved away from the window, and watched as Nayira called the breeze to her, the small currents and eddies teasing at fabric tassels and rustling fabric in its passage.

And then the wind lifted Nayira from her couch, and Yolara gasped in surprise. Her grandmother no longer appeared as the frail old woman of a moment before, but stood tall and strong. The gentle wind riffled through her pale blue gown, and the jewels glittering in her white hair crowned her in regal glory.

Holding herself erect, Nayira opened her eyes and turned to face Yolara, her motions smooth and strong.

“The wind is a fickle companion,” she said, smiling as she extended a hand to Yolara, “and the gift will not last long. Shall we attend to your coronation while it chooses to sustain me?”

⬧

Yolara stood on the dais, looking over the audience who filled the great hall. Stoneworkers she had taught and laughed and worked with sat with the shopkeepers and tradespeople Sahana and Kiara had introduced her to. Merchants from both Nizam and Aiywhai mingled with the palace guards and household staff. Kusan watching from the far side of the stage. All people she had come to know and to care about during the scant three months since her arrival. They had crowded into the great hall, holding their children in their arms, and raising them to sit on their shoulders until there was no room for another soul.

“I would rather have this small group of people I know and who know me than all the parades and courtly delegations from across all of the Seven Kingdom,” she whispered to Nayira, who stood beside her.

Nayira nodded. “I have never regretted the lack of courtly delegations,” she said with a slight chuckle.

A chime sounded, and then another, catching the crowd’s attention and calling them to silence. Nayira stepped back, leaving Yolara alone at the center of the stage.

Four robed people joined her on the stage, one man and one woman approaching from either side, their faces hidden behind silken masks to obscure their identity. Each was clothed from head to foot in a hooded robe dyed in shades of a single color – one brown, one green, one gray, and one blue – the colors ranging from so light as to be nearly white at the top of their heads to deep tones bordering on black at their feet. Each walked with their hands clasped before them, a wide, intricately-patterned stole in the same colors as their robes, draped over their folded wrists.

A second chime sounded, and the four cloaked figures surrounded Yolara, standing little more than an arm’s length away from her.

One of the women stepped forward, from Yolara’s right. She was dressed in a green robe, which was made of finely woven grasses and reeds.

“As we, the Cultivators, are charged with the duty to feed and clothe the people, we likewise charge you, as our Queen, to see to the welfare of our people. Do you accept this responsibility?”

“Yes. I will guide my people to prosperity,” Yolara replied.

The Cultivator stepped up to Yolara and draped the stole she carried over Yolara’s right shoulder, close to her neck. When the stole was positioned, the Cultivator moved back.

Yolara felt an unexpected frisson of energy run through her. She smelled the sweetness of ripe berries, heard the buzzing of bees, felt the warmth of the summer sun on her face. Vines began to grow from the sash in delicate tendrils, bright green leaves opening, to reveal pale, pink buds of tiny flowers.

The Cultivator nodded in approval.

The second robed woman stepped up to Yolara, from the left. Her gray robe was made of finely wrought links of metal, looped together to form the gown.

“As we, the Smiths and the Stoneworkers work in harmony with the minerals of the earth and shape them to meet our needs, we charge you, as our Queen, to shape yourself to meet the needs of the people. Do you accept this responsibility?”

“Yes,” Yolara said. “I will rule my people in harmony.”

The Smith took the stole she carried and draped it across Yolara’s left shoulder, and stepped back.

Yolara was more prepared for the frisson of energy this time, but caught her breath at the sensation of molten steel suddenly rushing through her veins and the taste of iron in her mouth. Thin wires rose from the stole, strands of silver and copper and gold twining into a band over her hair accented with slivers of quartz and crystal. Filigree ear cuffs coiled around her ears dripping thin, liquid-like strands dangling almost to her shoulders.

The Smith nodded in approval.

At her right, the first man stepped forward. He was tall, his robe in shades of brown that Yolara now realized were comprised of the hides of many animals, expertly treated, and sewn together.

“As we, the Healers and the Whisperers of Nizam, are entrusted with the lives of others, we put our lives in your hands as our Queen. Do you accept this responsibility?”

“Yes. I will care for my people,” Yolara replied.

The stole the Whisperer placed on her shoulder hung down along her right arm. When the hides touched her skin, she heard the neighing of horses, saw the desert through the eyes of a falcon soaring overhead, danced on a dewdrop on the swift legs of a spider.

And then the screaming of the rats she had buried in the sand filled her mind, felt their claws scratching at her arms and legs. Clamping her eyes shut, Yolara bit back a moan, struggling not to fall back, and instinctively reaching out to call the sand to defend her. But even as she felt the minerals woven into the Smith’s stole begin to stir, the wire band and ear cuffs begin to heat, she remembered Nayira’s warning.

“You cannot use your magic during the trials.”

Releasing a breath, she let go of the sand, forced away any thought of calling on her ability to heal her wounds, of summoning the sand to protect her from the ferocity of the rats.

Rats she had killed.

Tears filled her eyes and streamed down her face as the rats tore at her, taking their revenge. Trembling, she held her ground, apologizing to them for what she had done, begging their forgiveness for the wrong Tabour had led them to and the punishment she had been forced to deliver to them for his crime.

She had no idea how long the rats tore at her. But then they were simply gone, the pain they had inflicted nothing more than a memory. A bird chirped. A lamb called for its mother.

Yolara opened her eyes.

She had expected to see the horrified expressions on the faces of all those who had witnessed the rats’ punishment, the blood dripping from her arms and legs... but her gaze was met with nothing more than attentive curiosity. Daring a glance at her bare arms, then down at her clean, blood-free dress, she was confused.

The rats had seemed so real.

She looked over at the Whisperer, who had returned to his place, but before she could ask him what it all meant, he shook his head to stop her.

“It was for you alone,” he said, his magic carrying his words like a low murmur in her mind. “Always remember that the actions of those who are more powerful also have consequences for those who cannot defend themselves.”

Yolara nodded.

The Whisperer nodded in approval.

The last man stepped forward. He was dressed in shades of blue, and though Yolara was sure his robe was some sort of exquisitely woven cloth, the colors seemed to fade from sky to sea in both color and texture, the fabric rippling as she looked at him.

“As we who work with the natural elements, the Firestarters, the Wellsprings, and the Weather Witches, hold in our hands the very forces of nature that both give and take life, we charge you, as our Queen, to protect us from those forces that are beyond our ability to control. Do you accept this responsibility?”

“Yes,” Yolara said. “I will protect my people.”

The Wellspring placed the fourth stole on Yolara’s left shoulder, draping it over her left arm. Instantly she was swimming in a clear mountain lake, soaring over valleys, holding fire in one hand and a fountain in the other. The wind danced around her, laughing and lifting her hair, carrying the sparks to her earrings. Droplets of water landed in her hair, dripping onto her forehead like a cluster of diamonds.

The Wellspring nodded in approval.

A fifth person, a short, squat woman dressed in the muted ochre colors of the desert, approached then, limping slightly as she cut through the gathered audience. She hobbled awkwardly up the short steps and stood in front of Yolara. Her ochre robe was stained and tattered, and made of roughly woven cloth.

“Those of us who have no magical gifts rely on hard work, brotherhood, and trust as we make our way in this world. We charge you, as our Queen, to keep faith with all of your people, regardless of their gifts. Do you accept this responsibility?”

“Yes. I will rule all of my people as equals,” Yolara said.

The short woman took the rough woolen stole she carried and raised it to Yolara’s head. She was not tall enough to reach, so Yolara had to duck down so the woman could place the stole over her hair, like a hood.

There was no magical sensation when the stole rested on her head. Instead, Yolara smelled the sweat of the camel whose back it had rested on, the sand that had settled into the weave. She felt the coarse, rough wool where the stole brushed against the sides of her face.

Before the short woman could step away, Yolara reached out and clasped her by both hands.

“You honor me,” she said.

“And you honor us all,” said Nayira, coming up behind her. She gently disengaged the short woman’s hands from Yolara’s and indicated for her to join the other four.

Nayira turned to an attendant, and lifted a jeweled necklace which she hung around Yolara’s neck. Next, she pushed back the animal skin stole and slid a coiled cuff onto Yolara’s upper arm and then placed a ruby ring on her hand.

“These jewels are but the outward symbols of your office. Your true power needs no embellishment,” Nayira said. She spoke softly, letting the wind carry her words to all who had filled the great hall and beyond.

“By the powers that shape and bind our world, and that bind us as a people, I name you, Yolara, a true Daughter of the Wind, and Queen of Nizam.”

⬧

The storm that followed the coronation was brief and mild, as though the desert was giving her a gift, while reminding her of its presence.

The storm that blasted the city late the following week, however, arrived with force and fury, the billowing clouds hitting the protective curtain in a rolling boil. As the cloud surged upward, the stoneworkers pushed the stone serpents higher, struggling to keep the upper edge of the curtain above the roiling sand.

The storm raged for nearly a week, pounding at the city as though it was determined to bury it. True to Nayira’s description of the wind as fickle, not only did it push the desert sand steadily at the city, but from time to time hit it with sand-laden gusts that spewed gouts of sand high above the main body of the storm and far above the heads of the serpents. The fine dust drifted over the upper boundary of the curtain and settled on the city in glittering layers.

After the third day with no lessening of the winds, Yolara called on the healers to fortify the stoneworkers during their rest periods. When several continued to struggle under the intensity of the pounding winds and driving sands, she reduced their time on the wall down to only a single hour before sending them to rest for two, taking more of the burden on herself and distributing the rest across the fatigued stoneworkers who remained.

Her own entourage of guards and serving girls, though still disturbed by the coating of sand that covered her, remained at her side, plying her with water and brushing the sand from her face. But in spite of their attentive care, and even though Kusan was a frequent, reassuring presence at her side, Yolara had to admit that even her sand-strengthened endurance was being pushed to its limits.

It was five days and six nights before the storm began to dissipate, and several more hours before the exhausted stoneworkers began the arduous task of bringing down the curtain.

⬧

It was late morning before Yolara finally shook off the sand that had covered her and left the wall. As she walked back to the palace, she accepted the greetings and thanks of the people she passed with a tired smile.

It was not until she reached her own chambers and sank into the tub of hot water Respa had prepared for her, that she finally relaxed. She soaked until the water had turned cool – but more importantly, until she no longer felt the press of sand in her pores – then dressed in a soft, linen tunic of rich turquoise and matching pants that snugged closely over her legs. Now she sat in the courtyard, sipping at a frothy drink made from mangoes and goat milk, listening to the pleasant burble of the river flowing beneath her.

As the cool air rose from the river, Yolara turned her head to look up at the mountains that towered over Nizam, a memory from her childhood bring a tired smile to her face. She had been four years old, and thirsty, so had laid on the floor over one of the openings, stretching a small urn down to the river below. The icy water had splashed over her hands and she’d gasped, almost dropping the urn in her surprise.

“Our water comes from the snow,” her father had told her, coming to her rescue and holding her while she filled the urn. It was only a few weeks later that her parents took her and Alyssa to their Uncle Reinhold’s palace in the Gerlachi mountains. It had been early summer, but there had still been pockets of snow in the woods alongside the road, where the drips and drops of melting snow formed trickles and rivulets, tumbling downhill in rushing, streams. And while the Nizami River was fed by snow from different mountains, the source was much the same – snowmelt rushing down the mountains toward the desert in cascading falls and all but unnavigable torrents.

By the time it reached Nizam, however, the river was broad, sedate, and tamed, as though it knew it had nearly arrived at the end of its long journey.

“You should rest,” Kusan said, startling her out of her memories.

“You mean to say I should sleep,” Yolara said, looking up at him with a smile. “And you are right, of course. But for right now, just sitting here, doing nothing, is also restful.”

She had discarded her sandals, and sat sideways on the bench, with her bare feet on the warm, polished wood, her arms wrapped around her raised knees, her empty glass on the table beside her. Her hair, unbound, and still damp, tumbled in dark waves over her shoulders, curling as it dried beneath the warm, midsummer sun. She gestured toward the unoccupied space past her feet. “Please, join me.”

Kusan sat near end of the bench, allowing the curved blade at his side to swing freely in its sheath, without bumping against the wood or scraping the ground.

“My grandmother says that most storms are shorter,” Yolara said.

“Thankfully, yes,” Kusan agreed.

“What is the winter like? I do not remember.”

“Fewer sandstorms,” Kusan said with a smile. Then he grew more serious. “The winds change, bringing cold air from the mountains, instead of from the desert.”

“Is there snow? The winter snows are deep in Gerlach.”

Kusan shook his head. “I have seen snow on two occasions only,” he said. “Once when I was younger than you, my lady. It had dusted the tops of the mountains during the night, and I spent five days climbing to the heights to observe this miracle for myself.”

He paused for a moment, as though lost in the memory.

“And the second time?” she asked.

“When your grandmother sent me to bring you to Nizam. The road through the mountains from Tusya to Gerlach was still deep with snow, though it was early spring. We wrapped our boots in oilcloth and wore multiple layers of clothing, and still we were cold. One of the horses did not survive.” He shook his head at the recollection. “But while frost often covers the ground at sunrise, I have never seen snow in Nizam. It is possible that your grandmother may remember differently. Winter mostly brings us rain and cold winds, with only the occasional, mild sandstorm to remind us of the desert’s presence. So while traders from the mountains visit Nizam in the summer, when the snows do not block their passage, most of the desert caravans come in the winter.”

“Ah, yes.” Yolara glanced around, noting a serving-boy quietly tending plants on the opposite side of the courtyard, and the silver-haired steward, Dashir, at the top of the stairs, speaking with the falcon-whisperer, while one of the regal birds perched on the railing between them. There was no one else within view. Still, Yolara lowered her voice and leaned toward Kusan. “Nayira is dying.”

Kusan nodded, shifting on the bench to face her. “How long?” he asked, his voice equally low, his face revealing no surprise at the sudden turn in the conversation.

“I doubt she will live to see the winter,” Yolara murmured. “She does not wish anyone to worry over her, but I thought you should know.”

Kusan bowed his head. “She will be greatly missed.”

“Yes.”

They sat quietly for some time, before Yolara broke the silence. “I still know so little of the ways of our people—”

“Surely Dashir and the Council of Merchants will guide you,” Kusan said, then ducked his head in embarrassment. “Forgive my interruption, my lady.”

“Of course, and yes, those worthy gentlemen are all most eager to advise me.” A tired smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “The storm delayed our last meeting, and they are anxious that I meet with them again soon. It was all I could do to convince them to postpone our meeting for the day after tomorrow. I am told that the water in the reservoir is low, even for midsummer – though I know not what I am expected to do about it – and apparently there are issues surrounding the proper display of silks in the marketplace that require my immediate and personal attention.”

“Such are the burdens of your position,” Kusan said. His voice was somber, but Yolara saw the laughter in his eyes, and her own smile broadened.

“This is true,” Yolara said, nodding.

A serving girl refilled Yolara’s glass with more of the creamy mango drink, and offered some to Kusan, which he declined.

“Dashir assures me that this will help me recover my strength more quickly,” Yolara told Kusan. “I do not know if that is truly the case, but it is very pleasant.” She sipped at the drink. “Your mother brought me something similar when I was on the wall. She and Kiara joined me several times during the storm.”

“They like you,” Kusan said.

“Do you think so?” Yolara asked, leaning forward slightly. “I am glad to hear it. Other than Respa and some of the serving girls, I know few other women close to my own age. And my position makes it doubly challenging to find any I can actually talk to about more than the merest superficialities.” She paused then, shifting into a more comfortable position on the bench. “I hope you are correct about your sister,” she said when she was settled, “I would like to one day call her ‘friend.’”

“You do my sister a great honor.”

“As for Sahana...,” Yolara continued, choosing her words carefully, to not inadvertently offend Kusan, “I have the greatest respect for your mother, but I cannot easily tell what she thinks of me. She is a formidable woman.”

Kusan laughed. “She says the same about you.”

“Me?” Yolara said. “There is nothing formidable about me.”

He shook his head. “I have fought with you at my back, my lady,” he said. “I can truly attest, you are most formidable. It is a quality to be admired in a woman – and particularly in a queen.”

Yolara felt the heat rising in her face, and raised her glass to conceal her embarrassment. She stole a glance at Kusan above the rim of her glass, and was surprised to realize that he was not laughing at her or teasing her, but that he was sincere.

She slowly lowered her glass, her gaze drawn to him, and suddenly found herself wondering when she had stopped thinking of him as the Captain of the Queen’s Guard and started looking at him as a friend. As a man. A strong, interesting, and decidedly appealing man, with intense dark eyes and the hint of a smile on his sun-bronzed face.

A man who, she was quick to remind herself, was almost ten years older than her. For all she knew, he probably had a wife and children she just did not know about yet.

They talked for only a few minutes more before Yolara excused herself and went to her chambers. The direction her thoughts had been wandering clearly indicated that she was sorely in need of rest.

But even as she dropped off to sleep, it was not the Captain of the Queen’s Guard who remained in her thoughts, but quiet smile and deep brown eyes of the man behind the title.

Chapter 9

Over the nine years of her fosterage, Yolara had studied history and geography, politics and statecraft. She spoke five of the major languages of the Seven Kingdoms – three fluently – could read and write in all seven, and understood the basic economics of trade across the Kingdoms and the fragile treaties that bound them together. She had learned to ride both a horse and a camel, to wield a blade, and play a sitar. She had developed her talents as both a healer and a stoneworker and studied the other forms of elemental magic as well, so that she might better work with those gifted with magic she did not herself possess. She had learned courtly etiquette and strategy.

She had not learned how to sit still in a meeting that threatened to consume her entire morning.

Yolara had welcomed the Council of Merchants with steaming mugs of the dark, bitter kahveh and platters of fresh fruit and warm flatbread in the Council chamber. This was to be her first formal meeting with them since her coronation, but with little in the way of pressing business to discuss, she had thought the session would last no more than two hours.

That hope was soon laid to rest, as each of the nine elaborately-robed gentlemen spent nearly a quarter of an hour introducing himself, regaling her with his list of accomplishments, and impressing on her the importance of his role on the Council.

She listened, with increasing disinterest. Only the egg-sized stone she toyed with, re-shaping over and over to illustrate some portion of each merchant’s discourse as he spoke, kept her from simply rising and walking out of the room.

When at long-last the introductions were over, Yolara called for a brief break. She slipped up to Nayira’s chamber, peeking in quietly in case her grandmother was resting.

“Come in, child,” Nayira said. “Respa tells me you are meeting with the Council of Merchants this morning. Is it going well?”

“I suppose so,” Yolara said, dropping onto an ottoman next to the couch where her grandmother reclined. “I now know more about each of those worthy gentlemen than I ever wanted to.”

Nayira nodded, chuckling. “They are trying to impress you,” she said. “They hope to retain their positions.”

Yolara rolled her shoulders, working out the stiffness that still lingered from the storm of the previous several days. “I cannot say that I am particularly impressed with any of them,” she said. “Bunch of peacocks, all showing off their plumage.”

At that Nayira did laugh. She reached over and patted Yolara’s hand. “They are good men,” she said. “At times somewhat pompous, it is true, but each is dedicated to the welfare of the Nizami people in his own way. But you are the Queen now. Give an ear to their counsel and decide for yourself who you want as your advisors.”

“I would have you as my advisor always, Grandmother,” Yolara said, standing and pressing a kiss on Nayira’s forehead. “But now I must return to the meeting. With any luck, we will be finished before nightfall.”

“Dashir will see to your midday meal,” Nayira said. “He always does.”

“If we were not such excellent hosts, perhaps the meetings would not go so long,” Yolara said with a wink. She left Nayira’s chambers in better spirits and returned to the Council chamber.

⬧

“Why are the merchant stalls always arranged by the type of product being sold, even when a vendor may have many different kinds of items to offer?” Yolara asked Sahana the next afternoon. She was no longer lunching daily with Kusan’s mother and sister, but still made a point of joining them at least a couple of times each week. She had arrived early, and found the two women still at work in the textiles shop.

“So the customers know where to go if they wish to find spices or silks,” Sahana said. She was at her loom, weaving strands of blue into a long, wide stole, bordered with an intricate pattern of green and gold.

Kiara looked up from the embroidery she was adding to the collar of a tunic, and added, “You would not want to search through the cheesemaker stalls if you were shopping for sandals or a basket.”

“True,” Yolara agreed. “But if I went to the monthly market in search of both goat milk and cheese, would it not be more convenient to find them in the same part of the market?” She was pacing as she spoke, walking back and forth in Sahana’s crowded shop. She gestured to the stacks of multicolored fabrics. “Or compare textiles of various sorts before making my choice, instead of having to look at all of the woolens, then the silks in a separate area? And why do we not allow the silk vendors to display all their fabrics in one stall, but instead separate them by color? It makes for a pleasing experience to behold, but I cannot imagine trying to make a purchase. And the burden it places on the vendors, who must operate a separate booth for each color they wish to display, or be constantly running from one to the other—”

Kiara’s chuckle interrupted her, and Yolara looked over at her friend. Kiara had ducked her head, trying to hide her smile as she busied herself with her needlework. But Sahana was staring at Yolara almost fiercely.

“What?” she asked.

“As the marketplace has grown, the vendors have approached the Council of Merchants with these very questions many times,” Sahana said. “And their answer is always the same.”

Together Sahana and Kiara repeated the words Yolara had heard several times during the meeting the previous day: “It has always been done this way.”

“But why has it always been this way?” Yolara asked. “That is the question none of the Council was able to answer. I almost told them to approve the request, rather than reject it out of hand, just out of sheer annoyance.”

“Why did you not?” Sahana asked. “You are the Queen. You can do as you like.”

“Because changing things just to be contrary is no better than refusing to consider a request. The current arrangement seems...” she searched for the right word, “...peculiar to me, but I have never visited the monthly market as either a patron or a vendor. Only as a visitor. And that was another thing the Councilors and I have in common, I was somewhat surprised to discover. They simply walk through it as observers, and work to ensure that, even as it grows, it remains unchanged from month to month.”

“We do have many traditions,” Sahana said. “Many of which have served us well for generations.”

Yolara thought of the traditions she had already begun to change in the few weeks since coming to Nizam. Instructing the stoneworkers in new methods to work with the sand, guiding the city’s small group of healers in a different way of thinking about their gift and ability to share it. Nayira had protected Nizam from the desert for more than four decades, but from all Yolara had read in the histories her grandmother had done little to address the growth the small country had experienced in all those years. And from what she had learned through speaking with the city’s residents at the lunches Sahana had organized, Nayira had given little thought to the increasing importance of their oasis cities on the trade routes. The old queen had relied on the Council of Merchants to guide her, and they had erred on the side of caution and tradition.

But Yolara was the queen now, and had learned things during her fosterage that Nayira would never have studied – things that the stodgier members of the Council would surely take a dim view of. She looked around the textiles shop, at Sahana and Kiara, who were putting away their work as they prepared to go upstairs for lunch. She thought of the other vendors and traders she had met, and the discussions they had engaged in.

“You are correct,” Yolara said. “We must honor our traditions. But there are also times when old traditions must give way for the new. It is time to reorganize the Council of Merchants, that it may better serve the Nizami people. Sahana, I would like for you to join my Council.”

⬧

The changes Yolara made over the next several weeks were met with a mixture of grumbling and rejoicing across the city. She renamed the Council of Merchants as the Queen’s Council, and immediately dismissed the three oldest Councilors. Hoping to soften the blow, she thanked them for their years of service to the city with a lavish banquet and extravagant gifts.

“Nizam is more than just its merchants,” she said to the large gathering she had invited to the banquet. “We are a country of tradespeople and cultivators, merchants and healers. And I would hear from them as well.”

She then named three new members of her council: Sahana, to represent the tradespeople, Kabir, representing the stoneworkers and other craftspeople, and Vihaan, a cultivator whose hair and beard almost glowed with the gold of ripening wheat.

“I understand that this may be difficult for you,” she said at the first meeting of the new Queen’s Council a few days later. “But we need to look forward, for the benefit of our people, and be open to change, rather than stubbornly cling to the ways of the past.”

She looked around at the six merchants and three non-merchants at the table. Their reaction to what she was about to say next would determine which of the merchants would remain on the Council. “I have also reviewed the stipend provided to councilmembers,” she said. “Going forward, the amount will be reduced to compensate you for your work on the Council, but it will no longer fully replace the income you might earn from your other labors.”

“How will we provide for our families?” asked one of the merchants, his tone sharp. He had only been a member of the Council for little over a year, and seemed to Yolara to be somewhat arrogant about the importance of his position.

Before she had a chance to answer, Reyan, the most senior of the six merchants spoke. “You are a merchant,” he said dismissively. “Engage in your trade.”

The junior merchant visibly bristled at that, but when he looked to Yolara she returned his gaze with one of complete calm.

“Our efforts should enrich all of Nizam,” she said. “Not only fill the coffers of those who sit on this Council.”

The junior merchant blustered incoherently, then abruptly stood. “I regret that I will no longer be able to be of service to this Council, my Queen,” he said, his voice calm, though his hastily-hidden clenched fists spoke to the true depth of his aggravation. “Should you reconsider your decision regarding the stipend, I will, of course, be at your disposal.” He dipped his head slightly. “But now, I must take my leave.”

“Go in peace,” Yolara said. As he departed, she looked around the table. “Does anyone else wish to withdraw? I would prefer you do so now, than to serve unwillingly.”

To her surprise, it was not the next junior merchant who stood, clearing his throat in embarrassment, but Abhiram, the second-most senior member of the Council, a short, blocky man whose thick, black hair was heavily streaked with gray.

“Several times in the past year, I have missed Council meetings due to ill health – sometimes my own, sometimes that of my dear wife,” he said. “And my young grandson is a sickly child as well.” He looked around the room at the grave and sympathetic expressions on the faces of the other councilmembers, then back at Yolara.

“It is no reflection on you or the changes you seek, my Queen,” he continued. “I have felt for some time that the shifting of the winds would benefit us. However, rather than occupy a seat that might better be filled by someone who is fit to do the work, I believe it is in the best interest of all that I take this opportunity to step away from my position and see to the needs of my household.”

“I regret the situation that takes you from us, Abhiram,” Yolara said. She rose, walked around the table to where he stood, and took his gnarled hands in hers. “I trust that I may still seek your wisdom from time to time?”

Abhiram nodded. “I am your humble servant.”

Yolara released his hands, then slipped a hand in the crook of his arm as she walked him toward the door. “I will send my healer to you,” she said. “In the hope that she may help discover what ails your family.”

“That is not necessary, my Queen,” Abhiram protested, his eyes filling with tears.

“It is already done,” Yolara said, with a brief glance at a serving-girl who stood near the door. The girl nodded and slipped out of the room in search of the healer. “Go to your wife, Abhiram, with our blessing.”

After he had gone, Yolara returned to her seat at the head of the large table. “It would seem I have two more seats to fill,” she said, then raised her hand, preempting any suggestions. “And I already have thoughts in that regard. But before we go further, I need to ask one more of you to leave this table—” Again she raised her hand, and continued speaking, not wanting anyone to mistake her intentions. “—not to step away from my Council, but to travel to Aywhai once each month and serve as an occasional member of the Council there. I will be making similar changes to their Council as I have here, and will be asking them to send a representative to us, as well.”

The councilmembers’ initial shock at the idea dissipated quickly, and they raised their voices over a number of challenges her request presented, primarily about the dangers of traveling during the storm season, loss of time at their merchant businesses, and the logistics of obtaining food and lodging in an unfamiliar city. Yolara let them debate the idea for several minutes before calling the session back to order.

“These are all valid concerns,” she said. “And trust that I do not take them lightly. But Nizam is not a single city, and I would have us work hand in hand with the Council at Aywhai to the benefit of us all. We will find a way to make the journey as safe as possible for whichever of you agrees to be our representative there, and address your other concerns to the best of our ability.”

Ishaan, who was now the most junior member of the Council, having served for a mere five years, spoke up. “My lady, if I may? My uncle lives in Aywhai, and regularly makes the journey between our cities,” he said. “It would be no burden to him for me to join their caravan each month or to lodge with his family while in their city. I will go.”

Yolara nodded. “Thank you, Ishaan. We shall discuss the details of your travel and my expectations from you as my envoy at a separate time. But know that yours is an important role for the future of Nizam, and you have my gratitude.”

⬧

Kusan stood on the wall, looking out at the several members of the Queen’s Guard who practiced on the training sands. Blades flashed, sand flew, and from time to time one of the guards seemed to fly as well – when tossed over the shoulder of their opponent, only to land on the hard-packed, sand-swept ground in a puff of dust before scrambling quickly to their feet to return to the skirmish.

Kusan was extremely proud of the skilled men and women under his command, and would willingly go into battle with any one of them. Nevertheless, as their commander, he watched them impassively, noting which of them excelled at certain techniques and which needed further training. Yolara’s safety – the safety of the Queen, he corrected himself – was in their hands, as was with the safety of Nizam itself.

As though conjured into being by his thoughts, a familiar laugh caught his attention. He turned and spotted Yolara, coming around the broad curve of the wall, chatting amiably with his sister, Kiara, a pair of guards following them at a discreet distance. One of the guards saw him, spoke to his companion, and each raised a fist to his chest in brief salute.

Kusan returned the salute, pleased with the guards’ attentiveness. While the wall was one of the safest places in the city for the Queen to walk, engaged as they were in their conversation, neither Yolara nor Kiara had yet noticed his presence. However, the guards were being properly watchful, and looking ahead for any danger their charges might be heading into.

He watched as they drew near. His sister, lovely as always in a tunic the color of ripe apricots, probably of her own making, and Yolara, in a teal tunic and stole whose pattern he recognized as one of his mother’s weaves, both oblivious of the many eyes that turned their way as they passed. The Queen wore her glossy black hair pulled back in the long, braided queue she preferred, and sprinkled with sparkling gems. Both women wore numerous bangles on their slim, tanned arms, a style whose purpose baffled him even as the gentle clinking of the metal bands announced their approach.

When the women spotted the activity on the training sands and paused to watch, Kusan left his post and went to meet them.

Yolara looked over as he drew near, a smile lighting her face. “Greetings, Captain,” she said.

“My lady,” he said with a bow. “Sister.”

Kiara returned the greeting, then pointed at the guards on the sands. “They are practicing, yes?”

“Yes,” he replied. “Their skills will diminish, and their reflexes grow slow if they do not practice regularly.”

“But I see the flashing of blades,” Kiara said. “What if one of them is injured?”

“We will send for a healer,” Kusan replied, amused by his sister’s shocked expression.

Kiara turned to Yolara. “Surely you can stop this!”

“I could,” Yolara agreed. “But I would not. It is well to train with a clay blade when learning a new technique, but if there is no fear of injury, a training session lacks significance.”

Kusan lifted his shoulder in a slight shrug. “There you are,” he said to his sister. “The Queen prefers to fight in the Kusharim style.”

Kiara glanced at the hilt of the short blade tucked into the sash at Yolara’s waist. “I thought your blade was purely decorative. Ceremonial,” she said.

“Clay?” Yolara asked, drawing the blade and presenting it to Kiara, hilt first. “No. It is quite real, I assure you.”

Kiara turned the razor-sharp blade over in her hands for only a moment before cautiously returning it to Yolara. “You continually amaze me,” she said.

“She amazes us all,” Kusan murmured, then turned to watch the guards at their training exercise, hoping neither of the women had heard.

They watched the guards in silence for a moment before Yolara spoke.

“I was hoping to find you, Captain,” she said her gaze still fixed on the training exercise. “I have yet to fill the last two seats on the Queen’s Council. My grandmother’s healer, Ananya, recommended the healer, Yanesh, for one of the positions. I was hoping you might suggest a member of the guard for the other – I am sure we would benefit from having the perspective of a trained warrior in our deliberations.”

Kusan pressed his lips together, as much in concentration as to prevent himself from volunteering for the position. But while the opportunity to spend time in Yolara’s company was always tempting, he was the wrong candidate, and he knew it. His duties as Captain were enough to occupy his time. Instead, after little more than a heartbeat’s delay in responding, he raised his arm and pointed toward the training sands.

“Zoya,” he said.

The female guards dressed no differently than their male companions, in the long, deep brown coats over ochre-colored pants and boots, but Zoya’s lithe quickness made her easy to spot. As they watched, she thrust her spear into the ground, gripping it with both hands as she vaulted upward, sending both feet into her opponent’s midsection. When her feet touched the ground, she spun, swinging the spear toward the still doubled-over warrior, the blade stopping a hair’s breadth from his neck.

“The fierce one, there?” Kiara asked.

“The very one,” Kusan said. “She is one of my best and brightest, an excellent judge of character, and a shrewd tactician. If the Queen desires the skills of a warrior on her Council, I can think of no one better.”

“I will meet her,” Yolara said. “The Council meetings can be long and tedious. If she agrees to join us, perhaps she can assist me in motivating them to swifter action.”

Kusan looked over at Yolara then. She turned to meet his gaze in the same moment, a mischievous smile curving her lips, her amber eyes twinkling. He felt himself get lost in her eyes, became suddenly unaware of the passage of time. The shouts and clashes of the blades on the training sands, his sister’s voice, all faded into a blur of background noise as he looked down into Yolara’s eyes and she into his.

And then Kiara touched Yolara’s arm, asking her some question and drawing her back into their conversation.

The women continued on their way a few minutes later. Kusan watched them for some time, then turned his attention back toward the training sands.

Naming Zoya to the Queen’s Council instead of joining it himself had definitely been the right thing to do. Why, then, did he feel the sudden, unreasonable desire to join the warriors on the training sands and challenge Zoya to single combat?

Grinding his teeth, Kusan turned and headed back to the palace, following the wall in the opposite direction from the way the Queen had gone.

Chapter 10

While the inconsistent nature of the storms necessarily disrupted the schedule, for the most part Yolara’s days settled into something resembling a workable routine. She worked with the stoneworkers on the training sands each morning at sunrise, reviewed accounts with Dashir on a regular basis, and set aside no less than an hour each day to sit with Nayira.

One morning each week, Yolara opened the palace courtyard to the sick or injured and joined the city’s healers in tending to those in need. She changed the day-long monthly meeting of the Queen’s Council, which now numbered a dozen members besides herself, to a weekly occurrence – which she limited to no more than an afternoon’s duration. And she continued to visit with Sahana, knowing the importance of developing close associations with the city residents that the tradeswoman had fostered.

Perhaps her favorite part of the day, however, was joining Kusan at one of the tables in the open courtyard each morning to break her fast After his sister had assured her that the Captain was not married, Yolara had invited him to breakfast under the pretext of it being a casual meeting during which he might give her a brief report of any security matters she might need to be aware of. But beyond the news of arriving or departing caravans, or the occasional late-night drunken brawl, there was actually little for the Captain of the Queen’s Guard to report – and certainly not enough to justify a daily briefing.

Neither seemed to see the need to point that out to the other.

Instead, they spoke of other things, sipping at mugs of hot kahveh while they shared stories of the people they had met, the places they had seen. Over a meal of flatbread and fruit, Yolara told him of the challenges of balancing the varied personalities of her councilmembers. They ate fresh, ripe mangoes while Kusan told her of the conflict between two caravaners that was ultimately settled by their ill-tempered camels, laughing as the juice dripped down their chins.

Late one morning, after three successive storms had interrupted the routine of several days, Yolara woke to find that Kusan had waited to break his fast with her.

“I have missed our mornings,” he said when she chided him.

“As have I,” she said. “But it is nearly noon. I might have slept until evening. Would you have gone hungry all day?”

“Perhaps,” Kusan said with a smile. “Come, sit.” He signaled to a serving-girl, then showed her to a bench, tucked into a shaded alcove beneath a heavily-laden bougainvillea vine. “Are you well rested?”

“I am,” she said. “Rested and quite refreshed.” She smiled up at him. “And very pleased to have your company.”

The serving-girl returned with bowls of fruit and cups of juice. “The midday meal will be ready soon,” she said.

“This is quite sufficient for now,” Yolara said, thanking her. She leaned back into the corner of the bench, sipping at the drink. “I am not quite ready for a meal yet,” she said.

“Take your time,” Kusan said. “I took the liberty of instructing Dashir to cancel the meeting of the Queen’s Council, so you need not rush.”

“Was that today?” Yolara asked. “It feels like only yesterday when we last met. These last storms have barely given me a chance to catch my breath.”

“With luck, you will have a few days,” he said. “If it eases your mind, I can report that all is well in the city. The healers had few people to care for yesterday—”

“Another thing I missed,” Yolara said with a sigh.

“Another thing you taught your people to manage,” he corrected. “As you had hoped.” He looked at her and smiled. “Your people are stronger because of you.”

“I am stronger because of them,” she said. She set her drink on the low table beside them and shifted to face Kusan. “I have made many changes here,” she said. “Yet there is one member of the court who I truly hope will always continue in my service...” she paused, meeting Kusan’s steady gaze with her own. “Nayira speaks highly of you, Kusan.”

“And you, my lady?” Kusan asked, his voice warm. He reached out and took her hand. “I would know your opinion of me.”

Yolara looked at their joined hands and turned her hand in his, intertwining her slim, golden-brown fingers with his bronzed ones. “Though it has been but a season since we first met, I feel as though I have known you always. There is no one I trust more... or care for more,” she said. She raised her gaze to his face. “And if you will, I would have you always at my side—”

“That is my desire, as well,” Kusan murmured.

“—as my consort.”

It seemed to Yolara as though time had frozen in that moment between heartbeats, leaving her fully aware of the smallest details. The touch of the breeze lifting the ends of her hair might well have been a rushing wind. The hum of an insect’s wings passing her ear nearly drowned out the burble of the water beneath the floor of the courtyard. The scents of the flowers that surrounded them and meat sizzling over an open brazier nearby combined in an intoxicating blend. The neighing of a horse outside the gate attempted to catch her attention.

But she was unable to move or even to breathe. Kusan’s hand, holding hers, felt warm and strong and confident, while her own felt inexplicably fragile, like fused sand that threatened to liquefy any moment.

And then his thumb brushed across the top of her knuckle, and Kusan whispered, “Yes, my lady Yolara, my desert flower. Yes.”

⬧

Yolara and Kusan went in search of Nayira, finding her in the library, resting on a divan while Respa, the serving girl, read to her from one of the old scrolls.

When she caught sight of them, Respa stopped reading, and touched Nayira lightly on the shoulder.

“My lady,” she said. “You have visitors.”

Nayira stirred, looking past Respa, then began to rise.

“Do not get up,” Yolara said, moving quickly to her side and kneeling next to the divan. She turned to Respa. “Fetch some juice, please.”

The serving girl nodded and hurried out of the chamber, slipping past Kusan who stood just inside the arched doorway.

“My eyes tire quickly,” Nayira said, taking Yolara’s hand as she leaned her head back against the pillow. “Respa is good enough to read to me. But you did not come here to listen to the ramblings of an old woman...” She studied Yolara’s face, then looked beyond her to Kusan. After only a moment her lined face broke into a smile.

“At last,” she said. “I have thought for some time that you two would make a good match, but I had almost given up hope on you discovering it for yourselves. This pleases me greatly,” Nayira said, her stormcloud-filled eyes twinkling as she opened her arms to embrace first Yolara, and then Kusan.

“I shall endeavor not to die before your wedding,” Nayira said, settling back on the divan as Yolara took a seat on a nearby cushion. Kusan sat next to her, his arm loosely around her waist.

“You will live forever, grandmother,” Yolara said.

“I once thought that,” Nayira replied with a smile, “but I am an old woman, and I no longer lie to myself as I once did. I have used my magic to restore my strength, to prolong my life until you were ready to take my place as Queen, but now time evades my grasp like the mist. It will not be long before the winds take me.”

Respa returned then, bringing not only the requested carafe of apricot nectar, but a pair of serving-girls bearing platters of food. A serving-boy followed, carrying a low table. Kusan took the table and placed it between Nayira’s divan and the cushion he shared with Yolara.

“Forgive my intrusion,” Respa said, “but the meal was ready to be served when I arrived at the kitchen...”

“Thoughtfulness is no intrusion,” Yolara said. “Truly, it is most welcome.”

Respa smiled, then placed the food on the table. There were steaming dishes of fragrant rice and seasoned vegetables, and a platter of seared, seasoned chicken, which had been pounded into thin strips and threaded onto skewers, and was accompanied by a spicy dipping sauce of ground peanuts. A second platter bore large ovals of flatbread, wrapped in a linen cloth to keep them warm. Small bowls of dried fruits and nuts were set between the platters, together with cups of the thick, sweet, apricot nectar.

“I had not realized just how hungry I was,” Yolara said, laughing as her stomach grumbled at the aromas rising from the serving platters.

“It requires much energy to work magic for so long,” Nayira said as Respa helped her shift into a seated position on the divan. For the next several minutes the three of them busied themselves with the meal, tearing the flatbread and using it to scoop rice and vegetables, chatting amiably while they ate and making plans for Yolara and Kusan’s upcoming wedding.

After the meal was finished and the three of them were alone, Nayira looked at Kusan. “It will fall to you to ensure that she does not rely solely on the magic to sustain herself,” she said, with a gesture toward Yolara. “While I know little of the stoneworker’s magic, I am well aware of the power of the wind in my veins, and how tempting it is, especially as I grow older, to simply let it take me.”

Yolara glanced up in surprise, meeting Nayira’s cloudy gaze, and nodded, remembering the intoxicating touch of the sand on her skin as she gathered it to sustain her during the storm. “Master Lomic – my Zurian stonemaster – warned us against letting the stone take over. He said we would end up as statues in the courtyard,” she said. “I always thought he was just trying to frighten us.”

“I have seen one of these statues,” Kusan said. “Though at the time I believed the stories that surrounded it were merely local legends, an effort to explain the incredibly lifelike detail of a statue carved by a master craftsman who had since fallen out of favor. After seeing you covered in sand during a storm, I am not so sure.”

The expression on his usually serious face was thoughtful. “But as I have no desire to one day find myself wed to a statue, you may be assured that I will do all in my power to protect you from your own magic.”

⬧

The following afternoon Yolara and Kusan walked through the streets of Nizam to the small reservoir on the western side of the city. News of their engagement had spread quickly, and they were met with cheerful greetings and shouted congratulations all along their way.

Their route took them along one of the many narrow canals that flowed through the district. While the main course of the river flowed along the inside of the high wall that surrounded the city, the canals wound throughout the city. In addition to providing the water required by the tall shade palms, they also supplied the many fountains that dotted the small plazas. They stopped at one of these fountains now, which was lined with bright, colorful squares, about twice the width of her palm.

“Are all of the fountains like this one?” Yolara asked.

“They vary slightly, but yes, they are generally similar,” Kusan said.

She bent down to splash her hand in the cool water, then looked up at him. “How deep are they?”

“Some of the oldest fountains are only four tiles, and the one at the center of the city is larger – nine tiles, as I recall,” Kusan replied. “But most are like this one, six tiles deep. It is not uncommon for one or two rows of tiles to be visible in any of them. But seldom have I seen three rows exposed, like this.”

After a short, pleasant walk through a grove of palm, apricot, and fig trees, they arrived at the reservoir. While a goodly-sized lake, Yolara was surprised to see that it was actually much smaller than she had remembered from her childhood. Just as the river itself was barely more than a stream when compared to the wide, heavily-traveled rivers she had seen in other countries, the reservoir more closely resembled a broad, flattened curve of the river.

The outer curve of the crescent-shaped lake lapped against the city’s outer wall, with three small, tree-covered islands near its apex. The inner shoreline reached its arms around the grove they had just passed through. Beyond the grove rose a series of low, terraced hills where a group of green- and golden-haired cultivators tended ripening crops of millet and vegetables. Drawing her attention, Kusan pointed out the level of the water.

“It is usually much deeper, rising to just below the edge of the path here,” he said.

Like the fountains, the depth of the water was low enough to reveal three rows of the colorful tiles that bordered the edge of the lake. Three lower rows, of simple, sky-blue squares, with no embellishment, were also clearly visible above the surface of the water.

“And this all comes from the river?” Yolara asked.

“Mostly,” Kusan said. “The winter rains also help, but they are sparse, and do little more than raise the level by depth of a single tile.”

“And when it is full, how does it not overflow its borders and flood the city?”

“There is a provision to release any excess into the desert, there, at the far end,” Kusan said, pointing toward the far end of the reservoir. “It protects the city from flooding when the water is high, such as when the snow in the mountains melts too quickly in the spring – though it has been several years since we have had to utilize it. When the river, canals, and fountains rise to their full capacity, we fill every jar or skin that can be employed for the purpose. We have no desire for the water to rise to the overflow grate.” He looked down at Yolara. “We give no water to the desert willingly, my lady, or without great need, for once it passes beyond our walls, it is lost to us.”

Yolara nodded, then moved closer to the edge of the tiles, where she knelt and pressed her hand to the hot, dry sand. Extending her senses, she searched for any sign that the water was leaking into the ground around the reservoir, or that any of the tiles that lined its bottom had been damage and were draining the water into the ground beneath, but found nothing.

“My advisers tell me that the river is flowing at the same rate as is usual,” she said, brushing the sand from her hand as she stood. “They are at a loss to explain where the water is going.” Yolara turned back to face Kusan. “They only know that the level is lower after each storm.”

“There have always been storms in Nizam,” Kusan replied, shaking his head. “They are no more or less frequent or intense this year than any other. I do not see how they can be held to blame.”

“The shield curtain?”

“You use no water in its construction.”

Yolara nodded, and turned back toward the reservoir. The two of them stood there in silence for some time, staring out over the serene, blue water. Finally Yolara spoke.

“I will send a party to the headwaters of the river. We will see if the answer lies at the river’s source, rather than here, at its end.”

⬧

The scouts Yolara sent to the headwaters returned in a fortnight, but brought no answers. The river flowed free and clear all along its course, with no observable impediment. Likewise, thorough inspections of the river, canals, and reservoir found the water within the city walls crystal clear and free of sediment, the heavy porcelain tiles that kept the water from seeping into the ground intact, and the fish, frogs, and plant-life along the shores thriving.

With nothing to account for the falling water levels, Yolara instructed the people of Nizam to fill jars against the growing shortage, assuring them that it was merely a precaution.

While Yolara worked to preserve the city from the certainty of storms and the possibility of drought, the palace household busied themselves with plans for the royal wedding. Respa had been elevated to the position of the elderly queen’s personal lady-in-waiting, and under Nayira’s direction, she and the steward, Dashir oversaw the preparations. Traders and craftsmen came and went at all hours of the day, and the palace buzzed with activity from early in the morning until well after sunset.

Beautiful fabrics were purchased from the caravaners, and embroidered with gold and silver thread. The cooks consulted with shopkeepers about spices and other rare ingredients required for their recipes. And falcons bearing invitations were sent to Yolara’s uncle, King Reinhard, in Gerlach, her young sisters in Kushar, and to the many nobles Yolara had met during the years of her fosterage.

“A month’s notice is not enough time for members of the nobility to travel here for the ceremony,” Nayira protested. “Or for us to properly prepare to host them as befits their station.”

“I do not expect them to come,” Yolara replied. “Nizam is a small kingdom—”

“But very important for trade.”

“Yes, grandmother, but we are small, nonetheless. It is the proper etiquette to invite them, though none of the nobles will come. Nor will my sisters be allowed to travel across the desert during this season of storms. So, there is no reason to wait...”

Yolara looked at Nayira lovingly, and took the old woman’s frail hand in hers. “You mean far more to me than I can express, grandmother, and I would have the wedding soon, while you have the strength to be with us.”

⬧

Several days later, shortly after yet another storm subsided, a falcon alighted on the city wall near where Kusan stood.

“Shall I carry the messages to the Queen?” an errand-boy asked, gazing wide-eyed at the bird’s sharp beak.

Kusan removed the capsule from the bird’s leg and looked at the inscriptions on the messages that fell from the capsule and into his hand – two addressed to Yolara, and a third to Dashir.

“I will deliver these,” he said, taking Yolara’s messages and tucking them into his pocket. He looked over at the falcon, who returned his gaze with a steady blink of her large, dark eyes. “She has had a long, difficult flight,” he said.

He removed his headscarf and wrapped it around the boy’s wrist, then took a strip of cloth which he used to create a hood over the bird’s head and eyes. “Take this message to the steward, and have him direct you to the loft. The falcon-whisperer will see to it that this bird is well-rewarded for her service.” He settled the bird on the boy’s wrapped wrist and gave him the message capsule for Dashir.

“Y-yes, my lord,” the boy said, glancing nervously from the talons encircling his wrist to the tip of the falcon’s sharp beak which protruded from beneath the strip of cloth.

“Go now,” Kusan said. “Stay to the wall – the way will be longer, but there will be fewer opportunities for her to become agitated.”

He watched the boy for a moment, walking carefully away with the bird balanced on his outstretched arm. Chuckling, Kusan turned in the opposite direction, toward Yolara.

He found her in her usual spot above the gate, where she was still overseeing efforts to bring down the curtain. It was fascinating to watch her work, her fingers twitching as she reversed the weave of the myriad threads of sand. He watched for several minutes, not wanting to distract her.

“I know you are there,” she said finally. “It is delicate work, but I can work and talk at the same time.”

“A falcon arrived from Kushar,” he said.

Yolara looked over at him. “From my sisters?”

Kusan held up the rolled strips of parchment, which still bore their wax seals. “Very likely,” he said. “But I do not know.”

“Read them to me, please?” she asked.

Kusan broke the seals and read the messages from Yolara’s young sisters, Katya and Leisha. The notes were polite, but impersonal, congratulating her on the upcoming wedding and expressing their regrets that they would not be in attendance.

Yolara was silent for some time, but Kusan saw the tension in her posture, the set of her expression. Her sisters’ rejection of the invitation had not come as a surprise – they had known travel across the desert during the storm-plagued summer was all but impossible. But the manner in which it had been delivered had still cut her. He wished there had been some way to soften the blow.

“I barely know them,” Yolara said finally, glancing over at the childish handwriting on the curling strips of parchment in Kusan’s hand, touching one with a sand-encrusted finger. “The twins had been only a fortnight in Kushar when you came for me. My fosterage took me away from them mere weeks after they were born. In truth, we are sisters in name only.”

“And by blood,” Kusan said.

“And by blood,” Yolara agreed. She ran her tongue across her dry, lips, tasting the salt and sand that caked them. “I wonder at times,” she continued, “if one of them is not the true queen of Nizam. The weather witch you all hoped for.”

Kusan tucked the notes into his sash, then reached out to her, enfolding her hands in his. “You are our queen, my lady. It is you who has protected the city from the storms when Nayira could no longer. You who taught our stoneworkers to work together. You who has truly unified our people.”

Yolara nodded, blinking back the tears that sprang to her eyes. “Thank you, Kusan,” she whispered. “I am just so tired. I do not know how many storms I can protect us from, year after year.”

“Then we will find more stoneworkers to assist you,” Kusan said gently, leaning forward and touching her forehead with his own. “But never doubt your place in this city, or in my heart.”

Chapter 11

The week of the wedding was as storm-free as Yolara could have wished, the sky a brilliant blue with only light wisps of cloud drifting high overhead. A mood of celebration had spread across the entire city, where for three days tables groaned under platters of seared meat and skewers of fruit and vegetables, while fermented fruit juices flowed freely. Musicians played flutes and drums and tambourines in plazas and street corners, and dancers whirled in dizzying swirls of color.

The palace doors had been thrown open wide, and a seemingly endless procession of well-wishers – both residents of the city and caravaners from distant lands – filled the courtyard, conveying their congratulations to the happy couple, who received them in the shade of a large pavilion.

Shortly after midday on the second day of the celebration, a commotion near the palace gate caught Yolara’s attention, and she looked up to see a tall, broad-chested rider dismounting from a sturdy gray warhorse. She reached over and touched Kusan’s arm, her thin gold and silver bracelets tinkling together like small bells as she moved.

“Look, there,” she said. “That rider, wearing the blue and white of Gerlach. That is Sir Jochen – he is cousin to my Uncle Reinhard, and a knight in his court. He was also my first blademaster.”

Kusan murmured instructions to a nearby serving-girl who hastened to guide Jochen to the pavilion.

“Your Highness,” Jochen said, greeting her with a sweeping bow. “I bring greetings and felicitations from King Reinhard of Gerlach.” A broad smile beneath his heavy golden mustache lit his pale face as he continued, “and my personal congratulations to you as well on this happy occasion.”

“We are pleased to receive King Reinhard's greetings...” Yolara began formally, then her pleasure at seeing Jochen overcame her courtly manners, and she leapt to her feet and rushed forward to embrace the knight, the tasseled end of her pale blue silk scarf swirling around them both. “It is so good to see you again, cousin,” she said. Gesturing toward Kusan, who had also risen from his seat, she continued “Please, allow me to introduce you to my betrothed, Kusan, the Captain of the Queen’s Guard.”

Kusan and Jochen clasped each other by the forearm in greeting, and Yolara watched, amused, as each took the measure of the other. They were nothing alike. Though only a few years separated them, Jochen was tall, with pale skin and gold hair pulled back into a thick plait, while Kusan was half a head shorter, his dark hair cascading to his shoulders, framing the bronzed skin of his face.

They were each formidable, in their own way, Yolara thought, one broad, strong, and powerful, the other lean, agile, and resilient. The two stood there for several heartbeats, sapphire blue eyes meeting deep brown, and it was only when they separated, wide smiles on both of their faces, that Yolara realized she had been holding her breath.

“Reinhard sent me to see that your husband was worthy of you,” he said, his good humor evident in the twinkle in his eyes. “I will be pleased to report back that, on first glance, you appear to have made an excellent match.”

Yolara introduced him to Nayira, who murmured a congenial greeting but did not rise from her divan, and to Kusan’s parents. Sahana did not stand, but looked up at Jochen, giving him the critical stare she had given Yolara, pursing her lips for a moment before giving a brisk nod of approval. Kusan’s father, Arjun, did stand. Through his travels as a caravaner, he had frequently encountered Gerlachi merchants, and he greeted the large, foreign knight in the harsh syllables of the Gerlachi language. Jochen replied in the desert tongue. For a moment, all eyes were on them, as the two men looked at each other awkwardly, as though not sure which language to use going forward.

Then Jochen dipped his head in a slight nod. “I suspect more of you speak this language than mine,” he said to Arjun, speaking in the desert tongue.

Arjun looked around the room. “I would not be so sure of that, my friend,” he replied, gesturing broadly toward Nayira, Yolara, Kusan, and Sahana. “Not in this company. But if we must choose one language, it should be that spoken by those who will bring us the midday meal.” He glanced meaningfully toward Respa and Dashir, who both stood quietly near the door.

“I dare not tell him that they also speak Gerlachi,” Yolara whispered to Kusan. “Or we may spend the remainder of the afternoon testing our language skills.”

The question of language settled, everyone took their seats. Yolara stifled a grin at the expression on Jochen’s face as he settled himself gingerly onto the large ottoman, his leathers creaking ominously. Forcing herself to look away, she gestured for Respa to bring food and drink while they visited, and asked Dashir to prepare chambers for the knight.

When the cushion did not collapse beneath him, Jochen seemed to let out a breath, then lowered his heavy leather satchel to the ground beside him. Yolara did smile then.

“Have you had a chance to refresh yourself, cousin?” Yolara asked. “The journey from Gerlach is a long one.”

“It is, indeed,” Jochen, “and I feared I might not arrive here in time for the wedding. However, travelling through the mountains is pleasant at this time of year, and there are numerous small villages along the way—”

“Allowing you the opportunity to see to their status on behalf of your liege-lord as you passed through them,” Kusan said, raising his glass in salute.

“The very same,” Jochen said, touching his glass to Kusan’s. “Reinhard seldom travels to the south himself, bound as he often is to the capital with duties of state.”

Yolara thought of her own responsibilities, tied to Nizam as she was during the storm season, as well as the many minor decisions that were required of her on a daily basis – and Nizam was a small country, whose furthest borders extended only three day’s travel, to their sister-city of Aywhai. She could not imagine being responsible for a country such as Gerlach, which required nearly a month to cross from north to south, and contained untold numbers of individuals.

Jochen reached into the large leather satchel he had brought with him and retrieved a package the size of a small melon, wrapped in fabric and bound with knotted twine. “A small remembrance from your Aunt Angelina,” he said, handing it to Yolara.

Yolara accepted the gift carefully, setting it in her lap while she worked at the knots. “What could it be?” she asked. Jochen offered no suggestion, merely smiled when she abandoned the knots and pulled her dagger from the sash at her waist to cut the twine, then unfolded the layers of fabric that surrounded the object. When the last of the fabric fell away, she gasped.

“This was my mother’s,” she said, lifting a small glass bottle the size and shape of a ripe pear from its wrapping. Delicate silver vines formed a latticework cradling the thick, bubbled glass, through which she could see the syrupy, honey-colored liquid inside. She removed the stopper – the stem and leaves of the pear, also worked in silver – and raised the bottle to her nose to inhale the delicate fragrance. Tears rose in her eyes as the memories swept over her.

“Thank you,” she whispered to Jochen, reaching out to grasp the knight’s rough hand. “I have nothing of hers... thank you for bringing her to me.”

“Your mother, Lady Jaisa, was a great lady,” Jochen said, inclining his head. “She would be proud of the woman you have become.”

They spent much of the next hour in pleasant conversation, punctuated by the frequent visits of the other wedding guests. Finally, as the steady stream of well-wishers at last began to diminish in the heat of the afternoon, Kusan suggested that they all retire to the cooler rooms in the interior of the palace.

“Dashir will show you to your chambers, cousin,” Yolara said to Jochen, entrusting him to the care of the old steward. “If there is anything you require during your stay, you have only to ask.”

“Save the pleasure of your company,” Jochen said, “and that of your good husband-to-be, what more could I desire?”

“In that case, we hope you will join us in the courtyard, after the heat of the day has passed,” Kusan said.

“That I will,” Jochen said, shouldering his bulky satchel. “We have much to celebrate.”

⬧

Early the following morning, Yolara found herself at the center of a flock of serving girls, all fussing and twittering around her like colorful birds as they helped her dress for the wedding ceremony. While Respa brushed her hair and wound gold threads through it in intricate twists, attaching them to the delicate headdress of fine gold chains and gemstones she wore, Yolara watched in amazement at the seemingly endless procession of people in and out of the rooms. They laid out her clothes – a long, full, gown of cream-colored silk, heavily trimmed in gold embroidery and beadwork at neck and sleeve and hem, and a long, nearly-sheer scarf, that somehow shimmered in all the colors of the rainbow. It was decorated in matching gems that caught the light and sent color dancing across the room.

“Rain is precious to us,” Nayira had explained when Yolara had asked her about the scarf, which her grandmother had given her as a surprise gift. “A desert rainbow is exceptionally rare in this region. Wearing a rainbow on your wedding day symbolizes the many blessings and bounty that your union brings not only to your own lives, but to your people as well.”

When Respa was finished with her hair and Yolara had put on the gown, the girls took up the scarf. As though in a dance, they draped the length of fabric over her head and around her body arranging the pleats at shoulder and hip into a shimmering cascade.

At long last, the serving-girls finally left, and Yolara was alone in the center of her chambers. She stood there, unmoving, for several heartbeats, barely daring to breathe for fear she would dislodge the scarf.

A tap at her door raised her from her reverie. Yolara turned her head to see Ananya, her grandmother’s personal healer. She bid the older woman to enter.

“I knew your mother,” Ananya said, once the formalities of greeting had been observed. “We were children together. When she returned to Nizam, after she married your father, I attended her.” She smiled at a memory. “You were a delightful infant – and have grown into a lovely woman. Jaisa would be very proud.”

“Thank you,” Yolara whispered, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over and mar the lines of kohl around her eyes. “That means a great deal to me.”

Ananya dipped her head. “It gives me great pleasure to be the one who will perform the heartstring bond for Jaisa’s daughter on this day. You are prepared?”

“Yes,” Yolara said, feeling her heartbeat quicken at the mention of the bond. She had learned of the magical bond during her fosterage, the power that connected the life-force of two people into the single strand known as a heartstring. As a healer, she had been trained to create the bond, and had performed the binding several times, first under the supervision of a master healer, and later on her own.

As a member of a royal family, she had always assumed that she and her husband would share a heartstring bond, for the binding was a common practice among the noble households, where marriages were contracted more often out of political necessity than devotion. Binding one’s self to a partner, when that partner’s death could result in your own, was seen by skeptical allies as an additional guarantee of the promised alliance.

But Kusan was not a member of the nobility, and theirs was not a political marriage. Yolara had broached the topic to him with some trepidation several days before, uncertain of his opinion of the courtly tradition.

“Do you desire this binding?” he asked, after she had explained it to him.

“I do,” she replied. “It is our promise, made tangible. It also represents to our people and to the lords of the other noble houses that we will care for our people as we care for each other.”

“I am a warrior of the desert-born,” Kusan said, “and as long as I am able to wield a blade, I will protect and care for you and for our people. But I have learned from my time in service to Queen Nayira that there are situations when it is better not to use a blade.”

He took her hands in his, his expression solemn as he looked down at her. “You are of a noble house and royal lineage, where the heartstring wields great power. I would do nothing to weaken you, my lady, my Queen, nor diminish my promise to you in any way. Yes, my love, I will consent to the heartstring bond.”

Now, on the day of their wedding, Yolara walked down the stairs from her chambers to the courtyard. And though Nayira waited for them at the center of the courtyard, and she knew her people were all watching her every move, Yolara had eyes only for Kusan.

Her bridegroom descended the matching stair, on the opposite side of the courtyard, resplendent in a long coat of deep burgundy which he wore over close-fitting, cream-colored trousers. Yolara had spent many evenings over the past weeks painstakingly embroidering the sleeves, shoulders, collar, and edgings of the coat in a complex pattern of gold thread, gold beads, and small jewels. A ceremonial blade with a jeweled hilt hung from a velvet sash that crossed from one shoulder to the opposite hip.

He wore no crown, but to her, he looked every bit a king.

Their vows were simple, their promises spoken clearly and without hesitation, their voices carrying on the breeze of Nayira’s magic to the assembled crowd. After only a few minutes, Nayira took her seat and Ananya stepped up to face them.

“Lady Yolara, Lord Kusan,” she said, her deep, rich voice needing no magical enhancement. “You stand before us with the expressed desire to be joined by the heartstring bond—”

Ananya was interrupted by the collective gasp from the crowd, and raised her voice to speak over the murmured whispers that followed.

“—which is a time-honored tradition among the noble houses of the Seven Kingdoms—”

The muttering from the crowd increased.

It was all Yolara could do to ignore them. The idea of the heartstring bond went against many of her people’s deeply-held superstitions, but so had many of the things she had taught them. She hoped they would not fight this one.

“Explain,” she whispered to Ananya.

Ananya nodded and continued speaking as though there had been no interruption. “While many believe the heartstring bond allows the partners to know and share each other’s thoughts, this is not the case. Through the heartstring, their life-energies are entwined, truly making them of one heart.” She glanced from Yolara to Kusan and then to the assembled audience. “It is through this bond that they will rule as one.”

The murmuring subsided, as they crowd listened to what Ananya was saying.

“To willingly accept a heartstring bond is the deepest commitment a couple can make, both to each other, and to the country they serve.” She held out her hands, a faint, golden aura already rising from her palms. “Lady Yolara, Lord Kusan, if you would make this commitment, take your partner by the hand.”

They did.

“Now place your hands in mine.”

Yolara and Kusan each put a hand in Ananya’s outstretched hands, the familiar frisson of magic instantly warming the connection. As the golden aura coiled up, like shining ribbons wrapping around their joined hands. Yolara sank into the magic.

Then Ananya closed her eyes and began to draw their life-force into herself.

Yolara had performed the binding ritual enough times to understand the sudden heat that surged through her arm and hand. But she had never experienced it as one of the individuals being bound. A wave of dizziness washed over her as her life-force gushed out of her in a flood of heat, her energy draining away, leaving her depleted.

In the same moment, Kusan jerked back, nearly breaking free. A similar golden aura surrounded the junction where Ananya grasped his hand, but the warrior’s expression was filled with a mixture of rage and terror.

Yolara squeezed his hand as tightly as her strength allowed, not letting him pull free. This was the most dangerous part of the binding ceremony.

While Ananya held their life-force within her, if any of them broke the connection, they would all die.

Chapter 12

Kusan was a warrior. He had been injured before, in training and in battle, and knew well the flood of energy that surged through his body in response to an attack – and the sensation of his life-force draining away with each drop of blood that spilled on the sand.

He looked from one hand to the other, but both were hidden by the golden glow of magic. He stiffened, then tried to pull away from his attackers. But the woman who grasped his right hand held it firm. Likewise, he was unable to free his left hand from the grip of the young woman who clutched it in her own.

Panting, eyes wide, he stared down at her.

There was something familiar about the warm, amber eyes that looked back up at him. He knew her...

“Kusan,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the blood throbbing in his ears.

He knew her voice.

“Yolara.”

The world came back into focus the moment he spoke her name. He felt lightheaded, his knees weak, barely able to stand – indeed, if he had not been holding on to Yolara and Ananya, he might have fallen. He did not know how long he had been lost to the magic, but as he glanced at their joined hands, he saw that the strands of glittering light that bound their hands together now extended upward along their forearms, coiling around them like snakes.

Fighting down his hysteria, Kusan looked back at Yolara. She was more accustomed to the workings of magic than he, and she would know if something was amiss. But though she looked as weak as he felt, her gaze was calm and unafraid.

He held her gaze, seeking strength in it.

He tried to remember what she had told him about opening himself to the magic. Tightening his grip on her hand, Kusan slowed his breathing, forcing himself to relax. After a few heartbeats, he closed his eyes.

His body felt light, empty, as though the blood had drained away with the life-force Ananya had drawn from him. He rode on the wind, not the fierce wind of the sandstorms, but the light, warm breeze that caressed the leaves of the palms, alternating sensations of sunlight and shadow making his skin tingle.

Gradually, the sensation shifted, as a trickle of energy began to move into his arm, flowing from the tips of Ananya’s fingers and through his skin. It began like the summer rain, individual droplets rolling through him, then more and more, the gently falling raindrops joining together to form rivulets, then small streams, and he felt himself growing stronger with its touch. Wherever the water found parched earth, it soaked in. Tiny green succulents sprang from the ground, growing larger with each additional drop of water, until small pink and white yolara flowers dotted the golden sands.

The clouds passed, and a falcon wheeled in the bright blue sky. In his mind’s eye, Kusan looked up at it, shading his eyes. In a mirage-like shimmer, the bird became two, one circling overhead, while the other winged its way toward the horizon.

Kusan felt, rather than saw, the second bird leave him, the energy flowing down his arm, where it passed from his hand and into Yolara’s. As it passed, a different energy slipped into him, flowing through their joined hands. And in his vision, a cheetah crossed over the rise of the nearest dune, its lithe form swift and silent as it approached the stream and dipped its muzzle into the cool water.

He opened his eyes and looked down at Yolara, who was looking up at him, a smile mirroring his own on her face. But before he had a chance to say anything, Ananya spoke, pitching her voice so that it could be heard by the assembled crowd.

“Yolara, Daughter of the Wind,” she said, then looked to Kusan, “and Kusan, Warrior of the Desert-Born, the threads of your lives are now woven together, as the waters of two streams flow together to become a single river, as inseparable as the sands from two vessels blown together by the desert winds.” She stepped back and raised her arms, and it was only then that Kusan realized that Ananya was no longer holding their hands, but that Yolara’s hands rested in his.

“Go now, together, as one until the end of your days.”

⬧

The rest of the morning was a blur for Yolara. It seemed as though everyone who had congratulated her and Kusan over the past two days came forward to congratulate them again. She quietly bid Respa to fetch a carafe of the deep purple grape juice, so that she could accept the well-wishes properly, without having to drink too much of the freely-flowing celebratory wine.

In the heat of the day, the well-wishers finally retired to their tents, and the dishes from the midday meal were cleared away. After the household staff had left the dining hall, Jochen retrieved a long leather tube from where it had hung on the back of his chair during the family’s private meal.

“Reinhard not only sent me with felicitations on the occasion of your marriage,” he said, laying the leather case on the table, “but also with a gift – one he says was promised long ago. It gives me great pleasure to present it to you now.”

Yolara caught her breath as Jochen unbuckled the latches and opened the tube. He then drew out a large roll of parchment which he unrolled and spread across the table, using their four goblets to anchor the corners.

“It cannot be,” Yolara breathed, rising partially from her chair. A map tracing the southern reaches of Gerlach, Nizam, and the Kushari desert beyond lay before her.

Jochen smiled across the table at her. “Ah! So you remember your uncle’s promise?”

“I do,” Yolara said, pressing both hands against the table to hide their trembling as she leaned forward, studying the map. “But I had no idea he actually meant it – truly, I believed he only spoke to calm an unsettled youth.”

“What is it, my lady?” Kusan asked, a frown creasing his forehead.

At the same time, Nayira looked quizzically from the map to Jochen to Yolara. “I do not understand,” she said. “What promise?”

“My lady?” Jochen said, gesturing for Yolara to speak.

“No... no, you tell them. Please,” Yolara said, falling back into her chair, astonished.

Jochen nodded, “Very well.” He gestured to the map, pointing out the narrow, green teardrop that represented Nizam and its borders, extending along the foothills from the oasis city of Aywhai at its western tip to Nizam and the neighboring foothills which sat in the broad bulb at the east. “Nizam sits here, like a small jewel between the vast deserts of the Kusharim and the southwestern corner of Gerlach, where it borders on Tusya.” He reached into the tube and pulled out a second map, unrolling it, and spreading it out across the table on top of the first. “And here you see the new borders of Nizam.”

Nayira leaned in for a better look. The narrow teardrop had been replaced with a large green wedge. “This is not right,” Nayira said, pointing to the narrow northern tip of the wedge. “This shows our borders extending into the Tzigani Mountains—”

“And eastward to Hatu. This is far beyond our borders,” Kusan said, looking from Jochen to Yolara with a puzzled expression as he gestured to the greatly expanded swath of green on the new map.

Jochen just stood there, arms folded across his chest as he looked at Yolara.

“I came into my stoneworker’s magic when I was fourteen, nearly a year after returning to Gerlach for fosterage in Uncle Reinhard’s court,” Yolara said finally, her voice soft and full of emotion. “No one had expected it, as my healer’s gift had manifested when I was ten, during my fosterage in Tusya the year after my parents died, and dual abilities are so uncommon. Then one day, in the castle of Gerlach, I grasped a stair rail, and the stone shifted under my fingers. I did not know what it meant, and I was frightened.”

She could still feel the heavy granite softening like clay under her hand. The sensation was familiar now, but at that time, when her nails had only just begun to harden and she’d had no idea what it represented, it was utterly foreign. She had jumped away from the railing in terror, pressing her body against the opposite wall. But it, too, shifted like a living thing at her touch, leaving the shape of her body embedded in the stone when she moved away. She had stood there on the stair, trembling for a quarter-hour, too terrified to move, until her uncle had found her.

Yolara shuddered, shaking off the memory with a weak smile as Kusan took her hand in his, and continued. “Uncle Reinhard was my first stonemaster. He taught me how to control my abilities, rather than allow them to control me.”

She reached out with her free hand and brushed the map. “He often said that a stoneworker should always have stone under their feet, to give them strength. He promised me the Tzigani Mountains as a wedding gift.”

“Even so,” Jochen said as Kusan and Nayira sat there in stunned amazement, not unlike Yolara’s own. “Reinhard is not one to make idle promises, my lady, and as his brother’s heir, you are as much a daughter of Gerlach as of the desert. These lands are your rightful inheritance. He has been preparing for the past two years, ever since your fosterage took you to Kushar, knowing this day would not be long in coming.”

He pointed to the borders on the new map, which traced out a rough, elongated wedge extending northward from the great desert. “The Tzigani Mountains have long been a friendly border between Tusya in the west and Gerlach in the east.”

Jochen held out a sheaf of sealed letters to Yolara, presenting them to her with a slight bow. “I accepted the oaths of allegiance from the villagers on your behalf as I traveled here. The mountains and all the lands and villages they contain belong to you, my lady.”

⬧

Yolara was almost grateful for the storm that blew in the next afternoon. Focusing on building and maintaining the shield curtain gave her a few hours when she was not thinking about the mountains at her back and the enormity of her uncle’s gift. And, though she was loathe to admit it even to herself, the now-familiar task of drawing the energy from the stone and maintaining the weave of the curtain was almost restful by comparison.

Not that she felt at all rested later that night, after the storm abated and she left the wall and walked to the palace, arm-in-arm with Kusan, the dust still sifting from the folds of her tunic and loose-fitting pants in gentle puffs with each step.

“You are very quiet, my lady,” he said to her after the last of the stoneworkers had bid them good night, turning down a side street toward his own home, leaving only a pair of palace guards following them at a discreet distance.

“I have much on my mind,” she said. “I worry that the level of the river will once again be lower in the morning. I am sad that my grandmother will not live to see another summer. And, bound to this city as I am, I fear that I shall never come to know the Tzigani people or know how to rule them.”

Kusan was thoughtful for several paces before he said, “I will look to the river tomorrow, so that you may spend the day with Nayira.”

“Thank you,” Yolara replied, favoring him with a tired smile.

They walked the rest of the way to the palace in exhausted, yet companionable silence. Later, after they had retired to their bed and lay together in the darkness, he addressed her last concern.

“When the storms subside for the season, we will plan a trip to your mountains. You shall meet your people, and they will come to know you and to love you even as I do,” he said, his voice so tender that tears rose, unbidden, to Yolara’s eyes.

“No one could love me as you do,” she whispered, a tear sliding down her cheek. But before she could say anything more, exhaustion claimed her and she drifted off to sleep, the hot desert wind blowing through her dreams.

⬧

The first rays of sun had just crested the palace roof when Kusan left the kitchen carrying two cups of steaming kahveh, and found Jochen in the courtyard. He handed one of the cups to the knight, who sniffed the dark beverage before taking a tentative sip.

“Bitter, but not unpleasant,” Jochen said, then took a longer draught.

Kusan then reached into the pouch slung over his shoulder and withdrew a cloth bundle containing several small, round rolls. “These are called jabana. They are made from the root of the manioc bush, which we purchase from the Kushari traders. The flour is mixed with fresh goat cheese. It is quite filling.” He offered the still-warm rolls to Jochen.

Jochen took one, tearing off a bite of the tough roll and chewing on it for a couple of minutes before washing it down with another swallow of the kahveh. “Tasty,” he said. “I like simple fare in the morning. None of that fussing about with fancy meals before the day has gotten a good start.”

They ate in companionable silence, then, when they had finished with their drinks, left the cups on one of the low tables, where one of the household staff would find them. Dividing the last of the jabana rolls, the two left the palace, crossing the bridge and following the river along its path around the city.

“We have few such canals in my country,” Jochen said, noting the colorful tiles that bordered one of the small pools along the river’s edge.

“This is your first visit to Nizam?” Kusan asked.

“It is.”

“Then let me explain. This is not a true canal – this is the Nizami River. It flows to us wild and free from the mountains, but here we have tamed it, keeping it safe within the city walls. I am told that in the ancient days, before the tiles were placed to direct it and the reservoir was built to contain it, the river would flow out across the sands where the waters were lost to the desert.”

Jochen nodded. “Ah. I had thought it unusual that you would place your moat inside the city wall rather than outside it.”

“We have no water to spare for such an extravagance,” Kusan said. “And though the river’s depth has remained constant for the past month, should it continue to decline, the city will be in jeopardy from a foe we cannot battle.”

The two men walked in silence, then, for some time. As they passed the shops opening their doors for the morning trade, Kusan nodded in greeting, introducing Jochen to some of the more prominent of the city’s merchants. They also stopped briefly to talk with the leaders of the several caravans currently in residence. Two of them were in the midst of preparations to leave when the day began to cool in the late afternoon. They would travel together as far as Hatu before one turned north, into Gerlach, while the other continued to the southeast, along the coastal road toward Kushar. The desert was always dangerous during the summer, but with the storm having subsided during the night, the caravaners were hopeful that they might reach the next oasis before another storm came upon them.

“We would be glad to have a knight of your stature travel with us,” one of the caravaners said to Jochen.

“I thank you,” the knight replied. “But I intend to remain in Nizam for at least another fortnight.” After bidding the caravaners safe travels, the pair continued their walk along the river’s edge.

“I was surprised that you agreed to the heartstring binding,” Jochen said at last. They had passed the city’s main gates, but had not yet reached the long, slow curve that would bring them in sight of the reservoir or its adjacent fields.

“We thought it best,” Kusan said, keeping his expression carefully neutral. He had been expecting the older man to pursue this line of conversation, but the frequent interruptions had forced them to keep to more superficial topics.

“Whose idea was it?”

“My lady, Yolara’s. As ours is not a political marriage, it was her opinion that taking the heartstring bond might be more significant to our neighbors—”

“Including Gerlach?”

“—including Gerlach, yes. That it might be more significant than a marriage of affection rather than politics.”

“You hoped to legitimize your marriage in the eyes of the Seven Kingdoms.”

It was a statement, rather than a question, but Kusan sensed no judgement in it.

“Yes.”

“Hmmph,” Jochen said, the sound coming out like a snort. “She has a good head for politics, our Yolara. I cannot deny that. I’ll tell you – when the invitation to the wedding arrived, Reinhard was concerned. He sets great store by Yolara, thinks of her almost as a daughter, and you being the son of a merchant and not of a noble house—”

Kusan stopped in the middle of the road. “King Reinhard knows of me and my family?” he said, unable to keep the surprise from his usually composed voice. He considered himself reasonably well-versed in matters of intrigue, and as Captain of the Queen’s Guard took pains to learn all he could of the nobles who came to Nizam. But the idea that his family, a prominent trading house though they were, should have come to the attention of the Gerlachi king came as a great shock to him.

Jochen laughed, a full-throated, good-natured sound, and clapped Kusan on the shoulder. “Of course he does, my boy. Just as you and your young Queen will make it your business to know as much as possible about the important personages in the kingdoms that border your own. Such is the nature of statecraft.”

“I’m not sure what I think of that,” Kusan said, recovering from his shock and resuming their walk down the fused-sand road.

“It is the way of things,” Jochen said, falling into step alongside him. “And one of the many areas of governance Yolara has been trained in since she was but a child.”

“The fosterage.”

“The very same.”

“Yolara has already brought us many... innovations in the practice of her stoneworking, which she learned as a student from her foreign masters in the craft,” Kusan said. “I was aware that her studies also included lessons in governance, though perhaps not the extent of her training.”

“How else do you think the noble houses have kept the Seven Kingdoms from falling into the wars that once raged across our lands? Our fledgling rulers learn to rule from the very advisors who guide the great houses. And with the children of every noble house the ‘guest’ of one of the others, temperamental lordlings are given reason to pause before hastily riding into battle at the smallest slight, as they once did.”

“And by continually relocating the children from one kingdom to the next, they do not have time to form false allegiances.”

“Exactly,” Jochen said. “Many alliances have been forged through the goodwill built by the fosterage.”

“Many marriages, you mean to say,” Kusan said, sure that Jochen had finally come to the point of his conversation. “But because I am not of a noble house, nor have I had the benefit of the experience in other courts gained through the fosterage, Reinhard sent you here to assess just what kind of consort I will be to Yolara—”

Now Jochen stopped, turning to face Kusan. “Just so. Will you support Queen Yolara, and by extension uphold the peace of the Seven Kingdoms, or will you guide Nizam toward a more divisive path?”

“The path of the desert-born?” Kusan asked.

“It is a reasonable question; do you not agree? Among the Seven Kingdoms, Nizam sits between Kushar and Tusya, its precious water at the heart of the desert. Tusya has long found its alliances with the mountain kingdoms to be of political advantage—”

“Of course it does,” Kusan said. “In its place amid the western foothills, Tusya is neither mountain nor desert.”

“Be that as it may,” Jochen allowed. “But the same cannot be said of Kushar.”

Kusan nodded in acknowledgement, gesturing to Jochen that they should continue. They had come around the long, eastward curve of the city, and the reservoir lay before them, its still, blue waters glittering in the morning sunlight. They walked in on silence for several paces beneath the shade of a row of date palms, before he spoke.

“Have you heard of unrest in Kushar? Or between the desert-born and Gerlach?” he asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral. He had been distracted of late, with Yolara and the wedding, but his sources among the caravaners had reported no trouble among the Kusharim.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Jochen said. “But with the great desert between us, our peoples have few common bonds to temper the frictions that arise when customs come in conflict.”

Understanding dawned on Kusan like the morning sun on the ochre sands. “King Reinhard did not give Yolara the Tzigani Mountains simply as a wedding gift,” he said. “He gave them to her to strengthen the alliance between Nizam and Gerlach...” he trailed off as the implications fell into place.

“Oh, it was a wedding gift, in truth,” Jochen said, the expression on his face revealing nothing of his thoughts. “The royal house of Gerlach traces its ancestry to the mountains, and Yolara is the most gifted stoneworker the Gerlachi line has seen in many generations. She well-deserves to have solid stone beneath her feet. And if the gift serves to accomplish other purposes... well, I can only say that my cousin is a very shrewd king.”

“Who was she intended to marry?” Kusan asked.

Jochen looked over at him with a start, confirming Kusan’s suspicions. “So you do see the whole picture. Very good,” the knight said with a vigorous nod. “Yolara is the rightful queen and heir to Nizam. Even Reinhard would not presume to choose her husband...” He let the words trail off.

“But?”

Jochen shrugged. “But... as her father’s brother, Reinhard considered it his duty to put desirable candidates in her path. Zuria seated its king only three years ago – I believe Yolara was present for the coronation – but he has a younger brother only five years Yolara’s senior. And the court of Erembourg must find suitable wives for its three sons, as their elder sister will take the throne when it is time. Reinhard had intended to encourage the princes from each of these houses to visit Nizam at different times over the coming winter, when the risk of sandstorms would be reduced. Your sudden engagement caught him off-guard.”

“He was not planning to send one of his own sons?” Kusan asked drily.

“No. The eldest is being groomed to take Reinhard’s throne, when the time comes. And his younger son is greatly enamored of the third daughter of Tusya.”

“You weave tangled webs, with your politics and your alliances,” Kusan said, shaking his head. “I can only be grateful that Yolara and I have managed to avoid this particular trap.”

“Rest assured, there will be others,” Jochen said with a chuckle. “There always are. But I am confident that you will weather them well – and perhaps avoid them altogether, just as you have avoided answering my question.”

The silence hung between them, filled only by the lapping of the water nearby.

“I have no personal allegiance to the mountain kingdoms,” Kusan said after a moment. “But neither do I have any desire to lead our people into battle against them.”

“Spoken like a true diplomat,” Jochen said. “Very well. We shall discuss this no further. I am satisfied that Yolara has chosen well, and will report thusly to Reinhard when I return to Gerlach.” The knight turned to face him, extending a hand which Kusan accepted, the two of them grasping each other by the forearm.

“You seem to me to be a wise and cautious man, Kusan, and not one given to rash behavior or quick judgements. I have no doubt that you will quickly learn the additional skills required of the consort to a Queen, and serve your people well.”

Jochen smiled, and turned his gaze toward the terraced hills. “Now, come. I have heard much of Nizam, and how the cultivators of the desert-born have made the barren hills blossom like a delicate flower.” He gestured toward the emerald green of the oasis that spread out behind them. “In all my travels, I have never seen the like. I am most eager to see more of this miracle.”

Chapter 13

Yolara had slept late, as she often did after a storm, and while she could not say that her cares had vanished during the night, her heart did feel much lighter after her rest.

Kusan and Jochen had long-since broken their fast by the time she woke, and gone to inspect the river, canals, and reservoir, leaving word with Dashir that they would return in time for the midday meal. Yolara bathed, donned a light linen gown, then joined Nayira in the courtyard, where she was relaxing in a golden pool of morning sunlight.

“It is good of you to sit with me,” Nayira said, her face brightening as Yolara joined her. She gestured toward the low table near her divan. “There is juice and fruit aplenty – Respa always brings too much. You must help me to eat it.”

The clouds in Nayira’s blue eyes were tranquil, Yolara noticed, even as the skies above them were blue with only light wisps of clouds passing by.

“I have left you alone too long these last days,” Yolara said. “It pleases me to spend some time with you, grandmother.”

They spent an enjoyable morning, sharing stories and secrets and crafting notes of appreciation for the many wedding gifts that Kusan and Yolara had received.

“Your husband is a clever one,” Nayira said with a chuckle, “leaving you to attend to the correspondence.”

Yolara laid aside her quill. “He has taken on the more difficult task, I fear – that of discovering what is causing the river’s level to diminish.”

“It continues to decline?”

“Yes,” Yolara said. She picked up the gilded perfume bottle Jochen had given her. “And none of my advisers can determine the cause, for the water continues to flow steadily from its source in the mountains.”

Nayira frowned. “There have been other years when the water was less abundant—” she began.

“But in those years, the headwaters were also affected,” Yolara said, passing the bottle gently from one hand to another as she spoke “We have searched through all of the old records, and can find nothing to explain this phenomenon. It is most troubling – for even if we are successful in protecting the city from the storms, we cannot survive without water.”

She placed the bottle back on the table, but as she withdrew her hand, her attention was drawn to the droplets of the thick liquid that clung stubbornly to the sides of the glass, as though reluctant to slide downward.

“What is it?” Nayira asked.

Yolara shook her head, a slight frown creasing her brow, and picked up the bottle. Pressing the stopper tightly to keep it from falling out, she turned the bottle upside down, holding it so that only the lattice-covered glass was visible.

“Perhaps we have been doing this the hard way,” she said after a moment, her voice thoughtful.

“Doing what?”

“Protecting Nizam from the storms. It takes all our skill and energy to build the curtain high enough to block the winds – but what if we let the wind blow over us—” she held up the perfume bottle, passing her hand over the rounded base, “—and focused our efforts on simply keeping the sand from entering the city.”

“You would build a roof?”

“Less a roof, and more of an open lattice, like this gilding, that would allow the sun to shine into the city, and the rain to fall, but which we could then close to block the sand during a storm.”

“What would stop it from burying us?”

“Nothing,” Yolara said. She turned the bottle upright and placed it on the table. “During a storm, the dome would be covered – mostly on the desert side, of course – and after the storm has passed, we would simply direct the sand back out into the desert, as we now do with the sands that form the curtain. It might look something like this...”

Yolara gestured toward the floor of the courtyard, calling the loose sand to her so she could build a model that would more clearly illustrate her idea for her grandmother, and only then noticed that there was no sand covering the stone. Turning in her seat, she looked around the entire courtyard. Not a single grain of sand lay on the granite bridge that spanned the river. No ochre dusting covered the wooden poles holding up the balcony or settled into the cracks of the heavy palace gates.

She turned to Nayira. “Where has all the sand gone?”

Nayira shook her head slightly. “I thought you ordered it swept away for the wedding,” she said.

“Not I,” Yolara said. “Dashir, perhaps?”

But when summoned, Dashir denied responsibility, mentioning with a slight grumble that he’d had to send serving-boys to fetch buckets of sand to extinguish the flames in the kitchen and scrub the cooking pots. Likewise, Respa believed that it was Yolara who had cleared the sand from the palace.

“And not just the palace, my lady,” the serving girl said. “But the entire city. The sand has fled to the desert, letting Nizam shine like the jewel she is.”

“This is most unusual, grandmother” Yolara said after Dashir and Respa had left them. “First the water and now the sand. They must be connected, but I cannot understand how.”

“Kusan says that you and the other stoneworkers draw sand to yourselves, to strengthen you, while you create and maintain the curtain,” Nayira said.

“Yes,” Yolara replied. “Without it, I fear we would tax the ability of our healers to sustain us, particularly during the longest storms.” She considered for a moment before continuing. “But I see now that we have simply called the sand, without thought as to where it comes from. And with the curtain blocking our access to the open desert...”

“You have drawn the sand from all parts of the city,” Nayira finished.

“Yes. And pushed it out to the desert rather than returning it to its source afterward,” Yolara said, silently chastising herself for the oversight. And though their conversation moved on to other topics, the sand she and the other stoneworkers had called from the city swirled in the back of her mind like a small sandstorm for the rest of the morning.

⬧

The sound of voices at the palace gate caught Yolara’s attention, and she looked in that direction, smiling when she saw Kusan and Jochen coming into the palace, just in time for the midday meal. She signaled to Dashir to alert the kitchen to their return, then assisted Respa in clearing away the papers and notes of appreciation for the many wedding gifts they had received.

Over lunch, Yolara told them how she and Nayira had determined that the stoneworkers had drawn on the sands within the city walls to sustain themselves during the storms. Together, the four of them speculated on the possible connection to the diminishing water supply.

“I wonder,” Jochen said, “if it is not simply a matter of perception, and that you actually have just as much water available to you as you have always had.”

“The water is visibly lower, cousin,” Yolara said.

“Yes,” Jochen agreed. But consider...” he took a small bowl of olives and poured them onto a large piece of flatbread, then placed the bowl at the center of the table around which they all sat. Next, he poured water into the bowl, filling it about half-way, speaking as he filled the dish. “Imagine that this bowl is your reservoir, which as Kusan and I observed this morning, is currently filled to a little less than half of its capacity.”

He then took a piece of flatbread and tore it into pieces, which he then rolled between his hands until he had rendered them into a pile of crumbs on the table in front of him. “Now imagine that these crumbs represent the sand which your stoneworkers have called out of the bottom of the reservoir—”

“And the canals, and the river itself,” said Yolara, beginning to understand where Jochen’s example was leading them.

“Even so,” the knight said. He began sprinkling the crumbs into the bowl. “As you see, a few crumbs make no noticeable difference to the level of the water in the bowl. But the more I add, the more it affects how deep the water appears to be...” He looked from the dwindling pile of crumbs in front of him to the bowl, then dumped the remainder of the crumbs into the bowl. “Alas, I should have chosen something other than crumbs, for they simply absorb the water,” he said with a sigh.

But Kusan was nodding. “What you are saying is that the sand, which has settled to the bottom of our waterways, and accumulated over time, has created for us the illusion that the water is deeper than it actually is,” he said.

“Yes, that is my thought.”

“I cannot think of a time when the river has ever been cleared of debris,” said Nayira. “It is simply the river – the water flows through it and the canals into the reservoir, and from there out to the desert. It has always been this way.”

“It makes sense,” said Yolara. She leaned back in her seat, her eyes still on the dish at the center of the table. “Protected from the desert, as it is within the city walls, little sand falls on the surface of the water, and even the gentle flow of the river is enough to carry most of it away. Only a small amount of sand would settle to the bottom – and that across all the generations of Nizam.”

“And the sand the river carries, it deposits into the reservoir,” said Kusan, nodding. “As we do not measure the depth of the water from the bottom, no one ever noticed that the pool had been growing increasingly shallow.”

“We only noticed because the reversal took place over a single season,” said Yolara.

They all sat in silence then for some minutes, before Nayira asked, “So what do we do now?”

“Do we even need to do anything?” asked Yolara.

“I do not think so,” said Kusan.

“You may want to close off the overflow valve until the depth of the water is at a more acceptable level,” suggested Jochen. “Not that there is any danger of flooding now, but it may reassure the people.”

“Yes,” Yolara said. “Everyone is worried, and explaining to them that we have as much water as we have always had, when their eyes tell them differently, may be difficult. Especially as I intend to test their faith in me once again.”

As Kusan and Jochen watched with interest, Yolara pulled an egg-sized stone from her pocket and placed it on the table, then rested her hand over it. Closing her eyes, she thought of the shape of the city, a broad oval stretching from the caravanserai at the western end to the fields and crescent-shaped reservoir at the west, with the river entering at the north, beneath the palace, and the marketplace and gate to the desert at the south.

Beneath her hand, the stone softened, shifted, reshaping itself into a replica of Nizam.

But Yolara was not finished. Next, she drew a series of pillars along the center of the city from east to west, rising from the ground to points well above the height of the Queen’s Tower, stopping only when the pillars pricked at the palm of her hand.

Finally, she spun a latticework over it all, thin strands of stone rising from the outer wall and supported by the pillars, forming a lace-like dome that covered the entire city.

She withdrew her hand, the entire effort having taken only a moment.

“I have an idea,” she said, passing the now fist-sized model to Kusan, and proceeded to tell them about the dome she hoped to use to replace the curtain.

They spent a quarter of an hour discussing the idea before Nayira took her leave of them, retiring to her chambers for an afternoon nap. By that time, Yolara had already modified the small model with many of their suggestions, but while it was well-suited for introducing the idea, it was too small to serve as a proper example.

As Respa guided Nayira to her chambers, where the healer Ananya awaited her, Kusan caught Yolara’s eye.

“The training sands?” he said.

“The training sands,” she said, catching his hand as she rose from her seat.

Yolara sent a messenger to Kabir, asking him to summon as many of the stoneworkers to join them on the training sands as were able. As she, Kusan, and Jochen headed out of the palace, a slight breeze carried Nayira’s voice to her.

“There are few who would have seen a way to save our city in the shape of a gilded bottle. Your mother would be most proud of you, my child.”

Yolara paused, looking back toward the balcony, but Nayira’s door was already closing. With a smile, she blew a kiss toward her, then turned back toward the desert, her heart lighter than it had been in days.

She had a city to save – and, just possibly, the key to saving it.

⬧

Five days later, Yolara stood on the Queen’s Tower, sixteen stoneworkers in position on the wall surrounding the city. They had built several models of the city on the training sands, each larger than the last, refining the structure of the latticework dome and the pillars that would be required to support it until even the most skilled of the city’s builders could find no fault with the design.

Rather than raise the dome directly from the wall, as Yolara had originally proposed, Kabir had suggested that they rest it on the backs of the great stone cobras, extending a protective curtain to the ground only during the storms. To this end, the stoneworkers had called up more serpents from the desert, spaced at regular intervals all the way around the city. It was to this conclave of serpents that Yolara now directed her attention.

“Are you ready, my lady?” Kusan asked, coming to stand beside her.

“Yes,” Yolara said, digging her toes into the sand at her feet. While she and the stoneworkers had planned and practiced, Kusan and Jochen had enlisted the city’s youths to carry buckets of sand to the top of the wall for the stoneworkers, as well as here, to the top of the Queen’s Tower. Now, as the familiar frisson of energy surged into her body, Yolara touched the hilt of her dagger for luck, then reached out and squeezed Kusan’s hand. “Give the signal.”

Kusan raised a large, blue banner into the air, sweeping it in a large circle before dropping it. As it fell, Yolara and the stoneworkers reached out with their magic.

Slowly, majestically, the great serpents turned their heads to face the city.

Yolara sank her feet deeper into the sand, driving her magic downward, through the fused stone and clay of the Queen’s Tower, into the earth beneath the city, and outward, binding the magic of the other stoneworkers to her own.

Then she called to the serpents, demanding their attention.

Hoods flaring, forked tongues flicking, seventeen sets of enormous eyes looked back at Yolara.

She stared back at them, unflinching, commanding them with her will.

With a hiss that reverberated through the city, the serpents reared back, then opened their fanged mouths and began to spit. Great gouts of sand flew past their tongues, soaring over the wall and into the city.

The sand cascaded downward, three dozen stoneworkers who had taken their places on rooftops across the city capturing it, anchoring it, and building the pillars that would support the dome. Each of the stoneworkers had been tasked with raising six pillars. Now, like a forest of massive trees, the pillars rose, layer on layer of sand, woven and fused into stone as they grew, taller and taller, their roots driven deep into the earth, their trunks thick and straight, rising to more than twice the height of the Queen’s Tower.

And still the cobras swayed, drawing golden sand from deep in the desert and spewing it from their gaping jaws.

Finally Kusan raised the green banner, again sweeping it over his head in signal. Throughout the city, watchful assistants alerted the stoneworkers in their care, and at once they shifted their efforts. Great fronds sprouted from the tops of the pillars, their fan-shaped leaves spreading outward in imitation of the living palms far below.

“It is enough, my lady.”

Kusan’s voice seemed no more than a whisper, barely penetrating the golden haze of magic that clouded Yolara’s mind like a storm. The eyes of the cobras held her transfixed; their angry hissing like a rush of wind threatening to carry her away. Even the sand she had drawn from the rooftop was driving itself into her skin, to her bones, challenging her for control of the magic.

Yolara was trapped in the weave, unable – no, unwilling – to release it. A surge of emotion that was equal in both joy and terror swept over her as she felt her fingers begin to harden, the flesh slowly turning to stone.

Chapter 14

Kusan watched in fascination as the great cobras spewed sand into the city which the stoneworkers captured and crafted into the gigantic, yet somehow delicate palm fronds. He knew the creatures were nothing more than conjured sand themselves, but their undulating coils and fluttering hoods as they swayed high overhead made them seem almost alive. The hissing of the wind that whipped around them only added to the illusion.

He looked over his shoulder at Yolara, who stood at the edge of the waist-high wall surrounding the Queen’s Tower, her bare arms raised toward the massive snakes. She wore an expression of intense concentration, her eyes constantly moving from one serpent to the next, her stone-tipped fingertips in constant motion. Swirls and eddies of sand flowed toward her from the airborne streams, settling on her in a golden mist and adding to the ever-thickening coating of sand that already covered her from head to toe.

He said nothing, though seeing her encased in the shroud of sand was always somewhat unsettling. This was the largest working of her stoneworker’s magic he had ever seen her attempt, and he did not wish to distract her from her task.

Kusan returned his attention toward the city. Pacing from one side of the Queen’s Tower to the other, he looked from the cobras to the broad palm fronds reaching out from the dozens of pillars built by the stoneworkers on the wall and rooftops. When the enormous palm fronds at the tops of the pillars were nearly touching, Kusan stepped to Yolara’s side.

“It is enough, my lady,” he said, shouting above the wind that whistled around them, mimicking the hiss of snakes. There was so much sand swirling through the air that he had to shade his eyes to look up at the canopy of fused stone leaves high above their heads.

After a moment, when Yolara had not responded, he turned to her. She stood as if transfixed, her gaze locked on the swaying cobras. Shouting her name, Kusan rested a hand on her forearm.

Yolara did not move. Even the heavy coating of sand covering her arm did not fall away at his touch. Tamping down his rising dread, Kusan shook her, but still she did not respond.

He grabbed her then, trying to turn her to face him, but she was locked in the sand. More alarming, though, when his hands closed on her arms, he felt no soft, warm flesh beneath his fingers, only the rough solidity of fused stone.

He could feel Yolara’s life-force thrumming faintly in his mind, and reached out to her through the heartstring bond, the effort as difficult as wading through the shifting dunes in the deep desert. But with each heartbeat, he could feel himself drawing nearer to her, and he pushed his way forward, calling out to her through the connection.

Yolara, my love, come back to me. Do not give yourself to the sand and the stone. Your people need you. I need you.

Lost in the trance, she gave no sign that she was aware of his presence. Kusan persisted, unwilling to let her go. Finally, after several seconds, he was rewarded with a single blink.

She was still there.

But he was running out of time. Each beat of her heart was a fraction of a second slower, each breath weaker than the one before. Standing next to her, holding her, he could feel the stone taking over her body, one grain of sand at a time. He had to do more, but the heartstring bond was too new, and he did not know how to use its magic to drive back the stone. So he did the only thing he could think of to break the hold the magic had on her.

Murmuring an apology, Kusan drew back his hand and slapped her.

⬧

A sharp, stinging pain jolted Yolara from the trance.

Instantly, her fingers softened. Without a backward glance, Yolara directed a gout of sand at her attacker, sending him tumbling across the tower toward the stairs. With a flick of her fingers, she bound him in manacles of stone, then dismissed him from her thoughts.

The cobras were swaying, their hisses now an angry, sizzling roar, the sand flying uncontrolled over the city where the stoneworkers on the rooftops struggled to capture and control it.

Yolara grasped at the reins of the magic, asserting her dominance over the serpents. Pushing back against them with all her will, she forced them into submission. Like water from emptying pitchers, the sand spraying from their mouths slowed to a trickle, then stopped altogether. And though they still stared at her, as though beckoning her to join them, she was in control of herself now as well as them, and refused to answer their call.

When the cobras finally settled, turning reluctantly to once more face the desert, Yolara released the magic with a sigh and turned to Kusan, who had come to stand quietly at her side.

She looked at his hands, momentarily puzzled by the stone manacles that bound his wrists, then nodded. “It was you who slapped me,” she said as the manacles crumbled to dust at their feet.

“I did.” He pressed his hand gently to her cheek, the marks of his fingers visible even beneath the thick layer of sand that covered her skin. “The magic was about to take you.”

“I heard you call to me, but I could not respond,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“If I could have freed you any other way, I would have.”

“Do not apologize,” she said, looking at him. “Had it not been for you, I would have been lost.” She took his hand and pressed a kiss into his palm, leaving the golden outline of sandy lips in his hand alongside the faint purple bruising visible along the base of his thumb. “Thank you.”

“I am ever in your service, my lady,” he said, looking at her with a warm smile. “But now you must rest and refresh yourself. Then, when you are ready, we shall go and see this wonder you have created.”

⬧

An hour later, Yolara was beginning to feel like herself again, and she walked through the city with Kusan, laughing in delight at Jochen’s almost child-like reaction to the towering palms.

“When you suggested forming the pillars to resemble palms, I had no idea you meant to create actual trees.” The knight touched the rough surface of the pillar, where layers of bark overlapped each other, winding their way upward to the broad fronds with their hundreds of small leaves. Squinting, he raised his hand to shield his eyes as he peered upward at the canopy and gasped. “My sight must be failing me. It cannot be that the leaves are moving.”

“Your eyes are fine, cousin,” Yolara said, patting him on the arm. “A tree survives a storm because it is flexible, and these trees will need to survive many storms. By weaving our combined magic together, we were able to grant the trees a small measure of movement, even though the sand that formed them has been fused into solid stone.”

“As you do with the curtain?” asked Kusan. “So that no section of it is entirely dependent on the efforts of a single stoneworker?”

“Not quite the same, for we must actively maintain the curtain. The trees will remain standing without our aid, but yes, it is a similar process,” Yolara said. “We used a similar technique for creating the great serpents—”

“I have seen many statues,” Jochen said, stepping away from the palm pillar after failing to wrap his arms entirely around it. “Some of them of such craftsmanship I was certain they were merely waiting for me to look away before they relaxed into another pose. But when those serpents turned their heads and gazed on us, their hoods spread as though preparing to strike...” he did not bother to suppress his shudder, “...it was the most fearsome thing I have seen in many a year.”

Yolara did not shudder, though she was grateful for the gentle squeeze of Kusan’s hand holding hers.

Banishing the memory of the cobra’s eyes locked on hers, she looked up at the lacy canopy of the stoneworker’s palm grove and the clear, blue sky beyond. They had poured all their collective strength into the creation of the trees, scattering them through the city. But they had also woven their artisanal skills into the creation. Long-tailed monkeys – which were rarely seen in Nizam except among the caravaners – clung to the tall, thick trunks, as if intent on reaching the clusters of ripening seeds that nestled just beneath the leaves. Stone birds, trapped in flight, hung from strong, yet delicate crystalline threads, bobbing in the air as the leaves moved in the gentle breeze.

Below the golden palm leaves, Yolara saw that the stoneworkers’ plan to create a seemingly-natural effect of filtered shade during the heat of the day for the sun-baked homes and streets and plazas had been successful. Beyond their artistic value, those same leaves would provide a magically-reinforced framework she and the stoneworkers could use during a storm to trap the blowing sand and keep it from overwhelming the city.

“If it works,” she murmured, not realizing she had spoken the words aloud until Kusan turned toward her, a slight frown creasing his brow.

“My lady?” asked Kusan.

“I only hope that our work today will bring us the benefit we seek,” she said.

“The plan is sound,” said Jochen. “I am not a stoneworker, but so many of our people are that I have learned a few things, and seen more. When Reinhard was crowned, my sister created a mural to celebrate the event, depicting the scene of his knighthood some years before in flowing stone. We watched the procession of courtiers enter the hall, saw the young prince kneel before the king, and witnessed the blade rise and fall from shoulder to shoulder for over a year before Reinhard finally grew tired of it and asked her to remove the enchantment – and that effort took her nearly a fortnight to accomplish. I daresay you and your stoneworkers have poured far more magic into these trees than that. They will not fail you.”

A commotion at the opposite end of the plaza caught their attention then, and the three of them turned to see Respa, accompanied by one of the palace guards, running toward them.

Kusan stepped forward, moving to shield Yolara. “What is it?” he asked, his voice low and controlled, yet commanding.

“My lady, you must come at once,” Respa said, her voice a ragged whisper as she held her side, gasping for breath. “The Queen... Lady Nayira... She is dying!”

⬧

They found Nayira on the Queen’s Tower, reclining on the divan, much as she had the day Yolara first met her.

“There is nothing more I can do for her,” Ananya said to Yolara, stepping away from the divan as they approached.

Yolara knelt at her grandmother’s side, Kusan standing behind her with his hand on her shoulder. Nayira lay there so very still, her skin like pale, dry dust that threatened to blow away on the slightest breeze. Yolara feared that they were too late.

Then Nayira’s lips parted and her fingers fluttered. “It is time for me to go, child,” she said, her words little more than a whisper on the wind. “I wish I could have stayed longer, but my strength slips away from me like sands on the breeze.”

“Alas, those are sands over which I have no power,” Yolara said.

Nayira trembled, her lips turning up in a slight smile, and her eyes slowly opened. They were still as blue as they had ever been, though the clouds they carried were thin and faded. “My dear girl,” she said, her voice thin and reedy. She looked past Yolara and raised a hand to Kusan. “And the son of my heart.” Her eyes closed and she was silent for a moment before continuing. “It is good to be with those you love when your time draws near. Where is Ananya? Are Dashir and Respa also here?”

Kusan turned and beckoned to the steward and the handmaid, who were standing with Ananya, near the tower stair. “Come, my friends. Lady Nayira asks for you as well.”

The five of them gathered around the dying queen for several minutes, whispering their farewells, the effort of holding back their grief evident on their faces.

Finally Nayira reached out to Yolara. “Will you help me?” she asked.

“Anything, grandmother,” Yolara said. “You have but to ask.”

“It has always been my wish to become one with the wind and let my soul fly free upon my death.” She paused to catch her breath before continuing. “But that is a transformation that few weather witches achieve, for becoming a wind walker requires a level of power that few possess. And so we crumble to the dust...” her words faded in a fit of coughing.

Yolara placed her hand on Nayira’s chest, pushing a small tendril of healing energy to help settle the cough.

When Nayira was settled, she smiled. “I have seen your generosity with your healing gifts – how you ease a headache or soothe a fever or lift the pain of a day’s labors from others with no thought for yourself.”

“How can I help you, grandmother?” Yolara asked.

“Will you give me the strength to call the winds one last time?”

Yolara nodded. “Of course.”

“Help me stand.”

Yolara kicked off her sandals while Kusan and Respa gently lifted Nayira to a standing position, supporting her near the center of the tower. Then Yolara came and stood behind her, putting her arms around her so that Nayira was leaning back against her. The others gathered around them, reaching out to provide support to the two queens.

“Where is your center of power, grandmother?” Yolara whispered, her mouth near Nayira’s ear.

“In my chest, my breath.”

Yolara moved her arms from Nayira’s waist and crossed them over the frail old woman’s chest, opening her hands so that her palms rested flat against the thin silk of her grandmother’s gown. Drawing power from the sand on the tower’s stone floor in through her bare feet, she let it flow through her and into Nayira, thin golden strands no thicker than embroidery threads, coiling around them and binding them together from foot to head.

“Call the wind when you feel ready.”

Nayira nodded slightly, but said nothing. Yolara continued to feed energy to her, feeling the tiny speck of power in Nayira’s chest begin to brighten. It was all she could do to keep her focus on doing nothing more than feeding this core of energy instead of letting the power spread through Nayira’s body, erasing the signs of age, healing the ravages of time.

But that was beyond even her sand-enhanced abilities, and making the attempt would do nothing but postpone this moment for another few days. So she closed her eyes and directed the golden light to Nayira’s center of power, watching it grow from a spot no larger than a grain of sand to the size of a date, then a fig, then a pear.

A breeze curled around them. Tentative. Curious.

“I am Zephyr, and I blow from the West.”

The voice was soft, gentle, like the warm, summer breeze on which it rode. Yolara did not know if the others heard it, but Nayira did, and she raised her arms and called it to her. Connected by the healing energy, Yolara felt Zephyr dance around Nayira’s hands, fluttering the silk of her gown, wrapping possessively around the old queen’s body as if trying to force Yolara away.

“Not yet. Hold on,” Nayira murmured.

Yolara pushed the energy freely to her now, and Nayira received it, laughing as she directed it from her core through her hands and out to the sky.

“I am Nashi. I blow from the East.”

This second breeze sent a chill down Yolara’s spine, then twirled with its sister, the pair twirling like invisible dancers, raising the sand at Yolara’s feet into a golden haze.

She called the sand to her, fusing it to her body, drawing on its power and pouring it into Nayira, who was beginning to glow a brilliant blue as a third breeze joined the others.

“I am Shakri, and I blow from the South.”

Hair whipped around Yolara’s head, blinding her, a mingling of her own black tresses and Nayira’s gray, for they were one person now, calling the wind through Nayira’s fingertips, yet bound to the earth by Yolara’s feet.

Finally a fourth breeze joined them, cold and dry, swirling in joy as it answered Nayira’s call.

“I am Mistral. I blow from the North.”

They danced individually, these Four Winds of legend, then wound themselves together, tighter and tighter, merging into a single vortex spinning atop the Queen’s Tower. The divan flew to one side, crashing against the wall and knocking over the small potted palm that had sheltered them. Respa cried out, reaching one hand to catch Dashir, who was nearly blown away, but kept her other around Nayira’s waist on one side, while Ananya mirrored her actions on the old steward’s opposite side. Kusan stood rock-steady, his feet planted on the stone, his arms supporting both queens as their forms blurred between blue and gold.

Then Nayira’s body began to fade, growing translucent, the energy Yolara was pouring into her visible as a small, golden vortex matching the larger one surrounding them.

“Let me go!” Nayira called out, her voice strong and sure.

As one, they released Nayira, falling back as the vortex pushed them away. The golden threads binding Yolara to her grandmother held, then stretched, then snapped, whipping back at Yolara like a thousand snakes and driving her to her knees.

Dazed, Yolara watched as Nayira stood there, the Four Winds lifting her, turning her, blowing through her increasingly insubstantial form, until they touched the golden vortex of power at its center. Instantly, it expanded, consuming what remained of Nayira’s body in a blinding flash of blue and gold and white light.

When Yolara could see again, the sky was clear and the winds were gone. The sand that had swirled at the top of the tower had settled into a smooth dusting, and Nayira was nowhere to be seen.

As Yolara, Kusan, Respa, and Dashir looked around and at each other, a warm, dry breeze carried Nayira’s voice to them. But instead of the weak whisper of an old woman, her voice was strong, joyful, and full of power.

“I am the sirocco, the leveche, the harmatta. I am the wind that lifts the sands and drives them before me on a hot summer day and chills the bones of travelers who venture out at night. I am Nayira.

“I am the Desert Wind!”

Chapter 15

The sun was barely beginning to touch the sky with color on the third day after Nayira’s passing, when Kusan slipped out of the palace Walking briskly, he quickly arrived at the home of the stoneworker, Kabir.

“Does a storm come?” Kabir asked, a puzzled expression on his face. “I sense nothing from the sand – though the Queen is far more attuned to these things than I am.”

Kusan held up a hand to stop him. “No,” he said. “There is no storm of which I am aware,” he said. “And please accept my apologies for summoning you from your bed at this early hour. But I would speak with you in private, and this seemed like the best time.”

“Of course,” Kabir said. He tightened the belt on his robe and opened the door farther to admit Kusan. “We can talk in the courtyard. My family still sleeps; we will have all the privacy you require.”

Kabir’s was one of the taller houses in the city, with three levels, arranged into a simple square tower, with rooms along the outer walls surrounding a central courtyard that was open to the sky. The shape drew the warm air upward, keeping the house comfortable even during the warmest months of summer.

Kabir showed Kusan to a large table with long, low benches at either side. “Our family table,” he said, lighting an oil lantern and setting it on the table near them. “We are simple people, with many children. My sister’s family share our home, as do my parents. Can I get you something to eat or drink?”

“Thank you, but no. I appreciate your hospitality, but do not wish to trouble you further,” Kusan said, taking a seat and gesturing for Kabir to do the same. He pulled a folded parchment from inside his tunic and spread it out on the table, the flickering light from the lamp revealing a simple drawing.

Kabir looked at it. “A house?” he asked. He leaned closer. “It is very large.”

“It is a villa, for the Queen,” Kusan said. “I wish to build it for her, in the Tzigani Mountains.”

Understanding dawned on Kabir’s face, and he began to smile. “Yes, I had heard that Nizam’s borders have expanded well beyond our foothills. You intend this—” he tapped at the drawing “—to be the mountain palace, then?”

Kusan nodded. “Yes,” he said. “And I wish it to be a surprise for her. It will be some weeks before the summer storms die down enough for her to leave Nizam and travel into the mountains. With your help – and that of the other stoneworkers and the city’s craftspeople, I am hopeful that the villa will be ready to receive her.” He looked down at the drawing and then back at Kabir, his confidence wavering for the first time. “But I am no stoneworker, and know little of building a palace. Can it be done?”

Kabir studied the drawing thoughtfully. “Not in a single month, but perhaps in two. I can enlist the aid of many craftsmen for the timber portions, and as the storms subside, I will be able to send additional stoneworkers to the project.” He looked up at Kusan. “You have chosen the site?”

“I have,” Kusan said. “On the second mountain ridge, near where the river drops before it begins winding through the foothills. There, the last red earth of the desert gives way to the mountain granite. It is an easy two-days’ ride.”

“I know this place,” Kabir said. “I have taken stone from there many times – and spent many hours beneath the trees near the water’s edge looking out over the hills and across the desert. You are aware, of course, that the town of Calisia is perhaps another hour’s ride from the site?”

“Yes,” Kusan. “I thought it best to build near an established town, without being so close that it seems intrusive.”

“Yes, indeed,” Kabir said. He turned his attention back to the drawing. “This is a good starting point, but there are many details to be decided before we can begin the actual construction.”

“I defer to your wisdom and experience,” Kusan said, holding his hands out to Kabir, palms turned upward in a gesture of concession.

Kabir retrieved a pair of large, flat stones, each about the length of his arm, from a pile at the back of the courtyard and placed them on the table. Working from Kusan’s drawing, he began to shape a model of the new palace, using one stone for each of the levels of the building.

Kabir was not as fluid in his stoneworking as Yolara, but Kusan could find no fault in his design. The two men worked until well after sunrise, discussing and refining the plan. It was only when their deliberations were interrupted by childish laughter that they looked up and realized that the sun was up and the day had begun.

“I must return to the palace,” Kusan said, politely declining the invitation to break his fast with Kabir’s household. “But I thank you for your time – and for your efforts on my lady’s behalf.”

Kabir nodded, then walked him to the door. “It is I who should thank you,” he said. “I believe I may speak for all the stoneworkers and craftspeople of Nizam when I say that it will be our honor to build a palace for our Queen.”

⬧

Yolara was surprised at how deeply Nayira’s passing had affected her. She had only known her grandmother for a season, but as the days stretched into a fortnight, and then twice that to a month, the loss of the old queen’s quiet wisdom was an ache that was slow to heal.

She was most aware of it while standing on the Queen’s Tower, binding the wind-blown sand to the great stone palm leaves during a storm. The translucent dome she and the other stoneworkers had constructed had proven to be an effective shield against the storms ranging from mere afternoon squalls to tempests of several days’ duration, requiring far less effort to maintain than the great curtain.

But as the wind moaned high overhead, Yolara found herself straining to hear Nayira’s voice – and was greatly saddened each time the storm passed and the Desert Wind had not whispered a greeting.

“I will be on the training sands today,” she told Kusan late one morning, in answer to his unspoken question. He had come into their chambers to find her wrapping linen strips around her forearms to keep the sand from working its way up the loose, full sleeves of her long, sand-colored overshirt. Similar bindings already held her loose-fitting pants close to her calves, and she had pulled her hair back in a thick braid.

“You look much as you did on our journey across the desert,” Kusan said. His voice was warm, and when Yolara looked up at him, she saw that he was smiling. “I would have persuaded Nayira to send for you much sooner, had I known I was going in search of not just our city’s princess, but my own bride.”

He held out his arms to her, and she stepped into his embrace, laying her head against his chest.

“I am glad it was you she sent.”

They stood there in silence for some moments before Kusan spoke again. “What troubles you, my lady? Why do you spend so much time alone on the sands?”

She had gone to the training sands nearly every day for the past week, not to work with the other stoneworkers, or even practice on her own. Instead she had walked beyond the hard-packed, sand-swept ground that surrounded the city and made her way to the top of the tallest dunes, where she sat looking out into the desert and listening for Nayira’s voice on the wind.

“I...” Yolara began, but her voice faltered, and she paused a moment, grateful that he could not see her face or the tears that had risen in her eyes. “My grandmother is gone, Jochen returned to Gerlach. But for you, I have no one.”

“My family has welcomed you as one of their own,” he said, stroking her hair. “Kiara considers you both a friend and a sister. And your people love you. Surely you know this.”

Yolara wiped at her face. “I do not mean to be ungrateful...” she said, letting the sentence trail off when she could not find the words to express her grief.

“I miss her, as well.” Kusan murmured.

Yolara stepped back, drawing her fingers down his arms until she clasped his hands. She looked up into his dark eyes. “I know you do,” she said. “I just need some time.”

Kusan nodded, then kissed her gently on the forehead. “Shall I go to the sands with you?”

“I cannot promise to be good company,” she said. “But I would be glad of yours.”

⬧

“The cultivators have asked that all who are able assist in bringing in the last of the summer harvest,” Kusan said as they trotted their horses across the sands, their guards trailing at a discreet distance. “It seems the reduced number of rats in the city has resulted in a plentiful harvest.”

“Tabour broke faith with the rats as well as with the people of Nizam,” Yolara said with a shudder. “Even in the face of a bountiful harvest, I regret having destroyed so many innocent creatures.”

“It was necessary,” Kusan said. Not wanting Yolara to dwell on thoughts of Tabour’s treachery, he changed the subject. “The storm season draws to a close. In a fortnight, it will be safe for us to leave the city and visit your people in the Tzigani Mountains.”

“I look forward to it,” Yolara said, a flicker of a smile touching her face. “I may be desert-born, but I confess a love for the mountains runs in my blood.”

As they discussed plans for the journey, it was all Kusan could do not to mention the new palace being built in the mountains. Kabir had reported that stoneworkers and craftspeople from the nearby town of Calisia as well as several of the smaller mountain villages had visited the site – first out of curiosity, and later returning to lend their assistance to the effort. As a result, the new palace was taking shape much more quickly than Kusan had hoped for, and now included decorative elements and construction techniques of both the desert and the mountain peoples.

But he did not speak of any of this to Yolara, and everyone who knew of the project had been sworn to the strictest secrecy. Distracted as she had been over the previous month by the loss of her grandmother, Yolara seemed oblivious to the awkward silences or odd changes in conversation that occurred whenever she entered a room where the mountain palace was being discussed.

Kusan could not wait to show it to her. He hoped seeing how much her people truly cared for her would help to ease her grieving heart and dispel some of the despondence she had fallen into.

They talked as they rode, making plans for the trip to the mountains. Kusan suggested they spend a few days in Calisia, as it was among the largest of the mountain towns and a logical destination. Yolara accepted the idea without argument, not even questioning how he had come by the knowledge of the town, which was yet another indication of her distraction. When the conversation fell away, they let the horses have their heads and stretch their legs, racing across the smooth, flat rocks and hard-packed sands that bordered the foothills, golden clouds of dust rising in their wake.

When they finally turned, laughing and breathless, Nizam lay before them, the bright splash of green palm fronds visible above the city wall a beacon under the hot summer sun. Above them, the leaves of the stone palms shimmered like a mirage against the bright, blue sky.

“Look at the serpents,” Kusan said.

Yolara looked, then gasped. “They’ve changed,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. She nudged her horse forward, to get a better look.

“They were not so when you created them.” Kusan said. It was a statement, not a question.

Yolara shook her head, staring at the serpents as though transfixed. Kusan could understand why. When she and the stoneworkers first drew the great stone cobras from the sand, they had been identical; tall pillars resting on coils of sand, their slitted eyes looking out into the desert.

Now it seemed as though no two were the same.

They rode closer, to get a better view. The one nearest them had a diamond pattern running down the length of its body, while wide bands crossed the back of its neighbor. One glared across the sands with hood flared wide and teeth bared as though about to strike, another gazed in placid silence, its hood barely open. And though their heads all rose to an equal height, one rested on a mound of tightly-wound coils, the next on a loose pile, and the next simply rose straight from the ground, its tail extending for some distance out into the desert.

“Is this the art of the stoneworkers?” Kusan asked as he and Yolara moved from serpent to serpent, studying the variations between them.

“I think not,” Yolara said. “See how they watch us? I believe they, like the great palms, have become so infused with magic that they are – in a small way – alive.”

Kusan stopped his horse. “Then we must bring them down, before they become a threat to our people.”

“Wait,” Yolara said, shaking her head. She guided her horse close to the nearest serpent, then reached out to lay her hand on its rough surface, closing her eyes as she concentrated on the stone. After several moments she looked back at Kusan. “There is no malice here. They were created to protect Nizam, to watch and serve as guardians of the city; that is their sole purpose. The magic will not allow them to harm the city or her people.”

“And the visitors to the city?”

“I am sure the serpents will know the difference between those who come in peace and those who seek to do harm,” Yolara said.

Kusan shuddered visibly. “I do not pretend to understand this magic, my lady, but I accept your word that it is so. Nevertheless, as Captain of your royal guard, I advise that we be watchful.”

⬧

When isolating herself from anyone that reminded her of Nayira failed to soothe her grief, Yolara decided on a different remedy: to keep herself too busy to think about her loss.

With that in mind, she began rising at dawn, taking an hour to exercise with members of the guard before breaking her fast with Kusan and consulting with Dashir about her appointments for the day. She went to the gardens, she and the guards who accompanied her working side-by-side with the other volunteers to harvest the fruit and grain and late summer vegetables that had all seemed to ripen at the same time. When that task was complete, she continued her daily trips to the gardens, joining in the preparation of the fields for the planting of the winter crop.

After the midday meal, Yolara threw herself into the tasks of governance, heading into the city almost daily to meet with the craftspeople and merchants. The monthly market, which ran for three days after each full moon, was in full swing, and she wanted to see how the changes she and the Queen’s Council had approved were being received by both vendors and patrons.

Yolara was with Sahana, visiting the textiles area, when a ripple of silence ran through the usually noisy marketplace, the regular chatter of buying and selling replaced with angry shouts and the distinct sound of metal on metal. Yolara was looking around, trying to identify the source of the disturbance, when the guard, Zoya, caught her arm.

“My lady, it is not safe. You must return to the palace at once,” she said.

Yolara shook her head. “What is happening?”

“I do not know,” Zoya said. “Only that there is fighting in the caravanserai. Please, come away.”

Yolara and Sahana stepped away from the fabric they had been examining, but instead of following Zoya, they both turned toward the sound of the fighting.

“My lady!” Zoya said, sprinting past them and planting herself in their path.

“I would see what the trouble is,” Yolara said, meeting Zoya’s fierce glare with one of her own.

“The Captain would not allow—”

“He is not here, is he?” Yolara snapped. She paused, calming herself before continuing. “I am your Queen. You may accompany me to the caravanserai, or you may remain here. It is your choice.” Without waiting for a reply, she stepped around Zoya. Sahana at her heels.

With a muttered oath, Zoya called for additional guards to accompany them, then ran to take her place, marching ahead of Yolara, her fist clenched tight on the hilt of her sword.

⬧

They were fighting over water.

As nearly as Yolara could tell, one group of caravaners had stopped a second group from watering their camels, and were now defending their blockade of the river’s edge at sword point. Just ahead of her, a dozen of the guard were running across the bridge to intervene. She couldn’t see more than that, though, because when she reached the bridge, Zoya pulled up so quickly Yolara nearly crashed into her.

As Yolara jumped back, grabbing the stone railing for support on one side, and catching Sahana on the other, Zoya whirled to face her. The guard stood, blocking the bridge, her feet planted wide, her arms spread out to either side, her drawn blade in one hand.

“I cannot let you pass, my lady,” Zoya said, not bothering to bow, the honorific her only recognition of Yolara’s status. “I should not have allowed you to come this far.”

Yolara quirked an eyebrow at her. “It is not as though I gave you a choice,” she said, a hint of amusement touching her expression as she pulled her attention from the unrest across the river to the guard standing resolutely before her.

Zoya nodded, but she did not smile. “Your safety was entrusted to me; in this matter, I am now in command—”

“Really?” Yolara said.

Zoya continued, not acknowledging the implied challenge. “You may observe the conflict from this side of the river. If you require additional information, I will send another of the guard across on your behalf.” She relaxed her stance slightly, resting one fist on her hip, while keeping her sword at the ready across her body. “And if I deem it too dangerous for you to remain even this close, you will withdraw, accompanied by members of the guard. Is that understood?”

Yolara didn’t know whether she was more irritated or impressed by Zoya’s stand. But when one of the caravaners came screaming across the bridge toward them, and Zoya merely glanced over her shoulder, determined that he was unarmed, struck him twice with the flat of her blade when he came within reach to distract him before landing a solid punch to the jaw that sent him to the ground, and then calmly turned back to her conversation with the queen, Yolara decided she was impressed.

“Agreed,” she said with a nod.

In the few moments they had been talking, the fighting had escalated. The two groups of caravaners that had been fighting with each other near the river were now battling with the guards who had come to separate them. And as if the fighting wasn’t enough, the pack animals had gotten involved. Angry camels ran through the fight voicing their displeasure in loud, growling moans. Some, teeth bared, struck out with their feet, or swung their heavy heads from side to side on their long necks, crashing into anyone who got in their way. Crazed mules bit and kicked. Closer to the stables and lodgings, a third, larger group of caravaners had elected to stay out of the fight, and were working to keep their own agitated animals contained.

There was a commotion behind her, and Yolara looked back to see a group of caravaners running toward them from the marketplace.

“Stop them!” Zoya shouted.

The pair of guards that had accompanied Yolara and Sahana from the marketplace drew their swords and leapt into action, forcing the caravaners back, away from the queen.

“Enough of this,” Yolara muttered. She sent her power streaking through the hand that still rested on the wide bridge railing. When it reached the opposite shore, it split, spreading rapidly across the field in a grid-like pattern that went unnoticed beneath the feet of the combatants.

“What have you...” Sahana began, but left the sentence unfinished as the grid rose, forming shoulder-height stone walls, trapping the fighters and their animals in a cluster of interconnected cells.

As the clash of swords gave way to shouts of confused panic, the clatter of approaching horses announced the arrival of Kusan with a full contingent of guards. At a gesture from him, a group of mounted guards broke off and surrounded the caravaners from the marketplace.

Kusan reined in his horse near Yolara, acknowledged her with a curt nod, then addressed Zoya.

“Status?”

“Thirty caravaners, fighting over access to the river, Captain,” Zoya said, her words crisp and precise. “Twelve guards intervened.” She gestured toward Yolara with a nod. “The Queen separated the combatants and corralled the animals.”

Kusan looked across the river, a frown darkening his features, then glanced down at Yolara. “You should not be here,” he muttered.

Yolara met his gaze evenly – as a Queen to the Captain of the guard, not as a wife to her husband. “Those who were involved in the dispute – I will judge them here, in the caravanserai, without delay,” she said.

He schooled his features instantly. “As you command, my lady.”

“You will need a stoneworker or two to assist you,” Yolara murmured as he rode past her.

Kusan nodded, then turned to one of the guards who rode with him and issued a clipped command. The guard immediately wheeled her horse and went in search of the needed stoneworkers.

“Stay here, with them,” he said to Zoya, then rode on, not waiting for a reply.

Zoya said nothing, her eyes flat as she met Yolara’s gaze.

“You do not need to wait with me,” Yolara said to Sahana, who had remained at her side.

“I will see how this is resolved,” Sahana replied. “As will they.” She tilted her head toward the marketplace, where a small crowd had gathered, craning their necks for a better view past the mounted guards who kept them back.

Yolara sighed. She would have preferred not to have an audience, but it was too late for that now – had been too late from the moment she had decided to challenge Zoya. She rested her hand lightly on the stone of the bridge, quietly drawing on its calming, stabilizing energy while she waited.

A quarter of an hour later, one of the guards came trotting across the bridge. He murmured a few words to Zoya, then turned and returned to the field.

Zoya turned to Yolara. “The Captain is ready for you.” She gestured for the queen to proceed.

Yolara moved forward. “Allow them to the river’s edge, but not across the bridge,” she said, gesturing to the onlookers from the marketplace. The crowd had grown, now easily numbering one hundred. She waited while Zoya gave instructions to the mounted guards, then crossed the bridge with Sahana and Zoya.

Kusan had separated the caravaners into two groups, tossing their weapons into piles on the ground and bidding them kneel, surrounded by watchful guards. Their pack animals had also been sorted into their respective herds, but for the moment remained in somewhat larger stone corrals than those Yolara had created during the fighting. The peaceful caravaners and their animals remained free, though they had moved closer, curious as to the fate of their fellows.

As Yolara walked onto the field, she felt the eyes turned on her from every direction. She was aware, too, of Kusan’s quiet anger at what he must have viewed as her reckless behavior. She could not fault him for that – it had been reckless. But in an odd way, she felt alive for the first time since Nayira died. It was a startling realization, but not one she had the time to think on now.

She stopped, halfway between the two groups of kneeling caravaners.

“I am told that you were fighting over water – over the privilege of allowing your camels to drink. Is this true?”

The caravaners began to call out their arguments, dozens of voices from each group shouting at once.

Yolara held up her hand.

“Has not Nizam always given of its water?” she asked. “Have we not offered you shelter from the desert sands? Welcomed you as valued traders and honored guests?”

Someone spoke from the smaller group of caravaners. “The river is low, my lady, and the other caravans have many camels. We only wanted our camels to have a chance to quench their thirst while there is still sufficient water.”

An uncomfortable murmur went up from the caravaners at her back which was echoed by the observers from across the river. Yolara raised both of her arms high, calling for silence.

“We have monitored the river,” she said, pitching her voice as she had been taught, so she could be heard by all who had gathered. “It continues to flow strong and unhindered from the headwaters to fill our canals, our fountains, our reservoir—”

“We can all see how low the water is,” someone shouted. Yolara ignored them, and continued speaking.

“—And we have seen how the sand we have drawn from so many parts of the city as we worked to protect it from the storms has also been pulled from the water. Look at the river. Look at the fountains, and you will see the truth of what I am saying. As we removed the sand from the riverbed, the water has simply appeared to diminish, when in truth we have all that we require – and more, as the river now flows clean and pure.”

The murmuring rose around her, but the tone had changed from grumbles to skepticism to amazement as the watchers near the river confirmed the truth of her words.

Yolara gave them a moment to absorb the reality, before turning a harsh glare on the caravaners. “Instead of gratitude for our hospitality, you have chosen to squabble like selfish children, to battle over the gift of precious water that we give freely to all who enter these walls. There is water enough for all – but none for you this day.”

There was a gasp, but again, Yolara did not react to it.

“You have broken faith with Nizam,” she said, her voice firm and unwavering. “Gather your pack animals and your belongings. Be out of the city before the sun sets.”

She looked at both groups, who were staring at her in shocked silence.

“If your journey brings you back to our walls after...” she hesitated for only a moment, “...two full cycles of the moon, with a promise of no further violence, you will be received with all due hospitality and this incident will be forgotten—”

“But we will lose the trade of this and the next two month’s markets,” wailed one of the caravaners, cutting her off. “How are we to earn—”

“You should have considered that before you attacked each other,” Yolara said, slicing her arm across her in a gesture for silence. “Instead, you chose to make yourselves unwelcome here, and so you must leave. Return in hostility, and our gates will be closed to you forever.”

She did not wait for a response, but turned and began to walk away. After only three steps, she stopped and turned back to them, her expression softening only a fraction. “The desert can be harsh, but no storm will threaten you this night,” she said. “I cannot say beyond that. Travel in peace.”

Yolara walked back to where Sahana stood, near Kusan and Zoya. “May we use a pair of horses?” she asked Kusan. “I would return to the palace now, with Zoya.” When he nodded, signaling to one of the mounted guards to bring a pair of horses, she turned to Sahana.

“I will leave you now, in the care of my guards,” she said. “They will see you safely to your home.”

Sahana looked from Yolara to Kusan. “My son chose well,” she said, a twinkle in her eye. Then she turned and walked briskly toward the bridge, a pair of guards rushing to keep up with her.

Yolara glanced over at Kusan, who was staring at his mother’s retreating back, a curious expression on his face. She rested her fingers lightly on his arm. “I will await your company for the evening meal,” she said softly. “I suspect we have much to discuss.”

“I suspect we do,” he said, looking down at her.

Then the guard came up with the horses, and a moment later Yolara and Zoya rode out of the caravanserai, the news of what had just transpired racing through the city faster than their horses.

Chapter 16

In ways she could barely explain, even to herself, Yolara felt as though the sound of fighting had awakened her from a deep sleep, one that had left her lethargic on the best of days. Now, as she and Zoya rode through the city, she was aware of subtle changes that had taken place over the past weeks without her notice.

The cultivators’ hair had lost the bright gold of the harvest season and shifted to the russet of early fall. The lightweight silks of summer hanging from the textile racks had been replaced with heavier cloth made from the wool of the sheep that grazed in the foothills. Even the cooking smells were different, the fresh sweetness of fruit and leafy greens now blending with more savory scents of roasting potatoes and curried meats.

She had been aware of the passage of time, but it had flowed past her. Now she was awash in sensation – and wondering how much she had missed while the grief over Nayira’s passing had clouded her senses.

When they reached the palace, Zoya remained on her horse while Yolara dismounted, reaching for the reins of the riderless horse.

Yolara shook her head. “Come with me,” she said to Zoya, handing the reins to the whisperer who had come from the stables to greet them. Without waiting, she entered the palace, knowing Zoya would be close on her heels.

Dashir rushed up to them, his face a mixture of concern and relief. “My lady, we heard—”

“There was a disturbance, yes,” she said, slowing only slightly so the old steward could keep pace with her. “It has been dealt with. Please send refreshment to the Council chamber.”

Dashir murmured an acknowledgement and turned aside, his reedy voice issuing commands as he headed toward the kitchen.

Yolara resumed her pace, crossing the courtyard to the Council chamber. The large, oval table sat empty, a dozen matching chairs spaced at intervals around it. Yolara took her seat at the head, and gestured for Zoya to sit.

Zoya moved toward the chair where she customarily sat, but remained standing, one hand resting on the high back of the chair.

They remained there like that, staring at each other, for several seconds before Yolara spoke.

“At the bridge – you drew your sword against me.”

“I did.”

Yolara leaned back in her chair. “In some of the countries where I have traveled, such an action might be considered treason,” she said.

“You are a just and fair queen...” Zoya said.

Yolara raised an eyebrow at the clearly unfinished sentence “But?” She waved a hand toward the guard. “You may speak freely.”

Zoya shifted position, clasping her hands behind her back before addressing Yolara.

“You saw only the conflict between the caravaners,” Zoya said. Her tone was clipped, but not rude, much the same as when she delivered reports during the meetings of the Council. “You did not see the possibility that they might have directed their hostilities toward you. My duty was to protect you from that danger, even if that meant drawing my sword to prevent you from going any closer.” She tilted her head in a slight bow. “My lady.”

Yolara took in her words, searched them for hidden meaning, but found none. “You certainly got my attention,” she said.

“Such was the extent of my intentions,” Zoya replied.

There was a light knock at the door. A moment later it opened, and a serving-boy entered, carrying a tray laden with a carafe of juice, and dishes of flatbread, hummus, olives, and goat cheese. While he brought the refreshments to the table, Yolara again invited Zoya to sit, which she did, although she seemed reluctant to do so.

“May I ask a question?” Zoya asked after the serving-boy had gone.

“Of course.”

“How did you think to cage the fighters that way?”

“It was actually the camels that gave me the idea,” Yolara replied.

“The camels?” Zoya asked, her brows drawing together in a puzzled frown as she toyed with an olive.

Yolara laughed. “Once, when I was traveling in Zuria, we saw a herd of stampeding cattle. The whisperers were doing their best to get them under control, but whatever had frightened the beasts had them all in a panic.”

She tore a piece of flatbread and dipped it into the hummus as she spoke. “It was obvious to us all that the cattle were going to crash through the fences and plunge headlong into the forest long before the whisperers could calm them. Many would undoubtedly be lost to injury or predators before they could all be gathered.”

She paused in her narrative to eat, then pushed the plate away while she continued her story.

“A stoneworker was working nearby, repairing a wall that bordered the neighboring field. He saw the situation and without hesitation slapped his palm against the stone wall. The stone shot forward like the fingers of his hand, forming a series of low, thin walls, each about chest-height to the cattle.”

She brought her hand down flat on the heavy stone tabletop, her fingers spread wide. As in her story, slender threads of stone shot out from her fingers and streaked across the surface of the table toward Zoya.

“The stoneworker divided the herd into columns,” she said, the threads rising into slim barriers, each a handsbreadth tall between the cups and the plates, “then curved the columns to slow their pace and guide the cattle away from the forest and back toward the whisperers.” The barriers shifted, flowing across the table in a pattern of curves and spirals and carrying the dishes with them.

Yolara turned her attention back to Zoya. “It took all of the stone from his wall,” she said, “and undoubtedly many hours for him to pull it all back into the original form once the whisperers had the cattle back in-hand, but he saved the herd.”

“So when you saw the camels dashing about...” Zoya said, nodding.

“I thought what worked for the cattle would work just as well to divide and contain men and camels,” Yolara said. In an instant, the curved barriers shifted to resemble the grid pattern she had created at the caravanserai.

“It was well done,” Zoya said.

Yolara shrugged, returning the table to its original smooth polish, and reaching for the hummus plate which had been pushed several inches away during the demonstration. “There will always be conflicts. If we can resolve them without bloodshed, it is preferable.”

“Yes, my lady,” Zoya said, retrieving her glass from the middle of the table.

The guard seemed more at ease now, Yolara thought, though she possessed an ever-present sense of alertness to her surroundings that never truly faded. It was not a magical gift, but a gift nonetheless – one earned and strengthened through diligent training.

The conversation lapsed, then, while they ate. Yolara consumed the food with gusto, savoring flavors she had been indifferent to for weeks, and replenishing the energy she had spent in stoneworking. She could not remember the last time she had simply played with her gift, taking joy in the artistry of it, rather than think of it simply in terms of a tool she wielded to protect the city from the storms.

When the carafe was empty and the plates scraped bare, Yolara pushed away from the table with a satisfied sigh. Zoya rose.

“If you have no further need of me, I have other duties I must attend to,” Zoya said.

“Have you any other questions?” Yolara asked.

“You told the caravaners there would be no storm,” Zoya said after a brief pause. “Can you sense the storms, then, as Queen Nayira did?”

“No,” Yolara said. “I do know when the storms are coming, but not in the same way. A building storm sends vibrations through the sand, which I can feel from a great distance. All stoneworkers are aware of this, to one degree or another. Understanding what the vibrations mean is a matter of training and practice.”

“I see.”

“I will remain in the palace until tomorrow,” Yolara said. “I release you to your other duties – and Zoya,” she smiled, “I commend you for your actions this day.”

“My lady,” Zoya said with a slight bow. Turning on her heel, she headed toward the door. She was just reaching for the latch when Yolara spoke again.

“Before you go, I would ask one more thing of you.”

Zoya turned back to her. “Certainly, my lady,” she said, clasping her hands at her back.

“It will undoubtedly be far less exciting than your usual duties, and possibly require more of your time...” Yolara began.

“You have but to ask.”

Yolara stood. “No, I prefer this be your choice,” she said walking toward the guard as she spoke. “I’m sure we agree that the Captain is a most excellent guard, but he has duties of his own he must also attend to. When he is otherwise occupied, I need someone with me who I can trust – someone who sees the danger I do not and who is not afraid of speaking up when it is necessary, in spite of my position.” She stopped, only an arm’s length between them.

The two women were only a few years apart in age, and nearly equal in height, though the guard’s rigorous training was obvious in her thicker shoulders and the lean muscles of her bare arms. Zoya’s demeanor, too, was the steady self-assurance of a seasoned warrior. She met Yolara’s gaze with easy confidence.

“You are a member of the Queen’s Guard,” Yolara continued, “and hold a seat on the Council. Will you give up that seat and take your place at my side as my personal guard?”

⬧

It was well after sunset when Kusan returned to the palace. After spending the past few hours overseeing the expulsion of the two bands of caravaners from the city, he was tired, dusty, and irritable. Nevertheless, when he heard Dashir’s voice, calling out to him as he crossed the courtyard, he schooled his features and willed himself to patience. He turned and waited for the aging steward to approach.

“Good evening, Dashir,” he said.

“My lord, Captain,” Dashir said, with a slight bow.

Kusan groaned inwardly, but waited for Dashir to continue. He had tried in vain to persuade Dashir against using the formalities of title with him since his marriage to Yolara, but his entreaties had fallen on deaf ears. Worse, the old man had insisted that all the palace staff adopt the formality, leaving Kusan little choice but to concede the point.

“The queen asked that we wait to serve the evening meal until after your return,” Dashir said. “Shall I notify the kitchen that you are ready?”

Kusan met the old man’s gaze with his own steady stare. Had he heard a trace of disapproval in the old man’s tone? Certainly not. It was true that he and Yolara usually took the evening meal at sundown, but they had dined far later on many occasions with no ill effect.

Nor was he the least bit hungry. He wanted nothing more than to bathe, perhaps drink several cups of cool water, then throw himself on his bed and sleep until dawn. But if Yolara had waited for her own meal, delaying his own for any appreciable time would hardly be fair to her. Besides, a little food might help ease his tension, and make their upcoming conversation go a little more smoothly.

Kusan sighed. “Where is the queen?”

“She is in the library.”

Kusan nodded. “Please let her know that I have returned, and will join her shortly.” He glanced down, recalling the time Yolara had used her magic to make the dust of the day jump from their clothing.

He looked back at Dashir. “I must change” he said. “Unless the queen prefers to dine elsewhere, bring the evening meal to the library in one-quarter of an hour.”

“As you wish, my lord, Captain,” Dashir said with another bow.

Kusan clenched his jaw, but said nothing, simply returning the bow before turning away and heading up to the chambers he shared with Yolara.

A serving boy was in the room when he arrived, placing a folded cloth and basin of clean water on a table near the dressing area. He had already lit several lanterns, which bathed the room in a soft, golden glow, and set a tray bearing a carafe of wine and a glass on one of the low tables. But Kusan was more annoyed by the room’s tranquil ambiance than soothed by it. The boy had probably been watching for Kusan’s arrival and hurried to prepare the room during the few minutes it had taken him to give his horse to the whisperer and speak to Dashir.

“Do you require any assistance, my lord, Captain?” the serving-boy asked. “I could—”

“Thank you, no,” Kusan said. Even after nearly two months, he was still not used to the hovering presence of the servants. He nodded toward the door. “You may go.”

The boy bowed politely before slipping quietly out of the room and pulling the door closed behind him.

Kusan looked at the carafe of wine, then shook his head, dropped onto a chair, and pulled off his boots. As tired as he already was, it would not be wise to take even a sip before he spoke to Yolara.

He removed his filthy clothes, hanging them on a peg even though he knew one of the serving-girls would come into the room and take them away to wash while he was at dinner. He allowed himself a sardonic smile. If being called “my lord, Captain” by people who had previously simply addressed him as “sir” was the price he had to pay for clean clothes and hot water to rinse the sweat from his body, he supposed it was a reasonable exchange.

Ten minutes later, washed and dressed in a clean tunic and pants and wearing a pair of soft leather slippers, he left his room and headed around the balcony toward the library.

Yolara had converted the room adjacent to the tower stairs into a small library, lining the walls with shelves on which she had collected all the books and scrolls she could find. Word of her fondness for books had spread, and it was not uncommon for visitors to the palace to bring a book or scroll as a gift for the queen.

Kusan smiled. He had instructed Kabir to construct a much larger library in the mountain palace. One that would offer more than the snug – he didn’t dare call it cramped – space in the center of the room where there was just room for the two of them to sit on cushions around a small round table.

But before he could take Yolara to the new palace, he had to convince her to stop taking risks with her life.

When he reached the library door, he paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. Tapping twice on the carved wooden panel, he opened the door without waiting for an invitation.

Yolara looked up from the book she had been reading, and Kusan could do nothing but stand in the doorway and stare at her. Like him, she was dressed in a simple tunic and pants of soft linen, with a colorful shawl of woven sheep’s wool around her shoulders. Her hair, which she had worn pulled back in a long queue earlier in the day, now hung down her back, shimmering blue-black in the soft lantern light.

But it was her eyes that caused Kusan to catch his breath and stare. For weeks, her amber eyes had been dull, like a pair of lanterns that had been snuffed out. Now, they sparkled, lighting up her entire face as she rose from her cushion and extended her hand to him.

“Come,” she said. “You must be tired and hungry. They will bring the evening meal soon.”

Kusan took her hand and allowed himself to be led into the small room. They sat at the table, close enough that he was still able to hold her hand, but far enough from her that he could look easily on her face.

He did not know what had happened to cause such a shift in her demeanor from the listless grief of the past several weeks – but he had seen a similar change before, and he didn’t like it. Warriors who had never drawn their blades except on the training sands were sometimes transformed thus after their first combat, developing an almost insatiable hunger for blood and battle. Whisperers who raced their horses across the desert often yearned for the next race, so much so that they drove themselves to madness.

Had Yolara developed such a thirst, after the events of this day? Had the fighting so shocked her system that she craved further conflict? As he stared into Yolara’s bright, sparkling eyes, Kusan’s mind raced, speculating on the many possibilities, all of them disastrous.

But before he could say anything that would help him begin to understand the change in her, the door opened and Dashir appeared, overseeing the pair of serving-girls who carried trays laden with food and drink.

Kusan said little during the meal. While there was much he wished to speak with Yolara about, this was a conversation he wanted to have in private rather than in front of the serving-girls. But as they were carrying away the empty trays, he turned to Yolara.

“Walk with me?” he asked, extending his hand.

“Of course,” she replied, resting hers on his palm.

They left the small library together, and, because they were near the tower, Kusan led them up the winding stair. As they stepped out of the dimly-lit stairwell and beyond the small pool of golden light, the star-filled sky winked at them between the broad stone palm fronds overhead. Beyond them, the city glowed with golden lamplight reflecting off ochre walls.

“Do you remember the night you found me here, and we went to the Tusyan caravaners’ camp?” Yolara asked, moving to the waist-high wall, and resting her hand on the stone.

“Well, I do,” Kusan replied, coming up behind her and slipping his arms around her waist. “It was that same night that we later fought Tabor and his pack of rats.”

“Yes,” Yolara said, leaning her head back against his shoulder. “I shall not soon forget that.”

Kusan wanted to be angry with her, but found that his emotions had settled closer to worry than to anger. Holding her close to him, his words were firm, but at the same time gentle.

“You risk your life to hold back the storms, you ride far into the desert, outpacing your guards.” She tensed, but said nothing, and he continued. “Do not deny it. Your guards are loyal, but they, too are concerned for your welfare. Today you were close enough to the fighting that a man with a strong arm could have thrown a sword at you.”

Kusan turned Yolara to face him and looked down at her. “My dearest, my queen, how are we supposed to protect you when you chose to put yourself in danger?”

Yolara smiled up at him. “By making sure you have assigned your best people to me, as you did by sending Zoya with me today,” she said.

“She let you go to the caravanserai,” he said, not trying to hide the annoyance he felt at that.

Yolara raised her hand, waiving her index finger in disagreement. “She let me go to the bridge, but would not allow me to cross. There is a difference.”

“Hmmph,” Kusan acknowledged, unwilling to concede the point. He had yet to seek Zoya out. She would not receive such a gentle reprimand as Yolara. He was inclined to assign the proud warrior to tending the stables for at least a month.

“The caravaners have left the city, as you ordered,” he said, adjusting the woolen shawl over her shoulders. “I pointed out to them that in addition to losing Nizam’s water and hospitality, they have also lost our protection. I suggested that they travel together and learn to work cooperatively if they wish to avoid falling prey to bandits.”

“Do you think they will?”

“Work together? Or fall to bandits?”

“Either?”

Kusan shrugged. “It is more likely that they will fight among themselves, each group placing blame on the other for their expulsion. I will be surprised – pleasantly so, but surprised, nonetheless – if we see either group return in strength again this season.”

“That would be most unfortunate,” Yolara said, her tone thoughtful. She pulled away from Kusan and took a few steps along the wall, her gaze toward the caravanserai. He watched her, but did not follow.

“I did not draw a blade today, but I, too, have a share of the blame for the conflict,” she said after a long moment. “I have neglected my people for too long. I should have explained to them what was happening with the river, but I let my own grief cloud my thinking. Others have interpreted my grief as fear.”

She turned to face Kusan, her eyes glittering in the dim lamplight that shone from the top of the stairs. “It is time for me to set aside my grief and return to being a queen.”

Kusan nodded, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “It does my heart good to hear you speak thus.”

Yolara cocked her head to one side, the light just strong enough for Kusan to see her raised eyebrow.

It seemed to Kusan that he was moving through a battlefield, engaging with an enemy he could not see. And though she seemed to have found herself again at last, he felt the need to proceed with caution, lest he push her back into the arms of her grief.

“The past two months have been difficult for us all, but for you more than most, I fear,” he said. “It is good to hear you speak of moving forward.”

Yolara pulled her shawl tighter and folded her arms around her stomach. “Many years ago, when the fever took my family, I learned that the only way to heal was to keep living until the loss no longer occupied my every waking thought,” she said. “Today, when I heard the commotion at the caravanserai, it was the first time in weeks I did not think of my grief first. I thought of Nizam and the queen her people needed.” She looked at Kusan. “The pain of Nayira’s loss is still there, but it is healing.”

Kusan held his hands out to her, and Yolara stepped into his arms. They stood there for some time, holding each other in peaceful silence, before Yolara murmured something Kusan did not quite understand.

“What did you say, my flower?” he asked.

“I said ‘do not be too hard on Zoya,’” Yolara said, tilting her head back and looking up at him.

“Why would you think—”

“I know you, my Captain,” Yolara said, a slight chuckle in her voice. “And again I ask, do not be too hard on her. I was not an easy one for her to watch over.”

“And yet, such was her duty.”

“She will have many opportunities to improve on it,” Yolara said. Then she continued, in answer to his puzzled frown. “I have asked her to be my personal guard.”

“Really?” he asked. “Even after she challenged you?”

“Because she challenged me.”

Kusan smiled, then bent to place a kiss on Yolara’s forehead. “You continually surprise me,” he said. “But yes, again, you have made a wise decision. I will see that Zoya’s other duties are reassigned—”

“Not yet. In addition to serving as my personal guard, if she accepts, I will need you to assign someone else to take her place on the Queen’s Council.”

“Again, changing assignments is a simple matter.”

“I know. And I am grateful you assigned her to me today,” Yolara said. “But the role I have in mind for Zoya will be somewhat different, and I have asked her to seek your counsel before making her decision. She will not only serve as a guard, but as an extension of my eyes and ears, mindful of the things I cannot see. Nizam is growing and changing, and I cannot govern solely from my own observations. If Zoya accepts this duty, I would have it be willingly – ‘with her eyes open,’ as the Kusharim say.”

Kusan looked at her, his worries fading like the path of a serpent across windblown sand. This was the woman he had come to admire, respect, and love. He laughed as he thought of the formidable combination Yolara and Zoya would make.

“A lioness to protect my cheetah,” he said, then smiled as Yolara’s delighted laugh filled the night for the first time in weeks.

Chapter 17

Two weeks had passed without a storm, and the morning frosts had begun dusting the city in silver before Yolara was willing to leave the city and venture into the mountains. But when she sent for Kabir, intending to leave instructions with the master stoneworker in the event of a late autumn storm, the messenger returned with unexpected news.

“Kabir is not in Nizam,” she told Kusan, wringing her hands in concern. “His apprentice says that he traveled to Aywhai several days ago. How can I leave the city?”

“Surely the other stoneworkers know what to do,” Kusan said, looking up from his preparations for their travel. He tucked a pair of folded woolen tunics into a pouch, then stepped over to Yolara and took her hands in his. “You have trained them well. The city will be safe enough during your absence.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, drawing her hands away. She moved around their shared chamber, too agitated to stand long in one place. “I do not know why I am so anxious.”

“Perhaps you are worried about the reception you will receive in the mountains?”

“Perhaps...” Yolara agreed. “The replies to the messages announcing our visit were all perfectly polite...”

She had stopped near the window, and looked out at the graying foothills and the imposing mountains towering beyond them. Already there was visible snow on the highest peaks. “I was not the smallest bit anxious when you brought me here – it seems like so long ago, now.”

“As you have told me on many occasions, you have been trained for this,” Kusan said, resuming his packing. “I suspect being queen over the mountain people will be little different than being queen over the desert-born.”

“Ah, but there we disagree,” Yolara said, turning away from the window. “Even though I had not lived among them for most of my life, the desert-born received me as a member of Nayira’s house and one of their own. I have no such connection with the mountain people, despite my father’s birthright. And although Jochen secured their oaths of fealty, I cannot imagine how they must have felt, to have their lands and their villages given away as a gift.”

“And here we come to the heart of your anxiety,” Kusan said. “Is that the real reason you refused to travel in state?”

Yolara laughed. “Poor Dashir,” she said. “He meant well, but I cannot travel into the mountains in a hand-carried litter. Or even one perched on the back of a camel. I thought he was going to stop breathing when I asked the whisperer to have my mare prepared for the journey. But to travel in state seemed pretentious as well as impractical.”

She glanced over at her traveling clothes which had been neatly laid out for the next day. Instead of the usual silks and finery the old steward would consider ‘befitting her station,’ she had assembled her wardrobe from the closets of the female members of the Queen’s Guard. She had chosen the same tall boots, woolen tunic and pants, and leather corset and gauntlets that the other female guards wore, adding a heavy, greenish-brown hooded cape Sahana had made her. “Zoya agreed with me,” she added.

“As do I,” Kusan said, following her gaze. “You will be much easier to protect, traveling as one of the Guard. Not that I anticipate difficulties – though as a precaution, I sent a small advance guard ahead of us today to ensure the way to Calisia is clear.”

“Was that necessary?”

“Yes.”

Yolara didn’t argue. She had long ago learned to accept the near-constant presence of guards, even when she personally saw little need for them. And even though she was uneasy, she felt no particular fear about the upcoming trip. Still, being surrounded by people she knew and trusted was a welcome reassurance.

⬧

The first rays of the morning sun were beginning to color the eastern sky when Yolara rode out of the city the following morning, Kusan and Zoya flanking her. As she turned her mare’s head toward the north, two guards took their places ahead of her, while a second pair of guards followed along behind.

For most of the first hour, they trotted along at an easy pace along the hard-packed road bordering the river. The ascent into the foothills was gradual here, and they rode along in companionable silence. Yolara had not been in this part of Nizam before, and was surprised at the clumps of golden grasses, short, grayish-brown shrubs, and small, twisted trees with flat, needle-shaped leaves, that covered the hills as far as she could see.

“I had no idea anything grew here,” she murmured to Kusan. “From the palace, the ground looks barren.”

Kusan nodded. “There is little distinction in color between the plants and the ground at this time of year,” he said. “But when it rains in the spring, the hills take on the colors of many flowers.”

“I saw no flowers last spring – and it was not that far into the season,” Yolara said.

Zoya joined in the conversation. “The flowers dry up and blow away quickly in the heat,” she said. “And it had been five days after the last rain when you arrived in Nizam. The queen had already sent children into the hills to collect the fallen petals for the weavers to use to color the fabrics.”

“I had no idea,” Yolara said, shaking her head in amazement.

A movement near a small tree caught her attention. She watched the spot, and a moment later saw a sheep, nibbling its way through the brush.

Zoya followed her gaze. “The shepherds who provide the wool and meat and milk to our marketplace tend their sheep and goats in these hills. We will soon come to the homes of those who live nearest to Nizam.”

Yolara nodded. A short time later, the road began to climb more steeply, and they let their horses slow their pace to conserve their strength.

As they followed a curve in the road that took them out of sight of the city and desert behind them, Yolara saw a small cluster of buildings – two or three houses, and a larger structure she guessed was probably for the animals – set amid a small group of the twisted trees she had seen elsewhere. The buildings were made of the same ochre brick as those in Nizam, but instead of the flat roofs and terraces of the city, here the rooftops were slightly pitched and covered in layers of curved clay tiles.

A woman came out of one of the buildings, a young child clinging to the end of her long shawl. The mother raised her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes as she looked at the passing riders.

“The people here will be tending to their animals and other daily tasks,” Kusan said, as though reading Yolara’s thoughts. “We will ride past without disturbing them – unless you wish to stop here.”

“No,” Yolara said. “While I am curious about the people and their lives here, it will wait for another time. We have far to go this day if we wish to reach Calisia tomorrow afternoon, and the town council is expecting us. I do not wish to keep them waiting merely to satisfy my own curiosity.”

They passed several such clusters of buildings as they rode through the morning, some nearly the size of small villages. Each time they rode on without interruption, ignoring the curious stares that followed them.

“We could not have traveled so efficiently had Dashir convinced you to travel in state,” Kusan remarked as they left another of the villages behind. “There are few who will interrupt a company of the Queen’s Guard, except for great need.”

“I can only wonder what they must think,” Yolara said. “With two such groups passing them in as many days.”

“The first group was a curiosity,” Zoya said. “With the second, they took note that we are not galloping past in haste, but they are also grateful that we did not stop.”

They rode on, the road climbing through the upper foothills, and winding through trees that grew taller and straighter as they left the heat of the desert behind. Birds fluttered among branches covered with fragrant green needles, and small rodents scampered out of their way, taking shelter in the safety of the shadows. The road changed, too, from the packed earth of the foothills to the crushed stone of the foot of the mountains. They no longer pushed the horses to a trot, even when the ground was level, instead maintaining an easy walking pace that allowed everyone – horses and riders – to adapt to the thinning air.

The sun was high in the sky when they reached a ravine, the river burbling merrily below. They reined in, giving their horses a brief rest.

“This bridge once marked Nizam’s northern boundary,” Kusan said. “The land on the other side—”

“Is my birthright,” murmured Yolara. She was silent for a moment, then slid from her horse. “It was my uncle’s gift that I should have stone beneath my feet,” she explained when Kusan looked down at her in confusion. “My first crossing onto the mountain should be on foot.”

“Then we shall walk with you,” Kusan said, dismounting. He signaled to the other guards to do likewise. Looping his horse’s reins in one hand, he offered his arm to Yolara. “Shall we, my lady?”

“My lord, Captain,” Yolara said, smiling up at him as she took his arm and together they crossed the bridge.

⬧

Yolara had walked on raw stone many times since coming into her power. She had trained in the snow-capped mountains of Gerlach and Zuria, scrambled barefoot across the stony crags of Kushar. Crossing the bridge on foot had been a symbolic gesture, a way of celebrating Reinhard’s gift.

She had not expected the Tzigani Mountains to be any different.

Normally, she had to be in direct contact with the stone to work her magic, to draw on its energy. She had learned to carry a stone with her always, to dig her feet into the sand. She knew what stone magic felt like when it coursed through her.

But when she stepped off the bridge and onto the mountain – her mountain – a frisson of energy welled up through the soles of her leather boots. It rushed into her, building so quickly she might have stumbled, had she not been supported by Kusan’s arm on one side and her firm grip on her mare’s reins on the other.

“There,” she whispered, gesturing toward a large boulder. “I must sit.”

Kusan handed off their horses and led her over, murmuring words of concern that were drowned out by the deep pulsating sensation of her heartbeat throbbing in her ears. When she sat, the flood of energy intensified, the stone pouring power into her as though the heavy woolen cloak and trousers was nothing more than spider silk.

Without thinking, she reached out her hand, resting it on the stone for balance...

...and fell into the magic.

The mountains were in Yolara, and she was in the mountains.

Streams coursed through her veins, the wind and rain and snow pummeled at her skin, carrying bits away to become sand at the river’s end. Trees rose from her shoulders and animals sought shelter in her arms.

And through it all was the magic. The raw, wild power that pushed the mountains from the depths of the earth to scrape at the sky. It surged through her, sending her soaring over jagged peaks on the wings of eagles and plummeting from cliffs in cascading waterfalls.

Breathless, Yolara reached out, grasping at the magic rushing through her, a stone magic like none she had ever known.

At first, she watched helplessly as it slipped out of her hands, the raw power coursing through her like a river tumbling and foaming through a narrow canyon. Again and again she tried to catch it, but she was no more successful than if she were trying to capture an individual grain of sand from the storm that sparked and swirled around her.

Closing her eyes, Yolara let her breathing slow and her heart with it, taking on the timeless rhythm of the heart of the mountains. Once again, she held out her hand, but instead of chasing after it, this time she invited the wild magic to come to her.

A single, delicate thread caught on a crooked finger.

Gently, she drew it in, a thin, silver line that wound its way through the magic, looping and pulling at other strands and carrying them to her. Silver, gold, iron, and copper, the strands of power wrapped themselves around her arms like bracelets, drooped in long, necklace-like loops around her neck. The strands re-stitched her clothing and wove themselves into her hair, taking root in her scalp. Gems and crystals followed, tumbling toward her in a rainbow of colors and lodging themselves among the strands.

The sun warmed her skin, and she shifted, turning her face toward it. As she moved, she slid her hand into her pocket, instinctively reaching for the small river stone. Her fingers closed around it, pressing their imprint into the surface, and she opened her eyes.

Kusan stood there, offering her a waterskin. Zoya looked on while the other guards tended the horses. No more than a moment seemed to have passed since they had crossed the bridge and she had touched the boulder, but Yolara still felt the tingling sensation of stone magic on her skin and the slow, steady heartbeat of the mountains pulsing deep inside her.

It had been real.

Leaving her empty hand resting on the boulder, Yolara let go of the river stone in her pocket, then reached out and accepted the waterskin from Kusan. “The mountains welcome us,” she said.

⬧

It was the middle of the following afternoon when they reached the mountain palace. Kusan was nearly as eager to see it for himself as he was to show it to Yolara. While the stoneworkers had kept him informed of their progress, he had not been able to leave the city long enough during the two months of the palace’s construction to visit the site.

As a result, when the road led them along the edge of the deep gorge where the river fell in long silver ribbons before winding its way toward the foothills and the desert beyond, Kusan’s attention was not drawn to the admittedly spectacular scenery. Instead, he was looking beyond the falls to the building that rose just beyond the head of the falls.

Like the face of the cliff, which blended ribbons of reddish-gold ochre reminiscent of the desert among the darker gray stone of the mountain, the palace wore similar colors, creating the illusion that it had simply arisen from the ground, there among the trees. Only the straight lines of its walls and clay tiles on the gently sloping roof drew the eye back for a second look.

Kusan watched Yolara as she took in the scene – and noticed the moment she spotted the building.

“It looks like we are nearing another village,” she said, gesturing at the palace. “I wonder, is that Calisia? We should be getting close.”

“It may be,” Kusan said, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice. Instead of a single blocky shape dominating the site, which he had thought Yolara would find overly pretentious, he and Kabir had designed the palace to blend into its surroundings and flow with the contour of the ridge. Seeing it now, from a distance, Kusan agreed with Yolara – even knowing what it was, it gave the impression of a cluster of buildings overlooking the falls.

He looked over at Yolara. “Are you ready to meet your people?”

She was quiet for a moment before she answered, as though gathering up her courage. “Yes,” she said. “The mountains accepted me; let us see if their people do as well.”

“They will accept you,” Zoya said, her tone confident.

Kusan reached over and squeezed Yolara’s hand. “Of course they will,” he said. “How could they not?”

The road left the edge of the cliff, winding steadily upward through the forest for another half-hour before bringing them to a wide stone bridge that spanned the upper course of the river. As they crossed the bridge, the brightly colored buildings of Calisia came into view, climbing the mountain slope to their left. Ahead of them, the road led a short distance to the mountain palace’s receiving yard.

Kusan kept his gaze fixed on Yolara, glancing only briefly at the palace. She was staring ahead in amazement, and for good reason. As their horses’ hooves left the bridge, music began to play from somewhere inside the palace, a lively tune in a style he had only heard when the mountain traders came to the caravanserai.

The wide iron gates had been thrown open to admit them, the eight members of the Queen’s Guard who had ridden ahead the previous day flanking it to either side. At least fifty people stood in the receiving yard, most dressed in the heavy woolens of the mountain people. Kabir among those in the forefront.

“Is this the home of the governor?” Yolara asked, puzzled. “And why is Kabir here? I thought he went to Aywhai.”

“He appears to have taken the wrong road,” Kusan said, laughing as they guided their horses into the receiving yard. “But here, you can ask him yourself.”

Kabir moved toward them, smiling broadly, his arms spread wide in greeting. “Welcome, my lady!” he said, bowing deeply. When he stood again, he gestured to the half-dozen men and women who had come forward with him. “Allow me to present to you the Town Council of Calisia.” He stepped back so they could also murmur their greetings and welcome her to the mountains.

Yolara nodded politely. “I thank you for such a warm welcome,” she said. “But tell me, to whom does this magnificent home belong? I would thank them for their hospitality.”

While the councilmembers exchanged confused glances, Kabir’s smile only grew wider. But it was Kusan who spoke.

“My dearest Yolara,” he said. “The stoneworkers and craftspeople of both the desert and the mountain have worked tirelessly these last weeks to create a home worthy of their queen. This home – this palace – is yours.”

⬧

Yolara spent two weeks in Calisia. The town, which boasted nearly five thousand adult residents, was about the same size as Hatu, and served as a center of commerce for the many towns and villages scattered throughout the mountains.

Yolara spent most of her mornings in the town, visiting with the townspeople in their shops and small marketplace, and climbing the endless flights of narrow, winding stairs that wound their way between the brightly-painted buildings. Her afternoons were filled with endless meetings with the councilmembers and delegates from the neighboring villages. Most were surprised to discover that she spoke their language – but once they realized she could understand them, they were all eager to learn their new queen’s opinion on everything from mining and wood harvesting to the best time to plant vegetables in the spring and her preferred style of bread.

“It was customary for us to deliver an accounting of our people and our resources to King Reinhard at the end of the year’s harvest,” said Günter, the councilmember the others all looked to as their leader even though he was not the eldest among them. “Sir Jochen instructed us to provide these records to you this year.” He held out a pair of leather-bound ledgers. “We did not know which language you preferred, so we have compiled them in both Gerlachi and the desert tongue – we trust our translator to have rendered the information accurately in both volumes.”

Yolara accepted the ledgers, and took a moment to look through them. She sensed a heightened level of tension in the room, but could not tell if the councilmembers were concerned that she might find fault with either the accounting or the translation, both of which looked acceptable on first glance.

She suspected the true source of their concern was another variation of the same question they had been dancing around for the last several days, but had not yet dared to ask directly: Was she going to require her new subjects to learn the language and follow the customs of the desert-born?

“I have not come to disrupt your lives,” she said. “While I am certain that some things will change over time as the mountain-born and desert-born share their knowledge, I am here to learn your ways, not to discard them.”

She closed the ledgers and set them aside. “We have much to learn from each other if we are to be one people,” she said. “It is my hope that those among you who speak the language of the desert will teach others, just as I will encourage the desert-born to learn the Gerlachi tongue.”

The tension eased, though she suspected it would take some time to fully abate – time during which she hoped to prove the sincerity of her words.

She mentioned it to Kusan that evening, after they had retired to their chambers. “I have asked them to send a representative to the Queen’s Council,” she said, pacing from one end of the large room to the other as she spoke. “Someone who speaks both languages. And I will need to choose a delegate to participate in the council here, when the snows allow – I want to do the right thing for my people wherever they live. My uncle may have given me the mountains as a gift, but is a gift that is not without its complexities.”

She stopped her pacing, turning to face Kusan who was sitting near the fire. “I feel torn.”

“There was a reason I chose this site for the palace,” Kusan said, rising and leading her to the large, south-facing window that overlooked the falls. “I have not traveled extensively in these mountains, but this is one of the few places I have visited that offers a clear view to the south, past the foothills and to the desert.”

“I can see the glow of Nizam in the distance,” Yolara said. “And in the day, the sun lights the golden sands.”

“You are desert-born. Wherever you live, the desert will always be part of you,” Kusan said.

They then crossed to the opposite end of the room, where a pair of tall, windowed doors opened onto a small balcony above the central courtyard. The night air was chill, and Yolara moved closer to Kusan, shivering as she looked out over the twinkling lights of Calisia, and upward at the nearly full moon that hung in the cleft of star-studded sky that silhouetted the jagged peaks beyond.

“You are also a daughter of the mountains,” Kusan said, “and your uncle was right to give you these lands. I chose this site because it reflects your dual heritage – and the dual nature of your people.” He wrapped his arms around her, and she leaned her head back against his shoulder, taking comfort in his warmth.

“Who else would have thought to give such a gift?” she asked. “Every day, as I walk these halls or take my leisure in the library you have created for me, I am reminded of your love.”

“I merely planted the seed,” Kusan said. “It was Kabir who enlisted the aid of the Calisians, and Sahana who organized the tradespeople of Nizam. This palace is a gift of love from all of your people.”

“I hope I may prove worthy of it,” Yolara said. She shivered again. “Come, let us sit by the fire. I need to tell you about something that happened on our journey – something whose significance I am still uncertain of.”

They returned inside and took their seats in the pair of chairs that faced the large fire. Yolara sat with her feet drawn up onto the seat, her knees raised, and pulled a warm, woolen blanket around her shoulders and over her legs.

“What occurred during our travels?” Kusan asked after he, too was seated. He spoke evenly, his manner showing no sign of concern, as was his way, but Yolara felt the slight tightening of the heartstring bond between them.

“Do you remember when I stumbled after walking across the bridge and stepping onto the mountain?” she asked.

Kusan nodded.

She told him then of the overwhelming magic that had swept through her. “When I came to myself, it seemed as if no time had passed – neither you nor the guards acted as if anything unusual had occurred.”

“I was aware of nothing,” Kusan said. “But why did you wait so long to speak of it?”

“I did not want to worry you while we were traveling,” Yolara said. “And since we arrived, there have been few opportunities to speak in private – I confess, I am looking forward to returning home, if for no other reason than to see an end to the nightly banqueting and endless entertainments. I much prefer our simple meals and quiet evenings.”

“You are unlike every other noble I have encountered,” Kusan said with a laugh. “One of many things I am most grateful for.”

Yolara joined him in his laughter, but they both grew more serious as they returned to their original topic of conversation.

“What you describe,” Kusan said, “is not unlike the sensation I experienced during the heartstring ritual.”

Yolara nodded. “Yes, I thought the same. I know that whisperers often experience a similar connection with their animals, but I have never heard of a binding such as this.”

They discussed the possibilities and possible consequences until both were close to falling from their chairs in their exhaustion.

Kusan helped Yolara rise from her chair and drew her into his arms. “If it is true that you are now bound to the mountains and they to you,” he said, “I hope they understand that you were bound to me first.”

Chapter 18

The snow was falling when they left Calisia, and even though she shivered in the layers of warm clothing, Yolara was glad they had stayed long enough to see the fat, heavy flakes. It had been several years since she had last seen snow, but she suspected this snowfall was likely to accumulate, unlike the light dustings that had greeted them twice during their fortnight’s stay, only to have melted away after a few hours’ duration.

As Kusan had told her, the winter months in Nizam were little different than the summer. Yolara was grateful for the milder temperatures and lack of storms that gave her the chance to see more of her kingdom. Throughout the winter, she spent half her time in Nizam, leaving at the close of each monthly market, spending a fortnight’s time traveling to and visiting one of the other cities, and returning to Nizam shortly after the new moon.

She traveled to both Hatu and Aywhai, with Kusan and Zoya by her side, getting to know those cities and meeting with their councilmembers as she had in Calisia. And when the winter snows began to melt, she spent one last fortnight in the mountain palace, knowing it would be several months before the summer storms allowed her to return.

After each of these visits, she returned to Nizam, grateful to be home. As much as she enjoyed being with her people in the other cities, the sight of the Queen’s Tower and stone serpents at the end of the long journeys brought gladness to her heart.

Only one thing was different: her magic had changed. Not in any way that she could directly attribute to the influence of the mountains, but in quiet, subtle ways. Yolara no longer had to remove her slippers and dig her toes into the sand when she worked with the other stoneworkers on the training sands.

And when she did make direct contact – whether with loose sand, fused sand, or raw stone – they no longer felt the same to her as they always had in the past. It was as though the mountains’ magic had made her aware of what had previously been imperceptible differences.

She tried to explain it to the other stoneworkers. But though they had learned to trust her implicitly, and spent the winter learning to alter the way they worked with the different forms of sand and stone based on her insights, none of them felt the beating heart of the mountains as she did.

Even as Yolara worked to understand her changed magic, following her second visit to the mountains, reports began to trickle in of a mysterious new stoneworker who had come to Nizam.

Functional walls were transformed overnight, formerly utilitarian blocks of stone embellished with intricate patterns or elaborate murals. Unsightly barriers surrounding the gardens and animal pens became delicate lattices while retaining the strength of their previously solid forms. Fused-brick pavers in courtyards and plazas were replaced with colorful slabs of stone.

There were many rumors and guesses as to the identity of the artisan who had taken it upon themselves to beautify the city. The stoneworkers all looked at each other, but none of them possessed the ability. Even Yolara, who they acknowledged as the greatest among them, had never demonstrated such artistry.

And though she said nothing, even to Kusan, Yolara knew the truth – and it both amazed and terrified her.

For while she was adept at working both sand and stone, the patterns adorning Nizam had not been part of her waking thoughts. They had flowed out of her dreams – dreams where she walked barefoot on mountain stone.

⬧

“It was one year ago, on this very day, that we met,” Yolara said to Kusan as they broke their fast one morning in the early spring. “Do you remember?”

“I remember it well,” Kusan said. “After having spent two months searching for you, I was most grateful to finally find you.”

“And I was so eager to leave the fosterage that I had us set out across the desert immediately,” Yolara said, shaking her head at the memory.

“You were ready to travel much sooner than I imagined possible,” Kusan agreed.

Yolara laughed. “I packed nearly all of my belongings on my eighteenth birthday, leaving out only what I needed for just a few days. I was certain that I would be returning to Nizam within a fortnight.” At Kusan’s surprised expression, she nodded vigorously. “It is true. And when neither falcon nor rider arrived to summon me, I had my clothes washed and packed and chose a different wardrobe for the next fortnight.”

“How long did you continue to do this?” Kusan asked, the fruit in his hand seemingly forgotten.

“Until you came for me,” Yolara said.

“But that was nearly two years!”

“Yes,” Yolara agreed. “And from time to time I discarded items I no longer cared for or added new ones. But I was always careful to allow myself no more than a single camel could easily carry.”

Kusan shook his head. “Even had I ridden directly to you, that would only have spared you two months of your vigil,” he said. “Lady Nayira should have sent for you much sooner. No wonder you were prepared for the crossing so quickly.”

“Yes, but I should have at least let you and the other guards have a few days’ respite,” she said.

“While we would have welcomed the rest, had we waited, even another day, we would have been caught in the storm that chased us here,” Kusan said. He reached across the small table and took her hand. “I am grateful that did not happen.”

They finished their meal and rose from their cushions, heading across the courtyard to the various tasks that demanded their attention that day. Halfway to the Council chamber, Yolara paused, concentrating as though listening to a faint whisper. But the sensation was brief, fleeting, and faded into the background sounds of the busy palace.

When she reached the Council chamber, instead of taking her seat at the large, oval table, she walked to the large window that looked out onto the foothills and mountains in the north. Closing her eyes, she placed her hands on the broad stone of the window ledge.

There it was. It was only a hint of a vibration, but she knew what it meant. She turned to Zoya, who had just entered the room.

“Please notify the Captain that a storm is coming. And send messengers to the stoneworkers. I do not yet know when it will arrive, but will keep them informed throughout the day.”

“Yes, my lady,” Zoya said. She left the room, already calling out for messengers.

Once Yolara knew what to watch for, she had always felt the storms coming, long before the first gusts reached the city. The slight, trembling of sand would build throughout the day, as the wind lifted and stirred the grains deep in the southern desert.

But like so many other changes in her magic in the past months, the vibration she felt now was deeper and more faint than any she had sensed in the past.

And there was something else, something different about this storm that left her unsettled. Something not right with the stones themselves. She felt it in the sand that vibrated beneath her feet as she walked across the courtyard at mid-morning, though none of the palace staff busily engaged in their morning tasks seemed to be aware of it.

She felt it in the fused-stone bricks surrounding her as she climbed the Queen's Tower following the midday meal, their surface one moment pliant to her touch, then abruptly solid.

She felt it in the trembling of the stone palms and the uneasy tension of the giant cobras as she and the other stoneworkers took their places to extend the dome over the top of the city.

“There is something wrong,” she said to Kusan. “I do not know what it is. I want to tell the people to be prepared...” she trailed off, uncertain.

“Prepared for what?” he asked.

“I do not know.”

“I will alert the guards, and we will stand watch.”

Yolara opened her mouth to reply, but there was nothing for her to say, so she simply nodded. As Kusan left the Queen’s Tower, she raised her arms, called the sand, and began to build the dome. But the sand which usually slid smoothly over her feet and around her legs, instead felt like insects running along her skin, and did little to energize her.

Then the storm hit, and though her attention was primarily occupied maintaining the dome, a small part of her mind struggled to understand what the sand was trying to tell her.

⬧

Three hours later, when the sun and the storm were at their height, a spike of pain shot through Yolara’s entire body. The jagged, tearing sensation ripped through her from the bottom of her heel to the top of her head. She gasped for air, unable to breathe, as a sliding, squeezing pressure crushed her chest, driving the air from her lungs.

Beneath her feet, the tower began to sway, throwing her to her knees, only the pillar of sand surrounding her keeping her anchored to the roof of the tower instead of flying off it.

The trembling seemed to last forever. Deeply connected to the stone as she was, the pain was intense, like nothing Yolara had ever experienced. It was as though the mountains themselves were breaking. She could not even cry out as the ground heaved, twisting the very foundations of the city and the bedrock on which they rested.

Above her, the stone palms swayed drunkenly, the whistling wind driving spears of sand between gaps in the shifting leaves. Desperately Yolara struggled to maintain her control over the dome, to hold it in place.

Blindly, she grabbed at the sand, binding it by feel, not by sight. As the darkness gathered around the edges of her vision, she reached out with her magic to try to hold onto the swaying pillars of the giant palms and keep them from collapsing in a rush of sand and stone and burying the people running in panic through the streets below.

And then it was over, and the tower ceased swaying. The pain receded slowly, ripples that still coursed through her in nauseating waves, but at least she could breathe.

The city lay like a mirage below her, sand swirling through the air, fierce winds whistling through gaps between the stone palm fronds overhead. Yolara was aware of the other stoneworkers gradually regaining their own focus. As they reached out to patch the holes in the dome and pull the weave together, she wound thin filaments of sand around them, which would alert her to any need at a moment’s notice.

As the great stone palms slowly, almost reluctantly, ceased their swaying and the whistling of the wind faded, other sounds rose from below. Voices screamed in panic, shouted for loved ones. Animals brayed in fear. Buildings groaned as stone slid against stone.

Still on her knees, Yolara pressed her hands to the sand scattered around her, drawing in power from the sand and stone of the tower, and driving it down and outward, extending the magic like the fingers of her hand. She reached across the city, hoping to stabilize the buildings that she saw crumbling.

Her magic flowed through the cracked clay and broken bricks of shops and homes, binding them back together. But far too often, as she slid thin tendrils of energy through piles of rubble, they brushed over the bodies of the fallen. She grieved for the dead, wept for the injured, whispering the names of the copper-haired cultivator crushed beneath a fallen mound of bricks, the elderly shopkeeper with a splintered leg, the child whose arm had been cut as he fell amid broken shards of pottery.

Yolara knew them all, saw their faces in her mind, but she could do nothing to heal them – the healer’s touch was not a magic that could be administered from afar. So she did what she could, shifting debris, binding wounds, and wrapping broken limbs in thin coils of hardened sand. Then she raised large, inverted baskets of fused sand over the injured. The loose weave of the baskets would allow air to circulate and let them see beyond the basket and call out for help, while at the same time protecting them from further injury until help arrived.

She lost count of the people she had found, the injuries she had bound. And then her magic brushed across a still form, another victim buried in the wreckage of the once beautiful city. With a strangled cry, Yolara coiled her energy around him, willing him to live.

It was Kusan.

Chapter 19

As she had with the others, Yolara created a basket of sand above Kusan, expanding it like a bubble that pushed away the bricks and debris that covered him. At the same time, she reached out with another portion of her mind, her thoughts sliding toward him along the heartstring.

His breathing was shallow, his heartbeat thready. He had a broken arm and cracked ribs... but he was still alive.

Yolara took a deep, calming breath. She could no more heal him from a distance than she could anyone else, but the heartstring bond would let her help him in other ways. Drawing on her own personal life-force, she sent it along the thread of golden light that ran from her heart to his.

Kusan’s breathing deepened, his heartbeat steadied.

Drawing on her, sand-strengthened, reserves, she pushed more of the power toward Kusan, winding coils of sand around his arm and ribcage. When she felt his life force rising to meet hers, felt the surge of breath as he awakened, she sighed in relief.

Slowly, Yolara relaxed, easing back the flow of energy and letting it return to her own center. Kusan would live. Brushing a coil of sand around his shoulders in a gentle embrace, she took a deep breath before reluctantly pushing her stoneworker’s energy onward.

She had done all she could for Kusan. There were others who needed her now.

⬧

Kusan’s eyes flew open and he sat up with a rough gasp, pain washing over him as his lungs filled with the dusty air. A wave of dizziness struck almost immediately, nearly forcing him to lie back down. He closed his eyes and sat very still, taking shallow breaths while he waited for the lightheadedness to pass.

He had been talking with a shopkeeper when the earth began to shake beneath their feet. Kusan remembered pushing the man out from beneath the overhanging upper story of the building as it began to crumble, then rushing back inside to scoop up the man’s young son, the child’s fearful cries almost lost amid the rushing sound of the building collapsing around them. Something hard had struck him, and he’d fallen forward, practically throwing the child to his father before pain and blackness took him.

He took a deep breath, then instantly regretted it; a new wave of pain joining the crushing tightness around his chest, and informing him that his ribs were at the very least cracked, if not broken.

It was several seconds before he again opened his eyes, and he looked around in confusion, his surroundings not matching his most recent memories. He was sitting in a pile of rubble, which was no surprise, a pile of broken bricks and shattered clay tiles all around him. But it was the large, overturned basket that rose barely a hand’s breadth above his head that made no sense. Light shone into on him through many small, square holes that dotted its curved surface, reflecting on the glittering particles of dust that his movement had caused to swirl through the air.

Carefully, Kusan reached out a hand to touch the basket, only then realizing that both his ribs and forearm were tightly bound in thin coils of fused sand. Likewise, when his fingers brushed the interior of the basket, they touched not dried, woven grasses, but the smoothness of stone.

“Yolara,” he whispered.

This was her work – it could be no other. He did not know where she was, but the basket and coils of hardened sand around his injuries were proof enough that she had survived. Reaching out to her along their heartstring bond, he felt her life-force, warm and reassuring. Relief washed over him, as intense as the dizziness that had swept through him before, and it took several seconds for him to marshal his emotions.

He was injured, yes, but not seriously, and Yolara was alive. But there were people who needed his help, those he could hear running, shouting, crying, beyond the curve of the sheltering basket above him.

Moving cautiously, he shifted into a kneeling position, then rose, slowly lifting the basket off the rubble. Dust filtered down on him through the stonework mesh, but he encountered no resistance.

He heard a child shout, immediately followed by the sound of footsteps rushing toward him. Soon several pairs of hands were lifting the basket off his shoulders, guiding him out of the rubble and into a clear area on the street.

“See, father, I told you the Captain could not die,” said the shopkeeper’s boy. “You saved me,” he said, looking up at Kusan, his smiling face crusted with dirt and streaked with the tracks of tears.

Kusan was sure he looked no better. He rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“And now it is time for us to do what we can to save others,” he said.

Catching up a sash that fluttered from a broken window, he looped the fabric behind his neck and tied the ends together to form a sling for his broken arm. He then looked at the ragged group of people who had gathered around him. Many of the nearby buildings had survived the earthquake, but nearly as many had been damaged, and the street was littered with fallen trees, piles of broken bricks and clay tiles, and the personal items that had once been inside the now ruined shops and homes. Several large stone baskets, like the one that had covered him, were scattered amid the debris.

Kusan gestured to the basket, and then pointed to another that sat only a few paces away. “The Queen looks after us,” he said, the warmth of the heartstring bond surging within him. “Search out these structures and see to the people they protect. Many will likely require healers.”

As several of the men trotted away, he looked around at those who remained, mostly women trying to comfort frightened children.

“Come, let us go to the central fountain,” he said gently. “It will be safer there, away from these buildings.”

His motivation for heading toward the central fountain was two-fold. While it would indeed be safer, the large, open plaza would also afford him a better place from which to view the condition of the city.

His ribs aching with every breath, Kusan led his small band through the winding, broken streets, the group growing larger as they encountered other stunned survivors of the cataclysm. They also passed several more of the stone baskets – some now overturned and empty. Kusan instructed the uninjured to see to those protected by Yolara’s constructs, organizing them into teams to spread out across the city to search for and help anyone in need of assistance.

Belatedly, Kusan noticed that the dust and sand that had filled the air when he first emerged from the basket had cleared. He looked up at the shimmering, translucent dome that stretched between and beyond the giant stone palm fronds, and saw the sand flowing across its surface like water. The strength of the seemingly delicate construction never ceased to amaze him. Outside Nizam, the storm raged on, almost forgotten, while beneath the shelter of the dome his beloved Yolara had created, the people slowly began to dig out from the aftermath of the earthquake.

Reaching out again along the heartstring, he felt Yolara’s warm, if tired, presence. He had no words to describe the depth of his feelings for her. His wife, his queen, his desert flower. So when he reached the central fountain, and saw the stoneworkers in their places on the wall maintaining the dome, and the Queen’s Tower glittering in the north, the sense of despair at not seeing Yolara atop the tower hit him like a sword-thrust.

Where was she? He felt her presence through the heartstring, knew she was sending her magic throughout the city to find and protect the injured, but where was Yolara herself? Was she well? He wanted to run to her side, to care for her, but like the people who surrounded him, all nearly frantic with worry for their loved ones, he did not know where to find the one person who consumed his thoughts.

Kusan forced himself to remain calm, to organize the many people who were gathering in the plaza, to send healers to attend to the injured. To provide the stability and comfort to the people that he could not find for himself.

“The Queen!”

Kusan spun around, wincing at the sudden movement as he looked for the speaker. A girl, little more than a child, stood near the fountain, pointing. Other voices took up the cry, raising their hands in salute, calling out Yolara’s name, as Kusan turned toward the Queen’s Tower.

Yolara stood atop the tower, in her usual place near the wall, her arms outstretched, dark hair cascading over her shoulder and falling to her waist, the golden rays of the setting sun illuminating her like a beacon.

As he watched, Kusan saw the mound of sand re-forming around her body, rising to just beneath her arms, supporting her. She must have been exhausted, but she stood there, proud and strong, reminding her people that they were alive and would survive.

With a glad heart, he raised his good arm, his own aches forgotten as he called out her name, joining his voice to the cheer that now echoed throughout the city.

⬧

The tower shuddered beneath Yolara’s feet twice more in the hours before the storm finally subsided, but thankfully, neither occurrence was as devastating as the first had been. Trusting the other stoneworkers to maintain the dome, and feeling more like a spider than a stoneworker, Yolara turned her energies to reinforcing the magical threads she had sent throughout the city.

But for every building she held together, another fell. She didn’t have enough magic to keep the now fragile city from crumbling into dust at the next aftershock. She extended her reach, beyond the dome to the desert, but the energy there, still reeling from the aftershocks was fluid and watery and slipped between her fingers.

She drove down, to the rock deep below Nizam’s foundations, pulling back in terror when she touched the still shuddering stone.

Yolara had been trained to govern, to remain calm in a crisis, to use her magic for the welfare of her people. She had relied on that training time and again in the last several months, and it had served her well.

This was the moment Nayira had warned her would come. The challenge her mentors had not foreseen. There were no rules, no lessons, no histories to guide her. Nothing in her training that told her how to save a city that was collapsing from its very foundations.

Foundations that ran far beyond the city walls...

With time and care, she could refill her own nearly-empty magical core. But she needed much, much more magic if she was to save Nizam. Magic from a well she might never be able to replenish. And she knew of only one source for that kind of power.

There was no choice.

Her training had failed her, her magic was running out like the last grains of sand in an hourglass.

If she did not act now...

In desperation, she reached out along the fragile silver thread that connected her to the mountains.

“You are part of me, and I of you,” she whispered. “I need your strength.”

There was no response.

“Whatever it takes!” she screamed, tugging on the silver thread until she thought it might break. “Whatever you demand, I will pay the price. But do not let the city fall.”

Again, there was no response. Her heart racing, her breath ragged, it was all Yolara could do to remain standing while Nizam crumbled around her. She had done everything in her power, and it had not been enough.

She had failed. The city would fall, and her people with it.

Then smoothly, gently, like a thick stream of honey on a cold day, a single drop of stone magic slid down the thread toward her, another not far behind. Yolara dove for the thread, desperate to catch it before the magic slipped from her grasp.

The magic dripped into her, a single droplet at a time, carrying with it the mountains’ pain. But this was not the tearing, twisting agony she had experienced during the earthquake, rather a deep sense of loss. The mountains’ grief was so far beyond her own ability to comprehend that the only thing she could do was let it engulf her.

Tears streamed down her face, forming rivulets in the sand that coated her skin as she drew in the thick stone magic and added it to the failing reserves in her core.

Slowly, gradually, the mountains’ presence filled her, a cool, timeless patience calming the heated rush of desert sand that flowed through her veins. Yolara welcomed it, her body transforming into a crucible that blended the similar yet distinct aspects of the two magics, melting them together and fusing them into one.

Drawing on her healer’s gift, she dipped a finger into the molten magic, then tipped the vessel holding it, pouring it into her. Raw power blazed through her from head to toe, tearing a scream from her throat as the liquefied blend of sand and stone burned away the ashen remains of her body’s exhaustion.

Renewed, though far from restored, Yolara reached out, pushing the magic out along the nearly invisible threads she had used to hold the city together. Brick by brick she rebuilt the city. She wove gold filaments into the walls and the roads, wound strands of copper through the trunks of the stone trees and the bodies of the giant serpents. She spun a web of silver to reinforce the dome, easing the burden on the overworked stoneworkers.

She would not let Nizam fall.

Minutes, hours, or perhaps it was days later, Yolara sensed more than heard Kusan come up behind her.

“How bad is it?” she asked.

“The wall stands, and the dome,” he said. “Many buildings are damaged, but few were lost. Of the people, we have found forty-nine severely injured, twenty-three dead.” He sounded as tired as she felt.

“Kamal, Ulibarra, Dhriti, who were beneath one of the bridges. Venale and four of her children, whose home collapsed on top of them,” Yolara said. “Eleven caravaners whose names I do not know, who were in the marketplace near the shops of Aaradhya, Kiaan, and Vanya, who also were lost. And the young stoneworker, Tilik, was thrown from the wall.” As she named the fallen, the grief she had felt when her magic touched their lifeless bodies again washed over her.

“You knew?”

“I could not reach them in time,” she said.

She gestured to the glittering latticework that spread across the city, not knowing if Kusan could see the magic that, to her eyes, shone brighter than the flickering lanterns and torchlights. Only then did she realize that night had fallen.

She shook her head, blinking back tears. “I can repair cracked roads and fallen walls. I cannot mend broken bodies,” she said, biting off the words as she shaped the remains of a house into a pile of new bricks with a swift pinching together of her fingers.

“You found me.”

“Yes.”

“And you bound my wounds and kept me safe until I woke.”

“Yes.”

“And did the same for dozens of others.”

“And held children while they died,” she snapped. She barely felt the tear slipping from the corner of her eye, following the path in the sand that coated her face and down which a river of tears had flowed.

Kusan reached out, gently touching her chin and turning her face toward him. “For all your power, my lady, you are but one person. No one expects you to do all things—”

“It is my duty to protect my people!”

“To the best of your ability, yes. Could you have prevented the earthquake?”

“The sand... tried to tell me,” she whispered. “The mountains cried out in pain... and I did nothing—”

“I ask again, could you have stopped it?”

Yolara was silent for several seconds, her face turned toward Kusan, her eyes downcast in shame. “No,” she said finally.

“Yet when disaster struck, you saved many lives – with no thought for your own, I would wager.” Kusan placed his hand gently on her cheek. “My queen, no one could have done more than you have done. Your people can find no fault in your actions this day.”

He was right, of course. And as the burden of guilt slid from her shoulders like grains of sand, Yolara looked up at Kusan. Her pain, exhaustion, and grief were mirrored in his dark eyes.

She reached out and rested her fingers lightly on the coil of stone that still wound around his broken arm. “I do not have enough energy to heal you,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

“My injuries are slight,” he said, laying his hand over hers. “I can wait until you or Ananya have time to see to them. I have sent the healers out into the city to see to the injured.”

“See to the stoneworkers as well,” Yolara told him. “They may not appear to be injured, but they will have need of the healer’s skills.”

“And you?”

“I am well enough,” she told him. “The people have greater need.”

She had used her own healing skills. Drawn on her stoneworker magic, pressing it in to her body, her mind, with her healer’s gift. It was not enough. She still felt the pain of the broken earth in her bones, and knew she would feel it for a long time.

⬧

Kusan awoke the following morning only somewhat less exhausted than he had been when he had dropped onto the blankets next to Yolara the night before. It had been late when the storm subsided, and later still when they had dragged themselves back to their chambers. But though he had fallen asleep almost instantly, it had not been restful.

His arm throbbed, in spite of the healer’s attention. Ananya had been so exhausted when she returned to the palace, that he had not allowed her to do much beyond ensure the broken bone was properly set. Now, laying in his bed, it seemed as if all of his senses were heightened. He was acutely aware of every scape, every bruise, every strained muscle earned as a result of the cataclysm. His pillow felt like a bundle of stones, and the silken blanket felt like rough canvas against his skin. The first glimmers of light filtering through the window screens were painfully bright to his eyes, and the silence of the still slumbering palace was deafening.

The silence.

Kusan sat up abruptly, the pain all but forgotten.

It was too quiet.

He rose from bed, careful to not disturb Yolara, and reached for his sword. Now that he was listening for it, he could hear the sounds of birds foraging in the trees, animals beginning to stir. On other days, he would expect to be hearing the first sounds of the palace staff moving about the courtyard, smell the cooking fires being lit. And after the exertions of the previous day, it came as no surprise that no one yet seemed to be up and about.

But there was something else missing. A sound he was accustomed to hearing as the background to every quiet morning, an undercurrent that ran beneath every conversation.

The river was silent.

He padded across the room on bare feet, stopping near an ottoman to pick up a pair of wide silk sashes. One he wrapped around the waistband of his loose fitting pants, tucking his sword into the folds of fabric. He looped the second around his neck, knotting it into a mock-sling for his broken arm, then he slipped out of their chambers.

The moon hung like a bright sickle in the sky, but provided little useful illumination. Kusan made his way cautiously down the darkened stairs to the deeply shadowed courtyard, then crossed to the glowing brazier near the doorway of the main hall and lit a torch from the heated coals.

He turned, scanning the courtyard in the flickering light before moving toward the nearest of the low-walled openings to the river, the whisper of his feet on the sand strangely loud in the silence.

Extending the torch over the opening, he looked down, but no flicker of torchlight reflecting off the water glimmered back at him. The riverbed was dark and silent. He raced to the next well, and the next, but save for the occasional pale light cast back from a muddy puddle, all were the same.

The river was gone.

His anxiety barely under control, the crunch of sand behind him sent him spinning, swinging his sword upward into a defensive position against the two forms approaching from the shadows.

“My lord, it is only Raquem and Mihal,” said one of the men, as the two stopped just at the edge of the torchlight, each raising a fist across his chest in salute. “We saw your light. Is something amiss?”

Kusan stared at the men, marshaling his thoughts. “You stood watch tonight?” he asked.

“Yes, since midnight,” said Raquem.

“How long has the river been silent?”

The guards looked at him, their expressions shifting from confusion to amazement.

“With all the excitement of the day,” Mihal said, shaking his head, “we counted ourselves fortunate to have a quiet night. We had not noticed—” he looked at Raquem, who shook his head “—that it had grown too quiet...”

“How long?” Kusan repeated.

“At least two hours; no more than three, to be sure,” Raquem said. “It is difficult to say, but I am certain the river was flowing normally when we took our posts. I can only think that it diminished gradually.”

“Yet you did not notice.” Kusan said, his voice flat. When Mihal began to protest, Kusan raised his hand to stop him. “This is not the time for reprimands – that will come later. Mihal, run with all haste to the reservoir and close the canal gates. We must secure every drop of water.”

Mihal nodded, then turned and disappeared silently into the shadows, the palace gate whispering on its hinges the only evidence of his passage.

Kusan turned to Raquem. “Wake the Queen’s Guard. All of them.”

Without waiting for the guard’s acknowledgement, Kusan turned, his long stride carrying him swiftly across the courtyard and up the stairs.

How was he going to tell Yolara that, though she had saved the city, they had lost the river?

⬧

Yolara fought her way to consciousness as though swimming through quicksand, sleep reluctant to release her from its inky depths. She ached in every part of her body, from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. Even the light tug of her hair against her pillow was painful, and the usual morning sounds echoed hollowly in her ears. With a low moan, she rolled away from the light filtering through her eyelids.

“Yolara, my desert flower, you must wake.”

Kusan’s voice was warm, gentle. But it carried an undertone of worry that crept into her sleep-dulled mind.

“What is it?” she asked, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Kusan sat at her side, wearing a loose robe that left his broken arm and the bandages wrapped around his cracked ribs exposed. Yolara sat up at once, ignoring a wave of dizziness as she reached out to him. “Are you in great pain? I should have tended to your injuries last night.”

He caught her hand in his. “There is some pain, yes, but I did not wake you to attend to me.” He brought her hand to his lips and gently kissed her knuckles, then stood, not releasing his hold on her hand. “Come. Rise and dress with all haste. You are needed below. Your advisers have already begun to gather.”

Yolara stood, gripping Kusan’s hand and swaying slightly, her body protesting even the smallest movement.

“What is it?” she repeated. Rubbing her ears with her free hand, she continued. “I am barely awake, but I am awake enough to listen – though I must confess, everything sounds strange to my ears. It is as though...” her voice trailed off as she released Kusan’s hand. Stumbling to the wall, she pushed open the folding screens covering the north-facing window, then rested her hands flat on the wide stone sill.

“My lady—”

“Wait.”

Yolara reached through the stone of the windowsill, down through the palace wall, and through the ground toward the riverbed. But though she could feel the foundations of the city, and the roots of the trees and plants that bordered the river, though she sent probing tendrils of energy well beyond the city and into the low-lying foothills, the tingling sensation of water moving over stone was nowhere to be found.

“The river?” she whispered.

It was barely a question, for she already knew what Kusan’s answer would be, heard his voice echo in the silence at the edge of her senses.

“It is gone.”

Chapter 20

Yolara stood on the Queen’s Tower, looking out across the city, her expression a carefully schooled mask of calm that reflected years of training rather than any true sense of internal peace she may have felt about her city’s prospects. Below her, the Nizami people moved in a flurry of activity, not unlike ants scurrying around a broken nest as they cleared away the rubble. While Yolara had rebuilt the broken homes and shops, their belongings had been beyond her ability to restore.

While Yolara sent falcons to Aywhai, Hatu, and Calisia, to see how each of those communities had fared, Kusan organized three teams of riders in groups of four – two members of the guard, a healer, and a stoneworker or builder. They rode out at first light, carrying food and a small supply of the city’s precious water, with instructions to see to the needs of the smaller homesteads and villages in the foothills in the aftermath of the earthquake.

A fourth group of riders was dispatched to follow the river’s course into the mountains, as far as Calisia, if necessary, to discover what had caused it to dry up. No one dared challenge the hope that the river had simply been blocked and its flow could be restored.

Yolara watched them go, her own faint hopes riding with them. After the terror of the earthquake, waking to the dry river had caused many to panic, and it was only through sheer will that she did not give in to the fear herself. She was still weak from the previous day’s efforts, but there was too much to do to give in to her body’s demands for rest. Though the combined strength of the sand and her healing ability was barely enough to sustain her, she spent the entire morning walking through the streets of Nizam with Kusan, viewing the damage first-hand.

Many families had decided to leave Nizam rather than wait to see if the river would return. Yolara could not fault them for their choice, but asked that they postpone their departure for a few days, until the Council of Merchants in Aywhai replied to her messages. She had no desire to send her people as refugees from one broken city to another.

With each step, Yolara knew she was that much closer to collapse, but she brushed away Kusan’s and Zoya’s concerns with a tired smile, focusing her attention on calming and reassuring her people.

Keeping her mind busy was the only way she knew to drown out the silence of the river... and the low, rumbling whisper of the mountains.

⬧

Kusan left the Council chamber and went up to the chambers he shared with Yolara, taking the stairs two at a time. He was both pleased and concerned to find Zoya standing guard outside the door, as she had for the past three days.

“Still she sleeps?” he asked.

Zoya nodded. “There has been no sound or sign of movement from within, my lord, Captain.”

Kusan reached for the door, looking up at Zoya when she held out a hand to stop him. She did not physically restrain him, merely held her hand an inch above his arm.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Falcons have arrived. Decisions must be made,” Kusan said.

“The Council looks to you for guidance while the Queen recovers,” Zoya said simply.

Kusan met the guard’s cool stare. “The Queen will wish to make these decisions herself,” he said. “And the people need to know she survives.” He held up a hand to stop Zoya’s further protests. “If she requires it, I will stand guard myself while she sleeps another three days. But I must wake her.”

Zoya nodded and stepped aside.

Kusan began to push the door open, then stopped and looked over at Zoya. “Have you slept?”

“Enough,” she said with a shrug.

“Go to your bed,” he said. “You will be of no use to her if you are not rested. I will see to the Queen.”

“Send for me—”

“I will have you awakened in time for the evening meal,” Kusan said. “If there is need sooner, I will send for you without delay.”

Zoya nodded, then spun on her heel and walked briskly away.

Kusan watched her go. She was a proud warrior, and dedicated to Yolara. He hoped she would allow herself sleep through the remainder of the day, and not return to her post in only an hour or two.

Turning away from Zoya, he entered the chamber, closing the door behind him.

Yolara lay on her side in the middle of the bed, her legs drawn up nearly to her abdomen, as she had been each time he had come in to check on her. Only the gentle rise and fall of the blankets and the steady pulsation of the heartstring between them reassured him that she was still breathing.

Kusan sat on the side of the bed facing her and pushed a stray lock of hair from her face. “Yolara, my flower,” he said gently.

She did not stir.

He moved his hand to her shoulder and shook her gently. “You must wake now.”

Her eyes fluttered slightly, but did not open.

It was only after the third try that she finally began to respond. He continued talking to her as she woke, not expecting her to answer, just letting her use his voice like a beacon as she pushed her way out of the hold of her long sleep.

There was a tap at the door, and Respa came in, carrying a tray with juice and a small, covered dish. “Zoya said you were waking her,” she said, setting the tray on a small table near the bed. “I thought this might help.”

“Thank you,” Kusan said. He helped the still groggy Yolara sit up, then took the glass of juice and held it so she could sip at it. He glanced over his shoulder at Respa. “Perhaps a cool cloth?”

“Yes, of course.” Respa crossed the room to the washbasin, quickly moistened a cloth, and brought it back to the bedside.

Yolara had taken the glass of juice in both hands, and was looking from Kusan to Respa, a puzzled expression on her face. “What happened?” she asked. “We were in the courtyard...” her voice trailed off.

“You collapsed,” Kusan said. “I barely caught you before you hit the ground.” He reached forward, using the damp cloth to wipe her brow. “You pushed yourself too hard, my love,” he said gently.

“How long have I slept?”

“Three days, my lady,” Respa said, answering before Kusan had a chance to speak.

With a defeated sigh, Yolara closed her eyes and slumped against the pillows at her back, the glass of juice forgotten and tipping precariously in her hand.

Kusan rescued it before it spilled, then looked back at Respa. “Leave us,” he said.

Respa nodded and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

“Yolara,” Kusan said. He set the juice aside and reached forward to wipe away the tear that had slid down her face. “What troubles you?”

“This is my doing,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

“I do not understand,” Kusan said. “What is your doing?”

“The river.”

“The earthquake blocked it. Or diverted it, I do not yet know,” he said, taking her hand. “The riders have not returned. You did not—”

“I gave the river to the mountains, in exchange for saving the city.”

Kusan said nothing, he just sat there, staring at Yolara. He could not have heard her correctly. If he had not been so close when she spoke, he would not have heard her at all.

She opened her eyes, and the grief in them was clear. “It is true,” she said.

“But why would you do such a thing?” he asked, his tone harsher than he intended, his grip on her hand tightening. “How is the city ‘saved’ if we do not have water?”

“I did not know...” she began. She pulled her hand away and squeezed her eyes shut. “I promised the mountains...”

“You promised them what?”

“Whatever they wanted,” she whispered. “I needed more magic to save the city.”

She held out her hands, her fingers splayed wide. “Look.”

Kusan looked at her hands, not sure what she expected him to see – and then he saw it. Threadlike lines of gold, silver, and coppery orange ran through the reddish ochre sandstone of her fingernails. The threads were barely visible, but he knew he had never seen them before.

“What does it mean?” he asked.

“I do not know,” she said. “Only that they are the colors of the mountains, the same ones I saw when its magic flowed through me.”

Kusan stood and began to pace the room, running his hands through his hair. He stopped near the window that looked out onto the mountains. “And you believe the mountains took the river?” he asked, looking out the window and not at Yolara.

“I am certain of it,” she said.

Kusan was less certain, but he had no basis on which to base an argument. He had no magic, no way to fight back against mountains that had not only forged a bond with his wife, but now seemed willing to destroy a city to compel her to honor its claim.

He looked over at Yolara. She sat there, head hanging down, shoulders slumped in despair. “What exactly did you promise the mountains?” he asked.

She looked at him, frowning. “What does it matter?”

“I do not know much – anything, really – about how magic works, but if I am correct, the agreements you make are binding, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then the words used in those agreements matter.”

As Yolara sat there, staring at him, Kusan saw a glimmer of hope flicker in her eyes.

⬧

Two hours later, dressed and feeling somewhat like herself, Yolara took her seat in the Council chamber. The councilors looked no more rested than she felt, and her heart ached as she listened to their reports.

Aywhai had been badly shaken, many of the city’s clay and fused sand buildings crumbling during the quake. Their stoneworkers had done what they could to reinforce the structures, but it would take several weeks to fully rebuild, during which a large segment of the population had taken lodging in the caravanserai or set up tents in the adjacent field.

“How many lives were lost?” Yolara asked.

“One hundred thirty-three,” Nico, the visiting councilor from Aywhai replied, the pain evident in his somber tone.

“We will send assistance,” Yolara said. “But understand that it comes in the form of tradespeople and their families who are leaving Nizam. They will assist with your repairs, but in return we ask that Aywhai accept them as their own.”

Nico nodded, murmuring his thanks.

Yolara turned to Luka, the representative from Hatu. The small city employed more wood and less clay and fused stone in its buildings, and had not been shaken as badly as either Nizam or Aywhai. But he protested when Yolara spoke of sending refugees to assist with their rebuilding efforts.

“We are small,” he said. “And lack the resources to support a large population.”

Before Yolara could respond, Talal, one of the older councilmembers spoke up. “Hatu does not lack resources,” he said. “Merely the competence – and the will – to manage them properly. You have water, far more arable land than we have here, and sit at the intersection of the trade routes—”

Luka jumped to his feet, protesting vehemently, lapsing into the harsh syllables of the Gerlachi language in his agitation.

“Enough,” Yolara said, raising her hands for silence. “This is not a matter for debate. Nizami families will relocate to Hatu, and Hatu will receive them. It is long since time that the Hatuni take advantage of the opportunities their location affords—”

“Even if that growth makes us more of a target for the Kusharim?” Luka asked. “As we are, we have nothing they want, so they leave us alone. But if we grow—”

“A strong city is easier to defend than a weak one that lays low, hoping the predator will pass it by,” said Jhanvi, the guard who had replaced Zoya on the Council.

Several of the other councilors nodded in agreement. Luka just gaped at her. When he failed to come up with a suitable reply, he turned back to Yolara.

“And how are we supposed to feed and house these refugees?” Luka asked, clenching and unclenching his fists. “And who will ensure they do as you have asked, and do not simply overtax our resources?”

“We will send along members of the Queen’s Guard,” Yolara said, ignoring Luka’s satisfied smirk as she continued. “To ensure that both the Nizami and the Hatuni treat the other fairly. Certain of the Nizami will join the Hatuni Council.” She turned to Nico. “We will do the same for Aywhai.”

Nico inclined his head in acknowledgement. Luka said nothing, but his face was hot with fury.

“We are one people,” Yolara said, “notwithstanding the distance between our cities and the differences in their climates. We are stronger when we stand together, united. And while the cities will continue to govern themselves and be responsible for their citizens, certain laws common to all will be implemented throughout our country.”

Yolara met Luka’s glare with a calm gaze, and held it for a full minute before the Hatuni looked away.

“It is decided,” she said, ending the discussion.

She turned to Johanna, the Calisian councilmember. “How badly was Calisia damaged in the earthquake?”

“We are well-acquainted with earthquakes,” Johanna said, her desert-speech accented but clear. “And our builders have long worked with our smiths to reinforce our larger buildings with steel to strengthen the wooden beams.” Several of the other councilmembers shook their heads, murmuring about the extravagant use of metal.

Johanna ignored them, and continued with her report. “Many buildings have survived as a result, but that does not mean we survived unscathed. Buildings that did not fall during the actual earthquake or subsequent aftershocks were damaged by rocks that fell from above, smashing through roofs and walls. There were many injuries and not a few deaths.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” Yolara said.

“Smaller towns and villages – especially those in narrow canyons – fared worse,” Johanna said. “I am aware of one town that was completely swept away by a river of boulders and other debris. The people are already clearing away the rubble and beginning the rebuilding – as I said, we are no strangers to earthquakes – but we would welcome any assistance you can send.”

Yolara looked around the room. “As I have said, we will send families to assist in the rebuilding – families who will then make their homes in your cities. This is not a step I take lightly. We do not know how long it will be before the flow of the Nizami River is restored, or even if it will be restored, so we must take steps to preserve as many lives as possible through these difficult times.”

The councilmembers nodded gravely, even Luka, who had finally ceased his sulking. Yolara was grateful that the gravity of the situation was not lost on them.

“The dry river has caused many families to consider moving to Hatu and Aywhai. Even now, we are reaching out to them, and circulating a notice asking for additional volunteers who wish to relocate.” She looked at Luka and Nico. “Their names will be provided to you tomorrow, so that you may meet with them and make the necessary arrangements for the first groups to leave in three days’ time.”

At the collective gasp of surprise, Yolara raised her hand for silence. “Soon the storms will begin to increase in frequency, and these families are not skilled caravaners, with experience out in the open desert,” she said. “If we wish to ensure their safe crossing, there is no time to lose.”

She turned to Johanna. “Sending desert-born families into the mountains will be somewhat more complex, as they are unprepared for the climate, but we will do what we can to encourage volunteers. Thankfully, we do not have the sandstorms to contend with in the mountains.”

“I will send a falcon to Calisia,” Johana said, her manner brisk and businesslike. “If we can wait as much as two weeks, the snows should have receded enough to ensure a safe passage for the desert-born. And there are many smaller villages in the lower altitudes where some may choose to make their homes.”

The conversation reached a lull, and there was a full minute of silence before Sahana asked the question everyone was thinking:

“And if the Nizami River does not flow again?”

Yolara looked down the table, meeting Sahana’s eyes. “I am told we have enough water to sustain us for six weeks, possibly as much as two months,” she said. “So we need not overreact. The falcons have flown quickly between our cities, but could not tell us of the land beneath their wings. Let us give the riders a few more days to return with their reports.”

She did not tell them that the decision to solicit volunteers to relocate was only the first part of the plan she and Kusan had devised. In all honesty, she did not expect many volunteers – no more than one family in a fifty, and likely far fewer. It was likely they would have to actively appoint craftspeople, cultivators, stoneworkers, and healers to support the refugee population, just as contingents of guards would be ordered to relocate with their families.

It was not going to be easy – for those who left or those who remained behind. Tensions were already uncomfortably high. And even though they had enough water to sustain them through an orderly evacuation, the longer they went without water, the more desperate the frightened residents were going to become.

Nor did she tell them of the second part of the plan: to quietly intercept the riders on their way back to the city and delay their return for a few days.

Because if the riders returned too soon with the news Yolara was expecting, it would send the fifteen thousand residents of Nizam into a panic.

⬧

“Are you rested?” Yolara asked when Zoya appeared in the library doorway later that evening. She and Kusan were in the middle of the evening meal and had asked Dashir to send her up to them when she awoke.

“Yes, my lady,” Zoya said.

“I am told you stood guard over me while I slept.”

“I did,” Zoya said. “Are you recovered?”

“I am well enough, “Yolara said, “Come, join us. We have much to discuss.” She gestured to a spot at the small table. “But close the door behind you,” she added. “We must talk in private.”

“I have a mission for you, one which will require the greatest secrecy,” Yolara said once Zoya was seated.

“Of course, my lady,” Zoya said. “You have but to ask.”

“When the river ceased flowing, we sent out a group of riders to discover the cause,” Kusan said.

“Yes,” said Zoya.

“I need you to find them,” Yolara said.

“They have only been gone four days,” Zoya said, confused. “They should return at any moment.”

“Which is why you must ride tonight,” Yola said.” You must find them and-depending on the news they carry – delay their return.”

“I do not understand,” Zoya sad. “Do you not wish to know what happened to the river as soon as possible?”

“Yes, and to that end you will take a falcon with you,” Kusan said, “so that you may send us word immediately.”

“If the news is favorable,” Yolara said, “and the river’s flow can be easily restored, then you must escort them back with all haste. But if they return with bad news, I would have you delay them for another few days, so we have time to help the people get ready to leave Nizam.”

“We need time,” Kusan explained. “And as you pointed out, the riders will return soon. If they return with news that the river is lost to us, the entire city will panic. But if they have seen that we have a plan in place to survive this disaster and make new homes elsewhere—”

“The panic will be reduced,” said Zoya.

“Such is our hope,” said Yolara.

“I will leave once it is fully dark,” Zoya said. “The fewer who observe my departure, the better.”

They discussed the details over the meal, refining the plan. Ninety minutes later, Zoya rode out of the city, a dark cloak obscuring her features, her horse’s hooves wrapped in cloth to muffle his hoofbeats, and a falcon gliding silently overhead.

Chapter 21

Yolara, Kusan, and several members of the Queen’s Council spent much of that day and well into the night quietly soliciting families to relocate to Hatu and Aywhai. The initial call for volunteers had drawn fewer than a thousand families, and while Yolara held onto a flicker of hope that the river would yet be restored, her training had taught her to be pragmatic.

Even if the river came gushing through the city in a flash flood the next day, she had already been planning to send people with key skills to strengthen her connections with Hatu, Aywhai, and Calisia. The earthquake had simply forced her to implement her plans early.

So be it.

She was exhausted. Her three-day sleep had done little to refresh her after the massive expenditure of magical energy in the hours following the earthquake, and she had slept poorly after Zoya’s departure. So while Kusan organized the twenty-five guards and their families who would go to each of the oasis cities, and the councilmembers were out in the city speaking with anyone they thought would be a good candidate for the relocation, Yolara had stayed in the palace.

More specifically, she had stayed in her seat in the council chamber. And with the seemingly endless stream of volunteers the councilmembers sent to her and the growing stacks of parchment sheets listing the family details of the refugees, Yolara had hoped that no one would notice that she had barely risen from her chair in several hours.

Respa noticed.

“Are you well, my lady?” she asked, placing a glass of chilled tea and a dish of dried fruit on the table near her in place of the midday meal she had declined.

“I am,” she said, looking up at her lady-in-waiting. “Just tired.”

“You have been here, working, all morning. Are you sure you do not want a more substantial midday meal?” Respa asked.

“No,” Yolara said. She raised the glass, a blend of tea, tangerine juice, and spices she had grown to love while in Kushar. “The tea is refreshing, and I do not think I could eat more than a little fruit.”

“You do too much for us,” Respa said. “And too little for yourself. Can I help in any way?”

Yolara glanced at the volunteers waiting to speak with her, and sighed. They sat or stood near the open council chamber door, in a queue that wound out into the courtyard, all watching her with a mixture of hope and fear in their eyes.

Respa followed her gaze. “It is a pleasant day,” she offered.

“Is it?” Yolara asked. When Respa nodded, she continued. “If you would show them all out to the courtyard,” she said, “taking care to maintain their places in the queue, I would ask ten minutes... no more than a quarter of an hour. I must rest for just a moment.”

“I will see that they receive some refreshment,” suggested Respa. “It is midday for them as well.”

“Yes, please do,” Yolara said with a tired smile. “They deserve so much better—”

“No one deserves better,” Respa said, laying a reassuring hand on Yolara’s shoulder. “Not from you. Nor do they ask it. You are the best queen, and your people know of your love for them.”

Yolara’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“You rest,” Respa said. “I will see to your guests. And when you are ready, I will assist you with the records you are compiling. There is no need for you do it all yourself, when there are others in the palace who can read and write.”

Yolara was beyond words. But when she looked up to thank Respa again, she had already turned away and was ushering volunteers out of the council chamber.

She set the tea aside and leaned back in her chair, one hand resting lightly in her lap, the other on the table. Her eyelids were already fluttering, and when the door closed behind the last of the volunteers, she let her eyes close as well.

⬧

Yolara walked down a long, stone hallway that disappeared in shadow, pale granite walls rising above her until they, too were lost in darkness. Smooth, polished stone thrummed beneath her feet in a deep, steady rhythm, and she instinctively slowed her pace to match.

The hallway was not wide, and her fingertips brushed the walls on either side. Wherever she touched, swirling lines sprang to life in glittering threads of silver, gold, and copper. The curving, vine-like patterns spread across the walls, etching themselves into the stone. In much the same way plants spread out from the shores of a river, the intricate patterns extended nearly an arm’s length above and below the wavy center line her finger had drawn.

There was something about a river...

But she couldn’t hold onto the thought. It was much easier to focus on the voice that whispered from the shadows, calling her name...

⬧

Yolara’s eyes flew open, and she cried out, gasping for breath.

“My lady!” Respa cried out in response, jumping back. “I am sorry. I did not mean to startle you so. It has been a quarter of an hour.”

Yolara’s heart was racing, but as she looked around frantically, the familiar features of the council chamber came into focus and her breathing steadied.

“It was just a dream,” she told Respa. She took several swallows of the citrus tea, forcing her hands to stop shaking. “Open the doors. Let us speak with the volunteers.”

Several minutes later, when the volunteer she had been speaking with had risen to leave and Yolara moved the sheet of parchment she had been writing on to the stack of pages to her left, something caught her eye. She looked down at the large, oval table, and froze.

A wide pattern of delicately etched swirling lines flowed roughly down the center of the stone surface. The pattern began at the point where her hand had rested on the table while she slept, growing indistinct as it neared the opposite end of the table where Respa sat.

Yolara reached out and touched the pattern with a fingertip.

As a faint glow flickered over the lines, she felt the familiar pulsing rhythm of the heart of the mountains, and heard the whisper in her mind.

If she had doubted it, denied it, during the weeks that had passed since the mountains had claimed her as their own, Yolara knew she could no longer.

The mountains had invaded her dreams, sending magic flowing through her sleeping fingertips.

The mountains had shaken, breaking her beloved city – and binding her further when she called out in desperation for help.

The mountains had taken the river.

Yolara looked at her fingernails, studying the threads of silver, copper, and gold that shone faintly against the red sandstone. She had seen the same threads in her hair as well, a trait she had never observed in another stoneworker.

Uncle Reinhard had told her the mountains were in her blood. She wondered now if he had, perhaps meant it in a far more literal way than she could possibly have imagined. For it seemed now that the mountains were calling her home.

What more would they do to her, to her people, if she continued to refuse their call?

⬧

The falcon returned early in the morning the following day. Kusan accepted the sealed message capsule from the falcon-whisperer who delivered it to him directly, rather than via one of the ubiquitous errand boys. Few knew of Zoya’s hasty departure two nights previous – only Dashir, the horse and falcon whisperers who had prepared the animals for the journey, and Jhanvi, who had assumed Zoya’s duties during her absence. But while this small group had been sworn to silence, even they did not know the details of her mission.

Tempted as he was to break open the message capsule immediately, Kusan refrained, but hurried down to the courtyard, where Yolara awaited him.

“I had thought to break our fast outside this morning,” she said, smiling as he approached and tugging at a heavy shawl wrapped around her shoulders. “But it is so chill...” She broke off as he drew near. “What is it?”

He said nothing, just extended his hand, the message capsule on his palm. When she nodded her understanding, he slipped the capsule into his pocket.

“I agree, it is too cool to sit for long out of doors,” he said, looking past Yolara and pitching his voice so the serving-girl who approached with the breakfast tray could hear his words. “Shall we go up to the library instead?”

Yolara turned just as the serving-girl paused, only a few steps away. “Let me take that,” she said.

“Oh, no, my lady. You must not—” the girl began.

“Nonsense,” Yolara said. “I am perfectly capable of carrying a tray.” She lifted the heavy carafe of juice and handed it to Kusan, then took the tray from the serving-girl. “Please tell Dashir that we are not to be disturbed for the next hour.”

The girl nodded, then scurried away. A few minutes later, Yolara and Kusan were safely in the library, studying Zoya’s message.

The message was brief and to the point:

No water. River falls into new chasm. Camped near Suleref and assisting villagers here. Returning in five days.

Kusan looked at Yolara, expecting to see the same grief and sorrow on her face that he was sure was on his own. Instead, he saw determination... and a flicker of anger that she quickly blinked away.

“I would be lying if I said I was surprised by this news,” Yolara said. Her voice was not grief-laden, not panicked, but low and controlled – the same detached, studied calm it had been when she had passed sentence on Tabour for his attempt on their lives.

She was furious – at the river? The mountains? Herself? – Kusan did not know where she placed the blame. He only knew that the cold truth of her next words sent an icy chill down his spine.

“Nizam has fallen.”

Chapter 22

A few days later, Kusan was outside the palace stables, talking with the horse-whisperer, when a pair of riders entered the yard, slid from their horses, and led the horses into the stable. He paid them no mind. Members of the Queen’s guard were always coming and going on their various duties. He hadn’t seen their faces, but they looked dusty enough to have been patrolling the area beyond the city walls.

Mid-morning was an odd time to be exchanging duties with other riders, but his people were well-trained, and knew to report promptly if there was anything that needed reporting. These two looked like they had earned a rest.

He returned to his conversation with barely a pause.

Several minutes later, as he was crossing the yard, a second pair of riders arrived. Like the earlier pair, they were travel-worn and dusty, and headed directly to the stables, with no waves or shouts of greeting to their fellow guards.

Kusan frowned after them. There was something odd...

He turned and followed them into the stables.

The guards Duman and Tanju were busily brushing down their tired horses, as were another pair of men who, though they were dressed as guards, Kusan knew to be the healer Estev and the master stoneworker, Kabir.

“Where is Zoya?” he asked.

Tanju looked up, then bowed before responding. “My lord, Captain,” he said. “Zoya follows. She felt it best that we return separately, rather than call attention to ourselves by arriving as a group.”

“Very well,” Kusan said with a nod. “I barely gave you any notice myself. I am sure no one in the city was aware of your arrival. The Queen is anxious for your report.”

He signaled for a stableboy to take charge of the horses. “When Zoya returns, please inform her that we await her in the council chambers,” he said.

Little more than a half-hour later, they were all assembled. Zoya had arrived, and Dashir had ordered food and drink for the travelers.

“The damage to the homesteads and villages we saw was severe,” Duman reported. “And many of the shepherds are still searching for lost livestock.”

“Suleref was shaken almost to the ground,” Tanju said. “And many were injured. It was well that we were able to lend them our assistance.”

“And the river?” Yolara asked.

“Nothing blocks the river as it flows through the mountains.” said Kabir. He had brought a bucket of sand into the council chamber with him; now he stood and poured the sand onto the center of the large oval table. Next, he pressed his palms to the sand.

Kusan had seen this technique many times, but still watched, fascinated, as a model of the foothills rose beneath the stoneworker’s hands, grains of moving sand tracing the river’s course from the mountains to the desert.

“The earthquake caused a large stretch of the foothills to...” Kabir paused, as if searching for the right word, “...to break, and to rise.”

He rested his hand on the model and a shudder ran through it.

Yolara’s matching shudder rippled through the heartstring bond. Tearing his eyes away from the model, Kusan looked over at her. The color had drained from her face, but she met his gaze and gave him a weak smile. He took her hand squeezing it gently.

When he looked back at the model, a jagged line ran across the tops of the foothills, splitting them in two. Like a knife slicing through dough, the edges of the gash pulled away from each other, ragged cracks fanning out from the cut.

The tops of the hills on the desert side of the gash was much higher than the opposite side of the chasm, and the moving sand that formed the river quickly slid down the elevated hill and toward the desert, then ceased.

On the other side, the water flowing from the mountains dropped in a series of short, roughly broken steps before spilling into the deep chasm in a near vertical drop. They all stood there in silence, watching the scene play out.

“The chasm extends for nearly a day’s hard ride in either direction, narrowing at the ends,” Tanju said finally, gesturing at the break in the foothills. “Here, where the river falls, it is wide enough to engulf most of Nizam.”

“And the river?” Kusan asked, repeating Yolara’s question. “Where does it now flow?”

Kabir looked directly at Kusan and Yolara, the expression on his face one of deep sorrow. “The river does not leave the chasm, my lady. It is as though the earth has opened its mouth to swallow it.”

⬧

Word of the lost river spread through the city like wildfire.

Families who had previously resisted Yolara’s call for volunteers to go to Aywhai and Hatu packed their belongings, small caravans leaving almost daily. Within two weeks, nearly one-third of the population had gone.

Yolara met daily with those members of the Queen’s Council who remained in the city. She had sent two of the merchant councilmembers to join the councils in each of the oasis cities in the first week of the dispersion, leaving eight grim faces staring at her during their daily sessions.

Together they agreed that the remaining three merchant councilmembers, together with Sahana, representing the tradespeople, would accompany the Queen to Calisia. The others – cultivator Vihaan, stoneworker Kabir, healer Yanesh, and guard Jhanvi – would rotate between the three cities, spending time in each to help oversee the resettlement and reporting back to Yolara by falcon or messenger.

“But where will our families live?” asked Vihaan. He was a quiet, gentle man who rarely spoke during the meetings. “We cannot ask them to become nomads.”

Kabir and Yanesh looked to Yolara with great interest. Jhanvi, who had lived among the guard for several years, and not in her father’s household, picked at her fingernails with the tip of her blade, her disinterest evident. Yolara smiled. The guard would go wherever she was sent.

She turned her attention to the other three. “I will leave it to you to choose – and if you wish to reconsider your choice in the future, after having spent time in each of the cities, you may do so as well. We have need of your particular skills across the country, as we work to integrate our refugees into their new homes.”

At their satisfied nods, she continued. “Luka returns to Hatu and Nico to Aywhai in the caravans that departed this morning. They will journey to Calisia in three months’ time to meet with us there. Johanna,” she gestured toward the Calisian representative, “will rejoin the Council of Merchants at Calisia, and serve as liaison between them and this group as we establish our new capital in the mountains.”

“You speak of traveling to Calisia,” Sahana said. “When will this take place? Water is already becoming precious, with so many carrying it off in the caravans.”

“Which they have done with our blessing,” Yolara said, meeting her mother-in-law’s challenge with a steady gaze. She liked Sahana and her ability to manage difficult people, but she would not allow herself to be one of those the energetic tradeswoman managed. “It would not do to send families into the desert without sufficient water to see them to their destinations.”

“We measure the depth of the reservoir daily,” Vihaan added. “The cool temperatures and leaving the dome intact have helped to slow the evaporation.”

Yolara thanked Vihaan, then turned to Kabir. “When will we be able to begin sending families north?”

Kabir leaned forward, resting his hands on the heavy stone table. “We had to go much farther off the original road than we had hoped to find places where the ground on either side of the chasm was stable,” he said. “But work on the bridges is now well underway. They should be completed in another three weeks.”

“I know little about the building trade,” said Ishaan. “But that seems like a very short time to build bridges strong enough for nine thousand people to cross.”

“It is,” Kabir agreed, his expression grim as he answered the merchant. “By dividing the load – sending half of the caravans to each bridge – and keeping teams of stoneworkers and builders at each site to maintain them, we are confident that all may pass safely.”

He turned back to Yolara. “I took the liberty of calling on a wellspring I met in Suleref and several of the village’s builders to assist us. The wellspring has located several hidden sources of water along the new routes from the desert to the bridges, and the builders are digging wells. While not major sources of water, the homesteads and villages in the foothills rely on wells such as these.”

“This is good,” Yolara said, nodding approvingly. “How far will these new roads and bridges take us from the original route?”

“No more than two days, for a rider on a fast horse,” Kabir said. “But easily over a week for those in a slow-moving caravan. You must understand, though I call them ‘roads,’ we are simply marking the routes with cairns of rock. We do not have the resources to build proper roads while also constructing the bridges.”

“I understand,” Yolara said. “And I thank you for your efforts.”

She looked at the rest of the councilors, displaying a level of confidence she only pretended at. “If no one has anything else to add, we have much to do,” she said. “And little time in which to do it. Most of those who are relocating to the oasis cities have gone; as you visit with those who remain, please encourage any others – including yourselves – to leave in no more than two weeks’ time, storms permitting.” A murmur went around the table as the councilors acknowledged her instructions and worried about the increased frequency of storms as the weather warmed.

“The first caravans bound for Calisia will leave in two weeks, with others following at three-day intervals,” Yolara continued. “And we will do as Kabir has recommended, alternating between the eastern and western routes to minimize the burden on the bridges and those who maintain them.” She looked over at Kabir. “You have healers?”

“We do,” he said. “One at each bridge.”

“When will you leave the city, my Queen?” Jhanvi asked.

Yolara met the guard’s eyes, knowing she would not like her answer. “I will not leave the city until all others have gone,” she said. “When that day comes, I will seal the gates myself.”

⬧

In the end, Yolara was pleased to learn that nearly half of the fifteen thousand adult residents of Nizam had decided to remain in the desert, with five thousand taking their families to Hatu and only two thousand to Aywhai. The increase in their populations would change both of the oasis cities – especially Hatu, whose size had doubled practically overnight – but she was confident it would make them stronger, despite the difficulties they might face while they adjusted.

Of the eight thousand that remained, most had never traveled more than a days’ journey to the north. As a result, Yolara was not surprised to learn that almost three thousand chose to settle their families in the smaller towns and villages ranging across the foothills on either side of the chasm. Others went as far as the lower slopes of the mountains, then found themselves unable to cross the bridge that had once marked Nizam’s northern border.

She understood their reluctance. Had she not spent so much of her life moving from one country to the next, she might have been equally unwilling to leave behind the only land she knew.

That left just over five thousand adults who packed their families and their belongings on the backs of steadfast horses, sure-footed donkeys, and sturdy mules and trudged up the winding road into the mountains to Calisia.

“They pledged their loyalty to me,” Yolara told Kusan, still unable to believe it. They stood on the Queen’s Tower for the last time, watching one of the last caravans winding its way across the foothills toward the eastern bridge. Most of the palace household had gone ahead the week before, and it was eerily quiet.

“You are our queen,” Kusan said, sliding his arm around her waist. “We will follow you wherever you lead us.”

Yolara stepped into his embrace, leaning back against him, her head against his shoulder as she looked out over the city that she had called home. “It has been little more than a year,” she said with a wry chuckle. “I was in each of my fosterages longer than this.”

“But such a year it has been,” Kusan said. “You came as a princess no one knew—”

“And few trusted,” Yolara added.

Kusan ignored her. “—and leave as a queen, beloved by her people.”

“I arrived with an escort and leave with a husband...,” Yolara said.

Kusan bent down and kissed the top of her head.

“...and a child.”

Kusan’s arms tightened around her, then he turned her to face him. “In truth?” he said, his eyes shining as he scanned her face.

Yolara nodded, smiling up at him. “I suspected, but so much has happened I did not trust my own healer’s instinct, so I went to Ananya. We are desert-born, and our child will be of the desert, but also of my blood, of the mountains.”

“Mountain-born,” Kusan said. “The first of the Tzigani line.”

“The Tzigani,” Yolara repeated. “I like that.”

⬧

Yolara left Nizam as she arrived, in the traveling clothes of the Kusharim, with her blade tucked into her belt and Kusan at her side.

“This door has never been barred,” Kusan murmured as they rode through the small inset door in the massive wooden gates.

“It brings me no joy to seal it,” Yolara said. “But I must, if Nizam is not to become a haven for bandits.”

“Even bandits require water,” Kusan said.

“Yet somehow they manage to survive when it seems there is none to be found,” Yolara said. “Perhaps we should have consulted them when the river ceased flowing.” She slid off her mare and handed the reins to Kusan.

As she walked toward the gate, she felt his eyes on her, ever watchful. And as she closed the inset door, she knew the members of the caravan which stood waiting for them on the training sands each experienced their own private grief.

But it was the eyes of the serpents that she was most keenly aware of. They looked down on her from high above, their hoods flared and lines of copper magic glinting in the sun as they supported the dome on their backs and the curtain that stretched between them.

“We will return,” she whispered. “Keep the city safe for us.” Then she stretched out her arms and summoned the sand.

It flowed around her like water, wave after wave rolling in from the desert, washing up to the city and breaking against the walls. She drove the sand against the gates, obscuring them, and spread it out along the walls. And when there was no discernable indication that there had ever been an opening in the wall, she sealed it into place, fusing the living sand into stone.

Next, she looked to the curtain, which the stoneworkers had drawn apart to allow the caravans’ passage from the city. With the practiced skill of many hours’ labor, she pulled the edges together, weaving the glittering strands of golden sand and silver thread until the fabric flickered into translucence.

With a last fond look, she turned away from the city, walked back to her horse, and joined the caravan.

⬧

Yolara reined in her mare at the top of a hill, letting her graze while she waited for Kusan. The caravan wound its way through the hills, horses laden with belongings, herds of goats challenging the children who tended them, her people wrapped in shawls and blankets against the chill of the cool spring air. Trees, in varying shades of bright green rose above shrubbery bursting with small flowers in a rainbow of colors. Beneath their feet, short grasses poked up through fertile soil. The land spreading before them was unlike any most of them had ever seen.

Yolara looked back at Nizam.

From this distance, it was quite impressive, with the tall, ochre wall encircling the bright green palms, the great serpents standing guard and looking out in all directions. Above it all, the translucent dome shimmered like the inverted perfume bottle that had inspired it.

But the barren riverbed, leading from the mountains like a road, proved the lie of the oasis. The trees beneath the dome would wither, lose their leaves, and die, leaving only the dry, stone palms. Even now, any who sought shelter there would find little more than a mirage. And after a few sandstorms with no one to drive the sand away, the city would be swallowed up by the desert.

“He was right, after all,” said to Kusan when he rode up alongside her.

“Who?”

“Tabour.”

“In what way?”

“He said that I would give the city back to the desert.” A tear slid down Yolara’s cheek.

“Never believe that,” Kusan said, nudging his horse closer until he was able to take her hand in his. “You are a Daughter of the Wind and Queen of Nizam. You did not give the city to the desert – no one fought harder to keep the city or protect her people than you did. As still you do.”

They sat there in silence for several minutes, staring across the desert, a sea of gold shimmering under the late afternoon sun. In the distance, the endless ochre sands and brilliant blue of the sky blurred together where the desert wind lifted eddies of sand from the tops of the dunes.

Yolara straightened in her saddle. “We will return one day,” she said. “Our people will return.”

Kusan nodded. “Until that day,” he said, “the city will wait for her queen.”

They turned their horses and, side by side, rode into the mountains, leading their people to a new home.

If you enjoyed this book, please tell a friend or post a review!

Acknowledgements

Many years ago, while traveling through southern Utah with a pair of writer-friends, we experienced what I thought was an unusual phenomenon. For over a hundred miles of our drive through the red-rock desert, a wall of dark clouds seemed to be tracking us, never moving closer or receding, just hanging in place some fifty miles or so to the east. One of us – it might have been me – commented that it seemed unnatural, that there must have been some sort of magic involved...

That storm has blown through my thoughts many times over the years, looking for the right story. It’s shown up on my “ideas” whiteboard in many forms, and been scribbled on countless sticky notes.

Over time, as happens when an idea takes root and won’t let go, a world has grown up around it, with countries and kingdoms and magic users of noble bloodlines whose choices change the course of history.

Queen of Sand and Stone is only the beginning of the story. I look forward to sharing the journey with you.

best,

– Leigh

About the Author

When not writing speculative fiction for a living (her day job is writing computer software manuals), Leigh Saunders enjoys writing “social F/SF,” stories that focus on people — or “things” that are also people — and how magic, futuristic events, or advances in technology impact their lives. She has won awards from the League of Utah Writers for both long and short fiction, and her short story, Tendrils, was listed on the 2018 Tangent Recommended Reading List.

To learn more about Leigh and sign up for her occasional newsletter, visit her online at www.leighsaunders.com

Bloodline Chronicles: Progenitors

The people, events, and magic that set everything in motion

Daughters of the Wind

Bloodline Chronicles: Progenitors: Volume 2

Doing the wrong thing was the only right choice

JANEK, GRAND VIZIR of Kushar, has done the unthinkable, kidnapping the last known weather witches – the twin daughters of the Gerlachi king – in an effort to claim the gift of their bloodline magic for the Kushari people.

But rumors of weather witches in Kushar are spreading, sending Zoya, spymaster of Tzigane, on a quest to learn if they are, in fact, her queen’s missing sisters.

At the same time, the twins, chafing at the gilded cage of their long confinement, have demands of their own – demands which may disrupt Janek’s carefully orchestrated plans, thwart Zoya’s rescue efforts, and shatter centuries of fragile peace between their three countries.

Summer 2021

King of Field and Forest

Bloodline Chronicles: Progenitors: Volume 3

It was time to claim his birthright.

THE BASTARD SON OF the Gerlachi king, Usef chose a quiet life as a woodworker in the small Tzigani trading city of Hatu over courtly politics – until war broke out between the powerful kingdoms of Gerlach and Kushar, catching Hatu in the crossfire.

As the battle threatens, Usef uses the magic of his cultivator’s gift to grow weapons for the city, and raises his own ax in its defense.

But bigger forces are at play, and the Tzigani queen calls upon Usef to lead the people to safety while there is still time.

Can Usef claim his birthright and establish a new kingdom in the mountains, far from the attention of the warring kings? Or will former allies become deadly enemies, destroying all hope of peace?

Summer 2021

Also by Leigh Saunders

Memoirs of a Synth: Gold Record

TOUR GUIDE, EMISSARY, diplomat, thief—and a long-lived, genetically engineered Synth—Brianna Rei travels the Hundred Worlds, hiding in plain sight. She knows her survival depends on staying one step ahead of the bounty hunters who have nearly exterminated her kind.

All that changes when she teams up with fellow-thief, Jerrold McKell, and he discovers her true identity. Now Brianna must choose between trust and survival, and what it means to be truly human.

www.books2read.com/SynthGoldRecord

Partners in Crime

Brianna Rei’s adventures continue...

HIDE IN PLAIN SIGHT: that’s master thief Misha Kif’s strategy for survival. Keeping her true identity as a genetically altered Synth secret with a bounty on her head from everyone in the Hundred Worlds except her partner in life and partner in crime, Jerrold McKell. After all, what’s life but risk, right?

Smuggler-thief Jerrold McKell knew how to work alone. And then Misha Kif entered his life and turned it upside down. But when their work styles and attitudes conflict, can they live together on a small space cruiser?

More to the point, can they work together to offload a priceless painting, con a cartel boss, and rescue a man everyone believed long-dead?

www.books2read.com/MishaKif01

Possible Futures

A collection of science fiction short stories

www.books2read.com/LeighS-PossibleFutures

Strange Flavors

A collection of oddly food-centric

science fiction & fantasy short stories

www.books2read.com/LeighS-StrangeFlavors

Cat Ladies of the Apocalypse

Contains the short story “Burning Bright”

by Leigh Saunders

www.books2read.com/CatLadies

Copyrights

Queen of Sand and Stone

Copyright © 2021 by Leigh Saunders

Published by Camden Park Press

www.camdenparkpress.com

Cover and layout copyright © 2020 by Camden Park Press

Cover design and layout by Lyn Worthen

Vintage Borders © Magenta10 | Dreamstime

Young Woman © Elina Zolotareva | Dreamstime

Traditional Indian Dress © Kalcutta | DepositPhotos

Clay City in Morocco © Seqoya | Dreamstime

City in the Desert © Katalinks | Dreamstime

Magic Trails © NeoStock

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.