Daughter of the War Page 7

  The mountain shook, sending bits of rock raining down from the peak. Rea fell forward against the mare and wrapped her arms around its neck, holding on with all her might. The beast loosed a quivering whinny, but she did not bolt or stamp about.

  Beneath the bluff, a second and then a third shelf of stone slid out. The rock formations continued, spitting out step after step that spiraled downward around the mountainside.

  “Here, girl.” Magora held up the staff. It quivered in her old hand as Rea hesitated to take it. “Go on now. It’s yours.”

  Rea’s fingers wrapped around the dark handprint scorched into the wood. The staff was lighter than she’d imagined, though it was still quite long. She searched for some way to strap it to the saddle but finding nothing, she settled for laying it across her lap.

  “How I wish I had my sight, just this once to see you off,” Magora said. Then she huffed out a sad sigh. “Though I suppose Old Hosh knows charms well enough that you’re likely invisible while atop the horse anyway”—Magora chuckles—“your overgrown goat.”

  A thousand questions filled Rea’s mind, but she chose to ask, “Will the sisters come to see what has woken the mountain?”

  “Oh.” Magora gasped softly. “Poor girl. No, they will not come. I have cloaked the Moon’s Chosen from the break in the ridge. I should have known the spell would not work on you.”

  “But...am I not the Moon’s Chosen?” Rea’s voice hitched as she neared the verge of tears.

  “You are,” Magora assured her, pale eyes wandering through the dark as if she might somehow find Rea despite the disadvantages of nature and magic. “But you are also so much more.”

  “I don’t understand.” Rea shook her head, trying to make sense of everything. “The Calling...Lady Cora said—”

  “Lady Cora is a clever imitation of a high priestess,” Magora said flatly, speaking ill of the other woman for the first time. “But the Moon’s true Calling cannot be denied. You hear it now, don’t you, girl? Pumping through your veins as sure as your blood?”

  Rea looked up at the Moon. She did feel something—a wild yearning to abandon the West Ridge in favor of whatever answers awaited her in the lowlands.

  “Armal helped me make this,” Magora said, drawing Rea’s attention back to the ledge. “It’s our Calling gift to you.” Her knobby fingers held up a length of braided twine. A coarse column of crystal wrapped in silver filament dangled from the cord.

  Rea leaned over the side of the mare and directed Magora’s hands to her head, letting the old woman adorn her with the necklace. When Magora finished, she tenderly cupped Rea’s cheek. This was farewell, and Rea was not prepared for it. She pressed her hand over Magora’s.

  “I will miss you—and Armal.”

  “We will miss you, too, child.” A sad smile tugged at Magora’s weathered face. “But now you must go. The sunrise will not wait, and you have a long journey ahead. Go quickly,” she whispered, pulling away from Rea and heading back toward the crystal passage.

  Rea was torn, but Pooka was not.

  The mare snorted and then tore off down the stone path that had sprouted from the mountainside. Rea could do nothing but cling to the beast’s mane with one hand and grasp the staff with her other as they descended.

  Soon, Rea lost sight of the temple. The break in the ridge bypassed the flatlands, weaving through rocky chasms that the mothers avoided. But then they disappeared too, and something churned in Rea’s belly and made her heart flutter—a sickly yet exhilarating sensation.

  Freedom.

  The House of Sand and Wisdom

  .

  Chapter Eight

  REA ARRIVED AT THE base of the West Ridge just before sunrise. Her head and body ached from the rapid descent. She was dizzy and tired, but Pooka pushed on, racing across the rocky, shrub-dotted hills that lay between the mountains and the desert.

  When they reached the sand, the sound of the mare’s hooves softened, and her gallop became more uniform on the flat terrain. The rhythm was still too intense for Rea to relax her hold on the beast, but as the sun broke the horizon ahead of them, forcing her to close her eyes against its blinding brightness, she took comfort in the warmth of the rays on her face.

  The desert was cool at night, and Rea’s legs had lain bare against Pooka’s saddle, robe bunched at her hips and flapping behind her in their wake. Her knuckles throbbed from gripping the staff for so long, and her braids were coming loose.

  The West Ridge was now pale in the distance, the highest peaks obscured by clouds and a misty haze that suggested rain. Rea was glad to have missed it. The bluff was slick after a storm. At least she had cleared the laundry lines before departing. She hated the idea of Magora standing on the cliff in a downpour.

  As the sun climbed the sky, and Pooka finally tired of her relentless pace, Rea searched the desert for a secluded place to rest. They occasionally passed a cluster of shrubs or a large boulder, but nothing that looked to offer much shade or cover should anyone come upon them.

  Shortly after midday, when the sun drooped over the crust of the mountains Rea now strained to see, Pooka stopped at a mound of rock and tall grass. The mare nibbled at the dry shoots then snorted as though she were offended by their taste.

  Rea wobbled on unsteady legs as she dismounted, and then winced at the hot sand under her feet. Though the beast had done most of the work, Rea was weary from the ride. She propped the staff in a nook between two boulders and then dug around in the saddlebags, looking for the waterskin. Her mouth was unbearably dry, and she suspected that Pooka was thirsty, too. She hoped there was enough to refresh them both for the next two days.

  The waterskin was much larger than the goat bladders the flatland mothers used to collect water from the river that cut through the mountains. Rea could not lift it out of the saddlebag. She had to squat beside Pooka to drink from the long mouth of the skin.

  The mare twisted her head around and whinnied pitifully, lips reaching for a drink. Rea held it out as far as she could so the horse could have some water, too. When they’d had their fill, Rea sorted through the food Hoshnador had provided for the journey.

  There were strips of jerky, dried bits of fruit, and blocks of crushed grain that were held together with something sticky and sweet. Rea liked it, though not the way it stuck in her teeth. Pooka accepted some of the grain as well, turning her nose up at the meat.

  Since they’d stopped, the wind had died down. The air felt hot in Rea’s lungs, like breathing over a hearth fire, and her legs and forearms had taken on a bronze sheen. Now that the sun was sinking lower in the sky, the tall grass cast a shadow wide enough for Pooka to lounge within.

  The mare grunted as she flopped onto the sand, sending up a small cloud. Her long tail swished, and her nostrils flared as she panted, making the dust whirl and dance around her.

  “Maybe just a little rest,” Rea said, nestling herself in beside the beast.

  The grass was thick, and the air that passed through its reeds felt cooler in the shade. It dried the sweat along Rea’s brow. She closed her eyes, and despite being far from home, she slept, exhausted from the night and the two full days prior she had gone without rest.

  ONCE AGAIN, REA DREAMED of the sun and cracked earth beneath her feet. The ground was a dull gray, not like the honeyed sands of the desert. There were no bushes or grass, and the dust and bits of rock that filled the air scratched at her skin.

  Blood stained her hands and arms again, though not as thick. It spattered her skin in sharp angles and varying shades, reminding her of the aprons the flatland mothers wore to slaughter sheep.

  When the clamor began this time, the staff appeared in Rea’s hand. The dark handprint was missing from its grain, but there were several crystals tucked into the whorls at its grisly peak. They glowed as the noise swelled, but just as before, she could see nothing through the grit in the air.

  A hand seized her shoulder, and Rea woke on the verge of a scream, only to find Pooka nippi
ng at the sleeve of her robe. The Moon had already risen above the horizon, hovering against the last of the day’s light. From the floor of the lowlands, its pale circumference seemed larger.

  Pooka tugged at Rea’s sleeve again and whinnied, then snapped at the saddlebag, demanding another drink before they resumed their journey.

  Rea was sure they had only rested for a few hours. She was groggy, but more than that, she was freezing. Without the sun, her only source of warmth was Pooka, and the mare needed to keep moving to generate enough heat for them both.

  They drank from the waterskin, and Rea fed Pooka one of the grain bars before shoving a piece of jerky into her own mouth. She found the staff where she’d left it against the rocks and managed to tie it down behind the lip at the back of the saddle, freeing both of her hands to grasp the reins at Pooka’s neck.

  They rode through the night and against the Moon as she traced a leisurely path overhead. The leather stirrups rubbed blisters on the arches of Rea’s feet, and her hips and thighs protested the width of the saddle as her body discovered new muscles she had not known existed.

  The longer she went without sleep, the more muddied her mind became. If not for the jarring ride, she would have likely drifted off and fallen from the mare’s back. Once or twice, Rea thought she spied someone or something waiting on the horizon, but the apparitions faded as soon as her eyes turned in their direction, squinting through the thin moonlight.

  She prayed they would reach Hoshnador’s dwelling soon. The letter had not warned that the horse would be so spirited, but Rea had to assume that had been considered when calculating the time the journey would take.

  Pooka stopped only once more before sunrise, just long enough to gulp down some water and chew at a lump of sticky grain. Rea resisted mounting again for as long as she could, but the chattering of her teeth soon compelled her to climb onto the horse’s back. She hugged Pooka’s neck, enjoying the warm flush that seeped through the mare’s coat.

  Rea remained hunched over for the rest of the night, seeking shelter from the wind as they continued onward. The horse’s steady gallop slowed to a trot, and Rea closed her eyes. There was nothing to see in the darkness ahead, and though she did not sleep, she felt more rested when the sun finally rose.

  At midday, Pooka stopped near a small patch of grass. Instead of dismounting, Rea fell from the saddle. Her legs were raw, and her joints felt loose and stiff at the same time. She stumbled and collapsed onto the sand, drawing a startled grunt from Pooka.

  “Quiet, lowland heathen,” Rea muttered as she reached for the saddlebag with the waterskin, using the flap of leather that secured the pouch to pull herself up to her knees. She gulped greedily until she choked on the water and had to pause to catch her breath.

  Pooka’s neck craned sideways, her whiskery lips reaching for the waterskin. Rea tilted it up to her, noticing the way it slipped and slid about inside the saddlebag. It had grown lighter. They were running low on food, as well.

  Rea dropped to the ground again, stretching herself along the thin shadow beside the grass. The sand was still scorching-hot beneath her. It burned even through her robe. Pooka whinnied and stamped her hoof, but Rea could not go on—not without a few hours’ sleep first.

  The mare grunted but then circled the patch of grass and moved in closer, putting her heavy body between Rea and the sun to provide more shade.

  “I take it back,” Rea said sleepily. “You’re not a heathen, sweet Pooka, tireless queen of mighty desert goats.”

  Pooka sniffed Rea’s forehead, blowing the loose strands of hair away from her face. Then the mare closed her eyes, resting where she stood.

  Rea was too tired to dream. She slept heavily, but only for a few precious hours.

  When Pooka next woke her, the sun was dropping low behind them. Its belly touched the flat earth, the mountains now too far away to be seen.

  Rea’s legs wobbled as she gingerly climbed to her feet. Everything hurt, and her mouth felt as dry as the desert floor. She sipped at the waterskin, again noticing how easily she could move it. By the time Pooka had her fill, it was nearly empty, with perhaps only enough for one last meager drink to quench them after nightfall—if they did not arrive at Hoshnador’s by then. Rea feared her need for sleep had set them back.

  It took a few attempts, but she managed to saddle herself atop Pooka and ignored the ache in her thighs as they set off once again, moving toward the darkening sky opposite the sun.

  Day turned to night, and the Moon rose less full than before, her southern curve fading slowly. Rea watched her rise overhead and attempted to smother her fears with prayer, but her heart continued to grow heavy.

  There were no dwellings on the moonlit desert ahead. Only an endless stretch of sand and bits of grass and bramble that had become increasingly sparse. A nagging suspicion that Hoshnador did not exist entered Rea’s mind. She had never heard such a name before, nor Solurn or Solanya. Perhaps this was all some elaborate ruse crafted by the sisters to rid the temple of her.

  Rea thought of Magora and could not imagine the kind sister agreeing to such cruelty, but perhaps she had been tricked into it, as well. Rea’s hopelessness swelled, painting everyone she’d ever cared for with her frustration and mistrust.

  Had Armal known? Rashal and Nyna, too?

  Her weary mind disregarded all common sense and grasped at any explanation for her current quandary, no matter how absurd or illogical. Just when her heart could take no more of her senseless brooding, Pooka stopped.

  The Moon cast a pale light along the landscape, but Rea saw nothing—only flat sand in all directions.

  When she tried to dismount, Pooka nickered and trotted in a tight circle, forcing Rea to cling to her mane to keep from falling.

  “What is it?” Rea whispered, her eyes sharpening as she scanned the darkness once more.

  She tried to climb down again, but Pooka twisted her head around and nudged Rea back into place with her nose.

  A gust of wind swept past them, stirring the sand around the mare’s hooves. It swirled and hissed, even after the air stilled, crawling higher up Pooka’s legs. Rea blinked at it, certain her tired eyes were playing tricks on her. But then the sand touched her feet in the stirrups.

  “We’re sinking!” Rea pulled her legs up higher onto the saddle while Pooka snorted and bobbed her long head in agreement. The sand rose faster, covering the saddlebags and sucking at Rea’s robe as she cried helplessly. Soon, it spread to her waist and crawled up Pooka’s neck.

  The mare snorted her indifference, but Rea’s calm was shattered. There was no accepting this end with grace.

  “Great Mother!” she screamed as the sand tickled the edges of her face. It crept into the corners of her eyes and mouth, and then swallowed her whole.

  Chapter Nine

  REA WOKE, GASPING FOR air, and was instantly blinded by the sun.

  It was only a dream, she thought, hands going to her face and chest, feeling for the suffocating sand. Only a thin trace remained on her skin, but as her eyes adjusted, her relief staled.

  She was no longer on Pooka’s back, nor nestled against a lump of grass. She was in a room.

  It was a small space, but whoever had carried her here had also brought the gnarled staff and left it propped in a corner. The narrow bed she currently sat upon and a wooden table were pushed up against opposite walls. A doorway and a window were carved into the adjacent ones, both covered with gauzy curtains that danced gently in the breeze. The threadbare material did little to keep out the sun, but Rea was no longer interested in sleeping.

  A nicker drew her attention to the window. She eased off the bed, still conscious of her travel-worn body, and peeked past the curtains.

  The room was high off the ground, but on the sand below, she found Pooka. The mare’s saddle had been removed, and her face was buried deep in a bucket, her jaws crunching eagerly.

  Rea’s stomach growled at the thought of food, and her tongue rolled against the dry
roof of her mouth. She crossed the bedroom and poked her head through the doorway.

  A short hall revealed an opening into a second room and the top of a narrow set of stairs. Rea walked softly through the corridor and crouched as she descended the steps, watching below for any sign of her host.

  The dwelling was much like the huts scattered across the flatlands, though the walls were smoother and brighter, the mud mixture paired with golden sand rather than millet hulls and dried grass. Small shelves filled with books and trinkets lined the stairs. It reminded Rea of Magora’s room, though much drier.

  The main level of the dwelling was as cramped as the room she had woken in. An empty hearth took up the wall that faced the stairs, its black maw free of ash and soot. Rea craned her neck to search the other side of the hut, spying a table wedged into the corner near a window like the one upstairs. There was a matching hole on the opposite side of the entrance. Beneath it stretched a wooden ledge full of all manner of strange things—bowls piled high with spiny gourds, stacks of dried herbs, and a bulging waterskin that Rea helped herself to.

  “You’re awake!” a deep voice bellowed as a shadow filled the doorway, cutting through the light in the room. Rea jumped, but she quickly pinched the mouth of the skin closed before any water spilled.

  “I’m sorry,” she sputtered, wiping the back of one hand across her mouth.

  “Don’t be! Drink as much as you like.”

  “Are...are you Hoshnador?” Rea asked as the stranger entered the hut.

  “The one and only, Solanyan sage and royal advisor. But there’s no need for all that formality. Hosh will do.”

  Hosh stepped closer and turned into the light coming from the window, revealing a shock of unruly, white hair and a face more weathered than even Magora’s. Dark arms corded with muscle and swollen veins were in full view, thanks to a sleeveless robe. The sight startled Rea, but she bowed her head lest her staring be mistaken for disrespect.