“REACH FOR ME!” Sorasa screamed again, already feeling the crush of rock on bone. Her fingers stretched, touching open air. Something thwipped by. An arrow, she thought idly, knowing the sound all too well.
Then Corayne’s hand was in her own, Dom shouted, and Sorasa pulled as hard as she could, her shoulders screaming under the sudden weight. For a second, time suspended, slowed to nothing. Corayne drifted toward her, arms wide, her eyes filled with terror as the rock passed within inches. Behind her, Dom moved in a blur, kicking off one horse to land on the other, one arm thrown over the Spindleblade to keep it from falling loose.
The rock passed between them, Dom never breaking their gaze. Sorasa felt his focus like a spear through her gut, his eyes that stormy, unyielding green. But not as angry as she knew, not as disgusted. They rode apart, weaving around the break before colliding back together, Corayne sprawling between them, the girl shuddering against Sorasa’s back.
A shout sounded above, the barking voice of a soldier. Another volley of arrows peppered the herd, needling the horses around them. Sorasa felt the arrows as keenly as if they were embedded in her own flesh. Her heart bled for the Shiran, now bleeding for her. She loosed a curse under her breath and snapped the reins, kicking the sand mare to her limits.
“Faster,” she hissed, to herself and the horse. “Faster.”
The canyon opened out onto desert, the sand here whiter than the gold of the dunes. They rode with the Shiran, the great stallion pulling his herd along. The soldiers would follow. They were probably already clambering down the cliffs or signaling to the rest of their company. Whatever element of surprise Sorasa hoped to use had disappeared.
But we are alive. And that is enough.
The water was a few miles ahead, the gulf of the Aljer so close she thought she could smell it. After days in the desert, the salt tang of seawater was impossibly heavy on her tongue. But the oasis stood between, a dark smudge a mile ahead. The shadow whispered of palm trees, cool water, and a small outpost town for caravans and pilgrims. A blessed place, Spindletouched.
And now Spindletorn.
“Keep going,” she shouted, to anyone who could hear her, to anyone who made it through the canyon.
Corayne’s grip shifted on her waist, the pressure fleeting but unmistakable. To their right, Dom had the sword. Sorasa nearly wept in relief, choking out a triumphant cry.
We are enough.
She dared not look back, lest she see the others broken or trampled.
On the horizon, the oasis glimmered. An odd sight, like the edge of a blade laid against the earth. Steel. Silver. Mercury.
Her breath caught.
Mirrors on the sand. The Eye of Haroun.
And this.
The sand turned to liquid, her horse’s hooves kicking up water instead of dust. But the mares kept on, the Shiran never stopping, every horse plunging into the shallow layer of water laid across the harshest desert upon the Ward.
It was shockingly cold.
Sorasa shivered as she never had before. The merciless sun of Ibal beat down on her face while the water of Meer splashed around her, lapping up the legs of her mare.
“I think this is the right place,” Corayne said weakly in her ear.
31
BLOOD AND BLADE
Corayne
Corayne flinched as a spray of water broke across her face, stinging her eyes and spurting up her nose. It tasted too cold, and a gray edge to the water left streaks on her skin. She tried to wipe them away, staining her hands. She’d never seen anything like this. The oasis was flooded, a new lake forming across hot sand, turning everything to sucking mud. She could barely make out the slight hills of the oasis, palm trees bending brown and green. The town nestled within, small and unassuming, its buildings blue paint and decorated white stone. She heard crashing waves somewhere, or a waterfall, or both. This doesn’t make sense, Corayne thought, blinking at the shining water, nearly blinding as it reflected the sun overhead.
But there was no time to wonder. The Gallish soldiers guarding the canyon would pursue, and there were more in Nezri, to protect the Spindle. She leaned forward, pressing her cheek against Sorasa’s warm back. The assassin’s firm, steady heartbeat grounded her.
“Did we make it?” Corayne panted, fighting to be heard over the splashing hooves.
The Shiran fanned out, snorting and tossing their heads. Their formation lost its tightness without the canyon, and Corayne felt like she could breathe again, no longer surrounded. She searched the horses, looking for riders, in the saddle or dangling from it.
There was no one behind them but the dust cloud and, in it, the telltale flash of sun on steel. The Lion is already coming. Corayne hissed through her teeth.