He was watching her fingers. “Surface wounds are simpler than a knife through internal organs.” His voice sounded rough, and she met his eyes. They stared at each other in silence for a moment. He then looked away. “What happened to the other horses? I only see two sets of bones.”

The worms had stripped the two fallen horses bare. Poor Misery, Liyana thought. “They ran off. Only this one, Windfire, has returned so far.” She was pleased that her voice sounded normal. Her ribs felt tight, as if they’d been knit closely together, squeezing her lungs.

“I’ll call them to us,” he said. He dropped into another trance. Liyana watched him silently. He was so perfectly beautiful. She breathed with him, evenly and deeply, and she wished she dared reach over and touch him again—just to reassure herself that he was alive. After a few minutes, he broke the trance and reported, “Only located three. One is in bad shape but close. Two others are on their way.” His voice light, Korbyn asked, “And where is our favorite warrior boy? Out searching for the horses?”

Liyana scanned the starlit flats. The moon bathed the white earth in a soft blue. She thought she saw shadows stir. “He took the healthiest horse and rode for help.”

She heard Korbyn’s breath catch in his throat.

“We didn’t know when you’d wake,” Liyana explained, “and we don’t have much water left. It was the sensible option.”

Korbyn shot toward the tent and quickly began to collapse it. “We need to catch him,” he said. “You pack. I’ll heal the horses.”

She began to pack up their camp. “Why do we need to catch him? What’s wrong?”

Laying his hands on Windfire, he focused on the horse’s wounds. As he worked and as she packed, she heard the clip-clop of hooves on the hardened salt. One by one, the other three horses trotted and limped to them, and one by one, he healed them.

When he finished, he lay down in the sand. She let him rest, either unconscious or asleep. Only a few minutes later, he opened his eyes and lurched to his feet. “Ready?”

Liyana reached toward him to steady him, but he turned toward Windfire and checked the saddle. “You need more rest,” she said. “Why can’t we wait until dawn?”

“The Silk Clan . . . does not like strangers.” He mounted Windfire, and she climbed onto another horse. She stroked her mare’s neck as the horse protested. Korbyn held the lead ropes of the other horses.

With the stars above, they rode over the salt flats.

Flute music, carried by the hot breezes that swept over the cracked land, drifted across the salt flats. Riding on Gray Luck—a gray mare she’d renamed because she had lived despite a worm bite inches from her jugular—Liyana listened to the plaintive melody. It was echoed by a second flute and then a third. The notes swooped and soared as they spiraled up toward the stars.

“Beautiful,” Liyana said.

Korbyn didn’t respond. Instead he coaxed Windfire into a trot. Salt dust rose in a cloud under the hooves of Korbyn’s horse. The other three horses plodded after him.

“What do we do if Fennik is in trouble?” Liyana called after him.

“Try to get him out of it.”

She glared at his back. “Your plan seems vague.”

He shrugged as if unconcerned.

“You could have warned us that the Silk Clan is dangerous,” she said. “You seem to think you’re doing this alone. You’re not.”

“I noticed that.” He waved his hand at her and the injured horses as if she were also a wounded animal that he had to shepherd across the desert.

Her voice low so that only Gray Luck could hear, she muttered, “I didn’t realize pigheadedness was a raven trait.” Following in the cloud of salt dust, she trailed him to the Silk Clan’s camp.

Clustered on the border of the salt flats, each tent was swathed in white cloth that reflected the light of the stars, the moon, and the torches until it seemed to glow. Beyond them, far in the distance, were the black silhouettes of the stone hills, cutting into the starscape.

Drums had joined the flute music. The soft rhythm rolled beneath the interwoven melodies. And then the voice started: a crystal clear voice that soared above the flutes and drums. A wordless melody, it was sweeter and clearer than any birdcall.

“She’s the vessel,” Korbyn said.

“How do you know?” Liyana asked.

“Oyri always chooses a vessel who can sing,” he said.

Liyana listened as the singer’s voice cascaded over several octaves. She thought of water running from a cup. Her voice was as beautiful as water. Liyana felt the notes seep into her skin, and she swayed in the saddle to the music. Her feet itched to dance to the drumbeat.

Ahead, the camp was still. No one came forward to intercept them. The outer circle of tents looked empty, as if they were waiting like shadows on the cusp of dawn, expectant and motionless. She thought that everyone must be with the musicians, obscured from view in the center of camp.

“Someday I’d like to see you dance.” His voice was so soft that she nearly missed his words. She wondered if he meant her or Bayla in her body. She felt herself shiver, and she told herself she merely felt the night wind worm through her clothes.

For an instant, she imagined dancing for him, feeling his eyes on her. . . . He must mean Bayla, she thought. She changed the subject, keeping her voice as light as she could, as if she were merely curious. “Did Bayla choose me because I can dance?”

“Are you asking ‘why me?’ If so, I cannot answer that for Bayla.”

“So how did you choose your vessel?” She tried to imagine another’s soul looking out of his eyes, and she couldn’t. Those eyes were Korbyn’s.

His face was in shadows, but she thought she saw a flash of sadness. He didn’t answer her question. “I do know you are not merely a dancer, Liyana. Only a few per generation can be vessels— and many of them become magicians instead.” He lowered his voice. They had reached the tents. Still no one approached them, and the music swelled louder. “Only someone whose soul came from the Dreaming instead of being born within his or her body can be a vessel or become a magician.”

“I have a reincarnated soul?”

“You do.”

“Whose?”

“Yours.”

Before Liyana could ask more, an elderly woman shuffled toward them. She held a torch in one hand, and the orange glow encircled her. Black soot stained the deep blue sky. Her skin was as dark as smudged charcoal, and in contrast, the whites of her eyes seemed to blaze in the torchlight. Wrinkles creased her face, swallowing her features, so that her cheeks resembled the inside of a fist.

Quietly to Liyana, Korbyn said, “I swear I will be more careful than I was with Sendar’s people. Even after burning my hand, I forgot there is true danger here. But I will not forget again, and I will not permit you to be harmed.”

Her breath caught in her throat at the vehemence in his voice, and she reminded herself that he had to preserve her for Bayla’s sake. Like the dancing, this wasn’t about Liyana.

Korbyn halted and dismounted. Holding the reins, he genuflected before the old woman. “We come with peace in our minds and song in our hearts.” Quickly Liyana dismounted and knelt beside him. She wondered if she should repeat his words as well. She opted for silence.

“I am Ilia, First Magician of the Silk Clan.” The woman closed her hand into a fist and thumped her chest with such force that she staggered back a step.

Korbyn continued to kneel. “It is said that Oyri of the Silk Clan once tamed one of the great salt worms to create the finest silk threads just for her. It lived beneath her feet wherever she walked, and when she wished to weave, it would spew threads from the earth in such quantities that it created new hills.”

“It is said, yes,” Ilia agreed.