“But do you know how Oyri tamed the great salt worm? She asked her friend the raven to create a river of water far beneath the ground that would follow her wherever she walked, leading the great salt worm to her.”

“We do not know this tale.”

“I am the raven,” Korbyn said.

“You claim friendship with Oyri?”

He bowed over his knee. “I am so honored.”

Ilia raised her arm. Her hand trembled, and the loose flesh on her arm shook. Then it stilled as her fingers splayed open—a clear signal. Suddenly and silently a dozen warriors stepped out from between the tents. Bows and spears were trained on Liyana and Korbyn. Liyana didn’t dare breathe. Her muscles felt locked in place. Korbyn’s pretty promise of safety would evaporate if they were both riddled with arrows. The magician Ilia lowered her hand, and the warriors lowered their bows and spears in perfect synchronization.

Retreating, the warriors disappeared into the shadows between the tents. Liyana felt prickles run up and down her spine. She knew the warriors were still there. “Fennik?” she whispered.

Korbyn shook his head nearly imperceptibly—either to say he didn’t know or not to ask. Or he could have meant that he suspected the worst. Fennik could have met these same guards and not fared as well.

“You may leave your horses here,” Ilia said. “My boys will tend to them.” She snapped her fingers, and two young men appeared from nearby tents. They scurried to the horses and unsaddled and brushed them.

“We thank you for your kindness,” Korbyn said. He bowed again.

Watching strangers curry the horses, Liyana wound her fingers in Gray Luck’s mane. The horse raised her head from the trough and nipped her shoulder with soft, wet lips. Liyana patted the horse’s neck and wondered if she would ever see the animals or gear again. She wondered if Fennik’s horse was here, hidden within other shadows. She saw hoof marks in the sand, but she lacked a tracker’s skill to distinguish them.

“Come,” Ilia said.

The old magician did not wait to see if her guests followed. Briskly she hobbled deeper into the heart of the camp. Korbyn trailed her. As they turned a corner, the torchlight stretched their shadows on the tent walls around them. Reluctantly leaving Gray Luck and the other horses, Liyana hurried after the god and the magician.

As they neared the center of camp, the music crescendoed. Other voices had joined in, but the soloist’s soared above them. She trilled impossible notes like some glorious bird.

“Oyri will be pleased with her,” Korbyn said.

“She is the finest singer we have had for generations,” Ilia said. “Even the winds quiet to listen to her.”

“May I ask for what she sings?”

“Judgment,” Ilia said.

The magician led them to an open circle. In the center, tied to a stake, was Fennik. He was shirtless, and his arms were bound behind him and twisted so that his tattoos were exposed to the starry sky. He was on his bare knees on the hard, salt ground. A silver dish lay below him. Sweat dripped from his face to his chin and then fell onto the dish with a ping. Gagged, he could not speak when his saw them, but his eyes widened and he strained against his bindings.

Around the stake were the drummers and other singers. Opposite them, in a throne draped with white silk, sat the soloist. She had straight, white hair, the same color as the salt, but her face was as soft as a child’s. She was tiny and thin, half the size of Ilia, and she looked fragile perched on the large throne. She didn’t look at Liyana and Korbyn. Others did, faltering in their drumbeats and losing their melodies as they stared. Soon only the soloist sang.

“May I ask what his crime is?” Korbyn sounded casual.

At his voice, the singing ceased.

The girl, the vessel, tilted her head toward Korbyn and Liyana. Liyana saw that her eyes were covered in a white haze, and she did not focus on anyone’s face. She seemed to stare at the air between the tents and the stars. “He came to us with no talk of friendship and no words of peace. He demanded obedience to his will,” the girl said. Her speaking voice was as beautiful as her singing voice. The words fell as if in a melody. “But ignorance alone would not condemn him. This man . . . this boy . . . this vessel abandoned his clan! Do you claim knowledge of this traitor?”

Ilia spoke. “This stranger claims to be the raven, the god Korbyn. His companion is yet unnamed.”

“He is not alone?” the girl asked. “Speak, companion, so I may know you.”

All eyes turned to Liyana, except for the girl’s. She continued to focus on nothing. Shrinking back, Liyana looked at Korbyn for help. His face was unreadable. “I am Liyana, vessel of the Goat Clan.” She heard murmurs around her. She added, “But I did not abandon my clan, and neither did Fennik!”

“A person who would abandon her people surely would not hesitate to lie to save herself.” Unwinding herself from the silk on her throne, the girl rose. Instantly two men flanked her side. Cupping her elbows with their hands, they guided her across the circle, past Fennik, and stopped in front of Liyana and Korbyn. Her milky eyes still did not fix on them. She’s blind, Liyana thought. She had never heard of a blind vessel. “You, trickster god, know all about lies. What lies did you tell these vessels to convince them to leave their clans?”

“Shockingly, none,” Korbyn said. He sounded vaguely surprised at himself.

She drew herself tall, her petite frame stiffening. “I am Pia, vessel to Oyri. Are you here to tell me your lies?” The power in her voice sent her words soaring across the camp.

Liyana noticed that the warriors had surrounded them again. Several had raised their bows. “My clan left me,” she said. “Bayla didn’t come. We do not lie!” She inched closer to Korbyn until her arm brushed against his. His hand found hers. She wondered if he was reassuring her or himself. His face remained calm.

“Five deities have been captured and imprisoned in false vessels,” Korbyn said. “We need five vessels to save them: Goat, Horse, Silk, Scorpion, and Falcon. We seek your help in the rescue of your goddess.”

“We do not believe my goddess needs rescuing,” Pia said. “She is Oyri. She is our strength and our light and our song.” She spread her arms wide and sang the final words.

Liyana heard Korbyn sigh. “For the first time in my existence, I tell the truth, and I am greeted with lack of belief. This is the universe laughing at me.”

“I believed you from the start,” Liyana said, continuing to hold his hand.

He looked at her, and he smiled. “Yes, you did.” His smile was like Pia’s song, beautiful and pure. It lit up his whole face, erasing the shadows that had deepened ever since they had entered the Silk Clan’s camp—truly, ever since they’d entered the Horse Clan’s camp. For an instant, she couldn’t breathe. She was lost in that smile.

As if her words had given him strength, Korbyn raised his voice, and she heard his old cheerfulness. “I am indeed attempting the greatest trick of my career, but the trick is not on you. It is on the thief who is stealing the heart of the desert.”

“We do not believe that is—” Pia began.

Enough, Liyana thought. She’d told the truth. Korbyn had told the truth. While they wasted time, Bayla remained trapped. Liyana interrupted Pia. “What you believe doesn’t matter. You can prove him right or wrong. Summon your goddess. If she does not come, then join us. If she does come, then punish us as you see fit.”

The Silk Clan was silent.

Softly Korbyn said, “You truly trust me.”

She met his glorious eyes. “Yes, I do.”

The moment hung in the air, and he laughed, the sound full of joy. She hadn’t heard that laugh in days. She began to smile as if his laugh were bubbling inside of her. “Go ahead,” Korbyn said to Pia. “Summon Oyri.”