“We call them the forbidden mountains for a reason. Break the promise with the sky serpents, and they’ll attack. That knife . . . My ancestor didn’t defeat a sky serpent. No one ever has!”

“No one has ever directed an army such as this to the task.” The emperor spread his arms to indicate the whole encampment.

“You can’t! You’ll be killed! And the sky serpents will turn on all of us!” There would be no defense. Her people would be slaughtered.

“We have no choice but to try. My people are dying. We need the magic of the lake so that we can survive.” He clasped her hands. She’d expected his hands to feel as cool as gold, but his hands were warm as they enveloped hers. “I cannot allow my people to die. You of all people should understand that, vessel of the Goat Clan.”

She stared at their hands, entwined. The crazy thing was that she did understand. She even admired him for it—after all, his plan to march into the desert mountains to find magic was not so different from her plan to march into an army encampment to find her goddess. Both were mad, and both were necessary. “There must be another way,” she said. “Pray to your gods! Ask them to join you as ours do.”

Releasing her hands, he withdrew. “Let me tell you a story of my people. Once, there were only gods on our world, and each of them was an artist. The sculptor shaped the dirt to create the mountains, valleys, and plains. The weaver wove roots under the ground and grew the plants, trees, and flowers. The singer created the birds. The dancer created the animals. And the painter filled the world with light and shadow. When the gods finished, they looked at the world and said to one another, ‘But there is no one to enjoy this beauty.’ And so they worked together—sculptor, weaver, singer, dancer, painter—to create people to live in their world. When they finished, they were pleased. They said to one another, ‘Let us find a new world to fill,’ and so they departed, leaving us this world to enjoy.”

He fell silent as the servants filed into the tent and filled two chalices with water that smelled like fruit. The emperor waved them away from the untouched food. Bowing, they exited.

Liyana tried to imagine such horrible emptiness. Facing the world knowing that you were alone . . . “Your gods left you?”

“They left us the gift of a world,” he corrected.

“But that’s not enough,” Liyana said. “You can’t fix a drought alone.”

“With the magic of the lake, I believe we can.”

Liyana could only stare at the emperor, this handsome boy-king filled with such light in the glory of his impossible dream. “People will die,” she said flatly. “Yours. Mine. The clans will never allow you to violate the peace of the forbidden mountains.”

He took her hands again. “That is why I need your help.”

“Me?” Her voice squeaked.

“Once we cross the desert border, we will begin to encounter the clans,” the emperor said. “Someone must explain our cause to them—prevent misunderstandings and encourage cooperation. You have met Mulaf. He is ill suited to such a task. But you, a vessel, one of the desert’s own precious jewels . . .”

“I . . .” She pulled her hands away from his.

“Think on it tonight,” the emperor said. “I will not force a free woman of the desert. But through your words and actions, you could save many lives.” He handed her a chalice of fruit-water. “Drink. Eat. You may answer me in the morning. We will speak of it no more now.”

She took the chalice.

Liyana’s dreams that night were filled with armies and sky serpents and an emperor with shining eyes who toasted her health with a gold chalice. She woke before dawn and discovered that her water pitcher had been refilled, and that a sapphire-blue robe, the same style as the emperor’s, had been left for her. She hesitated—her ceremonial dress was creased, but she did not want to lose it. On the other hand, she did not want to offend. Hoping her clan would forgive her, she dressed in the robe. The fine fabric felt like a whisper on her skin, but she felt as if she wore a nightshirt.

She noticed a strip of gold silk that had fluttered to the floor. She retrieved it and tied it in the desert style, like a sash around her waist. She wondered if it had been the emperor who had ordered a sash to be provided or if the magician had shown her this kindness. She found herself hoping it was the emperor.

Sitting on her thin cot, she held the sky serpent knife in her hand. Last night, between sharing stories and eating the meats and breads and rich, pungent soups, the emperor had given her back her brother’s knife.

It would have been far easier to hate him if he hadn’t done that.

She thought of his black eyes, so intense and so sincere. She couldn’t hate him. But she couldn’t help him either. He was chasing the moon, and he would never succeed. He’d only end up causing the deaths of his people and hers.

Tucking the knife into her sash, Liyana rose. She didn’t know for certain that the guards would let her leave the tent. She was a “visiting dignitary,” but that could be a polite way to say “foreign prisoner.” It was time to test this freedom that Mulaf claimed she had and find Korbyn and the others. She opened the tent flap.

“All the talk is of the desert princess who dines with the emperor,” a voice said behind her. “I knew it was you.”

She spun around, and the flap fell shut behind her. Lounging in the shadows was the trickster god. He wore a soldier’s uniform, and he was smiling at her. “Korbyn?”

In three strides he crossed to her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, scooped her into the air, and swung her in a half circle. “You are as infuriating, stubborn, and single-minded as a goat,” he whispered in her ear. “You were supposed to stay safe!” He set her down. As she opened her mouth to protest that comparison, he kissed her.

Her eyes flew wide as his lips pressed against hers. His hands cradled her back, and hers wrapped around his neck. She felt as if the outside world had faded away, and the universe had shrunk to just her and Korbyn.

And then it was over.

He pulled away. “I . . . Liyana . . .”

“Please, don’t,” she whispered, aware of the guards on the other side of the tent flap. She didn’t want to hear an apology or an explanation or any words at all. She turned away, unable to look at him. She still felt a tingling on her lips and the taste of his sweet breath. Abruptly, to shatter the choking silence, she said, “Pia and Raan were captured.”

“Then we must free them,” he said. “I know where the prisoner tents are. Fennik was a prisoner for about a day . . . which probably accounts for Pia and Raan’s capture. Fennik is not skilled at deceit.” As if her change in subject had energized him, Korbyn strode past her toward the back of the tent and lifted up the base of the tarp—it had been slit with a knife, presumably his. “If anyone stops us, I’m under orders to take you to the doctor,” he said. “You feel ill and need immediate attention. If you can arrange to vomit on their shoes, so much the better. I found an abandoned medical tent, complete with uniforms. You’ll be safe there. And later we can use the uniforms to seek out the false vessels.”

He held out his hand for her to take. His eyes were beseeching.

She thought of how his hand had felt on her back. She had fit into his arms so perfectly. “I can’t.” She shouldn’t touch him again. She shouldn’t be near him. He belonged to Bayla, and Liyana . . . She had a different fate. “My absence will be noticed. Rescue the others first, and then come back for me.”

“You can’t ask me to leave you here.” All trace of light cheer had been swept from his face and voice. She felt his eyes on her, and she knew he was seeing her, not the future Bayla. She wondered when that had begun, when he had started to see her for herself. She should have tried harder to stop it.