The Lotus Ascension (21 page)

They were safe, though
they had lost a horse.

“
What in Veirakai’s black dick were you doing?” Soren pulled his
horse to a stop right where Nathen was dusting himself off.

Shame filled Nathen’s
face. “I was going ahead just a bit to see what I could see.” The lie was
obvious. He was sneaking off, and he would have gotten away if the wurm had not
popped up.

Soren dismounted and
stood before Nathen. He clenched his fists. “Where were you going?”

Nathen glanced down at
Soren’s hands. “There is another oasis, one I’ve never told you or anyone
about. I shouldn’t even call it an oasis, for it’s larger than any I’ve ever
seen.”

“
What about it? Is that where my sister is?” Soren knew Nathen
tried to abandon him for Sillara. Nathen wanted to find her by himself, but to
what end Soren could not fathom. Konas would be there with her, so what did
Nathen hope to accomplish?

“
It’s possible she’s there. If they went west far enough, they
couldn’t have missed it. An entire civilization lives there among several lakes.”

Soren relaxed a bit.
“How do you know about that place?”

“
I ran across it when I got lost on a wurm hunt once.
Years ago.”

“
A people in the desert that the
Sunjaa know nothing about?”
Soren found Nathen’s story hard to believe.

“
I don’t know anything about them,” Nathen said. “I didn’t actually
go among them.” His confidence grew as he spoke. “I just thought if I could get
there first, I would be able to ascertain whether or not they were dangerous.
No point in losing both the Itenu children to hostiles.”

Soren did not believe
that excuse for a second, but it did not matter. Nathen could go nowhere
without Soren now. He was at his mercy.

“
Get the gear, and get on,” Soren said. “We’re riding out.”

Just then, terror struck
Soren.
Panic.
Fear.
Something
was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
Sillara was in danger.
Death approached.

Soren ran out into the
desert and cried to the desolate dunes, “I’m coming, Sillara! Wait for me!”

Chapter Thirteen

Three days.
The words continued to repeat themselves over in her mind.
Three
days since I have seen Soren.
Two days since we crashed.
Sillara felt her eyes prick and sting as though she were about to cry, but
there was no water in her body for tears. She tried to lick her lips, but the
movement brought only pain. Around her the silent desert stretched out, purple
under the moonslight, and cold wind stung her. She pulled up the hood of her
cloak, trying to keep out the sand.

“
Forgive me, Sillara.” Konas's voice was cracked and broken, and
Sillara knew from her own condition that speech was painful. “I shouldn't have
… brought you into … the desert.”

Sillara reached
over and patted his hand. They were walking, or rather, barely creeping, west,
and Konas was wrapped like a Sunjaa mummy. She wanted to comfort him, but there
was no comfort to give. Had he not faked the crash in the first place, she
would not now be in danger of death.

Death.
And Soren nowhere near. She
was going to die, and she could not bid her brother farewell. Sorrow choked
her, and she despaired. Soren would look for her, but he would never find her.
She was nowhere, lost in the billowing dunes, and there her corpse would rest,
far from the roses of her dream, far from Soren.

Soren's agony
filled her mind. He was sorrowing, and she knew that she must be the cause. Soren
knew her danger, and it hurt him. If Sillara had had anything in her belly, she
would have vomited it. Instead, as her body was empty, she endured the
sickening nausea of fear. Her own dread of death rebounded from Soren, doubled
by taking his fear up into it.

Beside her
Konas stumbled, and Sillara reached out, letting him lean on her. His fairer
skin had made these past two days harder for him, and he had, she was sure,
been giving her part of his share of the water, water that had run out after
the first day. Furthermore, his eyes were still strained from the sand-storm,
and he walked, most of the time, with his eyes closed and bandaged.

“
I love you.” Konas murmured the words as he leaned his head on her
shoulder.
“So … sorry.”

Sillara was
sorry, too, but she did not wish to add to Konas's burden. Instead she stroked
his hair, the only part of him visible through the strips of white
silk—remnants of the balloon—in which he had wrapped
himself
.

“
We have … no hope.” Konas, despite his words, did not stop his slow
westward trudge. “I have … killed you.”

Sillara shook
her head. “Hope while we breathe.” But her heart was crying the tears her eyes
could not shed, and she did not want to die. She resolved not to fall asleep
that morning. They traveled by night and during the day took refuge beneath the
shade of balloon silk. Sillara knew that there was no water left in her, nor
was there any strength. When she next closed her eyes to sleep, she would not
wake, and she did not wish for death to find her sleeping. No, she would go to
Nistaran's halls with her eyes open, like a Tamari should.

Sillara's steps
grew slower, and she felt Konas, too, wobbling unsteadily on his legs.

“
I am glad … I could … have you,” said Konas.
“Even
if … only for a day.”

Sillara forced
a smile, despite the cracking of her lips. She did not reproach Konas, though
she knew that, were it not for this love of his for her, she would now be
laughing and teasing Soren over the orgy, listening to him talk, sitting
beneath the green palms of the oasis, swimming in the water in the cool of the
evening.

She closed her
eyes, almost seeing it. Yes, when she died, she would remember the most joyful
days of her life. It would be pleasant. Sillara opened her eyes, and she
sighed. This was it then.
Death.

For before her
waking eyes she saw the green palms of the oasis, saw the glimmering pools,
brilliant in the moonslight, and Sillara pressed Konas's hand in farewell.

“
Sillara?”
Konas's voice was a mere
breath
, more
croak than speech.

But Sillara did
not reply. She had never seen such an oasis as this. The trees were many, and
there were not only the two pools as at the oasis where she had left Soren and
the others. No, here were dozens of
pools,
some so
large she would have to call them lakes. Among them she could make out low,
brick dwellings. Still Sillara did not quite believe it. Could this be a
mirage, the cruelest trick of the desert?

“
Look, Konas,” she said at last.

Konas unbound
his eyes, and Sillara waited, staring at the image before her.

“
Abrexa's cunt.”
Konas's favorite oath slipped out.

Sillara knew
then that he, too, saw it, and she laughed, despite the pain in her lips, when
he crushed her against him. Their strength welled up fresh within them, and
they walked, still too weak for running, at a better pace than since their
water had run out.

It was the
longest mile of Sillara's life, but at last she and Konas stumbled out of the
desert dunes into what she could only call a city. It was not, of course,
anywhere near the size of Arinport, but it was large enough. There were more
buildings than she could at once count, and the trees were taller than she had
ever seen in any oasis.

As she and
Konas took the last step out of the sand and into the harder, damper ground of
the oasis—for she knew not what else to call it—she heard voices. People came
from every doorway, and she and Konas were surrounded by strangers.

“
Water,” said Konas. “Please.”

He spoke in
Ausir, as he had been doing since they had left Soren, but Sillara saw no
understanding in the eyes of those who met them. She did not think it very
material, however, for she saw some two or three people making their way to
what appeared to be a well. Instead of trying to speak, Sillara listened and
observed. The people of this city were, obviously, Men. She saw no sign of the
high cheekbones and overly-large eyes of the Ausir, let alone their horns or
ears. No, these people were Men.

Half-bloods.

It struck
Sillara suddenly that these people were part Sunjaa, but only part. Their skin
was, like her own, a shade like that of coffee mixed with milk, a creamy
golden-brown, and of all the tribes of Men, only the Sunjaa were so dark as to
make this shade possible. They wore cloaks, of course, for the desert winds
were cold; but she caught glimpses beneath of scraps of clothing. The men wore
what seemed to be loincloths, but not the fine linen of Sunjaa skirts, rather
some sort of animal skin or leather. The women wore the same, along with a
scrap of the same fabric tied across their breasts.

Someone put a tin
cup into Sillara's hand, saying something as he did so. Sillara concentrated on
the words, trying to understand. He accompanied his speech with gestures, so
Sillara understood he was warning her not to drink too much.

She smiled
inwardly. She knew in theory, if not practice, how to handle dehydration, and
she obeyed by sipping only the tiniest mouthful. The water stung her throat as
it went down, and Sillara slowly dropped to her knees. Konas had already
unwrapped his face, and the gasps that accompanied the revelation of his face
and of the fact that his horns were attached, not part of some headdress, told
Sillara that these people had never seen an Ausir.

Sillara took
another sip, still listening to the words of those around her. This mouthful
stung a little less, and she dared a slightly larger mouthful the third time.

These people
must have been part Sunjaa, part some fair-skinned people.
Probably
Vadal or Fihdal.
Then Sillara caught a word
she recognized, an archaic Sunjaa term for water.

“
Nw,” said Sillara.

The people
stopped still and stared at her. No one spoke, and Sillara repeated herself.
“Nw.”
She took another sip.

“
They can understand you.” Konas's voice was still ragged, but he
spoke more clearly than he had in two days. “You know what they are saying?”

Sillara shook
her head. “I think they speak something related to ancient Sunjaa.” She tried
another word.
“Tni?”

The people
shook their heads, obviously not understanding.

“
Not exactly the same as ancient Sunjaa.” Sillara smiled wryly.
But
then, they are not purely Sunjaa, are they?
She tried again, using an
ancient Fihdal dialect she had never heard spoken, only read.
“Dovay?”

“
Tambril's City.”

Sillara
blinked. Why should this people, who had no knowledge of Ausir, name their city
after an Ausir?

“
Why did they say 'tambril'?” asked Konas.

“
They said this is his city.” She turned to the man who had spoken,
who seemed to be the leader of them all, or at least their chief speaker.
“Tambril dovay?”

“
What did you ask them?” whispered Konas.

“
I think I asked where Tambril is.” Sillara did not have to wait
long. The same speaker offered her his arm, helping her to her feet. Konas
struggled to stand, too.

“
I don't think we should separate,” said Konas.

Sillara nodded,
but there seemed no need for Konas's concern. These strangers were being kind,
and they did not make any attempt to sweep her away from Konas. As she walked,
leaning on the arm of the man who had helped her stand, Sillara attempted once
more to communicate. “Sillara,” she said, touching her chest. Then she touched
his chest.
“Ptr?”

“
Vaelus.”
He pointed to Konas.
“Ptr?”

“
Konas Seranimesti,” she said.

“
You are making progress,” said Konas. “Maybe when we get a chance to
rest, you can explain what languages you are using.”

They now
entered one of the largest of the white brick buildings, one that, Sillara
judged, was as close to the center of the city as the location of the lakes and
pools allowed. She looked at the bas-relief carvings along the walls as she
sipped some more water from the tin cup. It no longer stung at all, but she
knew she needed to go slowly. If she took in too much too quickly, she would
vomit up everything she had drunk.

The carvings
were magnificently done, obviously by someone with a true artist's eye. She
wished she could have time to appreciate the images, but Vaelus was sweeping
her forward. She went up several steps to what she had no doubt was an altar.
There, at the top of the altar, she saw a sarcophagus, similar in style to
those used by the Sunjaa, but the features painted on it were not those of a
Sunjaa. Rather she saw depicted a fair-skinned Ausir man.