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Idrive through the desert for so long the engine rumbles, demanding more fuel for its ravenous motor. Before long, the caravan lurches and comes to a halt with a spray of sand on the flawless dunes only ever touched by wind and sun.
I snatch my scarf from the passenger seat and tie it tightly against my face to shield it from the unyielding touch of the ever-present sand. It’s all for naught.
As soon as I open the door and drop onto a dune, the sand clings to my skin, grinds at the soles of my feet, at the base of my neck, at the roots of my hair. By the time I reach the back of the caravan, perspiration rolls down my back. I would give anything for a few droplets of water, but the dusty storage bin holds only scraps and tools hoarded for a day they might find a second life in the hands of a crafty rebel.
I look under every bench and in the stacked crates in hope of finding a canister with fuel stashed for an emergency situation like this. By the time I’ve scoured every inch of the caravan, all that remains is a pile of rusted tools and oiled cogs flung over thin rugs.
I’m ready to crumble, break down, and cry, but I still don’t utter a prayer. Neither Evanae nor the Maker care what happens in this world. If they did, The Cataclysm would have never swept through the land, binders of ethera wouldn’t have been slaughtered, and no such torment as my father’s will would have been dumped on the world already filled with nothing but misery and anguish.
Somewhere deep inside my chest, anger and pain unfurl into a savage scream that tears at my throat and my lungs. I hit the wall with my hand rolled into a fist again and again, the skin on my knuckles breaking and beading with blood. I don’t heal it. This pain is better than the void that has claimed my heart since Lara’s death.
What use is there in my binding? Why have I been cursed with it?
I couldn’t even save my friend. I couldn’t help when it really mattered.
Blood dripping on the old carpet below my feet, I stare at a metal locker with doors sealed shut, not with binding, but with a lock with no key. My hit on it have left nothing but a bloodied dent.
I’m so tired of walls barring my path wherever I go that I grab a crowbar and wedge it into the narrow space. It must hold only a trinket dear to someone, but I keep pulling even when my hands slide on my own blood. If only for the satisfaction of seeing it burst open. With a creak and a groan, it finally does, revealing the treasure I’ve been seeking.
I clutch the canister, returning to the desert blazing under the midday sun and fill the tank of the caravan. As I take refuge in the driver’s seat, I lower my scarf and grip the wheel tightly in my hands.
I can’t roam the desert until I die of starvation or Dustwalkers find me and send me back into the sands with only one bullet left in the chamber of a rusted revolver. I can’t return to The Broken Sands either. No matter how much I miss Inara’s chatter and Valdus’s scarce signs of affection, he was right. We can’t be together. Not when I’ve only brought grief and danger to everyone I’ve met.
The only safe harbor left is the laboratory.
Someone has tucked a compass and a map in a small pocket of space between countless gears and a stash of bullets, but they don’t offer me a solution to my problem. I drove for such a long time, not paying attention to any landmark, that I don’t even know which way the north is on the old map, and any tracks have left has been reclaimed by the desert.
I lean on the wheel and close my eyes, and there is nothing to hold back my tears any longer. It is my fault I’m lost in the endless sand of the desert. It is my fault Damen will never see Evanae’s light again. And it is my fault Lara died. I found a friend, and I’ve lost her.
I cry for such a long time that the world around me dims, and a soft breeze enters the caravan to tug on my hair. I sit up, drying the last of the tears from my swollen eyes. The desert is dark around me, only sand and purple sky spreading into the eternity.
How long will it be before these sands claim me, too?
The blackness swirling around my hand distracts me, and I finally channel some ethera to heal my bloodied knuckles. A spark somewhere far away echoes my binding, and I open my eyes in search of the twinkling star. Travelers in old stories had used nothing but celestial bodies to guide them to their homes, but the sky above me isn’t dark enough for the stars to dot its canvas.
I close my eyes and push my energy away until all I can feel is the emptiness of the desert and that twinkle. Again, and again.
Without a second thought, I start the caravan and guide it toward that winking light with no need of a map or a compass. My destination is only marked by the pull of energy.
I’m not surprised to see the laboratory on the horizon. I must have felt the greenhouse after all. But where I thought I’d find an abandoned building, windows welcome me back flickering with light. A shadow dashes against the stark light on the second floor, and I stop my caravan.
Did Damen talk? Did he tell Rev about the greenhouse? About the binder of ethera in the rebellion?
I doubt it. Not when he has secrets of his own. Not when he had helped build it, but I can’t be sure. No matter what has happened, I won’t let Rev take me back to the palace.
My swords clutched tight, I jump down from the driver’s seat. The blades unfurl and dig shallow trenches in the sand behind me as I walk toward the rusty door. I beg for it not to make a sound. For once, it doesn’t, and I creep through silent halls. To hunt the one hunting me.
Somewhere over my head, a door bangs shut, followed by muffled voices, and I don’t stay in the shadows this time.
I won’t let anyone take this from me.
I dash up the stairs and to the second floor, where I once poured every last drop of my life energy into Valdus. The smell of alcohol and copper still lingers in the air, but the room is empty. I check the next one. The one after that.
When I hear the clatter of metal at the end of the hall, I press myself against the wall. I creep along the sleek glass, gripping my swords more tightly than I should, but my heart wouldn’t let me make a step otherwise.
I peek around a corner, and a sigh breaks out from my lips.
Valdus looks under the bed and into the bathroom, from which Inara appears with worry, knitting her brow.
