“I hate him.”
“Galen? Why? What did he say this time?”
“He didn’t say anything. I don’t like his look.”
I slid my gaze to him and found Galen stretching beside his horse, then running a hand through his hair as he scanned the horizon for threats. Those, at least, would be easy to see. “His face is great; his mouth is the problem.”
“The least of them,” she said, then moved along.
The wind was strong here, with nothing to impede its progress. I closed my eyes and heard nothing but the rustle of grass. Even this early in the spring, the grass was tall enough to reach our knees.
The silence was unsettling. The stronghold was never quiet. Dogs barked, hawkers called out their deals, people laughed, roosters crowed. This was the absence of all those things—of people and buildings and everything else.
I didn’t know where I’d been born, where I’d lived before my memories began a few weeks—days?—before I was deposited at the Lady’s manor. But I didn’t think it was a place like this. Nothing about this felt familiar or comfortable.
I felt Nik move beside me and opened my eyes.
“It’s very empty out here.”
“Empty but free. You get used to the quiet.”
“Do you?” I looked up at him, his gaze on the horizon and his hair moving in the breeze. He looked more relaxed here than he had in the stronghold or the garden. Maybe because there was time yet before we reached the caravanserai, before he had to think about death and assassins again.
He nodded. “You just need a warm fire and a clear sky, when you can see nothing but the dome of stars from one horizon to the other. The worries fall away, because there’s nothing to do about them out here.”
“Not a lot of puzzles to solve,” I said.
“But fewer enemies. No worries, Fox. We’ll reach the caravanserai soon enough. And there’s always something to see in the caravanserai.”
It appeared first as a smudge on the horizon, hard to discern against the never-ending flatness. Then it became lines and shapes and, when we were close enough, an enormous wall of brick-colored stone with a wide gatehouse in the middle and circular towers on each end.
“Welcome to the Saheylesh caravanserai,” Nik said. “Any Aether?”
“No pain,” I said. “And I don’t see any from here.” But the structure was enormous.
“I’m not expecting problems. By Vhranian tradition, anyone who visits peaceably is untouchable. Kill a tyrant if you must, but respite for travelers is sacred.”
We moved closer until the building nearly filled the horizon, then stopped. Galen rode alone first toward the gatehouse, discussed our arrival with the guards who waited in its shade, then handed something to them, probably to secure our entry. Likely a letter from the prince or a packet of coins. After further talk and some pointing, the guards moved to the edges of the gatehouse. Galen returned.
“In through the front,” he said, and looked at Yue. “Take whatever space you can find. There will be water and oats for the horses.”
She nodded.
“We’ll get the horses settled, then we’ll go inside,” Nik told me. And then Yue snapped her reins, and the carriage began tomove. We trundled under the arch and into the first stone courtyard, which was alive with noise and dirt and animals. There were half a dozen carriages, stone pens of livestock, and people eating hurried meals before the next portion of their journey. Horses and camels chewed as they rested, unbothered by the chaos around them. It smelled of dust and dung and sunshine and sweat.
“Always something to see in the caravanserai,” Nik said again.
When the carriage settled, I climbed out. Galen and Wren had already tied their horses in the shade of an awning that extended around the courtyard’s edge. Nik and Yue fed and watered the hitched horses. A few strides away, a woman blew a raspy tune on a small pipe, while her companion drank from a jug of sweetwine. Others reviewed maps drawn on parchment or leather, planning out the rest of their journeys, or napped near their animals. The travelers wore quilted tunics and pants suited for living in a place where the winds seemed to drive straight through you.
I felt the lightest pinch and looked up and around. Atop the westernmost tower, floating above the crenellations, was an Anima. A man in an old-fashioned uniform, barely visible in the brilliant sunlight, his gaze on the eastern horizon.
“What is it?” Wren asked when she joined me.
“There’s an Anima on the tower.”
She squinted into the sunlight, scanning the building. “Dangerous?”
“I don’t think so. Minimal pain. Looks to be minding his own business.”
