Page 35 of Bride of the Enemy Alien

He looks down. He shifts his weight inward and the loose tile holds.

“Thank you,” he says.

The words are formal and stiff. Somehow worse than arrogance. At least arrogance gives me something comfortable to punch.

“You’re welcome,” I say. Then, because discomfort has apparently broken my survival instincts, I add, “Try not to make it weird.”

“I do not know your measure for weird.”

“You fell from the sky, bled on me, glowed at a sphere, and made Merra brace your wing while Syin considered murder as a public service. We passed my measure for weird several turns ago.”

Renn makes a strangled sound behind us.

Rhazek looks straight ahead. “Then I will not worry about crossing it.”

I shouldn’t enjoy that answer. I don’t. I refuse to enjoy it in a very firm and official capacity.

By the time we reach the outer ash gate, the twin suns are high enough to turn the world white at the edges. Heat slams into us. It comes with dust, mineral glare, and the old desert smell of sand that has seen too much blood and kept all its secrets. The City closes behind us, stone swallowing shadow, and I want to turn back so badly my bones ache.

But fortunately for all of us, I know fear. I know how to handle it so it doesn’t overwhelm. I give it a job, bury it in work.

Route. Ground. Markers. People. Water. Weak shelves. Retreat paths.

Rhazek walks at my right, because Rosalind apparently believes in punishing me with proximity. Syin leads two paces ahead with Renn and Orek fanned behind. The two route runners, Lio and Maro, follow my hand signals without talking. Good runners. Smart enough to listen. Smart enough not to stare too openly at Rhazek, though Lio fails once when the green under his throat pulses faintly as we pass the first cracked cistern marker.

The pulse reaches me at the same time. Not beneath. Ahead. It brushes my teeth and runs under my skin like a thread being pulled through a hem. I stop, raising one hand and everyone freezes.

Rhazek stops half a breath before Syin does.

The pause catches both Syin and me. Rhazek catches us catching it, because he says, “Do not start.”

“I hadn’t even opened my mouth,” I say.

“Your silence was preparing an accusation.”

“My silence is allowed hobbies.”

Syin turns back, glaring and serious as usual.

“Direction?” he asks, or rather, barks.

I close my eyes, which is a terrible thing to do in the open desert with enemies, zemlja tunnels, and a sky that has recently become much too interested in us. But sight is making too much noise. Heat shimmer. Red stone. Black marker. Rhazek’s dark shape at the edge of awareness. I need the pulse without all the world’s clutter leaning on it.

There.

East, then south. Not direct. It bends around old stone like water choosing a crack.

“That way,” I say, opening my eyes and pointing past a jagged line of broken cistern posts. “It’s using the old channel bed.”

Rhazek’s jaw tightens. “That should be dry.”

“It is.”

“But dry does not mean dead,” he says.

I look at him. “I’m starting to dislike how often you say true things in upsetting ways.”

“Truth is rarely improved by decoration.”