A strong hand jerked him to his feet. “Keep running!” Vani shouted.
The wall of the tempest loomed above them, its rusty surface roiling like a violent sea. Even as Travis watched, it blotted out the sun, casting the world into ruddy twilight.
Vani pulled his arm so hard he heard his shoulder pop. He stumbled after her in a headlong run.
“It’s coming too fast!” His throat was raw; he tasted metal. “We can’t outrun it!”
“We do not have to,” Vani shouted back. “A blood tempest is long and narrow in shape. Think of it as a serpent striking. We have only to flee to the side, to get out of its path, and we will be safe.”
As the wall of the storm advanced from the south, they ran east. At first the wind seemed to lessen in its ferocity, and Travis began to think they had a chance. Then they reached the top of a slope, and he turned and watched as dune after dune was enveloped by clouds of boiling red dust. A gritty blast struck him, and sand hissed all around.
The hissing phased into whispering words.
Lie down. Let the sand cover you as a blanket. You are weary–so weary of your burdens. Lie down. . . .
The voices were soothing. The howl of the wind faded, and all he heard were the gentle whispers.
Lie down and go to sleep. . . .
Travis sighed. He felt warm and safe, like a child in his bed. It was time to shut his eyes.
“Get up!” This voice was different than the voices in the wind: harsher, and full of anger. “Do not give up on me, Travis Wilder. Not now!”
Something grabbed him, jerking him up, and only then did he realize he had been laying face‑first in the sand. He rolled over with a groan. Vani knelt over him. Above, the sky churned, and sick yellow lightning flickered between the red clouds.
“Voices,” he croaked. It was hard to speak; his mouth was full of dust. “I heard voices.”
Vani pulled him to his feet. “They are sand spirits–the voices of dead sorcerers from long ago. They want you to die, for your blood to soak into the sand, then dry to dust and be drawn up into the storm, feeding it. You must not listen to them!”
He nodded. It was too hard to speak.
“Come. We are still on the edge of the blood tempest, or we would already be dead. We can make it.”
They careened down the side of the slope, then ran through the gap between a pair of high dunes. Wind buffeted them from all sides, and it was so dark it was impossible to tell which way they were going. Fear gripped Travis. Perhaps they were running into the path of the storm, not out of it. The voices began to whisper again in his ears.
There–up ahead. It was hard to be sure, but for a moment he thought he glimpsed a faint patch of light, as if the clouds of sand were thinner. He staggered toward it, but his feet caught on something, tripping him, and he fell down on top of a soft lump.
It was Vani. She wasn’t moving. Her nose and mouth were caked with dust. He tried to clear it away, to help her breathe. Only he couldn’t breathe himself. There was no air left, only sand and dust. Only the dried blood of sorcerers, more than three thousand years dead, whose power and malice had given birth to the tempest when chance winds in the desert brought enough of the red‑brown powder together. The voices hissed again in his ears.
Travis! Can you hear me? I know you’re out there. . . .
This voice seemed different than the others. There was no hate in it, and it was . . . familiar to him. He tried to call out in answer, but dust choked his throat. It was no use. He slumped over Vani, letting the sand cover them both.
A sound roused him from his stupor. Was it a shout? Somehow he lifted his head and looked up. He could just make it out amid the swirling sand: a figure shrouded in a black robe. Was this one of the sorcerers, then, come to take his blood?
The dark figure reached out a hand.
“Be dead!” intoned a commanding voice.
Then there was only silence.
26.
After a long time, Travis heard voices again. The voices fluttered about him in the dark, as soft as the murmur of moth wings.
Travis . . .
A light shone in the darkness, a light as green and gold as sun through leaves.
You can wake up now. You’re safe. I’m here with you. . . .
Travis opened his eyes. A face hovered over him. A beautiful, dusty, worried face he knew and loved.
“Grace,” he croaked.
She smiled and brushed his hair from his brow. “Welcome back, Travis.” She lifted his head and helped him drink water from a clay cup. It was cool and sweet. He tried to gulp it. “Slow, now. We need to get fluids back into you gradually.”
Grace set down the cup, and with her help Travis managed to sit up in the cot. They were in some kind of low dwelling. Its walls were made of whitewashed mud, their corners rounded. The door was covered with a heavy cloth; the sound of sand hissed outside.
“Where’s Vani?” His voice was still raspy, but better after the water.
“I am here,” the T’golsaid, drawing close to the bed. Her hair was white with dust, and it made her look old and weary.
He leaned his head back against the wall. “What happened to us? I remember the sand tempest, and I remember finding you on the ground. Then I heard the voices. They told me to sleep.”
“They were sand spirits,” a man’s voice said.
Travis looked up. He had not seen the other standing in the corner of the hut; his black garb blended with the shadows. But now the man stepped forward, into the gold circle of light cast by an oil lamp. His dark hair was long and shaggy, as was his beard, which grew high up his cheeks. The skin of his forehead was deeply tanned. Only his dark eyes looked familiar. They still glinted with sharp intelligence. But there was something else in them now–a hot light, like that of a fever.
“Hello, Hadrian,” Travis said.
Farr brushed the words aside as if they were beyond introductions. Or as if the name no longer applied. Red tattoos coiled across the palm of his hand. “The sand spirits were trying to take you, and had Grace not sensed your presence, they would have succeeded. As it was, I feared I had found you too late. I commanded the spirits to be what they were–to be dead– only when the storm cleared and I saw you lying on the ground, I assumed you were both dead as well.”
Grace pressed a moist cloth to his brow. “But you’re not. You’re here, Travis. You’re really here. I found you.”
There was much to understand. Had Farr really been able to command the spirits in the sand tempest? If so, he was a powerful dervish indeed. Travis felt a pang of jealousy.
What an impudent upstart, Jack Graystone’s voice sounded in his mind. He’s done nothing but ride along on your coattails. Surely you’re a more powerful sorcerer than he is, Travis. And you’re quite a good wizard as well. Why, you should wave your hand and–
No, this wasn’t a competition. Besides, Farr had had three years to learn secrets and delve into magics Travis had never even wanted to know about.
“Thank you for finding us,” he said to Farr, then he looked at Grace. “And you, too. I’m glad you were able to sense our life threads. But what are you doing here in the first place? Why were you looking for me? And how did you know I’d be here?” He frowned. “Come to think of it, where exactly is here, anyway?”