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He set a water skin by Idisio and moved to stand some distance away. As Idisio chewed the tough bread, he watched Scratha's profile in the greying light. The desert lord stared into the distance, expressionless, showing no sign of weakness or weariness, motionless as the stone looming over them. His pack lay at his feet, ready to go.

Riss said nothing as they ate, and Idisio didn't feel like talking. He felt well-rested, although he suspected he hadn't actually slept much at all.
Nervous energy
, he told himself firmly, and concentrated on eating and keeping an eye on his lord.

Finished with their meal, Riss shook out her blanket and folded it neatly back into her pack. Idisio shoved the last of the cheese into his mouth and took a hasty swig from the water skin as he stuffed his blanket untidily away. Scratha turned only when they were finished and standing beside their packs.

He led them, not to the side of the stone Idisio had approached before, but around to the other side. Unlike the eastern side, this one had more smooth spots than furrowed ridges. Scratha moved to one of the widest flat areas and put his hands on the rock. He seemed to push lightly, and the rock face swung inwards, revealing a narrow passage that sloped into utter blackness.

“My lord,” Idisio said involuntarily. “I can't. . . .” His protest died under the sharp glare the man gave him.
“Well,
I'm
not afraid,” Riss said, and marched forward.
“Stop a few paces in,” Scratha said, his voice pitched just loud enough to carry, and motioned for Idisio to move. Mouth dry, Idisio obeyed, aware that his lord would likely drag or carry him if he stalled for another moment. Scratha had that look to him right now. Putting a hand out as the light disappeared around him, he touched a thin shoulder. He couldn't help making a muffled noise and jerking back.
Riss made a faintly disgusted sound.
“I'm not a cactus, you know,” she said tartly.
Scratha joined them. A moment later there came a scraping sound, and the square of dim light from the opening disappeared. The door had closed, and no light remained.
Idisio took a deep breath, then another, fighting not to whimper.
“Ha'rethe,” Scratha said, and something else, words in the old desert language Idisio had never heard before.
“Don't call that thing's attention,” Idisio said, but it came out in a whisper, barely vocalized, and most of it caught in his throat.
A whitish-blue, sourceless glow filled the passage, barely a small hand-lantern's worth of brightness, but Idisio's panic lifted instantly. The dim light revealed smooth, pale stone walls, a sloping floor, and a low ceiling. Scratha stood slightly stooped, one hand on the ceiling as if to remind himself not to stand straight up.
The light sparked glittering reflection from tiny, mica-like chips in the walls; Riss grinned in delighted wonder, while Idisio sighed in relief that this passage felt nothing like the dank one under Bright Bay.
“Let me take the lead,” Scratha said. He kept his voice low, and as he glanced around his expression seemed tinged with awe.
Riss flattened against the wall and let the desert lord squeeze past. Scratha led them onwards and down, the gradual slope of the passage giving way to shallow, wide steps with wear marks more towards the sides than the center. Idisio thought of four-legged creatures, like the marsh lizards of Kybeach, but said nothing.
The descent went on for a long time before leveling out, but Idisio felt no pressure or panic. The light moved with them, as though some invisible creature held an unseen lantern in their midst. The walls stayed a dry, comforting desert color, and the passage felt clean, quiet, and safe.
As they walked, the ceiling rose, bit by bit, until Scratha could stand without difficulty. He paused and ran both hands over the ceiling and down each wall, then across the floor and back up. He made an odd, satisfied noise and started walking again, trailing his fingers along the wall.
“Idisio,” he said over his shoulder, “put a hand to the wall on your right. Don't look at it. Keep walking.”
The wall felt smooth at first, save for a few faint bumps and creases. The irregularities gradually became more distinct, more deliberate in nature, like a pattern of some sort. Idisio struggled with the urge to turn his head and look at the wall, and compromised by slanting his eyes just a bit to the right as they walked.
To his disappointment, he saw nothing visible on the wall, even as his hand insisted there were markings clear as any black-ink writing on clean new parchment. He blinked hard, trying to force his eyes to see what his fingers felt, and stumbled, crashing sideways into the wall on his left. A wave of dizziness dropped him to his knees, breathing hard. He shut his eyes, pressing his hands to the ground, waiting for it to pass.
“I told you not to look,” Scratha said, sounding amused, and hoisted Idisio back to standing. “Open your eyes and look straight on, get it out of your system.” He kept his hands under Idisio's armpits, supporting him, and turned him to face the wall.
Idisio stared at the smooth tan wall in front of him. He couldn't see the slightest nub or crack or crevice, even when he stepped forward and stared at the surface up close.
Scratha let him go, allowing Idisio time to explore the wall with hands and sight, and finally said, “It's all like that. Walls, floor, ceiling.”
Idisio shut his eyes and ran his hands over the wall again, shaking his head.
Riss made a faint, impatient noise. “What are you talking about? There's nothing there.”
Idisio could hear her feeling along the wall nearby.
“There's nothing there,” she repeated. “Just a rough stone wall.”
“What does it say?” Idisio asked, opening his eyes.
“I have no idea,” Scratha admitted. His grin faded. “I think it's meant to be read in all directions at once. Humans can't possibly begin to interpret it.”
“But how. . . .” Idisio stopped, looked up at the ceiling, down at the floor, and felt gooseflesh rippling along his arms. “This isn't a cut tunnel.”

Everyone looked up and around.
“So?” Riss said.
“It's a burrow,” Idisio said. “Like a snake's.”
The light flickered slightly.
“Not quite,” Scratha said hastily. “Don't compare them to any kind of reptile,” he added in a low undertone, bending further to speak into Idisio's ear. “They get upset.”

Idisio, with a sudden awareness of how far underground they were by now, and how precarious their light source, pressed his lips together.
Scratha glanced at Riss, who looked puzzled. “It's writing,” he said to her, “of a sort. It's meant to be read by touch, not sight, and it's all around the walls, which means the ha'reye probably fill the tunnel when they travel through it.”
“Probably?” Idisio said. “I thought you . . . knew . . . haven't you met . . . ?” He stopped, suddenly confused.
“We see of the ha'reye what they want us to see,” Scratha said. “Some have seen what is likely the true form. I've never been granted that.” He didn't sound regretful. “Let's keep going.”

Aleya and Deiq sat on asun-warmed rock under an overhang, watching the last hour of daylight spread glorious sprays of gold, orange, peach and purple across the cloudless sky.

“You've passed the blood trials of Comos and Ishrai,” Deiq said. “There's one left.”
Alyea said nothing, waiting. Ever since she'd awoken some hours ago, she found herself strangely unwilling to speak unless she had to. The sound of her own voice felt odd to her ears, and her throat still hurt, as if she'd been screaming in her sleep.
Noise of any sort crackled painfully in her ears, like a burgeoning infection. Deiq spoke in a near-whisper. They'd come outside because the echoes of human movement bouncing from the rock walls made Alyea flinch.
Outside all was beautifully silent and still, save for the occasional
whiss-scritch
of desert animals venturing into the warm air.
“The sun-lord,” Deiq said finally, his gaze still far away, abstracted. “Datda. Most people won't name him. It's considered bad luck, unless you're a follower. He's the god of war, of death, disease, violence, and so on.”
“I'm going to have to fight?” Alyea said when it became clear Deiq had finished speaking.
“I don't know.” He rubbed the knuckles of one hand with the palm of the other and shut his eyes. “It's different for everyone.”
Alyea felt her forehead wrinkling into a frown. It hadn't been a lie, exactly, but she had a feeling he wasn't telling her the whole truth, either.
He looked up and caught her staring at him. A rueful grin appeared on his face. “Yes. Going through the trial of Ishrai makes you harder to fool.”
“So tell me,” she said.
“I can't. There are rules to the blood trials, Alyea. I can't interfere.”
She made a disgusted noise.
“Sorry,” he said, sounding completely unapologetic.
“What can you tell me? There has to be something!”
He considered, watching her closely. “I can tell you,” he said at last, “that if you lose, I can't help you, but you won't be bonded to me any more.” He cleared his throat and looked away, seeming uncomfortable.
“Because I'll be dead. No surprise there.”
“Not necessarily,” he said without looking at her. “I can't say more than that. I'm sorry.”
His expression, in profile, was so bleak as he stared at the horizon that she left him alone. They sat in silence, watching the sun settle into a fading glow, watching as the stars began to appear high above.

By evening of the next day, Alyea's sensitivity had eased enough that she could eat dinner with the Qisani community. The room stayed mostly silent. The
ishraidain
—women serving penance under the protection of Ishrai for various crimes—kept their vow of silence, and the Callen seemed to prefer to refrain from speaking themselves. When the Callen did talk, they used low voices that even Alyea's newly sharp hearing had trouble picking up.

There seemed no particular ranking to how people arranged their positions at table. Acana sat next to Alyea, but around them ishraidain and Callen mixed together randomly.

The stew this time tasted spicier than it had previously. Alyea found she enjoyed it; the flavors of all food seemed brighter lately. She glanced up to see Acana watching her, smiling.

“In your honor,” the ishrait said quietly, “I asked for the food to be made a bit more interesting. Do you like it?”
“Yes,” Alyea said, keeping her voice to the same low volume. “Very much. What's in it?”
“It's the same stew we always have,” Acana said, “but we added more cactus peppers. I think it's rather similar to what Juric fed you, in fact.”
Alyea took another bite, comparing memory to present, and nodded. “It is. Why doesn't it bother me any more?”
“You're adjusting your sense of taste to avoid feeling pain,” Acana said. Her smile widened. “I always win the pepper-eating contests with Juric these days. He doesn't understand why.”
Alyea found herself grinning in return. “I can see this is going to be useful.”
“You can also tell if there's something harmful in the food,” Acana said. “Poison, for example. You'll find yourself making adjustments for that too. It's very hard to kill a desert lord. Or a ha'ra'ha,” she added with a respectful nod to Deiq.
He nodded without comment and went on eating. Nobody spoke again until the meal ended and ishraidain rose to clear the dishes. Then Acana motioned wordlessly for Alyea to come with her. Deiq tagged along unasked, and as the ishrait made no objection, Alyea kept her mouth shut.
They followed the ishrait into a small, unoccupied room similar to the ishell but without a pool. Several of the strange green-oil lamps burned high but produced almost no smoke; Alyea resolved to ask about them soon.
“The lamp oil comes from Aerthraim Fortress,” Deiq said in a low voice. “I'll tell you about that another day.”
Alyea shot him a hard stare; he shrugged, unconcerned, and settled on a bench near the doorway. Acana motioned Alyea to sit on one end of a long bench and took the other end herself.
Cross-legged, facing Acana, Alyea watched the flickering of the lamps move shadows around the room and across the ishrait's face in patterns that didn't quite match what the physical flames should be producing. Rather than making Alyea nervous, the discrepancy seemed strangely comforting.
“You have been with us ten days,” Acana said at last.
Alyea blinked, startled. “That long?”
“That long,” Acana said. “Unless you apply to become an ishraidain, ten days is the limit you can claim sanctuary within the Qisani. You are under the hand of a ha'ra'ha, relieving us of the responsibility of teaching you, and you are not an ishraidain. This is your last night with us. You must leave.”
Alyea took a deep breath, let it out slowly as she considered. “Can you answer some questions, before I leave?”
Acana seemed to smile a bit, although it might have been a distortion of shadow. “Some things I can answer. Some I cannot.”
“Who was the healer that attended me?”
“A healer. The name doesn't matter.”
Alyea rephrased the question. “What was she?”
“I can't answer that.”
Alyea smiled. “You just did. She's from the Forbidden Jungles, isn't she?”
In Alyea's peripheral vision, Deiq shifted as if about to speak, but settled into silence again.
“She traveled a long way,” Alyea said.
“Alyea,” Deiq said quietly, “she can't tell you about the healer. Please stop baiting her.”
“That wasn't my intent,” Alyea said. “My apologies, Acana.”
She turned her head to stare at Deiq, took a breath, and
willed
him to give an unguarded answer. “How often have
you
been to the Forbidden Jungles?”
“Not often enough,” he said, his voice rough with emotion, and grimaced. “
Damnit
.”
The tension in the room eased abruptly as Acana laughed. “She's going to make a
very
good desert lord,” she said.
“If she survives the last trial,” Deiq said.
“I don't have your doubts,” Acana said, and stood. “I pity the one who goes up against her. For that matter, I admit some sympathy for you, Deiq. You're going to have your hands full.”
“Tell me about it,” Deiq said, sounding grumpy.
Acana laughed again, bowed to both of them in turn, and left the room.
“No honorific?” Alyea said before Deiq could speak.
“I don't ask for one,” he said, and stood. He crossed the room and sat on the bench, drawing his legs up to sit facing her as Acana had been moments before. “Don't do that again, Alyea. You caught me off guard with that push.”
“I wanted to find out if I could do it,” she said.
“You can,” he said, unamused, “but don't try it with another ha'ra'ha or desert lord. It's beyond rude, and a dangerous trick to play.”
“I won't,” Alyea said, chastened.
Deiq nodded, his taut expression relaxing slightly. “We leave tonight. The last blood trial is going to be held at Scratha Fortress, since that's the heart of the current dispute. We should be there by morning. Walking,” he added, anticipating her next question. “Juric is long gone, and the Callen of Ishrai don't use
sharaks
—that's the word for the type of carriage brought you here.”
He held up a hand to stop her from speaking. “There's something else I have to say.”
She raised her eyebrows and waited.
“I know Pieas raped you,” he said. “I know Oruen seduced you. I know what the ha'reye did to you felt like a combination of both. Trust me that I'll do neither. My obligations are more important than that.”
She felt her face heating, and couldn't speak.
“Remember what I am,” he said. “I can read people. I saw how you looked at Pieas, and at Oruen, and how they looked at you—it was as if you shouted it.”
“Gods,” she said, covering her face with her hands.
“Make sure you know which gods you refer to,” he said, “when you say that in the southlands.” He stood. “Time to go.”