The Knife of Truth: An Heirs of Samandahl Novella by Christiana Matthews

Author:Christiana Matthews [Matthews, Christiana]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2022-07-01T04:00:00+00:00

6

ROAD TO DAR ABU

“Are you telling me we’re supposed to sit on top of that thing?” Erich regarded their newly purchased mount with dismay. “It doesn’t look very comfortable.”

The camel flapped its rubbery lips and displayed a row of large yellow teeth. Calandra laughed. “I think you’ve offended it. I mean her.”

“It’s a girl?” Erich sounded astonished.

“Apparently. And I’m told you can choose to sit in front, on top or behind the hump, although the top seat would probably suit you better, being taller. I’ll sit in front.”

“Does it—she—have a name?” he asked.

“She’s called Amira.” Calandra’s lips twitched. “It means princess, I’m told.”

Erich snorted, opened his mouth and, apparently unable to think of a suitable reply, closed it again with a shake of his head.

Once swathed in the loose robes and veils provided by the head merchant, they packed blankets, spare robes, a selection of various dried foods, and water skins. After a light midday meal, the travellers tied these provisions securely behind Erich’s saddle, a moulded leather pad secured by woven strips of goat hair and attached by double straps. A blue blanket edged with sand-coloured geometric designs lay beneath it. Seen in profile it resembled the abstract wave pattern so beloved of Kharmissan mosaicists, with a padded restraint at the rear to prevent the rider from sliding backwards.

They mounted and set off, heading south-west. For the rest of that day and several more afterwards, they followed the banks of the River Jessour. Although hailed as the lifeblood of Jessourdin, it would rank as little more than a creek by Northern standards.

Few could endure for more than a day without water in the heat of summer, so to conserve their rations and their energy, they travelled in the early morning and late evening. Crude huts erected from palm fronds gave wayfarers shelter for a few hours each night, and again in the burning heat of midday. Nights were bone-chillingly cold, the days a foretaste of hell. As the sun rose, glaring down at them in relentless contempt, they mounted and, following the market overseer’s advice, rode south, still hugging the river.

Eventually, they had to abandon that strategy, for although the headwaters of the Jessour and the Abu arose in the same mountains, their paths diverged long before they reached the flatlands and the sea. To reach Dar Abu, they must traverse the open desert.

As they plodded west, shifting, mutable colours fluctuated across the dunes, from salmon pink to rose-gold, from pale almond to ochre. They spoke rarely, conserving energy. The sound of the camel’s feet shuffling across the sand was broken occasionally by the screech of a red-tailed hawk or the stir of a breeze fluttering through sparse, stunted bushes. Occasionally, a group of silver-slashed gazelles leapt across their path, kicking up puffs of dust which floated through the air like clouds of dandelion seeds.

Swaying and lurching towards a distant, ever-retreating mirage, Calandra’s joints seemed to stiffen more with every mile they covered. Erich, by contrast, became increasingly spry and limber.

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