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It was early autumn now. The others could not feel the change in the winds, the miniscule drop in temperature. But a daughter of Ibal certainly did.

“I can handle the canyon,” she said, patting Sigil on the shoulder.

The bounty hunter replied with a gruff laugh. “Good. I’d rather not have to save your skin again.”

As they made their way forward, they slept through the worst heat of the days, rousing before dusk. It was exhausting, even for Sorasa, who had been long from home. Corayne’s lips cracked and bled. Dom swathed himself from head to toe, sweating in his cloak and hood. Poor Charlie nearly fainted every morning, ruddy from finger­tips to toes. Sigil sweated through her armor, her face shining, and Andry didn’t drop his hood for days, shading his eyes. Only Valtik was somehow unaffected by the heat or sun, her ivory skin never changing, her head bare and eyes wide open.Some Spindle­rotten trick,Sorasa assumed.

The sun sapped their strength, leaving their nights quiet and swift. A week passed in near silence, their waterskins growing lighter, their stores of food running low. The apples bought in Adira were long gone, the sweetness of them only a memory.

Sorasa did not worry. It was no longer summer and the red line appeared on the horizon as it should, growing with every passing hour. The cliffs cast long shadows, bathing the desert in cool air, the earth cracked by a seasonal lake. It would be months before winter rains brought it back. A few hardy plants still wormed up through the cracks in the dirt, fed by an underground water supply, seeping through the dirt and sand. The sand mares tried to nose at them as they walked, lips reaching for any hint of green.

“Either you intend to go around,” Dom said one morning, his immortal eyes on the cliffs still miles off. They stretched the length of the horizon, jagged from north to south, a wall of rusty stone. “Or go through.”

“Around would take weeks. The Marjeja rings the Aljer like a crescent moon. We’ll take the canyon.” The horse’s flank was smooth beneath her hand, steadying as an anchor. The sand mare shuddered at Sorasa’s touch, leaning into it. “And we won’t be the only ones.”

Sorasa finished braiding her hair into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. With a will, she raised her eyes to stare at the horses spread across the dry riverbed, the canyon a gash in the wall of cliffs half a mile on. Though she was still, her heart rammed in her chest and her stomach twisted. There were two hundred Shiran at least, in all colors, from cream to sand to blood red and even a few obsidian black. They grazed across the cracked earth, hunting in the growing shadows of the cliffs. There were only a few stallions, the rest intelligent mares and colts still growing into their gangly limbs. They looked akin to sand mares, but any Ibalet knew them as a beast apart, stronger and faster and infinitely more wild than their domestic cousins.This is wrong,Sorasa thought, feeling shame already.This is unholy, a strike against the gods and the realm.

The others stared with her, sweating against the dawn.

“Are we going to look at them all day or...?” Charlie said, trailing off with a half grin.

“That is a Shiran.”

Sorasa’s skin crawled at the thought of what they had to do.

“After the gods, there is nothing so sacred to Ibal as these herds. They are the wind made flesh, faster than a storm, fiercer than sand wolves. In the days of Old Cor, the empire raided them, dragging wild Shiran screaming across the sea. Most died so far from home. Not so anymore.” Her mouth went dry. “To disturb or capture a wild Shiran is punishable by death.”

Corayne shifted in the saddle. “Something else for the posters,” she grumbled.

“They are a testament to the gods, to the Ibalet kings, to the great and terrible glory of Ibal, who was conquered but never killed.” Sorasa felt sick but forged on.At least I must make them understand.“These lands are their own to wander, from coast to riverbed, cliff to grassland, mountain to oasis shade.

“They are truly free,” she murmured, feeling the wind in her air, the judgment of the gods in her bones. And Dom’s emerald eyes on her, soft for once, without his usual glare.

“We will not harm them,” he rumbled, bowing his head low. “You have my word.”

Sorasa could only nod, her mouth too dry as he urged his mare forward, descending the dunes with Sigil close beside him.

Saydin nore-sar.

Gods forgive me.

Saydin nore-mahjin.

Gods protect us.

She worried more for the sacred horses than for most of her human companions.Somehow, the witch manages to survive everything. Andry will be fine too. He is a good horseman, easy in the saddle. Charlie not so much, but if he is trampled, so be it. His blood isn’t saving the Ward anytime soon.It was Corayne she looked to, reading the tension in the girl’s shoulders, the tightness of her fingers on the reins of her horse, a sand mare the color of garnet gemstone.

“Keep your grip,” Sorasa said to her. “Whatever you do, don’t let go. One arm over the saddle, both feet in one stirrup. I’ll be right next to you; so will Dom. No one will let you fall.”

Corayne dipped her chin in a firm nod, her face a picture of strength. The trembling in her hands told a different story. For once, the Spindleblade was not across her back. It would have sent her off balance. For the run, they’d strapped it to her horse’s saddle, angled out of the way, lashed as tightly as they dared.

If we lose that horse...,Sorasa thought. Her mind tried to chase down every possible outcome and mistake they might face. There were too many to follow, too many variables to anticipate. And not enough time to plan for any, let alone all.

Sigil knew how to move horses. She’d cut her teeth on the steppes among the stocky, stout ponies of the Temurijon. She urged her horse between the Shiran mares, aiming for a stallion standing apart, his neck arched and ears twitching.

In the dunes above, Sorasa wound the reins into her hands, her heels and thighs tightening around her mount.

The battle cry of the Countless, the great army of the Temur emperor, went up from the herd, a shriek like the crashing of metal and lightning. Combined with Sigil’s galloping mare and the flash of her ax, it was enough to send the stallion bolting. Muscle shuddered beneath his flank, a ripple over water, beautiful for a moment, as if he were forged from metal instead of flesh. He went for the plain but found Dom in his way, his sword bright with sunlight, startling the wild horse.