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A FTER CROSSING THREE leagues of endless dunes, Graylin’s eyes ached. He bowed under the pound of the Father Above. The heat had melted his rear into the saddle. Each breath burned his lungs.

While their path south had mostly led through shadows, there were times, like now, when they were forced out into the open. The sun, unrelenting and merciless, hammered at his will, his stamina, and baked the marrow of his bones.

He rode atop an ürsyn called Fasl, with a rider who had finally offered his name—Irquan—in a rite that apparently had to be done in the open, when the spirit of a name could be laid bare.

Vikas suffered the same as Graylin. She had finally relented and packed away her heavier gear, including her broadsword. Arryn offered her a desert shawl to wrap her body and face. In the end, it had required two to cover her large form.

On Graylin’s other side, Esme had switched ürsyns to ride with her brother, clearly wanting as little distance between them as possible. The pair talked and clung to one another, sometimes laughing, sometimes whispering in somber tones. Though they spoke Chanaryn, it was clear from Arryn’s mix of worry and disbelief that Esme had shared her story—along with their own.

This was also evident as Arryn glanced to the sickle of the moon, which sat on the horizon as if afraid of challenging the fiery countenance of the Father Above.

Behind their group, Kalder followed, doing his best to keep his paws along the path of the ürsyns, where their massive claws churned up cooler sand.

Still, the journey taxed the vargr’s stamina.

Even Crikit had stopped racing hither and yon and stuck next to Kalder, the two slowly finding common ground, one born of exhaustion.

As Graylin faced back around, a leather bladder of water got tossed to him from another rider. He caught it, took a long draw from it, and handed it to Irquan. The bladder, one of many, never stopped moving across the train of beasts and riders, passing in a continual ceremony. Esme had shared an explanation. This ritual of distributing the water, of having it continually moving among them, represented a communal bonding, an expression of a hardship shared and the responsibility each member had for his neighbor.

Graylin, however, was ready for this particular hardship to end. He searched for any evidence they were nearing a desert village. But as they traveled farther south, the dunes rose ever higher, blocking the view, climbing as high as castles. Sand blew in streams off those ridges, like grainy banners waving from towering parapets.

With this thought in his head, while cresting the shoulder of a dune, he spotted flags off in the distance. They sprouted from a collection of rolling hilltops. He rubbed his eyes, trying to erase the mirage. But those banners—a featureless red that blended with the sand—persisted.

Arryn called over and pointed toward them. “Tosgon beckons!”

Graylin shifted higher. He spotted nothing but those flags. No stone homes, no trails of smoke from hearths. He turned to Esme’s brother. “Do your people live beneath the sands?”

Arryn had shed enough of his headscarf to show a wide smile “Pass e vede,” he intoned.

Graylin groaned. He had learned that Chanaryn phrase while traveling. It was more of an expression than an answer, an adherence to a principle of desert patience.

Wait and see.

Arryn had offered that same response to many of Graylin’s earlier questions, even queries from Esme about her brother’s past. While Arryn was eager to hear their story, he seemed reluctant to share his own, or the story of these people and this strange place.

Graylin glanced to the north.

Or about the Dragon in their midst.

Apparently, all answers awaited them in Tosgon.

In the meantime, Graylin had his own dragon to attend. Arryn had warned that their large ship had to be hidden. While the sun’s glare off the black sea might mask the Fyredragon for a short time, it would eventually be spotted. Arryn had recommended that their ship travel to these dune fields—a land called Ghodlokh—where the Fyredragon could be moored within the towering hills, out of direct sight of that dire mountain.

Darant aimed to do just that. To the east, Graylin could discern a vague outline of the Fyredragon through the glare. Its dark shadow drifted low. Darant rarely engaged its forges, heeding Arryn’s advice in this regard, too.

By now, Nyx and Daal had returned to the ship, after ferrying messages back and forth, the two serving as the world’s largest skrycrows. Exhausted from these efforts, their mounts needed to rest and had earned a reprieve from the searing heat.

Graylin also knew that Fenn was keeping an eye on their small caravan through his farscope, tracking them from afar. At the same time, Krysh watched the mountain for any evidence that the Dragon had woken up.

So far, that smoking beast continued to sleep.

Still, one of the ferried messages from the ship continued to disturb him. The army guarding the Dragon seemed capable of flight. A few ta’wyn had been spotted whisking about the black flanks of the mountain, like bronze fireflits in the dark.

While Arryn had confirmed such a miracle, any further inquiry about the ta’wyn had been answered with the same glib response: Pass e vede.

A FTER A FINAL burning slog, the train of beasts and riders descended a steep valley. It lay between two massive dunes, which shadowed the sands. From the ridges’ crests, banners flapped. Dust and grains blew across the valley, shielding the sky with a haze.

Graylin peered below. Barely discernible in the depths of the shade was a tall arched entrance, pinched at the top, framed by rock, and supported by a porch of the same stone. Small slits pierced the dune’s flanks, sealed in thin sheets of black glass. They likely marked sentry posts.

Graylin understood this necessity. He returned his attention to the sky, searching for any bronze arrows scudding across the blue expanse.

As they descended into the valley, Graylin asked Arryn a question. “While your village looks well hidden, don’t those flags reveal your location?”

“To the t?wee ?” Arryn asked, using the Chanr? word for the ta’wyn, which clearly proved these desert dwellers had learned enough about their bronze neighbors to know that name.

“Yes,” Graylin said. “Don’t you fear them discovering you?”

“Ah, they already know we’re here. We bury ourselves from the sun, not the t?wee. ”

“I don’t understand. The crew of my ship saw people working with the ta’wyn. Are they not from Tosgon?”

Arryn looked grim, clearly reluctant to answer. Graylin expected the man’s usual response of Pass e vede, but Arryn finally spoke. “While those slaves are our people, they’re not necessarily from Tosgon. The Chanr? have a scatter of smaller villages, along with hunting camps. To sustain us, we often have to journey far from Tosgon, treks that can take many days. People are often caught out in the open and dragged to Khagarsan.”

“Khagarsan?”

Esme, seated behind her brother, answered, “It’s their name for the Dragon of Black Glass.”

Graylin nodded. “But if the ta’wyn know of your main village, why have they not attacked it? Destroyed this place?”

Arryn glanced over. “They have raided it, but only rarely. Only when they’re desperate for more slaves. Even then, they only take handfuls. As to destroying us, we pose no threat to them. And they need a regular supply of slaves to work for them.”

Graylin grimaced at this. The ta’wyn were using these people like breeding stock. If they wiped them out, then those bastards would lose their steady supply of laborers.

Still, this raised another question.

“Why have they raided Tosgon so infrequently? Why bother scouring the desert for stragglers? Couldn’t they simply come straight here?”

Arryn turned to the sky. “To venture this far south from Khagarsan poses a risk to them. So they keep away.”

“What risk?”

Arryn sighed as they reached the bottom of the valley, then lifted his palms. “Pass e vede.”

Graylin frowned but stayed quiet, too exhausted to argue.

Around them, riders rolled smoothly off their mounts. Graylin simply fell, finding his inner thighs had cramped up. He walked a few steps to loosen his legs. Vikas and Esme fared better, but they were decades younger than him.

Kalder crossed over, brushing Graylin’s leg in greeting. The vargr panted heavily, his tongue lolling far from the side of his muzzle. Still, he kept close watch on the new surroundings with his tufted ears held high.

Graylin waited as saddles and blankets were stripped from the ürsyns. The beasts showed little exhaustion, bouncing on their front legs, excited to be back. Once freed, they bounded away. Some scruffled into low dens. Others bumped merrily against one another. Most simply struck the sides of the dunes, rolled heavily, and buried themselves into the cooler sands, vanishing away.

Arryn waved Graylin toward the towering entrance. “We’ll watch for your ship. Let you know when it arrives. Until then, I imagine you and your friends would like a bath to wash away the trail.”

While Graylin had hundreds of questions, the thought of soaking his sore body drained them all away. Plus, he knew if he pressed Arryn that he’d get the same infernal answer: Pass e vede.

Vikas also looked spent. They all needed to regather themselves. Questions could wait for now.

Arryn led their group, even Kalder, across the threshold. They pushed through the drape of a heavy blanket, a tapestry embroidered with figures and images that likely spoke to the history of these people.

Once inside, a cavernous space opened, with a floor that sloped steeply downward. Graylin gaped around him. He had expected a low-roofed rabbit warren of a digging. Instead, the walls curved up in seamless, sinuous lines, without a sharp corner or angle anywhere. He also failed to spot any bricks or mortar. The graceful smoothness made the place look as if it had grown straight out of the sand.

Ahead, tunnels branched off in many directions, hinting at the breadth of the place. This was also suggested from the number of people hurrying about or talking in clusters, including scores of children. All wore loose robes rather than the shrouded wrappings. Many faces stared toward the strangers, but the villagers kept a respectful distance—though maybe that was due to the vargr padding alongside them.

As they crossed the entrance hall, Graylin noted other details: the many stone lanterns hanging from woven cords, the slight chill to the air, the faint whiff of a sweet spiciness. But what struck him the most was a soft rumble, almost soothing, as if the god who had sculpted this place snored deep below.

Vikas heard it, too, pointing to an ear and rolling her palm inquisitively. “ What is that noise? ”

Graylin posed that same question to Arryn, expecting to be rebuffed.

But Arryn answered. “It is the Flüst of Tosgon.”

“Its Whisper, ” Esme explained, which clarified nothing.

Arryn cast his arm wide, encompassing not just the village but also the surrounding lands. “The dunes of Ghodlokh are like the waves of a sea. They are pushed continually east by the winds, moving slowly but inexorably. Because of that, Tosgon must roll with them.”

“Your village moves ?” Graylin scoffed. “It’s carried with the sands? How?”

Arryn shrugged. “I cannot truly say, nor can anyone here. Answers lie far back in Chanr? history, where there are allusions to strange alchymies, of gifts granted to the first of these people.”

“From whom?”

Arryn took a deep breath, then let it out without answering.

Graylin knew what the man was trying not to say.

Pass e vede.

By now, they had reached one of the many tunnels. Another of the Chanr? rushed to Arryn’s side. It took a moment for Graylin to recognize Irquan, the rider who had carried him across the desert. The man had unwrapped his head, revealing a countenance weathered to black granite, etched by a scruff of silver beard.

The two spoke in low tones.

Arryn finally nodded and turned to Graylin. “Your ship has reached the edge of Ghodlokh. I must ready my people to lead them in.” He pointed to his companion. “Irquan will take you down to the baths. You’ll have your choice. From steaming pools to those that are welcomingly cool.”

“You have that much water?”

Arryn shrugged. “You saw Koos Nuur. That lake is but a small wellspring of a vast aquifer deep under these sands. Many centuries ago, according to Chanr? history, Tosgon lay in the shadow of the ?rgos forest, but the relentless roll of the dunes slowly drifted the village away. We may eventually be dumped out onto the Shil’nurr Plains, that great black sea.”

Esme cast Graylin a worried look.

Her brother noted it and understood. “Though if your fears prove true, about the moon, we may not live to see that happen. Until then, Tosgon continues to ride atop that aquifer, so fear not about a lack of water. Once your ship arrives, we can even refill your tanks. To attend to that, I must be off to ready everyone.”

Esme stopped her brother by grabbing his arm. “I’m coming with you.”

“Esme…”

She held her ground. “You refused me in the past, and it cost us four years.”

Arryn smiled. “I forgot how stubborn you can be.” He scooped her closer. “So, yes, come, but I must address another matter first.”

Graylin didn’t bother asking what that might be. He stared down the lantern-lit tunnel, drawn by the promise below.

A bath first, questions later.

Still, he knew he could not tolerate Pass e vede much longer. As he descended, he listened to the Flüst of Tosgon. To his ears, to his heart, that soft rumbling was no whisper.

But a warning.