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Ilati was barely sensible when hands pulled her free of the river’s embrace. “I think this one is alive!” The man’s voice was heavy with a strange accent, neither Kullan nor of the beasts to the north. 

She coughed and choked, spitting up water until she was almost vomiting. River weeds curled around her body like hungry snakes. She knew she was unrecognizable, swollen face dark with bruises and her temple robe stained with blood. It was for the best. If the enemy learned who she was, they would visit even fouler evils on her. The wrath of the conquering host was a nightmare breathed to life by gods darker than a starless night. 

Arms slipped beneath her, lifting her dripping form with ease. Ilati’s vision slowly cleared, allowing her to see her rescuer. 

Mahogany eyes looked down at her with concern. The man had skin like ebony, his face pocked with small scars at regular intervals, forming wave-like patterns across his cheekbones and forehead. 

“How fortunate for her. Now let us be gone from here. The Nadaren are still near and that is bad for people as small as us,” another man said. His voice was thin from age, but had no tremor of weakness. His was an accent she recognized, that of Sarru. She had heard it many times from traders and scribes who came from the western kingdom to sit at the birthplace of civilization.

The priestess made no move to resist. She had no strength to, even if she wanted to. These men could be just as dangerous, but her muscles had been pushed until the point of failure just by her escape. When she turned her head, she could see the old man who had spoken. He was a weathered soul, face wrinkled from many years of life. His gray hair was short and thin almost to the point of baldness. One eye was a piercing gold, the other a hollow socket. Currently, his lips were pinched into a frown, but the expression seemed more thoughtful than furious. 

She tried to wet her lips a few times with her tongue, to will together a shredded throat. “Who…” A croak, but it was better than nothing. 

The old man glanced over, startled by the sudden speech. “True greetings when we are all safe.” 

Ilati had no argument. 

An olive tree nearby shaded their belongings, a small cart pulled by a single mule. Bolts of cloth lay in the back, carefully packed around traveling supplies. 

The dark-skinned man set her down as gently as she could, holding her against his chest so she wouldn’t fall over. “If we cross the paths of their scouts, they will know her by the blood.” 

“True enough,” the old man agreed. He reached into the bundle of supplies for a sleeveless tunic of soft wool that would fall a few inches past her knees. “Let her stand upon her own two feet, Menes. I think there is still strength in her.” 

The priestess  leaned heavily against the man called Menes when he set her down. She shed her robe and used the wet cloth to wipe away the blood where it clotted against her skin. Bruises in great dark blotches marred her flesh, so many that it was hard to find an inch of sienna skin untouched. The dark-skinned man averted his eyes while the old man helped her pull the tunic on. Her flexibility was limited by the swelling around one shoulder.

“What of the bruises?” Menes asked. 

“She will veil her face, as a woman of Magan would.” The old man sorted through the cloth in the cart until he found something that would serve their purposes. Ilati had heard of Magan, to the west and across the Parasu. “Should we encounter them, should they ask, we will say that she is your wife.” 

Menes nodded. His appearance made sense now. The men of Magan were dark as coals and said to be shy around women, even their own. Why else would their women wear veils? Why else would they not enjoy the embraces of the priestesses of Zu? Granted, the men of Magan were a rare sight so far east and Ilati had never met one to be refused by him. They were not sailors as fearless as the red-bearded Hatti or travelers so wide-ranging as the fortune-tellers of Sebet.

Ilati’s legs quaked, aching and burning for respite. Menes lifted her carefully again, cradling her against his chest as if she was feather-light. Perhaps she seemed so to him, slight in build and not tall. He was built like a bull, with powerful shoulders and arms. His hands were rough, but the warmth of the sun emanated from his skin, warding away the cold of the grave that sought to cling to her limbs. 

Her head lolled against his shoulder. “Thank you,” the priestess murmured. She barely felt his footsteps as shocks through her exhausted, beaten body. 

“You are most welcome,” Menes said quietly, trudging along beside the cart. It was just large enough to hold the fabrics and supplies, though it could perhaps conceal Ilati if needed. “Eigou and I will keep you safe.” 

The old man led the way with one hand on the mule’s lead, humming softly to himself. Ilati watched him from beneath heavy eyelids. He moved with great care and great cunning, taking them across the hardest packed earth he could find so they would be more difficult to track, always keeping his eye on the horizon. The River Esharra carved a deep valley down from the mountains on its way to the sea, a lush green and gold when compared to the barren rocks of the peaks and the dry dust of the deserts. 

Shadi now stood as nothing more than a blackened scar on the valley floor. 

Eigou led them not towards the sea, where the Nadaren had likely gone, but towards the Desert of Kings. It was an ocean of sand so massive that none knew what might lie on the other side, or even at its heart, broken only by outcroppings of rock slowly obliterated by the wind-blown grit. It demanded awe and dread in the hearts of those who even looked upon it, for it had been the ruin of every soul attempting to cross it. 

After a while, Menes set Ilati down and helped her to walk. It slowed their progress, but eased the strain on him. Focus slowly returned to Ilati. Now she could study her rescuers. Eigou walked with a straight back and a lifted chin, like a king, but it was Menes who had the prowl of a warrior. The dark-skinned man wore a curved sword of bronze. The blade was as long as Ilati’s hand and forearm from fingertips to elbow and the scars of use on the hilt added to its menace.

As they walked, Eigou motioned to a goatskin full of liquid attached to the side of the cart. “Take that and drink. We have a ways to go.” 

Ilati nodded and unslung the container, lifting it then to her lips. It was beer, the staff of life, and soothed the ache in her throat. The dry heat of summer lost its grip on her tongue, but she had no urge to speak. It was enough to feel vitality slowly trickle back in.

The sun died on the horizon like an ember, consumed by the indigo of the night sky and the bright silver moon. Ilati’s rescuers kept her moving until they were hidden safely in a rock formation that blocked view from the north and east. A trickle of stream was all that remained of the Great Flood that carved the stones. The water quickly drew the mule’s attention. 

Eigou mumbled something under his breath and snapped his fingers. A flame flashed into existence, burning in the air above his thumb. He set it down safely into a small pit that would conceal the light from sight of anyone looking from a distance and then swept dust towards it. The flame grew to become the size of a torch, though it consumed none of the dust. 

Ilati looked from the fire to Eigou. “You are a sorcerer?” 

“Some call me that, though I have little power beyond the glimpses I am given by the gods. A soothsayer more than a sorcerer. Now, for proper greetings: I am Eigou of Ulmanna. Your stalwart guardian is Menes, the finest charioteer of Magan.”

“And yet you are not in Ulmanna, nor you in Magan,” Ilati said softly. “What brings you so far from home?” 

“We have our reasons.” Eigou studied her face in the firelight, every now and then casting earth onto the bare stones when the fire flickered down. Something about his stare gave Ilati the sense that he looked at her with two eyes: the living one remaining in his head and the ghost of the other. “I am more interested in you, priestess. It is not every day that the sacred river delivers me young women. Or perhaps it was the gods?” 

“The river does as it pleases,” Ilati said quietly. “The gods abandoned Shadi and all its priestesses.”

The sorcerer rubbed along his jaw. “True enough, it seems.” He leaned back and stretched. His spine came back into alignment with a few pops.

Menes rolled out two bedrolls, then set about pulling out their provisions. He stacked stones close around the flame and then set a clay pot upon them, directly above the flame. Apparently the warrior was also something of a cook, as he added chunks of dried meat and grain to the water with a domestic comfort. He used a small bronze work knife to cut a few tubers and added them to the pot as well. 

“What is your name, priestess?” Eigou asked. 

She took off the veil she had worn as they walked, wiping around oozing bruises with careful fingers. “Ilati.” 

Eigou grinned suddenly. “The granddaughter of Ilishu the Conqueror? Woe to the men of Nadar, for they have let a lioness slip between their spears.” 

Menes looked up from his cooking, brow furrowing thoughtfully. “She looks like a woman, not a lion. Are you certain that she is the granddaughter of such a warrior?” 

“I am certain, Menes. When you reach my age, perhaps you will have a fifth of my wisdom.” Eigou reached out, touching Ilati’s chin. He turned her head to the left and studied her face in profile. Again, he seemed to be looking at her with his empty socket just as much as his good eye. “I see much of him in your face, priestess. I hope there is much of him in your heart.” 

A bone-deep stab of pain shot through Ilati’s chest. “My father thought so.” 

The warrior considered that before speaking. “He should have given you a spear, then. Gods are only good so far as they can reach, but a weapon is always useful.”

Eigou chuckled. “Spoken like a warrior. What good would your weapons do against Nysra himself, the king of Nadar? You know as well as I that his skin can turn all blades, even gods-blessed bronze, that he may breathe fire if he so wishes and conjure forth lightning.” 

Menes shrugged. “Perhaps throwing him off something?” He stirred the stew slowly over the heat. “You should tend to her wounds rather than chatter like a widow in the market, Eigou.” 

The old man pulled out a bundle of herbs and a few clean linen rags. “They must not have known who you were,” Eigou said as he tended her wounds, checking over her battered body before starting on her face. It was all deep bruising or shallow lacerations and scrapes. “You are fortunate to have escaped.” 

“They had their fill,” Ilati said bitterly. “I do not think they cared after that.” 

Eigou knelt down at her side and turned her face so the light shone on the worst of the bruises. “So what do you intend to do, priestess?” 

“Where is my temple? I am a priestess no longer.” She didn’t grimace as he worked, well aware it would hurt more. 

“Her name could be dangerous to use, if you know her so well by it.” Menes’s voice was soft and cautious. 

“You will find me far more knowledgeable of Kullah’s royalty than any hound of Nadar.” Eigou sighed slightly. “Still, you are not wrong. Around others, Ilati, you must wear another name. You are Hedu, a local woman married to Menes, at least until we are far from here. Now answer my question. What will you do?” 

“I am a droplet against a dam. I have nothing.” She shuddered slightly as she gave her next thought voice. “Will they hunt me?” 

“If there is one thing certain about the Nadaren, it is that their cruelty is only matched by their arrogance.” Menes unbelted his sword so he could take a proper seat by the fire instead of kneeling. “They will be certain that a little woman like you would die, both from wounds and the lack of food, or perhaps from the claws and fangs of beasts coming to feast on the carrion.” He studied Ilati for a long moment. “You could come with us. We were heading back to Sarru.” 

Ilati shook her head slightly. “They will attack Sarru now that Kullah is theirs. That is no salvation.” 

“In time, yes,” Eigou said as he added salve to her wounds. “Nysra is no fool. He will seek tribute from Sarru first. Perhaps he will even gain it. News of Shadi’s fate will spread like a horde of locusts, and that may bend the south to Nadaren power. Still, the world is a vast place, Ilati. There are many lands you could travel to where Nysra has no reach or influence.” 

Resolve slowly crystallized in her heart. “That is not what I wish. No one should have to suffer at the hands of Nadar as I have suffered.”

“Brave words.” Eigou covered each wound with a bandage of cloth soaked in something that smelled like cedar. It had to be sorcery, because it felt as cold as the depths of the River Esharra. “You will need that courage for what comes next.” 

“What is that?” Menes asked, frowning deeply. 

Eigou’s eye flashed gold in the firelight. “We go into the desert. For what is coming, we will need power, and I know where to find that.”