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large, so deep and so wide, that it beckoned him.
    His feet shifted. He heard the skitter of stones as they fell over the edge and slipped down along the face of the cliff, but he didn’t care. Stones might fall, but he would not.
    The scuff of leather against stone came to him. The crunch of footsteps on gravel.
    Nikandr opened his eyes.
    Looked down.
    Saw the height from which he now stood, and wondered what it would be like to crash against the stones below.
    The footsteps came closer.
    He licked his lips. They were dry. So dry. How long had he been up here?
    He looked to the western horizon. The sun was lowering. Already it was approaching the distant line of dark mountains.
    He’d been here for hours, he realized. Hours. How could time have passed so quickly?
    “Nikandr?”
    He stepped back. One step, then two. And then he turned around.
    Ashan stood some ten paces away, alternating glances between Nikandr and the edge of the cliff a long stride behind him. “You’ve been gone a long time.”
    “So has Soroush.”
    “So he has.” Ashan studied Nikandr’s face. He sidestepped along the rocky ground toward the edge, always keeping himself square to Nikandr. Only when he’d reached the edge did he look down at the outpost, Andakhara.
    Ashan looked old. He looked old and weary. Much had been taken from him on the island of Ghayavand. He still managed to smile—he hadn’t lost that—but it seemed to tax him, whereas before it had always been effortless, a spring of good will flowing up from inside him.
    “Come,” Ashan said, putting his arm around Nikandr’s shoulders. “Soroush and Ushai will return in the morning.”
    Nikandr allowed himself to be led away from the edge and toward the trail. He hoped Ashan was right. The Gaji was a dangerous place. And not only because those who failed to give her respect died.

CHAPTER TWO

    Atiana left her tent when she heard footsteps approaching. She wore a shayla, a dress cut in the style of the desert tribes, patterned red and white with tiny silver bells at the hem that jingled as she walked. She wore a veil across her face with a delicate chain hanging down from the ivory outer cloak she wore to keep the sun away. It protected her from the ever-present sand and dust, but more importantly, it did much to hide her origins here in the desert.
    She looked toward the trail leading down from the steep ridge above their campsite and saw Ashan and Nikandr walking together. She busied herself at the fire, forming the dough she’d made hours earlier into a circle and setting it onto the stone that had been sitting above the coals to gather heat. She sprinkled the dough with cumin and cardamom and flax, the scent of it filling the dry, desert air as the flatbread cooked. Next to the bread she placed lengths of eggplant. She waited while they cooked, keeping her gaze from Nikandr but seeing him approach from the corner of her eye.
    Ashan squatted next to the fire. He rested on his heels and rocked slowly back and forth. It was a position Atiana had never gotten the hang of, but for him seemed every bit as comfortable as lying down.
    Without looking at her, without giving any word as to why he’d been gone for so long, Nikandr retreated to the tent he shared with Atiana.
    Ashan rested his chin on his knees and stared at the flatbread. “He’s only worried about Soroush.”
    What a strange thing to hear. Years ago, Nikandr might have hung Soroush before speaking to him. Now there was still a certain distance that separated them, but one would be a fool not to think of them as friends. It was telling as well that Ashan had referred only to Soroush and not Ushai. Nikandr would not have wished her to come with them to the desert. Neither would Atiana. Ushai had been Maharraht. Atiana supposed she was still, but like Soroush, she had set aside her hatred of the Grand Duchy while they searched for Kaleh and Nasim in this vast desert. Despite their misgivings, Soroush had fought