A man stood on the other edge of the mud patch. His yellowed beard spilled down his chest, and he wore the white robe of a village elder. Behind him stood a pair of younger men. They were stunted from a poor diet, but their eyes were hard, and they gripped curved swords. Next to the man was a woman who wore the red serafiof a seeress. In youth she had been beautiful, but the dry air had parched her cheeks, cracking them like the soil of the oasis. She gazed forward with milky eyes.

“The cards spoke truly, Sai’el Yarish,” the woman said in a hissing voice. “Evil flies into Hadassa on dark wings.”

“I cannot fly,” the dervish said.

“Then you must walk from this place,” the bearded man said. “And you must not come back.”

“I come only in search of water.”

One of the young men brandished his sword. “We have no water to spare for the likes of you.”

“It is so,” the old man said. “A change has come over the land. All that is good dwindles and fades. One by one, the springs of the desert have gone dry. Now ours is failing as well. You will not find what you seek here.”

The dervish laughed, and the queer sound of it made the others take a step back. “You are wrong. There is yet water to be found in this place.” From the folds of his serafi, he drew out a curved knife. It flashed in the sun.

“Do not let him draw blood!” the blind woman shrieked.

The young men started forward, but the mud sucked at their sandals, slowing them. The dervish held out his left arm. The knife flicked, quick as a serpent. Red blood welled from a gash just above his wrist.

“Drink,” he whispered, shutting his eyes, sending out the call. “Drink, and do my bidding.”

He felt them come a moment later; distance meant nothing to them. They buzzed through the village like a swarm of hornets, accompanied by a sound just beyond hearing. The men looked around with fearful eyes, and the blind woman swatted at the air. The dervish lowered his arm, letting blood drip from his wound.

The fluid vanished before it struck the ground, as if the hot air gobbled it.

“Water,” the dervish murmured. “Bring me water.”

A moment ago they had been furious in their desire. Now they were sated by blood, their will easy to bend. He sensed them plunge downward, deep into the ground. Soil, rock—these were as air to them. He felt it seconds later: a tremor beneath his boots. There was a gurgling noise, then a jet of water shot up from the center of the mud patch. The fountain glittered, spinning off drops as clear and precious as diamonds.

The village elder gaped while the young men dashed forward, letting the water spill into their hands, drinking greedily.

“It is cool and sweet,” one of them said, laughing.

“It is a trick!” the blind woman cried. “You must not drink, lest it bring you under his spell.”

The young men ignored her. They continued to drink, and the man in the white robe joined them. Others appeared, stealing from the huts, the fear on their sun-darkened faces giving way to wonder.

The seeress stamped her feet. “It is a deception, I tell you! If you drink, he will poison us all!”

The village folk pushed past her, and she fell into the mud, her robe tangling around her so that she could not get up. The people held out their hands toward the splashing water.

The dervish bound his wound with a rag, staunching the flow of blood, lest the bodiless ones come to partake of more. Morndari, the spirits were called. Those Who Thirst. They had no form, no substance, but their craving for blood was unquenchable. Once, he had come upon a young sorcerer who had thought too highly of his own power, and who had called many of the morndarito him. His body had been no more than a dry husk, a look of horror on his mummified face.

Water pooled at the dervish’s feet. He bent to drink, but he was weak from hunger and thirst, and from loss of blood. The sky reeled above him, and he fell. Strong hands caught him.

“Take him into my hut,” said a voice he recognized as the village elder’s.

Were they going to murder him? He should call the morndariagain, only he could not reach his knife, and he was too weak. The spirits would drain his body of blood, just like the young sorcerer he had once found.

The hands bore him to a dim, cool space, protected from the sun by thick mud walls. He was laid upon cushions, and a wooden cup was pressed to his lips. Water spilled into his mouth, clean and wholesome. He coughed, then drank deeply, draining the cup. Leaning back, he opened his eyes and saw the bearded man above him.

“One such as yourself came here not long ago,” the old man said. “We feared him, but he worked no spells. He babbled that his power was all dried up like the springs, that magic was dead.”

“Did you kill him?” the dervish said.

The other shook his head. “He was mad. He ran into the desert without a flask of water. The ground shook when you worked your spells. We have felt many such tremors of late. Some have been strong enough to knock down all of the huts in a village. Do the spirits cause the trembling?”

The dervish licked blistered lips. “No—perhaps. I don’t know.”

The morndariwere attracted by the tremors, that he did know. That was how he had followed them. How he had found it.

The old man set down the cup. “All the tales I know tell that a dervish brings only evil and suffering. Yet you renewed our spring. You have saved us all.”

The dervish laughed, a chilling sound. “Would that what you say were so. But I fear your seeress was right. Evil does come, on dark wings. To Hadassa, and to all of Moringarth.”

The other made a warding sign with his hand. “Gods help us. What must we do?”

“You must send word that I am here. You must send a message to the Mournish. Do you know where they can be found?”

The old man stroked his beard. “I know some who know. But surely you cannot mean what you say. Your kind is abomination to them. If they find you, your life is forfeit. The working of blood sorcery is forbidden.”

“No it isn’t,” the dervish said. He looked down at his hands, marked by fine white scars and lines tattooed in red. “Not anymore.”

2.

It was the quiet that woke Sareth.

Over the last three years he had grown used to the sound of Lirith’s heartbeat and the rhythm of her breathing. Together they made a music that lulled him to sleep each night and bestowed blissful dreams. Then, six months ago, another heart—tiny and swift—had added its own cadence to that song. Only now all was silent.

Sareth sat up. Gray light crept through a moon-shaped window, into the cramped interior of the wagon. She had not been able to make the wagon any larger, but by her touch it had become cozier. Bunches of dried herbs hung in the corners, giving off a sweet, dusty scent. Beaded curtains dangled before the windows, and cushions embroidered with leaves and flowers covered the benches against either wall. The tops of the benches could be lifted to reveal bins beneath, or lowered—along with a table—to turn the wagon into a place where eight could sit and dine or play An’hot. Now the table was folded up against the wall, making room for the pallet they unrolled each night.

The pallet was empty, save for himself. He pulled on a pair of loose-fitting trousers, then opened the door of the wagon. Moist air, fragrant with the scent of night-blooming flowers, rushed in, cool against his naked chest. He breathed, clearing the fog of sleep from his mind, then climbed down the wagon’s wooden steps. The grass was damp with dew beneath his bare feet—his two bare feet.

Though it had been three years, he marveled daily at the magic that had restored the leg he had lost to the demon beneath Tarras. He would never really understand how Lady Aryn’s spell had healed him, but it didn’t matter. Since he met Lirith, he had grown accustomed to wonders.