Wide Horizons: White Stone, #2

By M. B. Robbins

She may have escaped, but she isn't yet free.

 

It's been nearly a week since Anami Kalima escaped her own ritual murder, but now, wounded and captured by a band of desert nomads, she's not sure her situation has much improved.
But the Hyte are more than they first seemed, especially their healer, who discovers that Kalima has a useful affinity for magic, and the band leader's sister, who is awakening in Kalima feelings she's never felt before. The world beyond the river is far more wonderful and dangerous than she'd ever imagined -- and she doesn't know if she has the courage to face it.

 

Wide Horizon is the second book in M. B. Robbins' White Stone series. If you love strong characters, exciting adventure, and complex relationships, pick up your copy today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chestnut Bay Books
• Release date: Feb 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386757528

M. B. Robbins

It was her second grade teacher who first put the word "writer" in front of her name, and since then, M. B. Robbins has been working to make that label true. By day, she chases dogs and cleans kennels in rural Pennsylvania; by night, she likes to tell the stories of the voices in her head. She lives in DuBois, PA, with her cats, who are all named after tropical fruits. You can find her online at www.mbrobbins.com, like her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/mbrobbinsbooks, or Tweet her at @emmbeerobbins.

Book preview

A Sacrifice

Sari saw more than she should. Where some people could touch another and sense their feelings, she saw things as they were. It was useful for sorting through her children’s argument, the who-said-what and who-hit-who that came with being a mami, but more often it showed her things she shouldn’t know.

She’d been standing with Henna in the town square since dawn, watching the suns move across the sky and listening to the party rage around her. Yupper players began shortly after sunrise; the drinking started an hour after that. Both she and Henna had several drinks of the town’s sour beer, and by the time the suns had crested over the top of the white stone palace, Sari was feeling the soft unsteadiness of the alcohol in her legs. She took Henna’s hand and held on, more for balance than comfort, but Henna was swaying even harder than Sari was.

That’s enough. Sari put her free hand over the top of the mug Henna was lifting again to her lips. Getting drunk won’t keep it from happening.

Henna pulled her mug out from beneath Sari’s hand. But passing out will stop me knowing about it. Her voice swayed almost as much as her body. She emptied the contents of the mug into her mouth, wincing a little at the taste, and turned back to the nearest keg.

Henna—

I wouldn’t stop you if it was Morakee on that altar, she snapped back.

Sari had no answer. She went back to watching the nearby yupper player. He’d collected a small crowd, and two of the girls in that crowd spun each other around and around until they were breathless and staggering.

Eventually, the suns slipped from the northern side of the sky to the southern, and the high priest came out of the temple. He was dazzling in his formal green robe and strings of glass beads, and his presence silenced the crowd. Henna made a small noise in her throat and clenched Sari’s arm in both hands.

Brethren, the high priest began in his thunderclap voice. He held up his hands, already scrubbed clean of blood. The sacrifice is complete. Today we celebrate the mercy of our great god E’ris!

The crowd roared. Henna made another noise, a muffled squeak like a dying mouse.

Sari grabbed her around the waist before she fell. It’s all right, Henna, she murmured to her friend. It’s all right. Keep breathing.

Henna sucked in a few shaky, too-shallow breaths but continued to sway against Sari’s grip. Sari hugged her tight. It wouldn’t help, but at least she could keep Henna from dropping to the ground and being trampled by the townies eager for another drink.

The high priest scanned the crowd, a small smile on his lips. Then, for a single instant, his gaze connected with Sari’s, and something shifted in her vision. She felt it coming, that knowledge she wished she didn’t have, and she tried to look away, but it was too late. She’d already seen it, that flicker, that shape of truth.

The high priest was lying.

He continued to look over the crowd without a pause—the instant had been unintentional and random. But it didn’t matter; Sari had already seen the lie just as clearly as if he’d admitted it in words.

Henna pulled back. Her eyes were puffy with tears and drink, but her forehead creased into a knowing frown. What?

Sari couldn’t meet her friend’s eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d dared to look Henna in the face, the last time that sandy-haired, white-robed man, that papi-less, blue-eyed girl, hadn’t gotten in the way.

Sari always saw more than she should.

Nothing, she mumbled. C’mon, let’s get home before we drink ourselves sick.

Chapter 1

It’s the voices that wake me. At first, they’re nothing but a jumble of sound, quick and indistinct and increasingly insistent, and it’s not until they’re right on top of me that I’m able to pick out words.

Is she dead?

I dunno.

Well, go touch her and see.

I’m not gonna touch her! What if she’s dead?

Your belly’s yellower than pickled liver.

Is not.

Is so.

Look, she moved.

So go touch her.

Don’t push me!

I’ll push you if I want.

A pause. Something rustles by my head—sand or cloth, or maybe both. Then one of the voices starts up again, slower. Lady? Hey, lady? Are you dead?

Am I? It’s hard to tell. I can’t move or open my eyes. And there’s so much pain. It’s all over: in my head, my skin, my right ankle.

I must not be dead, then, not if I can still feel pain. I try to say something to the voice, tell it that I am still alive, but all that comes out is a moan. The noise scrapes my throat like fingernails.

The voice again, half-shouting, stabs at my ears. Hey, Axl, she’s not dead!

So?

So don’t just stand there, camolhead, go get help!

But—

Go!

Another pause. I try to wiggle my fingers. One twitches and then goes limp.

Lady? Hey, lady? A hand touches my shoulder, shakes me gently. You’re gonna be okay. Axl’s not so useless that he can’t get help.

I crack open one eyelid, but I can’t see much—my vision is blurry like the sand has scratched my eyeballs, and everything is smudged and reddish. The shadowy patch crouched by my head I guess is the other person—a child, I think by the size of the shadow, but I can’t tell if it’s a boy or a girl or if it’s a person at all and not one of the wandering spirits that inhabit the high desert. A dry breeze swirls across my face.

I shiver. The breeze is hot, but my skin is raw from the suns and sand, and the air feels like ice. My lid slides shut, and everything turns again to blackness.

I DREAM OF WATER. DEEP river water being torn to foamy shreds on the sharp points of rocks. A pond, clear and calm, with goldjays singing from the surrounding weeds. Cool drops on my cracked lips, sliding down my sandy throat—

My eyes snap open, all the way this time. It’s not quite dark, the last bit of sunlight lingering as a band of non-color over the horizon, and the last dream isn’t a dream but a sensation.

Water! I want to grab it and shove it into my mouth with both hands, stand under it like standing under a waterfall, let it wash away all the grittiness inside of me and out. Instead, I gulp too hard at the water in my mouth and cough.

Hey, easy, it’s okay, someone says—I assume the someone giving me the water, because as the words are said, the dribble of water stops. I open my mouth to ask for more, but only grunt instead, and the water comes again, in tiny single sips.

I swallow, more carefully this time, and when the water goes away again, I find that my swollen tongue has shrunk enough that I can form words. Thank you. My voice rasps, barely a whisper.

You’re lucky. Another few hours, and you’d’ve been nothing more than a picked-over pile of bones.

I try to get my arms underneath me and prop myself upright, but she puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me. Don’t move. I sent Axl and Taz back to camp for more help.

Strange, clipped-short names spoken in a harsh, throaty accent. How far have I come?

Here. She holds the water skin to my lips again. The water is stale and leathery like it’s been sitting in that skin for too long.

I drain the skin greedily, and, as my thirst cools, I’m able to see the girl beside me; she’s stuck a candle into the sand an arm’s-length away, and it casts a thin ring of light around us in the quickly-darkening night. She’s swathed in fabric from head to toe, a piece of cloth covering her face so that only her eyes are visible. There’s a strap of leather across her chest and around her waist, and from behind her glints the hilt of a sword. A knife sits on her hip, tucked without a sheath into the leather belt. I can’t tell if her eyes are friendly.

With more useful consciousness also comes all the other pain in my body. My head throbs in time with my heart, and my skin is dry and hot to the touch. A fiercer pain runs up my leg from my right ankle. That was what finally stopped me, I remember. I fell, and something cracked, and I couldn’t get up again.

A new voice, shouting, interrupts the quiet. Serq?

The girl turns to the sound, her eyes going to the nearest sand dune twenty or so steps to the right. Over here! she shouts back.

Several figures come over the top of the dune. One of them breaks into a jog, skidding over the loose sand, and beats the other two to the girl and me. Serq, are you all right? This voice belongs to a man, older than the girl, but not elderly—it’s deep, but not cracked the way old men’s voices get. His head and body are also wrapped up so I can’t see his face, either.

I’m fine, the girl says, a note of irritation in her voice.

Some of the children were talking about a dead girl in the desert, and— Oh. The man notices me for the first time and squares his shoulders.

I prop myself up on my elbows and try to smile. I’m not dead. My voice is still rough from dryness and disuse.

The man, like the girl, is wearing a knife at his hip. His hand goes toward it, his fingers just brushing the hilt. I can see that. The two others come up beside him, their eyes peering over the cloth covering their faces.

The girl gets to her feet. We have to take her back to camp.

The man grabs her by the elbow and pulls her back a step. You need to get back to camp. What were you thinking, coming out here alone?

The girl yanks her arm out of his grip. There’s something automatic about their movements, like this is the sort of thing they do all the time. I’m fine. She’s not.

The man turns his attention back to me. I do my best to look nonthreatening—although I can’t imagine how four armed desert nomads could be threatened by me. Can you stand? he asks after a moment.

I push myself up to sitting. The world swoops around me, threatening to send me back into unconsciousness; I lean my head into my hands, breathe in and out three times, and clench my teeth hard against the sloshing in my stomach. After a few moments, the feeling fades, and I look back up at the people around me. I don’t think so.

You’re hurt, the man says.

My ankle. I try to move my foot, and the pain rushes up my leg again. I think it’s broken. Tears threaten; I swallow them back. I can’t waste water on tears.

We have to take her back to camp, the girl says again, more forcefully.

It would seem so, the man agrees, though the reluctance in his voice is beyond obvious. Go back to camp, and tell Ket to be ready for her.

His two companions nod silently and go back the way they came, over the top of the nearest dune.

The man turns back to me. His eyes sweep over me from head to toe, then, before I’m quite aware of what he’s doing, he slides one arm behind my back and the other under my knees and picks me up. It’s just over this dune, he