Sand and Blood

Chapter 24: Alone in the Dark

The clans of day and the clans of night will only talk over naked blades.

—Chidomifu Kapōra

Rutejìmo sat alone in the dark.

Only an hour ago, the sun had dipped below the horizon, but it felt like years. He stared at the alchemical flame in the center of the ruined campsite. The normally pale light was painfully bright in the inky darkness of the desert.

Remembering how Tsubàyo stepped out of the night, Rutejìmo had spread out the glow eggs in a large circle. Each one was a tiny pool of flickering blue light, a weak illumination but he hoped enough to give him a second's warning if Tsubàyo came for him.

He couldn't sleep. He didn't realize how much he depended on having the other two near him. Knowing that Chimípu watched over him had given him peace of mind, or at least quelled the fears enough for him to sleep. Alone once again, he didn't dare crawl into either of the remaining tents for fear that he would never wake up. He kept seeing Karawàbi's corpse.

Sighing, he dug into the meat pouch and snapped off a wing. Fitting it on a stick, he set it over the fire and waited for it to warm up. The alchemical mixture inside the pouch had cooked the meat and killed any parasites, but gnawing on cold meat didn't appeal to his clenching stomach. Soon, the meat was warm enough to eat, and he plucked it from the stick.

He glanced up at the night sky, wondering if he should try to name the stars again. To the east, he could see the faintest sliver of the moon. He shivered in fear. Just as Tachìra was the sun, Chobìre was the spirit of the moon.

Legends said that the two spirits used to be best friends, but then they both fell in love with Mifúno, the desert spirit and mother of the world. It quickly became a violent rivalry, and the two clans, clans of day and clans of night, were drawn into the conflict. He shuddered, remembering the horror stories his grandmother had told him about Chobìre and the clans who gained power from the dark spirit.

Tearing his thoughts away, he chewed on his dinner. The meat was heavily spiced, and the travel pouch gave it a metallic taste. He had to force it down his dry throat.

"Sands," he muttered, "I never thought I'd be wishing for salted meat." He chuckled again. "I'm pathetic."

His brother's stories about the horrid alchemical meals hit him, and he laughed. Now he could understand the longing Desòchu had when he relished the meals cooking in the valley. He missed the variety of flavors and the taste of woodsmoke in the food.

The alchemical flame sizzled as grease dripped into it. The smell of roasted meat drifted across his senses, and he breathed in the smoke. He smiled and leaned back, enjoying the memories.

And then Rutejìmo realized the smoke came from burning wood.

"You aren't going to pee again, are you?" asked Mikáryo in a soft voice.

Rutejìmo lowered his head to look over the flames. She was on the far side of the fire, and he shook at the sight of her.

She smirked as she reached over and picked up her tazágu from where it was braced between her foot and a rock. The pointed weapon had a hunk of dripping meat jammed on the top of it. Juices ran down the short spike and gathered at a circular guard above the grip. The liquid dripped from a small hook on the edge of the guard and hit the ground with faint splats.

"P-Please don't kill me."

Mikáryo looked up with a humorless smile. "Shimusogo Rute... jìbo, right?" He could barely see the white of her eyes. Her pupils were unnaturally large.