Sun. Heat. Sweat. Sand. There wasn’t anything else in the world. Dust curled around her feet and climbed into every fold of Cybil’s clothing and body. The canyons had shade. She hated the canyons, the rocks tore at her legs. They were much harder on hooves; the horse didn’t make it through the canyons.
She could see the blisters forming on her nose. She missed the canyons.
A dark shimmer on the horizon. A smudge against the bright sky, squat and quivering with heat.
Zotheca.
Every ounce of gear in her pack, taken from the dead horse’s back and onto her own, pushed her feet farther into the sand. Her mind was failing and the muscles were following. It felt like the sand had made its way inside her joints. She was aware of every one of the little bones in her feet. They creaked under the weight.
She had wrapped her white scarf into a makeshift hood. Dark glasses kept the dust out of her eyes, mostly. Clambering up a dune her boots sank well under the surface. The descent was a battle to avoid toppling ass-over-elbows. The muscles in her back were cramped, hard as steel. Her hands white, gripping the bag’s straps. The saddlebag’s leather cut into her shoulders. She missed that horse.
Stoic contemplation of solitude had gotten old a few weeks ago. She had gone very much out of the way to avoid running into anyone. It was nice for the first few days. Then she started talking to the horse. The question of whether anyone in Zotheca had ever seen a horse came up. The horse was not sure.
This was not a dune.
At the crest it fell off, shear drop. Smooth black glass.
Crater.
She thought about sitting down and crying. There was not even enough indignation left in her to muster a sigh. She turned to the right and continued trudging. Sand rolled down the cliff face, each grain danced and spun, a tiny acrobat performing its greatest show before it would rest forever at the bottom of the mile-deep bowl.
That dark shimmer was a lot larger than the last time she topped a dune.
It was moving. Zotheca was coming to her.
She sat down.
And cried.
A day had passed.
“You’re the Seech?” Cybil’s lips were cracked and bleeding. Her voice was a rasp. Fever from the sunburn had set in. She was shaking.
“That is… not how it is pronounced. But, yes.”
“Then this is for you.”
The saddlebag hit the table. A thing that looked like a human head rolled out. It was made of blue-black metal.
The man jumped back from his seat. A clamor erupted from his advisers and guards that lined the interior of the large tent.
“A functional Starshade.” Cybil leaned forward, palms on the table, eye level with the Seech.
“Welcome to the final age of Man.”
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