Ren Vale lowered the leather horn of warm stone salt water from his lips, wiped his mouth with the frayed cuff of his lambskin sleeve. Then he turned his back on the singing sapphire pools of the First Well.
Beside him, Mira stood at the edge of the calcinated dark rock terrace. Her linen shawl was drawn back over her left shoulder. That left her right arm and collarbone exposed to the dry desert wind. The afternoon sun struck the facets of her smoky quartz forearm. It caught deep, swirling ribbons of lavender and charcoal light within the stone. Her fingers were relaxed, resting gently on the wooden clasp of her satchel. The terrifying, jagged crack that had threatened to split her breastbone two nights ago was gone, replaced by a smooth, tiny scar of silver-blue binding ink. She inhaled the rotten-egg desert breeze. Then, her chest chimed with a calm, ringing rhythm—a clean, solitary bell in a silent cathedral.
Nomad Ren knelt three paces behind them, his sand-goggles resting on his linen head-wrap. His flint knife scraped in a slow, rhythmic circle across the dried rind of a desert gourd, paring away excess fiber to tune its sound belly.
