Now they could mount up and let the beshti go at their pace, but those still on the climb might take the same cue, and Marak refused. He walked Osan, leading him slowly, and came out onto the flat, where the tribesman who had fallen took his respectful leave and dropped back to join his kin, and where Hati and the au’it overtook him and walked beside him on the widening trail.

A rider came toward them, and then another and a third. The first proved to be Tofi, who had been watching the trail from a distance. In the starlight, under falling stars and on a tremulous earth, Marak saw more tents going up, the camp spreading out its canvas as fast as it could, bracing itself, waiting.

The second rider was Patya, the third, Norit, and they met under the momentary flare of a falling star and a crash of ruin in the heavens.

Marak met them, touched hands, and Hati joined them, and the au’it, their own au’it, if there was justice at all. Norit stayed mounted, but Tofi and Patya jumped down to embrace them arm to arm. The beshti set to bawling and rumbling, rubbing necks and heads and snuffing familiar scents, as happy as the rest of them, weary as the creatures were, and deserving of rest.

“It’s coming. It’s coming,” Norit said. “Get to shelter, those who can.”

“Where’s Lelie?” Now he missed her, in the distraction of a hundred thousand lives at risk behind him. But this one he felt, as he felt Norit, as he felt the danger rushing down at them. “Where is she?”

“Memnanan’s wife has her,” Patya said. “The Ila’s in a fit. We’ve put the stakes down, deep, and we’ve braced the side canvas. Norit says the danger will come from the west, to dig in and put the webbings on. We hope we’re dug in enough.”

The ring of fire flashed across Marak’s vision. For a moment he failed to know where he was, whether he was floating in the air or standing… as if, having stopped defying Luz, now he suffered all the pent-up visions, the impact, the ring of fire, and now a fountain of cloud, something going up and up, fire, or cloud, or water—he was not sure.

“Marak!” Hati cried. He reached out blindly for her, found her arm, held to her for a moment that the whole world seemed to turn and sway under them. Then he began to walk, urgently, desperately, toward the tents, and Hati stayed with him.

“Every tent,” he said to those he met. “If you’re done, help others. Fast as we can make it. Storm’s coming. Eat. Drink.”

“The water, omi,” Tofi reminded him. “We’re almost out of water. Even the Ila’s out of water.”