The sun had not yet risen, but Karim al-Sayed was already awake. In the Drylands, the precious hours before dawn were too valuable to waste on sleep. He sat cross-legged atop a dune that overlooked the Banu Qadir's current encampment, his eyes closed not in rest but in concentration.
Beneath him, he could feel it—the subtle movement of water deep below the surface. Not a proper aquifer, nothing so generous, but a narrow seam of moisture trapped between layers of clay and stone. Most would never detect its presence. Even experienced water finders from other tribes might miss it. But Karim had been reading the desert's hidden language since childhood, and in recent years, his sensitivity had only grown sharper.
He opened his eyes as the first hint of light appeared on the eastern horizon. The camp below remained quiet, though he could see smoke rising from the central cooking fire where the women had already begun preparing the morning meal. Sixty-three people, seventeen tents, thirty-four goats, and twelve camels—the current strength of the Banu Qadir tribe. A respectable size, neither so large as to strain resources nor so small as to invite aggression from rivals.
But numbers meant little if water could not be found.
Karim reached for the small clay jar beside him and removed its stopper. The scent of iron and salt filled his nostrils—blood preserved with natron, collected during the new moon ritual three nights ago. Each adult member of the tribe had contributed three drops, creating a composite that represented the collective need and will of the Banu Qadir.
He dipped his index finger into the dark liquid and drew a circle on the sand before him, then added four lines radiating outward toward the cardinal directions. The blood soaked into the sand, disappearing almost immediately in the dry air.
"Show me the path," he murmured in the old tongue, the language reserved for blood workings.
For several heartbeats, nothing happened. Then the sand within the circle darkened, not with the red of blood but with the deeper hue of moisture rising from below. The western line grew more pronounced than the others, the sand along its length becoming slightly damp.
Karim nodded to himself. The seam he had sensed extended westward, growing stronger in that direction. Perhaps a day's journey would bring them to a point where it rose close enough to the surface for digging.
He brushed away the pattern, erasing all evidence of the blood working. Such magic was accepted within the tribe but best kept private from outsiders who might misunderstand or fear its nature. The Banu Qadir's survival depended on many things—water, certainly, but also careful management of their reputation among neighboring tribes and the occasional northern traders.
As he descended the dune toward camp, Karim noted how the sand shifted beneath his feet—too dry, too loose. It had been seventy-three days since the last rainfall, and that had been merely a brief shower that barely dampened the surface. The deep-soaking rains that should have come with the turning season had failed to materialize for the second year in a row.
The elders said they had seen dry periods before, that the desert moved in cycles of abundance and scarcity. But in his blood visions, Karim had glimpsed something different—a changing pattern that did not circle back to previous conditions but instead spiraled outward into unknown territory.
"Did you find it?"
The voice belonged to Nasira, his cousin, who stood at the edge of camp watching his approach. Despite the early hour, she was already fully dressed for travel, her practical garments reflecting her position as the tribe's primary trader with northern settlements.
"A seam running west," Karim confirmed. "Not ideal, but better than continuing south. The southern lands are even drier, according to the blood."
Nasira nodded, her expression thoughtful. "West brings us closer to the border territories. More northerners, more complications."
"And more water," Karim added. "We must go where we can survive, complications or not."
They walked together into the camp, where activity was increasing as more tribe members awoke. Children carried water skins to the central cistern for the day's rationed distribution. Elders sat in the shade of the largest tent, already discussing the day's decisions. Young men tended the goats and camels at the camp's edge, ensuring the animals received their carefully measured share of water and feed.
"The council is waiting," Nasira said, gesturing toward the elders' tent. "They expected your guidance at first light."
Karim suppressed a sigh. The council of elders respected his abilities but often questioned his interpretations, particularly when they contradicted traditional migration patterns. At thirty-two, he was considered young for a blood sage, despite having served the tribe in this capacity for nearly a decade since his mentor's death.
Inside the council tent, five elders sat in a semicircle on woven mats. At the center was Hashim, the tribe's sheikh, a man whose seventy years had bent his back but not his resolve. Beside him sat Fatima, keeper of the tribe's oral history and Karim's most consistent supporter among the elders. The others—Yusuf, Malik, and Samir—represented the tribe's major family lineages.
"The blood sage honors us with his presence," Hashim said, his tone balanced between respect and mild reproof for what he perceived as tardiness.
Karim took his place on the mat reserved for him, opposite the semicircle. "The blood required time to speak clearly," he replied, the formal response to such implicit criticism.
"And what does it say?" Fatima asked, leaning forward slightly. The intricate facial tattoos that marked her status as knowledge-keeper seemed to shift in the tent's filtered light.
"We must turn west," Karim said without preamble. "There is water there, not on the surface but within reach of digging. Perhaps a day's journey, following the direction revealed in the blood working."
Murmurs passed between the elders. West was not the traditional direction for this season's migration. For generations, the Banu Qadir had moved south after the spring trading period, following ancient routes established by their ancestors.
"West leads to the contested territories," Malik observed, echoing Nasira's earlier concern. "The Banu Sulaim claim those lands for their summer grazing."
"The Banu Sulaim have moved their herds north this season," Nasira interjected from her position near the tent entrance. "Their usual pastures failed to recover after the winter. I learned this from their traders at the Lastwater market."
Hashim's gaze sharpened. "You speak out of turn, Trader."
"She speaks truth that bears on our survival," Karim countered. "The patterns are changing. What served in the past may not serve now."
"Our ancestors survived countless droughts by following the established ways," Yusuf said, his voice carrying the weight of tradition. "The southern route has never failed us entirely."
"Until now," Karim said quietly. "I have walked the southern path in blood vision. There is no water there that we can reach, not this season. The deep wells at Threestones Gathering have failed."
This news caused visible distress among the elders. The Threestones wells were considered among the most reliable in the region, having provided water for countless generations of tribes following the southern migration route.
"How can you know this?" Samir demanded. "No messengers have come from Threestones."
"The blood shows what eyes have not yet seen," Karim replied, invoking the traditional explanation for blood vision. "I have seen dust where water should be, and bones where life should flourish."
Fatima made a subtle warding gesture. "If Threestones has failed, then truly the patterns have changed beyond memory."
A heavy silence fell over the council. The failure of such a significant water source represented more than a practical problem—it challenged their understanding of the desert itself, the one constant in their nomadic existence.
"If we go west," Hashim said finally, "we risk conflict with any tribe that has had the same vision you have, Blood Sage."
"If we go south, we risk something far worse," Karim responded. "I have seen our children crying without tears, their bodies too dry to weep. I have seen our animals fall one by one until none remain. I have seen the Banu Qadir reduced to walking bones."
The stark imagery had its intended effect. Even Yusuf, the most traditional of the elders, paled visibly.
"The blood has never shown you false visions," Fatima acknowledged. "Not since you first entered the trance at your coming-of-age ceremony."
"But the blood does not show the only path," Hashim countered. "Only the path you asked it to reveal. What of north or east?"
"North leads to lands where we have no rights of passage," Karim explained. "The northern tribes have already refused three southern groups seeking water access. They protect their resources fiercely as the drought spreads."
"And east?" Malik pressed.
"East leads to deeper desert," Nasira answered before Karim could speak. "No trade routes, no known wells. It would be a desperate choice."
"Which we may yet be forced to make if all else fails," Karim added. "But for now, west offers our best hope."
Hashim looked at each elder in turn, reading their expressions. Fatima nodded slightly, while Yusuf frowned but did not speak further opposition. Malik and Samir exchanged glances before offering tentative nods.
"The council will deliberate," Hashim announced. "Blood Sage, prepare the necessary workings for either path. We will decide before midday prayers."
Karim recognized the compromise for what it was—a way for the elders to maintain their authority while likely accepting his recommendation. He bowed his head in acknowledgment and rose to leave.
Outside, the camp had fully awakened. The smell of flatbread cooking over the communal fire mingled with the ever-present dust. Children ran between tents, their laughter a reminder of what was at stake in the council's decision.
Nasira fell into step beside him as he walked toward his own tent. "They will choose west," she said with quiet confidence. "Hashim knows the southern route is tradition, but survival is necessity."
"I'm not so certain," Karim replied. "Change comes hard to those who have lived long in established patterns."
"Then make them more certain," Nasira suggested. "Show them what you've shown me."
Karim stopped walking, turning to study his cousin's face. "The deeper vision? That would be... unwise. The council accepts blood vision as guidance, not prophecy. To claim to see years ahead rather than just the coming season would test their faith in the old ways."
"The old ways are already being tested by dry wells and failing rains," Nasira countered. "Perhaps it's time for new ways—or older ways, forgotten ones."
Her words touched on something Karim had been considering privately. In his most recent blood trances, he had glimpsed fragments of what seemed to be ancient knowledge—blood magic techniques more sophisticated than those currently practiced by the tribe's sages. Techniques that might address not just the symptoms of drought but perhaps its causes.
"There is wisdom in caution," he said finally. "Some knowledge is kept hidden because its time has not yet come."
"And some because those who held it died before passing it on," Nasira replied. "The northern traders speak of their blood mages who preserve knowledge in special books, ensuring nothing is lost when a single practitioner dies."
"Written knowledge can be stolen or misused," Karim said, repeating what his mentor had taught him. "The memory of blood is safer, passed only to those prepared to receive it."
Nasira shrugged. "Yet here we are, with the memory of blood telling you things your mentor never taught. Where does this new knowledge come from, if not some source beyond our traditions?"
It was a question Karim had asked himself many times in recent months. The visions came with increasing frequency and detail, showing him techniques and concepts his training had never included. Sometimes they felt like memories, but not his own—as if the blood itself carried echoes of those who had used similar magic in distant times.
"I need to prepare for the council's decision," he said, not answering her directly. "Whatever path they choose, we'll need protection workings for the journey."
Nasira recognized the deflection but didn't press further. "I'll check our trading supplies. If we're heading west, we may encounter northern merchants sooner than planned. Best to be prepared."
As she walked away, Karim continued to his tent, one of the smaller structures at the camp's edge. Inside, the space was divided by a hanging cloth. The public area contained a low table for receiving visitors, cushions for sitting, and shelves holding various containers and tools of his trade. Behind the divider was his sleeping mat and personal belongings, few enough to be packed quickly when the tribe moved.
He knelt before a small wooden chest decorated with protective symbols and opened it carefully. Inside, nestled in layers of cloth, were his most precious possessions: the ritual knife with a handle of polished bone, passed down from his mentor; small clay jars containing preserved blood from significant ceremonies; a pouch of rare minerals gathered from sacred sites; and a collection of dried plants with magical properties, each wrapped separately in linen.
For a protection working, he would need the tribe's collective blood, already prepared, and the essence of desert hawk, known for its keen sight and ability to navigate vast distances without landmarks. He had traded valuable medicinal herbs to a northern hunter for the small vial of hawk's blood months ago, saving it for a time of special need.
As he arranged the materials, Karim's thoughts returned to Nasira's question. Where indeed did his expanding knowledge come from? The traditional explanation would be that his connection to the tribe's ancestral spirits was growing stronger, allowing him to access wisdom normally hidden from the living. But the visions felt different from the ancestral guidance he had experienced before—more immediate, more urgent, as if coming not from the past but from somewhere else entirely.
A shadow fell across the tent entrance, interrupting his preparations. He looked up to find Dima, one of the tribe's youngest members at just six years old, standing hesitantly at the threshold.
"Enter if you come in peace," Karim said, using the traditional greeting that even children knew to expect when approaching a blood sage's dwelling.
"I come in peace, seeking wisdom," the girl replied solemnly, completing the ritual exchange.
Karim smiled, setting aside the ritual knife. "What wisdom does one so young seek from me?"
Dima stepped inside, her eyes wide as they adjusted to the dimmer light. "Mother says we're leaving today. She says you found water with your blood magic." She pronounced the last words carefully, clearly repeating what she had heard adults discuss.
"The blood has shown a direction where water may be found," Karim corrected gently. "The council will decide if we follow that guidance."
"Will you make the water come up from the ground?" she asked, her question reflecting the simplified understanding children had of blood magic's capabilities.
"No, little one. Blood magic helps us find what is hidden, but then we must still work to reach it. If there is water beneath the sand, we will need to dig wells to access it."
Dima considered this, her small face serious. "Like how Mother says you can see hidden things but can't change what you see?"
The observation was surprisingly insightful for a child her age. "Very much like that," Karim agreed. "The blood shows what is, what may be, or what has been. Changing those things requires different kinds of work."
"Could you teach me to see hidden things?" she asked suddenly. "Grandfather says I have the old blood, like you."
Karim stilled. Such a request from a child was unusual, but not unprecedented. Blood magic ability often manifested early, though formal training wouldn't begin until adolescence. If Hashim—who must be the grandfather she referred to—had recognized signs of potential in her, it was significant.
"When you are older, if the signs remain strong, you may begin the proper training," he told her. "For now, you can learn by observing the world carefully. A blood sage must first understand what can be seen with ordinary eyes before attempting to see what is hidden."
Dima nodded seriously. "I watch the lizards," she confided. "They always know where water is, even when we can't see it. They turn blue when water is near."
Karim raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "The desert lizards change color?"
"Only the small ones with the striped tails," she explained. "They're dusty brown most of the time, but when they find moisture, their throats turn blue. I followed one yesterday and found a tiny bit of water under a rock. Just enough for one swallow." She demonstrated with her hands how little it had been.
It was the kind of observation that most adults would overlook or dismiss, yet potentially valuable. Desert lizards were indeed sensitive to environmental changes, and color shifts could indicate physiological responses to nearby resources.
"That is excellent observation," Karim told her. "A true blood sage notices such details. Perhaps tomorrow you can show me these lizards, and we can learn from them together."
Dima beamed at the recognition. "I'll find the best ones," she promised.
A woman's voice called from outside, and Dima's expression fell. "That's Mother. I must go help with the packing."
"Go," Karim said. "And remember what you've learned about careful observation."
After she left, Karim returned to his preparations with renewed purpose. Children like Dima represented the tribe's future—a future increasingly threatened by the changing patterns of the desert. Whatever knowledge was coming to him through blood vision, he needed to understand it not just for the tribe's immediate survival but for the generations to come.
He selected a small clay bowl and placed it on the low table, then carefully measured three drops of the collective tribal blood into it. From another vial, he added a single drop of the hawk's blood, its darker color creating swirling patterns as it mixed with the human blood.
"Show me the dangers on our path," he murmured in the old tongue, passing his hand over the bowl three times.
The blood mixture began to move of its own accord, separating into distinct patterns across the bowl's surface. Karim leaned closer, reading the formations as another might read written text. He saw the expected hazards of any desert journey—heat, thirst, the possibility of sandstorms. But there was something else, something unexpected.
In the western quadrant of the bowl, the blood had formed a pattern he had never seen before—a spiral that rotated slowly counterclockwise, its center darker than the surrounding liquid. Such a formation traditionally indicated a disturbance in the natural order, something that did not belong or had been altered from its proper state.
Karim frowned, concentrating more intently on the anomalous pattern. As he focused, the spiral seemed to expand, filling more of his vision than should have been possible given its actual size. For a moment, the tent around him faded from awareness, and he found himself looking not at blood in a bowl but at a vast landscape seen from above.
The western territories spread below him like a map drawn in sand and stone. He could see the path the tribe would take, winding between dunes toward the promised water source. But beyond that, perhaps three days' journey from their destination, something pulsed with wrongness. A disturbance centered on what appeared to be an encampment, but unlike any tribal gathering he recognized.
Structures of wood and canvas formed precise geometric patterns. Metal objects caught the sun with unnatural brightness. And at the center, a pit had been dug deep into the earth, surrounded by strange devices. Even from his elevated perspective, Karim could sense the wrongness emanating from that pit—a disruption in the flow of water far below the surface, as if something was drawing it up and away from its natural courses.
Northerners. They had to be northerners with their machines and disregard for the desert's delicate balance. But what were they doing so far into the Drylands, away from established trade routes and settlements?
The vision began to fade, the aerial perspective collapsing back into the blood pattern in the bowl before him. Karim blinked, his heart racing as it always did after such intense visions. The spiral pattern had dissipated, the blood now settling into more traditional formations that indicated the journey's conventional risks.
He sat back, considering what he had seen. If his vision was accurate, the water seam he had detected was real, but beyond it lay a potential threat—northerners tampering with the deep water in ways that might affect not just the immediate area but the broader underground flows that all desert tribes depended upon.
This was information the council needed before making their decision. Yet he hesitated. Visions of such specificity and distance were rare, and claiming to have seen details of northern activities days away might strain the elders' confidence in his reliability. They respected blood magic's ability to find water and avoid immediate dangers, but visions of distant human activities fell outside traditional expectations.
A horn sounded from the center of camp—the call for council announcements. It seemed the elders had reached their decision sooner than expected. Karim quickly cleaned the bowl, ensuring no trace of blood remained, and stored his materials in the wooden chest. Whatever the council had decided, he would need to be prepared to act quickly.
As he emerged from his tent, he saw tribe members already gathering near the council tent. Children were being quieted by parents, goats and camels brought closer to the camp center in preparation for potential departure. The atmosphere held the familiar tension of a tribe poised between staying and moving, their nomadic instincts activated by the prospect of change.
Hashim stood before the assembled tribe, his elder's staff planted firmly in the sand beside him. The other council members formed a line behind him, their expressions revealing nothing of their deliberations.
"The Banu Qadir have walked the sands since before memory," Hashim began, using the traditional opening for migration announcements. "Our strength lies not in holding ground but in knowing when to move across it."
Karim took his place slightly apart from the main gathering, as was proper for the blood sage during formal pronouncements. From this position, he could see the subtle reactions of the tribe members—the tension in shoulders, the exchanged glances between family groups, the way mothers drew children closer as the moment of decision approached.
"The council has heard the wisdom of our blood sage," Hashim continued, nodding slightly toward Karim. "We have weighed the signs against our traditions and the needs of our people."
A pause, perfectly timed to ensure full attention.
"The Banu Qadir will turn west with the setting sun. We seek the water that flows beneath the contested lands, guided by blood wisdom and the courage of our ancestors who never feared new paths when old ones failed."
A murmur ran through the gathering—relief mixed with apprehension. West meant unknown territory for many of the younger tribe members who had only ever followed the traditional southern route during this season.
"Prepare for departure," Hashim commanded. "We move before the sun reaches its height."
As the announcement concluded, the tribe dispersed into immediate activity. Tents were dismantled with practiced efficiency, belongings sorted and packed onto camels, water distributed for the journey ahead. Children ran errands between family groups, carrying messages and small items, their excitement at the prospect of movement overriding any anxiety about the destination.
Nasira appeared at Karim's side, her own preparations apparently already complete. "They chose wisdom over tradition," she observed. "Perhaps there's hope for the elders yet."
"They chose survival," Karim corrected. "As they always have. The Banu Qadir endure because they adapt when necessary, even while honoring the old ways."
"And what of the blood vision? Did it show you anything beyond the water seam?"
Karim hesitated, uncertain how much to share even with his trusted cousin. "There may be complications beyond finding water," he said finally. "Northerners in the western territories, tampering with things they don't understand."
Nasira's expression sharpened with interest. "What kind of northerners? Traders? Settlers?"
"Neither. They dig deep into the earth with strange devices. I couldn't see their purpose clearly, but their actions disturb the water flows beneath the surface."
"Mining," Nasira said with sudden certainty. "The northern kingdoms have been sending expeditions farther south each year, seeking minerals and metals. The traders at Lastwater spoke of new discoveries in the western territories—copper, perhaps, or something more valuable."
It made sense. The northerners' obsession with metals was well-known among the desert tribes, who valued water and living things far above inanimate minerals. But mining required water, often in substantial quantities. If they were extracting deep groundwater for their operations...
"We should tell Hashim," Nasira suggested, reading his concern. "If there are northern mining operations in our path, the tribe should be prepared for potential conflict."
Karim nodded slowly. "After we're underway. The decision to move west is made, and we need that water regardless of what lies beyond it. Better to address one challenge at a time."
As they spoke, a small figure darted between busy tribe members, heading directly for them. Dima, her arms full of what appeared to be small cloth bundles.
"Blood Sage!" she called as she approached. "I brought them for the journey!"
Karim knelt to meet her at eye level. "Brought what, little one?"
Dima carefully opened one of the bundles to reveal a small lizard, exactly as she had described—dusty brown with striped tail, currently frozen in place by the sudden exposure to light.
"The water-finders," she explained seriously. "Their throats turn blue near water. I caught five to help us on the journey west."
The simple ingenuity of the child's solution touched Karim deeply. While he worked with blood magic and ancient knowledge, Dima had found her own method of water detection based on pure observation.
"This is very thoughtful," he told her. "But creatures of the desert must remain in their territories, where they know how to survive. If you take them too far from their homes, they may die even if they find water."
Disappointment clouded her features. "But I wanted to help find water for the tribe."
"You already have helped," Karim assured her. "You've shown me something important about these lizards that I didn't know before. On our journey, we'll watch for their wild cousins and learn from them, just as you did."
This compromise seemed to satisfy her. "Should I release them here before we leave?"
"Yes, that would be kindest. They'll find their hiding places again quickly."
As Dima carefully set about freeing her captured water-finders, Karim stood and surveyed the rapidly dismantling camp. Within an hour, there would be little evidence the Banu Qadir had ever been here—a principle of desert travel that minimized their impact on the fragile environment and left few traces for potential enemies to follow.
The vision of northerners digging into the earth returned to his mind, contrasting sharply with his tribe's careful stewardship. Whatever awaited them in the west, it represented more than just an immediate challenge of water access. It signaled a collision between fundamentally different ways of relating to the desert—one based on temporary extraction, the other on sustainable coexistence.
As the tribe prepared to move toward that confrontation, Karim felt the weight of his responsibility as blood sage. The knowledge coming to him through increasingly powerful visions might prove crucial not just for finding water but for protecting the delicate balance that all desert tribes depended upon. Whether that knowledge came from ancestral spirits or some other source, he would need to master it quickly.
The desert was changing. The Banu Qadir must change with it or perish. And blood—the carrier of life, memory, and power—would show the way forward, one carefully measured drop at a time.