Two days after the incident with Titan, the cost of using the Justice Stone had become clear. The men obeyed my orders instantly but without the grunts and shared glances that normally knit my crew together. They avoided eye contact when they spoke to me, preferring to look at my hands or the pocket where the stones might be. I had saved Titan, but their trust was a high price.
I decided that rumors and speculations were likely filling the void that my lack of explanation had left. After the evening ration distribution, when the men were gathered voluntarily, I decided the time had arrived for disclosure. They huddled around the single oil lamp we allowed ourselves and watched the Quartermaster measure out our precious water with the scrutiny of a treasurer counting coins.
I took the stones out and placed them on a table where they would be visible in the light of the lamp. Their gaze was singularly focused on the way the weak light played over their strange, perfect shapes.
These stones did not appear from thin air or from the palace treasury. They were given to me by a woman we found in the wreck of a Qulomban wagon. She intended them for my father but since she didn't make it to him, she gave them to me.
The men shifted. Olen leaned forward skeptically. "She gave you jewels, Highness? For the King? Why?"
"Initially I thought they might be jewels. But I found a poem in the Library that explains them. They are tools. The poem was written in an ancient language, I believe it is called Inglix. I haven't figured out the translation but I suspect the poem originates from the era of the First Empire."
I passed the black stone to Olen. He hesitated then took it. I could see on his face that he now saw they were real, physical objects.
"I believe they are machines that are more complex than even the Spindle-Servant in the bedtime story. Like a compass or a sextant, but they measure things that are entirely abstract. They measure intention and justice. I just don't understand them enough to use them well. Titan was a test. The black one is called the Justice Stone. The white one is the Truth Stone. There is no magic."
Olen turned the stone over in his rough hands. He weighed it and scratched at it with a thumbnail. "It feels cold," he muttered. "Even in this heat. But not cold, exactly. It feels cold without being cold."
"Somehow it holds a thermal charge differently." I responded.
"And the purple light?" asked the Quartermaster.
"A reaction," I said. "Like acid testing for geology. Or how certain dyes change color when mixed with vinegar. It reacts to specific conditions. I am learning to read it."
Olen handed it back to me. "A compass is a compass if it points the way."
The fear in the men diminished.
As the caravan progressed the next day, I studied the the horizon. The line of shimmering heat that separated the red of the ground from the blue of the sky began to bruise in the south.
"My Prince," Bastien said as he walked up beside my wagon. He did not need to point. "It is moving against the prevailing wind."
"Halt!" I ordered. "Bring the column to a stop!"
I jumped down from the wagon, telescope in hand. I needed elevation and stability. I scrambled up the spine of the nearest dune. At the crest, I braced my elbows on my knees to steady my hands. Through the lenses, the bruise resolved into a churning suspension of red dust reaching high into the air.
Bastien and Olen both joined me. I watched the red dust roll over itself like an unbreakable wave. "It's faster than the one that took Aukoa," I said, taking the telescope from my eye.
"We cannot outrun it," Olen called out from the lead wagon. He looked at me and waited.
I unfolded our map that had markings indicating my estimate of our position. I updated it every evening. We were in "The Breaklands." It had not been surveyed by Heliqar in generations. It showed a geologic fracture zone out of the way, but not too far.
I pointed to the north where, through the telescope, a hint of a dark slash suggested there was more than just dunes.
"It's called the Whispering Cut," I said. "There are canyons. If the map is right, and we can get the wagons inside the walls, the wind will pass over us."
Olen squinted at the invisible rocks. "That is a dead zone, Highness. It'll just fill with sand and bury us alive."
"The geological theory," I responded, "is that ancient permafrost melted and collapsed a roof ages ago. Flash floods and sandstorms actually carved it deeper."
Olen wasn't convinced. "A hole in the ground collects dirt, my Prince. It'll become a sand covered grave. Or worse, if the wind finds that cut, it'll turn it into a grinder. We'll be flayed raw."
"The Cut evidently runs perpendicular to the storm front. The canyon is narrow and deep. When a the Red Flood hits a slot like that from the side, the high-speed wind at the top creates a shear layer. It acts like a lid. The storm blows _over_ the gap, not into it. The air inside might be turbulent, but the sand stays upside."
Olen stared at me. It was a gamble on physics he couldn't see. But the alternative was the Red Flood out in the open. "A wind roof," he muttered again. "Better than being flayed." Then he snapped the reins. "Go! Pick it up! Drive them!"
It was a race against the atmosphere. The sky began turning purple and the light filtered through the red dust. The wind died and left a vacuum almost as terrifying as the roar that would follow.
We hit the mouth of the canyon, right where the map said it would be, just as the first stinging grains began to scour us. The walls of the Whispering Cut rose sheer and jagged. They towered high above us and pressed in. They were twisted by antique tectonics, a scar on the face of the desert. The winds screamed in the distance.
"Get deeper!" I shouted. I wrapped a scarf over my face. "Past the first bend. We need overhang."
I led and the caravan followed, Bastien right behind.
Then we stopped.
"Hold!" Bastien roared.
We were not alone.
A caravan huddled in the widest part of the canyon floor. They were sheltered beneath a massive sandstone overhang that formed a natural amphitheater.
The wagons were distinctive and unusual. They had six wheels and were garishly painted.
"Qulomban," Bastien hissed. His hand went to his sword.