Chapter One

1.



The dervish stepped from a swirl of sand, appearing on the edge of the village like a mirage taking form.

A boy herding goats was the first to see him. The boy clucked his tongue, using a switch to prod the animals back to their pens. All at once the animals began to bleat, their eyes rolling as if they had caught the scent of a lion. Usually a lion would not prowl so near the dwellings of men, but the springs that scattered the desert-which had never gone dry in living memory-were failing, and creatures of all kinds came in search of water and food. It was said that, in one village, a lion had crept into a hut and stolen a baby from the arms of its sleeping mother.

The boy turned around, and the switch fell from his fingers. It was not a lion before him, but a man covered from head to toe in a black serafi. Only his eyes were visible through a slit in the garment, dark and smoldering like coals. The man raised a hand; its palm was tattooed with red lines. Tales told by the village's elders came back to the boy-tales about men who ventured into the deepest desert in search of forbidden magics.

Obey your father and your mother, the old ones used to tell him when he was small, else a dervish will fly into your house on a night zephyr and steal you away. For they require the blood of wicked children to work their darkest spells.

"I need . . ." the dervish said, his voice harsh with a strange accent.

The boy let out a cry, then turned and ran toward a cluster of hovels, leaving the goats behind.

". . . water," the dervish croaked, but the boy was already gone.

The dervish staggered, then caught himself.