Free Dawn of the Flame Sea by Jean Johnson Page A

appear.”
    â€œIt’s Taje Halek,” one of the fire tenders scolded. “You will treat him with respect, or . . . or . . .” He trailed off when Ban turned and rose to his full height, towering over the young man. The same young man who had foolishly charged at him days ago.
    Without a word, Ban stared him down. The youth retreated half a step, wary of that steady, flat stare. His spear rose defensively under its weight.
    â€œHunter Lutun, do not threaten our visitor,” Halek ordered. “Visitor Ban, do not threaten my tribe.”
    Turning, Ban dropped gracefully back into his crouch. It was a half-forgotten act of courtesy, to not make the injured man crane his head back just to look him in the face. “That remains to be seen, taje of the White Sands. When the sun strikes the third band from the top of our ravine, Jintaya will appear there,” he repeated. “As will the others of our pantean. You will then be given the chance to find a peaceful way to convince her that your tribe should stay and share in the bounty of this region.
    â€œJintaya wishes to discuss your tribe staying.” Rising, he turned and headed for the cave mouth. “Be grateful it is not to discuss your tribe
leaving
.”
    He did not have to step over anyone as he left the cavern, for those in his path had moved. Then again, most everyone was awake now, watching him warily. Crossing into the cool, gray light of morning, he continued on his way toward the pantean ravine, noting the subtle and not-so-subtle changes Kaife and his companions had wrought.
    The granite dredged up from the depths of this world had been used to create covered troughs and gutters that followed the somewhat meandering walls, only to end in deep-carved pools scattered at intervals that would eventually fill with water from the few rains and flash floods that always plagued a desert environment. Off in the distance, uphill from where he walked, the ground had been scored with channels that would divert those flash floods.
    Most of the channels were covered to keep the water that would eventually flow through them clean and free of debris, but for now, they were empty, awaiting Jintaya’s decision on whether this White Sands Tribe should be allowed to stay or encouraged to go. Ban knew that Kaife had designs for fanciful little bridges, drip-irrigated planters, and other means of turning this place of raw stone and gritty dirt into a lush oasis. It was considered quite the coup for the relatively young man to be selected as the chief architect of the pantean stronghold, and he had worked up layer after layer of designs meant to be implemented in stages. But that was for a stronghold that was strictly Fae, not Fae and Shae.
    So far, what Ban had seen was not aesthetically displeasing, but it was still mostly Fae in appearance and influence: pointed arches, graceful curves, interlaced lines, and a motif of thin spreading out to wide, like stems spreading into flowers and leaves, though that was mostly inside the caves that had been resculpted into their stronghold.
    For a few moments, Ban wondered what these White Sands people would bring to the designs of this place if they were permitted to stay. It wasn’t the Fae way to segregate the locals in areas where they cohabited—aside from the sanctity of their actual stronghold—or to impose their own culture on the natives. However, he hadn’t seen much in the way of overt decorations among these White Sands people, aside from the bits of dyed leather and beading on whatever they wore.
    Then again, that was the lot of a refugee; they were lucky to have food, clothing, weapons, and each other. Some years, some worlds . . . he hadn’t even had clothing to call his own. It was not a set of memories Ban cared to remember right now.
    ***
    Year 0, Month 0, Day 7
    The season for this patch of the world was still months away from high summer, but