The Amulet Of Nicmir (The Scripts Of Neptune, Book 1)

Chapter 41

Every step in the sand was a struggle. The sun was heavy on Nyle's shoulders, burning the back of his neck. With a heart beating a steady, fast rhythm from the effort of walking in the heat, he fought his fatigue, fought the aching in his muscles.

Lillian kept him going. Her smile would flash through his mind, her laugh. The way her eyebrows pulled together when she was perplexed. How she'd held him that night in the cave when he'd fallen apart. How gorgeous she'd looked in that dress the night of the ball, with her shy smile and fleeting glances. Her kiss, the way her fingers had anchored in his hair and her breaths, sweet and heady from the alcohol, had merged with his. Every little detail stuck.

Nyle wouldn't have traded them for the world. He fought for those details, for the chance at seeing her smile again. For the chance to embrace his heart and face the one it longed for.

He knew, now. He'd never let her go, not truly. It wasn't that easy.

What little water had been in the flask was long gone. His throat was parched, and his tongue felt swollen. Everything ached; his head, his knees, his arms. His boots left blisters on the backs of his heels. Every little cut he'd gotten in the fight with the riders stung with the salt that stuck on his skin. More than once, he tore a fresh strip of cloth from his shirt to wrap around his forehead and catch the sweat trickling into his eyes. His vision was getting blurry with weariness as it was; he didn't need the added hindrance of water in his eyes.

More mirages than Nyle could count danced on the horizon, just out of reach, taunting him. Sometimes it was a city, shining spires standing silvery against the sky, while other times it was a lone tree or a shimmering pool, simple and alluring, offering false relief from the scorching sun.

He was careful to pay attention to what was around him. How the air smelled, like baked earth, or how the mosquitoes became more frequent and bothersome as he walked. At least that was a good sign—he was getting closer.

But closer to what?

Another step, another quarter mile. Another mirage. This one was another city, but different. Instead of towering spires, there were low buildings made of pale stone, set behind a high wall of the same material. A watchtower—or at least what Nyle assumed was a watchtower—sat on a corner of the wall, the narrow window facing him.

Stopping to smack a mosquito half the size of Ctash, Nyle took his already damp sleeves and mopped his face dry. Then he looked out at the mirage, watching the wind catch sand and scatter it across the image. Or try to. This one seemed more solid than usual, not warping with the heatwaves quite so much.

Hope spiked in his chest like a heartbeat.

Maybe this was it. Maybe he'd found it.

Stumbling a little, Nyle picked up his pace, clutching the flask tight in his hand. The muscles in his calves and his thighs protested, aching so badly he winced, and his head throbbed. Dehydration was setting in more quickly than he'd thought.

The city didn't disappear like the other mirages had as he got closer. He could see the lines in the bricks, now, and the wooden gate lying open. Beyond the gate, Nyle caught a glimpse of green.

Trees.

The streets were empty as he passed through the arched gateway, and the wind whistled an eery tune through the windows in the stone buildings. The ground here was dry, cracked earth instead of sand, swept clean by the breeze. There were no cart tracks to suggest the city was inhabited, no eyes peering from the black spaces of the windows.

Nyle slowed to a hesitant walk, desperately wishing he had a weapon as he strode down the middle of the road, trying to stay alert. His arms felt heavy, his neck hardly strong enough to support his head.