Child of the Desert
Chapter II
Alynne sat in the back of the caravan, black eyes emotionless as she watched the golden sand fade into paved road and emerald-green grass. She scanned the landscape, feeling oddly strangled as more and more buildings interrupted the flow of the desert, as if a heavy veil imprisoned her from the breath of life. Bored, the girl tapped a slender finger against her brown-wool thigh, keeping the steady rhythm of the rolling wheels. The vehicle's wooden ribs pressed against her sunburned back, and her legs were numb from being bent for so long. Alynne sighed, closing her eyes and leaning against the caravan, only to be jostled into an even more uncomfortable position. Caravan travel was not only tedious- it was painful.
The tapping continued as her fingers beat a staccato against her leg. I'd as soon weave, the girl thought dully, comparing the past months of serenity and discovery with the times to come, if only to give herself something else to do. They'll make me dance, or- or sharpen my Sight, even though it's about as weak as a loose fiber. Can't do anything but detect festering lies with it! Not like Rose and Corra's wonderful Gift!
The tapping stopped abruptly, and Alynne allowed herself another sigh. So she had uprooted, yet again, the true cause of her depression. "Jealousy," she whispered, weighed the dreaded sound on the tip of her tongue. It was such an ugly word, and so inevitable. For her, at any rate. But then, who wouldn't be jealous, with two such talented, praiseworthy sisters? Alynne made a face. She wasn't being fair to herself, and she knew it. Corra and Rose had no fault in this- it was her own problem she was so susceptible to envy.
I only stay away from Court, from people, because I'm jealous, she thought bitterly. I'm sick of being compared with the twins, who are so beautiful and talented and intelligent and strong, according to all of them! The girl bit her lip, not allowing herself to continue. There I go again, blaming my sisters! It's not their fault, it's the entire court! Why can't these people realize that they're the ones bound for glory, and I'm-
"I'm just me," she exclaimed out loud, beating her fist against the caravan in frustration. Was that why she spent so much time among the tribesmen? Because the Bazhir, stolid and unbending though they were, accepted her for herself, without always pushing her to be a little bit better? "Well, there's nothing wrong with that..." she muttered sullenly, rubbing her temples. She was sick of her self-pity, and the rumination, combined with the trembling of the caravan, was giving her a headache.
"Alynne?" Corralyn leaped nimbly onto the caravan, cheeks flushed from exertion. Then she frowned, seeing her younger sister cradling her head, and lifted a hand instantly filled with the turquoise glow of her healing magic. "What's the matter?" she demanded, concerned. "Are you hurt?"
Alynne lifted her head out of her hands reluctantly. The sight of that hand, bright with the glow of power she would never have, was almost too much to bear now. Quickly, she shoved the thought out of her head. No time for self-pity now. "Hullo, Corra," she managed in a dull mutter, her eyes downcast. "No, I'm all right. Just sick of this stupid caravan."
To Alynne's relief, the magic was extinguished with a brief nod. But Corralyn knew her sister well enough to tell that she was not all right, though the pain was not physical. "Oh, what is it this time?" she asked, her impatience betrayed by the roll of her hazel eyes. Alynne mirrored it with one of her own jet-black ones. She knew her stoic sister had little patience with those who stewed in self-pity without bothering to work at bettering themselves. But she could show some sympathy...
She put on a braver face for her sister's sake. "Nothing, absolutely nothing!" she snapped, the picture of annoyed nobility. She was annoyed, but not for the reasons Corralyn thought. "I told you, I'm just sick of riding in this cursed thing! Are we there yet?"
Corralyn smiled knowingly, playing her part of the indulgent elder sister perfectly. She pointed toward the horizon, her slender index finger silhouetted against the setting sun. In the distance, both girls could make out a jagged edge, black against the crimson, with pointed spires and rounded domes.
"Corus."
Disclaimer: Any familiar characters, settings, concepts, etc. belong to Tamora Pierce. The plot, as well as any of the above that are unrecognizable, are mine.