Hadrian Dustwhistle's Arc

Chapter 1 of 7

Hadrian Dustwhistle crouched by the fire pit at the heart of his camp, three patched tents leaning against the red rock behind him, a single palm throwing thin shade over twelve years of stubbornness. He smoothed his own burned map across his knee and squinted at the scorpion shape he could draw with his eyes shut. Arishaat was out there. He was sure of it the way a man is sure of his own limp. The scout came in on his hands and knees. He dropped near the cook stones, and his hat rolled off into the ash, brim ringed with dried blood. One fist would not open. Hadrian pried the fingers back and found a second map, scorched at the edges but whole in the middle — dunes, ridges, and a bright blue pool ringed with palms. The center his own map had lost. Hadrian's mouth went dry. He looked past the dying man at the ridge above the camp. Two of his hired hands stood there, water gourds forgotten, staring straight down at the paper on his knee. A third was already walking back toward the mules, fast. Hadrian folded the map small and pushed it under his shirt. He stood up slow, smiling the way he smiled when he was about to lie. Three men had seen it. By sundown, he knew, that number would not hold.