Hadrian Dustwhistle's Arc

Chapter 7 of 7

Hadrian walked toward the pale peak through the rolling dunes. The sand rose and fell in long waves, each ridge the same as the last. Nothing moved but his own shadow. He needed proof the peak was the right one, or he was walking himself dead. By late afternoon, the heat broke a low shimmer at the foot of the peak. Blue water. Palms. A small lake bedded in the sand. His chest jumped. He almost ran. Then he stopped and squinted hard. The palms did not sway. The water did not ripple. He watched a full minute and the shimmer thinned at the edges, bleeding sky through itself. A mirage. Not his pool. Not Arishaat. He almost sat down in the sand. Instead he lifted his eyes past the false lake, up the slope of the pale peak. Something squared off the summit against the white sky. Stone. Walls. A small outpost crowning the rock, weathered but standing. Built things did not grow in dunes. Someone had put it there, and someone had named the road to it. Hadrian took the smallest swallow from his canteen and started walking again. The peak was real. The peak was a place. It wasn't the pool, but it was a door, and doors had people, and people had maps. He had been chasing a drawing for twelve years. Tonight he would sleep under a roof or not at all.