clear, an unmistakable match to the glyph upon his own mysterious amulet.
"Cheyne, I need you to come on out here and get the wall finished. We've got maybe another hour before it gets too hot to work," called)avin, from outside the tent. "Might as well do what we can. When word gets around about the incident, we want to have used our time well."
Cheyne found that his mouth was suddenly very dry, and it had nothing to do with the desert heat. "Coming, Javin," was all he could manage. His head swam with possibilities. He stuffed the totem into his pack, collected his gear and a water jug. He washed his face in the basin by the door, by long habit, avoiding the mirror that hung over it.
As the sun climbed to its searing zenith, Cheyne trudged to the north wall, finding, thankfully, a waning sliver of shade from the larger fallen stones to stand in as he drew. The time passed and he hardly thought of the stones he sketched, the shape of the totem's last glyph still burned upon his mind's eye.
By the last stroke of his ochre crayon, the shade had completely disappeared. Cheyne packed up and walked back to the cluster of tents, mulling over his next move. The amulet around his neck seemed heavier than ever before, and he felt it thump against his chest in time with every step.
The main tent was empty; Javin had not returned from the vault. But it wouldn't be long-not even Javin could stand to work in this heat. He thought to check the shed, hoping to take Javin's horse, but then remembered it had been commandeered to transport the dead man. Cheyne laid his drawings neatly on the table, refilled the water skin, pulled on clean robes, traded his hat for a native style kaffiyeh, and walked out onto the rough road toward Sumifa.