How could I possibly sleep? The knowledge of the stone's function kept my mind spinning, as did the logistics of the journey we would make. Never having crossed the Red Sand Sea in its entirety before, combined with the stakes, meant that my mind had of equations to solve.
By the time dawn's first light cracked over the eastern horizon, I was in the staging yard rechecking the load distribution of the packs on the tuspaks, who were doing their best to sleep through my manhandling of them.
I ran my hand along the rebuilt outer rims of my lead wagon's wheels. Wagon wheels inside the city were at their most efficient when they were narrow. But narrow wheels on the sand sank like knives. I had improved on the engineering of Heliqari wheel extensions and modularized them. I bolted ten-inch extensions to the exterior of the wheels, doubling their surface area and reducing the pressure on the soft sand. If we reached the paved roads of the Hegemony, we could simply unbolt them and store them for the return trip, but those extensions were the difference between moving and anchoring. I tried to move each extension with all my strength to make sure the attachments were secure. Not one budged.
Bastien evidently couldn't sleep either; he had joined me shortly after I arrived in the yard. He helped me check the skid plates mounted beneath the axles. They were smooth, hard leather. Designed to turn the wagon into a sledge if the wheels sank too deep. Engineers always build for failure.
Olen had come into the yard a little later, though still well before sunrise.
"It's a hard load for the tuspaks, Highness," he said, tightening a strap on the lead beast. "We've never put this much on them."
"They can bear it, Olen," I answered. "Seventy percent of the weight sits on their hips, not their backs." Their splayed feet were built for this terrain. "And once we start drinking through the water, their burden will ease quickly."
Departing at dawn would maximize our travel time before the heat became significant enough to matter. Tuspaks could endure hours of sun before their internal temperatures became a concern. The early start would minimize their suffering and get us as far as possible towards our destination for the day.
As the predawn light got bright enough, the men had assembled, and we got underway. It seemed that we had not been the only early risers. The thoroughfares from the yard to the Dawn Gate were packed. My eyes tracked the makeup of the crowds, but my ear stayed tuned on the axles.
My parents were waiting near the archway. My father wore his formal robes; his back was nearly as stiff as General Kael who stood at attention next to him. My father's hands were clasped behind his back, performing the role of a stable monarch before the gathered people.
My mother was closer, her hands folded near her waist. Her eyes were on me the entire time, but she had managed to look impassive.
Uncle Akram stood by General Kael, looking at the coming dawn. Aunt Dalia was there as well, dressed without ostentation. Her husband, Uncle Ishra, held his medical bag. He hadn't trained under Elias for long, but he'd absorbed the man's prudence more deeply than most. He knew it was better to have the bag and not need it than the other way around.
The unemployed men were gathered as we passed near the hiring yard. Most stood with crossed arms. Some nodded, hoping that the trade routes could be reopened. Others were downcast. One man lifted his daughter on his shoulders so she could see. She waved. He didn't.
The baker's wife stepped out of the crowd and handed Olen a beautiful loaf of bread. He accepted it with a nod of thanks, but he didn't slow the pace.
A group of boys sat on a low wall. As we approached, they snapped into rigid salutes. Their faces beamed with absolute confidence. They saw us as superhuman heroes going forth to save the city, not as ordinary men as they would someday become. They did not know the logistical complexities of the mission or that some deception might be involved. Their faith was based on incomplete data, yet their expectations weighed more heavily on me than the load did on the tuspaks.
The Elders waited not far from my parents, watching the crowd's reaction, feeling the direction of the wind. The Council had approved the route and the timing of the departure.
One man stood apart from the crowds. His robes had a Carthian cut to them. Ah, the courier. The procession was of special interest to him. He would observe our departure, the strength and numbers of the convoy, as well as my presence. This would be our response to Carth's offer. Heliqar would not capitulate so easily.
I halted my tuspak at the gates and looked at my parents. The crowd was silent. My mother's intense gaze on me broke, and she looked away. I looked at my father, expecting a dismissive gesture, as if to say, You made your choice; now get on with it.
Instead, he stepped forward. He reached out and gripped my arm with unnecessary force. For just a fleeting moment, his projected stability faltered. I saw the fear in his eyes.
"Come back to us," he whispered. "Not just for the city, for us." He glanced at my mother, who had turned away, and released me. He stepped back and reengaged his stoic persona. He gave me the nod to proceed.
I turned the tuspaks toward the Red Sand Sea. As we left the pavement, the wheels of the wagons transitioned, one by one, from rhythmic clatter on the stones into the muffling sand. I watched as the wheels of the wagons sank an inch or two into the red grains and then held. The wide rims floated.
And with that transition of sound, the journey to Spartova had begun.