There is a resounding thump as Micha drops the bar to the door. Selen was staring with similar wide eyes, but now our attention is drawn back to my sister.
Micha lowers her veil, letting me see her face for the first time since the tour. Her brow is a hard line.
’Course you’re in trouble! I remember Grandmum’s words and Selen’s thrashing. Is it my turn? Mother would never sully her hands with violence, and I can’t imagine Wonda doing it. Is Micha here as her hand?
“My spear sisters and I were not allowed to speak in our training room.” Micha’s hands make an intricate series of gestures to accompany her words. “Master Enkido had no tongue, and spoke only with his fingers. In time, you will learn to speak that way as well. Until then, you will be silent in this place.”
Selen and I glance at each other, but Micha claps her hands, startling us. “Do not look at each other when I am talking to you.” She holds out a fist, nodding it like a head. “This means yes. Do you understand?”
I raise a fist, nodding it—and my head. Out of the corner of my eye I see Selen do the same.
Micha strides toward me, untying the silk belt of her loose black robe. “You were less than four summers when a Nanji Watcher made it as far as your bedchamber. He was caught by surprise when your nursemaid fought back, but he was skilled, and still managed to give me this.” She tugs back the cloth, baring a breast to show me a raised scar running across her ribs. “I was forced to kill him before he could be put to the question. To this day, we are not sure who sent him.”
I blink, not knowing what to say. Watchers were legendary warriors, trained in stealth and special weapons, spies and assassins. If one was in my room…I shiver in fear.
Micha holds my gaze for a long breath, then steps away to slip off her sandals and lay them by the door. Her silk robe falls quickly once she drops it from her shoulders. It thumps as it hits the floor, no doubt weighted with the armored plates Krasian warriors secrete in their battle robes. Without its formless bulk, my sister is lithe and muscular, a graceful dancer with an acrobat’s build.
Micha unties her headwrap, spooling the black silk onto her hand with a swift, practiced motion. She ties off the roll and lays it in a cubby on the wall. She folds the robe in quick, efficient motions that muffle any sound of the plates, tying it with her belt to lay in the cubby.
Micha is beautiful, her black hair long and thick—the kind that draws appreciative looks from all sides—but I’ve never seen her wear it down. No sooner does she shake it free than she begins dividing and braiding. “Remove your dresses.”
Selen and I do not look at each other as we comply, undressing and slipping into tan sharusahk practice robes folded with the same ritual precision in wall cubbies on our side of the room. Wordlessly, we begin braiding our hair as well.
Micha wears only her bido—a long length of black silk wrapped in a precise pattern over and through her legs—and a similar binding for her breasts. My eyes drift to the textured burn on her toned left leg. It is faded, but does not look like it will ever heal completely.
I remember the night she got it. I was seven, and woke in the middle of the night to a room full of smoke. I sat there, frozen, terrified, not knowing what to do. Then Micha burst in, robe torn and smoldering, covered in soot and ash. She scooped me up like a toddler and went to Selen next, effortlessly carrying us down to the safety of the underkeep while the house guard pumped water through the windows. “The fire…” I am so caught in the memory I forget my promise not to speak.
“Was not caused by a maid knocking over a lamp,” Micha growls. “Perhaps realizing they could not get close, the next Watcher decided to simply set fire to an entire wing of your mother’s keep. I captured him, but he poisoned himself rather than be put to the question.”
The cold tone makes me fear the lengths my sister might go to for answers. Who is this woman? Did I take her so for granted that I never knew her at all?
Micha strides to the center of the practice circle. My horror grows with each scar I glimpse on her skin—each no doubt with its own story. How many times has Micha saved my life while I flitted about sewing silks and lace, or fretted over Herb Lore?
Micha kneels, back rigidly straight, head high, meeting my eyes. “I was born Micha vah Ahmann am’Jardir am’Kaji, Sharum’ting spear sister. When news reached Krasia of your birth, the Damajah sent me to Hollow to be your guardian and teach you to defend yourself.” Micha leans forward, placing her hands on the floor, and drops her eyes. “I have failed in both regards. For that I apologize. Your mother did not trust me at first, and preferred Captain Wonda to instruct you.”
“Why didn’t she trust you?” I see now that I owe my sister more respect than I have given, but the question is too important to keep silent. I have to know.
Micha rolls back to sit on her ankles, lifting her head and meeting my eyes once more. “She believed I was the Damajah’s creature.”
“Were you?” I ask.
Micha nodded. “Of course. But I made an oath to your mother, and I have kept it ever since.”
“Do you miss your home?” Selen asks.
“Once, but no longer. When I married Kendall, I became Hollow tribe. I am Micha am’Hollow, now, and I would not wish to return to Krasia. Wives without a husband to give them children are not looked upon well there.”
“What about your family?” I ask.
Micha shrugs. “My mother is the least of Father’s many wives. She is a glorified servant in the palace, and it pains me to see it so. Father taught my brothers to fight and to ride, but had little time for his daughters. He didn’t even question it when I went into training and did not see him for years.”
Micha flows smoothly back to her feet. “And now it is your turn, sister. None can deny that Wonda vah Flinn is a great warrior, but she held you in your birthing blood, and could not bring herself to impose the discipline a true warrior needs.”
Micha assumes a sharusahk stance. “But now the enemy has touched you, and found you wanting.” She points to Selen, then a spot outside the ring. “Kneel and be silent.”
Selen does as she’s told, kneeling as Micha beckons me with a curled finger.
I am wary as I move to face her, taking a sharusahk pose of my own. Words slip from my lips before I can catch them. “Micha, I’m sorry.”
“You will be,” Micha promises. “And you will remember the lesson.”
I’ve practiced sharusahk for as long as I can remember. It is required learning at Gatherers’ University, a slow series of movements that can become deadly when applied with knowledge, force, and will. Many of the women who practice the art do not even see it as a weapon. It is a time of peaceful meditation, separate from the conflicts of the day.
Micha prefers a more practical approach. She starts slowly, with grabs and punches she knows I can block or avoid. I am not naïve enough to counter these probing blows. She will seize the limb if I do, turning the strength of my attack into the force that takes me down.
Every time I avoid a blow, the next comes faster. I parry a punch, and another follows so quickly I barely catch it on my folded arm. The muscle absorbs the impact, but the blow stings and I realize Micha isn’t pulling her punches. If I hadn’t blocked in time, she might have broken my jaw.
I recover, but not fast enough to avoid her push-kick. Her heel connects solidly with my midsection, blowing the breath from my lungs and folding me in half as I’m knocked to the hardwood floor.
Selen or Wonda would step back after such a blow, giving me a chance to recover and consider my mistake. Not Micha.
“Your mother could have united the Free Cities of Thesa and become queen. She gave up a throne to protect you!” I barely roll aside in time to avoid a stomp of her heel that would have cracked ribs.
The words hit just as hard. Could it be true? Did Mother give up rule to pro
tect me? Why?
“Wonda vah Flinn could have been a general in the greatest army the world has ever seen!” Micha kicks down again. I catch it on my forearms and push back, but she’s ready, and pulls away before I can throw her off balance.
“And me,” Micha growls as I take the opportunity to scramble to my feet, fists up to cover my head. “My name struck from the histories, my deeds forgotten, all to protect you!” She comes in fast, jabbing stiffened fingers into my ribs. A punch I might have shrugged off, but her fingers thrust into a convergence point, sending a shock of muscle-seizing pain convulsing through me.
Dama’ting Favah taught me there are convergence points on every living thing. Places where their energy flows connect. Increasing or decreasing pressure on those convergences can cause disruptions that ripple through the entire body.
But we studied them for healing, not to strike. I am horrified at the idea. Such blows could cripple, or even kill.
When the fight began, I was resigned. I deserved it. But this…how dare she? I am her sister, the princess of Hollow, not some enemy assassin.
I bull forward, trying to force Micha back, but she stops me short with a stiffened arm and then drives the heel of her hand into the convergence point on my forehead. “And you don’t even care!”
I’ve never been purposely hit so hard. The impact resounds in my head, light blossoming across my eyes like festival flamework. I hit the floor hard, trying not to black out.
“Get up,” Micha growls. “Dodges and parries are less important than learning to recover when struck.”
My vision spins and I struggle to find a focal point in the featureless room. At last I find Selen, fists clenched as she kneels outside the circle. She looks ready to leap in to defend me, but we both know that would be a mistake. She might last a few moments longer than I, but in the end, we’d both be bloody on the floor.
“Get up.” Micha delivers a short, stabbing kick that makes my stomach seize. I taste vomit in my mouth, and swallow it back down. “One day I will not be there to protect you, sister. Will you lie down and die?”
The derision in her voice strikes harder than her kicks and punches. What was I apologizing for? Not knowing secrets she made enormous effort to keep from me? Wanting a life of my own?
Already I can feel my face swelling, and wonder what it’s going to look like later. Paints and powders might cover a bruise, but they won’t cover this. What will people say?
I grit my teeth and push off the floor. Micha sweeps my legs from under me before I can set my feet. Her open-handed blow doubles the impact as I strike the floor again.
“Human or alagai, assassins will come for you again.” Micha stands over me. “When they do, you must be prepared.”
She kicks me in the side, knocking spittle from my mouth as I’m flipped onto my stomach. “And that only comes from experience.”
She takes my wrist from behind, torquing it back as she puts a foot on my spine, pinning me in place. Pain screams up my arm, and I know she can break it with little effort. I struggle, though it is futile to resist such leverage.
And yet…I do. I pull in an angry breath, and new strength floods my limbs. Against all reason I twist onto my back, yanking Micha down to my level. The left hook I throw is close and awkward, but it connects solidly.
For once, Micha is caught by surprise and knocked away. I roll to my feet and set my stance as realization comes to me.
I’m stronger than she is.
Micha recovers quickly, and a smile, low and dangerous, crosses her face. “There it is. Show me, Princess.” She sweeps back in, kicking and punching, throwing elbows and knees, always ready to catch my return blows and use them against me.
I know I should be afraid, but I am too angry to care. For once I don’t pull my punches, moving with more strength and speed than I’ve ever dared reveal in the practice yard. Micha snatches at the blows, but they are too fast, my guard too tight. I catch or dodge more of her blows than not, and barely feel those that get through. Micha’s face is expressionless, but there is a tightness around her eyes, a bead of sweat on her normally impeccable brow. She’s barely in time to parry my next punch, and for a moment, there’s an opening.
My kick is a perfect pivot onto the ball of my left foot, right shin flying for Micha’s temple with everything I have. I know even before it connects that the fight is over, and somehow, against all odds, I have won. If Micha wants respect, she’ll have to give it in return.
But at the last moment, Micha drops beneath the kick, catching the limb. I realize as she uses my own force to throw me to the ground that the opening, her vulnerability, was all a ruse.
She punches raised knuckles into my shoulder joint and my arm goes numb. Another blow to my hip and my leg buckles, dropping me to one knee as I struggle to rise. I lash out and strike her across the face with an open blow from my other hand, but she locks on to the wrist before I can retract it, twisting my arm in ways nature never intended. She rolls and puts a knee into my throat, scowling as she increases the pressure.
I realize how arrogant I have been, even after seeing Micha fight against the demons. I might force a bead of sweat, but she was always going to win this fight.
“The sharusahk my master learned from the dama’ting is called Precise Strike,” Micha says quietly. “Your mother forbade me from teaching it, for it uses the healer’s art to harm.”
Darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision, and my sudden unnatural strength withers like an unwatered vine. I can’t breathe, and my face swells until it feels ready to burst. I kick my feet helplessly, pulling at the knee in my throat with fingers fast going numb.
“But the female fighting forms are powerful, Princess. I will attempt to teach them in our sessions here, though you and Selen have ever been…blunter instruments.”
Passing out, I slap her knee in submission, but Micha does not relent. “Know that I do this with love, sister.”
“Enough!” I hear Selen shout. “You’ve made your point!”
Micha releases me. I fall limply to the wooden floor as the blackness closes in.
“At last you find your voice, Selen vah Gared,” Micha congratulates from far away. “You want to protect your niece? Come show me your mettle.”
As my eyes slip closed, I see Selen’s feet as she steps into the ring.
* * *
—
I blink, and open my eyes to find Selen lying next to me. She looks so peaceful I would think her asleep if not for her blackening eyes and fat, bloodied lip. My own eye is so swollen I can barely open it.
Micha kneels next to us, eyes closed, breathing slow and even. “You wake quickly,” she says without so much as cracking an eye. “You are strong, sister. You will be a formidable weapon when I am through with you.”
The compliment makes me prouder than I will admit, but it does not cool my anger. “I don’t want to be a weapon.”
Micha shrugs. “Neither did I, but it was inevera.”
Her eyes open now, and she meets my gaze. “You and Selen conspired to poison me. I could claim blood debt, but we have shed demon ichor together in alagai’sharak. I am your ajin’pan, now. Your blood sister. If we were not as siblings before, let us be so now. I will coddle you no longer.”
She holds an open hand to me, and I look at it, incredulous. “You beat me unconscious and expect me to take your hand?”
“I offer you a warrior’s trust,” Micha says, “if you have the courage to accept it.” She snorts. “But if you think me cruel, wait until you see what your mother has planned.”
12
BLOOD TIES
I stare in the mirror, studying the bruises on my face. Time and ice have brought the swelling down, but the skin is still puffy and purple. It stings every time I blink and the eye won’t stop tearing, which doesn’t bode well for concealer.
/> But the alternative is walking around Mother’s keep looking like a tavern brawler. Selen seems not to mind, wearing her bruises with pride. For me, they are a reminder of my shame. I take a pad and load it with powder, wincing as I touch it to my face.
“Tsk. Micha wasn’t gentle, was she?”
I look up to see Mother standing in the doorway. She closes the door behind her and glides over to the vanity. “Let me have a look.”
I stiffen, but offer no resistance as the duchess takes my chin in a firm hand, tilting my head into the light to better examine the damage.
“It looks worse than it is,” she says at last. “The way you heal, it should be gone in a day.”
“Lucky me,” I mutter.
“You are lucky,” Mother says. “Lucky to be alive after that stunt you pulled.”
“So you sent Micha to beat me for it, and call it training?” The words are bitter on my tongue. I know they are not fair, but neither was the position Mother put me in.
“This is why I wouldn’t let Micha train you in the first place. I thought Wonda could do as good a job without…” Mother flicks her hand at the bruise. “But you’re right.”
I purse my lips, sensing a trap. “Right about what?”
Mother sits back, blowing a tense breath out her nose. “I’ve sheltered you. Kept you a child for too long. It was selfish of me, and now you’re not ready.”
The words are more conciliatory than I expect, but still vague. “Ready for what?”
Mother walks around the room, running her fingers over the dresses on stands. She lingers by the bed, picking up a cloth doll from Father that has slept with me for as long as I can remember. It was in his image once, though many mendings have lessened the likeness.
“When you were still in my belly,” Mother says, “I was summoned to Angiers. One night on the road, I was lured from the wards by a mimic demon that took the form of a friend, calling my name.”
A chill runs through me, the flesh of my arms pimpling as she goes on.
The Desert Prince Page 15
