The Desert Prince

by Brett, Peter V.

  But it is. “Hiding from you was always a challenge, son of Arlen.” Micha’s voice is as kind as I remember. “Come.”

  She leads us down the corridors to a heavy stone door that opens to a circular practice room. I see wards of silence on the frame as she closes the door behind us. No sound will escape this chamber.

  “Welcome back, Darin asu Arlen am’Bales am’Brook,” Micha says. “Long have I waited to see the Par’chin’s son reach manhood.”

  Chin is an insult in Krasian. It technically means “outsider”—someone lacking Krasian blood—but in practice it is synonymous with weakling and coward. My father was the first chin in centuries to live and fight among the Krasians, earning him the singular title of Par’chin, or “brave outsider.”

  Asu means “son.” Asu Arlen, the Par’chin’s son. Micha was always kind to me, but just like every other adult, she doesn’t see me, just my da’s child.

  Selen puts her back against mine, measuring my height against hers. She’s head and neck taller than me, with Olive not much shorter. “Think he’s a few summers short of manhood, Micha.”

  “A warrior is more than his stature,” Micha says. “The sharusahk of the Warded Children is revered even among heroes.”

  The words are respectful, but there is something in Micha’s scent. A challenge.

  I shrug. “Never liked fighting.”

  “Neither did Princess Olive, yet fighting has found you both. It would please me to see what training you have. Will you spar?”

  “Against you?” The last thing I expected from this visit was for Olive’s nanny to challenge me to a fight. I don’t think I could ever hit her, and I don’t think I’d stand much chance even if I tried.

  Micha bows. “It would be an honor, but I meant against one of my students.” She smiles. “If your pride can handle sparring with your friends?”

  The scent of challenge is clear now. She thinks either of the girls can put me on my back, and looking at them I’m not certain she’s wrong. Olive and Selen both return the look, eyes suddenly predatory. They know it, too.

  Since we arrived, I’ve been on my back foot. From the moment I materialized, screaming and crying, to admitting I ran from the demons on Solstice. Olive and Selen will always be my friends, but if I don’t catch myself soon, things ent ever going to be the same between us.

  I take off the satchel and pipes, setting them safely in a cubby on the wall. “Think my pride can manage.”

  “Turn your back and close your eyes,” Olive orders. “Count to a hundred.” I do, and hear the rustling of cloth behind me. I breathe steadily, trying not to imagine the two princesses undressing.

  “One hundred.” I turn at last and see Olive and Selen waiting in the ring in sharusahk robes. I move to face them, bowing.

  “The challenge was mine, son of Arlen,” Micha says. “Honor grants you the choice of opponent.”

  Olive and Selen stand cross-armed, reeking of confidence. And why not? Their biceps are thicker than my thighs.

  But there’s really only one choice, if I want everyone’s respect. “Olive.”

  “First pin wins.” Micha gestures and Olive steps forward, a comfortable smile on her face.

  “I’ll go easy on you,” she promises.

  “Really think you’re gonna win this?” I ask.

  Olive throws a laugh. “No offense, Dar, but you don’t have a chance.”

  “Willing to bet on it?” I ask.

  “We’ll double your money,” Selen sneers from outside the circle.

  “Ent got any money.” I smile. “How about, if Olive can pin me, I’ll let you dress me in fancy silk breeches and a velvet coat, like when we were kids.”

  Olive’s eyes glitter at the words. “I have a lace cravat that will look just precious, once we dump a bucket of water over you and drag a comb through that thicket on your head.”

  Micha hangs back, smelling amused, content to let this play out.

  “But if you tap out before a pin,” I tell Olive, “you can’t powder your face for a fortnight.”

  Selen laughs. “Now it’s interesting!”

  I spare her a glance. “And you can’t wash your powder off.”

  “Core with that,” Selen says. “I ent even fighting.”

  “Double my money, you promised,” I remind her.

  Selen puts her hands on her hips. “Fine. Ent like we’re gonna have to pay.”

  Olive claps in delight, then turns and eyes me like a barn cat that’s found a mouse.

  “Begin.” Olive lunges before the word is fully out of Micha’s mouth.

  “Tsst!” Micha hisses. “I did not—”

  Neither of us are paying attention. Olive is quick, but not quick enough. She’d have caught a normal opponent, but to me she moves like she’s thigh-deep in water. It’s simple to step aside and dance away as she is forced to take a step in the wrong direction to arrest her momentum.

  She comes at me more cautiously now, and I know I won’t fool her again. She starts to circle, winding closer with each pass. I can see by the set of her feet and her fists that she knows what she’s doing.

  Mam tried to teach me to fight. Selia and Grandda, too. But I never liked it, and was as apt to disappear as show up for lessons. I’ve always been better at running away than fighting.

  Olive fakes a lunge. When I sidestep, she uses her momentum to spin into a kick so smooth and fast it nearly connects.

  She’s limber, the kick high as a dancer’s, but that works to her disadvantage as I duck under and give her thigh a shove as it passes, throwing her off balance. I put one hand on the floor, scissoring my legs to take her support leg out from under her.

  I rush in to put her in a headlock as she falls, but Olive recovers faster than I expect, twisting on the floor to throw a punch.

  I exhale and go slippery. Olive’s fist slides off my jaw without impact, but it’s too close for comfort. I skitter back to recover as she kicks her feet into the air, then snaps them back down hard enough to whip herself upright.

  “Almost had you,” she says, and I know she’s right. If not for my powers, the fight would likely have ended there.

  But Olive has powers, too. I’ve never seen an aura like hers, and she’s always been stronger’n anyone has a right to be. That’s why it had to be her.

  She comes in punching and kicking. I slip around the blows, but Olive isn’t just strong, she’s fast, and knows how to position me from one strike to the next. It’s all I can do to keep ahead of her, mostly by giving ground. She smiles, taking my retreat as a sign of her dominance.

  She may well be right. I try not to think about that as I pick my moment and rush in. Faster than she can follow, I slip around Olive’s guard, grabbing her arm. I twist, positioning my legs to break her balance as I pivot into a throw.

  Only Olive doesn’t move. I strain, but her muscles are like iron. Too late I realize the trap. Before I can exhale and slip away, she punches me in the chest.

  It’s like being kicked by a horse. I’m thrown from my feet and hit the floor hard, skidding dangerously close to the circle’s edge. If I cross the line, I forfeit the match.

  She rushes in, and it’s all I can do just to keep from being pinned. Olive, heavier, stronger, and nearly as fast, has the advantage at wrestling.

  I turn slippery, popping from her grasp like a snap pea from its pod, but I’m starting to reckon I was overconfident, challenging Olive ripping Paper to a fight. I can only imagine what foppish ensemble they’ll dress me in if I lose.

  I give up offense entirely, making her chase me around the ring as I slip her punches and attempts to grapple. I don’t tire as easily as most folk.

  Yet Olive keeps pace. Her heart and lungs pump faster, but she is not out of breath. “You’re not getting away that easily, Dar.”

 
I nod and turn to face her. She throws a punch and I slap it aside, coming in fast. I deliver a hook to her ribs with all the strength I have, but if Olive so much as feels the blow, it doesn’t show. In return I get an open palm to the temple that sends me sprawling.

  Olive pounces, grabbing my wrists, but I go slippery, sliding from her grip. I grab the back of her robe, wriggling around to get behind her. She tries to keep hold of me, but it’s like trying to catch a greased piglet at a Solstice Festival.

  Once I’m on her back she pushes off hard and flips over backward, slamming me into the hardwood floor. It knocks the breath from me, but doesn’t stop me from snaking an arm around her throat. I wrap my legs around her, digging my heels into her hips. Then I suck in, and shrink.

  Olive pulls at my arm around her throat, and her strength is enormous. I could never match her muscle for muscle, but when I suck in, I become denser. Olive might as well be pulling against steel cables.

  She gives up, instead driving her elbows into my ribs. I can’t go slippery, but it doesn’t matter. The smaller I get, the tougher and more numb I become. I barely feel the blows even as the impacts rack her with pain, like driving her elbows into a goldwood tree.

  Still Olive struggles, first managing to get to her knees, then to stand up fully, even as I ride on her back. I see her look toward the wall. “Step out of the ring to ram me against the wall and you forfeit,” I remind her.

  She lets out a grunt and throws herself backward again, but the impact does more damage to the floorboards than it does to me. She starts to go limp, but I can hear her heartbeat and am not fooled. I wait as she tries to gather her strength in hope I will loosen my grasp. It is only as her heart truly begins to slow that she taps my thigh.

  “Tsst!” I release Olive immediately at Micha’s hiss. I exhale and go slippery again, sliding away to put some distance between us.

  For the first time, Micha gives me a warrior’s bow. “I underestimated you, son of Arlen.”

  I shrug. “Just magic tricks.”

  “Cheating, you mean.” Olive’s voice is hoarse.

  I turn to her, thankful for the locks of hair that fall across my eyes, saving me from having to meet her glare. “Wasn’t the only one usin’ magic in that fight, Olive Paper, and you know it.”

  Olive keeps the scowl on her face, but she knows better than to argue.

  “Fights are not won by magic alone,” Micha says, as much to Olive as me. “Both of you did well.”

  * * *

  —

  “This mean I need to go ask Tarisa to make me up, again?” Selen asks as Olive sits at the vanity in their chambers, scrubbing the powder from her face.

  “Just a dumb bet,” I say. “You don’t have to…”

  “The Core we don’t,” Olive says. “I’ll paint her myself. We sure as the sun would have dressed you up if you’d lost.”

  The brave words are belied by her scent. Olive hates being seen without her smelly paints, powders, and perfumes, though for the life of me, I can’t understand why.

  Micha is back in her shapeless robes. I remember Olive’s nanny chasing us all over the keep, trying to keep us out of trouble. Who better, to be a hidden bodyguard? I’m tracking her all the time, now, but even in plain sight, Micha has a way of fading into the background so well it makes my usual lurking seem downright social.

  Olive drags Selen to the vanity, grinning. Selen huffs, but her scent is amused.

  “Just because you lost doesn’t mean you can’t have a bath and clean clothes, Darin,” Olive notes as she begins powdering Selen’s face with a soft brush.

  “Had a bath two days ago,” I say. “Clean clothes, too. Soap stink only just wore off.”

  I’m not exactly giving honest word. Truer is, I’d love a soak in hot water and a set of clothes fresh off the line, but I like tweaking their noses more. The years melt away, and things are back the way they used to be.

  I reach into my satchel for the pipes as Olive works. I’m still taut with adrenaline after the fighting, but as I begin to play, I fall into the music and my tension eases.

  “Ay, Darin,” Selen says. “When did you get so good at that?”

  I have to suppress a stupid smile at the compliment. I shrug instead, continuing to play. Then something unexpected happens.

  Micha begins to sing.

  At first it is a wordless harmony, weaving itself in and out of my tune. But her voice rises in power and soon she is leading me, singing boldly in Krasian. I speak the language, but the intonations are different in song. Her words are hard to follow as I struggle to keep pace with her shifts and changes. Sweat gathers on my upper lip as I slide my wind from pipe to pipe, taking quick breaths between notes.

  When Micha finally ends the song, Olive and Selen burst into applause, the powder kit forgotten.

  “Who taught you the Song of Waning?” Micha asks.

  The song was another relic of the war. The first written music to charm demons. “It was the first thing I started practicing when Mam brought Hary Roller in to coach me.”

  Micha nods knowingly. “The honor of Master Roller is boundless. My jiwah, Kendall, was also an apprentice of his. Armies of demons danced to his music in the war.”

  “He saved everyone’s lives back on Solstice,” I say. “But I din’t see much dancing. It was all we could do just to keep from being cored.”

  “Apologies. I meant no disrespect.” Micha bows, dropping her eyes to the carpet. “We were all…taken unawares on Solstice. But we are all siblings in the night, and together, we can prevail.”

  14

  BONES

  Selen and I barely resemble the girls we were the last time we saw him, but Darin is still just Darin, a few inches taller. The sometimes annoying little brother we love to bully, but would die to protect.

  Except Selen casts a nervous glace at Darin, slouching against a wall with his pipes. He tosses the hair that’s always covering his eyes, and she jerks her gaze away, blushing before I even touch her with the brush.

  She sighs. “Bet’s a bet.”

  “You got the better end of it,” I say.

  “Like night I did.” Selen looks like she’s sucked a lemon. “You’re still the pretty one, even with your face scrubbed and mine painted up like some Angierian debutante.”

  Again she glances at Darin. She knows he can hear every word we’re saying with those bat ears of his, but he was never one for banter. Like old times, he just follows us around, keeping his distance unless we corner him. He’ll talk when he’s got something worth saying, but he prefers to let his pipes speak for him.

  Darin isn’t handsome like Perin. He isn’t tall and beautiful, with muscular arms and a booming voice like Oskar. Darin Bales is shy and quiet where the young men who tend to catch Selen’s notice are loud and boisterous. His face is round and soft-cheeked, when I know she prefers a square jaw.

  Yet Selen’s eyes keep drifting to him in the mirror as I work, watching Darin’s puckered lips kiss each mouthpiece in its turn as they dance across his pipes.

  I can’t imagine shining on Darin Bales, yet I can’t help but feel a bit of jealousy at the attention Selen gives him. After all, Darin Bales was the first boy Selen ever played kissy with. It was years ago—all of us children, another of our ridiculous bets.

  Both of them made faces after, and no one’s mentioned it since. Still, the three of us had always been inseparable, and something changed that day. I don’t know if it was them or me, but it…itched that the two of them shared something so intimate without me.

  I followed Darin around for a week after, hoping for a chance to kiss him, if only to correct the imbalance. He was oblivious, of course. Grandmum says boys always are, when you’re the one chasing them.

  Summer ended, and like every year, Darin went back to Tibbet’s Brook to help with reaping. Mrs.
Bales and Darin came to Hollow every spring after sowing, and stayed until reap. I vowed to settle things the next year.

  But they didn’t come back the next year. Or the year after. Or since. Court gossips say Mother and Mrs. Bales had an argument about Darin’s da, but no one really knows for sure.

  After five years, I’ve lost all desire to kiss Darin, and I know it’s foolish to be jealous of Selen’s attention. But I see him glance back at Selen when she isn’t looking, and I worry one of them is going to end up with a broken heart.

  * * *

  —

  Even at night, the thick velvet curtains are drawn in Mother’s library, blocking the faint starlight from tainting her spells. Mother and Mrs. Bales are sipping tea and talking pleasantly when we arrive, but I know the look of women feigning friendship to hide their dislike of each other.

  It isn’t hard to imagine why. Mother and Arlen Bales played a bit of kissy of their own before he married Mrs. Bales. No one did wrong, but I’m starting to wonder if kissing is worth all the trouble it brings.

  But that can’t be the whole story. After coming every summer for ten years, something must have happened to make them stop. Something that took a demon attack to overcome.

  “Olive.” Mrs. Bales gets to her feet. “Aren’t you pretty as a sunrise.”

  If anyone else had said that while my face was scrubbed clean I would have argued, but I doubt Mrs. Bales has ever so much as painted her lips or put on anything that wasn’t homespun. Her long hair is in a simple braid, tied on itself. Yet still she carries herself like a queen, and gets treated like one. I forgot how much I crave her approval.

  “Aunt Ren.” I reach out and she takes me into her arms. “I missed you.”

  “Missed you, too, girl,” Mrs. Bales says. “Your da sends his love, as well.”