The Desert Prince

by Brett, Peter V.

  I try to stuff my hands in my pockets, but for some reason, my new pants don’t have any. The ones on my jacket are too small to put anything of use in. “Feel like I’m the one lost a bet. Got suede and velvet for every occasion now, and not a thing that’s comfortable.”

  “Creator be praised,” Selen says. “You’ll need your fanciest for Sixthday supper tonight with the general.” Selen’s casual accent switches to the stuffy Angierian court speech Hary puts on when he wants to sound officious. “The baroness requires formal dress at the Sixthday table. Seating is promptly at six, do not be late. Supper shall continue until the general and the baroness get too drunk to be civil.”

  “Ay!” I put up my hands as Olive laughs. “Never agreed to that.”

  “Ent got a choice,” Selen says. “Don’t like it any more than you, but Da’s been looking forward to this all week. Won’t kill you to eat with us on Sixthdays. It’s not like Emelia wants me around more than that, anyway.”

  “You and your stepmam still don’t get on?” I ask.

  “Get on with the living embodiment of the scandal that soured her marriage before it even began?” Selen asks. “She hates Sixthday dinner even more than I do.”

  Selen lays a hand on my shoulder. Even through my suede jacket and silk shirt I can feel its warmth. “Hoping you’ll sit between us and turn slippery.”

  “She doesn’t like me, either,” I say.

  “Ay, but scratching at you is asking for a visit from Mrs. Bales, and even the baroness ent stupid enough to tempt that.” She squeezes my shoulder and looks me in the eyes. “Please?”

  My knees weaken, but I make my voice gruff. “Ay, fine.”

  Selen lets out a squeal and hugs me. “Apologies now for my brothers.”

  In truth, I can handle the baroness and Selen’s half brothers just fine. It’s Uncle Gared that makes me uncomfortable. I hate it when Da’s old friends want a look at me. Always searching for something exceptional—something of the great man they knew—in his only son. I can smell their disappointment when they can’t find anything.

  “Can we get off this wall, now?” Olive asks. “The wind is ruining my hair.”

  We walk down to the yard and back into the residence, where I split off to gather the few things left in my room to bring to General Cutter’s manse. They wait till I turn a corner down the hall, but I can still hear the girls talking.

  “You’ve got a dinner date with Darin Baaaaales—!” Olive’s singsong voice is cut off by the sound of Selen shoving her.

  “Oh, ay,” Selen says. “Real romantic. Da getting drunk while Emelia and her mother snipe at us and my brothers bark and pee the carpet.”

  Olive laughs. “No way you can get out of it?”

  “It’s all Da’s been talking about,” Selen says. “The general swears Arlen Bales was the Deliverer, and to him that makes Darin half Deliverer, too. Be good for Da to see he’s just some dirty bumpkin.”

  Mam says my special senses are a gift, but there are times when I truly hate them.

  * * *

  —

  “Night,” Selen declares when I open the door.

  Took me an hour to make sense of all the buckles, laces, buttons, knots, and cuffs of the dinner clothes the servants laid out, but it’s worth it to see her breath catch.

  “You weren’t spinning stories about the tailors,” Selen says. “They cleaned you up good.”

  I smile with more teeth than strictly necessary. “Wouldn’t want your da to look at me and think I’m just some dirty bumpkin.”

  “Heard all that, did you?” I feel the flush as Selen’s face heats. She’s ashamed, at least.

  I want to stay mad, but she ent making it easy. Used to seeing Selen in leggings or a wide-skirted court dress. Now she’s clad in a dark blue velvet gown that accents her height and muscular frame. It hugs tight around her ribs, leaving her broad shoulders bare. Her arms are thicker than mine. She’s even let Olive paint her lips and pin her hair, though the bet’s long over. She’s beautiful.

  Try as I might, I can’t stop thinking about the last summer I spent in Hollow. Folk gossiped that I kissed her, but truer was Selen did the kissing and I just melted in her arms. Every time I see her, I wonder if she’s going to do it again.

  “Hear everything,” I say. “There’s seven servants bustling around the supper table downstairs. Two are out of breath. One maid’s tryin’ to hide a sniffle. Butler has a loose heel on his shoe that clacks when he walks.”

  “So no one’s got any privacy, that it?” Selen asks. “Better not have gas on the privy! Darin’s always listening.”

  “Ent like I got a choice!” I’m irritated at her attempt to turn it back on me. “Sometimes I can filter out all the sounds and smells, sometimes I can’t. And why should I have to? So folk can insult me when I’m not around?”

  Selen crosses her thick arms. “Would have said those exact words to your face, Darin Bales, and you know it.”

  “That supposed to make it better?” I scoff. “Never say things like that to you.”

  “That’s because you ent got a sense of humor.” Selen winks.

  “Don’t forget who wagered you into having to paint your face,” I say. “And don’t fool yourself. Master Hary says, ‘Mean’s an easy shortcut to a laugh, but it ent comedy.’ ”

  “Fun, though.” Selen’s mouth quirks in a smile that threatens to make me forget why I was angry. “Don’t be mad, Darin. Three of us have been throwing shadow at each other since we were in nappies. Ent the time to get all sensitive.”

  She senses my weakness, threading her arm through mine. I try to pull away, but it’s a token effort, and she knows it.

  “You just want me as a shield against your stepmam.”

  “Ay.” Selen starts guiding me down the hall to the stair. “But it ent like you’ve got anything better to do.”

  * * *

  —

  Selen’s three brothers are loitering outside the dining room like a cluster of goldwood trees.

  I’ve got two summers on the oldest, Steave Cutter, but he’s been a head taller than me since we were out of nappies. At thirteen he’s closing on six feet with no sign of stopping. I could still look down at Gared Young on my last visit, but he has inches on me now. Even Flinn, six summers behind, can look me straight in the eye.

  “Ay, would you look at that.” Steave looks me up and down as Selen and I join them. “You get shorter, Bales?”

  He stinks of challenge. Every time I visit Hollow, Steave tries to pick a fight. Sometimes it’s words and sometimes it’s physical, but he’s always trying to get a rise out of me so he can establish dominance in front of his brothers. More than once when we were kids, I had to put him on the floor. Now, after putting on five summers and thirty pounds of muscle, he looks eager to make up the loss.

  It’s all so…primitive. Boring. Fighting Uncle Gared’s boys ent worth the hassle. Easier to just let Steave look big in front of his brothers.

  I smile as they cluster in like a pack of nightwolves. “Never seem to get as much rain and sunshine as you Cutters. All shot up, ent you?”

  Selen steps in front of me. Her scent is sharp with anger, but her words are almost singsong. “Steave’s just sour that his sister beat the snot out of him in the practice yard the other day.”

  “You cheated,” Steave growls, but a current of fear has slipped into his challenge scent.

  Selen gives a derisive snort. “Ay, that’s why you ent won a round against me your whole life.”

  Gared Young and Flinn snicker at that, and the moment defuses. If the Cutter boys are nightwolves, Selen has always been their alpha.

  “Look pretty tonight, sis.” Steave changes tactics, and I can smell Selen’s irritation. She doesn’t like being dressed up any more than I do, and Steave knows it. She looks ready to put h
im down right in the hall before Sixthday dinner. He takes a step back as she advances, and she pulls up short with a laugh. Flinn and Gared Young laugh along, but Steave smells angry, and it’s building. He’s about to do something stupid to save face.

  “Darin!” Uncle Gared booms from down the hall, breaking the tension. More than seven feet tall, he towers over everyone, including his children, but out of the wooden armor he wears almost everywhere, Gared Cutter looks older than I remember. His coat buttons strain against a rounded belly, and there are thick jowls beneath his graying beard.

  “Creator, it’s good to have you under my roof again!” I suck in a bit as the general claps me on the shoulder. It’s all that keeps him from knocking me over. “See you’re catchin’ up with the boys?”

  “Ay, sir,” I say. “Thank you for offering succor while Mam is away.”

  “Least I could do,” he says. “And never mind all that ‘sir’ business. Used to call me Uncle Gar when you were still a sapling. Know we ent blood, but you’re as good as. Ever tell you about the time your mum carried me on her back out of a demon ambush?”

  “Only every time you see him.” Selen stands on tiptoes to kiss her father on the cheek.

  “It’s a good story,” he says.

  “Ay,” I agree, “but the way Mam tells it, Halfgrip saved you both, that day.”

  Rojer Inn, the famous Jongleur known as Halfgrip, has always been a hero of mine. He was the first person in thousands of years to charm corelings with his music, a skill that saved countless lives during the war, even after his death.

  “Honest word.” Gared smells sad, and proud. “Don’t think any of us would have survived that attack otherwise. Hear you’re a bit of a demon charmer yourself with those pipes.”

  My mind flashes back to the attack, my sweaty fingers slipping on the reeds, unable to hold the corelings back. “Nothing as special as that, si…Uncle Gar.”

  “Indeed,” a woman’s voice says. “It would take a swollen head for a boy to claim he’s the next fiddle wizard.” I look up and see Lady Lacquer, Selen’s step-grandmother, enter the room, Baroness Emelia close behind.

  “Welcome, Darin.” The baroness’ words and smile are warm, but her scent is derisive as she takes my arms and kisses the air to either side of my face. Her eyes flick over Selen like a pile of dung she needs to step around. “Selen. Your face looks lovely. You should powder it more often.”

  “Baroness. Lady Lacquer.” Selen’s curtsy is perfect as a dancer’s, but if her scent was irritated before, it’s inflamed now. Like Steave, the baroness knows she’s struck a nerve, and smells of smug satisfaction.

  The baroness turns to regard the general. “Husband. You look ready to pop your buttons. Shall I have the tailors let your coat out…again?”

  Uncle Gared doesn’t growl, precisely, but I feel the low rumble inside him, even if the others don’t. His face reddens, just slightly, but he ignores the question. “All here, so let’s sit. For some reason, I’m suddenly thirsty.”

  Indeed, the servants have already poured for the adults. A massive wooden mug, crackling with foaming ale, sits by Uncle Gared’s place at the table’s head. Waiting in Baroness Emelia’s place at the foot, as far from her husband as possible, is a large wineglass overfilled with a red so deep its scent is like sandpaper in my sinuses.

  We circle the table, Steave, Gared Young, and Flinn crowding on one side, with Selen, myself, and Lady Lacquer on the other.

  “Sit,” the general commands, and a servant slides my chair forward until the edge touches the backs of my knees. I drop down into it, wondering why they think we need help to sit down.

  The baroness reaches for her napkin, opening it with a snap and laying it across her lap. The rest of us follow along.

  Dinner starts off well enough. There are a few fancy Angierian dishes for the baroness and her mother. These the chefs introduce personally, listing every ingredient, though I hardly see why. The flavors of the food are drowned in sauces and seasoning.

  The general and his children favor simpler dishes, meat still moist in its own juices and plain grilled vegetables. While the baroness and her mother debate which slice of cheese will best complement a particular bread, the rest of us are holding bones in sticky fingers, rending the meat with our teeth as we laugh at Uncle Gared’s stories.

  “Buried my axe in the wood demon’s behind, but it gets stuck, and the woodie jerks it out of my hands, knocking me sprawling!” Uncle Gared waves his third mug, splashing a bit of ale. “The thing starts beating me with its great club arms!” He pounds his fist on the table, then the mug with another splash, then his fist again. “But I can still see my axe, hanging between its legs like a rippin’ tail!”

  I laugh so hard I nearly choke on my water. All the children are howling.

  “So I take the hits, bide my time, then reach right between the demon’s legs!” Uncle Gared sweeps an arm out, splashing yet more ale, and one of the brass buttons on his jacket pops free with an audible rip, bouncing and rolling along the table toward the baroness.

  Steave points, and he and his brothers howl anew. Even Uncle Gared starts to laugh, until Baroness Emelia gives an audible sniff. “I told you your clothes need letting out. If you’re determined to keep getting fatter, you might need a new wardrobe entirely.”

  “Just a rippin’ button.” This time Uncle Gared really does growl, irritated at having his story derailed right at the climax.

  “Ripping is right,” Lady Lacquer says, and both women titter.

  “What was it Duchess Araine told you at your Bachelor’s Ball?” Emelia asks. “No one respects a fat man on a throne?”

  Steave breaks the tension before she can retort. “I want to hear about the Warded Children!” I look up to see him staring right at me, and wonder if he’s smarter than he lets on, deflecting attention from his father. “You live with them, ay, Darin?”

  “Some of the time.” I don’t trust Steave. He might protect his da, but he’s always poking at me.

  “It true they ward their peckers?” Steave asks, sending Gared Young and Flinn into peals of laughter.

  Uncle Gared swats Steave on the back of his head. I don’t think it was meant to cause real harm, but he’s a big man, and Steave is knocked face-first into the table with an audible thump. He looks up at his father, more betrayed than hurt, and the general balls a fist in response. “Serves ya right! Show some corespawned respect!”

  Steave immediately bows his head. “Ay, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  “Sorry about that, Darin,” Uncle Gared says. “Thought my boys’d have more sense, but I guess they need it beat into them.”

  “It’s nothing.” I look at Steave with a grin. “Only knew one man who warded his pecker. Folk said he put impact wards around the tip.”

  The Cutter boys look awestruck at my words, and even Uncle Gared gapes. “Did that…work?”

  “Search my pockets,” I tell him. “Wasn’t able to find anyone willing to try it out. Ella says all it’s good for now is drilling holes in trees.”

  The general roars with laughter, pounding the table. His boys follow along, as much to please their father as at the joke.

  “Steave, go sit with your sister a spell,” Uncle Gared says. “Darin, come sit by me.”

  Everyone stops laughing at that. Emelia stiffens, and even Selen sucks in a breath. Steave complies, glaring daggers at me as we switch places.

  Uncle Gared seems not to notice, leaning in and fixing me with that probing stare I’ve come to hate. Trying desperately to see something of Arlen Bales in me. But whatever it is he’s looking for isn’t there. Maybe my da was something special, but I ent.

  At last the general grunts and leans back. “Remind me more o’ Rojer than your da, I’m to give honest word.”

  I don’t know how to answer that, looking back uncomfortably until Selen c
lears her throat.

  “Met one of the Warded Children on the borough tour,” she notes.

  “You mean when you stole armor from your father’s soldiers and snuck off, putting your and Princess Olive’s lives at risk?” The baroness holds out her empty glass, and a servant is quick to refill it.

  “Ay, that.” Selen’s eyes flick to her father, but when he raises no protest, she continues on. “Saw her fight a coreling barehanded.”

  She has her brothers’ full attention now, and takes her time reeling them in.

  “Did you really see a demon?” Flinn’s eyes are wide.

  “Saw a lot more than one,” Selen says. “Whole camp was overrun.”

  “What were they like?” Gared Young is no less entranced than his younger brother.

  “Tough,” Selen says. “Bashed one with my shield, hard as can be, and barely fazed it.”

  “Did you kill any?” Arlen asks.

  Selen shrugs. “Got in a few hits, but they heal fast. Stabbed a rock demon in the chest, after…” she smells suddenly unsure, no doubt realizing she was about to mention Micha, “…someone took it in the knee. Wasn’t alone, though. Took more than a few spears to put it down for good.”

  “Ent an easy thing to do, standing toe-to-talon with a rockie.” The general’s voice is gruff, but he smells of pride.

  “Don’t encourage her foolishness, Gared,” the baroness snips.

  “Ent encouragin’!” Uncle Gared holds up his hands. “Girl knows how I feel about what she done. Just sayin’ it’s tricky, puttin’ your spear between a rock’s armor plates.”

  “I’m sure she did no such thing,” Lady Lacquer says. “These children likely saw one demon and are spinning it into the Battle of Cutter’s Hollow. There aren’t enough corelings left to cause that kind of trouble.”

  For once, I’m the one who wants to fight. This spoiled old woman’s probably never seen a demon in her life, but she’s calling Selen a liar? I open my mouth to retort but Selen beats me to it.