“Ay, why didn’t they put you to work, too?” Selen asks when we’re back on our way, bellies full and with a sack of vegetables in her pack.
“They saw my bow,” I tell her. “The Mehnding are the far-reaching tribe. Missile experts. They assumed I was a warrior. It would be dishonorable to make me work for a meal.”
“They didn’t see the spear and shield on my back?” Selen asks.
“Obviously you’re carrying them for me.” I wink and dodge her swat in response, but the irritation in her scent is real.
The food is gone two days later, as the capital city of Everam’s Bounty comes into view. We’re tired, hungry, and both of us have smelled better. We haven’t spoken more than necessary in days.
“This had better be worth it,” Selen mutters.
“Only hope we’ve got,” I say. “Olive’s da, my bloodfather, is married to Inevera, the only seer more famous than Aunt Leesha.”
Selen doesn’t reply, and I catch pain and sadness in her scent. Both of us are struggling.
Like Hollow, Everam’s Bounty is protected from demons, but the Krasians use massive stone obelisks graven with wards rather than shape their streets and fields to the twisting demands of the symbols. The giant pillars reach out from the city like the spokes of a wheel, protecting countless acres of rich farmland.
It is harvesttime, and the fields bustle with workers, but as with the other farms we’ve visited, adherence to the strict dress Krasians once uniformly embraced has fallen off. Occasionally there is a woman in full blacks and veil, but most look little different from Thesan women with kerchiefs in their hair. All look well fed and often there is laughter while they work. The land is prosperous, and all share in it.
The prosperity works against us as we enter the city proper. Here there are more men in Sharum blacks and women in veils, the materials pressed and clean, but it seems more a fashion choice than law. Selen and I look like beggars by contrast, and the locals shy away from us, hands on their purses.
There are bakeries and sweet shops that smell so good my mouth fills with water, and plentiful bookshops devoted to religion and the sciences. Clothing shops do brisk custom, and there are theaters and museums. Folk laugh at outdoor restaurants as street entertainers play for coin, and even these look askance at us.
The ever-present obelisks are at almost every intersection, often at the center of water fountains, or sitting atop intricately designed pedestals.
The guards to the walled inner city shift their spears, eyes narrowing as we approach. A few that were previously milling about drift toward the gate, watching us.
“Sure this is a good idea?” Selen asks.
I smile. Ent often I get to impress Selen Cutter. “Ay. Watch this.”
A hulking warrior appears with the red veil of a drillmaster around his throat. I walk right up to him, ignoring his threatening glare. With a smile I give a polite bow. “I am Darin asu’Arlen am’Bales am’Brook. It is urgent I speak to my bloodfather, Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir, the Shar’Dama Ka.”
The drillmaster’s eyes widen, and several of the guards stare with mouths open. For a moment that seems to stretch on into minutes, no one says anything. Then the drillmaster turns to the nearest warrior and gives him a shove. “Stop gawking and deliver the message, fool.” He turns to the others. “Open the gate and prepare a palanquin!”
* * *
—
The palanquin bobs slightly with the steps of the men carrying the poles, but sunk into the silk feather pillows, I hardly notice. There is a jug of cold water, warm couscous with spiced meat and vegetables, dried fruits and nuts, and an incense burner, no doubt more for the benefit of others than ourselves. The incense threatens to give me a headache, but this deep in a crowded city, I am glad for its dulling of my senses.
Selen and I eat hungrily as we watch the inner city go by through curtains of impossibly thin translucent silk.
“Night,” Selen says through a mouth full of food. “You call me princess, but I ent ever had a pack of soldiers fall over themselves to put a silk pillow under my bum. Why didn’t you do this a week ago?”
She’s got a right to know, though I don’t like talking about it. “Most everyone in Thesa thinks my da is the Deliverer, and my bloodfather is half demon,” I say. “Here, it’s the reverse. And if my da is half demon to them…”
“You are, too,” Selen finishes.
“Ay,” I say. “Mam always said religion makes folks unpredictable. That we couldn’t trust folk we didn’t know. But here in the capital, no one hinders the Jardir family.”
“And you count as family?” Selen asks.
“Ahmann Jardir delivered me,” I say, feeling my throat tighten. “The son of his fallen best friend, in the deep dark below the world. Mam says his hands were still wet with Da’s blood when he smacked out my first cry. That means something in Krasia.”
“Think that would mean something anywhere.” Selen lays a gentle hand on my arm.
“Last time we visited, I think I was forty-third in line for the throne,” I note.
Selen pulls back suddenly, glaring at me. Her scent is unreadable.
“What?” I ask.
“Darin Bales,” she swats me on the arm, “are you telling me that for all these years you’ve been making fun at me and Olive, you’ve been a ripping prince?”
I roll my eyes. “Barely. If the forty-three ahead of me died, they’d add a forty-fourth before letting a chin take the throne.”
“Still counts,” Selen says. “Wait till I tell Olive. She is going to spit!”
* * *
—
The palanquin pauses at the palace steps for a while as messengers run back and forth. They don’t disturb us, and by the time we are moving again, Selen is asleep on the pillows, and my eyes have grown heavy as well. It’s been a long time since I relaxed on a pillow with a full stomach in a safe place.
The bearers carry us away from the main entrance to the family wing. There are more guards, but they have been alerted and let us pass without delay. Then the palanquin tilts as they carry it up the broad steps.
Selen is jolted awake. “Ay, they don’t need to carry us up the ripping steps.”
“Believe me when I say it ent worth arguing,” I tell her. “They take it as an insult to their hospitality if visiting royals have to climb a step on their own.”
“Where are they taking us?” Selen asks.
“They’re delaying,” I say. “If they were prepared, we’d start in the throne room. Reckon our showing up unexpected turned everyone’s day upside down. Mam used to love this game.”
I think of how Mam used to chuckle to herself, seeing everyone scramble when we skated in unannounced and showed up at the gate. The servants and Damajah always smelled of irritation, but the pleasure in Jardir’s scent at seeing us overpowered everything. The memory makes my heart ache, and my hand drifts of its own accord to grip the handle of Mam’s knife.
“Olive’s da is King of Everything here,” I go on. “Might be lounging in a silk sleepshirt in his library reading a book, or he might be on the other side of the duchy blessing crops and kissing babies. No telling how long it will take before he’s ready to see us.”
The palanquin is set down, and the curtains are pulled back to reveal the twins have come to greet us. “In the meantime, they stall us with family.”
“Oh, cousin,” Rojvah pouts, “but of course we had to come! Who else would have the nerve to tell you that you smell like a goat, and need a bath and fresh clothes before you track dust through the sacred halls?” Arick snickers at that, and I press my lips together to keep my own smile from breaking out.
It will only make things worse if I encourage her.
Rojvah and Arick have the same father—the famous Rojer Halfgrip, first Jongleur to learn to charm demons with
his music. Like my da, Halfgrip died during the war, but he’s always been a hero to me.
Despite being born to different mothers, Mam always called Rojvah and Arick the twins. Both have cinnamon hair—darker than their da’s fabled flame red, but a coveted rarity in Krasia. Their skin is lighter than Olive’s, though nothing like the pale white shown in portraits of Rojer Halfgrip. In the North it might pass for too much time in the sun, but here in the palace surrounded by full-blood Krasians, it’s enough to draw notice.
But the twins attract attention in any event. They say Rojvah’s grandmother Damajah Inevera is the most beautiful woman in Krasia, and I ent one to argue. At fourteen, all can see Rojvah is following in her footsteps. A pouch of unfinished demonbones hangs from her waist, but she looks decidedly uncomfortable in the white silk robe and headscarf of a Krasian priestess-in-training.
And Arick…I hear Selen’s breath catch as she looks at him, and the scent she gives off makes jealousy surge in my chest.
Arick asu Rojer am’Inn am’Kaji wears brightly colored robes and carries a fine instrument case on his back. He’s played the kamanj his entire life, but he’s more warrior than Jongleur—tall, with bunched muscle and nothing of a tumbler’s agility. His heavy jaw frames a face that looks sculpted from marble. He has Krasian features, but his skin is light as any in the North, and his hair is more orange than the rusty red that crops up here and there in Krasia.
He puts his hand out to shake in the Northern fashion. I take it, knowing what is coming next. Arick clutches my hand tight, pulling me in close as his left fist balls and throws a hook at my shoulder.
The punch is playful, but as with Selen’s brothers, it is also an attempt at dominance in front of the women. I’m ready for the blow, turning my hand slippery just long enough to slide from his grasp. I duck the fist and take a quick step back out of range as Arick stumbles and loses a bit of dignity. I could hit back, but to what end? It would only escalate things, and I doubt he’d even feel it.
Arick barks a laugh. “One day, am’Bales!”
“You’ll need to move faster than a snail on crutches.” I smile despite the tiresome game. I’ve missed my cousins, and we’ve never been more in need of friendly faces.
Rojvah opens her arms to embrace me, but then sniffs and draws back, holding her nose. “You may have a proper greeting when you’ve had a bath.”
“Stink clings to him even when he’s good and scrubbed,” Selen says. “Honest word, we’ve tried.”
Rojvah titters and Arick throws his head back to laugh, as if it’s better to stink of perfume than accept your own scent. I sweep an arm toward Selen. “Selen vah Gared am’Cutter am’Hollow, meet the twins, Rojvah and Arick—”
“The children of Rojer Halfgrip,” Selen cuts in. Rojvah smiles at that, but her brother’s face darkens.
“Welcome,” Rojvah gives a shallow bow. “It is good to know our father’s name is still known in the North.”
“Known,” Selen snorts. “Man’s practically a saint.”
“Your father is renowned in the warrior halls of Krasia.” Arick’s bow is much lower than his sister’s, meeting Selen’s eyes boldly. “It is said none can match him in a feat of strength.”
A nice word about her da will always set Selen smiling, but this time it bothers me. I don’t like her smiling at Arick like that, and I definitely don’t like the way he’s looking at her. Again, the images flash in my mind from when our auras touched. I’m not the only boy Selen’s kissed. Not by a far sight. Got no right to be jealous.
But I am, and need a deep breath to calm myself. Rojvah tilts her head, eyes flicking to Selen and back to me. She moves forward, her playful reluctance gone as she takes my arm. “Come, let us see to your comforts.”
* * *
—
Rojvah takes off her headscarf the moment the servants close the door behind us, shaking out waves of cinnamon hair. Known her all my life, but still I can’t help staring. Rojvah’s always been pretty as a sunset. I catch a whiff of annoyance from Selen, and for once the smell pleases me.
Rojvah turns to a mirror, examining her hair. “Another few moments and that dreadful scarf would have flattened it for the rest of the day.”
She turns to Selen. “Can you manage a bath without servants?” She gestures with her hand to a screen at the far side of the room. There is moisture in the air, and I can smell the soap. Even I am eager for a scrub.
“Ay, think I can manage.” Selen is already moving for the screen.
“Thanks be to Everam,” Rojvah says. “The servants will all tsst to Mother if I so much as unbind my hair in front of the son of Arlen, since we’re intended.”
Selen stops short. “Ay, what?”
“Marriage broker nonsense,” I say quickly. Rojvah’s scent is playful, but I’m afraid her games will get me in more trouble than I want. “I’m on some list with a hundred other eligible bachelors, but until Rojvah gets promised to someone else we’re considered courting.”
“Indeed it is nonsense,” Rojvah agrees, but the hand she lays on my arm implies otherwise. “Darin is practically my brother, and indeed low on the list.” She gives my arm a squeeze. “But fear not, cousin. Inevera, one day you will find a bride with…exotic taste.”
“Ay, what’s that supposed to mean?” I demand.
Rojvah doesn’t reply. She pulls away, gesturing to Selen. “Come, I’ll see you to the bath while I change into something with a bit more color.”
She glides across the room and slips behind the screen as Selen scowls at her back. She throws an annoyed glance my way before following.
I turn to Arick, who has picked up Selen’s spear and shield and set his feet in a fighting stance. He spins the weapon through a series of sharukin, testing its reach and balance. Then he taps his finger on the point, a gentle touch that nonetheless draws a drop of blood.
“Fine weapon,” he grunts. “A bit long and heavy for you, I think.”
“It’s Selen’s,” I tell him.
Arick’s eyebrows leap into his orange hair as he turns to look at the silhouettes of the women in the screen. “She is Sharum’ting?”
“Stabbed a rock demon in the heart,” I say.
Arick gives a low whistle and it’s my turn to be annoyed. “Now, that’s a woman.” He lays down the spear and takes up my bow, stringing it in a quick and easy motion. “You prefer to kill from afar, like some Mehnding gray?”
The words are derisive. The Krasian army would have collapsed long ago without Mehnding bows and war machines, but other warriors call them “gray robes,” because they’re smart enough not to fight demons in close when they don’t have to.
“Prefer not to kill at all.” I pat the pipes hanging at my hip. “Had my way, I’d just play my pipes.”
Arick shakes his head. “Would that we could trade lives, cousin. I am forbidden to fight.”
“Still?” I ask. “That can’t be right.”
“This is my weapon, so they say.” Arick slaps his kamanj case in disgust. “I come from an unbroken line of warriors dating back centuries. My mother wore Sharum black and led thousands of warriors on the walls of Docktown, holding back an alagai horde even as I rode in her womb. My grandfather was bodyguard to Shar’Dama Ka himself.”
He looks down at his multicolored robes and makes a spitting noise. “Instead I am denied the spear and forced to dress like some chin jester to honor my father, who died in shame in some greenland prison.”
Rojvah steps from around the screen. Her face is serene, but even from across the room I can smell her anger. “Shame? Our father died taking a spear meant for my mother, and his music turned the tide in countless battles of Sharak Ka. His glory was boundless. But Arick would rather idolize his Baba Hasik, who died a castrated traitor, than wear a colored robe in his father’s honor.”
Arick bares hi
s teeth at his sister, but she stares him down. Rojvah’s mother is more royal than Arick’s, and Rojvah is inviolate in her clerical white. Still, the sudden anger I smell on Arick puts me on edge.
“Pine for the spear if you wish, brother, but speak no lies about Father.” Rojvah moves to a wardrobe near the bath, selecting an armful of dresses and retreating back to the screen.
“Why not just tell Jardir you want to be a warrior?” I keep my voice flat, acting like Arick doesn’t smell like he’s about to flip the table.
Arick laughs, his anger stink dissipating with a smell of resignation. “As if my wishes matter, when I have so famous a father.”
I blow out a breath. “Know what that feels like. Ent exactly a par’chin myself. Boys got carry their das’ weight along with their own.”
“Guess it’s good I ent a boy,” Selen says, emerging from behind the screen in a beautiful blue dress, cut in the Angierian style. “My da’s carrying three hundred pounds just in his belly.”
Rojvah laughs at the joke, but Arick and I just stare at Selen, whom I’ve seldom seen wear anything so…feminine.
“All she’s got are white robes and frilly debutante gowns.” Selen flicks her hand over the dress, annoyed.
“You look great,” I say.
Selen catches me staring and balls a fist. “Now ent a good time to add a punch line, Darin.”
“You and Olive are the ones who throw shadow at folk about their clothes,” I say.
“Ay, fair,” Selen allows. I can tell she feels Olive’s absence even more keenly. It’s like a part of us is missing.
“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Rojvah huffs. “Our ambassador in the North sends me all the latest fashions.”
The words draw my eyes as Rojvah steps back behind the screen. No doubt she thinks the watercolored paper shows only silhouettes, but unlike the others, I can see through it quite clearly. She unfastens something, and her robes seem to blow away like smoke.
The Desert Prince Page 40
