The Desert Prince

by Brett, Peter V.

  “Since what?” I ask when she trails off.

  “Since she had you in her belly,” Jardir finishes. “She gave one vial, asking if you would survive the journey below.”

  “What…” I swallow. “What did the dice say?”

  Inevera flicks an annoyed glance at her husband before answering. “He will be born in darkness.”

  I shiver, even as I realize she has only told me part of the prophecy. The part that has already come to pass, as Jardir delivered me in the bowels of the demon hive. What is the rest? What doesn’t she want me to know?

  I take a deep breath. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is Mam and Aunt Leesha and Olive.

  “Three vials,” I say. “To be used to find Mam and Aunt Leesha and Olive, and no other reason.”

  The Damajah’s eyes narrow. “Powerful forces are at work here, son of Arlen. It may require more to glean what we need.”

  I nod. “You can have three. You need more, you can ask me then.”

  I see her lips tighten through the gossamer silks of her veil, but she nods. “Done.”

  The last thing I want to do is push the Damajah too far, but I imagine what Mam would say. “Swear it.”

  Even through all the perfume, I can smell Inevera’s indignation at the challenge to her integrity, but she does not hesitate. “I swear by Everam and my hope of Heaven, I will take three vials and no more, to be used exclusively in search of your mother and Leesha and Olive am’Paper.”

  I nod and hold out my arm.

  * * *

  —

  Aunt Leesha cast the bones once, poring over the throw for hours. The Damajah is quicker, using the other vials to ask follow-up questions, whispered with wards of silence around her and my bloodfather preventing even me from hearing her prayers. She faces away so I cannot read her lips, and her scent tells me nothing.

  I’ve paced the room more times than I can count when I notice Selen lounging on a bench. “How can you be so calm?”

  Selen shrugs. “I grew up watching Leesha waste countless hours staring at dice. Got bored of it a long time ago. Either they’ll find something, or they won’t. Ent a thing we can do about it.” She lets out a deflating breath. “The way things look, we won’t even get to see this through.”

  She’s right about that. The price of asking Bloodfather’s help was our liberty. Now that they have us, neither my bloodfather nor the general is likely to let us out of their sight again.

  “Ent about us,” I say. “Now that Bloodfather’s involved, it’ll get sorted quick. You’ll see.” Selen nods, and I wish I had half the confidence I’m pretending.

  At last, Jardir and Inevera rise and come over to us.

  “I do not believe your mother is dead, Darin am’Bales,” the Damajah says. “The death of one so powerful leaves an imprint, and the alagai hora have found none such.”

  She says nothing of what she did see in the dice, only what she did not. “Then where is she?”

  “The results are…inconclusive,” Inevera says.

  “We will find her,” Jardir assures me. “We will find them both.”

  “And now for Olive.” The Damajah takes her needle again, this time blooding both Selen and Jardir, mixing the blood of father and aunt into a passable substitute for Olive’s.

  “Do you have a personal item of Olive’s to focus the throw?” Inevera asks.

  Selen produces Olive’s warded cloak, folded safe in her pack these many weeks. “Will this do?”

  Inevera nods, returning to her silenced circle and spreading the cloak out like a casting cloth. The dice flash as she throws, and she stares at them a long time.

  I watch my bloodfather’s lips as he speaks in the ring of silence, reading them as easily as a book. “What do you see, jiwah?”

  Inevera turns to look at him. Reckon she trusts the layers of her veils to cover her lips, but I squint and peer through. “She is in the one place you cannot go, husband.”

  Jardir’s brow furrows. “There is nowhere I cannot go to reach Olive Paper.”

  Inevera gives a sad shake of her head, veils wafting after. “The prophecy stands. Now that the gates of Desert Spear have closed behind the Majah, they will not open again for you without bloodshed.”

  “If the Majah kidnapped my daughter,” Jardir growls, “then bloodshed they shall have.”

  “It will wash away all hope of a reunified Krasia in your lifetime,” Inevera says. “They have our Jiwah Sen Belina. Your son Iraven. Why is this different?”

  “You know what Olive is,” Jardir says. “You saw it yourself in the bones.”

  “No. I do not,” Inevera tells him, “and neither do you. We know what she might be. Either Everam wills it so, or He does not.”

  “You said the same about me,” Jardir says.

  “Indeed,” Inevera says, “and the account has yet to be audited in full.”

  What might she be? It’s pointless to ask. I know they won’t tell me. It will only inform them that I can read lips through a veil.

  Jardir’s knuckles press pale against his skin as he grips his spear. “Iraven and Belina are of Majah, and chose to remain with their people. Olive is not and did not. Aleveran cannot be allowed to hold her.”

  Again the Damajah shakes her head. “If you go, you will make matters worse.”

  “A worry for when I have found her mother,” Jardir growls. He turns on a heel. “Darin, attend me.”

  I follow him out of the casting chamber to another room off the main court: his private study and map room. Books and scrolls line the walls, with great tables for research. He selects maps of the eastern mountains, laying them out for me to look over. I show him where we found the remains of the expedition, and the large area Aunt Leesha indicated where the city might be.

  “Husband.” Inevera appears at the door.

  “Enough bones and cryptic words,” Jardir says, striding from the chamber onto an open-air balcony. “I will seek my blood sister and my intended. While I am gone, you are to divine a way to return Olive to us, or I will visit the Majah next, and the dice be damned.”

  He grips his spear in both hands then, and it begins to glow brighter and brighter. Then he holds it in the air and it pulls him aloft. Up off the balcony he rises, then he twists in midair and flies off into the night.

  The Damajah doesn’t shout. She doesn’t tsst. Nothing breaks the perfect serenity on her face.

  But she smells furious.

  37

  SPEAR & OLIVE

  “Olive, look out!” Chadan cries.

  The demon leaps at me from above as we pass an abandoned clay dwelling. It moves so fast I barely see more than tooth and talon and razor scales. I pivot, bringing my shield into position. My spear drops low, ready to stab up beneath once the alagai fetches against the wards.

  I needn’t have bothered. Faseek, Thivan, and Parkot close ranks around me before the demon even gets close, overlapping their shields in a clover lock. The demon is only four feet from snout to tail, but sand demons are heavier than they look. Two hundred pounds of tooth and claw and cabled muscle slams against the shields, but the wards flare, absorbing the impact. My brothers are braced against the rebound, and the formation holds.

  Like synchronized dancers, we break apart as Gorvan steps up and thrusts his spear, skewering the demon through its poorly armored belly as it hangs in midair. Gorvan falls back, guiding with his spear as gravity does the work of throwing the alagai into the kill zone at the center of our unit formation. No sooner has the demon struck the ground than it is pierced by half a dozen spears.

  Still the pinned creature thrashes. I spin my weapon across my shoulders and bring it down hard enough to behead the demon with the broad blade of my spearhead.

  “Are there more?” I look to Chadan, but our Ka isn’t watching. He’s kept his e
yes forward, trusting in his warriors to neutralize the threat as Watchers report in.

  “This neighborhood is crawling with them.” Chadan’s voice is tight. “An entire pack of sand demons broke off chase from the Baiters of Kai Fiza’s Viper Unit. A dozen at least.”

  “And the Sharum Ka sends us to clean it up,” Gorvan spits. “While the pampered Vipers sip couzi, safe in their warded ambush pocket.”

  Chadan whirls on him so quickly the larger boy stumbles back. “The Sharum Ka sent his best men!” He clashes his spear against his shield.

  That’s my cue. “Let the other kai cower in their hiding places while we rob them of glory! Do we fear a pack of,” I pause to spit, “sand demons?”

  Our warriors clash their spears against their shields in response. “No, my princes!”

  The men have good reason to be afraid. I feel it, too. But there’s nothing to be done but embrace the feeling and let it go.

  Some parts of the Maze are carefully crafted to bestow every advantage on Sharum holding the ground, but most parts are like this one, flattened neighborhoods our ancestors ceded to the alagai in their retreat after the Return. Abandoned homes, schools, temples. Public fountains and marketplaces. Like a layer of Nie’s abyss, the terrain is a reminder of our fate, should we falter before the alagai.

  Over the years the Sharum scavenged some buildings for material to reinforce others, providing layers of protection for warriors as they advance from the safety of the inner city, or draw the demons into traps with a choreographed retreat. The walls here are unwarded, encouraging the predatory instincts of the alagai as they chase warriors to ambush points.

  But that works against us when the demons break off pursuit. With ample cover, the alagai make full use of their natural advantages. Sand demon talons are hard as steel, and they can cling to walls and ceilings as easily as flat ground. Worse, they hunt cooperatively. Those we see are dangerous enough, but it’s the unseen ones that keep my stomach in a twist. Given a moment’s surprise, a sand demon can take down a strong warrior before he can bring his weapon to bear.

  But neither are the alagai prepared for my brothers and me. Comprised of an entire crop of nie’Sharum from every blood and caste, we are the largest unit in the Maze. The oldest of us are younger than any other warrior in Krasia, the youngest not yet at their full strength, yet we top the kill counts night after night.

  I was scared of the Maze, at first. Scared of getting hurt, or scarred, or dying. But more and more, I hunger for it during the day. Here, with Chadan, surrounded by my brothers as death comes for us, is where I feel most alive.

  I break the warriors into shield teams to search the buildings as others keep watch on the streets. Chadan’s scouts come and go as he directs the overall operation.

  We corner a pair of demons in back of one of the cramped buildings, but as we press the attack, two more drop down from a hidden ledge.

  They’re getting smarter.

  Faseek shield-bashes one of the demons in midair, knocking it prone for Thivan and Parkot to stab. Levan is not so quick, and the other demon lands on his shoulders, driving him to his knees with the impact.

  I am closest, but I can’t risk hitting Levan with a spear thrust, and a shield rush won’t knock it away before it can rip out his unarmored throat.

  Instead I drop my spear and shield, reaching out to grab the demon’s ridged tail.

  Like a thousand shards of glass, the demon’s scales shred the thick leather of my gloves as its tail writhes in my grip, but I am able to yank it off Levan in time.

  The sand demon falls backward toward me. I let go of the tail and snatch one of its wrists, snaking the other hand under its armpit for a hold behind its head. I drop to my back, hooking my ankles around its powerful thighs.

  The alagai is stronger than me, but I am not afraid. I have leverage and physics on my side, redirecting its limbs to keep the demon off its feet. It throws its head back, nearly managing to gore my face with its horns, but then my brothers are there.

  Menin and Parkot still carry the clubs they used that first night we fought, though with stronger wardings. They use them now to batter and stun the demon while Faseek and Thivan produce heavy cleavers that look more suited to a butcher shop than a warrior’s kit. They hack the demon to pieces with the warded blades, showering me in black ichor that sizzles against my armor’s wards.

  We continue our steady press, clearing buildings and exterminating demons as we sweep the neighborhood. Faseek chops the horns from every demon we kill—fourteen sand demons in total—before we pronounce the neighborhood clear.

  * * *

  —

  “The Princes Unit returns,” Kai Fiza calls as we join the warriors mustering for count before dawn.

  Fiza pronounces it princess and I bristle, knowing it is as an insult directed at me. I’ve heard other Sharum using it. There are sniggers from the crowd.

  Fiza is larger than me, but past his prime. As a fellow kai, there is nothing stopping me from blacking his eye. I take a step forward.

  “Peace, brother.” Chadan’s gentle hand on my arm is all it takes to calm my raging heart. Inner peace radiates from my ajin’pal, and when I am with him, sometimes I can find just a little of it.

  “I am glad to see you well, Kai Fiza!” Chadan calls. “I feared you might have injured your backside, sitting while we cleared the alagai your Baiters lost.”

  Many of the mustered warriors laugh at that, and it is the Viper Unit’s turn to bristle. Kai Fiza looks ready to retort when Chadan lifts a finger.

  On cue, Faseek takes the sack off his shoulder and drops it to the ground, spilling sand demon horns into the dust. The sight quiets whatever Fiza was about to say, and even the other kai stare jealously at the pile.

  “Well done, my precocious warriors,” Iraven calls, striding over with his hands spread. “What you lack in years, you make up in ferocity.”

  A niggle of irritation returns at the sight of my brother. Iraven’s bravery is undeniable, but the band around my arm is a constant reminder that I cannot trust him. His words sound like praise, but there is condescension in them, as well.

  But there is no condescension from Iraven’s tally man, who counts the horns, making a note in his ledger. Our purses will be full this week.

  “Any losses?” Iraven asks.

  “None,” Chadan says proudly. We haven’t lost a warrior in the weeks since Waning, though we have been in the thick of battle almost every night. We still train with Chikga during the day, and keep the youngest from the front lines, but all have shed blood and ichor in the Maze.

  There is good cheer as we return to the pavilions for meat and couscous. “Join us in the harem, brothers!” Gorvan calls, his arms already around the necks of Menin and Parkot. “Let the Jiwah’Sharum soothe the aches from your body!”

  My face heats and I look away as Gorvan laughs, half dragging the others along with him. When we’ve been seen and congratulated our brothers, Chadan and I steal away to the sweat room.

  It has become a ritual now, wearing only towels as we scrape the sweat from each other, seeking out the many scrapes and bruises of a night’s battle and lovingly tending them.

  Tales of the demon war lionize elders who put down canes and picked up weapons when all seemed lost. Magic shaved whole summers off their bodies, slowly nudging them toward their physical primes.

  But the changes magic wrought upon those who lifted a warded spear or axe before their full growth were no less pronounced.

  Feedback magic has wrought changes on all my spear brothers in the weeks since we entered the Maze, but I am most intimate with the changes upon Chadan. He is taller and heavier with muscle, voice deepened and a beard beginning to shadow his cheeks.

  I, too, have put on inches and pounds of muscle, but my voice—never high to begin with—hasn’t changed significa
ntly. Neither has more hair sprouted on my face than the occasional stray Grandmum Elona used to mercilessly pluck.

  My breast has broadened, but not the heavy swell of Mother or Grandmum. Nothing that would show through Sharum robes, much less armor. Here in the sweat room my reflection simply seems thick with muscle from the front, but in profile I have a more feminine shape. Chadan has never commented on it, but I’ve taken to wearing my towel higher to flatten my shadow.

  With magic augmenting our healing, even Chadan’s wounds are all closed. Scabs slough away as I run the sweat scraper over his shoulder, revealing pink lines of flesh on his brown skin. Soon even those will darken to his natural color.

  “You need better armor,” I note. “They found the seam between the plates in your robe.”

  Chadan leans back into the brush. “Father has already commissioned something ‘worthy of the heir of Majah.’ ”

  Now that he has earned the white veil, Chadan has come back into the family wealth he was denied while in nie’Sharum robes. I can see how it discomfits him after so long in the austerity of sharaj. His response has been generosity, using his personal funds to outfit our warriors with fine spears, shields, and armor plates of light, indestructible warded glass tucked into the pockets of their robes.

  Despite the new equipment, many—like Menin and Parkot—still carry as well the crude weapons they made themselves that first night, tucked away like my hanzhar for use if they are ever separated from their spears.

  I shudder, remembering how just a few short hours ago I dropped my spear and shield, wrestling a sand demon with my bare hands. In the heat of battle, I hadn’t given it a second thought, but now it feels so reckless. A move born of desperation.

  “The alagai are getting smarter,” I say.

  Chadan nods. “Dodging the Baiters. Choosing favorable terrain. Luring us into a building where their clutchmates lay in wait. There are similar reports from all over the Maze.”