Da’s fishing net.
I have to keep my hands from shaking as I hold it, taking it in with every sense at once. The texture of the rope fibers. The creak as I tug and test their strength.
I inhale, tasting his scent, preserved in the dry heat. I know it well. I used to play in Da’s old rummage trunks just to sit in that smell.
Da made it with his own hands. Wove every lattice. Tied every knot. The feelings are so intense I feel myself going slippery to escape them. I have to suck in before the net slips from my fingers.
The father waits below…
The similarity to Aunt Leesha’s prophecy is hard to shake. I wish to share something with my da, and here I find his old net hidden belowground, waiting for me. But it’s got to be a coincidence. If this is the prophecy made true, the Creator’s got a strange sense of humor.
I take it in a little longer, then head back down to the river.
“Who’s hungry for fish?”
* * *
—
Three days later, bellies full and throats still moist, we reach Fort Krasia, the Desert Spear. The city walls tower over the landscape, its great gates big enough for three rock demons to walk abreast.
We pass two ruined csars on the way, the char still pungent. The sights are an unnerving reminder that the corelings are up to something, and we’ll reach the city just hours before the first night of new moon.
“Nearly three months now, since Olive was taken,” Selen says. “Think she’s all right?”
“Reckon she’s in a silk prison full of servants and pretty clothes, just like we were,” I say.
“She’d have loved that,” Selen says, “if they hadn’t kidnapped her and dragged her a thousand miles from home. You think they tried to marry her to that prince?”
I shrug. “If they did, reckon he’s got two broken arms by now.”
Selen laughs, but she still smells sad and afraid. And why not? I feel it, too. I want to reach out, to touch her arm the way she did when I needed comfort, but I hesitate. I’m not used to touching anyone. If anything, they touch me.
And then the moment is gone.
“Reckon I can scale that wall without a problem,” I say. “Maybe open one of those side gates.”
“Unless the guards are utter fools, they have already spotted us,” Rojvah says. “With the csars destroyed, any travelers on this road will stand out like wayposts.”
“Night,” I say. “Now what do we do?”
“We don’t do anything, son of Arlen,” Rojvah says, “save ride to the gate, show the royal seal, and demand an audience with the Damaji. Did you think to sneak over the wall and into the palace?”
I blink. That’s exactly what I thought, and now I look like an idiot. Even Selen has a hand over her face, shaking her head quietly.
“You passed the Damajah’s test,” Rojvah says, “but not even you could manage that.”
“Test?” I ask.
“Of course.” Rojvah’s smile is patient. “Though it took longer than she expected for you to lose patience and offer to steal away and rescue Olive.”
“But…” I fumble for words, not entirely knowing what it is I’m feeling. “Why? Why not just ask me?”
Rojvah is still looking at me like I am a fool. “So that when your uncle reaches the city, or Grandfather returns, she can swear she had nothing to do with it.”
“Corespawned witch,” Selen growls. “We lost a week and more sitting on pillows!”
“We left when we were meant to leave,” Rojvah says. “It is inevera.”
I wonder if there were other throws of the dice at work. Arick’s fate, or Rojvah’s to inform the Damajah’s decision. “That mean this is gonna work?”
Rojvah shrugs. “It means we succeed in more futures than her other options.”
“Well that ent exactly comforting,” Selen says.
“The Majah are honorless,” Arick says. “The last thing we want to be is comfortable.”
45
VANITY
I stand at the flap of Chadan’s pavilion, watching with pride as our brothers polish weapons and paint sight wards around their eyes as they prepare for muster.
My prince was right about Tikka and women’s work. In the past weeks, every warrior in the Princes Unit has gotten patches and a painted shield emblazoned with the spear and olive. We have banners now, stamps to mark equipment, and new pavilion canvas. Some of the chi’Sharum even got tattoos, though permanently marking flesh with ink is forbidden by the Evejah.
Our warriors strut like court dandies, proudly displaying their new gear. Older Sharum shake their heads and snigger, but every one of them wishes for a fraction of the glory we claim each night.
These last weeks have been some of the happiest of my life. Whether fighting alagai in the Maze or sharing kisses in the cool comfort of Chadan’s pavilion, I’ve been able to forget the world I left behind and just live in the now.
“What do you think?”
I turn at the sound of Chadan’s voice, sucking a breath at the sight of him.
The cost of equipping all the Sharum with steel is prohibitive, so apart from the mind-warded steel helms they wear beneath their turbans, our men are armored simply in tough layered robes with pockets for armor plates to cover their most vulnerable areas. The plates are simple fired clay that shatters on impact, distributing the force of a blow. Cheap, light, and easy to replace, they allow warriors to stay fast and mobile with some measure of protection.
But Chadan is the prince of Majah, and on his raising to the veil, his father commissioned a suit worthy of the Damaji’s grandson. For weeks he’s been attending fittings with the women of the famed Tazhan clan, the most sought-after armorers in Desert Spear. Their secret techniques are passed from mother to daughter, and for each son, the mother crafts a suit of armor, protecting him with the work of her own loving hand in the night. Their men make up one of the fiercest units in the Maze, all but invulnerable in their Tazhan steel.
My prince is clad in a suit of black steel scales with golden wardwork around each plate. He spreads his arms and tries to take a step my way, only to be yanked back by a pair of Tazhan armorers attempting to complete his final fitting.
Recheda, Jiwah Ka of the Tazhan clan, covers her face in our presence, but I can tell from the lines around her eyes that she is older than Grandmum. Her callused hands are thick and strong from countless hours at the anvil.
“Hold still.” The Tazhan matriarch does not speak to Chadan as a prince. Her tone is sharp as any impatient Tikka’s, and Chadan responds immediately, standing up straight and becoming motionless as a statue as the women complete their work.
Recheda places a snug helm on Chadan’s head, with intricate wardwork in golden filigree for protection and wardsight.
“Is it heavy?” I ask. The wooden breastplates Selen stole were light, but steel…
“It’s actually not bad.” Chadan flexes his arm, and I’m amazed at how the scales ripple with the movement, giving him impressive range and fluidity.
“It looks like…” I glance at the armorer.
“Demon scales,” the woman agrees. “My great-grandmother invented the alagai-scale technique, to turn Nie’s own dark machinations against Her. The women of my family have preserved and guarded it ever since. Each scale is individually warded, overlapping protection even if scales are damaged or lost. They allow ease of movement, and distribute force to absorb impacts.”
She tightens a last strap and steps back. Chadan begins a series of sharukin, flowing through the poses with little restriction.
“When the wards are charged, the metal will store power for them to focus,” the armorer says. “You will be stronger in the suit than out of it.”
Chadan looks at me and winks. “Perhaps even as strong as you.”
“As if
you need it, my prince,” I say. “You beat me even without that advantage.”
“You weren’t exactly at your best that night,” Chadan says. “You’ve come a long way since then.”
The words are true, but I’ve seen the Majah prince fight. If we faced each other again today, I have little doubt the outcome would be the same.
“All that’s left is your sigil.” Recheda holds up a box of polished goldwood. Expensive in the North, and priceless here. She opens it to reveal a large pin of polished brass, depicting the Spear of Majah.
The symbol is already emblazoned on his shield, cloak, and helm, but the sigil one wears over one’s heart has special meaning.
“Thank you,” Chadan bows respectfully, “but I have my own.” He reaches into his belt and produces another brass pin, nearly identical to the one Recheda holds, save for the olive it pierces.
I feel my chest tighten, a mix of pride and love, but also a tinge of worry.
“Tsst.” Recheda confirms my fear. “A lesser Sharum might abandon his house sigil for the greater glory of his unit, but you are Chadan, son of Maroch, prince of Majah. You must carry your house’s honor in the Maze.”
“And so I do.” Chadan taps the Majah spear on his shield with a steel-scaled toe. “But if I seek the white turban, I must earn glory beyond family.”
“Tsst,” Recheda says again. “Nothing is beyond family, young prince.”
“Indeed,” Chadan agrees. “And I am ajin’pal, bound with blood to all my spear brothers. I carry their honor, as well.”
Recheda does not protest further, but I can sense her unease. Normally the armorer would secure the sigil in place, but she makes no effort to assist Chadan.
I step close, touching his arm. “Perhaps she’s right.”
“No,” Chadan says. “Keeping distance from the Sharum that they might more dispassionately spend their lives is the dama way. I am Sharum, one with my brothers.”
He says brothers, but it’s my eyes he looks into, and the truth is unspoken between us, overwhelming my uneasiness.
Chadan turns to Recheda, his bow deep and long, showing great respect. “Thank you, Tikka. Know that when I fight tonight, and every night to come, I will add to the already boundless Tazhan honor.” He punches a fist to his chest, a warrior’s gesture that sends a ripple through the scales.
Recheda seems mollified at that. “Of that I have no doubt, young prince.”
They leave soon after, and Chadan hands me the sigil. “Will you help me? It is difficult to affix while I am wearing it.”
I smile at the obvious lie. He wants me to do it. And I want it as well. I lay a gentle hand over his heart as I secure the spear and olive. He lays his own hand over mine, and as I look up, our lips meet.
“I love you,” I whisper. I didn’t know it myself until I spoke the words, but now I feel the truth of it in my bones.
Chadan stiffens at the words, and my heart stops until he wraps his arms around me, holding me tight. For a moment I luxuriate in the embrace, but then I feel him shake, ever so slightly. I feel wetness on my shoulder, and realize he is weeping. Serene, unflappable Chadan, who controls his emotions better than anyone I have ever known.
“What is it?” I don’t let go, but I pull my head back enough to look at him.
“We live on borrowed time.” He looks up and his eyes are wet, making it even more real.
I shake my head. “With alagai-scale armor and my spear at your back, you will be invincible in the Maze. If you die on alagai talons, it will be at a time of your choosing, not Nie’s.”
Chadan shakes his head. “I am not talking about the Maze.”
I reach out a gentle hand, feeling the cool wetness on his cheek. “Then what?”
“This.” Chadan pulls me tighter. “Us. My grandfather will not allow it forever. We must make the most of every moment.”
“Why?” I ask. “Many warriors are pillow friends. There is no dishonor in it.”
“They are not the Damaji’s heir,” Chadan says. “I have many sisters, but no brothers. My family fears I will fail to father sons if I am devoted to you, and they are not wrong. I’m not interested in women enough to do…that.”
But then it hits me. The reason I am here. I can shed blood for the Majah in the Maze, but also secure their line. For the first time in my life, I feel a sense of…inevera.
“You don’t have to be.” I take his hands, and the words come out of me in a rush. “I can have children.”
Chadan shakes his head. “It is not enough. They must bear my blood.”
He doesn’t understand. There is still time to keep my secret, but I realize I don’t want it anymore. Perhaps I never did.
Again Belina’s words of prophecy echo in my mind. The storms will end when the heir of Hollow joins blood with the Majah, and the princes stand in the eye.
I squeeze his hands again. “There’s a reason I was raised a woman. It is because I am one.”
“Impossible,” Chadan looks at me incredulously. “The dama’ting saw your…Everam’s beard, in the sweat room, even I have seen…”
I nod. “But none of you looked closer.”
Chadan cocks his head curiously. “Closer?”
“I have a woman’s parts as well as a man’s,” I tell him.
“How is that possible?” Chadan does not argue, but I see the confusion on his face. I have earned his trust, but this taxes even the bond between us.
“I was meant to be twins,” I tell him, “but some trick of Mother’s magic…joined us.”
He stares at me a moment, brows in a tight furrow as he struggles to process the concept. I am excited and terrified in equal measure, but he has not pulled his hands from mine, so I hold my breath, giving him time.
“You are saying you can bear children?” Chadan asks at last.
“Mother believes so,” I tell him, “and she is the most famed Gatherer in Thesa.”
Chadan pulls away at last, but it is only to gesticulate in a most un-Chadan fashion. “This changes everything! This—” He stops suddenly, sitting on a bone bench, deflated.
“What is it?” I ask.
“You’re offering everything I want,” Chadan says. “Anyone who has read a djinn tale knows such dreams come at a price, if they come at all.”
I put a hand on his shoulder. “I am no djinn, my prince. I am flesh and blood, like you. There is no hidden price.”
Chadan lays his hand over mine, squeezing even as he sighs. “I may not be the one to pay it. My people came back to Desert Spear to return to the old ways. Women are not allowed to take up the spear or fight in the Maze.”
That stops me. “What of the Sharum’ting?”
“Most were stripped of arms and returned to their families,” Chadan says. “The best were kept by the dama’ting as bodyguards and harem sentries. When age forces them to lay down their spears, there will be no more.”
I purse my lips. I’ve seen Micha and Selen fight. The very idea that women be forced to disarm offends me. The idea that I might be forced to disarm…
“I am not just a woman,” I say. “I am a man, as well. I won’t give up my spear.”
Chadan nods. “I would not want you to, but I don’t know if Grandfather can accept you as both. I’m still trying to understand it fully, myself.”
“We don’t need to tell him now,” I say. “If we are on borrowed time, let us borrow as much as we can to prepare. We’re young, still.”
“Everam willing, let it be so,” Chadan says. “But will there be a later? Are you not still honor-bound to escape?”
The words remind me of Micha, held against her will in the very harem I would refuse for myself. I wonder if Chadan would flee north with us, but I have already lain so much on his shoulders, and in my heart I know he will not desert his people in their time of need.
My hesitation says everything, and Chadan takes a step back, nodding as the customary detachment returns to his demeanor.
* * *
—
“Death stalks the Maze!” Chadan is majestic in his new armor as he paces before the assembled men, and they stare at him with a respect bordering on awe.
I feel it, too.
“Close your eyes, and imagine it!” Chadan shouts. “The alagai that gets past your guard, its teeth sinking into your soft throat. Claws piercing organs and talons rending the flesh from your bones. Imagine your death, and embrace it.”
The men close their eyes as bade, and I stand at their backs, giving them time to visualize an honorable death. Then I take a step forward and shout, “We are the Sharum of Desert Spear! What is our fate?”
“To spend our lives on alagai talons!” the men thunder in reply, a mantra that has led Sharum into battle for three thousand years.
Chadan and I have given this speech every night since we were raised to the veil. The drillmasters taught us one version, but it is the task of every unit leader to make it their own. My prince paces in front of the men and I walk among them as we honor those martyred before us, and prepare our spirits for the inevitability of our own deaths.
“Nie is not like the enemies of the day!” Chadan calls. “She does not fight for land or resources. She does not come to steal our wells or our wives.”
“What does she come for?” I am closer to him as I shout, inspecting the men as I approach Chadan at the head of the assembly.
“She comes to exterminate us!” He booms his reply for all to hear. “She comes to undo Creation and return us to the Void! Nie cannot be reasoned with!”
I clatter my spear against my shield, and the sound echoes through the training grounds as a hundred brothers follow my lead.
“Nie cannot be placated or satiated!” Chadan shouts, and twice more I lead a clash of spears. “Nie can only be fought!” This time I raise my spear into the air and roar, echoed by two hundred of my brothers. A sound that reaches all the way to the Heavens.
The Desert Prince Page 52
