The Desert Prince

by Brett, Peter V.

  Again, laughter all around, as Madana appears to attend me. “Welcome, Your Highness. You honor us with your presence. Of course it is beneath you to sit with the dal’Sharum.” She leads me through a curtain to a more private chamber with a bed of pillows and cool water to drink.

  “We are not often honored with princes,” Madana says. “What will ease your burdens? A massage, perhaps?”

  I shake my head. “Even in the green lands, we have tales of Krasian pillow dancing. I would like to see it with my own eyes.”

  Madana’s eyes crinkle with pleasure. “Of course, Highness. All my brides will take a turn dancing for you, that you may pick your favorites to attend you.”

  I watch a steady progression of dancers, some more skilled or more beautiful than others. At another time, I might have enjoyed it more—perhaps more than I am comfortable with—but tonight tension sickness drives off any chance of arousal.

  I’m less interested in their bodies than I am in their clothes. Their jewelry. The way they paint their eyes and braid their hair. The scents they use.

  The curtains they go behind to change and apply their powders.

  * * *

  —

  I leave the harem close to dawn. No alarms have sounded, so I assume Chigka has yet to be discovered. Drunken Sharum dying accidental deaths is a sadly common occurrence, but I am not fool enough to think the subterfuge will buy more than a few hours. Whoever sent Chikga will come for me once he is found. My only hope is to disappear.

  I leave Chadan’s palace before first light, crossing the city in twilight. Demons tend to return to the Core long before the sky begins to brighten, and it’s unthinkable for them to penetrate all the way into the powerfully warded palace districts in any event, but curfew is in effect until dawn. I am thankful for the empty streets, reaching the gates of the Holy City right at dawn.

  It is the first day of Waning, and the white-sleeved guards admit me all the way to Sharik Hora without comment. I head for the temple’s lavish harem as if I were going to call on Micha, but turn away from the gate and move around the wall instead.

  My nie’Sharum training and the strength of my fingers is enough to get me over the wall into the private gardens, but my Sharum blacks will stand out among all the women in colored silk like a nightwolf among sheep. The sacred harem’s eunuch guards wear only tan bidos and golden shackles on their wrists and ankles, but all are powerfully built and trained in sharusahk. Stout batons hang from thongs at their waists. They will descend upon me if I move about the gardens like this, and I will quickly be overwhelmed.

  Fortunately, I came prepared. My trip to the harem was more than an excuse to be seen. I had my first proper bath in months, and snuck into the changing room, tucking some silks and a powder kit into my robes. I slip into a secluded garden bower to change.

  Outside, Krasian women all dress in plain blacks, but within the harem, fashion is power—a sign of one’s position and status. The stylish but conservative robes of young unwed girls of high blood and marriageable age are not so different from the dresses worn by well-bred girls at court in Hollow. Brightly colored silks decorated with wardwork, lace, and bangles. Flowing scarves and glittering jewelry. Intricately patterned fans.

  These stand in sharp contrast with the provocative—if not outright scandalous—diaphanous robes of young pillow brides still called upon often by their husbands. I catch flashes of bare flesh as their thin veils flow around them like smoke. Their belts tinkle with the tiny finger cymbals used in the pillow dance.

  Moving with stately grace among these are the elder Jiwah Ka, as dignified and aloof as the high ladies of Mother’s court. Their fine conservative robes are thick but colorful, the quality and cut signifying status, wealth, and power over the other women. Pillow wives may have their husbands’ favor, but First Wives have his purse, and dominion over his household.

  The women of the great harem of Sharik Hora run the full spectrum, especially on Waning, when all are dressed in their finest to receive their husbands, brothers, and sons. Already, many of them await family in visiting chambers just outside the harem proper.

  I’ve chosen the transparent blue silks of a pillow bride. Gossamer cloth the color of clear sky accented with a carefully woven silk bido and short velvet vest the color of deep water.

  I feel scandalous, and naked for lack of armor, but it will keep eyes where I want them, and away from places I don’t. My thin veil is opaque, complementing the vest and bido, disguising my face without seeming as if I have anything to hide.

  A stolen wig covers my short hair with a proper bride’s long tresses. I cover that with a blue scarf that softens my muscular shoulders and arms.

  The costume jewelry I borrowed from the Jiwah’Sharum will not pass close inspection among the rich brides of the great harem, but it is riskier to go without.

  Setting a piece of silvered glass on the branches of a flower bush, I take out the powder kit, copying the style of paints favored by young pillow wives, adding a blush to my cheeks and smoky kohl on my eyelids. I extend the lashes and paint my lips, surprising myself at how natural the work is. I haven’t touched a paintbox in months, but Grandmum Elona’s lessons are ingrained in memory.

  Before long the face in front of me barely resembles Prince Olive the kai’Sharum, calling back to the fashionable girl I was not a year ago, but with eyes less naïve. My heart aches for that girl, but she isn’t me, anymore.

  Clean, painted, and perfumed, I step out of the bower a completely different person. I add a sway to my hips as I walk, mimicking the confident, seductive gait of a vain young bride. It feels natural, not so different from how Elona taught me to saunter across a room.

  Women glance my way as I pass through the gardens, but I have fallen fully into the role, and do not fear I will be recognized. On the contrary, the looks I receive range from complimentary to jealous.

  I hear singing, high and beautiful, and follow the sound, thinking it must lead me to Micha. It is not my sister I find, however, but my niece. Rojvah kneels beside a great fountain depicting four larger-than-life warriors, their muscular bodies clad only in veiled turbans and bidos. They hold their shields above them in a diamond formation, deflecting the spray of the fountain in all directions.

  Rojvah is singing as she brushes out her long, auburn hair. She is clad in the robes of an unwed maiden, a mix of reds to complement her hair and complexion, ranging from deep wine to cinnamon. The cut leaves more to the imagination than my pillow silks, but none would call it demure. At her throat is a choker much like the one Micha wears. I wonder why it was not taken with the rest of her hora jewelry, but then I see the red stone and realize it is blood-locked, much as my armlet.

  “Beautiful singing, sister,” I say as I step close to the fountain, glancing this way and that to ensure no one else is about. “Welcome. You are new to the harem?”

  Rojvah smiles, and she is stunningly beautiful. “I suppose you could say that. I was nie’dama’ting, but Chavis stripped me of the white. I am a captive here, but…” She shrugs, running her fingertips over the beautiful red silk robes. “In some ways, I have never felt so free.”

  “Ay, well I don’t,” a familiar voice says at my back. I do not start, turning casually to look at Selen over the security of my veil. Her hair is braided with bands of gold, and the edge of her headscarf is trimmed with warded coins. She looks beautiful, but I can tell my tall friend is decidedly uncomfortable in her green maiden robes. They strain against her powerful frame, and she moves awkwardly in the layers of veil.

  But while I’m looking at her, Selen takes a good look at me and crosses her arms. “About time you showed up. Least you look more like yourself, this time.”

  “You know this woman?” Rojvah asks.

  Selen snorts. “Rojvah, meet your aunt Olive.”

  Rojvah’s head whips around, eyes narrowing a
s she scrutinizes my face and body. “Incredible.”

  “Ay, she’s got a real gift.” Selen makes no effort to mask the anger in her voice. “As comfy in a frilly nightgown as a suit of armor. Fancy that.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I reach out and grab her instead, pulling my friend into an embrace. She tries to push me away, but I hold fast against her efforts until she gives in and holds me in return. Her voice cracks as she whispers in my ear. “We thought we’d lost you.”

  “I know.” I fight the tears threatening to spoil my eye makeup, but I am no more able to keep the choke from my voice than she is. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were still safe in Hollow.”

  Now Selen does shove me back. “And, what? You were going to just stay here? Be Prince Olive, and forget everyone who loves you?”

  Micha appears, keeping watch near the entrance to the small plaza, and I realize she must have told them everything.

  “At first, I had no choice,” I say. “I did what I had to. But I found something here, Selen. Something we only tasted when we put on armor and snuck off on the borough tour. I’m not the Olive you remember.”

  “Demonshit,” Selen growls. “Ent been gone three months. None of us are the same since the tour, but I don’t buy you’re a whole new person just because you had a few weeks of brainwashing.”

  “It’s not brainwashing.” I realize the naïveté of the words even as I say them, for of course that is what sharaj is. Micha said it herself. Drillmasters break individuals and rebuild them into a unit where every warrior trusts his life to the shield of the man next to him. It worked on the others, and it worked on me. Even now, I would step in front of a pack of demons for any of my spear brothers.

  But then the drillmaster tried to kill me.

  “I’m not a whole new person,” I allow at last. “But I’m not the spoiled, anxious, emotional princess of Hollow anymore, either. I can’t go back to being her.”

  “Don’t care about that,” Selen says. “Come home whoever you like. Just come home.”

  “Darin told me the same thing,” I say. “I wasn’t ready to listen last night, but I am, now.”

  “Glad to hear it,” a voice says from above. I look up to see Darin rise from his perch in the shadow at the center of the fountain warriors’ shields. He is doused in the fountain’s spray, but the water seems to simply slide off him. He leaps down, and his clothes aren’t even wet.

  “Corespawn it, Darin Bales,” I say, but I’m more irritated at myself for letting him get the drop on me again. “I told you to go back to Arick.”

  “Ay, you did,” Darin agrees. “Problem is, you don’t get to tell me what to do, Olive Paper.”

  He’s right. I’ve gotten used to giving orders, but these are not my spear brothers, or my subjects. They’re my friends. My family.

  “Waning is tonight,” I say. “Aleveran has commanded every citizen to seek protection in the Holy Undercity for the next three nights. It will be chaos, and that is where they will search for me. No one will think to look in the harem. I can hide here in plain sight, while we plan our escape.”

  Micha shakes her head. “They might not look for you here, but if you go missing they will watch the rest of us too closely. There are enough hidden Sharum’ting passages and safe rooms in the temple to shelter us through Waning. We simply need a way out of the blood locks.”

  I look to Rojvah. “Chamber of Shadows was always my worst subject. Is there anything you can do?”

  “I am not gifted like Mother and Grandmother,” Rojvah says, “but like my brother and his kamanj, I was given no choice but to practice endlessly. Let me see the lock.”

  Her soft hands are gentle as she examines the armlet, tracing the lines of the wards with the edge of one painted nail. “The armlet is warded to contract if an attempt is made to force the lock, or the wrong blood is used.”

  I hadn’t known that. I think of all the times I’ve been spattered with blood, all the times I was tempted to sneak into a smith’s tent and put a hammer to it. I never had any idea how close I was to amputating my own arm.

  “Can you remove it?” I know it’s my imagination, but I feel it tightening.

  “With a properly sealed Chamber of Shadows to cut off the signal and the right materials, I could disable the wards and free you in…” she shrugs, “half an hour?”

  Hope kindles in my breast, but Micha looks skeptical. “And here?” she asks. “Now, with the tools at hand?”

  Rojvah shakes her head. “Impossible.”

  I look to Darin. “Any luck finding hogroot and plaster?”

  Darin shakes his head. “Hogroot’s a wild plant. Ent pretty and smells awful. Not something that grows in a garden like this. Reckon they got some in the Chambers of Healing, but that place is locked up too tight even for me. Give me a few hours and I can sniff out a Gatherer in the bazaar and get what we need.”

  “Too long,” Micha says. “When they notice Olive is missing, Belina will track the armlet and find her here.” She lifts the hem of her robe, baring a long stretch of leg. Darin blushes and turns away as she tears off a piece of inner cloth. She lays a hand on Darin’s shoulder. “Take this.”

  Darin looks at the scrap of cloth, and I see it is stitched in a neat, delicate hand with a map of the temple.

  “I meant this for Olive last moon,” Micha says, “before she…decided to stay. We are here.” She points at the cloth. “Collect Arick and meet us…” her finger slides along passages like she was solving a child’s paper maze, “here. Go now.”

  Darin nods, flitting from shadow to shadow on his way out of the gardens.

  “How can he meet us, if we remain shackled?” I ask.

  “Because I’m going to find Belina,” Micha says, “and get blood to open the locks.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” a voice replies. One of the thick hedges that surround the fountain rolls back as if the branches had a life of their own, revealing a woman clad all in white with a black veil, holding a glowing bit of hora as she stands in the shadows.

  Belina.

  49

  LOCKED

  Muscles and tendons bunch and tighten as I watch the nie’Damaji’ting emerge. I could cover the distance between us in seconds, and my body screams at me to attack, but I know she will be ready for it. Even if she cannot activate my armlet in sunlight, I do not know if I am up to the task of fighting one of Father’s dama’ting wives, legendary for their Precise Strike school of sharusahk.

  “Don’t look so surprised,” Belina says. “One of the first things the dice told me when I took the veil was that I would need to stand by the Sharum fountain in the great harem of Sharik Hora on the tenth Waning of the Year of Everam 3800. It took more than forty years for me to understand why, but I never doubted the path Everam set for me.”

  “I am weary of dice.” I wish I had a spear to put through the witch’s heart and have done.

  “I am not your enemy.” Belina takes a step forward, and unconsciously, I take a step back. Selen has her fists raised, but Rojvah and Micha know dama’ting better. Both look ready to get to their knees or flee.

  “You are no longer safe in Desert Spear.” Belina takes another step.

  This time I hold my ground. “That implies there is a time I was.”

  “There was a time when you were not a liability to Aleveran.” Belina is nose-to-nose with me now. My hand shakes as I try to keep from balling a fist. “But he fears your influence on his grandson. He sent Chikga to end it.”

  The admission isn’t really a surprise, but hearing it aloud makes it real in a way it wasn’t, before.

  The Damaji tried to have me killed, even after I pledged myself to him.

  “But…the prophecy,” I say. “He needs me. Krasia needs me.”

  “To bleed,” Belina says. “Chavis believes the prophecy c
an only be fulfilled with your death. That it is the precondition to turning the eye of Alagai Ka away from Desert Spear.”

  My blood turns to ice at the thought, but I keep my voice calm. “What do you believe?”

  “That it is like blood for the dice,” Belina says. “You must choose to bleed willingly, or the prophecy will be…corrupted.”

  I turn to present the armlet to her. “Then free me. Let me choose.”

  Belina smiles. “No doubt Micha chose this spot because it is close to one of the hidden exits of the harem. Go. When Chavis comes to demand the sympathy bones linked to your shackles, I will provide false ones. She and Aleveran will not be able to find you, or strike at you from afar.”

  “But you will,” I growl.

  “One way or another, the prophecy must be fulfilled,” Belina says. “I do not wish your death, but if you attempt to leave Desert Spear before the storms pass, you will do it without limbs.”

  Suddenly, Micha lunges past me, already spinning into a kick that cracks across Belina’s face. She does not scream, but a jolt runs through her at what must be blinding pain. Blood soaks her black veil as the nie’Damaji’ting stumbles back. Micha follows, pressing her thumbs into the bloody cloth.

  But Belina recovers quickly. She seems to float away from Micha’s next blow, coming back in to drive stiffened knuckles into my sister’s midsection, seeking the precise point where her lines of energy converge. A precise strike to such a spot could paralyze, or even kill.

  But Micha is wise to the move, twisting her body to protect the convergence even as she accepts the blow. Then she tumbles away, pressing her thumbs to the blood locks on her anklets. The red stones turn milky white again, and the shackles open with an audible click.

  “Well done.” Belina removes her veil and wipes the remaining blood from her face. “It seems the fabled Sharum’ting of the Damajah live up to their reputation.” She carefully folds the veil and tucks it into her hora pouch. “I won’t underestimate you again.”