The Desert Spear (demon)

by Peter V. Brett

  “I swear,” Vika said. Darsy hesitated a moment longer, but finally nodded.

  “Swear by the sun,” she said. “But even this won’t last, you don’t come back.”

  Leesha nodded, turning to a table piled high with books. “These are the secrets of fire.”

  Jardir smiled broadly as Leesha and her escort arrived. It was a smaller group than he had anticipated for such a powerful woman: just her parents, Rojer, giant Gared, and the female Sharum, Wonda.

  “That one will set the dama in a frenzy,” Abban said, indicating Wonda. “They will demand she give up her weapons and cover herself. You should ask that she stay behind.”

  Jardir shook his head. “I promised Leesha that she could choose her chaperone, and I will not go back on my word. Our people must begin to accept the ways of the Hollow tribe. Perhaps showing them a woman who fights alagai’sharak is a good way to begin.”

  “If she acquits herself well before them,” Abban said.

  “I’ve seen the woman fight,” Jardir said. “With proper training, she could become as formidable as any Sharum.”

  “Tread carefully, Ahmann,” Abban said. “Force change on our people too quickly, and many of them will reject it.”

  Jardir nodded, knowing well the truth of Abban’s words.

  “I want you to keep close to Leesha on the trip back to Everam’s Bounty,” he said. “Use the pretext of teaching her our language, as she has requested. It would be unseemly for me to attend her too closely, but her greenland chaperones should accept you.”

  “Better than the dal’Sharum, I’m sure,” Abban muttered.

  Jardir nodded. “I want to know everything about her. The food she likes to eat, the scents that give her pleasure, everything.”

  “Of course,” Abban said. “I will see to it.”

  While the dal’Sharum broke camp, Abban limped over to the covered wagon Leesha and her parents rode in. The woman drove the horses herself, Abban noted in surprise. No servants to attend her, nor keep her hands from work. His respect for her grew.

  “May I ride with you, mistress?” he asked, bowing. “My master has asked that I instruct you in our language, as you requested.”

  Leesha smiled. “Of course, Abban. Rojer can take a horse.” Rojer, seated next to her in the driver’s seat of the cart, groaned and made a face.

  Abban bowed deeply, holding tight to his crutch. As the dama’ting had feared, his leg had never truly healed, and even now it could buckle at inopportune times.

  “If you prefer, son of Jessum, you may ride my camel,” he said, gesturing to where the beast was tethered. Rojer looked at the animal dubiously until he saw the canopied and pillowed seat, spacious and richly appointed. A glitter came to his eyes.

  “She is a gentle beast who will follow the other animals without direction,” Abban noted.

  “Well, if it will be a favor to you…” Rojer said.

  “Of course,” Abban agreed. Rojer grabbed his fiddle and somersaulted off the cart, running over to the camel. Abban had lied, of course, the beast was ill tempered at best, but no sooner had it spit at him than Rojer lifted his instrument, calming it as easily as he might an alagai. Leesha might have greater value to Ahmann, but Rojer, too, was an asset to cultivate.

  “May I ask you a question, Abban?” Leesha asked, breaking him from his reverie.

  Abban nodded. “Of course, mistress.”

  “Have you used that crutch since birth?” she asked.

  Abban was more than a little surprised at her boldness. Among his people, his infirmity was either mocked or ignored. No one cared enough about a khaffit to ask such things.

  “I wasn’t born this way, no,” Abban said. “I was injured during Hannu Pash.”

  “Hannu Pash?” Leesha asked.

  Abban smiled. “As good a place as any to begin your lessons,” he said, climbing into the cart and taking a seat next to her. “In your tongue, it means ‘life’s path.’ All Krasian boys are taken from their mothers at a young age and brought to their tribe’s sharaj, a…training barrack, to learn if Everam has meant them to be Sharum, dama, or khaffit.”

  He tapped his lame leg with his crutch. “This was inevitable. I was never a warrior, and knew it, right from the first day. I was born a khaffit, and the…rigors of Hannu Pash proved it.”

  “Nonsense,” Leesha said.

  Abban shrugged. “Ahmann thought much as you do.”

  “Did he?” Leesha asked, surprised. “I wouldn’t guess it from the way he treats you.”

  Abban nodded. “I beg that you forgive him for that, mistress. My master was called to Hannu Pash the same day I was, and he fought against Everam’s hand time and again, carrying me through the Kaji’sharaj on his back. He gave me chance after chance, and I let him down every time I was tested.”

  “Were they fair tests?” Leesha asked.

  Abban laughed. “Nothing on Ala is fair, mistress, a warrior’s life least of all. Either you are weak, or you are strong. Bloodthirsty or pious. Brave or cowardly. Hannu Pash reveals a boy’s inner man, and in my case, at least, it was successful. I am not Sharum in my heart.”

  “That’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Leesha said.

  Abban smiled. “Indeed not, and I am not. Ahmann knows my value, but it would be…unseemly for him to show me kindness in front of the other men.”

  “Kindness is never unseemly,” Leesha said.

  “Life in the desert is harsh, mistress,” Abban said, “and it has made my people equally so. I beg you, do not judge us until you know us well.”

  Leesha nodded. “That is why I am coming. In the meantime, let me examine you. I might be able to do something for your leg.”

  An image flashed before Abban’s eyes, of Ahmann catching sight as Abban lowered his silken pants for Leesha’s examination. His life wouldn’t be worth a bag of sand after that.

  Abban waved her away. “I am khaffit, mistress. Not worthy of your attentions.”

  “You are a man like any other,” Leesha said, “and if you’re going to spend any time with me, I’ll not suffer to hear you say otherwise.”

  Abban bowed. “I knew another greenlander once who thought as you do,” he said, making it seem an offhand comment.

  “Oh?” Leesha asked. “What was his name?”

  “Arlen son of Jeph, from the Bales clan of Tibbet’s Brook,” Abban said, and saw her eyes flare with recognition, even though her face showed no other sign.

  “Tibbet’s Brook is far from here, in the duchy of Miln,” she said. “I have never had the pleasure to meet anyone from there. What was he like?”

  “He was known to my people as the Par’chin, or ‘brave outsider,’ ” Abban said, “equally at home in the bazaar and the Sharum’s Maze. Alas, he left our city years ago, never to return.”

  “Perhaps one day you will meet him again,” Leesha said.

  Abban shrugged. “Inevera. If Everam wills it, I would be pleased to see my friend again and know that he is well.” They rode together for the rest of the day, speaking of many things, but the subject of the Par’chin never rose again. Leesha’s silence on the matter told Abban much.

  Slowed as they were by the trundling cart, the dal’Sharum could not give their chargers their head when the sun set, leaving them vulnerable to demons. Ahmann gave the order that they stop and make camp. Abban was erecting his tent when Ahmann summoned him.

  “How went your first day?” he asked.

  “She has a fast mind,” Abban said. “I started by teaching her simple phrases, but she was dissecting the sentence structure in minutes. She ’ll be able to introduce herself to anyone and discuss the weather by the time we reach Everam’s Bounty, and proficient by winter.”

  Ahmann nodded. “It is Everam’s will that she learn our tongue.”

  Abban shrugged.

  “What else did you learn?” Ahmann asked.

  Abban smiled. “She likes apples.”

  “Apples?” Ahmann asked, confused.

>   “A Northern tree fruit,” Abban said.

  Ahmann frowned. “You spoke to the woman all day, and all you learned was that she likes apples?”

  “Red and hard, fresh picked from the tree. She laments that with so many mouths to feed, apples have become scarce.” Abban smiled as Ahmann’s face deepened into a scowl. He reached into his pocket, holding up a piece of fruit. “Apples like this one.”

  Ahmann’s smile nearly reached his ears.

  Abban left Ahmann’s tent, feeling a slight twinge of guilt at withholding Leesha’s reaction to his mention of the Par’chin. He had not lied, but even in his own heart Abban could not explain the omission. The Par’chin was his friend, it was true, but Abban had never let friendship stand in the way of prosperity, and his prosperity was inextricably tied to Ahmann’s success in conquering the North. The surest road to that success would be for Ahmann to find and kill the Par’chin quickly. The son of Jeph was not an enemy any man should take lightly.

  But Abban had survived as khaffit by keeping secrets and waiting for the proper opportunity to exploit them, and there was no secret in all the world greater than this one.

  Leesha was stirring a cookpot when Jardir came to her circle. Like the Painted Man, he walked casually through the unwarded areas of the Krasians’ haphazard camp. He wore Leesha’s warded cloak about his shoulders, but it was thrown back, offering him no protection from coreling eyes.

  Not that he was likely to need protection, unless a wind demon spotted him from above. The dal’Sharum made sport of hunting the field demons that infested the camp when the sun set, piling the bodies of those stunted offshoots of wood demons into what would be an enormous bonfire when dawn came to set them alight.

  “May I join you at your fire?” Jardir asked in Thesan.

  “Of course, son of Hoshkamin,” Leesha replied in Krasian. As Abban had taught her, she broke a piece from a fresh loaf of bread and held it out to him. “Share bread with us.”

  Jardir smiled widely, bowing low as he accepted the bread.

  Rojer and the others came to the pot for their meal as well, but all drifted away at a meaningful look from Leesha. Only Elona stayed in earshot, which Jardir seemed to think was perfectly proper, even if Leesha resented the spying.

  “Your food continues to delight my tongue,” Jardir said when he finished scraping the stew from his second bowl.

  “It’s a simple stew,” Leesha said, but she couldn’t help but smile at the compliment.

  “I hope your belly is not too full,” Jardir said, pulling out a large red apple. “I have grown fond of this Northern fruit, and would share it with you, as you shared your bread.”

  Leesha felt her mouth water at the sight. How long since she had eaten a ripe apple? With starving refugees scouring the land around Deliverer’s Hollow like locusts, apples were gone from the trees the moment they became edible, and often before.

  “I would like that,” she said, trying to keep the eagerness from her voice. Jardir produced a small knife, cutting neat round slices for them to enjoy. Leesha savored the sweet crunch of every bite, and it took them some time to finish the fruit. Leesha noticed that however fond he might be of apples, he left almost all of it to her, nibbling only on the irregular cuts and watching her chew with delight in his eyes.

  “Thank you, that was wonderful,” Leesha said when they were done.

  Jardir bowed from where he sat across from her. “It was my pleasure. And now, if you wish, it would be my pleasure to read to you passages from the Evejah, as I have promised.”

  Leesha smiled and nodded, producing the slender leather-bound book from one of the deep pockets of her dress. “I would like that very much, but if you are to read me your book, you must start from the beginning, and swear to read it through, omitting nothing.”

  Jardir tilted his head at her, and for a moment Leesha worried that she might have offended him. But then, slowly, a smile crept across his face.

  “That will take many nights,” he said.

  Leesha looked around at the camp and the empty plains. “My nights seem to be rather free at the moment.”

  Surprisingly, it was not Wonda who garnered the most attention when they reached Everam’s Bounty, but Gared. Jardir watched the eyes of the Sharum take in the Cutter’s enormous frame and powerful muscles, searching for weaknesses, sizing him up for the kill as they did everyone. It was the Sharum way to be ready to fight anyone—enemy, brother, father, or friend. Every one of his warriors would be eager to test his strength against the giant Northern warrior. The Sharum who brought him down would carry great honor.

  It was only after the warriors had assessed Gared, the most obvious threat, that their eyes slipped to Wonda, and a few did a double take, realizing she was a woman.

  They sent no word ahead, but when they rode into the courtyard of Jardir’s palace, Inevera and the Damaji’ting were there waiting for them. Inevera lay on a pillowed palanquin held up by muscular chin slaves clad only in bidos and vests. She was dressed as scandalously as ever, and even the greenlanders gasped and colored at the sight of her as her slaves set the palanquin down and she rose to her feet. Her hips swayed hypnotically as she came to Jardir with her hands outstretched.

  “Who is that?” Leesha asked.

  “My First Wife, Damajah Inevera,” Jardir said. “The others are my lesser wives.”

  Leesha looked at him sharply, and as Abban had warned, her face became a storm cloud.

  “You’re already married?!” she demanded.

  Jardir looked at her curiously. Surely she had understood that much, even if she was prone to jealousy. “Of course. I am Shar’Dama Ka.”

  Leesha opened her mouth to retort, but Inevera reached them, and she swallowed whatever she had been about to say.

  “Husband,” Inevera said, embracing him and kissing him deeply. “How I have missed your warmth in our bed.”

  Jardir was taken aback for a moment, but he saw how Inevera’s eyes kept flicking to Leesha, and felt as filthy as if he had been marked by a dog.

  “Allow me to present my honored guest,” he said. “Mistress Leesha, daughter of Erny, First Herb Gatherer of the Hollow tribe.” Inevera’s eyes narrowed at the title, and she glared at Jardir, then Leesha.

  For her part, Leesha acquitted herself well, not backing down an inch as she met Inevera’s gaze with a calm serenity and dipped into the skirtspreading bow the women of the green lands favored. “An honor to meet you, Damajah.”

  Inevera’s smile and return bow were equally unreadable, and Jardir knew then that Abban was right. Inevera would not accept this woman as a Jiwah Sen, and would certainly not take it well when Jardir married her anyway and gave her dominion over the women of the North.

  “I would speak with you in private, husband,” Inevera said, and Jardir nodded. Now that the moment to face her had come, he had no desire to delay. He thanked Everam that the sun was still high and she could not use her hora magic in its light.

  “Abban, see to it that the Palace of Mirrors is made ready for Mistress Leesha and her entourage during their stay,” he said in Krasian. The palace was unfit for one such as Leesha, but it was the best Everam’s Bounty had to offer, three stories, richly appointed with carpets, tapestries, and silvered mirrors.

  “I believe Damaji Ichach is using the Palace of Mirrors at the moment,” Abban said.

  “Then Damaji Ichach will need to make new arrangements,” Jardir said.

  Abban bowed. “I understand.”

  “Please excuse me,” Jardir said, bowing to Leesha. “I must consult with my wife. Abban will see to your accommodations. When you are settled, I will come to call on you.”

  Leesha nodded, a cool gesture that warned of fire beneath. Jardir felt his pulse quicken at the sight, and it gave him strength as he and Inevera strode into his palace.

  “What is the purpose of bringing that woman here?” Inevera demanded when they were alone in her pillow chamber beside the throne room.

 
“The bones have not told you?” Jardir smirked.

  “Of course they have,” Inevera snapped, “but I hold out hope that this once, they are wrong, and you are not such a fool.”

  “Marriages cemented my power in Krasia,” Jardir said. “Is it so foolish to think that they would serve the same in the Northland?”

  “These are chin, husband,” Inevera said. “Fine for the dal’Sharum to breed, but there is not a woman among them worthy to carry your seed.”

  “I disagree,” Jardir said. “This Leesha is as worthy as any woman I have ever met.”

  Inevera scowled. “Well it does not matter. The bones have spoken against her, and I will not approve the match.”

  “You are correct, it matters not,” Jardir said. “I will still marry her.”

  “You cannot,” Inevera said. “I am Jiwah Ka, and I decide who else you may marry.”

  But Jardir shook his head. “You are my Krasian Jiwah Ka. Leesha shall be my greenland Jiwah Ka, and have dominion over all my wives in the North.”

  Inevera’s eyes bulged, and he thought for a moment they would pop right out of her face. She shrieked and came at him, long painted nails leading the way. Jardir’s back, often clawed by those nails under much different circumstances, could attest to their sharpness.

  He was quick to pivot out of the way. Remembering the last time she had struck him, he blocked and dodged with minimal contact as Inevera pressed her attack. Her long legs, clad only in thin, diaphanous silk, kicked high and fast as her fingers stabbed at him, seeking the weak points where a man’s muscles and nerves joined. If she managed to connect, his limbs would cease to obey him.

  It was the first real display of dama’ting sharusahk Jardir had ever seen, and he studied the precise, deadly moves with fascination, knowing Inevera could likely kill a Damaji before he knew she had even struck.

  But Jardir was Shar’Dama Ka. He was the greatest living sharusahk master, and his body was stronger and faster than it had ever been thanks to the magic of the Spear of Kaji. Now that he respected her ability as a warrior and kept his guard, even Inevera was no match for him. Eventually he caught her wrist and flipped her onto the pile of pillows.