But with a motion of his hand, Scratha called his attention.
“Stay with me,” the noble said when Idisio bent to see what his lord wanted. The king rose to take his leave, and the whole room stood, everyone bowing deeply. As the nobles drifted to the surrounding gardens and social-rooms, Scratha laid a hand on Idisio's shoulder and steered him in a different direction.
They walked through hallways and around corners, turning this way and that, seeming to go in circles, until Idisio once again conceded himself lost. At last he saw a familiar portrait. Confirming his guess, they paused before an unremarkable grey door.
“Yes, you're expected,” one of the guards said, deadpan, and once again they walked through the door into the presence of King Oruen.
The royal robes of public appearance were draped almost carelessly over the back of the king's chair. The king, now simply a thin, gangly man in breeches and tunic, half-slouched in his chair, looked up as they entered and pointed silently to seats. Without protest this time, Scratha sank into one and motioned Idisio into another.
“Lord Oruen,” Scratha said. “Once again, I am here at your summons.”
“And once again,” the king said, “I'm holding back an urge to throttle you, Cafad.” He held up a sheet of parchment that showed signs of having been crumpled and carefully smoothed back out. “What are you trying to do to me?”
“You benefit from this arrangement, Lord Oruen.”
The king looked at the letter again, shaking his head slowly. “The desert families will have a collective stroke when they hear of this.”
“Let them twitch,” Scratha said. “Your steward already has a brief version of the letter in your hand. No doubt he'll spread the word before the news loses its value.”
The king's gaze sharpened into a glare.
“You're a fool,” he said, then: “No, you're not. You've made it impossible for me to refuse. Nobody will believe that I turned this offer down. Damn you, Cafad!”
Scratha's only answer was a shrug, hands spread wide.
“What did you put in the steward's note?” the king demanded.
“That I ceded you stewardship of my lands while I am working off your displeasure,” Scratha said, emotionless. “Nothing more. The name change I put to you alone.”
Idisio tried not to choke audibly. A desert lord was giving a northern king authority over his entire holding? Collective stroke would be a mild reaction, under Idisio's admittedly limited understanding of southern politics. And as much, if not more, ire would be directed at the king for accepting as at Scratha for offering such a thing.
But the king was right: nobody would believe he had turned down such an opportunity.
The king stared at Scratha for a while, fingers nervously working the edges of the note in his hand as if he longed to rip it to bits.
“Very well, then,” he said at last. “I accept. I'll guard your lands from intrusion while you're gone. You do realize the implications of your offer?”
“I do.”
“As for the name change—are you sure you want to do that?”
“I can't very well collect history, observe culture, and send useful reports if the people I speak to are busy fawning on or fearing me as a desert lord,” Scratha said. “It'll be hard enough, in the northlands, for me to pass at all without being attacked. I'll probably be relying on my servant in some areas.”
Idisio did choke this time. Up to this moment, he hadn't considered anything of his role beyond a hazy supposition that he'd be tending to Scratha's horse, cooking him supper, mending and cleaning his clothes. Not that he knew how to do any of those things, but he'd figured it would all be easy enough to pick up along the way.
His strangling noise drew a brief, amused glance from the king. “I see you haven't mentioned that idea to your servant yet.”
“There hasn't been time,” Scratha said.
“At least you took time to clean him up before dinner. I'm grateful for that. And I hope you've also taken the time to caution your young thief against stealing anything while on palace grounds.”
In the following silence, Idisio could feel all color draining from his face, and Scratha looked completely at a loss for words.
The king managed a tired smile. “I'd be a fool if I didn't inquire about a servant that looked as if he'd been picked up straight from the dustier streets of Bright Bay just before arriving—especially as you've never taken a servant before, Cafad. I thought you understood by now that I'm not a fool.”
“Indeed,” Scratha said. “My apologies, Lord Oruen. I seem to have forgotten.”
“You're not the only one that forgets.” The king sighed. “Why, if I may ask, that choice of name?”
“Gerau was my s'enetan's name,” Scratha said.
The king nodded. “Honoring your grandfather's memory, I can understand,” he said. “And— forgive me—sa'adenit? I know you're no fool yourself, but don't you mean s'e deaneat, son of a desert family?”
Scratha looked grim. “I said what I meant.”
“There aren't many who understand the old languages anymore,” the king said. “Most people won't know what you mean.”
“All the better,” Scratha said. “Anyone who understands that word is dangerous.”
Idisio had held his silence for too long. Questions were crowding in his throat, becoming painful. He burst out, “My lord, Sire—what does it mean?”
“Ah,” the king said, smiling again as his gaze shifted to Idisio. “This one, at least, is safely ignorant, if there is any such thing.”
Scratha shook his head, brooding, and said nothing.
“What does it mean?” Idisio repeated.
The king answered, as Scratha sat silent. “It translates to 'Blood on the Sand.' The sa'a at the beginning marks it as matrilineal, where a line run by male parentage would call it se'edenit. It comes from an old verse. I learned it as a child, but I probably received a poor translation. Here's best I can recall.” He began to chant in a hoarse voice:
When the desert sleeps
It does not forget its secrets
It does not forgive the blood
The blood that was shed without cause.
Stone grows cold and flowers close
But the desert remembers the warmth of life
The warmth of the blood as it fell to the sand.
The blood on the sand may disappear
But the desert does not forgive the death.
With the sun's awakening the blood flows fresh
And the killer is damned by the desert
Because the desert does not forget
And the desert will never forgive.
The king paused, then repeated softly, “'The desert will never forgive.' That verse always gave me chills.”
Idisio nodded fervently in agreement, goose bumps running up and down his spine.
“That was a poor translation,” Scratha said. He had crossed his arms during the recital, and still looked distinctly displeased. “It's much longer than that, and more explicit. Northerns like to water everything down. But that version serves the point.”
“It's a call for vengeance,” the king said quietly, his gaze fixed on the desert lord. “A thoroughly ugly call, at that, when it's translated without what you call 'watering down' the words.”
“I will find the hand behind my family's slaughter,” Scratha said, equally soft and calm, but madness flickered in his eyes again. “I will have their blood in equal measure. Never think I'm giving that up, however far you send me. Who knows, maybe the northlands will have clues I couldn't find in the south. Stranger things have happened in this world.”
The king opened his mouth, checked, then sighed. “King's Researcher Gerau Sa'adenit it is, then. I really hope you've thought this out, Cafad.”
“I have,” Scratha said, and stood. With two long steps he loomed over the king; then he knelt and held out his hand, palm up, offering a heavy silver ring with what looked like a family sigil stamped
on the face.
Oruen stared at it for a moment, as if the desert lord were offering poison; then he reached out and picked the ring gingerly from Scratha's palm. “I'll tell people you've gone to the Stone Islands,” he said, not taking his gaze from the ring. “At least I can give you that much protection against gossip.”
“As you wish,” the desert lord said, sounding supremely indifferent, then stood, retreating as swiftly as he had advanced. “May we retire, Lord Oruen?”
The king waved a weary assent, sinking further into his chair. The last glance Idisio had of the king showed a deeply worried expression and a note once again crumpled between royal hands.
They didn't return to their room, as Idisio had expected. Instead, his lord guided him through another seemingly endless march. They turned and twisted through various hallways, climbing a shallow flight of steps and then descending, several changes of direction later, a rather longer set of stairs.
The air grew noticeably damp, and Idisio put his arm over his nose to ward against the increasing tang of mold and mildew. The space between the guttering wall sconces grew until islands of light lay ahead and behind while they walked in darkness. The hallway narrowed, too; eventually Idisio could put his hands out to either side and feel the walls. And then the passage tightened further, until he could extend no more than elbows.
Finally there were no more torches ahead: only cold, unbroken silence and empty, dark, stinking air.
“My lord?” Idisio ventured, voice just above a whisper, hoping his growing panic wouldn't show in the low tone. This place felt foul; although no smell of blood or refuse registered in his nose, an itching nausea seemed to lurk in the very air.
Something bad happened here. Lots of bad things.
Idisio felt as though the dead crowded close, their slimy hands caressing his arms and back and legs.
The noble made a low shushing noise and went on, his feet making no noise on the pitted rock that had long ago replaced smooth stone underfoot. Idisio drew breath, cursing himself for a fool, and followed, one hand out to avoid running into his lord from behind.
And then something stirred, something deep and wild and formless; there came a shriek that had no sound and a moment of grey eyes staring desperately into his own. Scratha's hand, latching onto his wrist, jerked him back to the moment and almost brought the held scream from Idisio's throat. With a faint whimper, he followed the man's tug to the left.
To Idisio's intense relief, the feeling of foulness faded with each step they took. Scratha walked behind him from that point on, steering with one hand on Idisio's shoulder. Every so often Scratha tugged him to a brief halt, nudged a little faster, or turned this way or that, all in complete darkness. At times Scratha reached to touch, push, or pull something hidden, provoking muted clicks or distant grinding noises.
The floor finally sloped sharply upwards, and the air freshened, feathering Idisio's hair. The darkness became that of an open, cloudy sky on a moonless night.
“Wait here,” Scratha said in a low voice, and slipped back into the passage.
Idisio stood still, trembling with relief, and stretched his arms out full in all directions, just to prove to himself that he could. Returning, Scratha made an odd noise that might have been amusement and nudged Idisio's shoulder.
“Come on. We've a walk yet.”
Idisio couldn't hold back a groan. More walking sounded as welcome as an asp-kiss.
“Where are we going, my lord?”
“We're leaving. I've arranged everything to be left at a safe spot not far from here. And don't call me Lord any more. I'm Gerau Sa'adenit, Master Gerau to you, now.”
“What happened to first thing in the morning?” Idisio muttered.
Behind them, the Bright Bay Watch-Tower bells sounded the midnight hour. Idisio cast an aggrieved glare towards the sound and stomped after his new master.
* * *
Chapter Two
In her dreams, Alyea danced.
Not the stately movements of the court waltzes and pavanes, not even the wilder peasant dances she'd secretly attended from time to time. She could find a partner for those anytime she liked, these days.
But her dreams had long been the only place she could safely dance aqeyva, the only place it was safe to hate the s'iopes—the priests of the Northern Church. Even now, as the city slowly settled back into unaccustomed sanity, she found herself reluctant to find another teacher and take up the training that had ended, once before, in such bloody horror.
Her feet slid across the sand and chalky grit which Ethu insisted on scattering over his training floor. Sweet strain shook through her muscles as she leaned forward on her right leg, lifting the left high, higher, and up! above her head, fingers brushing the ground—not into a flip, not this time, although she'd mastered that long ago—and back down, turning, drawing in close, closer, and straightening to stand solidly on both callused feet again.
The calluses were the despair of Alyea's maids. She wouldn't let them smooth her feet; she liked the feel of rough skin scraping against stone and grit. She smiled, sliding the hardened heel of one foot up against the calf of the other, just to feel the difference in texture—and the dream changed.
She was back at that day, in the public square, tied to a chest-high post, sweat stinging the cuts and bruises from her training sessions: wrists bound to a hook near groin level, the bindings forcing her shoulders forward and down, arms wrapped around the post in an obscene parody of an embrace. Two s'iopes in brown and white linen garments tied Ethu to a post beside her.
“No tears,” Ethu hissed.
Alyea's stomach turned over. A scream wanted to emerge from her mouth, but her throat refused to make a sound. This was a dream: she had to escape it; but events moved on inexorably.
A gold-robed s'iope stepped in front of her: Rosin Weatherweaver, the head of the Bright Bay Northern Church, faithful advisor to King Ninnic and a thoroughly evil bastard all around. His eyes glittered as he intoned her crimes: “You come before us accused of heresy against the gods, rebellion against not only the gods but their earthly representatives and the king himself; you have performed acts forbidden to women, committed sacrilege in the sight of gods and men alike. . . .”
It went on for some time. Weatherweaver repeated the offenses in several different ways, managing to make it sound as though she had committed an entire host of depravities. The crowd seemed to breathe as one, a slavering entity intent on blood and tears; among them, her mother swayed, white-faced and horrified, more afraid and ashamed than Alyea would ever be.
Weatherweaver's voice rolled on, seemingly unstoppable. “—deceit against your guardians, sacrilege against the laws of gods and men—” Sweat slicking what clothes they'd left her, sand grating under her bare feet, Alyea wished he'd just get it over with already.
At last he came to his offer:
“Publicly repent your sin and swear devotion to the Four Gods undying, or to go into death a heretic, casting your family into shame for ten generations to come. And if you choose heresy your family will be given punishment as well, to ensure the lesson is never lost.”
Her mother moaned, face whiter than bleached sand, and sagged in the grip of the two s'iopes holding her.
Alyea opened her mouth, but before she could make a sound, Weatherweaver snatched two whips from one of the nearby s'iopes and leapt to stand behind her.
The first blow shredded her breath and her voice; the second and third loosed her bladder and bowels, a small humiliation in the face of the moment. But she didn't scream. She didn't cry. She hung on to Ethu's command like a lifeline, determined not to give them the satisfaction. A long, awful pause; she began to draw in breath to speak, but just as her lips moved to form a word the fourth blow came, driving all thought and courage from her mind. She crumbled, unable to stand another stroke. Forcing breath, forcing words, she husked, “No more. Please. Repent. I repent.”
Weatherweaver came around to stand before her, le
ering as he leaned forward.
“What's that?” he whispered. His eyes glittered. “You want your mother to go through this too?” The whips in his hands dripped with her blood.
Her mother swayed, face even whiter than before, and let out another low moan.
“Repent,” she tried to scream; it came out as a hoarse croak, but loud enough, thankfully, for nearby ears to hear.
“Louder,” demanded a lesser s'iope; Alyea noticed, with surprising clarity, that the priest's hands had crumpled sweaty wrinkles into the front of his formerly immaculate brown and white shirt. Weatherweaver shot him a hard glare, then straightened, his expression sour and disappointed, as the junior priest repeated, his own volume rising defiantly, “Say it louder, so all can hear.”
“Repent. I repent.” She didn't—couldn't stand to—look at Ethu as she spoke. “I repent my sins. I swear undying devotion. I swear.”
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