The Hidden Queen

by Alma Alexander

  His eyes darting amongst the shadows as though he expected every one to spawn a demon, al’Jezraal stood tense and ready to fight. He started as ai’Jihaar reached out to lay a delicate hand on his arm, then had the grace to smile sheepishly at the sound of her silvery laughter.

  “I have never liked this black dungeon,” he admitted. “I was born to the light.”

  Dungeon…

  The word leapt out of the dark, and the vision was upon Anghara before she could draw another breath.

  Roisinan’s princess-heir had had little to do with dungeons—there would be time enough to consign miscreants and traitors to them when she was grown and crowned. And yet…the dank gray walls that abruptly reared about her were as familiar to Anghara as the banks of Cascin’s wells—these were the dungeons of Miranei, which she had never seen with living eyes. Somewhere, a long, long way away, she could hear the ominous clang of a closing door—and she was on the wrong side. The darkness rushed in upon her, and she heard a long, drawn-out cry, dimly aware it was her own. When she opened her eyes, blinking furiously at a welling of tears, she found herself lying on the cold stone floor of Al’haria’s Catacombs of the Records, with ai’Jihaar kneeling beside her and al’Jezraal’s worried face, shadowed from the flickering torch, bending over.

  “What was it that he said?” demanded ai’Jihaar, who had spent enough time with her young charge to recognize these occasional visions for what they were.

  But the memory was scrubbed from her mind, shredded into trails of dark mist. “I don’t know,” Anghara said. “I can’t remember. And…it was…important…”

  “Can you stand?” asked al’Jezraal.

  “Yes,” Anghara said, scrambling to her feet. Her face was set. Perhaps Sif had the right of it, after all—a fine queen she would make, with an unexpected word or an unguarded glance into the fire enough to pitch her into these uncontrollable fits of vision. But she knew better than to start philosophizing about that here, and it was only just given to her to return to some kind of order before a flickering of torchlight announced ai’Farra’s imminent return.

  The Keeper, who appeared to have been out of earshot during the drama of Anghara’s brief vision, came staggering back with a mammoth pile of book rolls under her arm, piling them with care and a sigh of relief on top of the stone table in the hallway.

  “That is most of it,” she said. “There are more, but a lot of them are in a language or an alphabet too archaic even for me to understand.”

  “Then we will start with these,” said al’Jezraal. “I think we should begin with the oldest.”

  “This one,” said ai’Farra, extracting a scroll delicately from underneath the others. “This is the oldest comprehensible one.”

  As she ran gentle fingers across the parchment, ai’Jihaar said, “It is beginning to crumble.” There was deep regret in her voice.

  “It is almost eight hundred years old,” ai’Farra said cryptically. Her eyes gleamed oddly in the torchlight and it was hard to gauge whether she meant it as a boast or a gentle rebuke. “Here, let me see. I am probably the only one who can still understand the half of this tongue.”

  They relinquished the parchment and al’Jezraal held the torch high as she began to read.

  They lost all track of time in the darkness, tracing the life of a vanished oracle over the centuries. When ai’Farra closed the last book roll she had brought, they were all conscious of a deep weariness, and a pang or two of hunger. While al’Jezraal had taken time for breakfast that morning, none of the sen’en’thari had eaten anything since dawn, and it felt as though it was time for the sun to rise again.

  They had found nothing.

  For some reason not one of them, not even ai’Farra, took that as proof the vision from Anghara’s dream was at fault—if anything, the contrary. This was the last vision of Gul Qara, almost a kind of farewell; it was hardly to be expected they would find prior references to it scattered freely through the Records. But the absence of any clue left them adrift; they would have to try finding Gul Khaima the hard way.

  “Put them away, ai’Farra,” said al’Jezraal, gathering the rolls together. “The answer lies elsewhere. We will not find the place in here, not today.”

  “It would not have been that easy,” murmured ai’Farra, hoisting her load back under her arm.

  They waited in silence while she vanished again into the mysterious dark with her books, and presently reappeared again empty-handed to lead them back up the stairs and through the ancient door, locking it behind. A glance through a nearby window showed the reddish light of imminent sunset.

  “I will have a repast brought to my chambers,” said al’Jezraal. “Please join me…”

  For a moment the thought of food excised Gul Khaima from their minds. They climbed the stairs to al’Jezraal’s rooms, his guards bowing deeply enough now to the approaching company. Once again it was al’Tamar who handed them into the inner chamber, and he who brought them the trays of food al’Jezraal ordered.

  “…anything to go on?” al’Tamar heard as he entered the room, trailed by another, junior servant carrying the trays he did not have enough hands to bear himself. “You saw a stone, and there is not much stone on Kheldrin’s shores, but what there is lies scattered facing three different seas. It would take months to explore everything, especially if you were to go to every place yourself.”

  “Gul Khaima,” muttered ai’Farra, tapping her nose with one long finger, once again deeply into the mystery, oblivious to al’Tamar’s presence. “Why do I know that name?”

  Even before al’Tamar’s silvery-blue aura flickered in surprise at the overheard words Anghara had felt his reaction, and was on her feet.

  “Where?” she said, very low, gazing at him steadily.

  They had all risen now, and al’Tamar took an involuntary step backward under the concentrated gaze of so many eyes filled with power. Then al’Jezraal’s face softened. “Hai, lad, the look on your face! No, we will not breathe fire upon you. But if you do know anything of a place called Gul Khaima, you must tell us.”

  “Not quite…that,” said al’Tamar. “Ul’khari’ma. But you spoke of stone, and sea, and it fits. It bears a different name on the maps, but its folk name it thus. Ul’khari’ma is in the north, I fostered there briefly with al’Talip ma’Shadir, my mother’s kinsfolk. It is a small place, a handful of people—a place where they fish for had’dan and for amber, beneath a great cliff.”

  As al’Jezraal looked around, he met first Anghara’s eyes, then ai’Farra’s.

  “It is the best we have,” he said. “At least it is a start. You will take us to Ul’khari’ma, al’Tamar, as soon as it might be arranged.”

  22

  There was a word for this too—it was simply another kind of sand, in a land made of it. But this sand sloped gently toward a whispering ocean, indigo in the starlit darkness. Anghara sat with her burnoose laid on the ground beside her and her knees hugged in the circle of her arms, watching the silver glimmer of breaking surf and listening to the murmur of the water on the shore.

  It was Sight more than any other sense that warned her of a presence approaching at her back, but it was a physical and rather disagreeable noise, at once a snap and a wet squelching sound, that made her turn. She saw al’Tamar bending to examine something he had just ground with his heel.

  “Red crab,” he said by way of explanation, without looking up. The silvery-blue soul fire Anghara had first sensed in Al’haria played about al’Tamar’s bright hair like a faint halo. “If not quite poisonous, then relatively unpleasant. They bite anything that moves, and the consequences are…uncomfortable, to say the least.”

  Anghara accepted his presence, his action, without question. Hama dan ar’i’id, the saying went, You are never alone in the desert. Anghara had learned what that meant, out here in the caravan. It was a simple truth that not a single Kheldrini in the desert watched his own back—but always that of his companion. If there were no comp
anion, there were always the Gods, who were understood to take on the role of watcher as well—given the right rituals had been followed beforehand. Something like this, in effect an enforced altruism, might have been thought unusual in a society where feuds could start with such ease—but defending against a feud was always better done when someone else stood between the man and the deed. In Kheldrin, whenever one man wished ill to another, there was always a watchful third to warn of its coming, eyes in a man’s back. And in this caravan, al’Tamar had chosen to become Anghara’s particular shadow.

  It had not been a large caravan that set out from Al’haria in search of Gul Khaima, and al’Jezraal was happy to have it so. To accompany her, ai’Farra brought along only one other sen’thar, a gray sister being groomed for gold, whom she trusted implicitly. Her presence was a hedge against Hariff supremacy—if she wasn’t Sayyed, which was what ai’Farra would probably have preferred, at least she was Sabrah, a clan whose fortunes were closely allied to those of ai’Farra’s own. Clearly ai’Farra had accepted this quest and was throwing her full weight behind it, but she was not going to allow this covenant of a new oracle to become something the Hariff could claim for their own—and just in case they tried, ai’Farra had brought along a witness.

  The secular part of the company was made up of al’Jezraal and al’Tamar. A handful of trusted Hariff servants to care for the needs and comforts of this illustrious party completed the cast, and if one or two looked more at home with a bright martial blade than a simple kitchen knife, they managed to remain relatively inconspicuous. They were only there as insurance, in any case—al’Jezraal hardly expected to have to put his guards to use on this trip.

  For the most part, the route they followed was well established—the trade passage from the coast, along which sea-amber flowed into Al’haria for her craftsmen and dried fish for her people, with livestock and commodities manufactured in the cities and the nomad hai’r’en making the return journey. The trail was well known and routine for most of al’Jezraal’s small caravan—everyone except Anghara had made this particular trip up the coast at least once. Inured to Kadun Khajir’i’id’s sights, they appeared content to ride blind and wrapped in their own thoughts and largely ignore the vistas which broke into new wonders every time Anghara looked in a different direction. The red desert had not failed to astound her, yet again, with its infinite variety.

  It was not something she could easily share with ai’Jihaar—she could hardly exclaim “Look!” to the blind an’sen’thar when she saw yet another thing which left her breathless with its beauty, and expect ai’Jihaar, however augmented her senses were, to respond. She hardly knew the gray sen’thar and ai’Farra was only just reconciled to tolerating her. By the same token, she could hardly ride at al’Jezraal’s knee like an exuberant child. While he would have been happy to explain, or teach, he always treated her with the grave courtesy due both to her royal rank and the an’sen’thar gold, and somehow she felt foolish at the thought of giving way to her enthusiasm beside him.

  Which left al’Tamar.

  Anghara had not been able to figure him out yet—he was still an anomaly, al’Jezraal’s right hand when he should have been ensconced in the sen’thar tower years ago. But ai’Farra seemed blissfully unaware of his gifts, as was her companion; Anghara had tried asking ai’Jihaar about male sen’en’thari without being specific, but they had been sidetracked by other things and the subject had been lost in the chaos of the preparations and then the journey itself. But once on the trail, al’Tamar seemed to sense her curiosity and awe of Kadun Khajir’i’id, and it was soon customary for the pair to ride out together in the van. He became an enthusiastic guide and teacher, and, before long, a friend.

  “See that?” al’Tamar pointed at an insignificant-looking pile of what seemed to be shrivelled brown leaves on the red sand. “That is sarghat. The desert is full of it, for those who know where to look.”

  “What’s sarghat?”

  “Below that mop of leaves is a root as long as your arm and as thick as your thigh,” al’Tamar said, with a fine disregard for proprieties. “When you are lost in the desert that root can let you live long enough to get to help. Nomad tribes will sometimes offer you sarghat when you arrive into their camp, usually immediately followed by something much more palatable.”

  “Something like pa’ha?” Anghara grinned, remembering ai’Jihaar’s fastidious shrinking from the pungent liquor in the Kadun’s Shod Hai’r on the night Anghara had first met al’Jezraal.

  “Something like sweetmeats,” al’Tamar said, but he was not quite able to hide a quick grin of his own. He was all too aware of his aunt’s tastes. “It is very symbolic, and their way of saying that their tents are offered as sanctuary against the desert—sarghat root, which is hardship and privation, followed by nomad hospitality in terms of something that is their own specialty.”

  Another time it had been the edge of a desert hai’r, and Anghara had succumbed to the desert heat to the extent of giving in to a massive headache, pain buzzed inside her skull like a hive of disturbed bees. Once again, al’Tamar had come to the rescue with his herb lore. “Khi’tai,” he’d said, pushing a pair of thick, waxy leaves into her hand. “Drink it as an infusion, or just chew it raw, and the headache will go away.”

  It was fleshier, but the shape of the leaves looked familiar. “It looks a bit like wirrow,” Anghara said, peering at the glossy leaves. “We use it in Sheriha’drin too. Headaches, and fevers…once, in Cascin…”

  When she fell silent, al’Tamar allowed himself a small sigh. “Perhaps there will come a time,” he said, “when I too will be allowed make the pilgrimage.”

  “Allowed?” asked Anghara, folding the khi’tai leaves into her palm. “Who is to give you permission?”

  “It is usually only sen’en’thari who go,” said al’Tamar briefly.

  It had been a perfect opportunity, but Anghara had been rattled and dazed by the headache and missed it completely—and al’Tamar had turned away, offering nothing further. The next day neither made any reference to what had been almost a confidence; it remained unspoken between them. Toward sunset al’Tamar pointed out a silkseeker descending in slow spirals, which could only mean a jin’aaz spider lair nearby. When they peeled off to look for it, al’Jezraal came with them. They found it in time to see the silk-seeker tease out several fat silk-wrapped cocoons with its long sharp beak and begin feeding. It was a neat and utterly pitiless spectacle, the beautiful gold and white bird dispensing impartial death; they were too late to save any of the cocoons for their silk, but Anghara watched the episode with a feeling that was half fascination and half revulsion.

  “Survival,” said al’Jezraal on their way back to the others. “Out here, you are the eater or the eaten. The desert harbors nothing soft.”

  “What eats the silkseekers?”

  “The vultures,” said al’Jezraal. “And sometimes the jin’aaz.”

  “The spiders?” asked Anghara, her eyes wide. “But I just saw…”

  “It fed on the cocoons,” said al’Tamar. “The young. The adult spider was not at home. Sometimes even silkseekers get unlucky.”

  “How big are these spiders?” gasped Anghara, trying to envisage something that could consume the silkseeker. The bird was not large, but it was certainly bigger than any spider she had ever seen.

  With a wide grin al’Tamar dropped his reins, showing a size as wide as an Al’hariani serving platter between his open palms. “But do not fear,” he added, seeing her eyes go even wider. “They are largely nocturnal and very shy. They would not come near a man.”

  “And when you go to get the silk?”

  “The spider is lured from the den first, with bait of food,” said al’Jezraal.

  “I suppose they’re poisonous, like everything else,” said Anghara.

  “Is that what you think? We have been remiss, then, in showing you the things that bring life in the desert,” said al’Jezraal with a smile.
/>   “No,” said al’Tamar, his own answer far more specific.

  “Not exactly poisonous. But a spider bite is liable to lead to swelling and, if it is about the face, sometimes to temporary blindness. Not life-threatening, but largely unpleasant.”

  The words were almost the same as those he’d used to describe the red crab he had just pulverized on the Kadun Khajir’i’id shore. It had been another lesson. Hama dan ar’i’id.

  “Sit with me,” Anghara invited, patting the sand. “You said that you fostered at this place which we seek?”

  “For a while,” said al’Tamar, sitting beside her. “They are cousins, my mother’s kin. Her mother was sister to al’Talip ma’Shadir, the village headman. He is old now, but he still leads the fishing fleet at Ul’khari’ma.”

  “Why did they send you there?” asked Anghara, staring out to sea.

  It had been an innocent question, but the silver-blue aura flared briefly into an incandescent glow before being furiously damped down. Anghara turned sharply.

  “You know,” he said flatly, glancing up in resignation at this reaction. “Of course you know, an’sen’thar. And one other does—my aunt, ai’Jihaar, because she was the one who hid me from the rest.”

  “Hid you? But why?”

  “I could not join a tower,” he said, rather bleakly, kneading the sand with restless fingers. “I am my father’s only son, his heir, the heir to a Hariff silver mine. If I went, it would lapse—to another clan, perhaps. So they sent me first to the furthest place they knew where I had kin, and where sen’en’thari were few. And when a sen’thar came to Ul’khari’ma, I left, and came to my uncle at Al’haria.”

  “But there are more sen’en’thari there than just about anywhere else in this entire land,” said Anghara, frowning.

  “Yes, and my uncle is the one man who can keep me from ever being near one for long enough for them to suspect,” said al’Tamar. “And my aunt has placed some kind of a block on me, something that prevents them from seeing what I am. I do not understand it, but then, I was never trained. I never will be.”