Secrets of the Sands

by Leona Wisoker

  What did Krilla say, nurse? What did she say that was so wise?

  Nobody knows, dear . . . nobody knows.

  But then another voice spoke, a young, sad voice, and it said:

  Because, my lord, my family and the villagers are not evil. Some are innocent, and follow wherever they are led, without thought of their own; they do not deserve to be punished for simple foolishness. And some in the village do nothing but lead where they want to go and give no thought to the well-being of those who follow, and those people will earn their own end. But you led only where I asked to go, and rescued me only when I asked. You have used no trickery, and asked only that I decide my way for myself. You have more honor than any human I have ever met, and I will follow you for that until the end of my days.

  And there came a blinding, howling pain and a searing rush of ecstasy, tumbling on and around and through each other; then the darkness came back and took it all away again.

  What did the healer say, nurse? What did he say? Why did the diamonds break?

  Nobody knows, dear . . . nobody knows.

  Another voice spoke, an old, gentle, joyous voice, and it said:

  A diamond born of tears is the hardest substance in the world. The first diamond, which broke when Krilla chose to leave with the Lord of Winter, was the tear of sacrifice; she reclaimed that piece of her spirit when she chose her path with full desire rather than from duty. The last two diamonds were born from tears of pain and anger, and were broken by the most powerful emotion in the world: love. She has come to love the Lord of Winter, to surrender her heart completely, and to utterly forgive those who sought to harm her.

  Alyea felt new life pushing its first, tentative feelers into the space around her. Tenderness, gratitude, and love flowed through and around, inside and outside, weaving and wrapping and holding her, then rocked her down into a deep silence again.

  What did the Lord of Winter say, nurse? What did he say, that made Krilla decide to go with him?

  Nobody knows, dear . . . nobody knows. Perhaps one day you'll be the one to find out, and bring us all the answers.

  Another voice spoke, rich and deep and loud and quiet all at once. It said:

  If you stay with me to save your village, your life will be twice as long as the oldest of your kind. If you stay with me because you wish to be by my side, your life will be four times that long. And if you grow to love me with a true and open heart, your life will be as long as mine and you will be as a Lord yourself, and your children will be Lords of the world, and their children. But never seek to deceive me, for I know your heart more clearly and more surely than you do; and I ask of you only honesty, and will return you only truth.

  Tenderness and gratitude swelled one more time; then regret and sadness wove into the silent song of emotion. She felt a searing pain beyond pain, a ripping that seemed as if it would go on forever.

  This time darkness came as a merciful release.

  Feeling came back in slow fragments. A deep, steady pain seemed to have seeped into her very bones. She felt a light cloth covering over her, a soft padding under her; warm air moved gently against her face. She could smell desert thyme and rosemary mixed with a soothing, rich floral fragrance she couldn't identify.

  She lay with her eyes closed, with no particular impulse to do anything but rest. The pain sapped her energy and strength; she wasn't sure she could move even if she wanted to. She felt a pressure across her hips, stomach, and groin, as if a thick, weighted blanket were bound tightly around her; in that area alone the pain seemed muted.

  After a while, the air moved in a different pattern, and the scent of herbs and flowers mixed wth the acrid tang of human skin and sweat. Almost human: the odors held a musky tinge which Alyea recognized now.

  “Ishrait,” Alyea said without opening her eyes. The woman said nothing, but Alyea sensed her settling nearby, within arm's reach to the left. The quiet steadiness of her presence seemed to ease the aches spiraling through Alyea's body.

  Alyea felt no pressure to speak further, and simply rested a while more, until the red-edged waves of pain subsided to a deep discomfort.

  “Ishrait,” she said finally, “why do I hurt?”

  In a low, barely audible murmur, the woman answered: “You may call me Acana. You have earned the right to know my name and use it as you like.”

  “Acana,” Alyea said, feeling only a weary sort of patience, “Why do I hurt? What happened?”

  “What do you remember?”

  Alyea sorted through fragments of memory.

  “The pool,” she said at last. “You had me stand in the dark, in front of the pool, and asked me a lot of questions. And then . . . I think I must have fallen asleep, and had a dream. A nightmare, maybe. I can't recall what it was about, not really.”

  She had a sense of almost unendurable loss at not being able to remember the dream clearly. There had been a girl, trudging up a mountain in the cold; and a great voice, speaking from an invisible source. At one point, Alyea remembered, her own hands had been cupped in front of her and filled to overflowing with crystal-clear rubies and diamonds. And something about that linked to a deep eroticism, and a deeper pain, but she couldn't recall clearly why.

  Acana sighed. “No dream and no nightmare. But it may be a mercy you can't remember much of it.” Her voice sounded very sad. “You have passed the blood trial of Ishrai, and have been given the mark. Your only remaining obligation is to your ha'ra'ha, who will guide you through the following year.” If you survive.

  The last words sounded oddly blurred; Alyea had the distinct feeling she'd just overheard one of Acana's thoughts. She didn't bother dismissing that as impossible. She'd accept a bluebird reciting poetry and discussing philosophy right now, without a twitch.

  She heard Acana rise, murmur something indistinct, and leave the room. Alyea kept her eyes closed, feeling nothing but an overwhelming lassitude that denied any emotion, squashed any thought or reaction or movement. Another scent, evocative of warm, cinnamon-laced sand, entered the room as Acana's faded away, and at last a distant jolt of shock reached deeply enough to prompt a response. She knew who had arrived, just by that smell; no doubt, no chance of mistake.

  Random thoughts flashed through her head. Apparently, she'd completely failed at losing Deiq's interest after all. She didn't understand how he'd gotten from Stass to wherever the Qisani stood so quickly. Chac would be furious.

  But none of that seemed to matter any more.

  Alyea opened her eyes and managed to turn her head to the left, each tiny increment of movement feeling slow and creaky. In the dim light of the few small oil lamps, he seemed to loom high and tall, impossibly large, until she realized she lay on a low bed and the perspective was skewed.

  “Greetings, my lady,” Deiq said as he knelt beside her, seeming to shrink back to normal size with the movement. He cupped her face in large, warm hands and smiled, his expression so gentle and tender that it wrenched at her heart. With that smile, some of the not-dream came back to her, and she began to cry. He smoothed the tears away with his thumbs and said nothing as she wept. When her breath evened out again, the weariness returned. She shut her eyes, and Deiq, seeming to understand, said, “Sleep, my lady. I'll stay with you.”

  She let the darkness take her again, unable to fight the suasion of his voice this time. When she woke, the room had filled with daylight and the smell of fresh-cut oranges. Deiq's scent hovered near at hand, and she felt body heat to her left. She opened her eyes, looked at the sunlit rock overhead, and breathed in the scent of oranges and humanother for a while before once again turning her head to look at him.

  He sat beside her pallet, knees drawn up and arms looped around them, watching her. His face held lines of exhaustion, as if he hadn't slept for days, but he smiled when she met his dark gaze.

  “Hungry?” he said, lifting a plate of sliced orange wedges.

  Her stomach rumbled in response to the sharp-sweet scent. She ignored it. “Chac said you
were dangerous.”

  “He was right,” Deiq said after a moment. He set the plate down slowly, his smile fading. “And I would have told you the same about him, had you met me first.”

  “I've known Chac for years,” Alyea said. “I've never seen him do an evil thing.”

  “And by inference, you've seen me do evil?”

  Alyea tried to recall what she actually had seen of Deiq. He'd stalked through the corridors of the palace with a look she'd interpreted as predatory; now, with more experience to temper her judgment, she thought perhaps it had simply been a look of assurance. Her perceptions could well have been colored by the gossip and chatter of the court and her own family.

  “You were a favorite of Ninnic's,” she said at last, unable to form anything more damning in response to his question.

  He made a small noise of disgust. “Favorite? No. I stayed out of Bright Bay while he was on that throne, whatever rumor may say. And I certainly didn't care for him.”

  She said nothing, unable to respond this time. His tone had been edged with a long-simmering frustration.

  “I told you,” Deiq said quietly, lifting the plate again, “I have far worse a name in the courts of Bright Bay than I deserve. Much of it is from that old man's spite, on a matter long past and unimportant.”

  “His wife,” Alyea said, in a sudden moment of absolute clarity. “Micru said she ran away. But you took her, didn't you? That's the only thing he could possibly hate you so much over.”

  Deiq picked a slice of orange from the plate and bit into it, wiping drops of juice from his chin. He chewed, swallowed, then held out the other half to Alyea. Her stomach demanded that she accept. The sight of the juice dripping down his chin ripped her willpower into splinters, and she let him place the fruit in her mouth. The small piece held the richest flavor she'd ever tasted. She found herself accepting and eating chunk after chunk. Deiq wiped her chin with a small cloth now and again.

  When the plate had been emptied, he set it aside and cleaned his own hands with the cloth. Then he looked back at her, a mild, contented look on his face.

  “No,” he said. “I did not take his wife. She chose to leave him, and I agreed to escort her to another place. She is still there, and still happy, and still has no desire to see him. And I have told no man or woman where she is, and I never will, and he will not forgive me for that.”

  “Why did she leave him?”

  “She found out the truth of who he is and what he is,” Deiq said. “And she lost all love for him. But right now, you don't need to worry about him, or her, or anything outside this room.” His contented expression grew more serious. He reached out and tucked her hair back around the curve of her ear. “You have a lot of healing to do in a very short time.”

  She shut her eyes again, hearing things in his tone that he wasn't saying; and those things frightened her.

  “What happened?” she asked, hearing her voice come out wobbly and nervous.

  “You passed the blood trial of Ishrai,” he said. “In this case, it was more . . . literally . . . a blood trial than usual.”

  She remembered the ripping feeling, the disconnection, and shuddered.

  “There was a child, wasn't there?” she said, the words barely more than a whisper. “They took it.”

  Deiq sighed. “Men have it easier,” he said. “They only provide seed. Women have to give more than that. That's why it takes a year; it's easier if the woman can at least carry to full term before they take the child. When. . . .” he paused, as if searching for words. “When there's as little time as you had, they have to take . . . more. To sustain the child. Do you understand?”

  Alyea lay with her eyes closed for a while. A sense of panic lurked at the edges of warm, thick layers of weariness and the deep ache still permeating her body. “Am I . . . ruined? It felt like they ripped. . . .” She couldn't finish.

  “No,” Deiq said. He took her left hand in both of his and spoke with slow deliberation, as if concentrating on holding his voice steady. “But it will take time for you to heal. And I don't . . . I don't know if you'll be able to have more children.”

  “That's all right,” she said in disconnected idiot calm. “That's. . . .”

  Raw panic abruptly slammed through the insulating layers, and her mumbling words turned into a long, trembling shriek. She was vaguely aware of movement, and smells changing, and someone holding her down as she convulsed; and then the searing pain came back and shredded her into unconsciousness again.

  “I'm sorry,” were the first words she heard when she opened her eyes again. The faint flickering of a single oil lamp set nearby showed her Deiq, kneeling beside her bed. He sat hunched forward, his head pillowed on his arms, and seemed to be talking to himself.

  “Gods, I'm so sorry,” he murmured again. She cleared a throat raw from screaming, and he sat up sharply, wiping hurriedly at his face.

  “Don't apologize more than once,” she rasped.

  He smiled, a thin and painful expression, and settled back against the wall, drawing his knees up. “Hungry?”

  “No,” she said. “Why are you sorry?”

  He looked away, then back to her as if forcing himself to meet her stare. “You're more hurt than I expected,” he said. “I thought you'd be . . . I didn't think they'd be so . . . I shouldn't have sent you here. It was a mistake.”

  Her dazed compassion disintegrated with a surge of anger. “You sent me here? I thought Chac arranged this!”

  “Yes and no. Chacerly intended to put you through the trials, but I . . . altered the arrangements a little. Lord Eredion asked for my help in guiding you; he was alarmed when the king told him who was being sent as your advisors. They might have been good in Bright Bay, but past the Horn those were the two very worst people he could have chosen. I could have avoided your going through the trials, by giving you my backing, if you'd listened to me at the way-stop, and come with me; but you're stronger than I thought you'd be, and you resisted my best efforts. I've never had anyone do that before.”

  “Egotistical bastard,” she whispered, her anger not the least bit less.

  He shook his head, sober now and unsmiling. “No. Truth. You've a much stronger will than you think, Alyea. You may even have a touch of the blood yourself.”

  “What hold does Eredion have on you, to make a ha'ra'ha do his work?” Alyea said.

  For the first time she saw a flash of his old arrogance; he straightened a little and said, “Nothing can make me do another man's work. He asked, and I agreed. The reason is between us, and not your concern.”

  Pain abruptly surged through her again, and she shut her eyes, gasping for breath. He cursed softly and spread his large hands over her torso. One covered her stomach and the other her chest, fingers splayed around rather than across her breasts. She sucked in breath and found it easier, and the pain eased a little.

  “Acana's coming,” he said, his voice curiously unemotional.

  Acana came into the room, carrying a large basin of steaming water and a bundle of cloths.

  “Close your eyes,” Deiq said. Alyea obeyed, too sick and hurt to argue. She felt the blanket being lifted away from her legs and groin, and the heavy pressure against her lower stomach easing. With that came a storm of pain that cut her off from everything but the awareness of someone howling like a wounded animal.

  Realizing that someone was herself, that part of the pain came from a throat about to give way from too much screaming, helped her cut down to a steady whimpering that still flayed her throat. At last she reduced it to a heavy gasping, the best she could do.

  “Breathe slowly,” Deiq said in her ear, his breath tickling her hair. “Slow and long and shallow. Trust me. Don't gasp like that. Please. Don't scream. Slow. Slow and shallow, there you go. Listen to my voice, listen to this rhythm . . . in. Easy . . . out. In . . . out . . . in. . . .”

  She managed, with a fierce effort, to follow the tempo he gave her.

  “Good girl. Good. Easy .
. . gods, can't we stop that damned bleeding?”

  She had the feeling she wasn't supposed to hear that last part. It had been a harsh whisper, and directed away from her; but her hearing seemed preternaturally sharp. The slightest rustle and scrape sounded as loud as a shout.

  “Just keep her breathing,” Acana said, equally quiet. “The ha'rai'nin is on her way. All we can do is keep her alive until then.”

  The pressure came back, a thick feeling now, as if someone leaned on her lower torso, pressing a heavy hand between her legs. The pain eased again.

  “Why didn't the Jungles—”

  “Shush, she can hear you. Put her to sleep, it'll be easier to hold her still that way.”