Secrets of the Sands

by Leona Wisoker

  Deiq put a hand on her shoulder, slowing her to a stop.

  “Take a moment,” he said. “You need to come all the way back to human time and space.”

  He stood quietly, keeping his hand on her shoulder, as she shook off the lingering half-daze. She shuddered at a sudden feeling that everything inside her had broken beyond repair. At last the fragmented sensation eased, her sight cleared, and she studied the fortress ahead with a much different eye.

  It still seemed an ungainly sprawl of blocks, the design almost haphazard; it fit no pattern she'd seen before. The walls curved here, ran straight there; rose three stories high and dropped to one without symmetry. Much of the stone seemed to have been bleached and weathered by hundreds of years of desert sun and sandstorms, but Alyea saw two large, yellow-orange patches whose crisp lines indicated a more recent history.

  Several tents had been pitched well away from the walls of the fortress. The morning breeze carried the thick scent of a dung-coal fire and recently cooked food: probably the ubiquitious stew with cactus peppers. People sat on blankets spread before the tents, resting and talking quietly.

  Nobody seemed to have noticed Alyea and Deiq yet.

  “Stay still,” Deiq said, his voice low. “They won't see us until we move. We blend in. Take the time to study everything.”

  She saw four tents, each large enough to hold five people comfortably. The term “tent” could only be broadly applied: these sturdy, collapsible shelters sat atop the loose sand, secured more by weight inside than by stakes and string.

  Alyea realized she knew at least some of the people in front of the tents: Gria. Sela. Chacerly. Micru. She wasn't sure of the others, but something about the way those four figures shifted, the shape of their heads, a gesture, a slouch, identifed them to Alyea beyond question.

  She could tell there would be no joy in the reunion. Chacerly sat with a tautness that spoke of anger and fear; Gria and Sela slouched in despairing postures. Micru sat still, but something about his form reminded Alyea of his coldblooded namesake, coiled and waiting to strike; he sat far from Chac.

  Another group, this one composed of small dark-skinned men, huddled in a compact group: talking, occasionally gesturing widely. They radiated anger and danger.

  “Teyanain,” Alyea breathed, not at all sure she had it right; but Deiq's hand tightened on her shoulder.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “What are they doing here?”

  He didn't answer. Glancing up at him, she saw by his expression that he wouldn't.

  “All right,” she said. “I'll figure it out for myself.”

  They walked forward, the sun at their backs, and for a few steps nobody noticed the movement. Finally one of the teyanain looked up and scrambled to his feet, shouting. Moments later almost the whole camp seemed to be standing, squinting into the bright light.

  Gria, Sela, and Micru stayed seated. Alyea wondered what that meant: were all three prisoners? The two women certainly had that look to them, but Alyea couldn't imagine Micru sitting tamely in cuffs, somehow.

  She kept her face expressionless as she and Deiq advanced on the camp, watching where people stood and where they looked—and didn't look. The teyanain weren't glancing anywhere near the seated people, and neither was Chacerly.

  The wrinkles on Chac's face deepened as he strode forward. He directed a glare at Deiq.

  “You have a bad habit,” he snapped, “of interfering where you're not wanted.”

  Deiq said nothing, his own expression bland.

  Chac made a dismissive, hostile gesture and turned his attention to Alyea. “Took you long enough to get here,” he said. “And where's Juric? He should have had you here days ago.”

  “I'm sorry I'm late. I was healing,” she said, keeping her voice neutral.

  “Healing? From what . . . ?” He stopped, returned his glare to Deiq. “You didn't.”

  “She did,” Deiq said, and smiled. “She bears the marks of both Comos and Ishrai.”

  The teyanain had been hanging back a few paces, listening intently. At those words, one of them pushed forward. He stood at least a head shorter than Alyea, with the dark skin and facial structure of a deep southerner, but mysterious blue tattoos wrapped across his face and arms.

  “Show them,” he ordered. “Show marks.”

  Deiq put his hands on Alyea's shoulders and turned her to stand facing away from the onlookers. She felt him draw the loose cloth of her shirt up to show her mid-back. After a moment he let it drop and carefully pulled the left side of her leggings down a handspan to expose her hip, then tugged them back up and turned her around again. He gave her the faintest hint of a smile when she glanced up at him.

  Chac let out a hiss through his front teeth. “You're a fool.”

  The teyanin leader said nothing, but seemed to be studying Alyea with markedly more respect than before.

  “How is possible?” the tattooed man said. “Ishrai year not past.”

  “I'm standing in for the ha'reye,” Deiq said.

  In the deathly silence following those words, Chac's weathered face seemed to lose color.

  “You can't do that!” the old man snarled. “That's not allowed!”

  “The ha'reye of the Qisani agreed to it,” Deiq said. “That's all the authority I need.”

  A murmur rose among the teyanain behind Chac. Alyea heard “Qisani” repeated several times.

  The teyanain's expressions shifted to distinctly impressed. Chac jerked, lowering his chin to his chest for a moment, then took a deep breath and straightened.

  “Juric was told to bring you straight here, not to the Qisani,” he said to Alyea. “You should not have gone through those two trials yet. Juric will be called to account for this.”

  “Juric is a Callen of Comos, and a friend of mine,” Deiq said with lazy amusement.

  Chac's glare shifted back to Deiq, and it held a murderous anger this time.

  Alyea cleared her throat.

  “Excuse me,” she said in a tone that brought everyone's attention sharply back to her. “I'm here to take the last blood trial. Is there a Callen of Datda here that is ready and willing to test me?”

  The tattooed teyanin bowed, both hands clasped together in front of him, and when he straightened he pointed to Chac.

  “Callen,” he said, and stepped back three measured paces.

  “Chac?” Alyea said in disbelief. “You can't be serious!”

  The old man's expression could have melted the stone of the Qisani.

  “Yes,” he said finally. “I'm here to test you.”

  Alyea suspected events had moved far from the path Chac had intended.

  “We left the Qisani last evening and have been walking all night,” Deiq said. “I'd like to request that she be given the chance to rest before beginning the trial.”

  Another murmur from the teyanain. The blue-tattooed one now had an expression of open astonishment. “You walk from Qisani in one night?” he said.

  “Toi, te hoethra,” Deiq said. “I swear it to be truth. She walked by my side with the wings of the desert wind.”

  “You have right to rest,” the tattooed man said before Chac could speak. He pointed at the tents behind them. “You use my shall, my shelter. Go.”

  “Saishe-pais—gratitude to your honor,” Deiq said, and put a hand on Alyea's shoulder. He steered her past the watching crowd and towards a shelter that had a bright blue stripe near the entrance.

  “Don't look back,” he murmured as they walked. “Don't look at anyone. Just get in the shelter and say nothing until we're inside.”

  The shall was wide, round, and smelled of sun-baked, unwashed human. A light mat lay on the canvas floor, grey and worn with long use; Alyea sat on it without waiting for a prompt. She looked up at Deiq.

  “What can you tell me,” she said deliberately, watching his mouth twitch as if against a smile, “about what just happened out there?”

  He sat beside her, drew his knees up, and grin
ned.

  “Very little,” he said, seeming pleased about something. “Chac expected you to be here several days ago. I made arrangements otherwise. I thought you'd be better prepared for the blood trial of Datda if you'd been through the other two first.”

  “Chac didn't want me to pass his trial in the first place, did he?”

  “I can't speak to that.”

  “You don't have to,” Alyea said sourly. “Gods! This is a mess.”

  “I've seen worse,” Deiq said, and stretched out. “Go to sleep.”

  She stared at him for a while, watching him as his breathing evened out and his eyes began to flutter in the onset of true sleep. He said nothing more, and as the day's heat began to seep into the chill air of the shelter, it seemed to steal away the energy she'd been using to stay upright.

  She didn't remember lying down, but found herself stretched out limp next to Deiq. A heartbeat after that, a darkness thicker than night drew her from consciousness.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-One

  As they walked, a strange, sourceless susurrus of murmurs and whispers faded in and out of Idisio's hearing: he shivered, a prickling chill racing over his whole body. The tunnel didn't feel comfortable any longer. Once the voices began, traveling the ha'rethe's underground ways had swiftly become an experience as eerie and creepy for Idisio as the tunnels beneath Bright Bay.

  Scratha, too, seemed to be listening at times, but Idisio found himself afraid to ask if his master heard the voices. The desert lord's expression held a worrying sourness, and the grey strain hadn't faded from his face yet. Riss didn't seem to be hearing anything; she trudged along, sullen and withdrawn in another of her confusing mood shifts.

  “My lord,” Idisio said at last, hoping to take his mind off the whispers echoing in the back of his head, “you said you'd be teaching me. When are you going to start?”

  Scratha glanced at Riss. “I'd intended. . . .” He paused and shook his head. “Well, Riss may as well hear. It will help her to understand what you're going through, and you'll need that.”

  “Well, thanks for that kindness,” Riss snapped. Scratha stopped, turned, and gave the girl a ferocious glare that actually made her flinch.

  She dropped her gaze. “Sorry,” she said in a small voice.

  Scratha resumed walking, his face grim. “Obligations. Every ha'ra'ha has certain obligations. I've been . . . instructed on what to tell you.” His lips pressed together and a twitch passed across his face. “I'll start with the one you won't like most, and get it out of the way. You have to father at least one child.”

  Idisio stopped cold, his legs refusing to move another step. As if he'd expected the pause, Scratha shot a hand out, grabbed Idisio's elbow, and jerked him roughly into motion again.

  “I don't make the rules,” the desert lord said without looking at Idisio. “It's part of a very old agreement between the ha'reye and humans. Anyone with even a trace of the blood has to father or bear at least one child if they're able. Quite a few of mixed blood are sterile; they can't reproduce. So the burden falls on those who can, to give at least one and preferably more.”

  He didn't loose his iron grip on Idisio's arm as he spoke, and Idisio gave up on the idea of stopping to catch his breath after that incredible statement.

  “You can let me go, my lord,” he said. “I swear I won't run.”

  Scratha stumbled a half-step and shot Idisio a dark stare. Idisio forced a smile, and after a moment Scratha released his grip and offered a wry smile of his own.

  “It's a long way from the gardens of the Bright Bay palace, isn't it?” Scratha said.

  Idisio nodded, relieved that the desert lord had picked up on the reminder and allowed the mood to lighten a bit. “It is.”

  “Who does he—?” Riss started.

  “Let me finish explaining, Riss,” Scratha said sharply. “Hold your peace for a moment.”

  Riss fell silent. Idisio glanced back at her and saw an odd expression on her face. She seemed badly rattled. He didn't get a chance to ask her about it; Scratha started talking again.

  “It's best,” the desert lord said, eyes straight ahead and a pronounced strain in his voice, “if you have a child with a full human. If you choose another ha'ra'ha, there's a greater chance the child will be sterile, or . . . deformed.” He seemed to force the last word out. “And you'll have to take full responsibility for the child. It's your child, not the mother's. That reverses, of course,” he added, “for a female ha'ra'ha.” A pained expression crossed his face.

  Idisio just kept walking, alternating between staring at his feet and staring straight ahead. He felt overwhelmed and almost numb with disbelief.

  “You don't have to marry the woman you choose,” Scratha went on after a moment of thick silence. “I'd advise telling her the truth beforehand, though, or she'll get upset when you come to take the child.” His tone returned to dry neutrality.

  “Really?” Riss said from behind them, heavily sarcastic.

  Scratha ignored her. “You'll be expected to bring the child to your sworn ha'rethe for a . . . well, call it a blessing. That's close enough. It's more of an examination, to find out if the child is, ah. . . .” He cleared his throat again. “True blood, true bred. The ha'rethe will determine if you're really the father and whether the child has inherited any of the blood traits.”

  “Gods, you're cold!” Riss said. She sounded really angry. “We're not talking about some . . . some foal and its bloodline here! This is a child! What's the matter with you?”

  “I don't make the rules,” Scratha repeated.

  “That's a dodge,” Riss said.

  Scratha sighed. “Trust me,” he said, “the ha'reye are far from indifferent to their children. I don't have the skill to explain it more gently, that's all.”

  “You mean you don't have the stomach to mask what's ugly with pretty words,” Riss said.

  “My lord,” Idisio said before the man could speak, “have you had to give a child?”

  Complete silence followed that question for several moments. Idisio noticed, almost absently, that the passage had started to widen.

  “Yes,” Scratha said at last. “It's part of becoming a desert lord.” His expression became closed and fierce. Idisio wished he hadn't asked, but Riss, heartless, jumped into the moment:

  “Where are your children, then, my lord?” she said. “Do you have responsibility for them?”

  Another long silence. Finally, Scratha let out a long, hard breath, and said, “Dead.”

  Idisio heard a faint, startled intake of breath from behind him, and knew Riss regretted her harsh questioning.

  “I'm sorry, my lord,” she said quietly.

  “Done is done,” Scratha said. After another pause, he went on, his voice steadying as he spoke: “Idisio, I'm not saying you have to do this right away. But when you do, choose a partner with care, and make sure she understands what she's bedding. And . . . before you do . . . you're going to have to learn from another ha'ra'ha or ha'rethe; there's . . . it's not as simple for you as just taking a woman to bed. I don't know . . . how to explain what's involved.”

  “So he can't get some girl pregnant accidentally?” Riss asked in pragmatic tones. “That ought to be a relief.”

  Scratha half snorted, half sighed, and said nothing. Idisio, feeling a hot flush spreading across his face, kept his gaze firmly ahead and his teeth in his tongue.

  Ahead, the passageway spread further and ended in an opening that ten men could have marched through with ease. Scratha's steps slowed as they moved forward into the room beyond, and for a long moment they all stood on the threshold and simply stared.

  Idisio had never seen such an enormous enclosure; the sloping floor of the vast cavern before them leveled out, towards the center, into an area large enough for a thousand men to camp on. Many openings of varying size punctuated the rim of the gigantic bowl, and ramps had been cut— no, worn, Idisio realized after another look—from the cavern floor u
p to wide ledges in front of each opening.

  The same steady light that illuminated the passage filled the entire cavern, as though the ha'rethe had reached ahead in anticipation of their arrival and poured out its strange magic to prepare the scene. Idisio shivered again, wanting nothing more than to turn and run; but once again the only way out lay ahead, not behind.

  As they stood staring, a sense of presence filled Idisio's throat with wool, thickening his breath in his chest. Scratha glanced at him, frowning, then tilted his head as though listening to something Idisio couldn't hear.