Secrets of the Sands

by Leona Wisoker

  “We need to rest, I think,” he said after a moment.

  Scratha led them back into the tunnel a hefty stone's throw; the muzzy feeling left Idisio's throat, and he drew in a deep, grateful breath. Riss slid her pack off her shoulders and sat. They all followed her lead, Idisio between Riss and Scratha, resting their shoulders against the sloping walls. In spite of the abundance of space, they huddled together, shoulders almost touching, as if they all shared a need in this strange place for human contact.

  Scratha passed around chunks of dried fruit, cheese, and trail jerky. They ate in silence, sipping sparingly from their water skins.

  “How much further do we have to go?” Riss finally asked.

  “I'm not entirely sure myself,” Scratha admitted. “My sense of time is a bit odd down here.” He looked as if he intended to say more, then shot Riss a sharp glance and shook his head instead. “A day or two, maybe three.”

  Idisio grimaced, not liking the thought of traveling these passages any longer than necessary. Scratha caught his expression and grinned, although it held no humor.

  “Walking the desert above us,” he said, “we'd take seven or eight days to reach Scratha Fortress, at best; the desert's not a flat plain. Hills, valleys, rough terrain, sandy patches all slow travel down. This way is a straight line and an easy walk in comparison. And taking this path means we don't have to stop for political games.” He took a swig from his water skin.

  “Political games?” Riss said.

  Scratha ate a piece of dried fruit, seeming to consider. “The major Families are like little kings,” he said. “They each claim jurisdiction over a certain amount of land, and they all have ancient, huge fortresses as the center of their power. The minor Families don't have as much land, as many people, and so they don't have as much political power. The more desert lords sworn to a Family, the more power it holds.” He paused to take a bite of jerky and chewed steadily.

  “Boundaries shift,” he went on finally. “Sessin Family, for example, used to be a fairly minor Family, hundreds of years ago. When they figured out the secret to clear, flat glass, they gained more power, more wealth, and expanded their holdings to match. Last I heard they're supporting seven full desert lords. Tereph is a fairly new Family in terms of centuries. They've been established for about two, three hundred years at best. They were granted some land at the edge of Sessin's southern boundary, and support three full lords.”

  “Granted by who?” Idisio asked, proud that he'd snuck a question in ahead of Riss.

  “A Conclave.”

  “What's a Conclave?” Riss asked, frowning.

  Scratha looked at her, eyes distant, for a moment, as if still lost in thought, then he shook himself sharply and said, “A gathering of desert lords. Any time ten full lords representing at least seven different Families are gathered, it can be considered a Conclave. Decisions made in Conclave are binding on all of the southlands. Every desert Family has to be notified and given a chance to attend.”

  “Wait,” Riss said, squinting at him. “Ten lords, but only seven Families? Doesn't that slant things a bit?”

  Scratha smiled. “It can,” he admitted. “There used to be more Families, so having fifteen or even thirty lords show up to a Conclave wasn't uncommon. These days, it's a little trickier, and that's where the betweenConclave political games come in. Deals and alliances made out of Conclave are starting to affect votes within Conclave.”

  His tone became musing. “Pieas threatened to call a Conclave. He can't—only a full lord can, and his own Family wouldn't back such a notion—but he's developed allies in odd places, and one of them might just be fool enough to try it.”

  “Why would Pieas want to call a Conclave?” Idisio said, bewildered. “To challenge you over his sister? That seems a bit extreme.”

  Scratha blinked and seemed mildly startled, as if just realizing he had said that aloud.

  “No,” he said. “I don't think I have anything to do with that, actually. I think he wanted to challenge Oruen's appointment of Lady Alyea to hold my lands while I'm gone. I don't think it's a bad reason, at that. She's too young, and doesn't have the faintest idea what she's walking into. If I'd realized what a botch he'd make of the grant, I wouldn't have done it.” He glared at the far wall as though it held the blame.

  “So do you think Pieas is going to try to call a Conclave?” Riss said.

  “He can't,” Scratha said, and smiled unpleasantly. “I already did. Guests should be setting up camp outside the walls of Scratha Fortress as we speak.”

  * * *

  Chapter TwentyTwo

  Voices and a scratchy feeling of tension jerked Alyea from a dream in which yellow-eyed creatures glared at her from pools of deep shadow. Deiq crouched at the entrance to the shall, looking out.

  He cast a tight-mouthed glance over his shoulder as she stirred. “Trouble,” he said. “Get yourself all the way awake.” He went back to studying the uproar.

  “What's going on?” She ran her hands through her hair, trying to rake out the worst of the tangles.

  “Company,” he said without turning. “Pieas Sessin, and others. Sounds like someone called a Conclave, and the first guests just arrived.”

  Alyea's stomach rolled and rumbled. She scrubbed her hands over her face, trying to decide if the sensation came from hunger or fear.

  “Eat,” Deiq said. “Bread next to you.”

  “Thanks,” she said absently, reaching for the bread. She hardly noticed taste or texture as she bolted the food, her thoughts even more agitated than her stomach.

  Pieas! Why? Had he convinced his Family to call a Conclave, as he'd threatened? If Sessin Family had decided to back Pieas, and stand against her, what would that do to their relationship with Oruen? Or did those two issues have no relation?

  “Whatever the reason for this Conclave,” Deiq said, as if sensing her thoughts, “it seems to involve you.”

  Alyea wiped her mouth free of crumbs. “I'm ready.”

  Deiq half-turned and looked at her critically. “Remember you're more than halfway to being a desert lord already. Don't let anyone push you around. You'll lose credibility.”

  She swallowed hard and nodded. He rose from his crouch, moving out of the shall as he did so, and pulled the flap aside for her. Outside, she swept the scene with a rapid, assessing glance. Several teyanain stood in a rough circle around her shall; she saw the small man with the blue tattoos standing to one side. Seeing her step out of his shall, he nodded neutral greeting, then looked towards Chac as though to direct Alyea's own gaze in that direction.

  Chac seemed to be arguing with a tall, dark man whose face was marked with a sinuous white line from the corner of his left eye to the left corner of his mouth. Chac looked furious, the stranger uninterested. As Alyea watched, the tall man made a dismissive gesture, his numerous wide bracelets jingling with the motion, then turned his back on the sputtering old man and walked away, passing Micru, Gria, and Sela without a glance.

  Alyea realized that her two slaves and the Hidden all sat together as they had been last night: even in the same spot. That worried her. She thought about walking over to them, but decided against it. Not understanding the situation meant not knowing what message her attending to them might send to watchers; safer to stay clear for now.

  Altogether, the number of people in front of Scratha Fortress had easily doubled, and the tension had quadrupled. Chac, denied his argument with the tall man, turned, spotted Alyea and started towards her, scowling. The teyanain stiffened, looking to the tattooed one as though for directions; he nodded, and they allowed Chac though their line without protest.

  Chac didn't even seem to notice the brief exchange, his attention—and his anger—focused on Alyea alone.

  “Chac,” she said as soon as he came within earshot. She straightened her back and did her best to look imposing instead of terrified. You're more than halfway . . . She felt her fear dissolving. Chac couldn't possibly do anything more dreadful
than the events she'd already lived through.

  The tattooed teyanin moved to stand nearby. He now displayed his own set of bracelets; small, flattened beads of semiprecious stones interspersed with even tinier silver and gold squares. She had no idea what that meant, but Chac's gaze fastened on them and stuck as though in horrified fascination.

  “Lady,” the tattooed man said, smiling. “Teth hanaa silayha; you grace us.”

  Chac, still staring at the bracelets, shivered as though abruptly terrified; a moment later his scowl reappeared and he seemed to regain control of himself.

  “The grace is in your presence,” Alyea said after a moment, and stared hard at Chac. “You seem unhappy about something, Chacerly.”

  “I'm not happy about that one being here,” Chac snapped, pointing at Deiq. The ha'ra'ha stood slightly behind her, at her right shoulder. “Send him away!”

  About to say: I can't, she stopped herself.

  “No,” she said instead. “He's my advisor now, Chacerly. He stays.”

  “You can't trust him!” Chac said.

  “I trust him more than I trust you at the moment,” she said. “You have a lot to explain, old man, and I have a feeling I won't be believing any of it.” Chac had been more rattled by the teyanin's bracelets than by Deiq's presence; once again, Alyea wished she understood the secret language which seemed to be passing to all sides of her.

  Smiling, the tattooed man bowed slightly and drifted away as though to allow them relative privacy for their quarrel.

  “Deiq's just using you,” Chac said. “You'll find that out. That's all he does, use people for his own aims. He lies, Alyea, he lies.”

  Those words held truth, an undeniable passion, and pain; but Alyea knew better than to ask for the history behind that. Not only would Chac probably lie again, it would divert the conversation from the most important point: his own betrayal of her.

  “You haven't been honest, yourself,” Alyea said.

  “I've done what was needed,” he said. “What I was ordered to do.”

  “I won't believe Oruen ordered me kidnapped.”

  “You weren't kidnapped!” Chac protested. “Not by my orders, certainly. I left instructions for you to be brought here while I diverted the teyanain from your trail. They want you dead! I was trying to save your life.” He pointed at Deiq again, his hand shaking. “He's the one who interfered and had you taken to the Qisani. That's the most dangerous—”

  “And the most respected,” Deiq interrupted. “The Qisani produces the strongest lords.”

  Before Chac could answer, the tall man with the white line on his face approached and bowed to her. His bracelets, mainly thin strands of silver and gold twisted into narrow braids, glittered and jingled; none seemed to hold any beads, of any material.

  Alyea despaired of ever understanding what any of it meant.

  “Lady,” he said. “Teth hanaa silayha.” The words held a flat, broad accent that she had never heard before.

  “The grace is in your presence,” Alyea responded automatically.

  “Let me introduce myself,” the tall man went on. “I'm Lord Irrio Darden. My grandfather is the Head of Darden. And you would be Lady Alyea.” He smiled. “Quite a fuss you have started, my lady.”

  Alyea grinned at him, knowing the expression held little true humor. “You give me far too much credit, my lord.”

  He studied her for a moment, his own smile widening. “I rather doubt that.”

  “My lord,” Chac started.

  The tall man looked down at him and said curtly, “There is nothing from your mouth that I want to hear at this moment.”

  Alyea clamped her jaw tight to avoid gaping like an idiot. Chac's eyes seemed to glitter with a cold fury she'd never seen in him before.

  “She's under blood trial law, my lord,” Chac said. “I've agreed to test her under the auspices of the sun-lord. That gives me rights—”

  “As I've already told you, that gives you nothing,” Lord Irrio said, “until your status is determined. That's been made a matter for the Conclave; her blood trial will have to wait until then.”

  Deiq made a soft humming sound of amusement. Chac turned a murderous glare on the ha'ra'ha, received nothing but a faint smile in response, and stormed away, muttering to himself.

  “He's a fool,” Deiq said amiably, “and a dangerous one, Lord Irrio.”

  “He's a snake with one tooth, and that about to be broken,” the desert lord answered, and made a dismissive gesture with one hand. “My lady, will you join us in a morning meal? I think we may have a great deal to discuss.”

  The simple meal consisted of slices of desert flatbread rolled around a warm, spicy filling of beans and rice. The company and conversation proved considerably more complicated.

  Three more desert lords introduced themselves to Alyea before they began to eat: Lord Rest of Ehrrat Family, Lord Faer of Toscin Family, and Lord Salo, also of Darden Family. Deiq studied the men.

  “All western Families,” he noted. “I hope the east will find itself represented fairly.”

  He made no move to take any food; Alyea followed his lead.

  “If they stir themselves to show up,” Lord Rest said sourly. A short man as southerners went, he stood no taller than Alyea herself, and his dark hair looked thick and oily. He studied her critically, like a fighter assessing his opponent's strength.

  “If they've been notified, they'll come,” Deiq said.

  “Desert law requires that all Families be notified in the event of a Conclave,” Lord Faer said. His voice emerged as a deep, rumbling bass that suited his bulk; not a fat man, but sturdily built and carrying a few extra pounds with it.

  Lord Rest snorted contemptuously, but Lord Irrio said, “They've been notified. Scratha's always held by the law.”

  “Scratha!” Alyea said, startled, and found herself the target of multiple hard stares. “I . . . I thought perhaps Pieas Sessin. . . .” she faltered, looking around. She still didn't see him anywhere. “He was threatening to, last I saw him.”

  “Pieas Sessin doesn't have the authority,” Lord Faer said.

  “And Scratha does?” Lord Rest said. He wiped crumbs and rice from the corner of his mouth.

  “Scratha was granted Head of Family status a long time ago,” Lord Faer said, frowning. “That's not up for challenge!”

  A movement nearby made Alyea turn her head sharply; the tattooed teyanin sat on her other side now.

  “It is,” he said.

  Silence fell as the teyanin leaned forward and scooped rice onto a piece of flatbread. Nobody looked surprised, except for Lord Faer. Lord Irrio looked thoughtful, Lord Salo offended, Lord Rest amused.

  “Who's challenging Scratha's status?” Lord Faer demanded.

  “I,” the teyanin said complacently. “Lord Evkit.” He held out his arm and shook it so the bracelet clicked loudly.

  “You're—” Lord Irrio blurted, clearly startled. The others stared at the bracelet with expressions similar to the one Chac had developed on seeing it clearly.

  The tattooed man grinned at them. “I,” he nodded.

  Alyea's breath caught in her throat as she remembered what Juric had told her: Cida Scratha ran off with a commoner the night after the announcement of her engagement to Lord Evkit. Her desertion was a mortal insult.

  Could this actually be the same man?

  Deiq made an odd, pained sound. “Lord Evkit. I'm honored.”

  The other lords hastily chorused similar sentiments. “What brings the head of the teyanain to the deep desert?” Lord Irrio asked.

  Lord Evkit turned slightly and pointed. They followed his gaze, and Alyea felt her chest tighten painfully; he was indicating the two northern women.

  “Mine,” he said, and looked at Alyea. “Stolen.”

  “Bought fairly,” Deiq said, leaning forward slightly to look at the small man. “Legal under all laws.”

  “Mine,” Lord Evkit repeated stubbornly. “Blood honor claim.”


  Lord Rest let out a low whistle. “You're a fool if you're going to challenge that, Deiq. None of us have that much power. Not even you.”

  “None of you have that much courage,” Deiq retorted.

  Lord Evkit laughed. That cooled the brewing argument, as everyone stared at the chuckling man, their anger visibly fading into bewilderment.

  “He is right,” the head of the teyanain said cheerfully. “You all know what happen if teyanain upset.” He glanced at the ruins of the fortress and grinned.

  “You'd punish a child for the fault of its parent?” Alyea demanded. “You're no better than the northern s'iopes!”