Stormlord’s Exile

by Glenda Larke

  “Kher Uthardim,” Cleve began as they walked into the entrance of the canyon, “it’s no secret my mother dreams I’ll be sandmaster one day. But I know—unlike my mother—that I’ve much to learn. I know I’m a fine warrior. But I also know there’s much more to being a sandmaster than fighting. A sandmaster has to know how to keep the tribes together, how to lead men the way you do.”

  Cleve paused, perhaps hunting for the right words. Around them, the darkness deepened as all light was cut off by the steep walls of rock on either side. “I was brought up on the dunes. You weren’t, so maybe you feel differently. We survive here because of the pedes. They make us what we are. We don’t kill them. And here within God’s Pellets, we don’t have enough of them anyway. We must have more if we’re to win this war. And yet you deliberately killed one, a fine beast that belonged to the pedemaster of those warriors. Then, once it was dead and you’d killed Redpate, you didn’t take advantage of their confusion or their leaderless state. You withdrew! Even when you returned to pick up young Guyden, you could’ve brought them to their knees. You could’ve drowned them in sand. It could’ve been a great victory, instead of a small one. Benwith’s death would have counted for something.”

  “Benwith’s death did count for something. And perhaps that is the difference between you and me.”

  Cleve looked blank.

  “For you, the worst things that happened were the death of a pede and the lack of a huge victory that would have sent a message to the tribes?”

  “Yes.”

  “To me, the worst thing was Benwith’s death. I liked the man. Young, had a bright future. When I asked you to take two men, you chose him because you had confidence in him. That man is no more.”

  Cleve glowered. “Of course it was a tragedy. I know that. I don’t need telling, as if I’m a child.”

  “Then think about it. If we’d gone on fighting, more would have died. Our men, as well as theirs. Never underestimate the determination of armsmen who think they’re trapped with no way out. Yes, we could’ve beaten them. Yes, we could’ve seized their pedes and if any men escaped, they’d have had to walk home. Once there, they’d have taught their children and their children’s children to hate us. If you become sandmaster of all the dunes in the future, that would have been your legacy to resolve: resentful men bowing to your will only because they’d been humiliated in defeat. You’d be your father, all over again. Successful—and hated by half those he ruled. Is that good governance?”

  Kaneth suspected Cleve was staring at him with a complete lack of comprehension after that last sentence, but it was too dark to tell. He’d concocted a Reduner word for “governance” out of words meaning “clever” and “ruling,” because as far as he knew the language did not have such a word of its own.

  Sunlord damn it, Reduners all need schooling… He sighed inwardly. Ryka was always saying the same thing, and she did her best with the children, but they both knew there had to be peace first.

  Picking his way over the stones littering the way, he said, “To me, people will always be more important than pedes. If the death of a pede turns a desperate fight into a victory, then it is justified. More of our men would have died or been badly injured if I hadn’t slaughtered that animal and downed their leader. The men retreated, leaderless and in trouble. They were defeated. Because I was merciful, they’ll be grateful, rather than bitter.”

  “They’ll think you weak, and laugh.”

  Kaneth shrugged. “I don’t agree. And you have to realise the middle of a battle is not the time to ask for explanations of an order given by the person in command. Do that again, and you’ll be working as the camp cook’s boy. Understand? I mean it. There won’t be another chance.”

  “Yes, Kher. I—It won’t happen again.”

  “It had better not. If there’s anything else, get it out in the open now.”

  “Just that lad, Guyden—he’s not working out.”

  “Isn’t he? I was watching his training session the day before we left the valley. I thought he was doing well.”

  “Oh, he’s a fine fighter, and he works hard. None of that is the problem. But out there on Dune Singing Shifter, he froze. Then apparently fell from his mount without any reason. The time before that, he didn’t fight well, either. He’s a coward at heart, I think. When it comes to the kill, he wavers.”

  “He’s young yet. Put him on valley duties for another half-cycle. Perhaps what he needs is more maturity.”

  “Possibly.”

  His tone told Kaneth that he was dubious. I’m going to have to deal with this, he thought. It goes deeper than just this incident. “Cleve, I don’t think we share the same vision for the dunes.”

  “You can’t think I believe in Davim’s dreams of random rain!” He looked shocked.

  “That’s not what I meant. I’m sure you must have given some thought to how we can move from what we are now, a small band of men and women with insufficient warriors and weapons and food, to being the main tribe of the dunes. With someone of our choice—let’s call him dunemaster—ruling all the dunes.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then tell me, what would you do differently, if you ruled God’s Pellets instead of Vara and me, and people looked to you for leadership?”

  Cleve hesitated.

  “It’s not a trick question.”

  “Will you hold what I say against me?” Cleve asked, his tone heavy with caution.

  Kaneth gave a low laugh. “I’m not a man who bears grudges. If I was, this fight would be personal and Ravard would already be dead in his own tent, with his throat slit. And I’d probably be dead too, but with a smile on my face.”

  “I think you’re too soft,” Cleve said at last. “We should strike the tribes who support Ravard, one by one. Swift raids, plundering their stores, killing their sons, stealing their pedes. Quick retreats back to the safety of the Pellets. We hit them at their tents, at their waterholes, when they graze their meddles. They should fear us, more than they fear Ravard and Dune Watergatherer. Then they’ll support us, not him.” His voice warmed, animated. “Instead, what are we doing? We patrol the dunes to prevent Ravard’s raids of the White and Gibber Quarters. We harry him before he comes near so he doesn’t discover where we are. We attack only armed troops who are looking for us. And it gets us nowhere.”

  They were reaching the end of the canyon. Ahead of them, Kaneth could see the twilight sky. He said, “You’re right about one thing. If we followed your way, the tribes would fear us. But that’s not the way to strength.”

  Scorn seeped into Cleve’s tone. “I don’t think you’re right. I think the only reason you don’t lose the respect of others is because people think you’re Uthardim returned. If it wasn’t for that, you’d be derided as a coward.”

  He was amused. “Do you think I’m a coward?”

  “No, of course not! No one who saw what you did today would think that. But most tribesmen out there don’t see you as a fighter. They don’t see you at all, because you leave their encampments alone even if they support Ravard. So they suspect you’re cowardly, or at least weak. Why by all the withering winds don’t you declare yourself Uthardim returned, reincarnation of our greatest hero? Warriors will flock to your banner.”

  “Because it would be dishonest. I am not that Uthardim. If people want to call me Uthardim, that’s fine—but I won’t pretend to be what I’m not.”

  Cleve shrugged. “What does it matter?”

  They emerged from the end of the canyon. Their two pedes grazed nearby.

  “It matters to me,” Kaneth said. He whistled to Burnish. Reluctantly, the beast eased its way across the grass to his side. “Cleve, sooner or later you are going to have to commit to my policies—or repudiate them publicly. Make sure you choose the right path. Because if you don’t, you die. Let’s ride on. I’m hungry, if nothing else.”

  Robena met them at the first tent, demanding to know why her son was the last into camp on the very
day she’d prepared his favourite dishes for dinner, insisting he’d better come and eat before it was spoiled.

  Kaneth dismounted and handed over the reins to a pede boy who came running up. As he threaded his way through the tents, he was remembering that Cleve was Davim’s son. He contemplated the idea that the man was the stone in his sandal: the enemy within who could leave you lame and dying.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Red Quarter

  God’s Pellets

  Dune Watergatherer

  “It was just a skirmish. I’m not hurt.”

  Kaneth was trying to sound nonchalant, but Ryka knew him too well. He had that haunted look in his eyes, blast him, the same one that appeared every time one of his men died. She glared at him from across the bedroom of the tent. “A skirmish? That’s not what I heard. Warriors don’t get killed in mere skirmishes.”

  “It was unfortunate. A tragedy. But it happens, Ry.”

  “It wouldn’t happen half as much if you had a rainlord with you, and you know it. And what about the ziggers?”

  “What about them? No one was killed.”

  He removed his scimitar and knife and began to undo the ties of his tunic. “How’s Kedri?”

  “He’s completely weaned now.” She smiled fondly at her son where he sat on the carpet doing his best to ruin the embroidery on a cushion. “He loves his mashed yams and—” She stopped. “You’re getting that glazed look again.”

  “I love him dearly, but I don’t believe I’ll ever find the contents of his stomach fascinating.” Kaneth dropped his tunic on the bed and poured water into the washbowl. He bent to wash and, when he finished, she used her power to dry him, returning the pure water to the jar.

  She said gently, “You’ll have an edge when I ride with you.” She stood close to him and ran fingers down his chest. He kissed her forehead and whispered his love for her. She was right, and he probably knew it too, in his rational mind. She just had to get him to admit it. “No more discussion. I’ll be riding out with you from now on, and that’s final.”

  “But—”

  “Kedri is well on his way to being a cycle old—”

  “Ryka, I can count. He’s still, what, eighty days short of a year?”

  “Pernickety detail! The women in camp fight over who’s going to care for him. Robena is so besotted, I’m worried she’ll obsess over him the way she does with Clevedim. He won’t miss me. The time has come for me to make sure Kedri’s father stays safe.”

  Kedri lost interest in the cushion and crawled rapidly over to his father’s feet. Once there, he pulled himself up by gripping the leg of Kaneth’s trousers. Then he raised his head to stare at his father, making a series of noises that Kaneth swore meant Papa, but Ryka maintained were probably, “Lift me up right now!”

  Kaneth bent and picked him up, a besotted expression on his face.

  Blighted eyes, she thought, how I love them.

  “You win,” he said. “But if you ever let anything happen to you, I’ll kill you myself. Ryka—if I take you along, and there’s fighting, you’re to stay out of it as much as humanly possible. Will you promise that much? For his sake?” He tapped Kedri on the nose. The boy giggled and demanded more. “Besides, if we have a rainlord, we don’t want her to die any time soon.”

  “I promise. I just want to be there so you can use my rainlord powers. That’s all, I swear. No sword play. No risks. I want Kedri to have a mother.”

  “I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

  “Then I’ll definitely endeavour to stay unscratched.” She shooed him out into the main room of the tent where she’d laid food on the low table in the centre of the carpet, a compromise to Reduner-style eating. “My own cooking. See how domesticated I’m getting? It really is time I climbed onto a pede and rode out onto the dunes.”

  He lowered himself onto the cushions, dumped Kedri beside him and gave him a piece of crust from the freshly cooked damper to chew on. “You’ll miss him.”

  “Like someone has torn the heart out of me. I know. But still: it is time. And now—tell me why Cleve just wanted to talk to you and why I detect a note of exasperation in your tone when you mention him?”

  He helped himself to the food. “I find him hard-hearted and unsympathetic. He doesn’t care about people. Men are just so many shells on the game board to be moved about, with him as the gamemaster. Women are just bed partners, no more. And you were right, he can barely contain his contempt for Vara—after all that remarkable old woman has done.”

  “Yet he seems to have the respect of the young men around him.”

  He answered her in between mouthfuls of his supper. “Oh, yes. Especially those from his tribe. He’s brave and intelligent and he inspires those who follow him. But if they die, he cares not at all, except perhaps if their deaths upset his plans. Are you sure you cooked this damper? It’s really good.”

  “It’s that mother of his,” she said, pulling a face at him. He was always teasing about her lack of culinary skills. “Robena has taught him that nothing else matters except victory against Dune Watergatherer and replacing Ravard as the sandmaster. Cleve has as much chance of being normal as a water drop has of lasting in the midday sun.”

  Kaneth laid his spoon down as Kedri, his face smeared with masticated damper, climbed into his lap and started bouncing up and down. Wiping the child’s face clean with his kerchief, he said quietly, “I love this place. I love the dunes. I like the life—or I would if I wasn’t having to fight to keep it all the time. It troubles me to think that if we succeed in ridding the dunes of marauders, we could be handing them over to someone like Cleve. Yet he has a strong following. And I worry sometimes if it’s a fault that I still see things from a Scarpen point of view. I’m stained red and I’ve beaded my hair, but there’s part of me that remains a Scarperman.”

  “Compassion is never a fault. Perhaps when Cleve’s older, he’ll mellow?”

  They exchanged sceptical glances that didn’t need any words. She poured him a mug of water as he settled Kedri down in his lap and started bouncing him up and down. Kedri chortled. “Cleve’s already pressing me to be more aggressive. And in a way, he’s right. So far no one has found us here, but sooner or later that’ll change. Today, for example—that lad from Scarmaker was almost captured.”

  “Guyden?”

  He nodded and took the mug of water from her. “Yes. We rescued him, but he could have been tortured and forced to reveal where we’re hiding, if we hadn’t got him back.”

  “I don’t think he’d tell. Too much pride, that one.”

  “Pride?”

  “Yes. Odd lad. Intense. Watchful. Quiet. Doesn’t seem to make, or even want to make, friends. Helpful around the camp. Hard working. Well liked by the adults, not so much by the lads.”

  Kaneth tried to drink his water, but Kedri was making grabs for the mug. In the end Kaneth placed it on the table out of his reach.

  “Does anyone have a problem with Guyden?” she asked.

  “Cleve thinks he’s a coward. He froze during the fight today, then fell off and was briefly taken prisoner. Cleve doesn’t forgive mistakes easily.”

  “No, he wouldn’t.” She snorted. “Being scared seems very sensible to me.”

  “A dunes warrior is expected to fight, not freeze.”

  “He can’t be much more than fourteen. Give him a chance.”

  “I will, but not yet. I’ll put him on valley roster for the rest of this star cycle. He can hone his fighting skills and make himself useful as a sentry on the knob tops. I’ve noticed that he’s not in the least bit worried by heights. Scampers up to the lookouts faster than anyone else.”

  Kedri leaned forward to take another swipe at the mug, so Kaneth settled him further back from the table while he finished his meal. He was just cleaning his bowl with the last of the damper when excited voices outside indicated something had happened.

  Ryka drew back the door and Vara came straight in without wait
ing for an invitation. She wasted no time coming to the point. “Party of four coming in,” she said. “Heading straight for us, as if they know where they’re going. The sentries spotted them. Two white pedes. I sent some warriors out to meet them.”

  “White pedes?” Ryka looked back at Kaneth and raised an eyebrow. “Some Alabasters have come visiting?”

  “I told Feroze how to get here. He said he’d pass on the information to the Bastion.”

  “Those high and mighty salt-diggers coming to visit Vara Redmane?” Vara grinned, displaying her woefully broken and yellowed teeth. She gave Ryka a nudge in the ribs that almost sent her flying and hobbled away.

  “This can’t be good news,” Kaneth said. “No messenger comes this far to deliver happy tidings.” He returned to the table to finish his water. The mug, still where he’d left it, was empty. He looked down at Kedri, who gave him a beatific smile. “You spilled my water, you rascal?” he asked with mock seriousness. Kedri gurgled happily. “You little water-waster!”

  Ryka dug with her toes at a wet patch on the rug. “All the way over here, by the feel of it. Now that’s really clever. He must have tossed the water and put the mug down afterwards. This boy is getting a great deal too clever for his britches.” She picked him up and gave him a hug. “Shall we go and welcome the newcomers?”

  As they left the tent, Kedri looked back at the mug. If it was possible for a baby not yet a year old to look smug, then Kedri Carnelian did just that.

  Much later that night, after the encampment had bedded down for the night, Ryka lay sated and naked in Kaneth’s arms. Kedri was sound asleep on his sleeping mat in the inner room, and all seemed right with the world. The Alabasters had brought an innocuous message, offering gifts of salt and thanking Vara and Kaneth and their men for bringing an end to the raids by Reduners into the White Quarter.

  And yet Kaneth lay next to her as tense as a pebblemouse smelling a snake. His skin, sheened with sweat, glistened in the lamplight. He said quietly, “We’d better get dressed. We’re going to have a visitor.”