Guardians of the Desert (Children of the Desert)

by Leona Wisoker

  “This Conclave,” Scratha said, once the formalities were over, “has already begun on something of an . . . unusual note.” He made no move to sit; his gaze slid to Lord Evkit.

  The diminutive teyanin lord’s chair seemed subtly higher-seated than Alyea’s own, as though to tactfully minimize the height disparities. A thoughtful move, and one that allowed the dour Lord Evkit to glower back at Lord Scratha with no loss of dignity.

  The brooding Scratha stare moved to settle on Alyea; a hard flush rose to her face. She almost dropped her gaze, but Deiq hissed wordlessly, the sound just audible; it was enough to stiffen her back and lent her the courage to return a glare of her own.

  The faintest hint of a smile touched Scratha’s mouth; he nodded fractionally, then swept his gaze around the table, assessing. Thirteen people stared back, waiting: Deiq, Idisio, Alyea, Gria, and nine desert lords from various Families.

  While they had all been introduced during the formalities, the only names to stick in Alyea’s mind were the ones she already knew: Irrio, Azaniari, Faer, Rest, and Rowe. The others blurred together in her head, and she couldn’t recall the proper formula for titles.

  Was it “Lord Darden” only in formal settings, or every time? Did she have the right, as an equal, to call him “Lord Irrio,” or was that only appropriate in casual settings? And how much leeway would she be given before they expected her to be letter-perfect on all of it?

  She remembered Chacerly’s words about the teyanain, as they passed through the Horn: Given that you’re surrounded by men who do know better, that leeway will be very short.

  She drew in a long, calming breath against sudden panic. Would Deiq’s presence at her side give her more or less rope? She suspected she wouldn’t know until it jerked taut.

  “A Conclave begun with a plot revealed and a death chosen isn’t what I expected when I called you all together,” Lord Scratha said. “Normally that sort of thing happens at the end of a Conclave.”

  A few smiles rose and faded as swiftly.

  “As the last surviving member of Scratha Family, I had the authority to call and rule these proceedings,” he said, then dropped a quick glance to Gria, seated to his left.

  At their first meeting, Alyea had been jarred by the contrast between Gria’s southern appearance and nasal northern accent. The girl’s dark hair and almond skin had led Alyea to suspect that Gria held a strong southern lineage; the truth had proven even more interesting. Now, as Gria sat straight-backed and quiet in flowing white and ruby silks, hair elaborately arranged and braided with precious beadwork strands, and feathery earrings dangling to each side of her narrow face, no doubt remained. She looked like a desert Family s’a-kaensa—king’s daughter—although Alyea knew such a mixing of terms would likely outrage most of the men sitting at the Conclave table. Desert Families had leaders, lords, or a dozen other terms meaning the same thing; but never kings: and thus, no kings’ daughters.

  Lord Scratha kept his gaze on Gria as he went on, “As the last male survivor, I do not hold that authority. Gria has been confirmed, by means of certain privileged tests, to hold a pure female bloodline, and thus to be a direct descendant, of a notable Scratha line. She holds the right to cancel these proceedings, should she choose. Due to the unusual circumstances and her own admitted unreadiness to lead Scratha Family, I have asked to be allowed to act in her stead at this Conclave. Gria, do you grant me this authority?”

  Alyea thought the girl looked far from ready to do anything but crawl back into bed and sleep for a tenday. But she answered with a clear voice and no sign of strain, meeting the eyes of each Family representative in turn as she spoke:

  “I grant Lord Cafad Scratha the authority to hold and preside over this Conclave, out of full willingness on my part and in no way compelled, bribed, or enticed.”

  As she caught Alyea’s eye, a faint, bitter smile touched Gria’s mouth for a moment, and Alyea blinked back sudden tears. She wondered if Gria felt grateful that Alyea had intervened and probably saved her from a lifetime of humiliation at Lord Evkit’s hands, or blamed Alyea, with typical adolescent idiocy, for the entire situation. Gods knew her “mother”, Sela, still seemed to hold Alyea responsible for the fiasco their foolish wedding expedition had become.

  Gria’s gaze moved on, flinching away from the small teyanin lord further down the table. Evkit blinked languidly and showed no offense at the slight; Alyea couldn’t help glancing at Gria’s hands and forearms, still swathed in bandages where the ugren cuffs once rested. Whether or not Evkit had ordered the permanent slave-cuffs put on Gria and her “mother”, Sela—still a matter of dispute—it would likely be a long time before Gria felt comfortable in the presence of any teyanin.

  “Are there any arguments with this transfer of authority?” Scratha demanded, his own gaze turning fierce as he stared directly at Evkit.

  The teyanin lord shook his head mutely, lips tight, and nobody else spoke in protest.

  “Then I officially take charge of and open this Conclave. Before beginning to discuss our various concerns, I have an announcement of concern to all here. I know you arrived from outside sources due to Scratha Fortress being shut and emptied, and I know you expect to leave through the hidden ways under this fortress, now that I am bound and the ha’rethe protector is awake. But I tell you this: the ways have been shut.”

  A startled incomprehension appeared on every face. Alyea blinked, even more baffled; what were the ways? This wasn’t the time to ask; hopefully it would come clear with time and context.

  “The ways are shut,” Lord Scratha repeated, his back straight and his expression uncompromising. “You may not travel to or from my lands using the hidden ways unless I permit it. And I will not grant that permission to any of you.”

  He glared at Evkit in particular as he spoke.

  Evkit jerked forward, hands splayed on the table and a dark flush spreading across his face, and shouted something in a language Alyea didn’t know. Most of the other lords around the table looked shocked and appalled; Gria blinked as though not understanding the fuss and Idisio, sitting beside Deiq, merely looked vaguely puzzled.

  “Kindly keep it in the kaenoz tongue, for those who don’t understand,” Lord Azaniari interrupted, frowning at Evkit. “We’ve more outsiders than usual at this Conclave.”

  Evkit drew a deep breath and said through his teeth, “You cannot close the ways! That is beyond your authority!”

  “It’s my damn land,” Scratha answered. “I can do any damn thing I like.”

  Evkit shifted as though to stand; cast a sullen glance at the floor and bared his teeth at Scratha instead.

  “Let’s not start shedding blood this early,” someone said acerbically, and smiles flickered around the table again. “Certainly starting off with a bang,” another voice murmured.

  “Easy, Evkit,” said Lord Faer, who was seated beside Evkit. He reached out, not quite putting his hand on the teyanin lord’s shoulder. “Scratha, really, that’s unmannerly—”

  “I don’t care for what you call manners these days,” Scratha snapped. “My family was slaughtered by assassins that came through those passages. I’ve the right, and the need, so don’t you wave unmannerly in my face, Faer!”

  A silent flicker of something Alyea couldn’t name went around the table. It felt, in that moment, as though everyone were trying very hard not to look at one another; she blinked hard and dismissed the thought as the product of nervous imagination.

  “The teyanain have always had passage-right—” Irrio objected.

  Scratha’s hawk-glare turned on the Darden lord.

  “Yes,” he said, “let’s talk about the teyanain’s infamous passage-right, shall we? And their guardianship of the hidden ways. And the death of my entire godsdamned family.”

  By the last words, his gaze was fixed on Evkit, and the teyanin lord, heedless of dignity, had climbed atop his chair to glare at the tall Scratha lord.

  “Say it,” Evkit invited, his lips writh
ing into a ferocious snarl. “Say accusation; say! I love to hear this.”

  “So you can declare blood feud on my family and muddy the issue past all recognition or sense?” Scratha bellowed, the veins in his neck standing out and his face nearly black with fury. “Not godsdamned likely, you little ta-karne!”

  Alyea felt scarcely able to breathe through the tension cresting in the room. Several other desert lords rose to their feet, clearly unsure whether to physically intervene or let events play out.

  Deiq showed no such hesitation. He stood and in one smooth movement leapt onto the table itself, stamping both his feet loudly.

  “Stop,” he said; and while his volume remained low, the command, along with his leap, drew every eye to him. “That’s enough, my lords. With all due respect: that’s enough. You cannot afford to lose your tempers with a full ha’rethe below you. You—” He turned to point at Lord Scratha. “You most of all. So stop it.”

  He turned in a slow circle, looking down at each lord in turn, then sprang to the floor as lithely as he’d ascended and took his seat amid utter silence.

  “What would Conclave be without everyone losing their tempers?” someone said a bit shakily, obviously attempting to make a joke out of the moment; it fell flat.

  Deiq didn’t even smile. “Other places,” he said, “fine. But not here. Not here.”

  Evkit, Alyea noticed, had lowered himself into his seat once more. He studied Deiq with a speculative, narrow-eyed stare, seemingly unsurprised by the ha’ra’ha’s pronouncement.

  “I suggest, Lord Scratha,” Deiq said, his tone still level, “that if you cannot discuss that particular matter calmly, you drop it altogether for the moment.”

  Scratha’s face flushed dangerously again; Deiq met his stare without flinching.

  After a moment Scratha straightened and said, in a reasonably steady voice, “Lord Evkit. During my travels, I saw marks on the hidden ways that indicated, to me, that the teyanain had left directions on which tunnels led to Bright Bay, the Wall, and Scratha Fortress, among others. Can you explain why the teyanain, who should know such things by heart, felt the need to mark out such spots in kaenic?”

  Evkit studied Scratha, his gaze thoughtful; he passed a slow glance around the table, then said, flatly, “No. No can explain.”

  Scratha made a choked sound and clenched his hands, dropping his chin to his chest and glaring at the teyanin lord. After a visible struggle to keep from bellowing, he said, rather hoarsely, “Lord Evkit. As host of this gathering, I have the authority to require an answer.”

  “No can explain,” Evkit repeated stubbornly. “Without knowing answer, no answer to give.”

  Deiq’s eyebrows lowered into a dark frown, and he regarded the teyanin lord with deep suspicion but made no open protest.

  “You claim you don’t know why those marks were made?” Scratha demanded, incredulous and openly disbelieving.

  “No answer to give,” Evkit said, crossing his arms and sitting back in his seat. He caught Deiq’s hard stare and shrugged, pursing his lips as though amused.

  “Can you guess?” someone else said, sounding exasperated; Evkit shook his head, obdurate.

  “No guess at such important answer. Not fair to Scratha, no? But I say again: teyanain not kill Scratha Family. Not one drop, not one hair, not one wound. We not kill.”

  “I think that’s the best you’re going to get, Scratha,” Lord Rowe murmured, his face puckered in deep worry.

  Scratha drew in a deep breath, let it out, and said, “Then can anyone at this table answer the question of who—”

  “Don’t ask that,” Deiq cut in swiftly, on his feet faster than Alyea had ever seen him move before and his face closer to white than she’d thought it could go. She felt an icy chill dribble down her spine, and her bladder felt overfull for a moment.

  “Move on to something else, Lord Scratha. Right now.”

  Everyone stared at Deiq as though he’d gone completely mad. He glared them down, defiant and unapologetic; a sensation like being brushed gently by the very tip of a powerful wing on a down-beat shivered through her. The assembled lords clearly caught the full buffeting power: questions and protests died unspoken, and one by one they dropped gazes to the table or looked away.

  Scratha drew in another deep breath, swallowed hard, and looked down at the parchment in front of him. “The matter of Pieas Sessin has been settled,” he said thickly, flicking a glance at Rowe. “His name was cleared in full by his honorable behavior during Lord Alyea’s blood trial.”

  After another long beat of silence, Rowe shifted in his seat, his frown moving from Deiq to Scratha, and said, “You should have waited on me, Scratha. You knew I was on my way; I should have been here!”

  Deiq let out an almost inaudible sigh and sank back into his seat. Alyea realized, astonished, that Deiq’s hands were shaking. She murmured, “What just—”

  “Later,” he whispered back. “Much later. Please.”

  Alyea nodded, a chill writhing up her back; You can’t trust him ran through the hindside of her mind. Deiq tilted a darkly sardonic stare at her, and she suspected he’d heard the thought this time. To avoid looking at him, she forced herself to focus on Scratha’s answer.

  “At the time of the trial,” Scratha said with careful precision, “I did not know you were on your way, Lord Rowe.”

  “You bloody well knew a Conclave would bring a Sessin representative!” Rowe snapped, leaning forward, hands resting against the table edge as if ready to push himself to his feet. The backs of his hands were decorated with swirling lines that appeared to extend up under his long sleeves. Alyea wondered if the bright blue color of the ink had a different significance than the red, black, or green designs other lords displayed. “Don’t play idiot with me, Scratha!”

  Deiq didn’t react; Alyea shot him a worried glance and he whispered greyly, “Posturing.”

  Scratha matched glares with the portly Sessin lord. “Pieas Sessin admitted to a number of serious indiscretions in front of a full desert lord, a ha’ra’ha, and a Callen. I’d prefer to avoid relating the details.”

  Rowe’s face settled into grim lines.

  “The misdeeds he confessed,” Scratha went on steadily, “would have been cause for dishonorable execution on the spot. The witnesses constituted a legitimate triad of judges. I allowed Pieas the mercy of an honorable resolution because he seemed. . . .” Scratha paused, an odd expression crossing his thin face, then finished, “seemed honestly repentant.”

  With a sudden flash of understanding, Alyea remembered Pieas’s plea to Scratha: My lord, give her another chance. I’ve never seen Nissa so heartbroken before. Don’t hold her to blame for my sins. She wondered if that, more than anything else Pieas had said during her final blood trial, had earned the wayward Sessin an honorable death.

  She also wondered if she’d ever truly be at peace over killing Pieas. At the thought, the room seemed to rock slightly, and Deiq’s hand closed tightly around her arm.

  “Don’t,” he said in her ear; she swallowed hard and redirected her thoughts back to the moment with a fierce effort. The room steadied. Deiq released his grip and returned to sitting with his arms crossed, a faint frown seemingly etched into his stern features.

  “I see,” Rowe said, and slumped in his chair, his anger visibly draining away. “I didn’t know that. I thought . . . You’ve made no secret of how you hate my family. . . . “

  The last words seemed to blur and drawl with honeyed, weary slowness; Alyea blinked hard, and the long pauses snapped back into focus.

  Rowe’s voice now sounded tart, not tired. “And considering how you treated Nissa. . . .”

  Scratha winced, then seemed embarrassed at showing a reaction. “That had nothing to do with my decision,” he said a bit roughly. “Are you going to call challenge on me, then, Lord Rowe, over Nissa? Or bring it up as a Council matter?”

  He waited, his long hands clenched into fists, knuckles barely touching the table.
The array of ebony and silver beads on the ornate bracelets climbing from wrist to elbow on each arm rattled and hissed; Scratha glanced at them, his frown deepening, and flattened his hands out to rest on the table, quieting the noise.

  Rowe studied the tall Scratha lord, a faint frown creasing his forehead. “No,” he said at last. “She wouldn’t thank me for getting involved.”

  Scratha let out a hard breath and relaxed, although his expression remained grim. “Thank you, Lord Rowe,” he said.

  The Sessin lord nodded and looked down at his hands, still frowning, as if regretting his decision.

  “The question of Pieas Sessin does, however, bring us to another matter of Conclave business,” Lord Faer said. “The investment of Lord Alyea.”

  As if he’d been waiting for that, Evkit sat up straight. “Challenge,” he said before anyone else could speak. “Irregular trials, invalid process. I challenge.”

  Alyea’s stomach contracted. Scratha shot her a hard stare and shook his head slightly, as if warning her to stay quiet; and nobody else seemed to react, as though this were simply more posturing on Evkit’s part.

  “She bears all three marks,” Faer pointed out.

  “Bribed,” Evkit said baldly.

  A shocked hiss sounded around the table, indifference evaporating; so this wasn’t routine political maneuvering. Alyea glanced at Deiq; his face remained serene, his arms folded across his chest.

  “You’re accusing Callen of accepting bribes?” Lord Rowe demanded.

  Evkit pointed at Deiq, the motion made threatening by the angular black lines that ran from his fingertips to just below his elbows. “He make arrangements,” the teyanin lord declared. “Who will argue with ha’ra’ha? He is too powerful.”

  Everyone turned to look at the tall ha’ra’ha sitting beside Alyea.