Guardians of the Desert (Children of the Desert)

by Leona Wisoker

  She found it the most outrageously humiliating moment she’d experienced in a long time, but everyone else seemed to take it for granted, and she hadn’t dared complain. No point marking herself even more the outsider than she already was. Still, it took a real effort of concentration to not only endure her own turn, but to listen to the unapologetic grunts, farts, and pissing of the other desert lords. And even the aroma-sticks the servants waved through the room in the wake of the chamber-pots had only layered one stench over another.

  Alyea wanted to flee the room, suck in lungfuls of fresh air, go huddle in a hot bath, and sleep for a tenday. She couldn’t believe she’d just stayed awake for two straight days. Just one more item everyone around her seemed to regard as completely normal; she wanted to sit and think it all through, make sense of the madness she’d stepped into.

  But the teuthin doors hadn’t opened just yet, and nobody was moving to do anything about that.

  Evkit cleared his throat. The sound brought apprehensive silence and a host of wary stares; the little teyanin lord seemed supremely smug about something.

  “Let me be first to welcome Lord Alyea,” he said, and bowed deeply. “And first to extend invitation to visit my lands as honored guest, take pick of my devoted kathain. And my fortress fully stocked,” he added with a smiling glance at Scratha. “I invite Lord Alyea remain long as desire, and enjoy my hospitality.”

  Alyea drew a deep breath, considering for only a moment, then said, “I’d be pleased to accept, Lord Evkit. Thank you for the invitation.” She decided against asking what kathain meant; it was probably just the southern term for a personal servant.

  “Then I give further offer of escort,” Evkit said, his smile widening. “We both go in same direction; why not travel together? Safety in numbers. I would not allow honored guest come to harm on way to my lands. That would be intolerable discourtesy.”

  Alyea didn’t need to hear Deiq’s small choking noise, or turn to check Scratha’s expression, to know she’d just been backed into a corner. And worse, the teyanin lord had just secured his right to stay until Alyea left.

  She held her shoulders still against a shrug and her mouth relaxed with an effort.

  “I’m honored, my lord,” she said, a bitter taste on her tongue.

  “The honor mine,” Evkit shot back, his grin threatening to split his head in two, and left the room without looking back. Irrio followed, almost on his heels, clearly unhappy about something.

  Servants hurried into the room, opening the other doors from the inside, and began clearing away the debris of two days of often-heated discussions.

  Deiq muttered, “I told you to watch him.”

  “What was I supposed to do?” Alyea demanded.

  “There’s ways of putting an answer off.”

  “Not against that one, there isn’t,” Lord Rest said unexpectedly. “She did the best she could, Deiq. You’re acting like her mother. Go find a kathain to play with and leave Lord Alyea be.”

  Deiq’s face darkened.

  “Can we at least clear the meeting room before you start a fight, Lord Rest?” Azaniari asked tartly. “And a meal would be nice, along with a drink or ten. I think you’d get along famously after that. Besides, I think Lord Alyea can answer against Deiq’s attentions herself; if not, she’s a damn poor desert lord.”

  “Hells,” Rest snorted, and stomped out of the room.

  Alyea shot the old woman a grateful glance. Azaniari nodded, acknowledging, then took Scratha’s arm and urged him from the room.

  “Food, my lords,” she called over her shoulder in a light sing-song, as if coaxing a group of stubborn farm animals. “Fooo-oood. Food, food. This way, my lords. . . .”

  Alyea put a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. The servants went about their tasks, blank-faced, ignoring everything around them unless it stepped into their paths.

  Beside her, Deiq shook his head, looking bemused. He said quietly, “She’ll have Scratha back as a major power in less than five years if she stays helping him.”

  “I hope she does,” Alyea said impulsively. “I like her, and I like Lord Scratha. He’s a good man.”

  He slanted an unreadable glance her way and said only, “Mm.”

  Regarding Common Misunderstandings

  (excerpt)

  As the Northern Church has gone well out of its way in recent years to paint the desert Families as not only barbaric but cruel, a few of their common charges ought to be dismissed up front, to avoid tainting any discussion of southern holy days and celebrations.

  No desert Family has ever offered human sacrifice to any god, demon, or combination thereof; this charge is perhaps the most understandable error, as several of our own historical records use the term “sacrifice” in regards to the blood trials, and death is a very real risk in a true trial. This topic, however, could take up several books in its full explanation; so for now I must ask you to simply accept my reassurance that never has a screaming virgin—of either gender—been dragged to a bloodied altar and disemboweled as a gift to the gods. If time, politics, and wisdom permit, I shall go into this further at a later date.

  Neither do we dance naked round great fires and invoke demon-spirits upon the northlands; nor do we castrate young boys and train them into demon-warriors. None of our women has ever given birth to a three-headed goat, and the milk we feed our children comes from their mothers, not pregnant horses, goats, or (one of the oddest charges I have found) snakes. (How in the world one would milk a pregnant snake I have no idea, and certainly no desire to find out.)

  These distortions, and many others, of course have a fragment of truth. Great fires are built on many occasions to celebrate both holy days and seasonal celebrations; just as they are in the north, although I understand the Church has always attempted to suborn or destroy such rituals. Northern priests are called s’iope: beloved of the gods; ours are named, simply, Callen, and each chooses his or her path and which of the three gods to serve. The Callen of Comos do indeed castrate themselves, but only men over a certain age are allowed to do so, and only at an advanced level of devotion; they claim it helps free them of distractions and allows them to focus on the voice of Comos as conveyed by the wind spirits.

  Women, before you ask, may also choose the path of Comos. But rather than being subjected to a physical alteration, they are required to remain sequestered within a community of their peers until they have ceased having their moon cycles; then they are allowed the higher training and may once more travel freely in the world.

  Goat milk is indeed a staple of the dahass, the loose and masterless tribes that still wander through the southlands; and to be perfectly frank I believe these tribes may have sparked many of the wilder rumors that have spread through the north. Only when they cross a Family boundary do they owe any respect to anyone but themselves; and much of the south still remains unclaimed, uncharted, and wild.

  And snakes, pregnant or otherwise, are quite tasty; barring only the micru, the tiny black and tan viper, which holds venom not only in its mouth but throughout its entire body, making it a poor snack for predators. As you do not care for gerho, I doubt you would find even the best snake meat to your taste; they are very similar.

  From the collection

  Letters to a Northern King of Merit

  penned by Lord Cafad Scratha during the reign of King Oruen

  Chapter Five

  The borrowed servants had, with the uncanny intuition of servants everywhere, ferreted out a number of long-hidden decorations that Scratha, by his expression, had likely never seen. Deiq watched the lean Scratha lord with amusement as the man tried—and failed—to hide his reaction every time he focused on another unearthed antique proudly displayed in his great hall.

  Deiq sympathized; to his eye, humans always insisted on putting out the gaudiest possible decorations during feasts. But this wasn’t as bad as it could have been; at Sessin Fortress, everything was coated with bits of glass and mirror, resulting in a g
littering display that inevitably gave him a headache.

  Scratha, at least, had always leaned towards the minimalist. Their figurines were largely carved of rock and left vague, in contrast to the explicit detail Darden and F’Heing enjoyed.

  A Conclave feast, however, demanded honoring the gifts collected from other Families over the years. So there was a glittering monstrosity from Sessin, and a distinctly male-female wood carving from Darden, which the servants had done their best to at least place discreetly; a slightly less explicit cast-metal male statue from F’Heing, and an elaborate bead and feather headpiece from Aerthraim Family. The most useful item was the cups from which they drank: distinctly teyanain-crafted, with the odd marbled translucence only found in rock from the Horn.

  No doubt some of the other decorations came from the lesser Families, but Deiq wasn’t familiar enough with their patterns to place those accurately. He thought the series of long, narrow tapestries, showing mountain goats climbing a ridge towards a single red dream-flower, might be from Toscin, but he couldn’t be sure.

  He wished Idisio had come to the after-Conclave feast. He’d have liked to see the younger ha’ra’ha’s expression on seeing the Darden statuette. Alyea didn’t even seem to notice it, and she wasn’t alone; few humans besides Lord Scratha even glanced at the decorations. Their attentions, as always, stayed on their own pre-dinner maneuvering; and the main focus this time was on Alyea.

  Deiq wasn’t surprised. She was the newest desert lord, and her ignorance made her vulnerable. They would see her as a new, rich resource for their damned games and political manipulations. He’d seen this before, hundreds of times; seen it go well, seen it go deadly sour. Alyea seemed to be handling the attention with grace, even given her limited knowledge of southern custom. Still, he stayed close by her side, hoping his presence would deter the worst of the attempts to use her.

  “Tell me about Peysimun Family,” Lord Rest said, his manner that of a comfortable old uncle, and pressed another drink on Alyea. “I don’t think I’ve ever had any dealings with them before.”

  “What would you like to know, Lord Rest?” Alyea said with remarkable composure. “That’s a rather broad question.”

  She sipped at her drink. Deiq, watching out of the corner of his eye, saw her swallow much less than she appeared to, and relaxed slightly. She was no fool about that, at least; even though her tolerance seemed high, the liquor served to desert lords tended to be rather stronger than ordinary.

  “True,” Lord Rest said, chuckling at himself. “Very true, that. How about your specialties, then?”

  Alyea blinked, looking off-balance; Deiq cut in smoothly.

  “Lord Rest, the northern noble families don’t work quite the same way southern ones do,” he said, inflection implying that Lord Rest was rather dense to not know.

  Rest shot Deiq a sharp glare; he’d known, all right. He’d meant to make Alyea sound stupid. Deiq smiled back, letting a little extra tooth into the expression, and Lord Rest abruptly saw someone across the room he just had to talk to. With profuse apologies, he hurried away.

  Alyea flashed a frown at Deiq, plainly not understanding; he lifted his eyebrows in bland response.

  “Are you going to ruin every conversation I get into?” she demanded in a low voice.

  Deiq blinked lazily, resisting the urge to say something nasty in return. The sharp hearing of desert lords meant that at least three other people nearby had picked up on that comment, including Evkit.

  “Possibly,” he said instead, and lifted his gaze to meet the amused glances being aimed their way; the watchers looked away hastily. Alyea caught the subtle attention shift, and her frown deepened.

  “Deiq,” she started; he looked down at her, willing her to just shut up before she made an even worse mistake. She stuttered, her face flushing, and went reluctantly quiet.

  You’re not the only one with sharp hearing, he tried to tell her without speaking aloud; a thickly muffled sensation met the attempt, and he withdrew, repressing a sigh. Women seemed to open to that aspect of their new abilities later than men, and with more difficulty.

  He couldn’t resist looking up and around to find Azaniari in the crowd; she was seated on a small couch, listening patiently as Gria rattled on with great animation, no doubt over something trivial. As though feeling his attention, the apparently old woman—and there was a story, all in itself—glanced up. Meeting his gaze, she gave a tired mouth-quirk that could have meant anything, then returned to Gria’s babbling.

  Beside him, Alyea stirred, her annoyance pushing aside the temporary hold on her mouth. “Deiq,” she said, “I need to make allies here. I need to talk to people. And you’re not helping with that damned glower. I can handle this; let me be!”

  He looked down at her for a long moment, well aware of ears perking nearby, and found no answer that wouldn’t make the situation even worse. Let her make her own damn mistakes, then; maybe she’d grasp her ignorance before she landed in an ugly mess.

  “I’ll be over there,” he said at last, nodding to a pillar a few feet away. “Just glance over if you need me.”

  Leaning against the pillar, admonishing himself to wait patiently, he watched the crowd descend upon her, swirling her away. Her bright laughter rang out across the room.

  Nobody came to talk to him; and nobody glanced his way, not even once.

  Chapter Six

  Thankfully, Deiq remained quiet for the rest of the evening. Even through dinner, sitting next to her with his dark gaze moving around the table, he said little to nothing. Nobody else seemed particularly interested in speaking to him, either; by the end of the meal, Alyea felt a reluctant sense of guilt over ignoring him for so long.

  As the last plates were cleared away, and coffee trays were wheeled in, she turned her smile his way and said, lightly, “I think I’ll skip the coffee this time.”

  He regarded her with a strange expression and said, “Probably a good idea.”

  A servant placed small cups in front of them. Alyea quickly turned hers upside-down, offering the servant a regretful smile. He nodded and poured steaming black liquid into Deiq’s cup, then moved on. A moment later, another servant placed a full cup of a liquid almost as black in front of Alyea, removing the upside-down cup.

  She regarded the drink with caution, then glanced at Deiq for help. He was smiling: but it was a strange, dark expression that shifted his lean face into starker planes.

  “It’s tea,” he said quietly. “From the smell, I’m guessing F’Heing red bush, prepared thopuh style.”

  “Very good,” Lord Ondio F’Heing said from across the table. His smile reminded Alyea of a cat about to pounce on something small. The severe cut and dark colors of his clothing heightened the menace of his expression. “Do you know what region and year the batch is from?”

  One of the strange green-oil lamps nearby flickered and began to gutter; a servant quickly moved to turn up the wick. Renewed light washed across the area, and Alyea repressed a sigh of relief, only then realizing that the increasing dimness had been bothering her for some time. Her shoulders relaxed.

  Deiq regarded Lord Ondio for a long moment, then said, “I haven’t studied F’Heing teas extensively, I’m afraid.”

  Ondio’s smirk widened. “So there is something you don’t know.”

  “But,” Deiq interrupted, “given that red bush thopuh-style teas were only made for a hundred years before a combination of a volcano exploding, a plague, and political shift destroyed the plantations and the skilled workers; given that thopuh tea grows more valuable with age; and given that I’m doubting F’Heing would give out its most valuable stores to Lord Scratha at the moment; given all that, I’m guessing this comes from the Sta region of the F’Heing Mountains, and that it was packed within the five years previous to the Sta plantation’s destruction.”

  The room went completely silent. Ondio looked as though he’d bitten into a sour fruit when he’d been expecting a delicacy. Alyea’s shoulde
rs went tight again; she drew a deep breath and forced herself to relax.

  “Indeed,” Ondio said through his teeth, then forced a laugh in an obvious attempt to sound unaffected. He cast a quick look to the head of the table, where Lord Scratha sat watching, expression hawk-intent. “You’re wrong, of course. We only give out properly precious gifts. We would never insult—”

  “Of course,” Deiq said, voice and manner bored, as though the entire conversation no longer interested him. “I did say I haven’t studied the matter extensively.”

  Ondio’s jaw clenched. He shot a poisonous glare at Deiq, then rose. “If I may be excused,” he muttered, offering a short bow to Scratha. At his host’s nod, he left the room hurriedly.

  Scratha’s mouth creased in a faint smile. He nodded briefly to Deiq, then went back to his interrupted conversation.

  “I can’t tell if that was outrageously rude or well-played,” Alyea said in an undertone.

  “I know,” Deiq said, as quietly. “That’s why you ought to be keeping your mouth shut right now.” He met her glare with a mild, indifferent expression.

  “I haven’t done that badly so far,” she snapped.

  He raised an eyebrow and said nothing in return. She jerked her gaze away, seething with the impulse to slap him, then remembered a conversation with Chac: I’ve been crashing about like a horse in a glass shop, she’d said, and he’d given her the same dry eyebrow-lift Deiq had just offered.

  She drew in a deep, quiet breath and shut her eyes for a moment; looked up to find Deiq’s dark stare turned elsewhere.

  “Yes, you have been,” he said, the words directed at her, but his attention apparently on Evkit’s low-voiced discussion with Irrio. “We’ll talk about it after dinner, if you like.”