“I see.”
Alyea exhaled hard, annoyed at the obvious assumption. “No, mother, they’re not lovers.”
“If you say so.” Before she could protest further, her mother switched topics. “And what have you been doing? We’ve been terribly worried. Couldn’t you have sent word when you reached Scratha Fortress? I told Oruen if he’d sent you to any harm I’d never forgive him.”
Alyea raised an eyebrow, startled at the familiarity. Her mother always insisted on proper formality when discussing any royalty higher than themselves. To leave out Oruen’s title was severely out of character.
“Oh, well,” her mother said, catching Alyea’s surprise, “he did choose my daughter as an important emissary, after all.” She smiled. “We’ve been invited to quite a few dinners at the palace since you left.”
Alyea kept her expression neutral with an effort and sipped tea without comment. Of course. Her mother would have leapt on the implied status and grabbed hold with both hands. She restrained a sigh, wondering if she could gather Deiq and Idisio and simply slip out of Bright Bay in the middle of the night.
“But tell me of your journey,” her mother pressed. “We didn’t think you’d return so soon. Holding a desert fortress is a big job. Did you leave someone competent in charge?”
Alyea studied the strain in her mother’s face and understood: the woman was afraid her daughter had failed, had run away from the task. Afraid the new, cherished status would disintegrate like sand blown by the wind.
“I left Lord Scratha in charge,” Alyea said bluntly. “I believe he’s competent.”
Her mother’s hands began to shake again. She looked tremendously distressed. “He returned? But—wasn’t he banished, sent off to the Stone Islands? How in the world—?”
“I don’t know,” Alyea interrupted, “and it’s really not my concern. He showed up, I bowed out and came home.”
Her mother studied the cup in her hands, turning it slowly, her whole face puckered into a worried frown. “So what are you going to do now?”
Alyea leaned back in her chair, cradling the fragile teacup in both hands. Her stomach rumbled quietly, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten dinner yet. After this obligatory conversation, she’d slip off to the kitchens for something more solid than tea and sliced fruit.
“I need an audience with Oruen,” she said, deliberately leaving off any honorific. She felt she’d damn well earned that right.
“Of course,” her mother said, not looking up. “I’ve already sent. . . .” A dark flush spread across her pale skin. “I’ve already sent word,” she finished.
“Inviting him to the feast tomorrow?”
Her mother’s head moved in a bare nod.
Alyea rolled her eyes and said, “Yes, wouldn’t that be something, to have the king himself attend a dinner in your home. I bet you’ve been trying to work that in since I left.”
“You needn’t sound so sour over it,” her mother said, glancing up with a flash of temper. “How was I to know you’d give the fortress back to Lord Scratha?”
Alyea sat up, astonished. “Did anyone really think I’d fight the rightful lord over the holding?” she demanded. “Were you all that mad?”
Her mother shrugged. “We didn’t think he’d return so soon,” she said thinly, her color still high. “And as I understand it, once you’d settled in, a case could have been made that you had rightful possession under desert law.”
Alyea played out Bright Bay politics in her mind. Yes, that would have made sense to them. To people that had never traveled past the Horn, never looked a teyanin lord in the face, never heard a ha’rethe speak, never seen the rock and sand that surrounded Scratha Fortress; never seen how complex desert politics could quickly become.
Her mother, especially, wouldn’t understand any of that.
“It wouldn’t have been that simple,” Alyea said at last. “Even if he hadn’t returned, it wouldn’t have been that simple.”
“I don’t see why not,” her mother bristled. “You had the king’s backing, didn’t you? He was getting ready to send people to support your holding, as soon as we heard that you’d taken proper possession of Scratha Fortress. We’ve all been waiting on word from you!”
Alyea stared at her mother, astonished all over again. “He was going to send troops?”
“Well, that was certainly suggested,” her mother said, looking away. The inflection was unmistakable: smug pride at having been so smart.
“By you, of course.” Alyea watched her mother preen a little, then said, much more harshly, “I hope Oruen wasn’t listening?”
The smile left her mother’s broad face, replaced by stiff resentment. “You needed protection from all those warring barbarian factions. Why was that such a bad idea?”
Alyea shook her head. “You have no idea,” she said, despairing. “I can’t even begin to explain.”
“Well, never mind,” her mother said sourly. “It’s over and done with. You’re home, and the matter’s between Oruen and Scratha now. We’ll have the welcoming feast tomorrow, and host your companions for one more night, if they want to stay—” Her tone suggested a strong hope otherwise. “And then they’ll return to their lives and you’ll return to your place here. Perhaps Oruen will find other assignments for you.” She didn’t sound very hopeful over that part.
“Um,” Alyea said carefully, “it’s not actually quite that simple.”
“Of course it is,” her mother said. “I won’t allow you to complicate things past all reason this time, Alyea.”
“This time?” Alyea sat forward, anger flushing through her. “This time? What was the first time? When have I complicated things? When I was almost beaten to death? Is that what you’re—”
Her mother’s expression turned severe. “Don’t you bark at me, Alyea Peysimun,” she said sharply. “Not in my own household. At the end of the day, you’re still an unmarried young woman and I’m still, as your mother, in charge of you. Don’t you forget that!”
Alyea stared, speechless; caught between the urge to shriek with rage and collapse in laughter at the vast misunderstanding that lay between them. She’d hoped to rest first, but clearly she would have to tell her mother the full news tonight after all. How to present it, how to get through her mother’s willful ignorance, utterly escaped her.
Her mother raised the cup to her lips and sipped delicately. “Dinner should be ready soon. You ought to go clean up and change into some proper clothing. That disgraceful outfit you’re wearing is—”
“No,” Alyea interrupted, deciding to tackle the issue the only way she could think of: directly. “Listen. All those items I brought home—they’re gifts. From the teyanain.”
“The teyanain?” Her mother sat up straight, looking distinctly alarmed. “That’s a child’s story, Alyea, what under the Four are you—”
“They’re not a myth. They’re real. And they rule the Horn. They gave me the gifts,” Alyea plowed on, over her mother’s noises of incomprehension, “because Peysimun Family now has their very own full desert lord.”
Now her mother was the one staring, openmouthed and incredulous. “What are you talking about? We’re not some southern barbarian family, we don’t have—”
“Me. I’ve been invested as a full desert lord. By a Conclave. I’m now Lord Alyea Peysimun.”
Tea splashed down the front of her mother’s dress as the fragile cup bounced from ample belly to wide knee to the small table and shattered.
Alyea hid a smirk and tried to sound apologetic as she said, “Maybe I should have phrased that more gently?”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Deiq tossed his pack onto the lower, plainer servant’s bed and pointed Idisio to the larger guest bed. “I don’t sleep much,” he said when Idisio began to protest. “Let’s go hunt down some food.”
Idisio set his pack slowly on the guest bed and looked around the room. “I never thought I’d be in such nice surroundings,” he said, almost u
nder his breath. “It feels very strange.”
Deiq glanced around the room, unimpressed. Creamy white walls and curtains the color of bleached sand; plain, dark rugs; fluffy, wide pillows and fine green bed-sheets; a few small decorations and wall-hangings: nothing exciting, to his way of thinking. The small table, while sturdy, was built of the cheapest woods and with the simplest construction. There was no writing-desk, and only one wide-bottomed chair. The empty central space had just enough room for a tub, which the servants would no doubt be bringing in soon.
This was the sort of lodging offered to guests who were encouraged not to stay. Even Scratha, with his limited resources, had done better.
“Let’s go get some food,” he said again, and urged Idisio from the room.
He stopped a passing servant as they emerged and asked for directions to the kitchen; he could have figured it out on his own, but saw no point in highlighting his differences. It was one of many small subterfuges he’d grown accustomed to over time. Even a “mysterious quasi-noble” needed to act humanly confused at times.
Remembering Alyea’s phrase made him smile; the young man he’d stopped to ask for directions stammered, ducked and beamed in response. Deiq hastily turned the smile into something more indifferent, and the servant blinked as though coming out of a haze. Face setting into sharp lines of distrust, he hurried away without looking back.
Deiq sighed. “I hate the north,” he said under his breath.
“Because he didn’t drop them for you?” Idisio said tartly.
Deiq shot the younger ha’ra’ha a disgusted glare. “No. I didn’t want that. But I hate that he felt ashamed for wanting to.”
“You have an opinion of yourself, don’t you?”
Deiq shook his head, forcing himself into a dry amusement instead of anger. “Not really,” he said. “Right now I’m of the opinion that I’m hungry, nothing more.”
Hungry on more than one level; the servant’s initial, startled submissiveness had reawakened a dull ache he’d been ignoring for some time. He set his teeth together hard and pushed the haunting need back into hiding the usual way: by remembering Meer, and yellow eyes in the darkness under Bright Bay, and a shattering scream from one moment that blended into the other.
Idisio snorted, blissfully unaware of Deiq’s thoughts, and headed for the kitchens with the arrogant assurance of youth. Deiq followed, more slowly, again pushing anger into bleak amusement.
He reflected, not for the first time, that if he hadn’t taught himself that trick hundreds of years ago, he would likely have torn through the entire human race, and most ha’ra’hain, for insults they didn’t even know they delivered. But the human world had steadily evolved over the years, and he’d changed with it; something the slower-moving ha’reye would never understand, any more than Idisio would grasp the implications of his heritage until forced into a crisis.
Remembering how sanguine Idisio had been in the face of the clee-trance, Deiq hoped he wouldn’t be the one to provoke that confrontation. The thought was selfish; he couldn’t bring himself to care. He was feeling far too tired and old lately to be sure of the outcome of any serious fights.
“I need to visit the Tower,” he muttered, and lengthened his stride to catch up with Idisio.
Chapter Thirty
As soon as the door to her mother’s sitting room closed behind her, Alyea headed for the kitchens at a trot.
She noticed, as she went, that the servants all appeared to be new, and wondered what had prompted that change. Probably Lady Peysimun had replaced her “ordinary” servants with ones boasting a history of serving the important, as a way of accenting her higher status. It was the sort of little game she loved.
The kitchens, at least, hadn’t changed, and neither had the cooks. Apparently good cooks were too important to risk changing out for mere status points. Alyea gave devout thanks for that decision as she stepped up behind Nem, who stood stirring a gigantic soup pot, and prodded his broad right shoulder.
Nem turned, a lumbering movement, and grinned down at her. “I heard you coming,” he said, his voice so thick and slurred that the words were hardly understandable.
“Sure you did,” Alyea laughed, and prodded him in the stomach. “I’m hungry!”
Nem watched her mouth closely as she spoke, his mild, pale eyes narrowed. His chestnut-colored hair had begun growing out of its short summer cut, and almost covered his lumpy ears; she could see streaks of silver beginning to appear among the brown.
“All right,” he nodded, the words as mangled as before, and pointed to an archway across the room. “Go sit with your friends. I will bring you soup.” He reached out and poked a long, thick finger into her right shoulder. “Welcome home,” he added.
She grinned at him and went into the servants’ dining hall. Deiq and Idisio looked up from bowls of soup as she entered. A platter of black bread scraps and ends sat on the table between them, and a platter of cut-up hard cheese and peasant sausage; she groaned, seeing that last item, and almost lunged to grab a piece.
Thumping down onto the bench beside Deiq, she bit into the greasy, spicy treat with enthusiasm. Her mother never let food like this appear on the main dining table, but to Alyea, it was more satisfying than six courses of gourmet foodstuffs.
Deiq watched her with his usual sardonic amusement. Idisio kept his attention on his soup, sullen again.
“Your cook is very good,” Deiq said, picking up a piece of black bread. “And your baker.”
“Peysimun doesn’t have a house baker,” Alyea said. “My mother insists on buying all her bread from the White Gull Bakery, near the palace. But she doesn’t buy peasant breads; that comes from a bakery well outside the Gates; I think it’s called Shelly’s. The outside is covered with hundreds of shells, and—”
She stopped, suddenly realizing that she’d been about to launch into a discussion of Shelly’s versus the White Gull, and how utterly useless such a conversation would be. She didn’t even want to talk. It had been old habit prompting her into a light social discussion of no consequence.
Deiq finished his soup, mopping up the last liquids with another piece of bread, and said nothing. Idisio prodded listlessly at his soup, as though utterly exhausted. He looked a bit grey around the edges; she resisted an urge to tell him to go to bed. He was ha’ra’hain, and old enough to take care of himself. No sense in her mothering him.
Outside, the wind picked up to a fierce howl, and the rain thundered down in audible sheets.
“Glad we made it in before nightfall,” Alyea tried next, and felt that fall flat too.
Nem came in with a large bowl of soup and set it down before her, then produced a large-bowled wooden spoon from an apron pocket and held it out to her. She took the spoon, turning it over, and grinned broadly, tracing her finger across his latest carving: a rose in full bloom. A daisy, a sunflower, and a gods’-glory flower decorated handle and bowl. With the rose on the back, the spoon was complete.
“What will the next one be?” she asked, careful to look up at him as she spoke.
Nem shrugged, his gaze going to Deiq for a long, thoughtful moment. “Maybe fish,” he said. “Not sure.”
“Shellfish,” Deiq suggested.
“Maybe.” Nem studied Idisio for a moment, then looked over the table. “Need anything?”
“No. Thank you.”
Nem nodded, poked Alyea in the shoulder, and withdrew.
“He’s not entirely deaf, but very close to it,” Alyea said. “He was born that—”
“Yes,” Deiq drawled. “Is there a reason you’re suddenly feeling the urge to chatter?”
She felt her face heat, but before she could speak, Idisio cut in, waspishly: “Is there a reason you’re suddenly feeling the urge to be an ass?”
The air went dangerously still. The hair on the back of Alyea’s neck rose. Without knowing quite why, she slammed her hand down hard on the table, producing a startlingly loud crack!
“Knock it off,” sh
e said severely as they both jerked to stare at her. In that moment, she reminded herself of Azni, and had to repress a smile. “Go get some sleep, both of you. We’ll talk in the morning.”
Idisio stood without further prompting and stalked from the room. Deiq watched him go, a faint frown on his face, but made no move to follow.
“Something’s eating him hard,” he said. “I don’t know what. That wasn’t the first shot he took tonight, and I’m getting damn tired of it.”
Alyea sighed and began eating soup. “Gods, I’ve missed good food,” she said between mouthfuls. “Not that southern food is bad,” she added hastily.
“What you grew up with always tastes best,” Deiq said, and reached for a piece of hard cheese. “When I was young, I liked bread and cheese. I’ve never quite left that basic staple.”
Alyea hesitated on the verge of confronting Deiq about just how old he was, and about his lie regarding Lord Eredion; then remembered that she had a more pressing question to ask at the moment.
“Lord Evkit told me something about the Qisani, and I need to know if it’s true,” she said, and watched his face settle into harder lines. “He said that Acana wasn’t supposed to help me. That the healer wasn’t supposed to save my life. Is that true?”
Deiq set the cheese down with delicate care, as though it were made of glass, and spread his hands wide and flat on the table. “You can’t believe a tenth of what a teyanin tells you, and Evkit far less than that,” he said. “But in this case—yes. It’s true.”
Her mind flinched away from thinking about what that meant. “He also said that Acana and the Qisani are in danger because they helped me. Is that true?”
“That’s too simple a question and far too complicated an answer,” Deiq said, his gaze flat and emotionless. “Living with a ha’rethe protector cuts two ways, Alyea. It always has, and it’s a delicate dance at times. Remember Scratha Conclave? I stepped in because Cafad Scratha doesn’t understand yet how to posture without getting real emotions involved, and Scratha ha’rethe would have followed the emotion without looking at the flawed logic behind it. Cafad Scratha almost got Evkit killed with his little tantrum. I had a shit of a time convincing Scratha ha’rethe to let me handle it.”
Guardians of the Desert (Children of the Desert) Page 18
