The Desert Spear

by Peter V. Brett

  “If you say so, Rojer,” Leesha said.

  Rojer frowned for a moment, then dismissed her with a wave of his bow. His two remaining fingers spread wide for balance, it fit his crippled hand like a part of it as it danced across the strings. Rojer let the music soar from the fiddle, sweeping him up in its whirlwind.

  He could feel Arrick’s medallion resting comfortably against his bare chest, hidden under his motley tunic. No longer a trigger to painful memories, it was a reassuring weight, a way to honor those who had died for him. He stood straighter knowing it was there.

  This wasn’t the first talisman Rojer had carried. For years, he had kept a puppet of wood and string topped with a lock of his master’s golden hair in a secret pocket in the waistband of his motley pants. Before that, it was a puppet of his mother, capped with a lock of her red.

  But with the medallion, Rojer could feel both Arrick and his parents looking over him, and he spoke to them through the fiddle. He played his love and played his loneliness and regret. He told them all the things he had never been able to in life.

  When he finally finished, Leesha and the others were staring at him, their eyes glazed like charmed corelings. It was only after a few moments of silence that they shook their heads and came back to themselves.

  “Ent never heard anything beautiful as that,” Wonda said. Gared grunted, and Leesha produced a kerchief, dabbing at her eyes.

  The rest of the journey to Deliverer’s Hollow was filled with music, with Rojer playing every minute his hands weren’t otherwise occupied. He knew they were returning to all the same problems they had left, but with the promise of aid to come from the duke and the Jongleurs’ Guild, as well as the comfort of the medallion around his neck, he held new hope that all their problems could be solved.

  They were still a day from the Hollow when the way became choked with refugees, many of them with tents and warding circles pitched right in the road. Leesha knew them immediately as Laktonians, for as a whole they were stocky folk, short and round-faced, and they stood as those more used to walking on a boat’s deck than dry land.

  “What’s happened?” Leesha demanded of the first person they came to, a young mother pacing to calm a crying infant. The woman looked at her with hollow, uncomprehending eyes as Leesha got down from the cart. Then she took note of Leesha’s pocketed apron and a light came back to her.

  “Please,” she said, holding out the screaming child. “I think he’s sick.”

  Leesha took the babe in her arms, running sensitive fingers over it to check pulse and temperature. After a moment, she simply sat it up in the crook of one arm and stuck a knuckle in its mouth. The child quieted immediately, sucking vigorously.

  “There’s nothing wrong with him,” she said, “apart from sensing the stress of his mum.” The woman relaxed visibly, breathing a sigh of relief.

  “What’s happened?” Leesha asked again.

  “The Krasians,” the woman said.

  “Creator, have they marched on Lakton so soon?” Leesha asked.

  The woman shook her head. “They’ve spread out through Rizon’s hamlets, forcing the women to cover up, and dragging the men off to fight demons. They pick and choose Rizonan girls to take as wives like a rancher picking a chicken to slaughter, and march the boys to training camps where they’re taught to hate their own families.”

  Leesha scowled.

  “Hamlets ent safe anymore,” the woman said. “Those that could moved on to Lakton proper, and a few stayed to fight for their homes, but the rest of us went to the Hollow looking for the Deliverer. He wan’t there, but folk said he had gone on to Angiers, so that’s where we’re headed. He ’ll put things right, you see if he doesn’t.”

  “So we all hope,” Leesha sighed, though she had her doubts. She handed back the baby and climbed back into the cart.

  “We need to get to the Hollow immediately,” she told the others. She looked at Gared.

  “Clear the road!” the giant Cutter bellowed, a lion’s roar, and folk fell over themselves to move out of his path as he stomped his garron toward them. Tents, blankets, and wards were snatched quickly away. Leesha regretted the need, but the cart could not go off-road, and her children needed her.

  They galloped the horses when they finally cleared the press of refugees, thousands in number, but they were still well short of the Hollow by nightfall. It only took a mild look from Leesha to make Rojer take up his fiddle, and they rode on through the darkness with only Leesha’s light staff to guide them and his music to keep the corelings at bay.

  Leesha could see the demons at the edge of the light, swaying in time to the music as they ambled slowly after Rojer, mesmerized.

  “I’d rather they were attacking,” Wonda said. She had her great bow strung and a warded arrow nocked and ready.

  “Ent natural,” Gared agreed.

  They made it to Leesha’s cottage on the outskirts of the Hollow by midnight, and paused only long enough for Leesha to store the most precious of their cargo before they pressed on through the darkness to the village proper.

  If things had seemed cramped before, they were many times worse now. The refugees from Lakton came better equipped, with tents and warding circles and covered wagons laden with supply, but they spilled over the edges of the forbidding on almost every side, weakening the greatward.

  Leesha turned to Gared and Wonda. “Find the other Cutters and make a sweep of the forbidding. Any tent or carriage within ten feet of the greatward needs to be moved, or we could have corelings in the streets.” The two nodded and moved off.

  She turned to Rojer. “Find Smitt and Jona. I want a council meeting tonight; I don’t care who’s in bed.”

  Rojer nodded. “I don’t have to ask where you’ll be, I suppose.” He hopped from the cart and pulled up the hood of his warded cloak as she turned the cart for the hospit.

  Jardir looked up as Abban limped into the throne room. “You seem almost spry today, khaffit.”

  Abban bowed. “The spring air gives me strength, Shar’Dama Ka.”

  Ashan snorted at Jardir’s side. Jayan and Asome kept their distance, having learned not to antagonize Abban in their father’s presence.

  “What do you know of the place called Deliverer’s Hollow?” Jardir asked, ignoring them.

  “You seek the Painted Man?” Abban asked.

  Ashan lunged at Abban, taking him by the throat. “Where did you hear that name, khaffit?!” he demanded. “If you’ve been bribing the nie’dama for information again, I’ll—”

  “Ashan, enough!” Jardir shouted as Abban gasped and struggled weakly. When the Damaji did not comply fast enough, Jardir did not ask again, kicking him hard in the side. Ashan was knocked away and hit the polished stone floor hard.

  “You would strike me, your loyal Damaji, over a pig-eating khaffit?” Ashan asked, incredulous, when he had found his breath again.

  “I struck you for not attending my command,” Jardir corrected, and swept his gaze over the rest of those in the room. Aleverak and Maji, Jayan and Asome, Ashan, Hasik, even the door guards. Only Inevera, stretched out in her diaphanous robes on a bed of bright silk pillows beside his throne, escaped his gaze. “I tire of this game, so I say now for all to hear, I will kill the next person to strike someone in my presence when I have not given them leave to do so.”

  Abban began to smirk, but Jardir whirled on him, glaring. “And you, khaffit,” he growled. “The next time you answer a question with a question, I will tear out your right eye and make you eat it.”

  Abban paled as Jardir strode angrily to his throne, sitting down hard. “How did you learn of the one they call the Painted Man? The dama required intensive interrogation to pull his name from the chin Holy Men’s lips.”

  Abban shook his head. “It’s all the chin talk about, Deliverer. I doubt the interrogations discovered anything a few crumbs of bread or words of kindness couldn’t have gathered freely on the street.”

  Jardir scowled. “And the st
ories agree he is in the village called Deliverer’s Hollow?” Abban nodded. “What do you know of it?”

  “Until a year ago, it was called Cutter’s Hollow,” Abban said, “a small village of men beholden to the duke of Angiers who felled trees for lumber and fuel. Wood is impractical to ship through the desert, so I had little business with them, though I do have one contact who might remain. A seller of fine paper.”

  “What good is that?” Ashan demanded.

  Abban shrugged. “I do not know that it is, Damaji.”

  “And what have you heard of the place since its name changed?” Jardir demanded.

  “That the Painted Man came to them last year when the village was rife with flux and the wards failing,” Abban said. “That he killed hundreds of alagai with his bare hands alone, and taught the villagers to fight alagai’sharak.”

  “Impossible,” Jayan said. “The chin are too weak and cowardly to stand up in the night.”

  “Perhaps not all,” Abban said. “Remember the Par’chin.”

  Jardir glared at him. “No one remembers the Par’chin, khaffit,” he growled. “You would do well not to remember him, either.”

  Abban nodded, bowing as low as his crutch would allow.

  “I will see for myself,” Jardir decided, “and you will come with me.” Everyone looked at him in surprise. “Hasik, find Shanjat. Tell him to assemble the Spears of the Deliverer.” Jardir’s Maze unit had taken the name when they became his personal bodyguard. The Spears of the Deliverer were fifty of the finest dal’Sharum in Krasia, serving under kai’Sharum Shanjat.

  Hasik bowed, leaving immediately.

  “Are you certain this is wise, Deliverer?” Ashan asked. “It is not safe to separate yourself from your armies in enemy lands.”

  “Nothing in life is safe for those who fight Sharak Ka,” Jardir said. He put a hand on Ashan’s shoulder. “But if you are concerned, you may come with me, my friend.”

  Ashan bowed deeply.

  “This is foolishness,” Aleverak growled. “A thousand weakling chin can overwhelm even the Spears of the Deliverer.”

  Jayan snorted. “I doubt that very much, old man.”

  Aleverak turned to Jardir, who nodded his permission. The ancient Damaji reached out to Jayan, and suddenly the boy was on his back.

  “I’ll kill you for that, old man,” Jayan growled, rolling quickly to his feet.

  “Try it, boy,” Aleverak dared, setting his feet in a sharusahk stance and beckoning with his one arm. Jayan snarled, but at the last moment, he glanced at his father.

  Jardir smiled. “By all means, try and kill him.”

  A vicious smile broke out on Jayan’s face, but a moment later he was back on the floor, Aleverak pulling on his arm to increase the slow pressure of his heel on Jayan’s windpipe.

  “Enough,” Jardir said, and Aleverak immediately released the hold and stepped back. Jayan coughed and rubbed his throat as he rose.

  “Even my own sons must respect the Damaji, Jayan,” Jardir warned. “You would be wise to hold your tongue in the future.”

  He turned to Aleverak. “The Damaji will rule Everam’s Bounty in my absence, with you leading the council.”

  Aleverak narrowed his eyes, as if deciding whether or not to continue his protest. Finally, he bowed deeply. “As the Shar’Dama Ka commands. Who will speak for the Kaji until Damaji Ashan returns?”

  “My son, Dama Asukaji,” Ashan said, nodding to the young man. Asukaji was not yet eighteen, but he was old enough for the white robe, which meant he was old enough for the black turban, if he was strong enough to hold it.

  Jardir nodded. “And if Jayan will be humble, he will serve as Sharum Ka.”

  All eyes turned to Jayan, whose face betrayed his shock. After a moment, he put one hand and one knee on the ground, perhaps for the first time in his life. “I will serve the council of Damaji, of course.”

  Jardir nodded. “See to it the lesser tribes continue to subjugate the chin while I am gone,” he said to Asukaji and Aleverak. “I need fresh warriors for Sharak Ka, not bickering tribes stealing one another’s wells.” The two men bowed.

  Inevera rose from her bed of pillows, her face serene behind the diaphanous veil.

  “I would speak to my husband in private,” she said.

  Ashan bowed. “Of course, Damajah.” He ushered the others quickly out of the room, all save Asome, who stood fast behind.

  “Something troubles you, my son?” Jardir asked when the others were gone.

  Asome bowed. “If Jayan is to be Sharum Ka while you are gone, then by rights I should be Andrah.”

  Inevera laughed. Asome’s eyes narrowed, but he knew better than to cross her.

  “That would put you above your elder brother, my son,” Jardir said. “Something no father does lightly. And Sharum Ka are appointed. Andrah is a title that must be earned.”

  Asome shrugged. “Summon the Damaji. I will kill them all, if that is what is required.”

  Jardir looked into his son’s eyes, seeing ambition, but also a fierce pride that might indeed carry the boy, barely past his eighteenth born day, through eleven death challenges, even if it meant killing one of his own brothers or Asukaji, who was his closest friend and rumored to be his lover. Asome’s white robe might forbid him to touch a weapon, but he was deadlier than Jayan by far, and even Aleverak would do well to step carefully around him.

  Jardir felt a swell of pride in the boy. Already he thought his second son might well prove a better successor than Jayan, but not until he was seasoned, and firstborn Jayan would never allow his brother to surpass him while he still drew breath.

  “Krasia needs no Andrah while I live,” Jardir said instead. “And Jayan will only wear the white turban while I am gone. You will assist Asukaji in maintaining control of the Kaji.”

  Asome opened his mouth again, but Inevera cut him off.

  “Enough,” she said. “The matter is closed. Leave us.”

  Asome scowled, but he bowed and left.

  “He will be a great leader one day, if he lives long enough,” Jardir said when the door closed behind his son.

  “I often think the same of you, husband,” Inevera said, turning to face him. The words stung, but Jardir said nothing, knowing it was pointless until his wife had said her piece.

  “Aleverak and Ashan were right,” Inevera said. “There is no need for you to lead the expedition personally.”

  “Is it not the duty of the Shar’Dama Ka to gather armies to Sharak Ka?” Jardir asked. “By all accounts, these chin fight the Holy War. I must investigate.”

  “You could at least have waited until I had a chance to throw the dice,” Inevera said.

  Jardir scowled. “There’s no need to throw the dice every time I leave the palace.”

  “Perhaps there is,” Inevera said. “Sharak Ka is no game. We must command every advantage, if we are to succeed.”

  “If Everam wills me to succeed, that is all the advantage I need,” Jardir said. “And if He does not…”

  Inevera lifted her felt pouch of alagai hora. “Pray, indulge me.”

  Jardir sighed, but he nodded and they retreated to a chamber off the throne room that Inevera had claimed as her own. As always, the room was filled with bright pillows and cloying incense. Jardir felt his pulse quicken, his body conditioned to associate the smell with Inevera’s sex. The Jiwah Ka was more than happy to share him when she was sated, but she was almost a man in her hunger, and the side chamber was used frequently for that purpose, often while the Damaji and Jardir’s councilors waited in the throne room without.

  Inevera moved to pull the curtains, and he watched her body through the translucent veils that were all she ever wore anymore. Even at more than forty years of age—she never said for certain—she was the most beautiful of his wives by far, her curves still round and firm, her skin smooth. He was tempted to take her right there, but Inevera was single-minded when the dice were concerned, and he knew she would only rebuff him unt
il they were thrown.

  They knelt on the silk pillows, allowing a broad space for the dice to fall. As always, Inevera needed his blood for the spell, releasing it with a quick slash of her warded knife. She licked the blade clean and returned it to her belt sheath, pressing her palm to the wound, and then emptying the dice into it. They glowed fiercely in the dark as she shook her hands and threw.

  The demon bones scattered on the floor, and Inevera scanned them quickly. Jardir had learned that the pattern of the fall was as important as the symbols that showed, but his understanding of the dice ended there. He had seen his wives argue many times over the meaning of a throw, though none ever dared question Inevera’s interpretations.

  The Damajah hissed angrily at the pattern before her, looking up sharply at Jardir.

  “You cannot go,” she said.

  Jardir scowled, moving to the window and grabbing the curtain angrily. “Cannot?” he demanded, pulling the heavy drapes aside and flooding the room with bright sunlight. Inevera barely got her dice back in the pouch in time.

  “I am Shar’Dama Ka,” he said. “There is nothing I cannot do.”

  There was a flash of rage on Inevera’s face, but it was gone in an instant. “The dice promise disaster if you go,” she warned.

  “I tire of following your dice,” Jardir said. “Especially since they always seem to tell you more than you deem me worthy to know. I will go.”

  “Then I am going with you,” Inevera said.

  Jardir shook his head. “You will do no such thing. You will stay here and keep your sons from killing one another until I return.”

  He strode up to her and took her shoulder in a firm grip. “I would have one last taste of my wife, though, before the trek north.”

  Inevera twisted, seeming only to tap his arm, but his grip lost strength for an instant, and she stepped away. “If you go alone, you can wait,” she said, a cruel smile on her face. “More reason to come back alive.”

  Jardir scowled, but he knew better than to try to force the issue, Shar’Dama Ka and husband or no.

  Wonda opened the door to Leesha’s cottage, letting Rojer and Gared in. Once the girl heard the Painted Man had commanded Gared to guard Rojer, she had insisted on doing the same for Leesha, sleeping at the cottage every night. Leesha had begun assigning her chores to try to dissuade the girl’s smothering, but Wonda did the work gladly, and Leesha had to admit she had grown accustomed to her looming presence.