The Desert Spear

by Peter V. Brett

  Jardir complied, taking Restavi’s shoulders and pinning him firmly. The warrior met Jardir’s eyes, his own wide and wild. “I am ready, Deliverer!” he cried. “Bless me and send me on the lonely road!”

  “What’s he saying?” Leesha asked as she cut through his thick robe, casting aside the shattered ceramic plates within. She swore as the size of the gaping wound became apparent.

  “He is telling me his soul is ready for Heaven,” Jardir said. “He asks that I bless him with a quick death.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Leesha snapped. “You tell him his soul may be ready, but his body isn’t.”

  How like the Par’chin she is, Jardir thought, and found himself missing his old friend deeply. Restavi was obviously dying, but the Northern healer refused to let him go without a fight. There was honor in that, and he knew well the insult she would take if he ignored her wishes and killed the man, even at his request.

  Jardir took Restavi’s face in his hands, meeting his eyes. “You are a Spear of the Deliverer! You will walk the lonely road when I command it, and not before. Embrace the pain and be still!”

  Restavi shuddered, but he nodded, drawing a deep breath as his struggles ceased. Leesha looked at the men in surprise, then pushed Jardir aside and set to work.

  “Have the shield wall continue on,” Jardir told Hasik. “I will wait with the mistress as she attends Restavi.”

  “To what end?” Hasik asked. “Even if he survives, he will never lift the spear again.”

  “You know that no better than I,” Jardir said. “It is inevera. I will not interfere with my betrothed any more than I would a dama’ting.”

  The Spears of the Deliverer remained behind, forming a circle with Leesha and Restavi at its center, but there was little need. Rojer wove a shield of sound around them, and no alagai dared draw near.

  “We can move him,” Leesha said at last. “I’ve stopped the bleeding, but he ’ll need more surgery, and for that I’ll need a proper table and better light.”

  “Will he live to fight another day?” Jardir asked.

  “He’s alive,” Leesha said. “Isn’t that enough for now?”

  Jardir frowned, choosing his words carefully. “If he cannot fight, he will likely take his own life later.”

  “Or else he becomes khaffit?” Leesha asked, scowling.

  Jardir shook his head. “Restavi has killed hundreds of alagai. His place in Heaven is assured.”

  “Then why would he kill himself?” Leesha demanded.

  “He is Sharum,” Jardir said. “He is meant to die on alagai talons, not old and shriveled in some bed, a burden to his family and tribe. This is why the dama’ting do not see to the wounded until dawn.”

  “So the ones injured most deeply will be dead?” Leesha asked.

  Jardir nodded.

  “That’s inhuman,” Leesha said.

  Jardir shrugged. “It is our way.”

  Leesha looked at him and shook her head. “And there is the difference between us. Your people live to fight, while mine fight to live. What will you do when you win Sharak Ka and have nothing left to fight for?”

  “Then Ala and Heaven will be as one,” Jardir said, “and all will be paradise.”

  “So why did you not kill that man when he asked you to?” Leesha asked.

  “Because you asked that I not,” Jardir said. “I made the mistake once of ignoring such a plea from one of your people, and it almost cost our friendship.”

  Leesha tilted her head at him curiously. “The one Abban calls the Par’chin?”

  Jardir’s eyes narrowed. “What did the khaffit tell you of him?”

  Leesha met him with a stern gaze. “Nothing, other than that they were friends, and that I reminded him of him. Why?”

  Jardir’s flare of anger at Abban faded as quickly as it came, leaving him feeling empty and sad. “The Par’chin was my friend, too,” he said at last, “and you are like he was in some ways, and different in others. The Par’chin had a Sharum’s heart.”

  “Meaning?” Leesha asked.

  “Meaning he fought for others to live, as you do, but for himself, he lived to fight. When his body was broken and the odds without hope, he clawed his way to his feet and fought to his last breath.” “He’s dead?” Leesha asked in surprise. Jardir nodded. “Many years since.”

  Leesha worked deep into the night in the surgery of a former Rizonan hospit, cutting and stitching the injured dal’Sharum back together again. Her arms were covered in blood and her back ached from bending over the table, but Restavi would live, and likely recover fully.

  The dama’ting who had taken over the building whispered among themselves as she worked, watching Leesha in something part wonder and part horror. She could sense their anger at her intrusion, especially at night, and their resentment of her barked orders, but her translator was Jardir himself, and none of the white-covered women dared refuse the Shar’Dama Ka. Wonda and Gared had been forced to remain outside, as had Rojer and Jardir’s bodyguards.

  The dama’ting, acting like captives in their own home, breathed an almost palpable sigh of relief when Inevera stormed into the surgery. Her face was livid with rage as she strode right up to Leesha, standing nose-to-nose.

  “How dare you?” Inevera growled, her Thesan heavily accented but clear. Perfume hung about her in a cloud, and her wanton dress reminded Leesha of her mother.

  “How dare I what?” Leesha demanded, not backing down an inch. “Save the life of a man you would have let bleed until dawn?”

  Inevera’s only response was to slap Leesha in the face, her sharp nails drawing blood. Leesha was knocked aside, and before she could recover, the woman drew a curved knife and came at her again.

  “You are not fit to stand in my husband’s presence, much less lie in his bed,” Inevera spat.

  Leesha’s hand darted into one of the many pockets of her apron, and as Inevera drew close, she snapped her fingers in the Damajah’s face, scattering blinding powder in a tiny cloud.

  Inevera shrieked and fell away, clutching her face, as Leesha righted herself. Inevera splashed a pitcher of water in her face, and when she looked back at Leesha, her face powders were running in horrid streaks. Her reddened, hate-filled eyes promised death.

  “Enough!” Jardir shouted, interposing himself between the two. “I forbid you to fight!”

  “You forbid me?” Inevera demanded, incredulous. Leesha felt much the same—Jardir could no more forbid her anything than Arlen—but Jardir was only focused on Inevera. He raised the Spear of Kaji for all to see.

  “I do,” he said. “Do you intend to disobey?”

  Silence fell over the room, and the other dama’ting looked at one another in confusion. Inevera might be their leader, but Jardir was the voice of their god. Leesha could well imagine what might happen if Inevera resisted further.

  Indeed, the woman seemed to realize it as well, and deflated. She turned on her heel and stormed from the hospit, snapping her fingers to the other dama’ting, who all followed after her.

  “I will pay for that,” Jardir murmured to himself in Krasian, but Leesha understood. For a moment, his shoulders slumped, and he looked not like the invincible and infallible leader of Krasia, but like her own father after a fight with Elona. She could almost see Jardir imagining all the myriad ways Inevera could make his life miserable, and her heart went out to him.

  But then a woman’s scream cut the silence, and the tired man vanished in an instant, replaced again by the most powerful man in the world.

  CHAPTER 29

  A PINCH OF BLACKLEAF

  333 AR SUMMER

  THE GREENLAND GIANT WAS roaring like a lion when Jardir burst from the dama’ting sanctuary, Leesha following close behind. Amkaji and Coliv had put lines on his wrists, and three dal’Sharum pulled on the rope to either arm, hauling at him like a raging stallion. One warrior, clung tenaciously to his great back, his arms crossed in front of the giant’s throat in an attempt to choke him do
wn, but if Gared even noticed, he gave no sign. The warrior’s feet swung far from the ground, and even those pulling on the lines stumbled to keep him contained.

  Rojer was pinned helplessly, almost casually, against a wall by another dal’Sharum who held him in place with one hand as he watched what was transpiring, an amused grin on his face.

  “What is going on here?” Jardir demanded. “Where is the woman?”

  Before any of the Sharum could answer, there was another cry, coming from an alley between the buildings. “Any warrior touching one of the greenlanders when I return will lose the offending hands!” he shouted as he charged to the alley, flying past the others at blinding speed.

  Wonda was in the alleyway, held from behind by a warrior who howled as she bit into his arm. Another warrior lay on the ground, clutching between his legs, and a third, Jurim, leaned against the wall, staring in horror at an arm twisted in an impossible direction.

  “Release her!” Jardir roared, and everyone looked up at him. Wonda was released instantly, and she drove an elbow into the stomach of the warrior behind her, doubling him over as she reached for the knife at her belt.

  Jardir pointed his spear at her. “Do not,” he warned. Just then, Leesha made it to the alley, gasping at the sight. She ran to Wonda immediately.

  “What happened?” Leesha asked.

  “Those sons of the Core tried to rape me!” Wonda said.

  “The Northern whore lies, Deliverer,” Jurim spat. “She attacked us and broke my arm! I demand her life!”

  “You expect us to believe that Wonda lured the three of you here and attacked you?” Leesha demanded.

  Jardir ignored them both. It was obvious what had happened. He had hoped Wonda’s prowess on the battlefield would impress the warriors enough to dissuade this sort of behavior, but Jurim and the others had apparently felt the need to remind her that off the battlefield, she was still a woman, and an unmarried one at that. By Evejan law, she had no right to refuse a Sharum or attack a man for any reason. Jurim and the others had committed no crime, and were within their rights to demand the girl’s life.

  But the greenlanders did not see it that way, Jardir knew, and he needed their warriors, man and women alike, for Sharak Ka. He glanced at Leesha and knew, too, that not all his reasons were selfless. The Sharum would have to be taught to control themselves. An abject lesson like the one he had given Hasik so many years before.

  Jardir swept his arm at Jurim and the others, then pointed at the wall. They obediently lined up, backs straight, all of them ignoring wounds the girl had inflicted. She was a born warrior, whatever her gender.

  Jardir heard the intake of air in Leesha’s mouth and held up his hand before she could speak, pacing before his men.

  “I am intended toward Mistress Leesha,” he said calmly. “An insult to one of the mistress’ servants is an insult to her. An insult to her is an insult to me.”

  He looked Jurim in the eyes, lightly touching his chest with the point of the Spear of Kaji. “Have you insulted me, Jurim?” he asked softly.

  Jurim’s eyes widened. He looked frantically at Wonda, and then back at Jardir. He squirmed under the speartip, though its touch was feather-light, and began to shake. He knew his life might depend on his answer, but to lie to the Deliverer would cost him his place in Heaven.

  Jurim collapsed, falling to his knees and weeping. He pressed his forehead into the dirt and wailed, clutching at Jardir’s feet. “Forgive me, Shar’Dama Ka!”

  Jardir kicked him, taking a step backward and broadening his gaze to take in the warriors on either side of Jurim. Immediately they, too, fell to their knees and ground their foreheads into the dirt, wailing.

  “Silence!” Jardir snapped, and the men quieted instantly. He pointed to Wonda. “That woman killed more alagai this night than the three of you combined, and so her honor is worth the three of your lives.”

  The men cowered, but they did not dare to speak in their defense. “Go to the temple and pray through the night and the coming day,” Jardir said. “You will take your spears and go into the night tomorrow, shieldless and clad only in black bidos. When you are pulled down, your bones will go to Sharik Hora.”

  The men shuddered with relief and wept, kissing Jardir’s feet, for in those words, he had promised them the only things a Sharum truly feared to lose: a warrior’s death, and entry into Heaven’s paradise. “Thank you, Deliverer,” they said over and over.

  “Go!” Jardir snapped, and the men ran off instantly.

  Jardir looked back at Leesha, whose face was a sandstorm. “You just let them go?” she demanded. Jardir realized that their exchange had been in Krasian, and she had likely understood only a fraction of what was said.

  “Of course not,” Jardir said, switching back to her tongue. “They will be put to death.”

  “But they thanked you!” Leesha said.

  “For not castrating them and stripping them of the black,” Jardir said.

  Wonda spat on the ground. “Would serve the coresons right.”

  “No, it would not!” Leesha said. Jardir could tell she was still upset, but he had no idea why. Should he have killed them personally, in her sight? The greenlanders had different rules for their women, and he had no idea how they handled such matters as this.

  “What else do you require?” Jardir asked. “They did not succeed in violating or even harming the girl,” he nodded respectfully to Wonda, “so it is not expected that they should compensate her for her virginity.”

  “Ent a virgin, anyway,” Wonda said. Leesha looked at her sharply, but the girl only shrugged.

  “But it’s required they pay with their lives?” Leesha demanded.

  Jardir looked at her curiously. “They will die with honor. They will go naked into the night tomorrow, with only their spears to protect them.”

  Leesha’s eyes bulged. “That’s barbaric!”

  It was then Jardir understood. The greenland taboo was death. He bowed. “I had thought the punishment would please you, mistress. I can have them whipped, if you prefer.”

  Leesha looked to Wonda, who shrugged. She turned back to Jardir. “Very well. But we require to bear witness, and I to treat the men’s wounds when the punishment is complete.”

  Jardir was surprised at the request, but he hid it well, bowing deeply. The customs of the greenlanders were fascinating. “Of course, mistress. It will be done at sunset tomorrow, for all the Sharum to see and remember. I will administer the lashes myself.”

  Leesha nodded. “Thank you. That will suffice.”

  “This time,” Wonda growled, and Jardir smiled to see the fierceness in her eyes. Three Spears of the Deliverer it took just to hold her, and none of them able to do the deed! With further training, even kai’Sharum would fall before her. Looking at her, he came to a decision, one that he knew might well tear his army asunder, but Everam had chosen him to lead Sharak Ka, and he would lead as he saw fit.

  He gave the woman a warrior’s bow. “There will not be another, Wonda vah Flinn am’Cutter am’Hollow. On this, you have my word.”

  “Thank you,” Leesha said, laying a hand on his arm, and Jardir’s spirit leapt at the touch.

  There was a loud knocking on the door.

  “Whozzat?” Rojer cried, starting awake and looking about. His room was dark, though he could see cracks of light at the edges of the velvet curtains.

  The bed was a wonder unlike anything Rojer had felt since his time in Duke Rhinebeck’s brothel. The mattress and pillows were stuffed with goose feathers, and the sheets smooth and soft beneath a down comforter. It was like sleeping on a warm cloud. Hearing nothing more, Rojer was unable to resist its pull as his head fell back into the pillow’s embrace.

  The door opened, and Rojer cracked an eye as one of Abban’s wives, or perhaps one of his daughters—Rojer could never tell the difference—entered. She was clad as they all were in loose black robes that hid everything save her eyes, which were cast down in his presence.
r />   “You have a visitor, son of Jessum,” the woman said.

  She moved to throw back the heavy velvet curtains and Rojer groaned, throwing a hand over his eyes as light streamed in through the windows of his richly appointed bedroom. Leesha might have a whole floor of the giant manse, but Rojer had still been given a full wing of the second floor, more rooms than the entire inn his parents had run in Riverbridge. Elona had been furious to learn of the largesse the Krasians had heaped upon him, having only gotten a bedroom and sitting room herself, luxurious though they were.

  “What hour is it?” Rojer asked. He felt he couldn’t have slept more than an hour or two.

  “Just after sunrise,” the woman said.

  Rojer groaned again. He hadn’t slept an hour. “Tell whoever it is to come back later,” he said, flopping back into the mattress.

  The woman bowed deeply. “I cannot, master. Your visitor is the Damajah. You must see her at once.”

  Rojer sat bolt upright, all thoughts of sleep forgotten.

  The whole palace was astir by the time Rojer felt presentable enough to leave his chambers. His Jongleur’s paintbox had taken the circles from beneath his eyes, and his bright red hair was brushed and tied back. He wore his best motley.

  The Damajah, he thought. What in the Core does she want with me?

  Gared was waiting for him in the hall, and fell in behind him. Rojer could not deny that he felt safer with the big Cutter, and by the time he made it to the stairs, Leesha and Wonda were descending from above with Erny and Elona in tow.

  “What does she want?” Leesha asked. She had gotten no more sleep than him, but she showed it less, even without paint and powder.

  “Search my pockets,” Rojer said. “You’ll find no answers.”

  They all followed Rojer down the stairs, making him feel as if he were leading them to a cliff. Rojer was a performer, used to being the center of attention, but this was different. He put his hand to his chest, clutching his medallion through his shirt. The hard shape gave him comfort as he followed the gestures of Abban’s women into the main receiving hall.