“And show some respect for me,” the duchess says, “when I tell you the demons are not all gone like the Tenders say—banished by the Deliverer. Without the protection of the greatward, you will be vulnerable.”
I lower my eyes, trying to look respectful, like I understand the danger. But I don’t. I’ve never so much as glimpsed a wind demon silhouetted against the sky. No one has seen a coreling in years. They’ve become ale stories, like talking nightwolves or fairy pipkins.
Mother says that when the Deliverer purged the demons from Thesa, he took much of the world’s magic with him. Without demons—or their bones—to power wardings, the magic of items faded—unable to fully recharge. There were few folk left with magic of note anymore, beyond my parents, and…
“Won’t the Warded Children be there to guide and protect us?”
Mother looks like someone put lemon in her tea. The Warded Children were an experiment of hers during the war. The Deliverer tattooed wards on his flesh, the symbols Drawing and holding magic that the tales say gave him fantastical powers. Mother tried to replicate it, with…mixed results. It gave them power, but the magic changed them, as it did me. The Children live in the wilds beyond the greatwards now, patrolling the borderlands.
“The Warded Children cannot be trusted,” Mother says. “Even the good ones can turn feral if they encounter a demon, and Renna Bales isn’t there to hold their leash. With Solstice falling on new moon this year, that’s not a risk I’m prepared to take.”
I blink. Folk speak of the Warded Children like forest gods, too wild for polite society but devoted to a life of service, Thesa’s first line of defense. The idea they might not be trustworthy is unthinkable.
That, or Mother is just trying to scare me.
“Fine, send the guards!” I throw up my hands. “Send Captain Wonda if you must. But let me go with my friends.”
Mother uses two fingers to massage her temple. It’s a sign she’s getting a headache, which means I am either winning or about to lose spectacularly.
“You’ll ride in the royal carriage,” Mother says.
“But—!” I begin. Putting me in the royal carriage will separate me from the others more than an army of Hollow Soldiers.
“No buts,” Mother says. “It’s armored. Selen, Micha, and Lord Arther will ride with you, Captain Wonda out front with half a dozen Hollow Lancers. As you visit the boroughs you can get out for walking tours and shopping with your classmates, but Wonda and Micha will accompany you at all times.”
I press my lips together. It’s not what I imagined, but it’s better than being left behind. Far better. For once, I can leave the capital, leave Mother, and see something of the world for myself.
“And you’ll stay behind on the overnights beyond the greatward,” the duchess finishes.
I feel my eyes bulge as I take in the words. “Even with an armored carriage, Wonda, Arther, and half a dozen lancers, I still can’t go on a ripping camping trip?”
I’m ready to say more, but Mother cuts me off with a raised finger. “I’m offering a compromise, Olive. I suggest you take it.”
* * *
—
“Did you ask?” Selen is waiting outside Headmistress Darsy’s classroom when I return, the other girls already dismissed.
“We need to hurry,” I say. “Favah will have my hide if I’m late.”
“Take it the answer was no?” Selen says as we quickstep down the halls. Running is prohibited, but the two of us can put on considerable speed without breaking academic decorum.
“It wasn’t no.” I watch excitement blossom on Selen’s face, and hate that I am about to quash it. “But it wasn’t exactly a yes. I can’t go beyond the wards.”
Selen stops short. “But that’s the best part!”
I grab her arm and pull her back into motion. It’s one thing to argue with Mother, and quite another to cross Dama’ting Favah. I can be reckless at times, but I am not an utter fool.
“The duchess is worried I’ll get eaten by a demon.”
Selen honks a laugh. “No one’s seen a demon since we were in nappies! And even if one did find us, Wonda would have a warded arrow through its skull before it got close enough to pounce.”
“I made all of these same points to Mother, but it didn’t do much good.” Before I can say more, the great bell rings. “Night.”
The halls are empty as I abandon decorum and break into a run, appearing in Favah’s doorway a moment later. The ancient Krasian priestess kneels on a pillow at the center of the room, eyes closed. She is swathed from head to toe like Micha, but instead of black, Favah wears robes and scarves of pure white.
“An extra hour in the Chamber of Shadows for lateness.” Favah doesn’t look up from her meditation or even open her eyes. She understands Thesan, but I’ve never heard her use it, speaking only in her native Krasian.
A crack of her wand across my knuckles I could weather, but there is nothing worse than the Chamber of Shadows. Below the crypts below the basements of the university, the chamber is suffocatingly deep. There are no lights, only wards of sight like those on Mother’s spectacles to let me see in magic’s strange spectrum as I etch items with wards of power under Favah’s close supervision.
“I was in a meeting with Mother,” I dare to say.
“The desert allows no excuses,” Favah’s voice is serene, “and neither do I.”
“Ay, she would know,” Selen whispers. “She’s older than sand.”
I suppress a smile, but not quick enough as Favah’s eyes snap open, fixed on Selen. “I can punish you as well, Selen vah Gared, but I’ll leave that to Dama’ting Jaia. Princess Olive does not need an escort to class from one already late for her own.”
“See you in the sparring yard.” Selen scurries down the hall, more to escape Favah than for fear of the Krasian Studies teacher. Jaia is far less strict.
The room is dark as I shut the door behind me. The windows are covered in thick curtains, blocking all outside light. Favah still kneels on a pillow on the floor, the dim lamp before her providing the only illumination.
“An hour for being late, and two more for your disrespect,” she says as I kneel on the thin pillow across from her.
Could she have heard Selen’s whispered words? It seems impossible. The old woman would need ears like a bat. Perhaps some spell allows her to hear across rooms. Like Mother, Favah is a formidable witch. I resolve to take greater care opening my mouth near her class.
The other girls take Krasian Studies with Dama’ting Jaia, learning the language and culture of our southern neighbors. The twelve tribes of Krasia lived for thousands of years in and about the walled city of Fort Krasia, the Desert Spear. Two decades ago, my father, Ahmann Jardir, led them out of the sands to conquer the green lands in a bid to levy troops for the demon war.
A peace was forged before he made it this far north, but apart from the Majah tribe, who took their spoils of war and returned to Desert Spear, the Krasians never gave up the lands they had taken. New Krasia has flourished in the years since.
Jaia is a priestess of Everam, whom my father’s people believe to be the Creator, but she is young, and shaped by her decades in the green lands. She married a Hollower, assimilating more than most of her people. Behind her veil, her eyes are always smiling.
Not so, ancient Favah. The aged priestess is one of Mother’s most trusted advisors, and Father made her my personal tutor to ensure I understood my heritage. Unlike other instructors, eager to praise me and curry favor with Mother, nothing I do is good enough to please Favah.
While Selen and the other girls have fun learning the culture of my father’s people—cooking Krasian dishes, celebrating Krasian holidays, and making conversation in the language—Favah indoctrinates me in the secrets of the dama’ting priestesses, which consist mostly of prayer, wardcraft, field surgery,
and enough books of prophecy to make my head spin. I can stabilize a warrior before they bleed out, but I don’t know a single Krasian dance.
I’ve never seen Favah smile. Even on the rare occasions when she removes her veil, the deep lines of her face are always pinched in judgment. The crone is said to be more than a century old, an easy rumor to believe. Her limbs are little more than bones with a tough coating of sinew, every vein visible under thin translucent skin.
But Favah still greets each morning with sharusahk, her poses strong as a statue. Her memory is sharp, reaching across a century as easily as one might flip to a desired section of a well-read book.
“Take out your dice.”
I am quick to comply, laying a clean cloth before me and pulling a thick velvet pouch from an apron pocket. I spill seven clay dice, each with a different number of faces, onto the pristine white silk.
Favah scoops up the dice with a practiced hand, rolling the rough clay in her fingers. “Pathetic. Fifteen years old, and you have yet to complete a passable set of clay. In Krasia, you would have been thrown from the Dama’ting Palace by now.”
I should be so fortunate. I no more wish to be a seer than an Herb Gatherer, and even if I were to somehow manage both, Mother and Favah will still find ways to be disappointed in me. I’d rather visit the abyss than spend three hours in the Chamber of Shadows, straining to make sense of wardsight as I struggle to mold and carve dice of clay.
But as with most things in my life, there is nothing to do but endure. The only person who can override Favah is Mother, and I can’t imagine she ever would. She laughed the one time I complained that Favah cracked my knuckles with her wand.
“My old teacher Bruna had a bigger stick than Favah, and used it twice as often,” the duchess said. “Every swat was a lesson I never forgot.”
Favah hands the dice back to me, producing her own set. These are not crude clay. They were carved from the black bones of a demon the better part of a century ago. The worn surfaces shine like polished obsidian, but every facet, every symbol, remains sharp.
Favah slips the hanzhar from her belt. I know from experience the curved Krasian blade is sharp as a razor. She drives the point into her thumb, smearing blood across some of the wards.
“Everam, giver of light and life, your children need answers.” The dice begin to glow as she shakes them, distributing the blood. “Will it rain tomorrow?”
She throws with force, but a skilled hand. None of the dice stray from the cloth as they flare with magic that jerks them unnaturally out of their spins.
Favah glances at the throw, grunts, and sits back. She waves a hand for me to begin seeking an answer to her question in the scattering of symbols before me.
I squint at the throw. I know the meanings of all the wards, but what they tell me is gibberish. There are no facing symbols for air, or water, or anything remotely useful in predicting the weather.
Favah scowls as I reach for my textbook. I ignore her look, trying to buy time. Rain readings are vital in the desert where these arts began. There are detailed sections on such foretellings, but even these are little help. It seems each seer had their own way of reading the dice, and the methods are often at odds with one another. Reading from the center, there is darkness gathering, which might mean rain clouds. Reading from north to south, the darkness dissipates.
“Well?” Favah prompts.
“It…will,” I guess. The odds could be worse.
“Are you certain?” Favah asks.
I blow out a breath. “No.”
Favah nods. “You should have trusted that instinct. You’d be no worse off flipping a coin than making a prediction based on this throw.”
“But…the magic,” I say. What is the point of all this, if a throw cannot be trusted? There are questions I would ask, about who I am, about what I am meant to be, but it seems pointless to spend years mastering an art just to make an educated guess at the answers.
“The magic imprints off the question,” Favah says, “on our lips and in our hearts. We do not always know the right question.”
“So if you don’t ask if you might be trampled by a horse…” I prompt.
“The alagai hora will volunteer nothing,” Favah says. “Rain is a delicate balance of elements, not a constant like sunrise. Many times, it takes more than one throw to circle to an answer built off so many variables.”
She scoops her dice up in a practiced hand. “Tell me, Olive vah Leesha, what should I ask next?”
“If you should take an umbrella tomorrow?” I ask.
Favah makes a dry sound in her throat that just might be a chuckle.
* * *
—
I dread the hours in the Chamber of Shadows, but I put it from my mind, relieved to be free of the oppressive darkness of Favah’s classroom. Selen and the others are changing into sharusahk robes when I join them.
I dread this part of the day, but Selen immediately moves to my side, blocking me from the others’ view as I turn my back and slip off my dress. The other girls wear simple cotton undergarments that are easy to remove, but I wear a traditional Krasian bido—a length of silk woven many times between my legs and over my hips. I say it is to honor my heritage, but truer is I feel safer bound up tight, lest one of the other girls notice my body is different from theirs.
I can’t help but glance around the room, seeing that difference increase as we grow older. Already, my classmates are filling out—Minda looks a woman grown, and others are not far behind. Mother and Grandmum are similarly curved, but I just seem to be getting taller and more muscular.
Mother thinks it’s the balance of my female and male hormones. My flow has come and my voice is deeper than I’d like, but I have neither hair on my chin nor a woman’s curves. Mother says I may develop either, or both, late, or not at all.
“How bad was it?” Selen asks as I pull on the loose pants and robe we wear in the practice yard.
“A scolding,” I say, “and three hours in the chamber.”
“Three hours?!” Selen exclaims. “Night! Just for being a few seconds late?”
“One for being late,” I say, “and two more for smirking when you said she was old as sand.”
Selen rubs the back of her neck. “Ay, sorry about that.”
“We’re even.” I lay a hand on her arm. “Thanks for dropping that flowerpot.”
“It was nothing,” Selen says. “Couldn’t pull the corespawned root free, anyway.”
Wonda is already in the yard when the apprentices file out. The big woman has taken off her armor and laid her weapons aside, but she looks no less dangerous in loose-fitting cotton. Traditional sharusahk robes are black or white, but hers are forest green, symbolic of her fighting style, mixing Krasian hand-to-hand combat techniques with Thesan boxing. Favah calls it sacrilege, but I’ve never seen Wonda lose a match, even against Krasian warriors of note. She waits balanced on one leg, the other foot flat against her thigh, steady as a tree.
We assemble silently in the yard, standing in even rows. Wonda drops her foot to the ground, and we mirror her bow. Then the forms, known as sharukin, begin.
Many of the poses are Krasian: Embracing the Heavens. Filling the Basin. Asp’s Strike. Lonely Minaret. Others are sharukin of Wonda’s own design: Wind Breaks the Branch. Felling the Tree. Harvest Reap.
We move as one, breathing and flowing from pose to pose in a reflection of our teacher. The movements are gentle, but I feel myself begin to sweat as they tax muscles and push flexibility to its limits.
Mother insists all Herb Gatherers learn the poses. Another relic from the war, but I’ve always enjoyed sharusahk, practicing since I first learned to walk. The forms are the one time of day my mind stops racing and I can be at peace.
It ends all too soon. Wonda straightens and bows to the class again. “Find your partners, girls
.”
Selen and I immediately link up. We’re larger than the other apprentices, and none would dare spar with the princesses of Hollow in any event. I wouldn’t mind, but while my forms are more precise, Selen has always been better at applying them to combat. Wonda gives a whistle and the other girls watch as Selen and I trade kicks and punches, probing blows easily blocked as we circle each other.
“Better watch out.” I wink, trying to distract her. “My powder’s already ruined, so I’ve got no reason to hold back.”
Selen honks, knowing the game. “Come at me. I’ll give you another shiner like last week.”
“Elona is still mad about that,” I say. Nothing gets under her skin like her mother.
“Ay,” Selen growls, “but when you hit me so hard my ear swelled up like a cauliflower, she thought it was a grand joke.”
With sudden speed and intent, she rushes in, reaching for my thigh. I’m quick to counter, but it was a ruse and I curse myself as Selen shifts targets, taking hold of the collar of my robe. She pivots smoothly, using my own weight and momentum to flip me onto my back.
I try to scramble away, but Selen has a firm grip on my sleeve, jerking my hand out from under me. My cheek slams into the dirt of the practice yard, soiling my face for the second time today.
Selen never stops moving, swinging a leg around my neck in a submission hold I don’t have the leverage to break. I heave, and hear apprentices gasp as I get all the way to my feet, dragging Selen up with me. Still she keeps the hold, hanging upside down as her thighs continue to squeeze, cutting off breath and blood. At last I stagger and tap her leg. Immediately she lets go, and I gasp in a breath.
“Good work, Sel,” Wonda says as I punch the ground in frustration. “Olive, you were watching her hands when you should have been watching her feet. Minda and Ulana, you’re next up.”
I watch her feet, but Selen wins the next match, as well. The third time we attempt a simultaneous takedown. Both of us end up on the floor, but not in the way either intended. Wonda calls it a draw.
The Desert Prince Page 4
