I take a deep breath and blow it slowly out my nostrils. Today had been such a quiet day. I have to tell everyone about this, but I already know what they’ll say.
When your da saves the world, folk have expectations.
* * *
—
I busy myself in the barn, but it’s really just an excuse to get out of the house. I’d rather listen in on the adults from here than sit there and have them talk like I’m invisible.
Aunt Selia and her wife, Lesa, came out to the farm when she got news of the Wanderer. Figured she’d call me out for stealing her butter cookies while she was here, but she din’t.
“Boy’s got to learn to do things for himself, Ren,” Grandda says.
Mam snorts. “How many summers did you have again, Jeph Bales, the first time you stood up to a demon on your property?”
“Too many, and you know it.” Grandda strikes a match, puffing at his pipe. “Like to think I raised my kids to be better than me.”
Mam doesn’t have a reply to that. “What do you think, Hary? Darin ready for this?”
“Boy knows all the songs, backward and forward,” Master Roller says. “Just…needs a bit of confidence.”
Ay, that’s a sunny way of putting it.
It ent that I’m scared of corelings, exactly. Been wandering around alone at night since I was old enough to walk. Come across demons plenty of times.
But I’m smart enough to avoid them. They want me to use my pipes to call one right to me.
“Only way to get confident at a thing is to do it,” Selia says. “Ent going to be by himself. Hary and me will be right there with him.”
“New moon tomorrow,” Mam notes.
Selia scoffs. “Ent seen more than the occasional Wanderer around these parts in ten years. Let the boy show what he can do.”
“Ay, all right,” Mam says at last. “Reckon it’s time Darin started learning the family business.”
5
MAJAH
The royal carriage doesn’t stand out as much as I feared. Here in the capital, other powerful families have sent their children on the borough tour in carriages much more garish.
Mother prefers efficient simplicity over ornate design. Her carriage is dignified, if plain, but it is designed to withstand demon talons and Milnese flamework weapons alike. Beneath the polished wood veneer of its panels and roof, the carriage is comprised of specially warded glass, stronger, thinner, and lighter than steel.
But while the carriage doesn’t stand out, Mother’s cavalry surrounding the cart does. The Hollow Lancers have always been flamboyant like their leader, Captain Gamon, with colorfully lacquered wooden armor under bright blue tabards and yellow capes, feathers in their helms.
I always thought they looked quite fine prancing through maneuvers in the yard, lances standing in precise lines like the bristles of a fine brush. But here, they shout my presence at a time I want nothing more than anonymity. Selen’s plan won’t work if everyone on the entire tour’s got one eye on us.
We lead a procession that grows and grows as we wind through Cutter’s Hollow.
Teens are gathering today in every borough. The tourism minister estimates over a thousand in the group from the capital alone. For some it is their first time away from home. Others have made it an annual tradition, a state-funded excuse to travel and shop. A small army of vendors follow the tour, in addition to those in the countless market squares we’ll encounter along the way.
A select few tourists ride horses or travel in carriages, but most walk, or crowd together in the backs of mule carts.
The streets of Cutter’s Hollow curve and loop, punctuated by irregular plazas, fields, and stands of trees. Even the buildings have shapes and sizes that defy practical architecture.
This is not the work of some mad civil engineer. From above, the odd shapes form the lines of Mother’s greatwards—lines of power that Draw ambient magic and shape it into a forbidding that no demons can abide.
“Our first stop will be New Rizon, the site of the most famous confrontation in the Battle of New Moon in 333 AR.”
First Minister Arther is in his glory, making the carriage his personal classroom as he recites the history of the boroughs of Hollow Duchy. It’s so boring I almost wish I’d stayed behind.
I look out the window and see Minda and our other classmates as they follow on foot. I watch enviously as they laugh and mingle with a group from the Warders’ Academy.
“It was here that Arlen Bales was seen glowing in the night sky as he Drew power from the first greatward, throwing fire and lightning at the demon horde.”
“That can’t possibly be honest word,” Selen says. I’m inclined to agree, though there are paintings of the event in every Holy House from here to Krasia.
“I didn’t witness it personally,” Arther admits, “but I heard accounts from those who did, and I saw the Deliverer’s magic firsthand. This is not conjecture. It is verified historical fact.”
Selen and I share a look, but neither of us argues further.
“The battle was the first test of the greatwards your mother built to shelter the refugees from Krasia’s advance,” Arther continues. “Whole villages packed up and fled the path of your father’s armies, abandoning home and field to arrive on the doorstep of Hollow, often with little more than their culture and their lives.”
My father’s armies. The thought is so alien. I only met Father once, fourteen years ago, just after the demon war, when he came to Hollow to sign the new Pact of the Free Cities. Politics have kept him away ever since.
I was not yet two and don’t recall much of it, but I do remember how tall Father was, clad in flowing robes and haloed in a rainbow of color as the gemstones on his crown split the light. When he held me it felt like the safest place in the world. I can’t remember what he said; his voice was so deep and soothing I felt it in my bones. I’m told I fell asleep in his arms.
It’s difficult to imagine that same man leading a horde of warriors across Thesa, crushing cities and towns to levy men into his demon-killing army, but it isn’t in question. Verified historical fact, as Arther would say.
Micha watches Arther impassively as he speaks, her eyes unreadable. She does not correct him or offer defense of our father’s actions.
“Another leader would have turned the refugees away,” Arther says. “Others did turn them away. Fort Angiers closed their city gates. Fort Miln increased the garrison at the crossing to the river Dividing. The Laktonian captains refused to give refugees passage to the city on the lake. Only Duchess Paper offered healing and succor, teaching them to build their own greatwards, interconnected with the keyward of Cutter’s Hollow.
“There were sixteen boroughs at the end of the war, but birth rates soared in the years of peace and prosperity that followed. A score of new greatwards have been added since, making Hollow the most populous duchy in Thesa.”
I’ve heard the story before, of course. Tales of Mother’s greatness, her bravery, her selflessness in protecting everyone who came to her in search of succor. It’s no wonder the people love her. But all I can think of is her disapproving stare, and how hard I have to fight even for small freedoms in half measure. I think of what Perin has hidden beneath the carriage, and wonder if I will have the courage to steal a few days of real freedom.
I let Arther drone on, half listening as I stare out the windows. I’ve been to many of the inner boroughs alongside Mother as she gave speeches, breaking ground and cutting ribbons at universities, public libraries, and hospits. Now for the first time, I’m traveling into the outer boroughs. By tomorrow I’ll be farther from home—farther from Mother—than I have ever been. I take a breath, and already my chest feels lighter.
Our first stop is the market square of New Rizon, where hundreds gather to begin the tour. I move to join Minda and the others, but
the boys from the Warders’ Academy shy away. The tour has chaperones, but nothing like Captain Wonda who follows a step behind me, looming over everyone in her warded armor.
“Olive,” Arther says, “perhaps you can tell the group when the cathedral of New Rizon was built?”
I press my lips, trying to swallow my annoyance. No doubt the minister thinks it grand to have the princess of Hollow as his assistant. Indeed, everyone falls silent to listen. But it’s just another way for me to be singled out when all I want is to feel like I belong.
Everyone is waiting. I shake my head to clear it, reciting names and dates drilled into me since I could first read and write. None of them do justice to the building itself, with its massive dome and soaring columns.
As we enter the nave, every neck arches in unison to see the famed painting on the ceiling. Arlen Bales aloft in the night sky, his body alight with the wards tattooed into his flesh, driving the demons from Hollow with fire and lightning.
The cathedral holds a service on that date every year, and Mother always attends, staying long in a seemingly endless receiving line. I’ve spent countless hours staring at that painting and am no longer awed, but the other tourists gasp at the sight. Some draw wards in the air or whisper prayers. More than a few kneel, and one girl simply bursts into tears. Selen rolls her eyes and I have to keep from smirking.
We spend hours walking around the city center, ending with shopping in the market square. Arther retires and I convince Wonda to walk a few steps back so we can spend time with our classmates. Selen is in fine form, spinning tales and telling jokes. Our laughter has even drawn back some of the boys from the Warders’ Academy.
I try to similarly pull ahead of Micha, but she keeps finding some trinket to examine or vendor to talk to that keeps her close. Krasians are famous hagglers, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen Micha pay full price for something. The others watch with awe as she argues vendors into slashing their prices.
All too quickly, the sun sets, and station separates us from our friends. Our classmates go to the common house, while Arther has booked Selen and me into New Rizon’s finest inn.
The dinner brought to our rooms is delicious, but out in the square I can hear music and singing and raucous laughter from the common houses, and wish I were there, instead. That just once, I could feel like part of the world and not just an observer.
Selen looks just as trapped. If I hadn’t come along with an entourage, she would have found a way to be out there. Instead we play cards, and go to bed still hearing sounds of cheer from the square.
* * *
—
The tour continues for days. Some villages barely get a mention as we pass them on the road; others have more than we could see in a week, but most are like New Rizon. A few sites of note, then shopping in the market square until Wonda herds us to the inn. As they start to blur together, the size of the group thins. Arther is needed back at the capital, and many of the older tourists return with him. The younger ones have planned their entire summer around the tour, and press on.
At last we reach Pumpforge, one of the border villages where groups are gathering to hike into the borderlands.
The village smells of smoke and rings with the sound of hammering metal. I know the history of the place. Like the Warded Children, the Pumps were another of Mother’s experiments during the war. She helped them develop new ways to craft and ward their arms and armor, and now Pump craftsmanship is sought after by Hollowers and Children alike.
But the forges forced them to give up their nomadic ways. The Pumps accepted Mother’s rule and the protection of the greatwards, in exchange serving as a link between the duchy proper and their more feral cousins in the borderlands.
The carriage pulls to a stop in the town square, where a giant man is waiting to greet us. His short yellow beard is thick around a strong jaw, his eyes the same icy blue as mine. His arms ripple with muscle under a sleeveless leather vest, and his worn boots and plain breeches belie the Speaker’s medallion on his chest, embossed with a hammer striking a speartip atop an anvil.
“Ay, Wonda!”
“Callen!” Wonda leaps down and embraces him, then gives him an affectionate shove. “Good to see you.”
“And you.” The man’s voice seems to vibrate the wood of the carriage as he opens the door. “Ent seen little Olive and Selen since they were…” his eyes widen as he sees us, “…little.”
Wonda laughs. “Ay. Ent that, anymore.”
“Welcome to Pumpforge, Princesses.” Callen gives a bow.
I have no recollection of meeting this man, but that’s no surprise. I’ve been paraded through Mother’s sitting room to let visitors “have a look at me” since I was born. Some are memorable, but even recent ones tend to blur.
But I know the look Cutters get when they consider you family. Speaker Callen’s affection is genuine, but it adds one more overprotective set of eyes on us.
“You’ll give them the tour?” Wonda asks.
“Ay.” Callen flashes us a smile. “Most of the action’s in the market square. Town’s full to bursting with groups in for the hike, and merchants have come from all over. Caravan from Krasia has everyone in a stir.”
“Get merchants from Krasia all the time,” Wonda says.
Callen shakes his head. “Not New Krasia. These are in from Desert Spear.”
“Tsst!” Micha looks up sharply at the words.
Even Wonda blinks. “Honest word?”
Callen points to a cluster of brightly colored tents in the far corner of the square, a little village amid the usual open stalls of Northern markets.
Desert Spear is home to the so-called lost tribe of Krasia, the Majah. Depending on which history you read, either the Majah deserted my father’s army during the demon war and are blood traitors, or the Majah were themselves betrayed by my half brother Asome, and left with honor to avoid civil war.
Regardless, the Majah returned to their ancestral home, the massive walled oasis city of Fort Krasia, known to my father’s people as Desert Spear, on the far side of the Krasian desert. That was fifteen summers ago, and no one has heard from them until recently, when they sent a Messenger to Mother’s court with a petition to join the Pact of the Free Cities.
“Mother is preparing to host the Majah delegates soon,” I say. “Perhaps they are opening the border?”
Micha makes a delicate spitting noise behind her veil. “They are Majah spies.”
“Bah.” Callen waves a hand. “Ent hurting anyone and we got nothin’ to hide. They got good wares to sell, and this is a town that knows its craft.”
Callen leans in to Wonda and lowers his voice. I don’t have ears like Darin Bales, but they’re sharper than most and I catch the words. “You sure Olive can’t go on the hike? If Leesha is worried, I can collect a few Forgers and take her myself. Won’t be in danger. Ent seen a demon around here in—”
Hope rouses in my breast, but Wonda crushes it. “Mistress says no.” There is a finality to her words, like the click of a lock. My hand drifts to my dress, touching the tiny vial secreted in a hidden pocket. I had allowed myself to forget it, but now the feel of the hard glass reawakens the nervous excitement and sick fear at the thought of Selen’s plan.
Tomorrow. In just a few hours, I’ll be free of Wonda, and Micha, and every other adult Mother has sent to smother me. I’ll be with folk who don’t know who I am, and regardless of how I am dressed, I’ll be able to just be myself for the first time.
If I’m brave enough to do it. Even now, I don’t know that I can. I won’t have Selen there to goad me into boldness. It will be my choice to use the vial, and I am afraid if I do, Micha and Wonda won’t forgive me, and life will never be the same.
* * *
—
Pumpforge is rougher than other villages on the tour. There are no great manses here, and I
see little in the way of fashion or luxury. Even Speaker Callen has coal-smudged clothes and dirty fingernails. The women dress much as the men, and all have thick muscles peeking from their shirtsleeves. They look ready to pick up weapons and fight at any moment.
Still, the Forgers are a cheerful lot, with pleasant chatter in the public houses and market square. Traveling merchants drawn to the Solstice Festival have filled the square with a maze of tents to display their wares.
But it is the collection of tents from Desert Spear that draws my gaze and holds it. Micha spoke Krasian to me when I was still in the crib and I’ve taken Krasian Studies since starting school, but apart from my instructors, a handful of vendors in the capital, and visiting diplomats at court, I have never met any of my people. The Majah are not my tribe, but going into that cluster of tents will be the closest I have ever come to being immersed.
I get the sick feeling in my stomach that comes before a test or one of Mother’s lectures. What if my accent is wrong? I’ve been told blue eyes are rare in Krasia, but I don’t know how rare. Will they stand out? Or my skin? I am darker than Hollowers, but lighter than my sister or Favah.
I look down at the rugged but fashionable dress I made to wear for the hike. It was too daring even to show Mother, and scandalously immodest by Krasian standards. Might it cause real offense?
Selen takes my hand, telling me without a word that she understands. “Come on. I’ll be right beside you.” I squeeze gratefully, and together we move toward the tents.
Micha steps in front of us. “Beware, sister. The Majah cannot be trusted.”
“Why?” I ask.
“They are ginjaz.” Micha makes a dry spitting sound through her veil. “Traitors. The Majah abandoned the armies of the Deliverer at the height of Sharak Ka. They returned to the desert and the old ways, sitting out the war while the other tribes fought and died in glory.”
The Desert Prince Page 6
