The Desert Prince

by Peter V. Brett

  “Tell that to the parents of the kids who were cored.”

  “Plenty of demons left off the greatwards,” I add before the other end of the table can volley. “Da…” My throat goes suddenly tight. “When he…” An image flashes in my mind, Da trapped burning in the Core, screaming my name.

  Everyone is looking at me. How long since I trailed off? I force out the rest of my thought. “It was just the ones laying siege on the cities that were destroyed.”

  “Boy’s right, Mum,” Uncle Gared’s tone is respectful, but firm. “This is not a subject for debate. Lotta witnesses giving the same story you just heard from Selen.” He takes the heavy serving spoon to scoop potatoes onto his plate. “Leesha wouldn’t have gone to investigate if it wern’t serious.”

  “Weren’t serious,” Emelia says.

  “Ay?” Gared pauses mid-scoop.

  “Weren’t, not wern’t,” she says. “If things were truly dire, you’d think Duchess Leesha would have sent her…best general.” The pause isn’t long, but we all feel it. “Instead you’ll be sitting for her at court. What will people say when they hear the Baron of Cutter’s Hollow still speaking like some backwoods bumpkin?”

  I feel the flush of heat as the general’s face reddens. His scent is angry—dangerously so, though the baroness looks anything but frightened.

  “They’ll say I was the first to answer the Deliverer’s call,” Uncle Gared says. “Say I stood in the Corelings’ Graveyard when the Hollow lost its feet. Say I held back a horde at the Dividing.” He clutches the heavy silver serving spoon in his fist. “Say I got to be baron with blood and ichor and my own corespawned hands, not by talkin’ like rippin’ city folk!” His thumb bends the thick metal spoon like it was nothing.

  That gets his attention. He stares down at the spoon, breathing deeply. He tries to bend it back to its original shape, but the implement is hopelessly mangled.

  Turning his attention back to the potatoes, he starts furiously scooping food onto his plate with it anyway.

  I feel terrible for him—for all of them really. This isn’t what family is supposed to be. But there is an uneasy silence at the table now, and everyone seems to prefer it that way. I focus on my own potatoes instead.

  * * *

  —

  “Like that every time?” I ask as Selen walks me back to my room.

  “Same scene every Sixthday,” Selen says. “Da and Emelia cut at each other until one of them, usually Da, starts shouting and breaks something. All the while, my brothers drool and chase attention like a pack of hounds.”

  “Why does she hate him so much?” I ask.

  “Because he didn’t have to claim me,” Selen says. “I was the duchess’ sister, and Elona’s still married to Leesha’s da. He could have just let it be, but he didn’t. I don’t think she’ll ever forgive that.”

  “No wonder you live in the duchess’ keep,” I say.

  “Da wants me here full-time,” Selen says, “but every time I stay more than a few days, Emelia gets jealous he’s paying attention to me instead of the boys. Does her best to make my life a misery, so I keep away.”

  We reach the door to my room, but Selen makes no move to continue on as I stop. She’s looking at me in that way she has, and I wonder if she’s going to kiss me, again. Is it wrong to be excited she might? I need to force my frozen lungs to breathe.

  “Olive would throw a fit, she saw us like this.” Selen’s scent is…predatory.

  “Like what?” I’m barely listening, just staring into her eyes like a mouse before a snake.

  “Alone in a dim hallway, dressed in our Sixthday best.” I tense as Selen squeezes my arm, grateful she can’t smell my fear.

  “Why should Olive care?” I ask.

  I tense as Selen leans close, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Emelia’s not the only one who gets jealous.”

  “Of me or you?” I drop my voice to match, though we’re alone in the hall.

  Selen’s eyebrows knit and her mouth puckers. “Now that you mention it, maybe a bit of both. She wouldn’t talk to me for a week after we kissed.”

  “What?” I squeak. “Why would she do that? Olive doesn’t shine on me.”

  “For a boy who can count heartbeats two floors down, you don’t catch much,” Selen says. “Everything the three of us did back then, we did together. But that was something she wasn’t part of.”

  “She din’t stop talking to me,” I say.

  “ ’Course not, dummy,” Selen snaps. “She was trying to get you alone.”

  Now I’m completely lost. “Why?”

  Selen steps closer. I can feel her warmth in the air between us. “To get her kiss, so it’d all be even again.”

  She lays a hand on my chest, looking at me with a mischievous smile. “Who knows what she’d do now?”

  She leans in, and I close my eyes. I feel her breath as she puts her lips to my ear. “So we’d best behave…”

  Her hand lifts from my chest, and I feel her step away. I open my eyes, and she flashes me a bright smile. “…at least for tonight.” She winks and turns to walk swiftly down the hall.

  “Good night, Darin.”

  I watch until she turns the corner, then rush into my room and put my back to the door as I wait for my breathing to return to normal.

  I realize I forgot to say good night in return.

  17

  TAKEN

  Mother’s keep is eerily quiet without her.

  I’ve always known that most of the people in the keep on any given day were there to be close to the duchess, but it’s unnerving to see it in practice. Doors I am accustomed to seeing open, day or night, now stand closed. Offices that reliably had a light under the door until late in the evening, now dark. The chandeliers are still lit, but without the other lights they cast deep shadows as we walk through abandoned halls.

  This has never happened before. Mother will sometimes spend a night or two in another borough, but Mother hasn’t left the greatward since the day I was born. That she is willing to do so now worries me, no matter how many soldiers and Warded Children she takes with her.

  What would happen if she did not return? Would the army of clerks and courtiers return, looking to me for instructions and wages? Or will they stay away, leaving me in an empty keep until I appoint ministers of my own?

  That’s assuming power falls to me. As likely Baron Cutter would step in as regent until I’m older. Creator love Uncle Gared, but he can’t even manage his own house. The general would just sit on the throne and delegate everything to Minister Arther.

  That wouldn’t be so bad. It would give me space to fall apart.

  “Do you think she’s safe?” I ask Micha.

  “Your mother is…formidable,” Micha says, “and her warriors are the finest north of Krasia. We have both witnessed what the Warded Children are capable of, and their power is but a dim reflection of Renna am’Bales. There is always risk in confronting the alagai, but I have difficulty imagining a threat they cannot overcome. Inevera, they will return triumphant.”

  I know she means to comfort me, but the words that stand out are the qualifiers. There is always risk. I have difficulty imagining. Inevera.

  The last one sets me on edge most of all. Inevera literally means “Everam willing,” words meant to remind people that all things, great and small, are subject to the Creator’s whim.

  But if the Creator is all-powerful, why are there demons at all? Why is there suffering? And if he isn’t…

  My throat catches and my legs turn to water. I cover my mouth as I sob, hurrying to one of the velvet benches in the empty hall. I sit, pulling out a kerchief to dab at my eyes.

  “Tsst!” Micha snatches the kerchief away. She unstoppers a tiny glass bottle with an extended lip, honed sharp. Skillfully, she uses the lip to scrape the tears str
eaking my face into the bottle. She moves higher then, catching the next tear right as it leaves my eye, and all those to follow. When I am done, the bottle is full, with scant room even for the stopper.

  “In the lands about Desert Spear, water is worth more than gold,” Micha says. “There is no greater way to honor a loved one than a sacrifice of that which is most precious.”

  She holds the bottle up to the light, so I can see the liquid collected within. “There is power in this, sister. It will keep you bound to your mother until she returns.”

  I nod, sniffling. “Honor or no, I’m glad Darin wasn’t here for that. He’s got his own mum to worry about. Doesn’t need to see me blubbering over mine.”

  I know the words are a lie even as I speak them. I might not have noticed how quiet things were, if not for the absence of Selen and Darin. The past week felt like old times, the three of us together again.

  I wonder if he’s worried, too, or if he and Selen are kissing in some darkened servants’ alcove. I wish that thought didn’t bother me.

  It’s not just the fear that they’ll break up our easy trio. It’s that I can’t have the same. It’s been weeks but I can’t stop hearing Elona’s voice in my head.

  The time for secrets is over.

  “Grandmum says I should tell everyone,” I say.

  “Tell everyone what?” Micha asks.

  “That I’m not like other girls,” I say.

  Micha’s eyes are carefully neutral. “What do you think?”

  I sniff, eyes and nose still wet. “I think I’m scared, but maybe it’s because I know she’s right.”

  “Is she?” Micha asks.

  “She said it’s a ticking clock,” I say. “Unless I want my husband to unwrap my bido on my wedding night and find a pecker bigger than his.”

  Beside me, Micha stiffens, sniffing the air. Her hand grips my arm, squeezing painfully as she stands, pulling me up with her.

  “What is it?”

  Micha touches the choker at her throat and I see its wards come to life. Her next words echo, trapped in a bubble of sound.

  “Lean close to me and walk. Continue to appear distraught. We must attempt to reach the hidden stair in your chambers.” She sets a pace designed to move at speed without looking hurried.

  I feel an adrenaline surge of power in my muscles, but play along, pulling another kerchief to sniffle into and hide my lips as we speak in Micha’s bubble. “What did you smell?”

  “Alomom powder,” Micha says. “Krasian Watchers use it to hide the scent of their sweat. They have attempted to encircle us while you were weeping.”

  “You know all that from a whiff of powder?” I ask.

  “From the scent, and from what my spear sisters and I would do, if we were sent to assassinate a princess.” Micha’s cold words are a terrifying reminder of who my sister really is. If she is this tense, then things are already dire.

  Micha slows as we approach the stairs up to my chambers. She cocks her head, pulling us up short. “We’re surrounded. Find a weapon.”

  I glance back at the darkened door of Mother’s first minister. “Lord Arther has a spear mounted above his desk.”

  “Swiftly,” Micha says, still guiding my arm as we walk to Arther’s office. “Watchers do not fight like other warriors. They are quick and will attempt to dazzle you with theatrics to hide their true attacks. Do not be fooled. If they throw a handful of powder at you, shut your eyes tight and hold your breath for as long as you can. Find a damp cloth to filter it. Spit on your kerchief if you need to.”

  It’s all I can do to keep my hands from shaking at the casual way Micha describes the men coming to kill us. Arther’s office door is locked, but over the years Selen and I have learned how to slip almost every door in the keep. Lord Arther’s has a loose jamb. A little pressure in the right place and a heavy shoulder are enough to pop it open.

  I breathe a sigh of relief when I see the short fencing spear still hanging above the first minister’s desk. I rush over and snatch it from the wall, but the weapon, barely more than half as long as the spear I carried on the borough tour, feels clumsy in my hands. Stabbing at corelings with a long infantry spear is one thing. Facing off against a trained spear fencer is another. There were no lessons in spearwork at Gatherers’ University, and Micha has refused to teach weapons until I master hand-to-hand.

  “You take it.” I push the weapon at Micha.

  “I have other weapons.” Micha reaches into her robe, pulling out a palm-sized triangle of sharpened glass. “Use the spear defensively. If it becomes a burden, fight with your hands.”

  “Surrender, instead,” a voice says in Krasian, though I cannot place the accent through the muffle of a night veil. “You will not be harmed.”

  A man appears from the shadows deep in the room. Was he waiting for us? How did he know? I’m relieved to see he carries no spear, just a six-foot wooden ladder, banded with warded steel. It looks awkward—more tool than weapon.

  A window slides open and another Watcher enters, pulling his ladder in after him. Micha and I back slowly toward the door to the hall, but it opens and a third warrior enters. All are clad in black Sharum robes and sandals wrapped in black silk. Their black turbans and veils hide all but their eyes, darkened with kohl.

  “Nanji.” Micha lifts her veil to spit on the floor. “Former Watcher tribe of the Majah. They swore fealty to the Skull Throne when the Majah abandoned the Deliverer’s army and returned to the desert.”

  “Your Nanji half brother swore fealty to the Skull Throne,” the Watcher corrects. “After he murdered our Damaji and stole the black turban.”

  “And so you serve the Majah, still,” Micha says.

  The Watcher does not reply, nudging his ladder in our direction. “Surrender. I will not offer it a third time.”

  He’s arrogant. He doesn’t expect a pair of spoiled princesses to put up a fight. “There are only three of them,” I whisper. “We can win this.”

  “Perhaps.” Micha appraises the men coldly.

  There is no warning as they attack. All three men charge at once, swinging ladders off their shoulders. Micha flicks a throwing glass at one, but he puts his ladder into a spin and there is a thunk as the glass embeds harmlessly in the wood.

  Another ladder cuts between us and I instinctively dodge aside, realizing too late the intent to split us apart.

  “Hold nothing back!” Micha cries as two of the Watchers begin circling her, ladders whirling to box her in.

  I focus instead on the one closing on me, the Watcher who offered us a chance to surrender. He swings his ladder and I nimbly slip to the side, feet light and balanced beneath my wide skirts. I attempt to counter but he reverses too fast for me to follow, rolling the ladder across his shoulders to come at me from the other direction. I raise Arther’s spear in time to block, but contact is jarring, the thick ladder knocking me back a step.

  Before I can recover, the ladder spins again, coming in at a third angle. I move to block, but I am not quick enough, and it clubs me full across the face.

  There’s an explosion of sound and light inside my head like a round of Mother’s festival flamework. My ears are ringing as I hit the floor, breath knocked from my lungs. I taste blood, and feel loose teeth as I grind them together.

  Get up. Micha is embroiled in her own fight, but I hear her lesson in my head. Dodges and parries are less important than learning to recover when struck.

  The Watcher thrusts his ladder down, meaning to pin me between the side rails and put the lowest rung into my throat. I roll aside just in time, kicking at his legs. He skitters out of reach, giving me a second to spring back to my feet.

  He moves back in immediately, but this time I refuse to give ground, stepping in with quick thrusts of my spear. These he parries, but the ladder is less suited to defending against such a
light weapon. I wait until it is out of alignment and lunge, meaning to drive the point through the man’s chest.

  The Watcher rolls aside, and as my spear thrusts between the rungs of his ladder I realize he drew me in purposely. With a twist he catches my weapon fast, and I am not quick enough to let go. I’m yanked forward into a kick that hits me in the chest like a woodcutter’s sledge.

  There is a shriek of pain across my back as I slam into the edge of Arther’s heavy goldwood desk. For a moment my whole body goes numb, but I grit my teeth, hands groping at the desk, hoping to find a letter opener. A bottle of ink. Anything I can throw or use as a weapon. But the first minister is fastidious, leaving no clutter in an office closed for the night. I grab the blotter, flinging it at the Watcher as he closes back in. It buys me a second to shove off the desk, just in time to avoid another blow from the ladder.

  I assume a sharusahk stance, probing with kicks and punches, watching the way the Watcher spins his ladder to parry them. There are only so many ways to keep the ladder in motion in such a cramped space, and the next time it comes along a predictable path, I reach out to take hold of a rung, meaning to pull the Watcher into a kick of my own.

  Instead, the ladder reverses direction mid-swing. I follow it with my gaze, turning my head right into a fistful of thrown dust. I snap my eyes shut, but they’re already burning. I choke, trying not to inhale as my lungs seize.

  The blows come quickly. A swing of the ladder to the head that opens my mouth in a reflexive gasp. The dust in the air is dissipating, but it’s enough to set me coughing even as the ladder comes up into my stomach, blowing the breath back out and doubling me over. Another cracks across my already sore back, and I slam hard into the floor.

  The Watcher drives his knees into my shoulder blades, pinning me. He puts my head between the rungs of his ladder and pulls. I arch my back but pinned I can’t stop him from choking me with the sidebar.

  I pull helplessly against the ladder, but the Watcher has all the leverage, and even with my strength I can’t loosen the hold. I open my stinging eyes and see Micha fighting hard against her two foes.