The Desert Prince

by Peter V. Brett

  “Enter humbly, son of Ahmann,” Belina says. “This is Everam’s home, but also a place of honor for countless warriors who have gone to the Creator defending us from the alagai.”

  As we pass through vaulted archways three stories high, I see what she means. It is one thing to read about Sharik Hora—another to see it up close. The name literally translates to “heroes’ bones,” and indeed, everything inside the temple is made from dried and polished human bones, worn smooth by the passage of time untold.

  Multicolored light floods the temple from enormous windows of intricate stained glass, illuminating walls armored in countless bones. They frame alcoves and paintings, form the bars that hold tapestries and the sconces for lamps. Tables and chairs stand on human legs, holding bowls and chalices made from hollowed craniums. Chandeliers snake out from central mountings on reticulated spines, ending in skulls that stare with sunken eyeholes. I imagine those eyes glowing with oil light at night and suppress a shudder.

  Everything is heavy with history in a way I have never known. Hollow is large and powerful, but also new. Few structures are much older than I am, and not a one has seen a century pass. But along the walls of Sharik Hora the bones change color in subtle layers like sediment. They have been laid, generation after generation, since before the calendar of my mother’s people even begins.

  I am given little time to stare, escorted directly to the great hall. Pews built from polished femurs provide seating for thousands around the altar, upon which sits the fabled Skull Throne.

  Not the original, of course. My father brought that with him twenty years ago when he led his people north to conquer the green lands. This throne is new—the skulls white and fresh in contrast with the yellowed bones all around us, or the ancient brown of the seven steps that lead to the dais upon which it sits.

  For some reason, those stark white skulls bring home the reality of Sharik Hora more than all the rest. Not long ago, those were living, breathing warriors. Brave warriors, fallen in battle, who did not have their bodies returned to their families or properly burned. Instead, they were beheaded, eyes gouged out, brains scrambled and pulled through the nostrils, flesh boiled away.

  All to make a chair.

  No doubt the warriors thought it a great honor, but I choke back bile in my throat as I raise my gaze to look upon the man who sits on that throne.

  Damaji Aleveran’s cold eyes are set deep behind bushy eyebrows and a beard that climbs high on his cheeks and falls nearly to his waist. His hair is as starkly white as his robes, contrasted only by his dark skin and the black cloth of his turban. His clothes look to be wool—not silk, as the wealthy Krasians I have known prefer. His sandals are as plain as mine.

  There is a jewel at the center of Aleveran’s headpiece, but he wears no other adornment. No rings on his fingers or ears, though surely a man of such status could have warded jewelry infused with hora to grant him powers beyond those of other men. Mother is covered in the stuff.

  I take in the others in the room. All are austere, but I’m no stranger to court. These people may not be my own, but I can read their status as easily as one of Lord Arther’s rosters.

  The Damaji leads the men of the tribe, but leadership of the women falls to the Damaji’ting. The Majah tribe’s is the famed Chavis, whom even Favah spoke of with respect. She stands two steps down from the throne in white robes with a black headscarf and veil. Her only visible jewelry is the netting of warded gold coins that rests over her head like a crown, but there are slight impressions in the cloth of her robe. A man might not notice, but I know what it looks like when a woman wears jewelry beneath her clothes.

  At the Damaji’ting’s belt are a curved hanzhar, two black velvet hora pouches, and an electrum wand. The smaller pouch no doubt holds her dice, but the other, larger pouch and the wand are ready for more versatile spells. With them, she is more dangerous than the spear-wielding guards that surround me, but this is not the source of her imposing presence.

  Chavis is old. I can see it in the skin around her eyes—the only visible bit of flesh—but she does not appear weak or bowed with age. This is a woman who has seen rivals rise and fall. She was forced to abdicate when my father rose to the Skull Throne and made Belina Damaji’ting of Majah. Old even then, Chavis bided her time, and was ready to take power back when the Majah broke from my father’s empire.

  At the base of the seven steps to the throne are two venerable groups. To the Damaji’s right are the white-robed council of dama. Six men, each with a brightly colored gemstone on his white turban, and a silver ring in his right ear. They lean on flexible whip staves banded with silver, and barbed alagai tails hang at their belts next to warded knuckle silvers with contoured finger loops. Shar’dama. Fighting priests. Their black beards are streaked with gray, or perhaps it is the other way around.

  Across the aisle to the throne’s left are six veiled dama’ting, each with a silver netting of coins atop her white headscarf. Like their leader, they too wear jewelry beneath their robes. Hanzhar and velvet hora pouches hang from their belts. The eyes behind their veils seem ageless.

  Aleveran alone is unarmed and unadorned, and this speaks to his might more than any display of strength. His power here is almost absolute.

  Almost.

  Iraven and Belina flank me, striding to the center of a mosaic ward circle laid on the floor before the altar of bones. My brother thumps his spear, and he and Belina kneel. He lays his spear flat as they both put hands on the floor and press their foreheads between them.

  “Tsst!” Belina glances at me, seeing I do not kneel.

  But why should I? This is not my Damaji, not my temple, not a priest of my Creator. This is my captor’s stronghold, nothing more.

  I feel strong for a moment as everyone in the room gapes at me, but then Iraven snatches up his spear and whirls it faster than I can follow, striking the back of my knees. My tiny bit of power is stolen as my legs fold and I fall, knees slamming into the hard stone. I’m forced to put my hands on the floor to keep from smashing my face.

  “So this is the hidden prince,” Aleveran says. “Insolent. He knows nothing of our ways.”

  Belina hisses again as I raise my eyes, but I ignore her. She’s no longer the power in the room. “Why should I kneel before a man who sent Watchers into sovereign lands to kidnap me like they were…” I struggle to remember the proper Krasian term, “…stealing a well?”

  I hear the whoosh of air as Iraven draws back his spear for another blow. I brace myself, but Aleveran checks him simply by raising a finger.

  “Arrogant and willful, too,” the Damaji notes. “It is good to see something of a prince’s pride in the boy forced to wear women’s clothing, but even a prince must learn pridefulness before his betters comes at a cost.”

  He lowers his finger, and the shaft of my brother’s spear cracks like a whip across my back. “Stop this,” Iraven whispers as pain lances across my body.

  Perhaps he thinks the words will make me submit, but they have the opposite effect. He speaks as if he cares, even as his is the arm that strikes me. The lie of it enrages me, but I do not let it show. Not here, not now. There will be time later to cry in pain. For now, resistance is the only power I have, and I must hold it until I have what I need.

  I raise my eyes again.

  “Stubborn,” Chavis observes. Aleveran nods, and my brother’s next blow slams me into the floor. I turn my face aside just in time to spare my teeth and nose from breaking.

  “Do not.” Iraven warns as I put my hands under me to push back up. I ignore him, and my brother lifts his spear again.

  “Enough.” Aleveran holds up a hand. “You have proven your loyalty, Prince Iraven, and you will have that which was promised. Attend me.”

  A chill runs through the fire across my back as Iraven walks to the base of the Skull Throne and kneels, laying his spear at
his side.

  Chavis produces a white turban with a jewel at its center. I can see the point of the warded glass helm it contains glittering at the top. Iraven removes his black turban and bows as she places it atop his head.

  “Rise, Sharum Ka.” Aleveran does not shout, but the acoustics of the room make the words bounce to every corner.

  I see an apology in Iraven’s eyes as he turns to face me, but it is meaningless. His actions speak louder than any look. He’s no brother of mine. He traded my life for his own ambition.

  “And you, nie’Damaji’ting.” Chavis reaches into a pocket of her robe, drawing out a black silk veil. “Unless the dice call another, you have earned back the succession, on my natural death.”

  Natural. The word seems a warning. Nevertheless, Belina leaves my side to ascend three steps. Only Chavis and Aleveran see her face as the Damaji’ting removes her white veil and replaces it with black, marking her as Chavis’ heir.

  “As for you, son of Ahmann.” Aleveran turns his cold eyes back to me. “You seem determined to speak out of turn, so let us speak. You may think us cruel, but it is nothing compared to what your own mother has done. Leesha vah Erny am’Paper am’Hollow has shamed you beyond measure with her deception.”

  “Perhaps she simply sought to keep me from being kidnapped by honorless rivals who wish to make a political tool of me,” I say.

  There are sharp intakes of breath at that. Iraven tightens his grip on his spear, but none dare interrupt when the Damaji is speaking.

  “Honorless was robbing you of your birthright,” Aleveran says. “Honorless was stealing your manhood and making you into some sort of…” he waves a hand in disgust, “…push’ting.”

  Push’ting. The closest translation is “false woman,” but there are layers to the word I don’t entirely understand. I know from my studies that Krasians don’t forbid folk from lying with others of their own sex—like many of the Tenders of the Creator do in the North—but a man so devoted to loving men that he refuses to father children is considered beneath contempt in Krasia. Their endless war against demonkind cost too many lives, and their numbers are dwindling.

  “You are young, yet,” Aleveran goes on. “You cannot be expected to understand the damage your mother has done. Everam willing, there is time to undo what she has wrought and teach you to be a man.”

  “Oh, I’d love to learn,” I say. “Does being a man mean attacking unarmed women two-to-one like your Nanji?”

  “To win!” Aleveran barks. “To see what must be done and achieve victory, no matter the cost.”

  “And the dice say your victory requires me,” I say. “If Olive Paper does not join her blood with Majah, Desert Spear will fall, Belina told Mother.”

  For an instant, Chavis’ eyes flick to Belina in irritation. I suppress a smile despite the pain that still lances across me. She wasn’t supposed to show those cards.

  “Dice are fickle things,” Chavis returns her full attention to me, “and there is more than one way to read a throw. ‘Join’ made the most sense when we thought you a princess; as a prince, it could be interpreted more…literally.” She strokes the handle of her hanzhar, and I do not miss the gesture.

  “I want to see my sister,” I say.

  “You are in no position to make demands,” Aleveran says.

  Slowly, painfully, I get to my feet, never breaking eye contact. “I think I am, Damaji. If my blood is all you need, take it and have done. But I, too, studied in the Chamber of Shadows.”

  “Tsst,” the women in the room hiss almost in unison, including Chavis herself. No doubt they are scandalized at the notion of a boy learning the dama’ting’s art.

  “Perhaps, Damaji, your priestesses have not told you that there must be consent, with blood magic.”

  “For the dice, perhaps,” Chavis says. “This could mean something else, entirely.”

  I keep my eyes on Aleveran. “Are you willing to gamble Majah’s future on ‘perhaps’? Whatever your prophecy demands, your chances are better if I do it willingly, and that I will never do if I am not allowed to speak to my sister and have continued assurance she is alive and well.”

  Aleveran leans back in his chair, steepling his wrinkled fingers. “And if she is not? If she fell with honor defending her brother?”

  I cross my arms. “Then everything I have been told about the honorless Majah is true, and the abyss can take you, for all I care.”

  Finally, a twitch of emotion on his face, suppressed almost instantly. I’m playing a dangerous game, but I’m not bluffing. If they killed Micha, I’ll be corespawned before I lift a finger on their behalf.

  “No doubt you are used to being treated as a princess,” the Damaji says at last. “Men fear to strike the insolent mouth of a princess.” He leans forward in his throne, and I tense as if he could reach me from across the room. “But you are no princess.”

  He lifts a finger of each hand, and two Sharum guards rush in, grabbing my arms. I pull hard and one of the men, unprepared for my strength, is thrown to the floor. The other, off balance, is easily pulled in as I punch him in the stomach.

  My hand strikes armor plating, and I bite down to keep from crying out as guards swarm from both sides, looping cords around my wrists and pulling them tight, denying me leverage as my legs are kicked out from behind me and my knees slam back into the stone with a sharp, jagged pain.

  “Your pride and vanity must be stripped away, like those womanly locks,” Aleveran says. He nods to one of the guards, who produces a knife and takes a fistful of my hair. I grind my teeth, thrashing, but I cannot stop him from cutting it away.

  It’s like losing a limb. My hair has always been a part of my identity, and I can feel each strand as the blade cleaves them away. It will take years to grow back.

  The guard casts the hair to the floor and keeps to his work until the tiles around me are littered with black locks, and only a jagged patchwork of stubble remains.

  “Sharum Ka,” Aleveran says. “Teach your brother the price of insolence before the Skull Throne.”

  Iraven nods, his mouth a grim line as he hands his spear to a guard, accepting an alagai tail from one of the dama. His eyes are hard as he strides toward me. “I warned you.”

  “You sold your own blood for a white turban. I hope it buries you under its weight.” I try to spit in his face, but I’ve never spat at anyone before, and don’t use enough force. The spittle falls short, and my mouth is too dry from the dusty air to produce more.

  Iraven scowls, uncoiling the whip with a crack that echoes in the great domed chamber. The braided leather narrows to three thin tips, each with a bit of sharpened metal in the weave.

  Iraven strides behind me, and I shudder and tense. Fear and pain are only wind, Micha taught. Find your center and bend as the palm, letting them blow over you.

  But as the first lash tears through the thin tan shirt, my limbs turn to water, and my center—whatever that truly means—is lost. I cry out despite my determination not to.

  Again the alagai tail strikes, and again I scream. Over and over it comes, until my shirt is a tattered ruin and my entire back feels like an open wound. Iraven gives me a moment to breathe between each lash, but it is not a mercy. It simply ensures the pain of each strike is endured fully before covering it with the next.

  I hang limply from the cords now, weeping openly. Without the men holding the ends, I would have long ago collapsed. I look up between blows, seeing Aleveran through eyes blurred with tears. He does not smile, but there is satisfaction on his face.

  He notices my gaze. “You see you are no princess here, Olive asu Ahmann. You are not even a prince, just the bastard of a chin heasah. You will do as you are bid.”

  He waits, as if expecting a reply, and Iraven waits as well. My brother is no hero, but even he does not wish to lash me to death.

 
My limbs feel like gelatin that has not set. My back is aflame, and every muscle in my body screams in agony from clenching against each blow. I cannot fight. Cannot stand. Even the act of raising my head takes reserves of strength I didn’t know I had.

  “I…” My voice is a croak, words cut short as a throat screamed raw and dry seizes up. There’s blood in my mouth—I don’t know where from—and I swish it about to lubricate my tongue before choking it down to unstick my throat.

  “I…” The words hurt so much, but I suck in a breath and force them out. “I want to see my sister.”

  Aleveran’s eyes widen, and there are murmurs among the councils of clerics.

  “Sister, please.” There is pleading in Iraven’s tone now. Desperation. It gives me strength.

  I spit blood onto the floor. “This…is the only…blood…you’ll have.”

  “Damaji.” There is a tremor in Iraven’s voice. Perhaps it is the beginning of a spine, but it is too little, too late. If Aleveran commands him to keep lashing until I am dead, my brother is too far gone to deny him.

  Aleveran regards me for a long time, his bushy brows furrowed. At last he relaxes and sits back, swishing a hand through the air. “I would be a fool to kill a brave and promising young warrior, however insolent, over a boon that costs me nothing.” He points a finger at me. “But take care, boy. Everam’s patience is infinite, but the Skull Throne’s is not.”

  The guards ease the cords that bind me, and I collapse to my hands and knees on the floor before the elders of the tribe. All thoughts of pride, of appearances, are gone. I weep in pain and terror, tasting blood and tears and the snot running from my nose. The Majah elders look on impassively. If there is any sympathy in them, they are not willing to show it in front of the Damaji.