The Desert Prince

by Peter V. Brett

  But after the fighting wards were found and Krasia regained its strength, such precaution was no longer needed. The undercity, particularly in the poorer districts, fell into disrepair. Some of the tunnels have partially collapsed, and more than a few of the buildings look unsafe to enter. Everything is covered in a fine coating of sediment.

  But the wardpillars remain, and the great mosaics. Greenlanders hurry to and fro, cleaning off the wards to strengthen the protections.

  A building has been set aside for a nie’Sharum billet. The chin we escorted here step cautiously around us, but they do not forget our sacrifice for their safety. Some of the women fetch water and cloth, returning to clean the blood and ichor from my brothers. The boys look stiff and uncomfortable under their ministrations—unused to the touch of a woman who is not Tikka or their mother.

  I reach for my healing satchel. The feedback magic warriors absorb speeds healing—closing superficial cuts and abrasions, turning serious contusions into little more than bruises—but the magic will not clear shrapnel from a wound, or set broken bones.

  “The pain is less,” Montidahr says as I examine his broken arm.

  I nod. “It has already begun healing, but crooked. If you want to keep full use of it, I will need to break it again and set it properly.”

  Montidahr pales, and a sheen of sweat breaks out across his shaved head, but he does not argue. “Do it.”

  The satchel contains a bite rod, thick leather sewn over a wooden dowel. I put it in his mouth, pressing his tongue back so he does not bite through it or shatter teeth when his jaw clenches from pain. “Hold him.”

  Gorvan pins Montidahr’s legs and Chadan sits on his chest, pressing his shoulders down. “Cast your thoughts back to the pain of the breaking, brother,” the Nie Ka says. “Hold that feeling in your mind’s embrace, and breathe.”

  I hold up his arm, letting him take a few steady breaths as I plan my move. The bone has only just begun to knit, and with my strength it’s like snapping a twig to break it again. Montidahr grunts and his muscles seize, but Chadan and Gorvan keep him still. His teeth sink into the leather and tears run down his eyes, but it only takes a few moments more to reset the bone and splint it. I use a length of clean bido cloth to bind the splint in place.

  I move between half-bloods and greenbloods and the sons of khaffit with no regard for caste, focusing on the most serious cases first. I pull broken claws and demon teeth from wounds, cleansing them with herbs to kill the infection corelings carry. There are more bones and dislocations to set, the oozing stump of a wrist to cauterize, and other injuries. Years of needlepoint has given me a swift and precise stitching hand. Wounds close to tight, even seams under my ministrations.

  Princess Olive of Hollow would have been sickened by the blood and pus and filth. More than a few of the wounded have vomited, and many faces are stretched into a brutal mask of pain.

  But they are my brothers now, and I feel none of the churning in my gut that I felt assisting Micha, after the massacre of the borough tour. They need me, and I am there for them.

  There are a handful of injuries beyond my skills—wounds magic has closed that show signs of internal bleeding beneath, and a broken horn embedded so deeply in a boy’s side I fear to remove it. All seem stable enough, and I say a silent prayer to Everam that they survive long enough for the dama’ting to see to them.

  Chadan shadows me throughout, helping when he can, offering words of encouragement when he cannot. His very presence soothes many of the nie’Sharum, who look at him with worship in their eyes.

  “That’s the last of them.” I snip the final thread. My herb pouch is depleted, and we had to get creative in finding linen for bandages, but everyone has been seen to.

  “We owe you a debt,” Chadan says.

  He means the words kindly, but they sting nonetheless. Every one of these injuries sits on my conscience twice over, once for drawing the demons here, and once for forcing my brothers to come to my rescue.

  I turn from him wordlessly, retreating to a private space with a bucket of fresh water and the last bit of clean cloth in the building to tend myself.

  Chadan follows. “Let me help you.” He reaches for the cloth, and grimaces. I notice how pale he’s become, and immediately move to examine him. The blood and ichor streaking his flesh make it difficult to see, so I run my hands over his muscles, searching. I find it under his armpit, something hard beneath his flesh that moves as I prod it with my fingers, drawing a gasp of pain from the young prince.

  “Why didn’t you say something?” I ask.

  “It is nothing,” Chadan said. “Our brothers needed you more.”

  I press my thumb against the mass, and he grimaces again. “This isn’t nothing, Nie Ka.” I take the cloth and clean the area, finding the red scar of a wound, already healed over with magic. I reach into my pouch for the bite rod, its leather pocked and torn from repeated use.

  Chadan raises a hand to forestall me, his breathing becoming slow and even. “I do not need it. I will embrace the pain.”

  “You’d better.” I lift the hanzhar. “It will be dangerous if you move.”

  To his credit, Chadan’s breathing remains deep and steady. He does not wince as my blade cuts through layers of muscle until it strikes the hard bit. A thin hiss escapes his lips as I slip in the tongs, drawing out a broken piece of demon talon and holding it up for him to see. “Demon wounds infect, Highness. This might have killed you.”

  I half expect him to argue as other, brasher boys might, professing his strength and fortitude, but that is not the prince of Majah’s way. He accepts the chastening with a bow of his head. “Thank you, brother.”

  As gently as I can, I cleanse the wound and pull the flesh back together with neat, even stitches. Then I take the cloth and cleanse the filth from him, searching for other injuries. All of us have them, but I find nothing else serious—most of it already healing on its own. His skin is warm under my hands, and he sighs.

  Chadan reaches out, our fingers touching lightly as he takes the cloth from me. Wordlessly he rinses the blood and grime from it, squeezing the water out. Then he begins to clean me as I did him, running the cloth over my flesh with one hand, and following it with the other as he probes for injuries. I tense, but I do not stop him. His hands are firm, but gentle.

  “I saw you take a lash of a sand demon’s tail right here,” he squeezes my side, “but there isn’t even a mark.”

  “The magic must have healed it,” I say.

  “Was it magic that let you fight me nearly to a standstill your first night in sharaj, even after grandfather had you whipped?”

  I shrug. “I’ve always been a quick healer.”

  “The honor should have been yours,” he says.

  “Eh?”

  “Ajin’pel, blooded to many,” Chadan says. “It should have been you. I ordered our brothers to flee. It was you who chose to fight.”

  I shake my head. “You had the responsibility of command. Our brothers, the chin, their lives were in your hands. You made the right decision. What I did was…selfish.”

  “Damn me to the abyss, if it was.” Chadan spits on the floor. It is the first time I’ve seen him spit since the night we met.

  “You came back for me,” I remind him.

  “Faseek was already turning to help you when I realized what was happening,” Chadan says. “He worships you.”

  “But the others wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t turned as well.”

  “Perhaps.” Chadan seems unconvinced. “But if I walked the path of honor, it is only because you showed it to me, just like you did last night in the Maze. The victory, the blooding, it is all because of you.”

  “Victory?” I ask. “What victory? How many of our brothers died in that running battle? How many chin did we fail to save? It would have been better if you had abando
ned me.”

  “Nonsense,” Chadan snaps. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  I meet his eyes, unsure even now if I can trust him, but the need to tell someone is unbearable.

  “The demons knew me.”

  Chadan blinks. Whatever he was expecting me to say, this wasn’t it. “What?”

  “This happened before. In Hollow.” I tell him the story of the borough tour, leaving out only a few details, and relay what happened in the Maze last night.

  “You were already blooded?” he breathes, turning to stare into the darkness. “No wonder you could not stand by. No wonder you did not fear to tread the Maze.”

  “That isn’t what I’m saying,” I grab his face and turn him back to me. “The demons are hunting me.”

  I can see in his eyes he doesn’t believe it. “Why?”

  I shrug. “Because of my father? Or perhaps my mother. Or both. I don’t know. All I know is the moment they saw me, the demons…fixated.”

  “Of course,” Chadan said. “The alagai crave nothing more than our deaths. That does not mean they recognized you.”

  It’s different, but I don’t know how to convince him of that. “Then why the storm?” I ask. “Demons aren’t much smarter than dogs. Why do they suddenly have the intelligence to hold open the gate? To penetrate the wall? Iraven said it himself. They have a mind, and it is hunting me.”

  “Even if that were true, it changes nothing,” Chadan says. “If the Father of Demons wants you, it is our duty as Evejans, as Sharum, to deny him.”

  “At what cost?” I ask. “So long as I am in Desert Spear, everyone is in danger.”

  “So you say,” Chadan agrees, “but there is no proof. And I for one feel safer with you…close.”

  We’re silent a moment, staring at each other. I struggle to find words to convince him.

  “I’m sorry Grandfather brought you here,” Chadan says. “It was wrong of him, just as it was wrong to take the greenbloods across the waste to Desert Spear. None of you belong here.”

  “He brought me here for you,” I say.

  “That is what he claims,” Chadan admits. “But Grandfather has his own reasons for what he does—reasons of politics and prophecy. It was never something I wanted. I would have been as unwilling as you on our wedding night, had you been a girl.”

  I twist my lips into a mocking pout. “A princess of Hollow isn’t good enough for you?”

  Chadan shakes his head. He is very close. I can feel the warmth of his breath. “I would not have wanted to marry any princess.”

  Suddenly, I understand, and lean closer still. “What about a prince?”

  Chadan does not reply.

  He kisses me, instead.

  33

  DEATH FORETOLD

  I wake, feeling the heat of the boy nestled behind me, and for a moment I think it must be Konin, who often snuggled close in the chill of night.

  Then I remember Konin is dead. I am not in the sharaj barracks, sleeping in a pile with my brothers. The darkness around me is not the cloak of night, it is the eternal gloom of the undercity. There is no way to know if it is still dark outside, or if we slept through the morning bell.

  Chadan shifts in his slumber, and suddenly everything comes back in a flood. All we did was kiss and hold each other, but it feels like the whole world has shifted.

  I’ve tried not to think too much about Selen these last weeks—thoughts of home only made things worse, made my situation unbearable. Only by living in the present could I keep from falling into despair.

  But now…I smile in spite of myself. I’ve finally got a kissing story she can’t beat, and she’s not around to share it with.

  The thought brings back memories of Lanna and the borough tour. I’ve kissed all of two people in my life, and both tales include a demon attack.

  Beyond that, there weren’t a lot of similarities between Lanna and Chadan. With Lanna, I had been the pursuer, though she was willing prey. Chadan was the one to initiate our kiss—leaving me to wonder how long he had been wanting to do it.

  But where Lanna kissed aggressively, opening her mouth, pressing against my body, Chadan was tentative, his kisses small and light, fingers gentle on my face. It didn’t seem like he had any more experience than me. And why should he?

  Chadan deliberately kept himself apart from other boys, knowing he might be forced to order any of them to their deaths. Knowing he would one day have to marry a princess his grandfather selected, whether he wanted it or not. This might be the first time he allowed himself a moment of vulnerability.

  I twist around, kissing his sleeping forehead. He opens his eyes, and I am unable to stop myself from breaking into a smile as they meet mine.

  He reaches out, a slow, sleepy gesture as he gently strokes my cheek with the back of his hand. “Is it morning?”

  “I don’t—” My words are cut off by the sudden sound coming from the doorway to the common area where our nie’Sharum brothers are sleeping. I hear their low murmurs, and above them a high sharp voice that sends a shiver down my spine.

  “Where are they?” Belina demands.

  * * *

  —

  “Where are we going?” I ask as we walk at the head of columns of marching nie’Sharum. Already we have passed through several gates, walking long distances in tunnels barely high enough to stand upright.

  I know my questions irk Belina, but I feel the weight of all that stone above our heads, straining, wanting to fill the void of the tunnel. Irking the woman who kidnapped me is a welcome distraction.

  “To the undertemple of Sharik Hora.” Belina does not so much as glance my way.

  “All the way from the chin quarter?” I’ve read about the undercity, but never truly understood the enormity of it. We’re traversing many miles without ever going aboveground.

  “All roads in Desert Spear lead to Sharik Hora, Prince Olive.” Belina looks over her shoulder at me. “For Everam is omnipresent in our lives.” As she turns back, I see her eyes flick to Chadan, just for an instant.

  I wonder if she suspects what happened between us. Like Mother with her spectacles, Belina sees in wardsight, and trained for years in the art of reading auras.

  But Chadan has fallen into his breathing trance, and his aura is tranquil. I finally understand why my old teacher Favah was so frustrated by my dislike of meditation. It’s like Grandmum’s advice about the powder kit. There’s power in controlling what folk see when they look at you.

  I try to lose myself in my breath, clawing at memories of Favah’s teaching. I manage to inhale and exhale in the proper rhythm, but as always, I struggle to clear my mind. Even as my body relaxes, my thoughts continue to race.

  Something strange is happening to the magic around us. With their wards of sight, even the untrained eyes of my spear brothers can see it.

  In wardsight, raw magic radiating from the Core looks like a softly illuminated fog, colorless and drifting. When that formless power encounters the fangs of a ward, the fog is sucked into the symbol like a bellows, and the ward begins to glow in various colors, depending on how it shapes the magic.

  As we approach the Holy Undercity, the fog of ambient magic remains, formless and drifting, but the white light becomes peppered with gold, like flakes of dust in a sunbeam. They multiply and spread like tea in water, coalescing into clouds that grow so large they meld together until we ourselves are inside the cloud. Everything around us glows with golden light now.

  But it isn’t just the way the magic looks that shifts. I feel a growing sense of warmth and protection with every step forward and know instinctively that this place is anathema to demonkind. Corespawn could as easily walk into a sunbeam as approach the Holy Undercity.

  We round a bend in the tunnel and encounter the first gate. For a moment, the light is blinding. When my eyes adjust,
I see a wall of human bones—the source of the golden light—blazing like a bonfire in the tunnel.

  The wall is set with an archway built entirely of human skulls. Empty eye sockets gape at us as we approach a gate constructed with arm and leg bones for bars. A plaque above is formed by shoulder blades, its ancient inscription glittering like a shower of sparks against the flames as a log collapses in the fireplace.

  The plaque bears the spear and drum crest Baiters often paint in the center of their shields, and reads simply:

  FIRST TO GREET DEATH

  FIRST TO ENTER HEAVEN

  The gate is unlocked and unguarded. What would be the point? If a corespawn could reach this far, its power has already failed. Belina opens it as casually as a shutter.

  As I pass beneath the empty eye sockets of ancient heroes, I nevertheless feel watched. I see names cut into the bones, glowing in glory for all eternity.

  As we exit the gate the tunnel ends in a deep crevasse. A bridge made of glowing human bone spans the gap, casting light into the void below. The pit is so deep I cannot see the bottom. CAMEL UNIT, a shoulder blade plaque proclaims. OUR DEEDS BORE THE WEIGHT OF EMPIRE. The names and deeds of this famed dal’Sharum unit are recorded on more of the bone plaques as we cross.

  At the far end of the Camel Bridge is the massive cavern where the Holy City sits, blazing like gold in the sun and casting a forbidding that spans miles. Mother’s greatwards accomplish these same ends, but they are cold things, like Mother herself.

  This is sacred ground, and it is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

  “How is this possible?” I breathe.

  Belina spares me a glance. “This, child, is what happens to the bones of warriors whose souls enter Heaven.”

  * * *

  —

  I walk in stunned silence the rest of the way to the undertemple, struggling to process Belina’s words, even as the great temple doors close behind us.