The Desert Prince

by Peter V. Brett

  I feel a rush of blood color my cheeks, and turn away a bit too quickly. Selen’s eyes flick to the screen, then back to me, and she scowls.

  Rojvah emerges in an emerald-green dress with a lace bodice and ruffled straps. Her flowing skirts flare to show off her calves as she spins. “What do you think?”

  Selen catches me staring and I can smell her irritation. “Ruffles are a bit last season.”

  Rojvah deflates at the words, and Selen’s scent changes from annoyance to satisfaction.

  “It’s not as if anyone other than you will ever see me in it,” Rojvah laments. “Women are beginning to wear color throughout Everam’s Bounty, and I’m forever trapped in white.”

  She gives a sad shake of her head. “You boys bemoan the weight of your fathers, but the burden is no less for women. Mother is Damaji’ting of the Kaji and I am her only daughter. I was destined for the white before I was even born.”

  Selen looks a little abashed. “Seen paintings of your grandmother wearing colors. Won’t you be Damajah one day?”

  Rojvah laughs, a sound like a tinkling fountain. “There is only one Damajah. It is not a title that can be passed. It will die with my grandmother, until the dice call another. The last was three thousand years ago, and it may be so again.” She shrugs. “I do not covet the Pillow Throne in any event.”

  “Be glad of that, cousin,” a voice says from the door. “The throne has a weight greater than fathers and mothers combined.”

  We turn to see Crown Prince Kaji, the Deliverer’s eldest grandson, and first in line for the Skull Throne of New Krasia. A year older than me, Kaji is tall, slender, and graceful, like some majestic bird. Already he wears the white robe and jeweled turban of a full dama, but at his belt are warded silver knuckles and an alagai tail, the signs of a warrior-priest.

  Selen straightens at the sight of him.

  “Selen vah Gared, meet Dama Kaji.” I lean close to her, but do not drop my voice. “Kaji is King-of-Everything-in-training.”

  “Ah, got it,” Selen says, as Rojvah puts a hand to her mouth to cover a smile.

  Kaji is composed as always as he comes forward. I’ve never been able to read his scent, so I can’t tell if my casual introduction annoys him. He is unflappable.

  But that doesn’t mean I stop trying. Too many people bow and scrape to Kaji, day and night. Ent good for him. I’m one of the few who can get away with giving him a poke now and again.

  “We’ve met before, daughter of Gared,” Kaji says with a formal bow. “You were still in your mother’s arms, but I remember.” He looks around. “This is the first time in fifteen years we’ve all been together. If Olive were here, the reunion would be complete.”

  The words are spoken casually, but I feel his eyes on us, searching for information the mention of Olive might shake free.

  Selen doesn’t take the bait, spreading her skirts in a perfect, if out-of-character, curtsy. “Good to see you again, Prince Kaji.”

  “I’ve come from Grandfather,” Kaji says when nothing else is forthcoming. “Shar’Dama Ka is preparing and will see you as soon as he is able.”

  “Preparing means his wife won’t let him say hello until she casts her dice on it,” I tell Selen.

  “Of course,” Rojvah agrees, still admiring herself in a mirror. “You show up out of nowhere looking like a beggar and traveling alone with the daughter of Hollow’s greatest general? Of course Tikka won’t let him see you without a casting.”

  “Sounds like she’s the King of Everything, then,” Selen observes, and everyone, even Kaji, has a laugh at that.

  “So why are you here?” Rojvah asks. “It must be quite the tale. Did your parents not approve the match?”

  “Ay, what?” It takes me a moment to realize what she’s asking. Then suddenly my face flushes hot. “Night, you think we’re here to elope?!”

  “Pfagh!” Disgust fills Selen’s scent and expression. More than necessary, you ask me. “Be like marrying my brother!”

  The words wrap around me, like a curtain blocking out the light. But they are…freeing, too. Now that I know what I am to her, I understand what she must be to me. For once, I don’t have to guess, to overthink every word and scent.

  “I meant no offense,” Rojvah says. “It seemed a logical assumption. You both coming of age, after all, and why else would you arrive alone?”

  This is the real reason they have stayed with us. I spent more than a few winters here, but Kaji spent most of his time with his tutors, Rojvah was bossy, and Arick was always looking for a fight. I was never as close to my Krasian cousins as I was to Selen and Olive.

  Anything they learn will go straight to Jardir and Inevera to help them prepare for our audience. Normally, that would be fine, but with Leesha and Olive both missing, Hollow is vulnerable. It isn’t something I want getting around. “I’m here to tell it to Bloodfather, and none other.”

  “Nonsense, cousin,” Arick says. “You are family. Your enemies are our enemies.”

  “My brother is a little too eager to have his first enemy,” Rojvah says. “But he isn’t wrong, cousin.”

  I’m a little ashamed when I realize they mean the words. There is no lie in their scents. “Thanks.” I shuffle, unable to meet their eyes. “But I ent sure myself who my enemies are, and some of the secrets I’m keeping ent mine. I’ve a right to seek my bloodfather’s advice before any other.”

  “Of course, cousin.” Kaji bows, already turning to go. “I will inform Grandfather. An escort will take you to him at nightfall.”

  35

  BLOODFATHER

  Once they realize they’re not getting anything from us, Kaji leaves to report back to my bloodfather while the twins push me into the bath.

  The water is hot, and I shiver with pleasure as I step in, letting it envelop me. Ent normally a person who likes to be squeezed, but there is something…uniform about the way a tub of hot water holds you, like a warm hug from someone you love. I breathe deeply as I lean back, inviting it to soak in.

  No sooner do I close my eyes than I hear Rojvah reach around the privacy screen to steal my clothes.

  Annoying, but it ent surprising. The once-fine breeches, shirt, and coat Aunt Leesha’s tailors made for me are torn, worn, and filthy. Court folk always do this. Olive and Selen were no better. Seeing you in worn clothes makes royals itch in all their silk and frippery, especially when you’ve got a famous da.

  “Where you goin’ with those?” I call, already knowing the answer.

  “They smell like a dead animal,” Rojvah says. “I’ll give them to the servants to wash.” There’s a click of the door, and I can smell the serving woman waiting outside.

  “The cloaks are to be treated as holy raiment,” Rojvah whispers. “Burn the rest.”

  “Your will,” the woman replies, and I hear the door click closed again.

  “I can hear you,” I say loudly.

  Again, that musical laugh. “I’ve seen the cleaning women work miracles, cousin, but they are not the Creator Himself. No amount of scrubbing will make those rags worthy to clean your feet, Darin asu Par’chin. You and Princess Selen should be clad in the raiments of royalty, not beggar’s robes.”

  No doubt she searched the clothes on the way, but there’s nothing to find. I love the twins like cousins, but ent such a fool that I trust them. I put everything of value, including Mam’s knife, in the satchel with my pipes before undressing, and that rests beside me on the edge of the tub.

  Rojvah steps away into the wardrobe chamber, and I hear the whisking hiss of silk sliding against silk.

  I’ve worked up a lather a few moments later when she returns, coming around the screen, bold as a hound. She laughs her tinkling laugh as I splash and scramble to cover myself. “You needn’t be ashamed, cousin. I have a brother, after all.”

  “Ay, that’s enoug
h of that,” Selen comes around the screen as well, but she keeps her back to me, blocking Rojvah’s line of sight. She smells protective.

  “Fine,” Rojvah huffs, averting her gaze as she holds out a neatly folded pile of clothes.

  Most able-bodied Krasian men are Sharum caste, and wear black robes. Some few are dama, and wear white. The weaklings, khaffit, wear tan like children.

  I have not had Hannu Pash, the Krasian coming-of-age trial that determines caste. In the eyes of people of the Evejan faith, I am still a child. By custom, I should be dressed in tan robes, if of fine quality.

  But the rules are different for the children of Krasia’s rulers. Princes and princesses before the trial wear colors so bright they hurt my eyes.

  Rojvah holds out a pumpkin-orange silk robe with white wardwork stitched along the breast, hem, and sleeves. Bright blue silk pants with legs wide enough to fit my entire body into, tapering down to narrow cuffs. Thin orange silk slippers with pointed toes. If clothes could shout, these would be screaming.

  “I’m not wearing that,” I say.

  “Do not complain to me,” Rojvah says. “They are Arick’s robes.”

  “From when I was twelve,” Arick notes.

  “Well he certainly won’t fit what you’re wearing now,” Rojvah says, as if Arick’s bright motley robes would be preferable.

  “I’m not wearing that,” I say again.

  “I don’t blame you,” Arick agrees. “Better a bido than a woman’s pillow silks.”

  “Ent walking around in just a nappy, either,” I growl. “Get me something else, or tell my bloodfather I cannot meet him because you had the servants burn my clothes.”

  Rojvah half turns her head my way, a smile pulling at her lips. “You’re welcome to go through Arick’s wardrobe yourself, Darin asu Arlen, but I assure you all his clothes are like this.”

  “Welcome to my personal abyss,” Arick says.

  “Let’s see.” Selen bulls Rojvah back around the screen, and I hear them in the wardrobe rummaging about. They don’t speak. Both of them know I can hear anything they say.

  “Still ent gonna like it,” Selen says when they return, “but at least you’ll be all one color instead of looking like a rainbow’s sick-up.”

  * * *

  —

  “Why didn’t you tell them why we’ve come?” Selen asks that evening, when Arick and Rojvah finally take their leave. “Thought you said the twins were family.”

  “You tell all your secrets to your brothers?” I ask.

  Selen scratches her neck. “Ay, fair point.”

  “Arick and Rojvah are family,” I say, “but they’re not going to lie to their grandparents. Anything we told them has already been passed on to Jardir and Inevera. Even now, there are servants in the walls, listening in.”

  Selen sits up. “Ay, really?”

  I raise my voice. “THEY ENT AS QUIET AS THEY THINK.” I hear some fumbling in the walls at that, and chuckle to myself.

  Selen moves from her chair to the divan where I sit, scooching me to the side with her hips to sit next to me and lean close to whisper. “Still, doesn’t answer the question. Ent we here to ask for help?”

  “Ay,” I tell her, “and when I see my bloodfather, we’ll tell him everything. Hollow and Krasia might have peace, but they ent exactly friends and this ent some show for palace gossip. Less people know what happened, the better.”

  I hear the sound of crutches in the hall and cross the room, opening the door before the man on the other side has a chance to knock. He’s a familiar sight, a man in brightly colored robes and turban. Just visible at the hems is a bit of silk underclothing in khaffit tan. He is adorned with rings and necklaces and earrings. Gold glitters in his mouth where some teeth are missing. Even standing still, he needs the support of two crutches, carved in the shape of camelbacks, with armpit cushions between the humps.

  “Son of Arlen, welcome to Krasia!” the man calls.

  “Abban!” I’m genuinely happy to see my father’s old friend. Abban may call me son of Arlen, but he’s the only one of Da’s friends who sees me for who I am, instead of looking for something of Da in me. Every time Mam and I visited over the years, Abban would greet me with gifts and stories of my father—not as the Deliverer, but before all that, when he was just a young, reckless Messenger.

  I love Abban, but he’s Bloodfather’s spy, too. Perhaps him most of all.

  “By Everam, it is good to see you, son of Arlen.” Abban bows as deep as his crutches will allow. “I trust you and your family are well?”

  “Funny you should ask that,” I say, changing the topic before he can probe further. “It seems a certain Krasian merchant owes us a horse.”

  Abban is surprisingly graceful on his crutches as he takes a step back and puts a hand on his heart. “Surely you cannot mean to suggest that merchant is me? I have ever been your father’s true friend and never cheated him or left my debts unpaid.”

  “Never succeeded in cheating him, you mean,” I say.

  Abban spreads his hands, smiling. “All is fair at the haggling table, my friend. Your father always understood that.”

  I nod. “But it seems he left a horse in your keeping the night he was cast out of Krasia and left to die on the sands.”

  “I had nothing to do with that,” Abban says. “But yes, he left his courser, Nighteye, in my keeping. When the Par’chin did not return, we thought him dead, and with no one to claim the animal, it became mine by right of possession.”

  “But he wasn’t dead,” I say.

  “It was years before I learned that,” Abban notes.

  I shrug. “Horses live a long time.”

  “I don’t have it anymore,” Abban says.

  “I’ll accept a replacement,” I say. “And not some pack animal. A sturdy Messenger horse.”

  I can smell the mix of emotions at war in the man. He wants to haggle. Relishes the idea, in fact. But there is guilt in his scent as well. He knows I’m right, and that it is the least he can do.

  At last, Abban holds up his hands. “Who am I, to argue with the son of the Par’chin? The debt will be repaid before you leave.”

  Selen crosses the room, and Abban bows again. “Everam’s blessings upon you, Your Royal Highness, Selen vah Gared am’Cutter am’Hollow. I know your father well, and always judged him a fair and honorable man. If there is anything that can be done to make your first visit to Krasia more comfortable, Princess, do not hesitate to ask.”

  Abban escorts us from our chambers to court, talking all the while. He moves easily on his crutches, keeping something close to what most folks would think a comfortable pace. To me it feels like we’re wading through molasses, but I keep my manners and match him. The khaffit merchant keeps his chatter amiable, but again and again his probing questions come uncomfortably close to topics I want to discuss with him least of all.

  * * *

  —

  White-sleeved guards open the doors to a throne room empty save for my bloodfather, Ahmann Jardir the Shar’Dama Ka, and his First Wife, Damajah Inevera. They bar Abban from entering, closing the doors behind Selen and me.

  I hate the throne room. I have to blink and squint, lifting a hand to blot out the worst of it as I try to adjust.

  Shining gold, sparkling jewels, vivid silk tapestries, mosaics of semi-precious stone, and windows of stained glass make it like looking in a kaleidoscope even without wardsight. Add in the magic, and it’s like standing in the center of a festival flamework display. It’s more than I can process, hurting my eyes and making me feel sick and dizzy.

  The Skull Throne stands atop a dais of seven steps, a seat built from the heads of Krasia’s ancient leaders, topped with the severed head of a mind demon. The bones are coated in priceless, magic-conductive electrum. The seat throbs with power, mixing faith protections
with raw Core magic. Anyone sitting on it would radiate strength like a god. Across its arms lies the Spear of Kaji, the strongest weapon ever made. It throbs with power like something alive.

  Next to it on the top of the dais is the Pillow Throne, a canopied bed of silk cushions that shines with almost as much magic as the Skull Throne itself.

  There are other magics about the room; wardwork that seems decorative provides powerful protections, as do the ever-present heroes’ bones. Wards of silence surround us, much as in Aunt Leesha’s office.

  But none of the room’s raw power matches what radiates from the couple who wait for us at the base of the steps. Ahmann Jardir doesn’t dress fancy. Just simple warrior blacks beneath an outer robe and turban of stark white. He’s tall as a Cutter, thick with muscle, but no Cutter keeps their beard so impeccably trimmed and oiled.

  My bloodfather has close to sixty summers, but like many who use magic, he remains physically in his prime. I wonder if that’s my fate, too—still looking like I have thirty summers on my hundredth born day.

  But while his clothes are plain, the crown atop my bloodfather’s head is not. Seven points of shining electrum rise from his turban, each affixed with a different gemstone the size of a chestnut. The gems catch the lamplight, splitting it into a full spectrum of color, even as the crown’s magic does the same in wardsight.

  Like my mam’s, Bloodfather’s skin is warded. Hers are inked into her flesh, but his are raised scars, painstakingly cut. They pump magic through him like a pulse.

  Beside him is Inevera, his Jiwah Ka or First Wife. The Damajah can steal the breath from anyone, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Her purple headwrap and veil are transparent, showing every twist of her full lips and delicate nose. Her long black hair is oiled and bound in gold, and her gossamer purple robes are just opaque enough for decency in layers. They flow around her like smoke, leading the eye to search fruitlessly for gaps in coverage that always seem just a slight draft away. She is older than my bloodfather, but ageless like him.