The Desert Prince

by Peter V. Brett

  Chadan raises his spear to match us. “I will spend my life on alagai talons! But I will not spend it cheaply!”

  “Prince Chadan’s a miser!” I shout. “Should we help him haggle?”

  “Haggle!” the men clash their spears again. “Haggle! Haggle!” Then they roar with laughter, though they’ve surely heard that joke every night for two moons.

  Waning approaches, and the alagai are restless in the Maze. Even without a mind to guide them, they move with more intelligence than we’ve come to expect, avoiding traps and ignoring Baiters, leaving teams of Sharum hiding uselessly in ambush pockets while the alagai strike elsewhere.

  But even the clever demons are unprepared for the Princes Unit. Chadan fights with a new, aggressive confidence, wading into the thickest battles, all but invulnerable in his new armor as he hacks and impales any demon that comes within reach. Soon the alagai part around him in search of other prey.

  They find me, instead. I might not have new alagai-scale armor, but this past month has honed my strength and my skill to new sharpness. I feel more powerful than ever, even before my spear tastes ichor, sending an invigorating shock of magic up my arms.

  Like they did in the food line, the men compete for a taste of the demon magic, rushing to attack the alagai that slip around me, and to finish off demons Chadan and I leave injured in our wake, lest their preternatural healing put them back in the fight.

  Our brothers are all bigger and stronger than they were two months ago. Many in our unit should be summers away from full growth, but the magic has aged them beyond their years.

  We studied the phenomenon at Gatherers’ University—how feedback magic makes a body trend toward its physical prime. But it’s one thing to read about it, and another to feel it in my own body. I feel a sudden empathy for Ella Cutter, for the…lust she felt as she tore demons apart with her teeth.

  My brothers are ferocious, and word has spread of our exploits. Warriors respect us now, in and out of the Maze. Even units loyal to the Sharum Ka are forced to resentfully give us our due, for none can deny our glory is boundless.

  * * *

  —

  The men are singing as we return to the training grounds just before dawn, Chadan and I loudest of all. All of us are covered in demon ichor, and still pent with excess magic. Not a man lost—not so much as injured—in our unit. Tomorrow is Waning, and we will go to our families with pride.

  But Chadan’s family is already waiting. His father Maroch stands in our pavilion, pulling the two of us up short. The joy I felt a moment ago vanishes, crushed by sudden anxiety.

  “Father.” Chadan’s mirth has disappeared as well. He is cool as he dips into a bow. “I did not expect you.”

  “Indeed.” Maroch is a tall man, powerfully built, with a prominent forehead and thick brows leading into a blunt nose hanging over a beard just beginning to gray at the roots. He moves with grace for one so big, but that is to be expected in a sharusahk grandmaster. Maroch instructs Chadan personally, and to hear my prince tell it, he is not yet close to a match for his father.

  We stood our ground against the alagai not long before, but Chadan and I both shrink back as Dama Maroch comes to loom over us. “So it is true.” He flicks a finger against the sigil over Chadan’s heart. “You have turned your back on your own family, for,” his eyes flick to me with disgust, “your men.”

  “It was my idea,” I blurt. “I was the one—”

  “No.” Chadan holds up a hand and I trail off in surprise. “It was my decision, and I will not forsake it.”

  “You will,” Maroch growls. “The Damaji has summoned you.”

  Chadan does not argue, dropping his gaze and heading for the tent flap at a gesture from his father.

  Maroch turns to me. “You have been summoned as well, half-blood. The Damaji wishes you to see and hear the price of your insolence.”

  * * *

  —

  “Vain, stupid boy,” Aleveran growls from on high as Chadan kneels with his hands on the floor before the dais of the Skull Throne.

  It’s a closed court, just members of the royal family and their personal guards, along with Damaji’ting Chavis and her loyalists. Iraven is conspicuously absent, but Belina stands a step behind Chavis, her eyes inscrutable.

  I worry that standing next to Chadan on his knees will make matters worse, but I will not kneel before my kidnappers, even now. For the moment, no one comments on my continued defiance. All eyes are on Chadan.

  “The Spear of Majah has been our family seal for thousands of years,” Aleveran says. “And you replace it with this…perversion?”

  I can hear the grind of my own teeth at the words. I glance up at Aleveran, measuring the distance between us, and picture myself bounding up the seven steps to the top of the dais and putting out the Damaji’s teeth. Aleveran is a famed sharusahk grandmaster, but he is old…

  I force myself to breathe, long and even. Even I am not that stupid.

  “Grandfather, every unit has…” Chadan begins, but the Damaji smacks the throne, cutting him short.

  “Do not make excuses, boy. You are not here to plead your case, you are here to listen. Waning is almost upon us, and the Seers foretell a dark one. You should be focused on the Maze, not prideful preening as you flaunt your push’ting relationship with Prince Olive.”

  My nostrils flare as I draw another deep breath. Chadan glances at me, pleading with fearful eyes for me to keep silent. He’s right. Now is not the time. I chew my lips to keep them closed.

  “That relationship ends now,” Aleveran growls. “Stand.”

  Chadan gets to his feet, and Maroch tears the spear and olive from his chest, dropping it to the floor and stomping on it. Then he strips the alagai-scale suit from his son as Chadan stands there limply, face a mask of shame.

  Maroch carries the armor to the foot of his father’s throne, laying it at the base of the seven steps. “You will have your armor back tonight,” Aleveran says, “when the armorers have melted down your ridiculous emblem and permanently affixed a proper crest.”

  Anger flares hot in my breast and I ball a fist as Aleveran turns his attention to me. “Still insolent.” The Damaji raises a finger. “Belina.”

  Belina’s eyes betray her irritation, but she does not hesitate, producing the small replica of my arm cuff and squeezing.

  I bite my lip, but the pain is so intense it does little to stifle my scream as I collapse, clutching my arm.

  “Olive!” Chadan rushes toward me, but he is intercepted by a pair of guards.

  At least, they try to intercept him. Chadan catches the first by his wrist and the front of his robe, pivoting to turn the force of the warrior’s charge into a throw that sends him sailing through the air.

  Chadan does not pause, slipping under the reach of the second warrior and catching his arm. He seems only to tap the man’s elbow, but everyone in the room hears the sound of his arm breaking.

  Then he is holding me in his arms, pulling helplessly at the cuff. When he sees it is futile, he turns to his grandfather. “Stop this! Please!”

  Aleveran’s expression does not change, but he lowers his finger, and Belina releases the cuff. I gasp a breath, looking down to see the flesh of my throbbing arm turning an ugly purple around the armlet.

  “Have we not kept our bargain?” Aleveran asks. “Your sister is safe, and you have been given power and privilege beyond anything in your homeland. Yet still you seek to defy us.”

  Pain lances through my entire body, but I struggle to my feet. “How have I defied you, Damaji?” I ask as respectfully as I can manage. “By fighting in the Maze each night to defend your city? By wearing a variation of your own sigil, though you remain my goalers? By showing affection and loyalty to your grandson?”

  “You may dress as a man, son of Ahmann, but you have a woman’s wiles a
bout you still, and I will not see you corrupt my grandson with them.”

  He turns back to Chadan. “I’ve given you too much liberty, and too little responsibility. Effective immediately, you will move into the Majah Palace. There are barracks in the outer walls for your warriors, drillmasters, and…” he looks pointedly at me, “…subordinate kai.”

  Desert Spear is full of empty palaces, but to be given one entirely is a huge boon. In the eyes of the warriors and citizens, Prince Chadan has been paid a great honor for his glory.

  But I see it for what it is. A reminder to him, to the men—and to me, most of all—that Chadan is above us. That we are not his family, as he proclaimed last night. He will live alone in the palace with an army of servants and not a single confidant, while the rest of us reside in the walls like rodents.

  More, we will be under the Damaji’s eye, for doubtless the palace is already stocked with family staff loyal not to the prince, but to Aleveran. Every coming and going between the palace and the barracks will be noted and reported.

  My stomach ties itself in knots. Will Chadan and I ever be alone again? Am I losing him?

  The Damaji’s next words are answer enough. “I’ve arranged a suitable Jiwah Ka for you. You will be wed as soon as the arrangements can be made.”

  Chadan swallows. “Who?”

  His grandfather dismisses the question with a flick of his fingers. “It does not matter. She is suitable.”

  Chadan stares at the floor. “Yes, Grandfather.” I wish he’d press the question, though I do not know the point. No bride will please a push’ting. I think how I could as easily have been that bride, and I want to scream.

  * * *

  —

  A runner comes to whisper in the Damaji’s ear, and we are dismissed. I should be livid as we walk from the throne room, but I feel broken, perhaps even more than my last visit, when Iraven had to carry me from my whipping. The doors close behind us, and for a moment, walking down the hall, Chadan and I are alone. Perhaps for the last time.

  For his part, Chadan seems equally shattered. Usually his walk is a powerful stride toward a chosen location, but he seems to drift aimlessly.

  I know we may not be able to speak in confidence again for some time, but I find I have nothing to say to my prince, and looking at him causes only pain. I turn down the hall to the gardens.

  “Olive?” Even Chadan’s voice is weak. “Where are you going?”

  “To see my sister.” I don’t turn. I can’t bear to look at him for fear my resolve will break and I will start weeping here in the hall.

  “It was foolish of me to wear our symbol on my armor,” Chadan says. “Recheda warned me. You warned me. But I was so…”

  “It’s not your fault.” I turn at last. “I was glad you did.” Immediately, tears well in my eyes, and a tiny sob escapes my lips.

  If we were alone, he would have gone to me, taken me in his arms, soothed the tears away. But the guards outside the throne room can still see us, even if we are out of earshot. Chadan stands frozen, and though I know it would only make things worse, I cannot help but hate his cowardice. “It was always borrowed time, Olive.”

  I nod, and begin to turn away once more. Micha, at least, might still hold me, though I have treated her horribly.

  But before I can go, a commotion in the hall draws our attention. I look up to see a group of Arms of Everam hauling Selen Cutter and Darin Bales, hands bound, to the throne room.

  46

  PRINCE OLIVE

  Panic fills me, and I grab Chadan, pulling him into the side hall.

  “Olive, what is it?” I hear the question distantly, too occupied to reply. I don’t know why my friends are here, but I’m suddenly terrified they will see me like this—dressed like a man and standing among my kidnappers as if I were one of them.

  Peeking around the corner, I take a closer look. Selen and Darin look tired and dusty, but uninjured. What must they have gone through, to come this far? Were they kidnapped as I was, or—perhaps worse—did they follow me all this way?

  Their clothes are strange, a mix of Northern styles with a Krasian cut and Sharum flair. Darin looks downright fashionable, though the ensemble would be more at home in my father’s modern Krasia than the austere Majah of Desert Spear. I can see the armor plates in Selen’s fighting garb, and she looks ready to pick up a spear and join my brothers in the Maze.

  So stunned by the appearance of Selen and Darin, I almost miss the other captives. A large and thickly muscled man in Sharum blacks walks with his head down, purple bruises forming on a face pale even for a half-blood. Red hair is not unknown among the Majah, but nothing close to the orange flames of this warrior’s curls.

  His Sharum escort gives him a shove, and I see the man’s eye is swelling behind his veil. My eyes flick to the other guards, and see several with bruises. It seems the warrior gave as good as he was given.

  At the front of the group walks a beautiful young woman in clerical white. Her hair is wrapped, but she does not wear the veil. A nie’dama’ting. Unlike the others, even the Arms of Everam are reluctant to put hands on her, and her hands remain unbound. She glides across the floor with her head held high, as if she were in charge, and not being escorted alongside companions in chains.

  I tug my turban low as they draw even with the hall, fluffing the loose white veil around my neck so that my chin and lower lip fall into it. I look like a common kai, but Darin has other senses. Can he smell me?

  Perhaps not. I’ve always worn perfume around him, and even my sweat smells different after months of Krasian spices.

  “Greenlanders?” Chadan casts a questioning glance my way as he moves beside me to look. “Do you know them?”

  Darin turns his head and I duck out of sight, holding up a closed fist. Chadan falls quiet at the sign, a common signal for silence when tracking alagai in the Maze.

  The guards usher them into the throne room without delay. I wait until my friends are inside, then move quickly to join the cluster of guards following them in.

  “What are you doing?” Chadan hisses, grabbing my arm. “We were not summoned.”

  I twist, thrusting two stiffened fingers at the pressure point in his arm that will force open his grip, but as always, Chadan is too fast, blocking the blow. I settle for brute strength instead, tearing my arm free.

  “What’s gotten into you?” He hurries after me, but keeps his hands to himself.

  I turn to look at him at last. “I am getting into that council, so either come with me or stand frozen while someone else makes decisions. It’s what you’re best at.”

  Chadan stares at me like I am a stranger, and perhaps I am. Our problems seem so petty with my friends in danger. Aleveran may have broken me, but I will burn this palace down if he tries to hurt my friends.

  * * *

  —

  We slip in unnoticed, all eyes are on the prisoners standing before the throne. The full court has hastily assembled, the council of dama and dama’ting alike, along with Iraven in his white turban. Belina glances up, catching sight of me, but her gaze does not linger. She says nothing as we blend in with the other warriors, shouldering our way forward in the kai way, daring the lesser Sharum to stop us. It’s terribly rude, but effective.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Damaji Aleveran glares down at my friends, imposing from atop the seven steps.

  The kai leading the guards prostrates himself before the throne. “These greenblood spies tried to infiltrate the city, Damaji.”

  Selen rolls her eyes. “Sneaky as Watchers, walking right up to the gate like that.” Her Krasian is fluent, but after months of immersion, her accent is thick to my ears, her diction slow.

  The guard holding her kicks Selen behind the knees, dropping her to the hard stone floor much as they did me, those months ago. Instinctively, I reach over my shoulde
r for my spear, but I am not allowed arms in the Damaji’s presence.

  I take a step forward, and Chadan catches my arm again, this time pinching tight. “Do not be a fool!” His whisper is harsh.

  He’s right. I know it. But I feel the blood pumping behind my eyes, making my vision narrow like it does when I pick targets in the Maze. I need the pinch of his strong fingers to keep me from doing something that might get my friends killed.

  The kai yanks the scarf from Selen’s head, revealing her long hair and feminine features. “A woman, Damaji. She carried a warrior’s spear and shield.”

  Aleveran sneers. “Even with their lands at peace, our Northern brethren continue their perversion of the Evejah’s proscriptions for women.”

  “That is not all,” the kai says as one of the prisoners I don’t recognize is hauled forward. He is so big that even with a guard holding each arm, they struggle to restrain him. It takes a third to force him to his knees. “This one wears Sharum black, though his pale skin and flaming hair scream his chin blood.” He puts his spear under the giant’s chin, lifting to display an innocent, freckled face that does not seem to belong atop such a powerful physique. He looks younger than me. For all his size, he is like my spear brothers—a boy who should still be in sharaj, thrust into the role of a man.

  “Who are you, to masquerade in the black of true men?” the Damaji demands.

  The young man forces his chin down to meet the Damaji’s eye. “I am Arick asu Rojer am’Inn am’Kaji.”

  Murmurs flow through the court. Even the Majah have heard of Rojer Halfgrip, the famed fiddle wizard who ensorcelled countless demons with his music. His portrait hangs in Mother’s keep, and more than once, I’ve found Mother weeping there. He was like a brother to her, and his son…

  Cousin Arick? He was an infant the one time we met, but I’ve corresponded for years with his sister…My eyes flick to the young nie’dama’ting, and a heavy dread settles into the pit of my stomach.