The Desert Prince

by Peter V. Brett

  Micha pulls off the anklets, dropping them to the ground with a clatter as she stalks in. “You can cast no spells here in the sunlight, Dama’ting.”

  Belina frowns, taking a fighting stance. “I do not need them, insolent girl. No doubt you impress the Kaji Sharum, but you are no match for the Majah sharusahk. And even in sunlight, I can draw strength from my hora.”

  I know she’s right. Any hora jewelry next to her skin can be drawn upon to make her as strong as I am, as fast as Darin.

  Micha knows this, but it does not slow her approach. “It won’t help you.”

  When they come together, I see Belina was not lying. Her limbs are a blur as she attacks and defends, but once Micha attacks, she does not let up. Each move flows into the next, and for a few moments they appear to be at an impasse. But Micha is learning her foe, adapting. Soon she begins to pick apart Belina’s defenses, striking convergences that make the dama’ting grunt with pain even as her limbs buckle and lose strength.

  Belina recovers quickly, no doubt Drawing on the power of her hora, but that power is finite in the sunlight. I see worry begin to work its way through the dama’ting serenity of her expression, and then fear. No doubt she is wondering how long she can keep this up.

  Not long enough, it seems. When their circling puts her back to the opening in the hedge maze, she whips out her hanzhar, and blood arcs into the air. Micha skitters back in surprise, clutching a bloody forearm. Before she can recover, Belina turns and flees.

  “Do not let her escape!” Micha cries.

  Selen and I lunge for Belina, but she’s using the last of her stored magic, moving in a blur of white silk too fast to follow. Before we can close the distance, the hedges close behind her. I glance at the hedge maze, but even if I knew it well, I doubt we’d be able to catch her before she can reach a safe space with guards to defend her.

  “What do we do now?” I ask.

  Micha’s eyes are hard as she binds the cut on her arm. “What she wants…for now.” She leads us down a series of twisting paths through the hedge maze. Twice we squeeze through all-but-invisible gaps in the hedges until we come to a statue that abuts the harem wall. Micha twists a ward on its base and slides open a hidden door. “Quickly. We need to get to the mirror of heroes.”

  I hurry through, coming out into a quiet hall that seems seldom used. I see why, as it dead-ends at a mirror framed in human skulls that will peer back at any who dare stop to admire their reflection. It’s a perfect place for a hidden passage. Even in Sharik Hora, few would have the courage to submit themselves to the judgment of the spirits of heroes past.

  But it seems Chadan is one of them. My prince stands in front of the mirror of heroes as if seeking history’s judgment. My heart aches at the sight of him.

  * * *

  —

  Chadan turns with a start when he realizes he is no longer alone. He takes in the sight of four women in colored silk, and rushes our way.

  “Are you women all right?” There is genuine concern in his voice. I can tell he doesn’t recognize me in pillow silks, and why should he? “What are you doing outside the harem? Has something happened?”

  Another man might avert his gaze when encountering four women out of their blacks, but Chadan is not interested in women, and barely gives our clothes and bodies a glance. He focuses instead on our eyes, and when his meet mine, I freeze as they widen in recognition.

  Now he looks at my body. His eyes narrow as he inspects me up and down, then seizes my arms in their gauzy silk sleeves. “Olive?!”

  I sense Micha take a step forward. She attacked Belina without warning, but I cannot allow that here. I switch to the silent hand language she had begun teaching me and Selen, making a quick gesture. Hold.

  Chadan throws his arms around me, hugging me close. “I’ve been so worried. Drillmaster Chikga has been murdered, and there were signs of struggle in your room. We’ve had people looking everywhere.”

  He steps back, eyes running over me once more. “I see it now. It’s a wonder I never did before. When I heard you’d gone to the Jiwah’Sharum, I thought it was to punish me after our argument, but it wasn’t, was it? You went to steal clothes to sneak into the great harem.”

  “I had to see my family,” I say. “I had to make sure they were all right.”

  “Of course,” Chadan agrees. “But they are safer inside.”

  I shake my head. “Nowhere is safe. Chikga is dead because your grandfather sent him to kill me.”

  “Impossible,” Chadan says. “What does Grandfather gain by killing you when you have sworn yourself to him? Chikga is Iraven’s creature.”

  “Nie’Damaji’ting Belina says otherwise,” I say.

  “Of course.” Chadan sounds ready to spit. “The witch would say anything to protect her son. But it makes no sense. If Grandfather wanted you dead, he would simply have you arrested.”

  “Unless he thought you would resent him for it,” I say. “Easier to use an assassin and keep his own hands clean.”

  “Ware your words.” Chadan’s voice hardens. “You speak of my grandfather Damaji Aleveran, direct descendant of Majah, himself, who freed us from bondage to your traitorous brother Asome and restored Desert Spear to glory. He is not some dishonorable dog, striking quietly in the night.”

  I cross my arms. “Except when he sends Watchers to kidnap a girl with barely fifteen summers from her home while his emissaries are under truce. Forgive me if I do not trust your grandfather’s honor.”

  Chadan has no retort, his face taking on the practiced calm façade I know so well. There are times when I can see past it, but not now.

  “Put your blacks back on,” Chadan says at last. “We’ll go before the Skull Throne with your story. I’m sure—”

  “Are you?” I cut in. “Are you sure? My life is one thing, but this is my family. What would you do, to protect your family?”

  “Anything,” Chadan says, and I sense the double edge of the word.

  “I thought I was family, too,” I say. “Your ajin’pal. Your—”

  “I want you to be,” Chadan says. “But I won’t defy the throne. Now put your blacks on so you can stand with dignity while we get to the bottom of this.”

  The words are the slap I need, a reminder that even my lover is not without prejudice.

  I laugh, spreading my arms and giving my hips a shake to rattle the coins around my waist. “What do I care if the Damaji’s court sees me like this? It’s closer to the real me than the beaten, head-shaved boy you met in sharaj.”

  I take a step back. “But it doesn’t matter, because we’re not going before the Skull Throne. We’re leaving.”

  Chadan takes a step forward, mirroring me. “I won’t let you.”

  I glance at Micha. “Take the others and go. I’ll be along in a moment.”

  “Let me…” Micha falls silent as I raise a hand.

  “Just go, sister.”

  Chadan puts a hand out as the others move around him to head for the mirror, but the corridor is too wide for him to block completely. “Do not.”

  I step into his path. “Go.” This time I put the weight of command on the word, and the others obey, moving around my back to head down the hall.

  “Olive, you don’t have to do this.” There is real emotion in Chadan’s voice at last. “Please. Do not make me stop you.”

  There is a tiny crack in his voice, and it almost breaks me. I don’t want this any more than he does, but still I set my feet in a sharusahk stance, even as my ajin’pal does the same. “I am not a terrified girl, whipped within an inch of her life and thrown into your place of power this time, brother.”

  “What are you, then?” Chadan’s voice has gone flat. “My spear brother? Or a pillow dancer, sneaking out of the harem with something that doesn’t belong to her?”

  I straighten m
y back at the cold words. They cut, but at the same time, they make what must come next easier. “I am both, my prince. I thought you, of all people, might understand that. Picking one or the other is a false choice, and my friends and I don’t belong to anyone.”

  “I…” His expression softens as the words sink in. He cares for me still, and I see in his eyes that in a different life, given time and room and liberty, we might have found happiness together.

  But we have none of those things in this life. Chadan still thinks he can somehow reason with me, but I know my prince well enough to understand he won’t just let me go.

  I throw a quick punch in his moment of hesitation. If Chadan is surprised, it does not show. His speed is almost supernatural as he reorients in time to bat it aside. He grabs my wrist, using my own force to yank me hard toward an elbow he puts in line with my throat.

  I put up my other arm to block the elbow, and Chadan grabs that arm as well. But this time, he has no force to turn against me, and with two points of contact, I am able to set my feet and lift him clear off the ground, driving him into the harem wall with all of my strength.

  His helmet clangs against the stone, and a ripple runs over his alagai scales as the armor distributes some of the impact. Still, he is momentarily stunned. With the wall at his back to keep him from skittering away, I land heavy punches, ignoring the pain as the sharp scales lacerate my fists. The loose pants of my pillow silks prove ideal for kicks, and I throw a knee between his legs, doubling him over.

  It hurts me to do it, but the pain buys the necessary time as Micha pulls back the mirror to reveal a hidden passage and my friends escape.

  Every blow pains me, a betrayal of everything Chadan and I shared. But I can’t let up. If I give him even a moment to recover, he’s as likely as not to put me on the ground and organize pursuit before Micha and the others get far.

  I grab one of his arms and the front of his robes, twisting into a throw that will send my prince tumbling down the hall, giving me time to follow the others through the passage. I hope there’s a way to lock it from the inside, if only long enough for us to slip away.

  But Chadan anticipates the throw. Perhaps he even invited it. He quicksteps around me, keeping his feet as I heave, and uses my own strength against me for a throw of his own. It’s my turn to have my breath blown out as I slam into a wall, cracking the bones of heroes arranged in a sand ward.

  Chadan gasps in horror at the sacrilege, and I take advantage of the distraction to rush back at him with rapid kicks and punches, throwing elbows and knees, searching for an opening to exploit.

  But Prince Chadan leaves no openings. I fight with the sharukin we were taught in sharaj, punches and kicks that combine timing and physics with explosive aggression meant to quickly kill or disable a foe. But Chadan was trained by dama, famously secretive about their sharukin, and it shows in his style.

  He stands rooted in space, as if some sixth sense is telling him what I will do before I do it. Subtle twists of his back and hips barely slip the path of my blows as he snatches at the limbs to turn their force against me.

  I throw a punch and an open hand meets it, sliding the blow aside as his arm seems to coil bonelessly up mine. I try to rotate in the opposite direction, but he is too fast. When he reaches the desired hold, Chadan stiffens his arm, violently locking the joints of my wrist, elbow, and shoulder.

  He pulls me in, and I have no choice but to allow it, lest he break one of the locked joints. Chadan pivots, spine cracking like a whip as he brings his other arm down in a chop to my neck that will leave me stunned. I twist and curl my free arm in its path, catching the blow on the meat of my arm.

  The moment his hand retracts, I follow it home with a quick jab at his unprotected face. He avoids the blow, but relinquishes his hold to do so. I step back to create a bit of space, resisting the urge to massage my sore arm.

  I come back at him, and Chadan lets me do the work, not bothering to punch or kick in return. Instead he grabs at my punches, trying to lock my wrist and turn them into throws or submission holds. His own wrists are incredibly strong, but I keep a constant motion, flexing my even greater muscles to keep him from getting sufficient leverage. At last, I guide him into position for a powerful spinning kick to the head that I think will end the fight.

  If it connected. Again, Chadan is ready for the move, catching the foot and throwing his upper body back as his leg comes up, as quick and dexterous as his arm. He snakes his foot around my knee and into the joint of my hip, then whips himself into a spinning leap. My hip screams and I desperately throw myself in the direction he wants me to go. I hit the floor hard, but it’s preferable to a dislocated leg.

  My hope for a quick victory fades as I get to my feet, but I can still win this. Chadan is weighed down by armor, and has no night strength to sustain him. I’m stronger, and won’t tire as quickly as he will. The twists and throws he’s managed are already distant aches, muffled by adrenaline and focus. They come with no loss of strength.

  I begin giving ground, keeping my guard in close and offering no free energy for him to use against me.

  I can sense Chadan’s frustration. His fighting is best when he can calmly channel the aggression of his foes against them. Still, he adapts, keeping on the move, trying to box me into the dead end of the hall while offering little free energy of his own. Always rooted. Balanced.

  I back slowly toward the mirror, but it is closed now. The empty eye sockets of ancient heroes bear witness to our fight, but I don’t fear their judgment. I’m more afraid that, even if I defeat Chadan, I won’t know how to open the passageway.

  I push the thought away. That is the victor’s worry, and there is no guarantee it will be me. We’re in a secluded hall, but sooner or later the sounds of our struggle will draw attention.

  So I fight, throwing kicks and punches to keep him moving, but falling short of giving him force he can redirect. It becomes a waiting game, but slowly it starts to tell. A hiss in his breath. A weakness in his blocks. A slight dip in his guard. Even alagai-scale armor is heavy, as are the thick robes used to keep the steel scales from his skin. The day is hot, and thick Sharum black doesn’t breathe like pillow silks.

  I move in as if to throw the same probing left punch I’ve delivered a hundred times, but this time I stop midway and deliver a shallow push-kick instead. Chadan is already moving to block the punch, and reacts too slowly to the kick. The ball of my slippered foot makes solid contact with his thigh just above the knee, forcing the joint to hyperextend.

  Chadan cries out in pain and stumbles as I drop low and spin a full circuit, sweeping his other leg.

  Somehow he regains a measure of control in the fall, writhing like a snake as he whips himself around to grapple.

  I’m ready, and block his attempts to establish a hold that will grant him leverage against my greater strength. We hit the ground with a jolt, and both of us try to turn the rebound against the other, canceling the energy.

  We roll around on the floor, grunting and straining, but muscle-to-muscle, Chadan is no match for me. His bones creak under the grip of my powerful fingers as I force my way into a submission hold. For the first time during the fight, I see fear in his eyes as he realizes he cannot stop me.

  For some reason, that look hurts most of all. This is a lesson Chadan needed to learn, but I hate being the one to teach it.

  Slowly, carefully, I cross the ends of his collar and pull, cutting off the flow of blood to his brain. Chadan kicks and thrashes, but my legs are wrapped around his from behind, preventing him from reaching me or rising to his feet. He throws punches over his shoulder to rain upon my unprotected head, but they are awkward and lack the force to dislodge me as I slowly increase the pressure.

  “W-will you kill me,” Chadan gasps as his face reddens and swells, “like you did Chikga?”

  The question falls as heavily
as any blow, and for an instant, my grip loses strength. The opportunity is all Chadan needs to break the hold, pulling in a choked breath as he scrambles away. I can tell from the clumsy, frenetic way he moves that this is the last of his strength, a desperate attempt to create space between us while he gasps and coughs and attempts to recover.

  I don’t give him the chance, grabbing his ankle and pulling hard. He catches himself with his arms before hitting his face on the floor, but it leaves a gap at the back of his helmet and no way to block as I punch him solidly in the head. Chadan goes down hard, the floor striking a second blow against his forehead as his helm clangs against the stone. Still, his shaking hands move to push him up.

  I grab one arm, twisting it behind him into a submission hold as I pull the scarf from my shoulders. I catch his wrist in a twist of the silk, using it to keep control as I loop the scarf around his opposite elbow and yank his arms together, binding them with another twist. Able to control both of his arms with the silk in one fist, I capture his legs in turn until I’ve bound all four limbs together. Chadan groans, dazed and breathless, but he doesn’t have the strength to stop me.

  “I’m sorry, brother.” Tears threaten to blur my vision as I pull off my veil, twisting it into a gag. “Chikga attacked me in my quarters. If I had not killed him, he surely would have killed me. You would have done the same.”

  “Then why did you run,” Chadan gasps. “Why didn’t you come to me?”

  “Because you put your family first,” I tell him. “And so must I.”

  “Your brothers are your family, too,” Chadan says. “Will you abandon us tonight, when Waning comes?”

  The words cut deep, because I know he’s right. The demons are hunting me and Darin. Last moon they did nothing, as if they sensed his approach. Now, with both of us in the city, the alagai will strike, killing Everam only knows how many, while Darin and I hide in the catacombs.

  But that is only part of the story.

  “Majah abandoned me, first,” I say. “Never once has your grandfather dealt with me in good faith, and you’ve done nothing to stop it.”