The Desert Prince

by Peter V. Brett

  The words give Iraven pause, and it is a long time before he speaks. “I don’t know.”

  “Not good enough!” My hanzhar is back on my belt, and I grip it now, hand shaking with rage. “You ruined her life! Our lives! All this blood and pain, and for what?”

  Iraven nods. “You said once I owed you a blood debt, little brother, and so I do. But Everam is listening, and I cannot say before Him that Alagai Ka took me last moon, or if the Father of Lies planted seeds of evil in my mind long ago. It seems bringing you and your friends here was always his infernal plan.”

  He looks up, meeting my eyes at last. “It would be easy to blame the Father of Lies, but I was the second son of a second wife, exiled from our father’s court. The most hated member of the most hated tribe. The Damajah foresaw that I could achieve glory still, and for that I would have given anything. Even if Alagai Ka took no part, I cannot say I would have done differently.”

  He reaches into his armor and I stiffen, ready to defend. But Iraven remains on his knees as he pulls off his alagai-scale shirt and tosses it at my feet. “Take it.”

  A suit of Tazhan armor is a princely gift, but I kick it aside like a filthy rag. “I don’t want your armor.”

  “I no longer need it.” Iraven’s robes are soaked with sweat, the black hair matted to his chest as he pulls these open, as well.

  “It is one thing to do Alagai Ka’s bidding in the dark of new moon.” Iraven picks up the punch dagger. I half draw my hanzhar, but he turns the blade on himself, pressing the point into the flesh over his heart. “It’s another to learn that you carry that bidding into the day.”

  The Sharum all begin murmuring at once, but I am frozen. Iraven opens his fingers, presenting the hilt to me. “Olive asu Ahmann am’Paper am’Hollow. The time has come to collect your debt.”

  The Sharum go silent, staring at me, but I make no move to take the blade. “I’ve had enough blood.”

  “You are my brother,” Iraven says, “and I am your Sharum Ka. You cannot honorably refuse me.”

  I shake my head. “You of all people cannot dictate honor or familial loyalty to me, brother.”

  “I beg you,” Iraven whispers, a reminder of Andew, left dead at my hand. “Do not leave me unmanned by Alagai Ka.”

  I cast about helplessly. The Sharum all have the blank stare of men who have accepted death. None of them will raise a hand to stop me. Indeed, Iraven is right that they will count it against my honor if I refuse.

  Darin takes the pipes from his lips to protest. “Olive, you can’t.”

  “Ent your decision, Darin,” Selen says.

  Darin looks like he wants to say more, but he takes his pipes back up, instead. Time is wasting, and the longer we stay down here, the greater the chance Alagai Ka will return.

  I look to Rojvah. She is holding a groaning Arick’s hand as warriors lift him onto a litter, but like everyone she watches me. Iraven is her blood, too, but she looks at her uncle sadly then nods at me.

  Trembling, I take a step forward, then another, until I am close enough to kneel beside Micha. My vision blurs as I look into her eyes one last time, then gently close the lids, laying a tearful kiss on each. I reach into her robes, searching until I find one of the tiny tear bottles she always carries. Awkwardly I scrape the sharp edge against my cheeks, filling the vial with several drops. I close it in her hands. “Let my love guide you on the lonely path, sister. You died a warrior, and will sup at Everam’s table in Heaven.”

  Then I turn to Iraven, still presenting the handle of the punch dagger. I slip my fingers into it, closing my hand so the blade becomes an extension of my fist.

  A surge of adrenaline runs through me, but I embrace the feeling, breathing in the steady rhythm that kept Micha and Chadan so calm.

  My heart is cold as I look into Iraven’s eyes. “Is your soul ready for the lonely path?”

  “No,” Iraven admits. “But I will walk it all the same, and accept Everam’s judgment. I am no longer fit for this world. I cannot ask our brothers to trust in my leadership when I do not trust myself. Better to end it now, with honor.”

  Honor.

  Does he even know the meaning of the word? Do I?

  Iraven tore apart my life, my very sense of self, for his own selfish pride. Micha would be alive now, if not for him. Chadan would be alive. Chikga and Andew and countless others. I would be safe in Hollow, and none of this would have come to pass.

  Just as Andew did, Iraven lays a gentle hand over mine, pulling slightly to push the blade deeper into his flesh. “Do it, brother.”

  I scowl. Am I his brother? Our relationship began with him kidnapping me because he thought I was only a sister—a thing to be possessed. It was not until he thought me a man that he treated me with anything resembling dignity, but even then I was kept like a prize.

  Chadan, Faseek, and the rest of my classmates in sharaj earned the right to call me brother. Iraven did not.

  “I’m not your brother, Iraven.” I shove hard, driving the blade into his heart, as he did to Micha. “I’m your sister.”

  Iraven nods, not breaking eye contact as he falls forward, leaning his weight on me. “I am sorry…sister.”

  Horror fills me as the light leaves his eyes. It’s easy to tell myself he deserves this. That he kidnapped me and killed Micha. That he betrayed us all.

  But I was in Alagai Ka’s head. None of us have ever been anything but pieces on a board to him. Iraven slumps in my arms, and I throw back my head and howl.

  Drillmaster Zim approaches, and I wonder if he is duty-bound to arrest me, or exact vengeance for killing his master. Instead he lays a heavy hand on my shoulder and gives a paternal squeeze. “It took courage for him to take the lonely path, my prince. And it took courage for you to send him on his way. You did him great honor.”

  “He didn’t deserve it,” I say.

  “Inevera.” The drillmaster shrugs. “That is for the Creator to judge. We cannot admit him to Heaven, but for his sacrifice, I will carry his body back myself, and petition the Damaji to bleach his bones for Sharik Hora.”

  I nod. “Chadan and Micha, as well.” The other fallen are too numerous to carry, but I won’t leave my sister and my prince for the demons to scavenge.

  “Of course,” the drillmaster says.

  61

  FINAL AUDIENCE

  I walk between the litters bearing Micha and Chadan, feeling unmoored. Micha was caring for me before Selen was even born. I have no memory of life before her. And any joy in Prince Olive’s life came from Chadan. Without them, everything is shattered.

  I want nothing more than to be alone, to mourn, but the men look to me, and we are still in the enemy’s territory. I keep my back straight and my eyes up, wary of danger. Some part of me, detached from the anguish and pain, keeps talking, listening to reconnaissance and issuing orders, but enveloped in the protective shroud of Darin and Rojvah’s music, nothing threatens us as we leave the demon greatward.

  All of us hiss and hold up hands to block the morning sun as we emerge from the undercity. Time was meaningless in the eternal night below. It feels like we were underground for weeks, but the Sharum carried no provision, and none of us have eaten, or seem hindered by the lack. I’m not even hungry.

  It’s the morning after Waning.

  The city is in ruin. Dead Sharum litter the streets next to stinking piles of ash—alagai who have seen the sun. Buildings that stood for a thousand years and more are reduced to rubble, the domes of great palaces cracked like eggs.

  But the storm is over. I intend to be far from Desert Spear by the next full moon, and without us, there is little reason for Alagai Ka to return.

  Only the Holy City remains untouched. It is bigger than the remaining Majah require, and the oasis at its center can feed thousands. The clerics will have no choice but to share its luxury now
, with the rest of the city destroyed.

  The Arms of Everam lower their spears at our approach to the holy gates. “Prince Olive, by order of the Damaji, we place you under arrest.”

  Drillmaster Zim lets out a low growl, and my spear brothers cluster around me. “Prince Olive put a blade into Alagai Ka himself, and saved us all.”

  The guards glance at one another nervously, but I’ve seen enough conflict.

  “It’s all right,” I step past the soldiers guarding me, gently easing their spears aside. “I will stand before the Skull Throne one last time.”

  * * *

  —

  Belina wails when Iraven’s body is brought before the Skull Throne. She breaks away from the council of dama’ting to throw herself upon the litter bearing her son, weeping openly as her sisters in white collect her tears. Even Chavis kneels beside her, as Aleveran and the council of dama look on impassively.

  The ritual is both performative and sincere. Runners delivered a list of the wounded and deceased to the throne hours ago, but it is a tradition for Krasian mothers to hold their tears until they see the remains of their fallen sons in the flesh.

  The Evejah says souls on the lonely path can lose their way on the mist-cloaked path from the mortal realm to the gates of Heaven. A warrior with tear bottles in his hands is said to have a lighted way, and can add them to the balance when Everam weighs his spirit.

  Iraven needs all the help he can get. He will arrive in the wake of the far nobler souls he sent down the lonely path before him.

  My companions and I stand patiently through the display. At one point, Belina’s eyes flick our way, an invitation to join her. Iraven was my brother, and Rojvah’s uncle. Arick’s relation is more removed, but there is blood shared. Tradition dictates we mourn as family, but Rojvah and Arick do not budge, taking their cues from me.

  It would be easy to join the performance. Crying on command was a trick Grandmum taught me early, but as a man, I am not expected to give even that much. All it would take is some small act. A bow, or a single knee. A hand on Belina’s shoulder. Night, I could just look sad and stare at the floor.

  But I can muster no emotion for my brother. His last moments were perhaps the only sincere ones we ever had. Alagai Ka’s influence or not, I cannot bring myself to mourn the man who murdered Chadan and Micha. Who led my spear brothers into the waiting talons of the alagai.

  I keep my head up and my eyes straight ahead, refusing even the barest gesture. It is a deep insult, and I can feel tension rising in the room the longer it goes on.

  At last, the wailing and crying dies down, and Aleveran signals Dama Maroch to approach the litter bearing my prince’s shrouded form.

  Chadan’s dal’ting mother is not allowed at court, so the wailing will come later. I wonder what Maroch will do when he sees his only son lying dead, but the dama has too much dignity to show emotion like a woman. He lifts the shroud, examining the body without a hint of emotion. He turns to Aleveran and bows. “It is him, Damaji.”

  Sitting on high, Damaji Aleveran acknowledges the death of his grandson with little more than a solemn nod.

  I want to scream. To wail like Belina, and force them to honor him. Chadan did everything these men ever asked. He was a perfect son and they did not deserve him. If this is what it means to be a Krasian man, I don’t understand why I ever wanted any part of it.

  But it doesn’t matter if his own family did not love him enough. Chadan already has my tears to guide him to Heaven.

  When the last tear is scraped from Belina’s cheek, she rises from her knees with a viper’s grace, gliding two steps until we lock stares. “You can pay your brother no honor, even with him dead at your hand?”

  I consider denying it, but Belina’s hand drops to her hora pouch, a reminder of the dice within. “Do not lie. Everam has already whispered me truth.”

  “Dama’ting Favah taught me the dice whisper only a fraction of truth,” I say loudly. “Did they tell you Iraven asked me to help him onto the lonely path? The blade was the honor I owed him, and it was paid.”

  “Tsst!” Belina’s hand darts into her hora pouch, removing the small replica of my armlet. Before she can begin to squeeze, I reach over and prick my finger on the little spear, opening the blood lock. I cast the armlet to the floor, but pocket the spear, still wet with my blood.

  Belina’s brows tighten. “The cuff can be replaced.”

  “Try it,” I growl, “and the beating Micha gave you will feel like a gentle massage.”

  The other dama’ting tsst and gasp at that, eyes flicking to Belina. News of the defeat will shame and weaken her in the estimation of her fellow priestesses—the only estimation that truly matters to a dama’ting. It might even cost her the black veil.

  The only way to save face would be to meet my challenge. Indeed, Evejan Law allows a dama’ting to kill any Sharum who offends her, and if I were to fight back, the sentence for striking a Bride of Everam is death.

  Still, Belina is wise enough not to take the bait. Aleveran is the real power here, and he has not given her leave. I am playing a dangerous game, making an open enemy of her, but like her son, Belina was always my enemy. The time for pretending otherwise is over.

  “Enough.” Aleveran’s left finger gives an irritated flick. Belina steps back to join the dama’ting counsel, but her hate-filled eyes do not leave mine. I turn away instead, dismissing her as I turn to face the Damaji.

  “We were lenient the last time you stood before us, Prince Olive,” Aleveran says. “But instead of keeping your word and your honor, you murdered Drillmaster Chikga, ran from justice, and now both the princes of Majah are dead. Tell me why I shouldn’t execute you here and now.”

  Prince Olive? Is that who I am? Not always, perhaps, but here before the Skull Throne it feels right. Krasian men only truly respect their own, and now that I have their respect, I will accept nothing less.

  I return his cold appraisal with a lofty gaze to do even Mother proud. “You’re not going to execute me.”

  “Still insolent.” Damaji’ting Chavis has taken her customary place atop the sixth step. “You—”

  “Tsst!” I cut her off, and have to suppress a smile as the old woman’s eyes go wide. If they want me to be a man, I will be one. “I speak of alagai’sharak, Damaji’ting. This is men’s business. While you waited in the safety of the Holy City, I went to the abyss and put a knife in the Father of Demons. I will tolerate no more of your disrespect.”

  The silence that follows is heavy. Chavis shakes at my audacity, but I am right and she knows it. Even the most powerful woman in Krasia must be respectful of a warrior bathed in glory.

  At last, Aleveran raises a finger and the Damaji’ting steps back. “Why is that, young prince?”

  “Because you cannot afford another war,” I say. “If you hold my friends and me, or harm us in any way, the armies of Thesa and New Krasia will descend upon you. The great gate is breached, Damaji. Your city is in ruins. Even if the oasis can feed those who remain, you do not have the warriors to defend the Holy City. The only logical recourse is to supply us for a desert crossing, and let us go.”

  The Damaji’s eyes narrow. “Why would Iraven ask for death?”

  “Because he never sealed the breach two moons ago,” I say. “He was taken by Alagai Ka, and became the Father of Demons’ agent in the day.”

  “Impossible,” Aleveran says. “The power of the Holy City would have broken even the hold of the alagai king.”

  I shake my head. “The Father of Lies can implant suggestions that bind his victims’ will even when their minds are returned to protection.”

  Dama Maroch scoffs. “How can you know this?”

  I want to punch him in his condescending face. If he had half the courage of his son, he would know firsthand.

  “Because it is in the accounts of my fa
ther,” I say instead, “Ahmann asu Hoshkamin am’Jardir, the Shar’Dama Ka. Written into the sacred texts after his victory in Sharak Ka and return from Nie’s abyss.”

  The words are a reminder of who I am, but more important, they are a reminder of who the Majah are—the tribe that abandoned the Deliverer’s army before the final sallies of Sharak Ka.

  “And because I threatened to interfere with Alagai Ka’s plans,” I add, “Iraven sent Chikga to kill me. Then, yesterday, the Sharum Ka led his warriors into a trap.”

  “Lies,” Maroch says. “What proof do you have that it wasn’t you who took the chance to rid yourself of rivals?”

  I turn to look at Zim. The drillmaster waits for a nod from Aleveran, then steps forward and kneels before the Skull Throne, placing his hands on the floor.

  “Rise, honored Drillmaster Zim,” Aleveran says. “Speak your truth for Everam to judge.”

  Zim rolls smoothly back onto his heels, rising to stand at full height before the Damaji. Like all of us, he is covered in blood and ichor, marks of great honor in the temple of Heroes’ Bones. “The Sharum Ka was like a brother to me, Damaji. His glory was boundless. But I swear by Everam and my hope of Heaven that he deceived us and led us into ambush. It is only because of Prince Olive that any of us returned alive. It was Olive who struck Alagai Ka down, while the rest of us lay beaten.”

  It’s not precisely true, and I feel Selen bristle beside me as her own contribution is erased, but no one contradicts Drillmaster Zim.

  “Will the other men attest to this?” Aleveran asks.

  Zim nods. “They will, Damaji. And if Olive asu Ahmann is not their next Sharum Ka…” He chooses his next words carefully. “I do not know who else the Sharum will accept.”

  That surprises me. I know it is true of the Princes Unit, and perhaps what remains of the Spears of the Desert, but I did not realize my name carried such weight among the Sharum at large. A lump forms in my throat.