“I was alone in the dark. Separated from my protectors. By the time I realized what had happened, I was surrounded.”
Mother leans in closer. “They knew me, Olive. They were hunting me. By name. And it worked.”
I have to swallow a lump in my throat to speak. “What happened?”
“I took out my hora wand and I fought as the corelings struck.” Mother clutches the doll, her blue eyes going distant as the sky on a cloudless day. “As I drew wards to defend myself, I could feel the magic flowing through me. Flowing through you.”
Mother’s eyes glitter, and I realize they are welling with tears. “You kicked and thrashed in my belly. I didn’t know what the power was doing to you. I was afraid I was killing you.” She has the doll in a stranglehold now. “But what could I do? Stop fighting? Let the demons have us both? So I kept on, and prayed to the Creator you would be all right. I swore if you were, I would never so stupidly endanger you again.”
She turns and meets my eyes. “That was why I didn’t want you on the borough tour, Olive. I should have told you, and I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” I am not sure it is, but I’ll say anything to ease the tension. Seeing Mother angry is terrifying. Seeing her in tears is more than my nerves can handle.
Mother suddenly realizes she is clutching the doll and lets it go, surreptitiously wiping tears as she turns her back to return it to my pillow.
“ ’Is that why I’m…the way I am?” I ask.
“I suspect it’s why you’re strong,” Mother says. “Why you heal faster than other folk. Not just because of that time, but all the times I used magic during the war, starting on the night you were conceived.”
Eyes dried, Mother turns to me again, opening her arms. We embrace, and I feel truly safe for the first time in weeks.
“I won’t keep secrets from you any longer, Olive,” she whispers. “If you’re determined to be an adult, I will try to treat you like one, and prepare you properly.”
The words do not comfort me. I am not even sure they were meant to.
* * *
—
“Stand up straight,” the duchess says. “Don’t smile, but don’t scowl, either. If it’s a small group, make eye contact with the speakers, but then meet the eye of each in turn, continually, as you reply. If it is a larger group, look just over their heads, and it will seem you are making eye contact with all of them at once.”
Mother has a thousand rules like these. A constant litany as I follow her through halls and stand a step back from her right hand through countless meetings.
It makes me restless at court, shifting uncomfortably in stylish court gowns I would have been thrilled for an excuse to wear not long ago.
When Mother said she meant to prepare me, I thought it would be secrets of magic, or unspoken tales of the demon war like the one she told in my chambers. Thus far, it has been simply to become the duchess’ shadow, listening to an endless parade of petitioners in open court, and the small councils where the decisions are actually made.
I know more than I ever wanted about trade disputes and border patrols and which barons are late with their taxes, but nothing about the demons Mother believes are hunting me.
When I am not at her side, private tutors continue my lessons in the keep so I am always at Mother’s disposal. The calls to stand in her receiving rooms are never-ending.
Worse in some ways is the change in how I am treated. Servants I used to fear might catch me running in the halls or spilling on the rug now bow and scrape, whispering fearfully after I pass. Ministers and counselors and royals who command vast powers in Hollow are suddenly falling silent when I speak, and refusing to admit I am wrong, even when I myself realize I am.
Micha was right that I would favor her lessons over Mother’s. Our daily sessions in the underkeep are now something I look forward to, if only because being punched and kicked and choked unconscious is preferable to sitting through a meeting of the sanitation council.
Selen, too, has thrown herself into the training. After just a few days with Micha, both of us have advanced enough to see how utterly unprepared we were to face corelings on the borough tour.
Mother is right about one thing. I will not be unprepared again.
* * *
—
“Tsst!” Micha hisses as she plaits my hair. “Hold still.”
The words are familiar, but the woman saying them no longer is. I’m stronger than Micha, but except for that first fight, I haven’t been able to land a serious blow on her in the last two days of secret training, even as my body has become a mass of contusions.
She’s left my face alone since that first time, at least. The bruise faded quickly as Mother said it would. I can find no sign of it in the mirror as Grandmum works her magic with the powder kit.
“Today you meet the emissaries of the Majah tribe,” Micha says. “To them you represent not just Hollow, but Father and the Kaji tribe. You must look perfect. You must be perfect. And you—”
“—must not trust anything they say,” I finish. Micha has repeated that advice a thousand times.
“Do not make light of this, sister,” Micha says. “I do not know their intentions, but they will not be honorable.”
“How can you know that?” I ask. “We don’t even know why, after all this time, they’ve opened the border.”
“They’ve opened nothing,” Micha says. “No Messenger or merchant entering the desert has returned in fifteen years.”
“But they are sending their own,” I note. “Achman—”
“Is a spy,” Micha cuts in.
“You would know, I suppose.” I try to keep the bite from my tone, but the words are lash enough.
“I do,” Micha agrees. “And if you did more with your eyes than paint the lashes, you would know it, too. Achman was not in Pumpforge by accident, sister, and everyone in that caravan spoke Thesan, no matter what they pretended. Likely they trained for years before this mission.”
“What mission?” Selen stands a few feet away, practicing her sharusahk forms. “To sell us trinkets in some far-flung borough?” Not subjected to the time at court, she’s used the hours of house arrest to hone her skills, and it pays dividends every time my back hits the practice floor.
Micha glances at her. “Your stance is too wide.” She turns back to her work with a shrug. “Who can say what the Majah want? But wisdom dictates they send spies across their border to ensure we have not laid a trap for their emissaries.”
“Mother would never—” I start.
“Don’t be so sure.” This time it’s Grandmum who cuts in. “Your mum was a hostage once, herself. Sometimes that’s how things go.”
“All the more reason she wouldn’t do it to anyone else,” I say.
“It is unfortunate,” Micha says, “but often necessary to ensure enemies and rivals keep to their honor. The Majah are not without hostages of their own. They took Father’s Majah wife Belina and our brother Iraven with them into the desert all those years ago, to dissuade Father from knocking down their walls when he returned from the abyss.”
“Ahmann Jardir let the Majah keep his wife and son?” Selen gapes. “Thought your da was the most powerful man in the world.”
“Even the Shar’Dama Ka’s power has limits,” Micha replies. “Desert Spear was given to the Majah in good faith, and Belina and Iraven are of that tribe. Honor demands he forbear.”
She finishes with my hair, as Grandmum puts the finishing touches on my face and removes the cloth protecting my gown.
“Micha.” We look up to see Mother has appeared. I wonder if there is some magic in how she keeps entering without making a sound.
“Yes, mistress?” Micha responds.
“The Majah emissaries have arrived,” Mother says. “I believe you know them.”
One of Micha’s eyebrows rises. “Oh?”
“Dama’ting Belina and your half brother Iraven.” Suddenly, Mother has my full attention.
“Impossible,” Micha says. “They are hostages.”
“Fifteen years ago, perhaps,” Mother says, “but they are here, now. What can you tell me about them?”
“Be on guard, mistress,” Micha says. “Belina was the most powerful seer of Father’s dama’ting wives, second only to the Damajah, herself. She will have made foretellings on this meeting to seek advantage, and may have other magics about her. It would be wise for you to meet in sunlight to neutralize her powers.”
Mother nods. “And Prince Iraven?”
For once, I am excited for a meeting. No doubt the subject matter will remain dull—trade routes or tariffs or something equally tedious—but one of the negotiators will be my brother. Father has fifteen wives and over seventy children, but Micha is the only one of my siblings I have ever met.
“I have seen him fight, mistress,” Micha says. “Majah sharusahk is legendary, and my brother is a master. Few of our brothers could match his glory on the battlefield. Even disarmed, he is dangerous. Keep Wonda vah Flinn at your side, and post extra guards at the door. If you wish, I—”
“Thank you, Micha,” Mother cuts in, “but this is a delicate negotiation. I don’t pretend to understand all the politics of your people, but I know enough to see that your presence would be a…complication.”
Micha bows. “Of course, mistress. But—”
Mother holds up a hand. “I, too, have cast the bones for this meeting. The Majah will ask for something we do not expect, something precious, but I do not anticipate violence.”
Micha seems mollified at that, but still she looks wary as she escorts us to the council room, eyeing the Majah bodyguards that wait outside with Mother’s house guard.
“Greet them warmly,” Mother reminds me, “but you are not to speak during the negotiations. You’re here to learn.”
“Yes, Mother,” I say.
Mother’s herald, Kendall Demonsong, is waiting within with the ambassadors as we enter. She wears a fine blouse and breeches in a Jongleur’s patchwork of colors, with a few buttons of the top undone. While normal in Hollow, the low décolletage would offend our Majah guests, if not for the scarred lines of demon claws across her breast. Such scars are revered in Krasia, something Kendall, Micha’s wife, knows well.
Kendall executes a sharp bow. “Your Grace, may I present Dama’ting Belina and her son, Prince Iraven asu Ahmann am’Jardir am’Majah.”
Iraven looks to be in his early thirties, tall and handsome in Sharum blacks under an elaborate breastplate of warded glass. He is sleeveless—thick arms corded with muscle and crisscrossed scars.
Belina waits for the door to close, then, among only women and family, she unveils to show a lovely face with the ageless quality of a hora magic user—too mature to be young, too smooth-skinned to be old. Krasians tend to be tall, but Belina is shy of five feet, and curvy. Not threatening of stature, but there is something intimidating in her dark eyes.
“Welcome to Hollow, Belina vah Ahmann, Iraven asu Ahmann.” Mother’s face is porcelain as she steps forward, Kendall passing her a ceremonial chalice. “Share water from our table, and be at peace.”
It is a Krasian custom Mother researched carefully, an oath of peace placed upon one of the most sacred things to the desert people—water.
“I accept your water, Leesha vah Erny, Duchess of Hollow,” Belina says, taking the chalice and drinking. “There is peace between Hollow and the Majah.”
Iraven drinks next, then Mother turns to me. “May I present my daughter, Olive vah Ahmann am’Paper am’Hollow.”
“Am…Paper?” Iraven asks.
Mother fixes him with the look. “I declined your father’s invitation to become his sixteenth wife, Prince Iraven. Princess Olive is mine.”
Mine. The word squeezes me, suffocating. Is that what I am to her, to all of these people? A possession?
“Let us sit,” Mother moves to the head of the council table, indicating the seat at her right hand to me, then the one at her left to Belina. Iraven sits beside his mother, then Kendall next to me. Used to kneeling or reclining on pillows, the Krasians sit rigidly in their chairs, taking no support from the backs or arms.
“Tea?” Mother asks.
“Please,” Belina says, and I rise from my seat, reaching for the steaming pot on the service at the center of the table.
Another ritual, like the one in Achman’s tent. I pour for Mother first, then Belina. The two of them drink, then I pour for Iraven, followed by Kendall. The four of them drink. Only then do I pour my own cup and sit.
“She pours well,” Belina notes.
I should. Mother has been teaching me since I was old enough to hold a toy cup. I still might bungle brewing a cure, but I’ve been able to pour one-handed without spilling a drop since I was six.
Mother smiles. “Tea politics are not so different in the North from those of Krasia, but we’re not here to discuss my daughter.”
Belina’s face reveals so little she might as well be veiled. “We’re here to discuss terms for inclusion of Desert Spear in your Pact of Free Cities.”
“We would be most pleased to have you,” Mother says. “Your husband sent Messengers to Desert Spear to invite your emissaries to attend the signing. I am told they never returned.”
She leaves the question unspoken, but Belina answers it anyway. “The Messengers are unharmed, but after we were betrayed, Damaji Aleveran in his wisdom declared the border closed.”
“Those men must be returned, unharmed as you say, before any agreement can be ratified,” the duchess says. “The pact holds all its signatories to the same peace. Your blood feud with the Kaji must be set aside.”
“Peace,” Belina agrees. “But peace is not friendship. Peace is not enriching those who have wronged you. Forgoing blood does not mean forgiveness.”
The duchess sits back, considering the words. “If you have no wish to move forward in friendship, why sign the pact?”
“Because betrayal by Everam’s Bounty does not mean we wish to be cut off from the other Free Cities,” Iraven says. “Because the desert is harsh, and fighting alagai’sharak in the Maze is costly.”
The duchess looks at the prince in surprise. “Alagai’sharak? The demon war is ended, Prince Iraven.”
“For you greenlanders, perhaps,” Iraven says. “But the magic that purged the alagai from your lands did not reach across the desert wastes.”
“Perhaps not,” Mother allows, “but the Maze was designed for warriors without magic to fight back against the corelings. Armed with warded weapons, you should have swept your lands clean by now.”
Iraven nods. “For a time, we thought we had. There were harsh battles on our return, but Everam was with us and we were victorious. We lived in relative peace and prosperity for nearly a decade. But the desert is vast, and now the alagai have returned in numbers. Without minds to lead them, the sand demons have…evolved. They have become cannier, banding together into far-ranging storms that can number in the thousands. If a sand demon storm comes across a village with a gap in its wards, however small, they will find it. Even Desert Spear must raise the defense when one blows our way.”
“The corelings are a plague on all that lives,” Mother says. “If you require military aid, Hollow—”
“We do not,” Belina cuts in. “Forgive me for speaking bluntly, Duchess, but there is always a hidden price to such aid. We will accept no foreign warriors in our lands, and would treat their presence as an act of war.”
“Are not all men brothers in the night?” Mother says, paraphrasing from the Evejah, the Krasian holy book that defines them as a people. Unity against demonkind is the defining tenet of the Evejan peoples.
“They a
re,” Belina agrees. “But unlike alagai, soldiers do not disappear when day breaks. Brothers can become enemies as easily as they can lower their night veils.”
“Then what is it you do want?” the duchess asks.
“Trade routes,” Belina says. “Laktonian ships to transport our goods without passing through the territories of New Krasia. Access to Northern markets to buy and sell.”
“If what you need is Laktonian ships, why come to me?” the duchess asks. “Why not make contact with the Laktonians?”
“We have.” The derision in Belina’s tone never reaches her face. “They have no love for Krasia, but it is their largest trading partner, and has an army on their border. They won’t risk helping us without the protection of the pact, and everyone knows the North will agree to whatever Duchess Paper decides.”
Mother chuckles. “Would that it were so. Still, if what you say is true, I see no reason to oppose adding the Majah to the pact.”
“You question our honesty,” Belina notes.
Behind Mother, Wonda tenses. Iraven’s eyes fix on her. I remember Micha’s warning. Majah sharusahk is legendary, and my brother is a master.
Kendall’s hand slips below the table, no doubt to finger one of the throwing knives I’ve seen her use to entertain a crowd. She can put one into a gourd atop an assistant’s head without cleaving so much as a hair.
But Belina only nods. “You are wise to do so, daughter of Erny. As wisdom dictates we must question yours. The pact must be sealed in blood.”
“Blood?” Mother asks. At her back, Wonda has not relaxed.
“Damaji Aleveran, leader of the Majah, has a grandson, Chadan,” Belina says. “He has seventeen years, and soon will earn his blacks. We are here to negotiate Princess Olive’s hand for him.”
I gasp, and Mother’s eyes flick to me in irritation. I drop my gaze to the table, trying to center myself. Surprise, anger, fear, and confusion churn to a boil in my stomach as I realize that, like the demons, the appearance of the Majah isn’t random.
They’ve come for me.
The Desert Prince Page 16