The Desert Prince

by Brett, Peter V.

  The glass knives are almost invisible in her fast hands. Her fingers are slipped into protective holes on the handles, raised knuckles of warded glass adding power to her punches.

  But where one Nanji ladder fighter was overwhelming to me, it is terrifying to watch two of them working in unison. With their greater reach, even Micha is not quick enough to strike at them effectively. She parries and dodges most of the blows, but a few glance off her, keeping her on the defensive. Jewelry pulses with magic about her body, making her faster, stronger, but the Watchers seem similarly equipped, negating the advantage.

  One of the spinning ladders hooks Micha’s ankle and she stumbles right into a swing from the other warrior. It looks like a telling blow, but then Micha twists out of the way and I realize she guided the men on purpose. She grabs a ladder rung and pulls, straightening the warrior’s arm as she delivers a quick punch to his elbow with her glass knuckles.

  With an audible pop, the joint hyperextends through the ladder rungs, and the Watcher, silent until now, lets out a grunt of pain.

  “Your sister fights well, for a woman,” the Watcher holding me says. “Had you been her equal, you might have had a chance.”

  Micha whirls from the crippling blow to catch the other Watcher’s swinging ladder in a cross of her knives. She heaves upward and delivers a push-kick that knocks the man back. She lunges, knife poised to end the threat, but she stumbles, a knife buried in the back of her knee.

  Incredibly, the man she crippled is back in the fight. One arm hangs limp, but the other holds a collapsible baton that cracks across the back of my sister’s headscarf. The Watcher kicks her feet from under her and scissors his legs around her throat, squeezing.

  Micha stabs at him, but the other Watcher has recovered and pins her arms with his ladder, holding it in place with his knees to free his hands for pummeling.

  Micha continues to struggle for a time, but her movements grow slower and weaker with each passing moment. I wonder if they mean to kill her.

  I pull at the rung choking me enough to croak, “Stop.”

  “Surrender was offered and refused,” the Watcher tells me.

  “Please,” I gasp.

  The pressure eases just a bit. “What will you do to save your sister?”

  I look to the other men, still pinning and beating Micha, though her body lies limp, convulsing only with the impact of each blow. “Anything,” I whisper.

  The man pinning me gives a hiss, and the others cease their attack, drawing back. If Micha was faking, now would be the time for her to strike. When she doesn’t, I fear the worst. The men pull stout cords from their belts, binding her arms and legs.

  I feel a loop of cord around my own legs and don’t resist as it pulls tight. When the knots are finished, I flex experimentally. The cord is tough, wrapped many times, and tight. I don’t think I can break it.

  “I want—”

  My words are cut off as the Watcher slams my head into the floor. “This is not a negotiation, girl. Obey, or we will kill your sister here and now.”

  One of the Watchers takes a knife from his belt, holding it to Micha’s throat, while the other binds his injured arm. I am hauled up and sat at Lord Arther’s desk, a parchment placed in front of me. Somehow, it is written in my own hand, an apology and weak explanation as to why I feel the need to disobey Mother’s command and follow her into the mountains. They must have gotten hold of some letters of mine, because even the phrasing is my own.

  “Sign,” the Watcher hisses, pushing a pen into my hands.

  I glance again at Micha, blade to her throat, and comply.

  The moment I’m done, the pen is snatched away. My arms are pulled roughly behind me and bound tight. A rag is shoved in my mouth, and another tied around my head to hold it in place. The cloth is soaked in some chemical, fumy and disorienting. They pull a hood over my head, and everything goes dark.

  * * *

  —

  I feel dizzy and nauseous as my arms are looped through the rungs and bound tight to the Watcher’s ladder. He hooks my legs and binds my ankles to a lower rung, then hefts the whole thing onto his shoulders, still managing to move at speed as he hauls me out Arther’s office window.

  I feel the wind blowing against me as the Watcher climbs to the roof. I am bound too tight to struggle, but even so I tense, afraid to make a move that might throw the man off balance and plummet us to our deaths on the cobbles below.

  I bounce to the smooth beat of the Watcher’s footfalls as he runs along the rooftops, but I hear nothing, not even the wind. We are behind a veil of silence much like the one cast by Micha’s choker.

  I’m desperate to know what happened to her. Do the other men run beside us in their own envelopes of silence? Did they take Micha with them? Is she still alive?

  I feel the Watcher drop low and twist, and suddenly I am falling. It stops abruptly, then his feet kick off hard and we drop again until the Watcher catches something on the adjacent wall, again arresting our fall before he drops the remaining way to the ground.

  Years of sneaking around the rooftops with Darin and Selen is enough for me to guess where we are—the thirty-foot drop into Mother’s garden. The adjacent walls are close enough for one to leap from sill to sill on the way down, but only Darin was mad enough to try it. Selen and I regretted the bet the moment he agreed, watching white-knuckled from the roof until he was safely down.

  The Watcher does it with me strung to a ladder on his back.

  We land lightly on soft soil. During the day, the garden is heavily patrolled. Mother starts and ends every day there, meeting with aides and ministers as she plants, harvests, weeds, and prunes. At night the place stands empty.

  The garden has a number of secret exits. I smell roses, and I realize the Watchers have found the one that leads to the stables.

  I’m set down and my back fetches up against what can only be the keep’s east wall. The hood loosens, and I slowly nudge my chin along the cobbles, trying to work it free. To what end, I don’t know. I’m still dizzy from the fumes, in no position to fight.

  The Watcher doesn’t seem to notice, unbinding me from the ladder with quick efficiency and carrying it away. Free of the restriction I curl up, catching the edge of the hood with my teeth. I fling my head back. The sudden motion makes bile rise in my throat, but the hood flies high enough for me to see. I swallow sour vomit as I look around.

  Micha lies next to me in the shadow of the wall. She is similarly bound and hooded. I can hear her breath, weak and fluttering. I wonder if they intend to keep her alive, or if they are just removing a body to delay questions. If I ran off, Micha would surely follow.

  I rub my face against the cobbles, working free the gag as the three Watchers gather at the wall, marrying the ends of their six-foot ladders together. The result is still short of the thirty-foot wall, but they seem unconcerned, bracing it as one of the men nimbly runs up, standing balanced against the wall on the top rung.

  A second Watcher follows, clambering over his fellow like another set of ladder rungs to stand on the first one’s shoulders. At last, the leader returns to us, tugging the hood back over my face. “Do that again and I will put out your sister’s eyes.”

  He picks me up, easily slinging me over his shoulders. He runs up the ladders and scrambles over his accomplices. I am thankful for the hood as he leaps from the last man’s shoulders, flying just high enough to catch the wall’s lip.

  I thought myself numb, but a chill of fear finds me as we swing for a moment in empty air before he pulls us up and lays me on the walltop. “What did you do to the guards?”

  “Less than they deserve for being so lax,” the man murmurs. “They were half drunk even before we drugged their goblets. They will wake with headaches before their shifts end, and never dare admit the lapse when put to the question. And if they are discovered in
a drugged sleep?” He chuckles. “Is not Princess Olive known for such tactics?

  “It will be as if my brothers and I were never here.”

  * * *

  —

  Bound to the ladder across the Watcher’s back, I feel the breeze on my clothes. The vibration as his legs propel us down the streets of the capital. The arrest as he pulls to a stop here and there, no doubt to evade discovery. But I hear nothing.

  After a time, we pause and the ladder is taken off his shoulder and lashed to a horse. The drugs finally take hold, and I am thankful as I lose consciousness amid the jolting of the horse’s gallop.

  I wake as the animal dances to a halt. The pounding in my head suggests I was out for some time, but it’s not yet dawn. I am untied from the ladder, but my bound limbs are numb. I fall, shaking and sick, like a shot deer that hasn’t yet had the sense to die.

  A pair of strong arms catch me, and I am carried several steps to a wooden stair. The doorway is small, and the wood floor creaks under our weight. A wagon?

  “You have done well, brothers.” The voice is not that of the Watcher who captured me. Even muffled by the hood, it is familiar.

  “Glory to Majah,” the Watcher says.

  “Glory to Nanji.” My hood is snatched away and my half brother Iraven meets my eyes. “Apologies, little sister. We are all caught in inevera.”

  I try to spit in his face, but Iraven is quick. He backhands me so hard the spittle is knocked from my mouth to spatter across my cheek. He grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him again. “If you are wise, you will not try such foolishness with the dama’ting.”

  “Enough, my son,” Belina says from across the compartment where she kneels with the Watcher who captured me at her left hand.

  “Of course, Mother.” Iraven bows and retreats to kneel at his mother’s right.

  “You have done well, Kai Tomoka,” Belina tells the Watcher.

  “The dama’ting honors me.” Tomoka bows, putting his hands on the floor and lowering his face to them, but his hard eyes never leave mine.

  Iraven raps his knuckles against the wall, and the wagon lurches into motion. I glance around, but Micha is nowhere to be seen.

  “Wh…” With the last of my spittle gone, the word chokes off before I get far. My throat feels like a thornbush as I clear it and draw new breath. “Where is my sister?”

  “Safe,” Belina inclines her head, “so long as you remain compliant.”

  Compliant? Who in the Core does she think she is? “When my mother hears—”

  “We will be half a world away,” Belina cuts in. “The duchess of Hollow’s reach is great, but even she does not have the strength to cross the sands and challenge Desert Spear.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” I growl. “But if not her, my father surely does.”

  “Indeed,” Belina nods. “But I know my husband better than you, girl. The betrayal of the Majah eats at him even now. He will not bring an army to our gates over you. I have foreseen it.”

  She rises, coming over to me. “You should be proud. Your marriage will restore peace between the tribes, and see your brother raised to First Warrior of Desert Spear.”

  “Proud to be taken a slave?” I ask.

  “Tsst.” Belina hisses gently. “Marriage is hardly that. Your betrothed is heir to the throne of Desert Spear. As his Jiwah Ka you will live in wealth and luxury.”

  “As a prisoner,” I say.

  “We are all prisoners,” Belina says. “Only in Heaven are we truly free. It is up to you if you wish to be captive in luxury, or bound on the floor.”

  I bite my lip, considering. I’m in no condition to attempt escape, and that’s not likely to improve if I remain bound. “Luxury.”

  “Wise,” Belina congratulates me. She slides her hanzhar from its sheath at her belt, severing the cord binding my arms and legs. Immediately I retreat until I fetch up against the back of the wagon, rubbing my limbs to restore my circulation.

  Belina does not pursue, opening a cloth holding my possessions. Rings and bracelets and jeweled earrings. “Baubles,” she sneers. “Not a hora stone among them. No wonder Kai Tomoka and his men took you so easily.” She grunts as she finds the tear bottle. “Whose tears are these?”

  “My aunt Selen’s,” I lie. I know enough of hora magic to know tears are second only to blood as a component for spells and foretelling. Belina eyes me doubtfully, but she doesn’t press.

  Instead she runs a finger over the armlet I bought from Achman. She pulls free the little spear, opening the hinge. “I’m so pleased you were drawn to this. The dice were unclear if you would choose the box, the earrings, or the hanzhar.”

  I go cold at the words. Micha was right. The Majah in the marketplace at Pumpforge were spies. No doubt I am in one of their wagons right now.

  I meet Belina’s eyes again, and this time I recognize her. “Fashvah.” Achman’s Jiwah Ka. I am such a fool.

  Belina nods. “Hold her.”

  As one, Iraven and Tomoka move forward, grabbing my limbs and pinning me as Belina closes the armlet around my biceps again. She sets the little spear back in place, and presses her thumb into the sharp tip. Blood wells for a moment, and then is sucked away. The clear gemstone turns red.

  As soon as it is done, the three of them retreat, kneeling at the far end of the wagon like Tenders at prayer.

  “That is a blood lock,” Belina says. “Now that it’s sealed, only my blood can open it.”

  She reaches into her hora pouch, producing a tiny replica of the warded band, complete with the spear, shield, and stone. She squeezes the ring in her fingers, and my armlet responds, constricting to dig deep into my biceps. I scream at the intense shock of pain, but then the dama’ting eases off the pressure.

  “The armlet will lead me to you no matter where you run,” Belina whispers, “and if you disobey…”

  She squeezes the tiny band again, and the armlet shrinks so tight I fear my arm will break. I collapse on the floor, twitching and howling, and the longer it goes on, the more I fear she means to cripple me, here and now.

  “Please!” I scream. “Please stop!” A sob escapes my lips. “Oh, Creator, please!”

  At last Belina relents. I remain on the floor, shuddering with fear and pain. She kneels beside me, taking my arm and gently massaging the muscles to restore circulation even as she works her fingers against convergence points to numb the pain.

  I stare at her, and she turns to meet my eyes. “Do we understand each other, Princess?”

  I nod, numbly.

  “Good.” Belina retreats again. “I trust you will not require additional reminders as we take you to your future husband.”

  Kai Tomoka clears his throat, a sound so quiet one might miss it if one wasn’t paying attention, but Belina turns to him immediately.

  Tomoka puts his hands on the floor and bows again, still staring at me. “Dama’ting, there is something my men overheard…”

  For a moment I don’t understand, but then I remember my last words to Micha before she caught their scent.

  Belina leans for Tomoka to whisper in her ear. She keeps the famed dama’ting serenity, but her reaction is immediate, touching a gem on the circlet of warded coins about her brow.

  I see the wards activate, giving her sight much like Mother’s spectacles. I shift uncomfortably as her eyes flick down for just a moment. “Tsst.”

  “Mother?” Iraven asks. “What is it?”

  “Inevera was right to fear the daughter of Erny,” Belina whispers. “Ahmann’s greenland heasah, the duchess of Hollow, has been hiding a prince.”

  18

  THE HIDDEN PRINCE

  For a moment, sheer, naked terror takes hold and I freeze. Mother always told me that if the Krasians believed I was male, they would kill me before I could attempt to lay claim to the Sk
ull Throne—as if I would ever want it. It’s the reason Mother kept the truth of my body secret, why I’ve always been too afraid to tell anyone.

  But they don’t kill me.

  Even now, I can tell they don’t truly understand. I fear Belina will probe deeper and learn the truth, but the dama’ting averts her eyes the moment she sees the outline of my body in my aura. Just as Mother said, the moment I fail to fall into one box, they place me in the other without question.

  Iraven watches me with martial tension now, as if expecting attack. “Apologies, little brother. We did not know.” Even his tone is more respectful than before. It makes me want to scream.

  “I’m no use to you as a bride,” I say carefully. “No one has died. If you let us go now and return to the desert, it will be impractical for either of my parents to pursue.”

  Iraven shakes his head. “I am afraid it has come too far for that.”

  “The dice demanded you, Prince Olive,” Belina says, and her tone, too, has shifted. “Female or not, Krasia needs your blood if it is to survive.”

  The words send a chill down my spine, but I am careful to keep my face neutral.

  “Do not fear, brother,” Iraven says. “This is the sound of glory calling. Your mother’s ruse has heaped great indignity upon you, but it is not too late. We can yet make you a man.”

  The words hit harder than I expect. Make me a man? Can they really know what that means? Can anyone?

  I’ve read the Krasian holy book, the Evejah. A book Mother says was penned by strong men, building into their scripture the subjugation of women and the weak.

  And yet, the Tenders’ Canon, celebrated in every cathedral in Hollow, is little better. The blow is softer, but the dogma much the same. A woman’s place is home with the children, and the man’s to protect and lead.

  Like sheep, Mother would say. She’s worked to change things since taking the throne, appointing women to positions of real power and opening Gatherers’ University, but I am living proof that she still sees a gender line. I had more freedom in one night as Aman than fifteen years as Princess Olive.