The Desert Prince

by Brett, Peter V.

  “Well?” Selen asks, when I am on my third way around.

  I circle the crossroads a fourth time, walking a bit down each path, searching. If someone kidnapped Olive, they knew how to cover their tracks. With trails everywhere, there’s no reason to pick one over another.

  “Core if I know.” I throw up my hands. “Whole caravan’s been through here recently, and seems to have scattered. Olive could have gone down any one of these paths.”

  Selen’s aura, still dim, pales in fear. “What do we do?”

  My teeth grind as I give the answer neither of us wants. “We take the coreling by the horns and go find Mam and Duchess Leesha.”

  * * *

  —

  With the trail gone cold and both of us still weak, I don’t dare pull more magic to speed our passage, but having a clear destination simplifies things. On foot we won’t catch up to the duchess’ mounted forces, but they were headed to the Warded Children’s camp, and I know those lands well. I take us off road whenever possible to shave time off the journey, and we move mostly late in the day and at night when I am strongest and Selen’s armor pulls a bit of a charge from ambient magic. We keep our cloaks pulled close, but there is no sign of demons.

  It’s over a week before the territory gets familiar. Selen’s food is long gone, and we’ve been managing on what I can catch or forage. It’s enough, but neither of us has had a full belly in days. At last, I see a ruin of the old world, a once great keep, its walls long shattered, and know where we are.

  “Another few hours,” I say, “and we’ll reach the place Mam was waiting with the Children to meet the duchess. Either they’ll be there, or we’ll find folk who know where they’ve gone.”

  “Do you really think Leesha’s dice can find Olive?” Selen asks.

  I shrug. “Don’t know. Mam says the dice are never wrong, but they don’t always say what you think they say. But if it works, Mam can skate to Olive in the time it takes to count our fingers.”

  Selen nods, but I smell doubt. I can’t blame her for it, but there’s nothing to be done save press on.

  Long before we reach the camp, I know something’s wrong. There’s an acrid stench on the wind, ash and charred flesh, that leaves me feeling nauseous and afraid. I pick up the pace.

  “Ay, slow down,” Selen says. “Can’t keep up with you when we’re not holding hands.”

  I slow my pace until she can catch up, but every muscle in my body twitches, wanting to sprint ahead. Instead, I grit my teeth and move at the limit of Selen’s endurance. It feels like a turtle’s pace.

  Before long, Selen’s nostrils flare as well. “What’s that smell?”

  “Death,” I say as we come through a stand of trees to arrive at the Warded Children’s camp.

  Or what’s left of it.

  The tents are all burnt away, and the ground is littered with charred bodies. Many are demon remains—corpses that caught flame when sunlight struck them the next morning. It’s a sign my people fought back, and I cling to it like a lifeline as we walk in horror through the camp, seeing half-eaten remains of folk I’ve known all my life, and corpses so blackened and burnt they are beyond recognition.

  I feel sick from the sights and smells, but the pain and sorrow is muted by my rising panic as we search for survivors.

  “Mam!” I cry, hoping against hope she is nearby, and well. It’s almost unthinkable that a demon could ever catch or kill her, but little of the last few weeks was thinkable a month ago.

  Selen cups her hands to her mouth “Leesha!”

  The remains of the duchess’ soldiers lie here, as well. Horses torn down by tooth and talon, shattered carts and supply immolated by firespit. There’s a crater where the flamework cart exploded. Spears lie scattered on the ground, many jutting from dirt or demon ashes, along with shields and wooden armor; breastplates lie cracked like nut shells, the meat within consumed. Demonshit is scattered about, some with human bones sticking from the stinking piles.

  “Anyone!” I shout. “It’s Darin Bales!”

  There’s no response. I feel wetness on my face and realize I’ve been weeping. When I try to wipe the tears away, my shaking hands leave ashy smears on my face.

  “Darin,” Selen says gently. I turn to see her holding a familiar object, and my silent weeping becomes a sob.

  Mam’s knife.

  I drop to my knees, and Selen rushes to me, saying nothing as she takes me in her arms. No doubt she has friends among the soldiers as well, men and women from her father’s own house, but she puts it aside, holding me as I fall to pieces.

  * * *

  —

  We search for days, finding no sign of any survivors, or further proof of Mam or Leesha’s fate. Mam always seemed closer to the Creator than a mortal woman. Even now it’s hard to believe she was killed when she could have misted away. But Mam ent one to run when folk need her help. That’s my way. And even if she did, ent ever seen her without her knife. She would have come back for it.

  We do what we can for the dead, but there are too many to bury and most of the bodies are burnt anyway. When the dead demons caught fire in the sun, the flames quickly spread through the camp. Everything that remains is covered in greasy ash and char.

  At night we take shelter in the Bunker. Its wards are still intact, the heavy doors strong. It doesn’t feel safe, though. It feels like what it is—a prison.

  “We need to get back to Hollow,” Selen says on the fourth night. “My father needs to hear about this.”

  I shake my head. “Nothin’ against your da, but you see how Hollow Soldiers fared against whatever did this. Uncle Gared ent a match for anything that could take out Leesha, Mam, and the Children.”

  “What are we supposed to do?” Selen asks. “Head off into the mountains looking for some ancient lost city?”

  “ ’Course not,” I say. “Be like lookin’ through a pasture for a particular blade of grass, and we ent up to a fight like this, either.”

  Selen puts her hands on her hips. She’s been weeping when she thinks I don’t see, and her patience is at an end. “Then what?”

  “Way I see it, we only got one choice,” I say.

  “And that is?” Selen asks.

  “We go to Krasia and see my bloodfather.”

  Selen gapes at me. “You mean…?”

  “The man who delivered me, not ten feet from where my da died,” I say. “Olive’s da. Ahmann Jardir.”

  21

  FORT KRASIA

  I learned in Krasian Studies that the underground river that feeds the city’s oasis runs deep below the sands, but occasionally bubbles close enough to the surface to create pockets of life out in the waste.

  Wars had been fought over those little strips of land, and the winners built great csars—walled towns to guard against rivals and alagai alike. Seven of them—one for each pillar of Heaven.

  We’ve passed three of them, so far. From the carriage window I see nothing but broken walls and ruined towns. There is a look of history to them, but these are not ancient remains, worn down by years of wind and sand. The stone from the shattered wall is still discolored. Blackened stalks cling to the ground in the burnt fields.

  The damage is fresh.

  “What happened?” I haven’t spoken to my captors in days, but I have to know.

  “Storms of sand alagai,” Belina says. “Thousands, descending like locusts and overwhelming the wards.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “How can there be so many?”

  “The sands were always rife with them,” Belina says. “Too far from whatever magic your father and the Par’chin worked to purge the green lands of alagai. But they were scattered by Krasia’s full might during the war. A nuisance to the csars at first—packs of three or four, or the occasional storm numbering in the dozens.”

  She l
ooks sadly at the gaping hole in the csar wall. “But the storms swept the desert, picking up stray packs and merging other storms. Dozens became hundreds. And hundreds, thousands.”

  I remember the pack of demons attacking the tour group. The bodies and rent limbs flash across my mind’s eye. The screams.

  Their coreling savagery made them seem more numerous, but in truth, had there even been a dozen? The thought of thousands of demons pouring through the walls of an entire village is horrifying, like something from the war.

  “The dice did not warn you?” I ask. “Aren’t you a famed seer?”

  Belina gives a gentle shrug, ignoring the barb in my tone. “Everam speaks to me when He wishes to. We sent warning to a few csars in time to flee to Desert Spear, but Majah are stubborn and mistrustful by nature. They thought it was a trick to take their fortresses and refused to leave.”

  I swallow with a throat gone suddenly dry. “There are no csars left?”

  The silk of her veil billows as Belina shakes her head. “What remains of Majah succors in Desert Spear, now. Fortunately, the city that once housed a dozen tribes is more than enough to support one.”

  “How many of you are left?” I wonder, not expecting an answer.

  But Belina seems to have nothing to hide. “Not twenty thousand Majah remain, many of them born after the return, too young to fight or marry.”

  The number is devastating. One of the largest tribes in Krasia, reduced to a shadow of its former strength.

  “Perhaps twice that number in thralls,” Belina adds, as if it is of little consequence.

  Thralls. The word grates at me. Slaves, she means. When my father conquered southern Thesa, he divided the lands among the twelve tribes. Each tribe’s Damaji took control of the individual localities, imposing taxes and levying men for the war. The Thesans outnumbered them more than two to one, but they were mostly farming towns, with no trained fighters to match the elite Krasian military.

  When the Majah abandoned the war effort and returned to Desert Spear, they took everything, including the locals, with them as spoils of war. A permanent underclass upon which to rebuild their city. Mother was planning to insist on returning some of them to their families in the North as part of any trade agreement.

  I sit back, remembering why I chose not to speak, and we ride in silence for a time. Then the city comes into view again, this time up close, and for a moment, I forget my fear and anger, caught up in the wonder of a sight no Northerner has laid eyes upon in my lifetime.

  Thesans refer to Desert Spear as Fort Krasia, but fort fails to do justice to the massive city, its walls stretching as far as the eye can see in both directions. I have to crane my head to see the banners atop the watchtowers, flying the Spear of Majah. Beyond the walls, great spires reach into the sky, minarets for the dama to sing the call to prayer at dawn, and the call to battle at dusk. The white sandstone catches the sun, like towers of gold.

  Desert Spear is breathtakingly beautiful. A legend come to life.

  We approach one of the city’s side gates. The windows of the dama’ting carriage are silvered so the guards cannot see inside, but there is no mistaking Prince Iraven or his elite guard. One of the watchmen falls to his knees while the other scurries to open the gate.

  The archway looms over us, tall enough for a rock demon to enter unbent. The wall is thick, layer upon layer of stone carved deep with powerful wardings. It takes minutes to pass through the tunnel at a walk, and the walls are lined with slots for spears and arrows all the way to a second gate. This is a gate, but it is also a trap.

  The light at the end of the tunnel is so bright it stings my eyes. I squint as it grows larger, opening up to the famed Great Bazaar, a labyrinth of tents and carts and ramshackle adobe buildings that stretches as far as the eye can see, selling anything and everything.

  The vast majority of vendors and customers are women. All are veiled and covered, but some wear black, and others, robes of dark, muted green. It is immediately clear that the women in black are giving orders and haggling, while those in green are doing the majority of the physical labor.

  Chin thralls.

  I listen to chatter, sifting words from the general din. Most of the chatter is in the Majah dialect, but I hear Thesan, as well.

  I draw a bit of strength from the familiar sounds. I look out again at the vastness of the tents. It would be hard to find anyone in that maze, much less one who spoke both languages and could pass as a girl one day and a boy the next.

  Surely there is resentment among the chin. Could that and my mother’s name find me shelter among them?

  I am still unbound, the doors unlocked. Out in the desert, I had nowhere to run. Is it any better here? With enough of a head start, it should be easy to lose pursuit. None in our escort, even Iraven, can run as long or as fast in daylight as I can. But just because I speak their language doesn’t mean I know anything about these people.

  Still, I tense, eyeing Belina in my peripheral vision as I watch the streets, waiting for my moment—a clear path into the maze of tents. I don’t know what I will do if it comes.

  But then the guardhouse opens and an entire unit of warriors surrounds us to reinforce our escort as we enter the city. If the sight of the prince wasn’t enough to clear the path, their cracking whips and shouted commands see it done.

  I sink back into my seat, deflated.

  “We are not fools, Prince Olive,” Belina says quietly.

  We pass through the market tents into districts with sturdier structures, then grander buildings still as they approach the oasis at the city’s center. The water is circled by grand domed palaces, each with walls of their own.

  “Where are you taking me?” I ask.

  Belina looks at me like a puzzle she has yet to solve. It would be easier to play coy with my usual defenses. Paints and powder for my face, colorful silk dresses and dyed leather shoes to catch the eye and breath. They were my armor, reminding folk of my position and keeping them at a distance.

  Now that armor is stripped away. My hair is tied back from a face scrubbed clean, tan robes rough against my skin. My sandals are little more than braided cord over slips of wood.

  “You will be taken directly to the Damaji,” Belina says. “It will be Aleveran who will judge you and decide your fate.”

  I don’t argue. What would be the point? I cannot stop them from dragging me before their leader, but I’ll be corespawned before I let him, or Belina, or even my own mother “decide” my fate ever again.

  I get enough of that at home.

  I can feel the armlet hugging my biceps. A welcome presence once, it carries new weight, laden with invisible chains that bind me to the dama’ting’s will.

  For now.

  Belina may think me broken, but I’ve had time during our journey to collect myself, and I have a little fight left in me. They need something from me, or they wouldn’t have risked open war with the North. Whatever it is the Damaji wants, he’ll need to give something in return.

  * * *

  —

  The carriage stops and I step out into blazing sunlight, beating down with an almost physical weight. The air is thick with dust, and I put the veil over my face without thinking.

  “Tsst!” Belina’s hiss is nearly identical to Micha’s. “Men do not veil inside the city walls during the day.”

  I look around. The women are all veiled, but the men are not. Krasian warriors wear veils at night to hide their identities, that personal feuds be put aside when they must stand as brothers against the alagai. Grant no trust to the man who remains veiled in the day, the Evejah said, for hiding his identity gives freedom to act dishonorably without retribution.

  It seems a poor reason to force their men to breathe dust all day, but I lower the cloth, taking shallow breaths. Our Sharum escort forms up around us, a wall of armored warriors t
o discourage prying eyes as we are led forward. I look up and reflexively gasp, choking on the dusty air.

  Belina nods approvingly at the awe on my face. “Sharik Hora, the temple of heroes’ bones. No doubt you’ve heard of it?”

  I nod numbly. The temple is known throughout the world. I always knew it was large, but my imagination never did it justice. I’d pictured a single-domed, sandstone structure, dull and colorless.

  Sharik Hora is anything but. Smooth wide steps climb to a series of broad plazas, leading inexorably higher to a domed temple with soaring minarets that seem to touch the sky. Built to honor the Creator, the pointed arches of its doors and windows are covered by intricate mosaics, scintillating with bright color and precious metal.

  I had thought the Cathedral of the Deliverer in Hollow, which fills an entire city block, was grand. It pales in comparison with the mammoth complex before me. I turn my head this way and that, but it never seems to end. A city in itself, the clerical district has its own walls, sprawling over a vast area, and even many of its smaller domes are larger than Mother’s entire keep.

  But the most eerie part is how empty it all seems. This city was built to hold millions. This temple was built to seat more souls at a single service than the Majah and all their slaves combined.

  But the streets are empty, as are the steps and plazas. The only people in sight are my escort and the white-sleeved temple guards, rigid and unmoving as stone statues. The Cathedral of the Deliverer is a fraction the size, but it is always bustling with people—worshippers, Tenders, acolytes, and clerks.

  Sharik Hora is all the more daunting for its emptiness. I can feel the weight of centuries upon the place, and see it in places along walls and roofs where collections of the ever-blowing dust and sand have hardened into stone of their own.

  The central doors to the temple grow ever larger as we ascend. The pointed arch soars overhead, as if meant to grant access to a race of giants. A pair of fifteen-foot-tall rock demons could walk abreast through the passage with room to spare, were it not for the beautiful wardwork around the frame. Some of the powerful sigils are cut into the stone and painted, others formed by countless tiles of semiprecious stone set in gold.