The Desert Prince

by Brett, Peter V.

  22

  NEVER STOP FIGHTING

  Eventually I regain control. When Iraven staggered his blows, it made each strike individual, layering in fresh pain before I could grow accustomed to the old. But now the pain is a constant, and eventually I can bend as Micha taught, letting it wash over me.

  My sobs ease and I bring my breath into a steady rhythm, bending more easily with each moment. I remain on my knees because it is the easiest on my battered body, and not out of fear of Aleveran.

  That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

  Iraven pushes a water bottle in front of me and I slap it away, regretting the move even as it happens. My throat is dry as the cracked clay flats of the desert. Who do I help, by refusing water? Certainly not myself.

  Whether he can sense my internal debate, or is simply eaten by guilt, Iraven caps the bottle and sets it on the floor next to me. I watch it with the side of my eye, trying not to stare, wondering how long my stubborn pride will keep me from picking it up.

  A door on the dama’ting side of the altar opens and my heart leaps, pain forgotten at the sight of my sister. Micha’s head is bowed in submission, and manacles around her wrists and ankles are bound with thick chain to a central ring. The chains are so short she cannot raise her hands without kneeling, or move at anything close to a full stride.

  But she is alive, and appears well. No doubt Belina had her treated the night we were captured and simply kept us apart for the journey to Desert Spear.

  Micha is escorted to the floor by a pair of Sharum’ting—female warriors like herself. Common enough in modern Krasia—my father gave able-bodied women and khaffit who joined his forces the same rights as his other warriors. But it was said the Majah went back to the old ways when they returned to the desert, forbidding the spear to all but the warrior caste.

  It was posited at Gatherers’ University that these rights would be the first things eliminated upon the Majah secession, but Mother never believed it. “Rights given are not easily stripped away,” she said.

  It seems there is some truth to the words as I eye the hard women of Micha’s escort. They are not lax, watching my sister as if she might break her chains and become a rock demon at any moment. Each has a short, stabbing spear in one hand, another strapped to her back with a rounded shield.

  Micha gasps when she sees me, moving toward me as fast as her chains will allow. It is a snail’s pace that seems to take an eternity. I wobble on my knees, wondering if I can keep from passing out long enough to speak to her.

  At last she makes it across the floor, dropping to her knees and flinging her arms around my neck, careful not to touch the raised and bloody welts left by the alagai tail. She sobs, pulling our foreheads together. Tears run down her nose to touch mine, and suddenly we are both weeping.

  “Are you all right?” I whisper, not knowing how long we have. “Have they…”

  “Belina healed me…each time,” Micha says quietly.

  “Each time?” I ask.

  “Each time I tried to escape,” Micha says. “I killed two guards on the boat and nearly made it to your cabin before they caught me.”

  She says it so matter-of-factly. Of course she tried to escape. But not me. Perhaps my will is more broken than I think.

  “What about you?” Micha asks. “Your back…”

  “I had to know you were alive,” I say. “I told them I would not help them without proof that you are well.”

  “You took the alagai tail…for me?” Micha’s voice is an uncustomary squeak.

  “You killed two guards for me.” I take her face in my hands, feeling the wet of her tears soaking through her veil. “We’re sisters.”

  “They will treat you as my brother.” Micha pulls me close to breathe her next words into my ear. “And you must let them. War is deception. Become what they expect, so they remain ignorant of who you truly are. Hide your strength and bide your time.”

  “Bide it for what?” I whisper. Does she have a plan?

  “You see now your sister is alive and well.” Aleveran’s words pierce the bubble around us, and suddenly I remember we are before the throne, surrounded by the court. “We have not harmed her, despite the Majah blood she has shed. Micha vah Ahmann fought with honor, and deserves honor in return. Even a lesser daughter of Ahmann Jardir is a valuable bride, though her work with the spear has stolen her most fertile years.”

  As I stare at Aleveran, a fantasy plays across my mind—charging up the steps to put my hands around the old man’s throat. Micha only passed her thirtieth summer last year. Grandmum was nearly fifty when she had Selen.

  “On the first morning of Waning each month, your sister will be brought before you to assure you she is well,” Aleveran says. “In return, you will go to sharaj and obey the drillmasters in all things. If you do not…”

  The two female Sharum, so still I had forgotten they were even there, spring into action. Their hands flick back, drawing their second spears. In the blink of an eye there are four spearpoints aimed at Micha, targeting heart, throat, spine, and liver. Any of the four would kill her, but my sister looks unperturbed.

  I meet Aleveran’s gaze and widen my eyes like Grandmum taught me, sticking my lower lip out just a hint. Looking scared is enough for most men, but if that don’t work, most find tears unbearable.

  Elona taught me to weep on command, but the real tears streaking my cheeks are enough. I look as I imagine Aleveran wants me to—deathly afraid and willing to promise anything. “I understand.”

  At a wave from Chavis, the Sharum’ting lower their weapons, each sheathing one to free a hand.

  “In sharaj, fight,” Micha whispers as they reach for her arms. “It is the only thing men respect.” The guards pull her to her feet, but she keeps talking. “The first day, fight. Every day, fight. When you lose, fight. When you win, fight.” The guards yank her away so hard she stumbles on her chain. They pause while she regains her balance, and Micha meets my eyes one last time.

  “Never stop fighting.”

  23

  CHADAN

  I sit back on my heels, shaking, as they drag Micha away. Pain, exhaustion, and anguish all work together to push me over, and soon they will have their victory.

  Never stop fighting.

  I don’t know if I have the strength, the courage, to do as Micha asks. There is a difference between choosing the right moment to be stubborn, and committing to a life without fear.

  But still I strain, refusing to collapse in front of the court. Relief floods me as Aleveran adjourns, but no one rushes to leave. Chavis ascends to the throne, leaning in to confer with the Damaji. On both sides of the aisle, clerical councils put their heads together.

  I remember similar informal sessions in Mother’s court, councilors taking the time together to confer on the news of the day and prepare strategies. Today there is much to discuss. Iraven was sent to capture a princess, and has returned with a prince, no doubt casting all their plans and schemes into disarray.

  But for every minute they linger, a part of me dies. Soon there will be nothing left, and I fear I will die here on my knees.

  “That was very stupid, brother.” Iraven drops to squat beside me, whispering. “Aleveran might have killed you.”

  I shake my head, surprised at how light it feels with my hair cut away. The sensation of sweat cooling off the top of my head is strange and unpleasant. “No—”

  I choke on a throat gone sticky and rough. Iraven brings the water bottle to my lips, and this time I am not too proud to drink. I pull so hard I cough the first swallow back up. After that I drink more slowly until the passage reopens and something of my voice returns.

  “No,” I say again. “You might have killed me. You, Iraven asu Ahmann am’Jardir am’Majah, would have beaten your own brother to death for your Damaji’s favor.”

  “Do not
presume to know me, brother.” Iraven’s whisper turns harsh. “You have no idea what we face. I serve the Majah, not my own ambition.”

  I force a laugh I don’t feel—the snort of derision I’ve seen Grandmum wield like a lash. “Keep telling yourself that tampweed tale.”

  A vein pulses on Iraven’s jaw, and I think he might strike me. I hope he does. I’m in such pain I will hardly feel it, but the loss of control will weaken him in the eyes of the tribe’s elders.

  Iraven understands that, too. His breathing becomes slow and even, and the vein disappears. “Hannu Pash will be good for you, brother. The sharaj will beat the insolent tongue from you better than I ever could. Now get up.”

  He slides an arm under mine and attempts to haul me to my feet. My legs feel like ice that has just begun to form. I fear they will shatter if I put my full weight on them. I am disgusted with myself as I cling to Iraven’s steady arm, desperately needing its support.

  “I can’t walk.” I grimace at the whimper in my voice.

  “You have to,” Iraven says. “When you were my sister, I could carry you. Now you are my brother, and in Krasia, warriors walk before the Skull Throne.”

  “I’m not a warrior,” I say.

  Iraven looks at me as if I am a fool. “It is preferable to the alternative, I assure you.”

  I glance around. Everyone, from the dama and dama’ting of the council to the servants and guards, casts glances my way as they go about their business, watching while pretending not to watch. I don’t know a lot about Majah customs, but I understand palace gossip. All of them are hungry for tales of the push’ting prince to bring back to their personal fiefdoms.

  So I grit my teeth and stumble along, step by agonizing step, until we reach Belina, waiting by an exit door on the dama’ting side of the altar. I stumble through into a private corridor, and as the door shuts behind us, Iraven sweeps me up into his arms. “You bore that well, brother.”

  The compliment should sicken me, but I’m too relieved to be off my feet. I melt, feeling consciousness slipping away.

  “Take him to the Chambers of Healing,” Belina says.

  That wakes me. Sharik Hora is famed for its warrior bones, its mammoth size and architecture, its vast libraries of ancient texts, dating as far back as the first demon war, three thousand years ago. But no place was spoken of in Gatherers’ University with as much awe and wonder as the Dama’ting Chambers of Healing. Our Krasian instructors would invoke the legendary place like it was the final authority in medicine.

  Even in my haze, I cannot help but take in what I can. This part of the temple is not covered in bones, the magnificent halls warded with intricate mosaics, brightly woven carpets, rich tapestries, and paintings so vivid it feels they might come to life. Sharum’ting guards are posted in the halls, and everything smells of dried herbs and old books.

  It reminds me of Mother’s office, and that frightens me most of all.

  I am taken into a private chamber with a table for medical procedures and an array of bottles, jars, and surgical implements. Iraven lays me facedown on the table as Belina begins filling a mortar with various herbs and oils.

  “It is forbidden to cast healing spells on wounds from the alagai tail,” Belina says, grinding the mix into paste with a stone pestle. “Remember that, the next time you choose to speak out of turn and make demands of the Damaji.”

  She strips away my shredded shirt, methodically cleaning and inspecting my lacerated back. There is a needle and thread on her tray, but the wounds are too shallow to stitch. Instead she spreads the paste over my back. It is pungent and stings at first, but the feeling soon fades into comfortable numbness as the herbs do their work.

  “Rest now while you can,” Belina says. “The Damaji wants you in sharaj before the day is out.”

  “I will take him myself,” Iraven says.

  “Best bark quickly, when master says speak,” I say.

  “Tsst!” Belina slaps me across the back, and I gasp in pain. “Silly, stupid boy. You understand nothing of what your brother has sacrificed to regain what was taken from him.”

  “He has sacrificed me,” I reply. “What else is there to understand? To replace what was taken from him, he has robbed its measure from me.” I turn to stare at Iraven. “You owe me a blood debt, brother. One day I will collect, if our father doesn’t call it due, first.”

  “When he learns of your mother’s deception, his anger will be for her, not us,” Belina says.

  He already knows. I think the words rather than speak them, for they come too close to my secret. “You know him better than I,” I say instead. “What will he do, if he learns I am prisoner to the tribe who deserted Sharak Ka in humanity’s hour of need?”

  Belina looks at me with sad eyes. “His first wish will be to send an army to crush us, even if thousands die on both sides of Desert Spear’s walls. That is what a blood debt means, little greenland prince. Are you prepared for it to be paid in innocent blood?”

  I look away, unable to meet her gaze any longer. Belina is right. I don’t understand. Not truly. And I am so tired. “Then why tempt it?”

  “Because we have nothing to lose,” Belina says. “The storms continue to build. They will consume us as surely if we do nothing.”

  * * *

  —

  I’m on my feet just a few hours later, but already I feel stronger. I heal faster than other folk, especially when I sleep. The wounds on my back have already closed, but it is a tentative thing. Even a gentle stretch in the wrong direction could reopen them.

  Iraven is talking about something as he leads me through the training grounds. I’m barely listening. He never shuts up.

  “Once, there were twelve great pavilions,” Iraven says. “A sharaj for every tribe in Krasia.”

  The yard is massive, enough for every man, woman, and child in the city to march and practice formations, but much of it is dusty and unused. Instead of twelve pavilions, I see four, each surrounded by a cluster of low, clay buildings.

  “Now the sharaji are divided by blood,” Iraven continues. “Full blood for the sons of pure-blooded Majah warrior families. Half blood for the sons of dal’Sharum and chin women. Coward’s blood for the sons of khaffit, and green blood for the sons of chin fathers.”

  The sky is awash with color as Iraven leads me through the grounds to the largest pavilion. As we pass, warriors take note of his white turban and bow, punching fists to their chests. One goes even further, dropping to one knee. The red veil of a drillmaster is loose around his throat. “First Warrior. News spread quickly of your rise. It is good to see you in the white turban at last.”

  “Rise, my friend,” Iraven reaches out a hand and the drillmaster takes it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet.

  “You honor us with your presence,” the drillmaster says. “The class is ready for your inspection.” He gestures to a line of skinny boys, many of them clad in nothing but tan bidos and wooden sandals. Some of them are breathing hard and sweating. The dust has not yet settled at their feet. They must have assembled in a hurry when the pavilion guards spotted Iraven’s approach.

  “That is not necessary, Chikga.” Iraven gives the boys a dismissive wave of his hand. “I am only here to deliver Prince Olive into your hands.”

  “The push’ting prince?” Chikga laughs. “His mother is a greenland heasah. Send him to the half-bloods.” Some of the boys snicker, and I feel my flesh crawl. What is he delivering me to? What is my life about to become?

  Iraven isn’t laughing. His face darkens, and the drillmaster takes immediate note. “Tsst!”

  The hiss is enough to silence the boys. Some look at the drillmaster with open fear, others with respect, but none dare question him.

  “Olive is the son of Ahmann Jardir, Chikga, and he is my brother.” Iraven’s words are quiet, but weighted with menace. �
�Can the other pavilions train him as well as yours?”

  Chikga swallows any retort, taking a step back and punching a fist to his chest. “Of course not, Sharum Ka. Inevera, it will be done.”

  Iraven turns to look at me. He doesn’t shout, but he raises his voice enough that even the students can hear. “Do not expect any special treatment beyond that, brother. Life in the green lands has no doubt made you soft. The coming days will be difficult, but they will harden you.” He steps close, lowering his voice so only I can hear. “And if you wish to see your sister again next Waning, you had best obey the drillmaster’s every command.”

  With that, he turns and walks off. Already an entourage of kai’Sharum and drillmasters is waiting, doubtless to congratulate him on being raised to First Warrior, and escort him to his new palace.

  “Quit staring, boy.” Drillmaster Chikga slaps the back of my head. With my hair shorn away, the blow sounds with a sharp crack. “Strip down and join the others in line.”

  “Strip?” I immediately regret the question as the drillmaster scowls.

  “Bidos and sandals only, nie’Sharum,” he sneers. “Boys must earn their robes.”

  I grit my teeth as the other students snigger, but the sounds choke off as I turn my back and pull off my shirt, revealing the lines Iraven’s whip left across my back, crusted with blood and Belina’s healing paste.

  Even Chikga blows out a breath at the sight. “Tougher than you look, I’ll give you that.”

  I am thankful the sight keeps their attention from my front. For now, my chest remains as flat as the other boys, but even Mother could only guess if it would remain that way, or if I would soon be lacing myself into a bodice like her and Grandmum. What will happen if my breasts start to show before I’m allowed to wear more than just a bido?

  “What’s this?” The drillmaster slaps the armlet around my biceps. “It’s a pretty bauble—my daughter has one just like it—but we wear no trinkets here.”