The Desert Prince

by Brett, Peter V.

  He shakes his head. “I should not have shamed Kai Fiza and the Vipers. We may need their loyalty one day.”

  “They insulted us first.” The vehemence in my tone surprises even me. Battle magic doesn’t just make you strong. It heightens emotions, anger chief among them. I regulate my breath, calming myself.

  “The Vipers are an ambush unit,” Chadan says, “and good at what they do. But they are used to preparing every inch of their terrain, knowing where the enemy will be, and where they can retreat to. They would have been torn apart hunting sand demons through abandoned buildings. Fiza knows this. His jeering was just a weak attempt to salve his pride.”

  He shakes his head. “I must rise above such things, if I mean to lead. Your brother may have given us the Viper’s glory, but we did not need to take their honor, as well. I fear Iraven is deliberately sowing dissent between us and the other units.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. “To what end?”

  Chadan purses his lips and does not reply. I put down the scraper and knead his shoulders with my hands, working the knots from his muscles with strong fingers. “My brother kidnapped me from my home and sold me to your father. I have no love for him, but why would he want to turn the other warriors against us?”

  “Think on it,” Chadan says. “My grandfather will sit the Skull Throne for another decade, at least. If he lives as long as his predecessor, it could be three times that. And my father is still young. I will never be Damaji while he lives. To prevent me from becoming a rival, they made me take the black, with the intent of making me Sharum Ka.”

  At last, I understand. “But then the storms worsened, and a Sharum Ka was needed while you were still in your bido.”

  Chadan nods. “Prince Iraven was already a man, the most famous kai in the Maze, and ambitious. Your father still has loyalists among the Majah. Those who feel shame for deserting the Deliverer’s army on the eve of Sharak Ka. They count many warriors among their number, and follow the son of Jardir. When the alagai returned in force, Grandfather gave him more and more dangerous tasks, hoping to see him fail and his threat be removed.”

  “But he never failed,” I say.

  Chadan nods. “Iraven’s loyalists and seer mother keep him safe. And now that he has the power, he’s doing to us what my grandfather did to him. We will be sent into the thick of every battle until we are dead, or our glory outweighs his.”

  “That’s insane.” Even as I say the word, I realize it isn’t the one I’m looking for. “Monstrous. And to what end? I’m no threat to him. I wouldn’t even be here if not for him.”

  “Dama’ting Belina’s dice produced a convenient prophecy that allowed Iraven to trade his sister for the white turban,” Chadan says.

  “But I wasn’t a sister,” I say, feeling that awful twisting in my gut.

  “A daughter of Ahmann Jardir is a limited threat. A son, however…”

  “No one wanted that,” I say.

  Chadan shrugs, smiling in a way he would never dare in front of the other warriors. “I don’t mind.”

  I stare, smiling like an idiot until he clears his throat. “Even if you were no threat to Iraven, certainly I am. If I prove myself in the Maze, I will be seen as his natural successor for the white turban. So long as Jardir loyalists control the warriors of the tribe, Grandfather is not fully in control.”

  “Perhaps that’s a good thing,” I say. “A balance of power does more to keep the peace than men’s honor.”

  “I assure you, I want the white turban no more than you,” Chadan says. “But if I am forced to choose between glory in the Maze and dying for your brother’s convenience, I will choose glory.”

  “From your lips to Everam’s ears,” I say.

  We leave the private sweat lodge and go into Chadan’s pavilion. It’s not just the men who benefit from our Ka’s new wealth. His pavilion is lavish, with fresh towels and robes of black silk waiting for us. We spend our days luxuriating, eating fresh fruit and a rich variety of savories that seem all the more decadent after months of nothing but gruel, couscous, and spiced meat.

  The air in the Sharum pavilion is hot and thick, a rank mix of spiced sweat and couzi breath, coupled with the ever-present nostril-burning stink of vomit from overindulgent warriors trying to forget the Maze. The air in Chadan’s pavilion is cool, lightly scented with incense and bowls of dried flowers.

  Instead of scooping cups from a communal bucket, we drink cool water from crystal glasses with speared olives floating atop them to add flavor. A chilled pitcher collects moisture on a tray, with servants waiting to refill it.

  It feels so decadent, but I can’t deny I love it. Longed for it. I was raised in a place like this, and unlike pampered Princess Olive, I have earned the luxury, trading blood for ichor in alagai’sharak. Why shouldn’t I wear silk during the day, when each night might be my last?

  “There is glory yet to come, for the Princess Unit,” I say. Outside this chamber, the name is an insult, but between us, it is a private joke, warm and intimate as a caress.

  “Inevera.” Chadan touches his water with a fingertip, letting a single drop fall to the carpet. The ritual sacrifice of something so precious is meant to fend off the misfortune that befalls those who are prideful before Everam.

  “The Vipers have snakes painted on their shields,” I note, “and sewn as patches on their robes. Our men wear only their house emblems, if they even have one.” Chadan’s armor, robe, and shield are adorned with the lone spear of the Majah tribe. My own are blank.

  “You are a son of Ahmann Jardir,” Chadan says. “You have every right to bear House Jardir’s sigil.”

  I shake my head. I could draw the spear, cloak, and crown of Father’s house sigil with my eyes closed, but I have never felt a part of it. “I don’t even know him, Chadan, or him me. I am not Olive am’Jardir. I am Olive Paper.”

  “Then your mother’s sigil,” Chadan suggests.

  “My mother’s sigil is a mortar and pestle surrounded by herbs,” I say. “It doesn’t precisely fill enemy hearts with fear.”

  “Most established units have their own emblem,” Chadan muses. “It gives the men pride. Perhaps it’s time we made our own.”

  My nose crinkles as he falls into my trap. “I already have.”

  I tug at my collar, folding back the lapel of my robe to show the icon I embroidered onto the silk. I worried my hands had lost their touch, but making clothes was my first love, and my needlework is nimble as ever.

  Chadan leans in for a closer look. The sigil I’ve made resembles the Spear of Majah, but driven through an olive, much like the ones flavoring our drinks.

  “Not the most fearsome sigil,” I acknowledge, “but better than a mortar and pestle.”

  Chadan shakes his head. “It’s perfect.”

  I fold back my lapel to hide the patch again, giving the spot a soft pat. “I keep it close to my heart.” I don’t bother to retighten my robe as I lean in close. “I made one for you…if you want.”

  Chadan touches my face gently, but the world falls away until all I can feel are his fingers. “I would wear it with pride.”

  I reach into my satchel, producing a patch and a needle with fine thread. Gently, I fold back his robe, baring a bit of his chest as I measure the length of his lapel to position the patch properly. I take the needle to stitch it in place when Chadan lays a hand over mine. “No.”

  I look at him, confused for a moment, then increasingly stung as the word hangs in the air.

  Chadan pushes it aside with a kiss. We share them frequently now, when alone in his pavilion. His lips linger on mine until the tension leaves me. Gorvan and the others might need to prove themselves men in the harem, but Chadan and I are in no hurry to move on to other things when sharing warmth and kisses still feels stolen and triumphant.

  “Some things we have to hide,
” Chadan whispers, taking the patch from me, “but not our brotherhood.” He lets his lapel fall back into place and lays the spear and olive directly on the front of his robe, over his heart like other Sharum units.

  “Sew it here.”

  I lift the needle, but my hand is shaking. Wearing the patch openly credits us both with leadership of the Princes Unit, something the other kai have refused to acknowledge. But more, it declares our partnership.

  For once, I don’t have to hide. I may still wear a shackle, but I have never felt so free.

  38

  BROTHER

  I look up as Chadan enters the pavilion, and in that moment’s distraction, the needle slides clear through the meat of my thumb.

  “Night!” I hiss. It doesn’t hurt…yet. Just a sensation of wrongness, an alien presence in my flesh. I haven’t stuck myself in years.

  “Why are you still doing that?” Chadan asks.

  “Everyone wants a spear and olive patch, now.” I pull the needle free, put pressure on the wound. That hurts, but it closes quickly. There are thimbles in the sewing kit, but Mother always disdained them.

  Sometimes the best cure is a callus, she would say. I’ve gained many, these past months, but it seems I’ve lost some, as well.

  “Montidahr has a surprisingly steady hand at painting shields,” I say, “but he can no more meet the demand than I can.”

  “No.” Chadan comes to sit beside me. “Why are you, Prince Olive asu’Ahmann, sewing? Get a woman to do it.”

  I blink at him. “Eh?”

  Chadan shakes his head. “You are a kai’Sharum! This is beneath you. And Montidahr, for that matter. Give Tikka a handful of draki. She’ll go to the bazaar and have a women’s circle sew and paint more in one night than you could in a year—and come back with change.”

  Relief floods through me. Designing and making patches for Chadan and myself was intimate and pleasurable. Sewing more than a hundred of them is tedium, and not a good use of my time, especially today.

  It is the first day of Waning.

  “You will have to cut short your visit with your sister,” Chadan says. “Grandfather has bade the Sharum Ka to convene a final war council this afternoon, and we are commanded to attend.”

  It is a tremendous honor. Not every kai attends war council. But like Iraven, our glory in the Maze speaks for itself. Everyone in that room will be my enemy, but that makes earning a place there all the more satisfying. No matter what our disputes in the day, none of us wants demons in the city again.

  “The preparations are complete,” Chadan says. “Every district in the city has active evacuation routes now, and everyone is expected belowground before sunset. Only the Sharum will be in the city tonight.”

  “We’ve done what we can,” I agree, but a cold knot of fear twists my stomach. I know he feels it, too. If there truly is a mind demon out there, we have no way to guess what fresh torment the abyss will spit forth when the sun sets.

  “Best not to dwell on it,” he tells me. “Waning is about enjoying our loved ones, not worrying over sunset.”

  I lay my hand over his. “You’re right. It is.”

  Now that I have taken the veil, the Krasians consider me a man. I am barred from the harem, and must meet Micha in the public gardens instead. Chadan walks with me as I go seeking her through the maze of hedges on the outskirts of the garden of Sharik Hora.

  The same architects that built the killing Maze that protects our city also designed this tribute to life, a labyrinth of green that creates countless secluded bowers around fountains, statues, and grand perennials. It’s one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been, and Chadan laughs whenever I stop to smell a flower.

  Again, I think of Mother, and how she seemed to devote more of her attention to her garden than to me. I didn’t appreciate growing up in those gardens until I spent a few months in the sand.

  A voice cuts through the bushes and I recognize my sister, but not her girlish laughter. I pick up speed, following the sounds until we round a last hedge and see her.

  My sister is veiled and scarved in silk dal’ting blacks, looking more like the woman I have always known than the painted beauty in colored pillow silk I saw on my last visit.

  But a man stands with her amid the blooms. Our eyes widen as we recognize Kai Fiza. Micha is facing away from us, but Fiza sees our approach. A hint of smile plays at his lips as he leans in, murmuring something close to Micha’s ear.

  My sister shrieks with laughter in response, and I know something is wrong. I’ve never heard her laugh like that in my entire life. She lays a hand on his chest for support, letting it linger.

  “The abyss has frozen,” I whisper.

  “Nonsense,” Chadan says. “This is natural as the rain, if every bit as rare. It is good.”

  “Good?” Micha is already married, and to a woman. I’ve never known her to have the slightest interest in men, and she hates the Majah. None of this makes sense.

  “Children will settle her,” Chadan says. I look at him, incredulous, but he only smiles, oblivious to his condescension. “And if she stays, I’m in less danger of losing you.”

  I am not sure if I want to kiss him or punch him, but I can do neither with Fiza watching. There is no shame in men showing love for one another, but a relationship between Chadan and me would be more than just gossip about push’ting princes.

  Worse, Chadan brings up questions I am not prepared to think about. I have no intention of spending the rest of my life in Krasia, but the thought of leaving Chadan is difficult to reconcile. As always, I shove the thought aside to worry over another day.

  Kai Fiza gives a fine bracelet to Micha, and she literally hops with excitement as he slips it on and they both admire it.

  With a bow, Fiza takes his leave, walking past us to exit the bowers. “My princess.”

  “Breathe,” Chadan whispers as I clench a fist. “I will see you at the war council.” Then he, too, is gone.

  “Sister.” Micha glides over to me. The word sounds strange after so much time surrounded by my spear brothers. “Black suits you.” She touches my face, brushing her hand up under my turban to run her fingers through the soft carpet of black atop my head. “Your hair is already coming back.” Her hand falls to the white silk fallen loose around my neck. “And a kai’s veil. I am so proud of you.”

  Her fingers drop lower, gliding gently over the spear and olive patch, and I take a step back. “Enough demonshit, Micha,” I snap. “What in the Core did I just see? Kai Fiza?!”

  “Tsst!” Micha hisses. “Keep your voice down and embrace me, you fool girl.”

  The sudden return to the sister I know takes away my discomfort, if not my confusion. I take her in my arms, squeezing gratefully. She smells as she always has, but something about the embrace feels different. Suddenly, it dawns on me. Every hug, since I was in swaddling, was Micha holding me. Now I am holding her, and it feels alien, like the needle in my flesh. I break the embrace.

  “They guarded me too closely when I resisted,” Micha says. “But in the end, even the dama’ting see what they want to see. The Majah believe they returned to the desert before their women could be ‘corrupted’ by Northern heresies. To them, even a Sharum’ting is just another witless girl at heart, handed a spear when what she truly wants is a husband whose glory exceeds her own.”

  I snort. “You won’t find that in Kai Fiza. His men are skilled at attacking demons from behind, but they fold like paper when the alagai turn and fight.”

  Micha cocks her head at me. “You even sound like them. It’s an impressive illusion.”

  “It’s not an illusion,” I say.

  Once again she tilts her head, studying me. “Perhaps not, but neither is it the whole of you, sister.”

  Again, that word. Perhaps the most alien of all.

  “Today, we
escape.” Micha speaks so quietly it takes a moment for the words to register.

  I start when my mind catches up. “What?!”

  “Tsst!” Micha hisses again. “Listen closely. The morning of each Waning, Prince Iraven meets with his mother for precisely two hours, ending at highsun. After that, she retreats into her Chamber of Shadows until the war council.”

  “So?” I ask.

  “The water Belina finds waiting for her will be drugged,” Micha says. “As will the cloth I slip over her mouth. It is death to kill or even strike a dama’ting, but putting one to sleep…” She shrugs. “A superficial cut behind the shoulder blade will be enough to fill a tear bottle with blood without her ever noticing. Enough to open the blood locks and set us free.”

  My hand drifts over to the armlet. I’m so used to it now, it feels like a part of me. More than once, its wards have turned the teeth of an alagai.

  “Just after highsun, meet me by the statue of Inevera in the lower hall. There is a Sharum’ting tunnel there that will get us into the undercity. The Holy Undercity is designed to keep demons out, not people in. We slip out into one of the outer districts by nightfall, and blend in until I…” she holds up the gold bracelet Kai Fiza gave her, “…can sell the generous gifts of my suitors and use the funds to purchase supplies for a trek through the desert.”

  My mind reels. Leave? Today? Before the Majah and their Thesan thralls shelter in the undercity? Before my spear brothers muster and hold their breath, waiting for an attack that is sure to come? Before I can see Chadan again? I can’t desert them all, in their hour of need.

  An hour ago I thought escape all but impossible. A distant worry. Micha makes it sound so plausible I’m forced to make a decision here and now. “No.”

  “They will expect us to head for the Oasis of Dawn,” Micha goes on, “but we will…eh?”

  “We’re not heading anywhere,” I say. “I’m not ready to leave.”