Sharani series Box Set

by Kevin L. Nielsen

  Even Lhaurel flinched at the words. Marvi was the only one who could get away with speaking so ill of the Warlord, and even for her it was dangerous. If her husband hadn’t been so indulgent, he could have ordered her death just for referring to his nod as “flippant.” Lhaurel grated at the irony of Marvi being the one to always punish her for acting unwomanly. Lhaurel had often found it to be true: those who most vehemently supported an ideal were often the ones to most egregiously and consistently violate it. As it was, what Marvi said was true, at least insofar as taking care of the warren despite the Warlord was concerned. She never let his temper get in the way of getting things done.

  Lhaurel did feel guilty about getting Saralhn into trouble again, though. She hadn’t known Saralhn had been appointed to watch over her. Likely Saralhn had known Lhaurel needed the mental and emotional break and had let her go, knowing full well she’d get in trouble for it. That was so like Saralhn. Lhaurel made a mental note to thank her for it later. After she apologized.

  “You’re as wayward as a Roterralar, child,” Marvi continued, ushering the procession through a series of passages normally reserved for women who wore a purple shufari. “Maybe one of the older, widowed warriors would suit you best. Sands knows I’ve had my hands full trying to find someone willing to take you after everything you’ve done.” Lhaurel didn’t have to see Marvi’s face to know the Matron was rolling her eyes toward the heavens. “Taren would have you broken and gentled within the week.” Her voice grew soft at the end, almost a whisper, and she grimaced.

  Lhaurel couldn’t suppress a scowl of her own. If she had to get married at all, couldn’t it at least be to someone who wasn’t old enough to be her grandfather? Part of her gave a mental shrug. What difference did it really make? The choice wasn’t hers either way.

  The young women around her broke out in whispers, each suggesting a potential match among the eligible bachelors of the clans. Taren was, surprisingly, one of the least objectionable choices.

  “Enough of that now,” Marvi said, noticing Lhaurel’s scowl. “You will learn your place. Just as your sisters have.”

  Lhaurel had always hated how all the women of a certain age were referred to as sisters, even when there was little, if any, relationship between them. She had no true sisters, and the women in her own age group found her odd, almost as odd as she found them. Most of them were around her, wearing the yellow shufari that marked them as bound to a man, wedded within the last year. After that, they would wear the brown until their husbands attained a high enough status for their wives to wear the purple. Or, like Marvi, their husbands became the Warlord. Then they would wear the blue.

  Lhaurel was as different from them as it was possible to be. She stood a full head taller than most of the Sidena woman, tall and thin and straight like a pole, all angles and bone without much of a figure to speak of. Where they were olive skinned with dark hair and dark, ovular eyes, Lhaurel was fair of skin, was covered in freckles, and sported an unruly mane of bushy hair the color of new-formed rust.

  Sisters indeed. Well, she counted Saralhn as a sister, so they weren’t all bad.

  The procession led her to the bathing chambers, where steam wafted up from the salted hot spring vents. The water was unsuitable for drinking, but it served perfectly for bathing or washing out clothes as long as you didn’t mind the fine grit of salt that was left behind. Honestly, it wasn’t much different than having your clothes or body covered in sand. Either way you remained itchy.

  The salt springs were the pride of the Sidena, and the salt harvested from them was a staple of trade for the clan when they were in the Oasis. The shallower pools, farther down in the caves, were a stable source of drinking water once the processing was completed. Lhaurel didn’t understand it completely, but it involved capturing the steam. Somehow that produced non-salty drinking water. Or something like that.

  Lhaurel stripped and stepped into the hot water while listening to Marvi prattle on. She smiled when the dirt, sweat, and sand were washed away, leaving her skin feeling clean and smooth. As she slipped beneath the water to rinse her hair, though, Lhaurel couldn’t help but suppress a nervous little shiver that crept up her spine. She was getting married today. A small part of her was excited and nervous all at once. Another part of her, the larger part, felt an overwhelming sense of defeat. She’d have to give up so much. Her independence, the freedom to clandestinely do things women were not supposed to do, was at an end.

  “You know, you really shouldn’t provoke the Matron like that, Lhaurel.” A soft voice said when Lhaurel broke the surface of the water.

  Lhaurel opened her eyes. Marvi and most of the other women had departed while she had been under the water, leaving only one behind. Saralhn, the closest thing she had to a friend. As was custom, Saralhn, the most recently wed among the women, would prepare Lhaurel for her own union.

  The short woman frowned at her, arms folded beneath her breasts. “Running off like that on the morning of your wedding.” Saralhn held out a towel so that Lhaurel could dry herself off. “Why do you always do that?”

  “You know why, Saralhn,” Lhaurel said, taking the towel.

  Saralhn only sighed and shook her head.

  Lhaurel ran the rough towel through her hair, making it stick out at odd angles over her head. “Thanks for letting me go anyway. I didn’t mean to get you into trouble.”

  Saralhn smiled and helped dry Lhaurel off with another towel she took from a nearby stack.

  “I don’t see that you have anything to complain about,” Saralhn said after a moment, a small note of envy creeping into her voice. “If you really do end up with Taren, you’ll jump straight to the purple after your year with the yellow.”

  “We’ll just have our children call him grandfather instead of father,” Lhaurel said, making a face. “It’ll be wonderful.”

  “Oh, Lhaurel, why do you have to fight so much? This is our life. It is a good life. Being married, being a woman, they have their own rewards. Besides, no matter how much you fight it, there’s no way out.”

  Lhaurel maintained her silence as she finished drying herself. Saralhn was right, of course. There wasn’t any way out, and that’s what Lhaurel hated more than anything. Her only purpose, according to the clan, was to serve her husband and the clan by producing more children and tending to womanly tasks. All the other women in the clan accepted this and seemed to find some measure of happiness in fulfilling that purpose. Lhaurel sometimes wondered if there was something wrong with her since her thoughts dwelt on things generally denied to women. Mostly she wondered what was wrong with them.

  Saralhn turned and retrieved a small box from a nook in the wall. Actually, it wasn’t a box at all. It was something wrapped in a piece of white cloth.

  Lhaurel looked a question at Saralhn, who gave her a small smile as she handed Lhaurel the bundle. “It’s not much, but it was the best I could do.”

  Lhaurel slowly removed the cloth, revealing a thin white comb made of bone, teeth set wide apart. With Lhaurel’s thick hair, the wide teeth would be a welcome relief.

  “Oh, Saralhn,” Lhaurel said, voice catching. “Thank you.”

  Saralhn held up a hand to silence her, a faint smile on her lips. “I understand, Lhaurel. Let’s just pretend, for now, that I’ve convinced you to be happy and that you actually are, okay?”

  Lhaurel smiled through the tears in her eyes.

  No further words were exchanged between them. Not as Saralhn combed and braided Lhaurel’s hair. Not when Saralhn garbed her in the robes of a bride. And not when the gaggle of young, married women returned and hurried her away. None were needed.

  * * *

  Lhaurel waited impatiently in the exact center of the greatroom, thick leather ties hanging from her left wrist—the bonding ties. Her hair was arranged in a beautiful net of braids and beads that spread down her back like dunes. She fingered her blue dress for perhaps the hundredth time, feeling the fine material and wishing she could scratch wit
hout appearing nervous. She would have preferred the dress be green, but blue was the traditional color of a bride.

  All around her, the clan stood in neat rows, warriors in front, women and children behind. She stood alone, open and exposed.

  The reality of it all hit her with the force of a storm wall. She’d put on a brave face for Saralhn earlier, but she had been right. There was no way out of this. Standing here in front of everyone, waiting for her first glimpse of the warrior to whom she would be bound—this was the beginning of the end.

  She was devoid of shufari. It was the only time in a woman’s life that her status was not openly displayed about her waist. In that moment she was nothing, a woman devoid of identity and life until her new husband arrived. When he did, she ceased being an individual and started being a possession. It was her last silent moment of freedom.

  Lhaurel sniffed and swallowed hard, though her mouth was suddenly dry. She ground her teeth together, refusing to cry. Crying was a waste of pure, precious water. Instead she stood erect and raised her chin, putting on a smile. She saw Saralhn standing behind her husband, but the woman’s eyes were dutifully looking elsewhere. Toward where the bridegroom would enter.

  Lhaurel glanced around the room at the assembled clansmen, unable to look where they were looking. Maryn stood next to her husband, Cobb, the older couple looking stern and resolute, as always. Portly Jerria, with her gaggle of children around her, snatched one of them as they ran by and put the offending child back in line where she belonged. Lhaurel had spent nearly five full fortnights with that family before Jerria had asked Marvi to pass her along to another one.

  A small group of children, all younger than eight years old, stepped forward as an older woman produced a set of thin reed pipes and began to play. The melody was a familiar one, played at every bonding ceremony. The notes of the song echoed in the large room, the effect being a broken duet. A call and then a distant echo. The children began to sing, though Lhaurel couldn’t distinguish the words. A wash of jumbled emotions spread through her, so mixed up Lhaurel couldn’t begin to pick out any one in particular.

  From behind and to the left of the assembled crowd, hand drums began to pound. The sounds rang out in the sandstone chamber, echoing off the walls and amplifying the notes of Lhaurel’s pounding heart. Beads of sweat formed on Lhaurel’s brow as the crowd directly across from her parted and the Warlord led his procession, eight warriors forming a tight ring around her chosen husband.

  Lhaurel tried to catch a glimpse of the hidden man, but the warriors around him stood too close together for her to make out anything but the standard brown of cloth and leather. A hard look from the Warlord, who had noticed her rebellious act, dropped her back on her heels. But she refused to lower her gaze.

  The Warlord cut an imposing figure, full of hard lines and with a face as impassive as stone. His graying hair was pulled back into a topknot by a simple cord adorned with a metal pin shaped like a sword. He walked with the grace of a warrior but the poise and air of one who had lived with authority as a mantle since youth.

  Growing up, Lhaurel had often thought the man arrogant. Looking at him now, she revised her earlier opinion. It wasn’t arrogance. It was condescension. She almost took a small step backward as his gaze fell upon her once again. She realized that she was chewing on her bottom lip and stopped herself.

  The crowd around them watched the ceremony impassively as the procession passed through a hallway of crossed swords and then parted, revealing the warrior hidden at their center.

  Lhaurel couldn’t push back the rush of despair that washed over her. It was Taren.

  He smiled at her with a crooked grin, though there was no levity or humor in the look. His perfect brown robes and thick leather groom’s vest were at odds with his bald pate and scarred hands. A long leather cord trailed down from his right hand. The sealing dagger hung at his waist.

  Lhaurel’s breath caught in her throat, and she fought a wave of panic. Her eyes sought out Saralhn, who gave her a small nod of encouragement. She could do this.

  With a start, Lhaurel realized that the Warlord had come to face her and that the procession had arrayed itself around her, forming a half circle. The warriors’ faces reflected a range of emotions, from pride to solemnity. Lhaurel’s pulse quickened, and color burned on her cheeks. She felt hot and cold at the same time. The cloying smell of sweat and drink hung heavy on the air. Lhaurel clutched at her dress with both hands to keep them from shaking.

  The Warlord began to speak. “Two hearts, two hands, two lives entwined.” He grabbed Lhaurel’s left arm and held it up alongside Taren’s right. The leather thongs hung in the air between them, rocking back and forth like pendulums. “Two becomes one through the bonds of time. Two to become one, flesh of their flesh, heart of their hearts, blood of their blood.” The Warlord pulled the sealing dagger from Taren’s waist and slashed it across her left wrist in one swift stroke.

  Lhaurel gasped. The pain was hot, incredibly hot, though the wound was shallow. Deep red blood poured from the wound, ran down her arm, and dripped from her elbow onto the sand. She almost expected it to hiss and steam. Instead it pooled and formed a dirty puddle.

  The Warlord grabbed Taren’s right arm and flipped it forward so the palm faced him. Four distinct scars stretched across his wrist, the one closest to his palm faded with age. Four scars meant four wives that had gone to the grave performing their greatest duty, bringing more sons into the world that could protect the warren from the genesauri and the other clans. At that moment, Lhaurel saw the scars as tributes to four women only remembered through the number of their sons still living.

  Among the warriors, the scars were worn as badges of honor. Lifeblood pumped through the wrists. A cut too deep could lead to the loss of a hand or even their lives. Jenthro had years of practice, and no one, man or woman, had died from the sealing cuts for years.

  Helplessness spiced with fear sank into the pit of Lhaurel’s stomach. Blood pumped from her wrist and dripped into the sand. The last four women married to this man had died.

  “His blood in her veins,” The Warlord continued, slashing Taren across the wrist beneath the fourth scar, “pumping to her heart. Her blood in his, sealing the union. Flesh to flesh, heart to heart, blood to blood.” He pulled Lhaurel’s wrist up and pressed her cut against Taren’s, wrapping the leather thongs around them both. She felt the older man’s blood mingle with hers, hot and sticky, pumping through the slit in her wrist and down into her arm. She could smell the salty tang of it in the air. Less blood came from his cut than hers.

  “And thus are they sealed.”

  It was done. The music ended.

  A murmur arose from the surrounding watchers. Hands were raised into the sky, palms forward, exposing scars of varying degrees of freshness in a token salute. Tradition named it a gesture of honor and respect.

  Lhaurel bit her bottom lip against the pain as Taren raised their bound hands high, nearly pulling Lhaurel from her feet. Even with her abnormal height, he towered over her.

  “Hail the union!” Taren shouted into the chamber. His voice echoed and reverberated over and over until it was joined by other warriors’ voices, shouting exultation to the heavens.

  Lhaurel looked down toward the ground and swallowed hard against the bile welling at the back of her throat. Blood dripped over taut leather.

  The echoes rose to a frenzied, cacophonous pitch. Then the sounds fell away, dying in a ragged succession that left the last note a broken, hollow thing. Lhaurel looked up and blinked, noticing that the assembled watchers had turned from her and Taren and were looking toward the northern side of the room. She turned in the direction they were looking.

  A red-robed figure walked forward with the gait of a much older man, as if his presence there weren’t unusual at all. He was one of a group of strange men who wandered the sands without a home and called themselves Roterralar, or wanderers. They weren’t outcasts but something far more odd, always garbe
d in red robes and steeped in rumor and suspicion. The crowd parted with tones of fear and amazement, affording Lhaurel a complete view.

  The Roterralar walked forward with a determined expression, his eyes hard, though there was a smile on his lips. He seemed to be favoring his right side slightly, taking a dragging limp forward with that leg while walking normally with the left. And behind him he dragged the body of a sailfin.

  The eight-foot-long behemoth was clearly dead, but even still, Lhaurel struggled to hold back a gasp of fear. It came out as a mixed gasp of fear and amazement, echoed throughout the room by a half-hundred throats. Even though the sailfins were the smallest and most plentiful of the genesauri monsters, few there had seen one up so close. Fewer still could look at this one without a wave of fear and confusion.

  Jerria’s face hardened, and one of her smaller children started to cry. The woman had lost her first husband to a sailfin pack during the previous Migration.

  Lhaurel fought back her own wave of pain and memories, though her thoughts had grown clouded with the blood loss and pain.

  “What are you about, man?” Jenthro shouted, cutting over the small hum of amazement that had overcome the onlookers.

  The man took another few shuffle-steps forward, dragging the corpse behind him, careful to avoid the poisonous purple spines of the sail on its back.

  “Well, aren’t we all excited on this happy day?” the Roterralar said, meeting Lhaurel’s eye and inclining his head slightly.