9780981988238

by Leona Wisoker

  Sand lay in all directions; great, rolling swells of it, with only a faint haze of mountains to the west to break the monotony. No sign of Chacerly, Micru, Halla, Gria, or Sela. More questions, more worry; she set her teeth lightly in the tip of her tongue to keep from asking. If any of the rules Chac had taught her applied, she would be in debt for the answer; and right now, she couldn't afford that. Being alive and unhurt might be a debt all in itself, for all she knew.

  “Come,” the man said from behind her. “Eat.”

  She resisted the pull of her stomach and turned to look at him. His amusement deepened into an actual grin; she let her stare grow into a glare.

  It didn't seem to bother him.

  “Eat,” he said again, and made shooing motions with his hands, directing her towards the tent.

  Alyea drew a deep breath and walked towards the stew pot. Three small wooden bowls and carved spoons sat on a small tray, and a large ladle hung from the side of the stew pot. She scooped out a bowl of stew, trying, as she moved, to watch the men nearby; they showed no interest in her. They ate silently, staring straight ahead, faces dull and slack.

  “Over here,” the small man called. She followed him around the side of the carriage. A thick, coarsely woven mat had been spread on the sand; another, larger one slanted overhead to shade the area.

  Alyea settled down on the mat as gracefully as she could and began to eat. A few mouthfuls into the stew, the mild spice taste flared suddenly into an eye-watering heat. Alyea had laughed when northerners choked on food she considered almost bland; now it was her turn to gasp and cough, and her guide's turn to laugh.

  But: “Don't bite into the cactus peppers,” her unidentified guide said without any hint of laughter, glancing down at her as she sputtered. He unhooked a leather bag from his belt and passed it to her. She stared at it uncertainly.

  “Hah, northern, like this.” He took it back, upended it over his mouth, and squeezed; a cloudy liquid squirted into his mouth.

  She tried it, managing to get most of the liquid into her mouth, and swallowed through almost pure reflex. The fire of the cactus pepper faded, replaced by a vile sourness; she coughed and almost gagged at the lingering taste.

  “What was that?” she said when she could speak again.

  “Perroc-s'etta,” the man said. “Cactus milk. Fermented.”

  Alyea drew a careful, deep breath, and set the bowl aside. “I'm done, thanks.”

  “Finish eating,” the man said, unsmiling now. “You need it. Just don't bite any of these. . . .” He leaned down, dipped forefinger and thumb into her bowl, and pulled out a long, white strip Alyea had thought to be some sort of potato. “Cactus pepper.” He dropped the pepper in his mouth and chewed with a contented expression.

  Alyea shuddered, considered refusing to eat, and decided this man would probably pour it down her throat if he had to; he had that look to him—friendly, to a point, and business after that. If that had been the expression on her own face while questioning Gria and Sela, small surprise the women hadn't trusted her.

  Alyea certainly didn't trust this man: not with questions, not with answers should he ask any himself. She ate the soup quietly and set the bowl on the ground when she finished.

  He picked it up and walked away. She stared out at the heat-bleached landscape before her and, on impulse, went back to her aqeyva lessons. Let thought fade, Ethu had taught her. Let the questions go; fear and anger and worry all become irrelevant. She'd never been very good at it before, but somehow, in the utter, heat-hazed stillness of the desert, it seemed simple. Soon only her breathing registered, rasping in and out of her throat. Even the sweat trickling down her face faded from notice.

  At last she took a deep breath and opened her eyes. The small man squatted in front of her, an arm's length away, an odd expression on his face as he watched her.

  Calm, centered, and alert now, she picked up on details she'd missed earlier: the pattern at the edge of his shirt, the calluses on his fingers—and on the edges of his hands. Micru, and some of the other Hidden, had hands like those. A dark tattoo looped around and around his left forearm in a flowing, twined line. She'd seen that mark in an old book, one Chac had saved from the Purge and given to Oruen. This man followed one of the old gods: probably Comos, the god of neutrality.

  She met his dark stare without flinching. “Nu-s'e,” she said. “I am sus'a Alyea.”

  He nodded slowly. “Ka,” he said. “I'm honored by the gift of your name. I am Juric, taska. Courier, carrier, guide, and watcher.”

  “Ka,” she said. “Thank you for the food and drink.”

  He smiled a little and stood, stepping onto the sand without apparent discomfort. Alyea glanced at the thick callus on his feet and stayed put, then looked up at the sky to check the sun. The endless blue sky had shifted into blazing streaks of orange and violet; she'd been in aqeyva trance for hours. No wonder he'd been looking at her like that. She'd never stayed in trance that long before; nobody she knew ever had.

  He smiled at the expression on her face. “The desert tends to take time from you,” he said. “Why are you here?”

  It had the feel of a formal question, almost a riddle game. She considered, watching the tiny shifts in his face as he returned her gaze; she thought about the tattoo on his forearm and what it implied, and finally said, “Am I here?”

  “I am here,” Juric said. “You are here. Why?”

  She drew a deep breath, let it out very slowly, and gambled. “Ask the wind.”

  A moment of silence hung, while he stared at her; then he smiled again, but it held a dangerous edge this time. “You do not follow Comos.”

  “I've never been called, no.”

  “Alyea,” he said, abruptly dropping out of the formal tones, “do you know why you're here?”

  She stopped herself before she could say: because I'm an idiot, and swallowed.

  “No,” she said. “I don't. I'm ignorant.”

  “Ignorant,” he said, “not stupid.”

  She stared at him. Had he heard her unspoken words?

  He smiled. “I also trained in aqeyva, Alyea. For much longer than you have.”

  Alyea tried to smooth her expression to the blandness Juric had shown a few moments ago.

  “Not bad,” he said, grinning. “Keep practicing.”

  She set her teeth in her tongue to stop the questions she dearly wanted to ask.

  He nodded, as if pleased at her continuing silence, and motioned her up and off the mat. She found, to her surprise, that the sand felt warm, but hardly as scorching as she'd expected. Juric lifted the two mats, then rolled them up into one thick bundle with quick, professional movements; his gaze swept the sky and surrounding sands, darting back to his work now and again.

  The rolled mats held in one hand, he gestured to the carriage.

  “Get in,” he said.

  She obeyed without protest, noting in passing that the men had broken down their tent, bundled the poles and fabric into a neat cylinder, and kicked sand over the remnants of the small fire, obscuring it completely. Under the steady evening breeze beginning to flow across the sand, all traces of their passing would be gone within hours.

  She shivered, feeling vulnerable and frightened again, and sat on the low bed. After a few moments, Juric followed her in, shut the door behind him, and after tucking the rolled mats under the bench seat, settled on the bench almost across from her. The small space suddenly seemed much smaller, and his dark stare less friendly.

  Juric rapped his knuckles on the wall by his head, and the carriage lurched as the men lifted it. The carriage swayed; a low chanting came from outside, cadence time in a foreign tongue. They moved forward, carried on the shoulders of six strong men.

  “Machago,” she said in a low voice, glaring at Juric. “You're a slavemaster.”

  He shook his head. “Taska. Courier. Carrier. Errand-boy. I'm not their master.”

  “They're slaves.”

  “Of course,” he s
aid. “But not bound slaves. They're working off crimes and debts. Once they work off their due, they'll be free with no stigma.”

  “Crimes,” she repeated, careful to keep it flat and non-questioning. He smiled, showing even, white teeth. “We don't have time for the formal games, right now; you'll incur no debt by asking open questions. Except,” he added, holding up a hand as if she'd jumped to speak, although she'd made no move. “I tell you when you can ask questions, and you have to answer my questions honestly.”

  She considered, looking for traps, and finally nodded. “Accepted.”

  “Ask,” he said. “Two questions.”

  She drew breath, chose carefully from the myriad of worries, and said, “Where is Gria?”

  His eyebrows rose, as if he'd expected a different question. “Your ugren slave?” he said. “With the hask.”

  She debated asking what hask meant, but she suspected he meant Chacerly, and she had a more important question in mind.

  “Why is Gria so important?” she said instead.

  His smile faded. He studied her for a few breaths, that odd look on his face again, and finally said, “The hask underestimated you badly. You're better off with me. I ask you in return: what do you know of desert Family bloodlines?”

  “Everyone's related,” she said before she could stop herself, and bit her tongue.

  His amused look returned.

  “True,” he admitted. “Another question: have you heard of the blood trial?”

  “I've heard the words,” she said, “but I don't know what they mean.”

  “To become a full desert lord, men must go through the blood trials,” Juric said. “Each man's trials are different, but all must be tested by Callen followers of Comos, of Ishrai, and of Datda, the old gods of the desert. All three Callen must be unanimous in their agreement that the supplicant is worthy to become a desert lord. Not all who apply are accepted to go through the trials, and not all who are accepted survive.”

  She waited. He nodded, approving, and went on:

  “Different families have different rules on who is allowed to become a desert lord. Sessin will only allow their full-blooded children to attempt the blood trials. Scratha has always been less . . . particular, but perhaps that is because their matrilineal reckoning ensures the blood will stay in their family in the end.”

  He bent and slid open a thin drawer from under the bed. Lifting out a thick tan shawl, he handed it to her and closed the drawer. She draped the wrap around her, only now aware that the temperature had begun to drop rapidly. The sand-colored shawl felt thick and warm; she hugged it tight and said, “Thank you.”

  “The Callen take whatever applicants come to them,” he said, ignoring her gratitude. “Once in a while, a supplicant comes who has not been sent by a Family. This is exceptionally rare, but it has happened before. Cafad Scratha was one such exceptional person; his entire Family was slaughtered while he was out on a desert vigil. Nobody remained to back his application, and the other Families, for whatever reason, would not put their names behind his. He opted to take the trials without a sponsoring Family. It was the only way he could become Lord of Scratha Family and remain in possession of his lands.”

  His voice came from a gathering shadow as the light faded. Alyea shivered again, tucking the shawl closer around her body. She thought about asking if they could light a candle or hand-lantern, but the dark didn't seem to bother Juric, and the carriers apparently could see well enough.

  “Understand, Scratha Family has always been highly respected as scholars and diplomats,” Juric's voice went on. “They studied old writings and were always able to smooth over political difficulties. A gathering was considered lacking if a Scratha lord did not attend. They brought families to a peace-table that had glared at each other over drawn daggers for hundreds of years. Their highest achievement was something nobody believed possible: the arranged marriage of Cida Scratha to Lord Evkit of the teyanain.”

  “The what!” she said before she could stop herself. “I never heard of that!” And why would I? she thought, annoyed with herself. I didn't even know the teyanain existed before traveling south. I'm starting to act as though I grew up here; how ridiculous!

  “It never happened,” Juric said. She couldn't tell in the darkness whether he sounded sad or amused. Too much depended on the speaker's face.

  It occurred to her that he couldn't see her, either. That relaxed her nerves considerably.

  “Cida was willful and stubborn,” Juric said. “She ran off with a commoner the night after the announcement of her engagement to Lord Evkit. She destroyed literally years of negotiations and agreements. Her desertion was a mortal insult to Lord Evkit.”

  Alyea sat very still, staring at the faint silhouette of Juric's head.

  “The teyanain are very bad people to insult,” Juric said. “Scratha Family found themselves no longer welcome at any of the other Family gatherings. Their allies fell away, leaving Scratha Family open and vulnerable. Scratha guards deserted with no warning. Their food animals fell ill with strange diseases; their wells clogged unexpectedly. One by one, the lords of Scratha abandoned them or died; one changed his allegiance to Darden Family. Another, according to rumor, went south, possibly hoping to find help from the Forbidden Jungles. He was never seen again.”

  “They just ran away?” Alyea said, incredulous.

  “Desert lords, like all people, have their personalities and quirks and fears,” Juric said. “And it's a rare human that won't at least consider jumping from a rapidly sinking ship, especially when there's a sound and ready vessel at hand to step onto.”

  “But if they hadn't left. . . .”

  “If this, if that,” Juric said. “I'm telling you what happened. I'm not saying the lords of Scratha acted very admirably during that time. Do you want to hear the rest?”

  “Yes,” Alyea said, putting aside her anger with an effort. “Please, go on.”

  “One after another, the desert lords of Scratha left or died,” Juric said. “The wells dried up. The people began to starve. And nobody would send aid. Not a single family. Not even the Aerthraim. It was said the line of Scratha was cursed.”

  The carriage rocked and swayed, the hoarse breathing and soft chanting of the men carrying it the only sound.

  “And then,” Juric said, “Cafad Scratha went out on his first walkabout, as part of his training to become a desert lord. He returned to find every single member of his family dead and the floors covered in their blood.”

  “I'm surprised he survived this long,” she said, then covered her mouth, appalled at her heartless comment.

  Juric didn't seem to mind.

  “Scratha is matrilineal,” he reminded her. “Cafad is male. In the long term, he's meaningless. He'll never have the authority a woman could gain, no matter how many children he has. He's gone through the blood trials, and he's Lord of Scratha, but it's a house without walls. Nobody's ever challenged his status: why bother? Desert Family guilt gave him everything he has. Of course, nobody's ever found Cida Scratha, either; she's been presumed dead for years.”

  Breath caught in her throat as the implications connected in her head.

  “Oh, gods,” she said, horrified. “Gria's the heir to Scratha?”

  “Your slave is a foundling,” Juric said, “raised by a northern lordling. She would need a full Scratha lord to speak for her bloodline before that notion could even be hinted at publicly.”

  “A foundling the teyanain wanted badly enough to put an ugren cuff on,” she said.

  “Questioning the ways of the teyanain,” Juric said, “is a shortcut to a cursed life.”

  She let out a long breath and thought about it. “I've been blundering about like a horse in a glass shop,” she said.

  “True.”

  Alyea shook her head, wishing she could read his face, but it remained invisible in the darkness. “Chac should have told me all this,” she said. “Long since, I should have known what you just told me. I w
ould have handled things differently. Why didn't he tell me?”

  Juric made no reply. She heard him shift, and scraping sounds; a moment later, a small lantern flared. He quickly hooded it to allow only a faint leakage of light, then hung it on a long-shafted hook. Alyea watched it sway for a moment, almost hypnotized by the motion, then tore her gaze away and looked back at Juric.

  “To be a desert lord, you have to go through the blood trials,” Juric said. “Quiet. Don't speak. Listen to me. Only the blood trials will give you the authority you need in this situation. The king's word isn't good enough here, and your advisors knew that.