by Amy Green
“An old Da’armon trick,” Samar said, his wrinkled face breaking into a grin. He sat near the entrance of the cave. “It was amusing to watch. You talked in your sleep, you know.”
“Glad you were entertained,” Jesse muttered.
“Come,” Samar said, holding out a wooden bowl. “You must be hungry.”
Slowly, Jesse reached out to grab his staff and stood, despite the protests of his aching muscles. He stretched, wincing. “Ugh,” he groaned. “I feel like I slept on a rock.”
Samar gave him a puzzled look. “It was a joke, Samar,” Jesse explained. He took the bowl the old man offered him.
“Honey loaf and dried salmon,” Samar said. “Food served at the greatest of desert celebrations.”
Jesse took a bite of the bread. It was a bit stale, but very good. “Well, we’re still alive,” Jesse said. “That’s enough for me to celebrate.”
“The danger's not over yet,” Silas said grimly. “The Rebellion will not give up easily.”
“The Rebellion?” Rae questioned. She had begun to pace along the edge of the cave. Jesse got the idea that she did not like being in such tight quarters. She turned to Samar. “I thought you said it was Patrol members who were searching for us.”
“Not all who wear the uniform are Patrol, Rae,” Silas reminded her. “After all, why would the king’s own men be trying to kill us? It makes no sense. Clearly, members of the Rebellion stole the uniforms as a disguise.”
But Samar shook his head. “No,” he said. “It cannot be. Even in the dark, I recognized one of the party who came to meet me last night: Captain Demetri, the leader of the Patrol here. I am sure of it.”
For a moment, Silas looked confused. Then he shook his head. “A traitor, perhaps. The Rebellion has been known to gain access to even high offices in the kingdom.”
Slowly, Samar nodded in agreement. “It is possible,” he conceded. “I’ve always known there was something different about this captain. He is young, but clever in a way that most Patrol members are not.”
“Yes.” Silas spat on the ground. “That’s how they are, treacherous as vipers.” He gestured to the pit viper, dead where Jesse had struck it the night before. “And I hope they all meet a similar end.”
“Well,” Jesse said, wiping his mouth and setting his bowl down, “not to interrupt such a pleasant discussion, but I want to know when we’re getting out of here.”
“Agreed,” Rae said immediately. She looked ready to climb up the ladder that very second.
Samar shrugged. “We do not have provisions to stay here much longer. We will wait until nightfall, of course.”
“I’m not sure that’s wise,” Silas said. “What if the men from the camp are waiting to ambush us?”
“Use your head, boy,” Samar said impatiently. “If they suspected we were down here, they would have sent someone down while we were asleep. They clearly do not know about the pit.”
“But won’t they be able to find us once we rejoin your caravan?” Jesse pointed out.
Samar shook his head. “I told my chief servant to take the caravan ahead to an arranged meeting place in Da’armos. He has done this before and will not be followed.”
“Smugglers,” Silas muttered, shaking his head.
“Then you will take us to Da’armos?” Rae asked.
Samar leaned against the wall of the cave wearily. “I have little choice. By saving your lives, I made myself an outlaw in Amarias. Captain Demetri does not seem to be the kind to give up searching so easily. Da’armos is the only place I have to go now.”
He paused. “Which reminds me…why would a powerful captain and his men be interested in three young people, barely more than children?”
Jesse and Rae both looked to Silas, who looked torn. “Silas,” Jesse said, “after all this, he deserves to know.”
Silas nodded crisply. “You must know that Da’armos sends a rich payment of tribute to the king of Amarias each year,” he began. Samar nodded. “This year, for reasons that we have yet to discover, the payment never came.”
“Is that so?” Samar asked. “I had not heard.” Silas looked impatient at being interrupted. “Please, continue.”
“We have been sent to request this payment, and the obidhala, the Scorpion’s Jewel, to give to the conqueror of Da’armos as tribute.”
Samar’s bushy eyebrows lifted slightly. “And how,” he said, “do you plan to do that?”
Silas shrugged. “We come on the authority of King Selen. We will seek audience with the Sheik, explain that the tribute is past due, and order them to send it and the obidhala with us to Amarias.”
“Which is exactly why the Sheik would send a message to this King Selen of yours by simply having you killed,” Samar said.
Jesse smiled smugly at Silas and Rae. Rae rolled her eyes.
“Do you really think, since you say he has not sent this year’s tribute, he is feeling any fear and respect toward Amarias?” Samar shook his head. “No. You would be wise to go back where you came from and tell the king to send an army if he wants his tribute.”
“We can’t do that,” Rae insisted. “We must complete the mission.”
“Yes, because you are in the Youth Guard, of course,” Samar said, shaking his head. “A foolish Amarian tradition. Too many of the young and brave have died these long years.”
Jesse stared at him. “You mean that you knew all along?”
“All this talk of a mission by three young people,” Samar said with a shrug. “It could be nothing else. I am well aware of the Youth Guard. I have heard of a squad before, five years ago, in this very desert.”
“Really?” There must be a story here. “Who were they? What were they supposed to accomplish?”
“It is not a happy tale, Jesse. I do not know who they were or what their mission was, but they did not complete it.” Samar closed his eyes, as if to put the memory out of his mind. “They died in the desert before even reaching their destination. Slaughtered by a band of Da’armon soldiers.”
Jesse winced. We could be next.
“Four young people who died too young,” Samar said sadly. “No. The Youth Guard is blind foolishness.”
Silas didn’t seem bothered by Samar’s words. “We need a plan,” he said, turning to Rae and Jesse. “I, for one, am not willing to stumble through the gate of Da’ra with no idea of what we will do when we arrive.”
“But we don’t know where the Scorpion’s Jewel is kept,” Rae pointed out, “or how well it is guarded, or the layout of the palace. There is not much we can plan.”
Samar grunted. “The way you talk, it sounds as if you are going to steal the sacred obidhala.”
Silence for a moment. “Yes, that was the general plan,” Rae admitted. “You said yourself there was no way for us to demand it from the Sheik.”
Samar grinned. “Well, it is not as if I’ve never stolen anything in my life. Only I usually call it ‘trading by other means.’”
Jesse frowned at this. His father had always been a man of strict honesty, and he had taught Jesse to be the same. But this must be different, Jesse told himself. And, anyway, who am I to say anything?
“You are right in saying we need to know more,” Samar said to Rae. “Theft is a complicated business.”
To Jesse’s surprise, Silas spoke up. “Nothing good will come of it. Mark my words.”
“There is no other way,” Samar said with a shrug.
“There might be,” Jesse said. “We could trick them into giving it to us, or threaten attack, or perhaps make a bargain of some kind.” His words sounded pitiful even to his own ears.
“I was always taught that it was better to starve than steal,” Silas explained, staring at Rae, as if his words were a challenge.
Rae sighed like Silas was a small child. “Times are hard, Silas, and sometimes t
hat means we must take desperate measures. It may have been fine to hold on to those ideals at home when life was easy….”
“My life was never easy,” Silas countered. “You know nothing of what I’ve been through. You know nothing of hardship.”
Now it was Rae’s turn to become angry. “And how do you know that? You think you’re the only one who has suffered?”
Arguing again. Jesse wished he could disappear into the rock wall as the two glared at each other in the silence that followed.
“Geriahiam den ara’meshin, den le’kavil,” Samar said forcefully. They all stared at him. “Scars not worn with honor are worn for pity,” he translated.
“I don’t understand,” Rae said flatly.
I do. Fumbling with the rough cloth, Jesse jerked up his pant leg to reveal his mangled left leg. Rae and Silas stopped glaring at each other to look. Jesse knew from their faces that they were repulsed by the sight.
Even though he knew it was ridiculous, at that moment, he felt like challenging Parvel’s God. My leg crippled. My parents gone without a trace. Silas’ father dead. Parvel suffering from poison. Rae bitter and angry from some unknown pain. If You are there, why do You let it happen?
He bit back the angry accusations and took a deep breath. “We all have scars,” he said simply. “In the beginning, I called attention to my limp so people would feel sorry for me. But I soon learned that seeking pity was nothing but a crutch. Everyone suffers, and no one can say he has suffered more than another.”
Silas and Rae just stared at him, but a quick glance at Samar told Jesse that his mind was on a different subject altogether. “A crutch….” he said, more to himself than the others. His face wrinkled in concentration. “Jesse, let me see that staff of yours.”
Jesse handed it to him, and the old man stroked the intricate carvings. “Yes, it will be perfect,” he replied, his eyes glinting with excitement. “There is very little wood in the desert. Only the rich and powerful own wooden items. Something this elaborate made out of wood will seem strange to them. It only needs one thing.”
“What’s that?” Jesse asked.
“The dead pit viper.”
“Oh, no.” Jesse grabbed the walking stick back. “That thing isn’t coming anywhere near me or my staff.”
“Calm yourself,” Samar said impatiently. He gingerly picked up the dead viper and set it in Jesse’s empty bowl, then wrapped it back in his pack. “We only need the viper to catch something else—the sacred creature of Da’armos.”
This time Jesse was almost afraid to ask. “And what’s that?”
“You’ve met one before. A kalthara.”
“Oh, yes, the crazy vulture insect,” Jesse said, wishing he hadn’t asked. “The one that ate the scorpion that tried to kill me. Excellent idea, Samar.”
“Thank you.” Samar seemed very proud of himself. “It is the only thing considered more powerful than a scorpion—the symbol of the obidhala. We’ll gild it in gold leaf before attaching it to your staff, of course….”
“Wait,” Jesse interrupted, holding his hand up. “Why? Why do all this?”
Samar grinned triumphantly. “You shall become, or at least they will think you are, a powerful sorcerer of the kaltharan cult!”
There was a pause. Then Rae and Silas burst out laughing.
“It is the only way for you to find out the location of the obidhala,” Samar said, clearly not understanding their outburst. “I think the boy would make an excellent sorcerer.”
They laughed harder. “Samariyosin, that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” Rae gasped out.
“I am not finished yet,” Samar said. His face was red with excitement. Clearly, he doesn’t care what Rae and Silas think of his plan. “You,” he pointed to Rae, “will also be in a disguise, as a common Da’armon woman.”
Rae frowned. “Why me?”
“Because you have dark hair, of course.” Samar stared at her carefully. “Your skin would give you away instantly, but I am, after all, a trader of spices and dyes. Surely we could find something to darken it.”
“Wait,” Silas said, shaking his head. “I still don’t see what this has to do with acquiring the obidhala.”
“You have admitted that you yourself know nothing of the obidhala,” Samar pointed out. Silas nodded. “Then let me finish. I’ll explain in good time.” He stroked his thick beard in thought. “Of course, as the interpreter, I would need no disguise….”
“And where do I come into all this?” Silas interrupted.
Samar thought about that, then smiled. “Ah, I have it! You too will be disguised in a manner of speaking.”
“As what?” Silas asked, still looking skeptical.
“The great sorcerer’s slave, of course.”
Jesse smiled. Samar was right. This would be a good plan.
Chapter 14
The streets of the capital city of Da’ra were crowded and noisy with people talking, laughing, shouting insults, haggling over prices, begging for money, calling out wares, and making themselves heard the same way they did every day.
But every voice stopped when Jesse limped past.
Jesse could only imagine how he looked. A young Amarian boy with a crippled leg, dressed in fine scarlet cloth with embroidery along the edges, carrying a staff with a kalthara on top, dipped in gold from Samar’s caravan. He even had intricate designs of stars and moons painted on his forehead—Rae’s idea.
“This is not going to work,” Jesse muttered to Silas and Samar, who followed behind him, as all servants would near such a powerful person.
“Hold your head high,” Samar whispered back. “Remember who you are supposed to be.”
How does a sorcerer walk anyway? Jesse wondered. Grandly, I suppose. He made each step as confident as possible, never giving a glance at the Da’armons who stared and pointed at him.
One time, though, he risked a quick look to his left, just to make sure Rae was still there. That one glance was enough to make Jesse feel better. She moved with the crowd, her eyes downcast and her simple white garment making her blend in perfectly with the native Da’armons.
The streets between the clay-brick buildings were narrow and crowded, with clotheslines crossing the alleyways and vendors set up on every corner. Jesse should have had a difficult time getting through the crowd, but the people parted in front of him, stepping away from him and muttering. One mother held her child back, a frightened look on her face.
“Which way to the palace gate?” Jesse asked Samar, in a voice which he tried to make loud and booming. The last word was slightly choked off by the dust that billowed up from the street with every step.
“Straight ahead,” Samar said. “Once we get there, do not say anything. I’ll do the talking.”
The whispers behind him became a jumbled babble, as more people crowded to see the strange boy and his servants. Jesse tried to ignore them, which is what he imagined a powerful sorcerer would do.
Because he was trying so hard to hold his head high, he nearly walked into a small, dead animal that lay in the street. Jesse couldn’t tell what it was because it was covered with a swarm of hungry kaltharas. He shivered and decided to watch where he stepped.
“Jesse,” Silas muttered. “Something isn’t right. I say we turn back.”
Jesse turned to look at him. Even dressed in rags, Silas was an imposing figure, making most of the Da’armons stay back. But he was glancing nervously around, as if expecting an attack on all sides.
It’s because we wouldn’t let him carry his bow, Jesse decided. He feels vulnerable. “We can’t turn back now. It would be a waste of Rae’s artwork on my forehead.”
Silas was not amused. “We’re being watched,” he asserted. “I know it. I’ve felt it since we entered the city.”
Before he could reply, Jesse saw something flying out of
the corner of his eye and ducked. It was a rotten fruit of some kind.
The young man, who looked a few years older than Jesse, stepped out from the crowd. “Na’halit les micre Amarian suler!” he shouted. “Alair de’haros!”
Although Jesse could not understand him, he knew he was being mocked. What would a sorcerer do? Slowly, with measured steps and a perfectly calm expression on his face, Jesse walked toward the young man. He stretched out his hand toward him and separated his fingers one by one.
“You are as rotten as the fruit you threw,” he muttered softly, looking the young man in the eye. “And twice as putrid smelling.”
Ordinary words, but Jesse said them as if they were a magical curse of some kind. He continued to stare at the young man, who started to back away.
“Go home.” Jesse’s voice rose to a wail of doom. “Eat more of that fruit until you get sick to your stomach!”
From the confusion on his face, the young man clearly didn’t understand Jesse’s words, but Jesse’s tone was plain enough. Confusion melted into fear, and the young man practically shoved his way through the crowd to get away from Jesse.
Jesse turned away and continued walking as if nothing had happened. Even over the crowd’s mutters, he could hear Silas laughing quietly.
“Excellent performance,” Samar whispered.
Jesse never looked back. “Thank you.”
Soon the clay buildings and shabby carts of the main streets gave way to a thick wall, made of bricks dried solid from years of baking in the sun. It must be wide enough for a horse to travel on top, Jesse thought in awe.
Of course, he let none of his amazement show on his face. A powerful sorcerer would never be impressed by the palace of a mere mortal.
Two men armed with large spears stood at the gate in the wall. They stared straight ahead, pointed helmets pulled halfway over their faces and arms crossed. If he hadn’t known better, Jesse would have thought they were statues.
“Pedriamet,” Samar called in greeting.
As if it were some sort of signal, both men turned to face him. One of them barked out a question in Da’armon, to which Samar replied.