Blood Storm: The Second Book of Lharmell

by Rhiannon Hart

  I guessed this was one of the secrets that I wasn’t allowed to pry into. I bit into my bread, tearing off a large chunk so I wasn’t tempted to ask the questions that burned on my tongue.

  To a girl who had spent her life surrounded by snow and mountains and an ample water supply, setting out into the heart of the world’s largest, hottest, driest desert seemed like a rash undertaking. In three directions, undulating white-gold dunes stretched to the horizon. The mid-morning sun beat down, and shimmering heat blurred the line between horizon and sky. I sat uneasily in my saddle, trying not to look back as Pol shrank behind us, giving me a peculiar feeling of vertigo. Rodden got seasick; it seemed I got desertsick. I was gripped with nausea at the thought of the city disappearing altogether.

  Behind me, Rodden sat sanguine atop his desert mare. Leap paced in the leggy shadows of the horses, pupils shrunk to a thin line, eating up the sand with an easy gait. We were with the Jarbin, and the entire caravan stretched yards behind and ahead of me. There were a dozen wagons and scores of horses, and so many people that I couldn’t imagine getting to know all their names.

  The sunburn I’d acquired while lost at sea was starting to peel and fizzed painfully in the desert sun. I kept my white robes wrapped about me, not allowing even an inch of skin to be exposed. I’d been offered a seat in a covered wagon with a handful of Jarbin girls. Rodden, to my annoyance, had told them my royal title as we’d milled about on the dew-damp sand that morning. I’d endured several minutes of exaggerated curtseying and tittering before, teeth gritted, I’d mounted my horse. Now, as I sweated and squinted in the sun, I regretted my decision. I could see the Jarbin girls chattering to one another, shaded and comfortable.

  Our caravan reached the crest of a dune and began to descend. I felt Pol disappear as my horse picked its way down the slope. The tors tugged my insides, whispering the distance I’d travelled. I tried to ignore what my eyes and mind-map told me: I was far, far from home.

  None of the Jarbin spoke Brivoran. Rodden was deep in conversation with the leader of the tribe, a young but grizzled fellow with a theatrical air. He gesticulated to Rodden as they rode side by side, reins forgotten in his lap as he described something in a wild manner. Rodden nodded, added a word here and there, and then the pair burst into raucous laughter.

  I grimaced and turned my gaze elsewhere. Griffin was sitting on my wrist, determined to stay as close as possible while ignoring me at the same time. I was not the only one, it seemed, who grew cranky about being left out. Having spent the last few days being left at the inn while Rodden searched the city, I searched for Rodden, and Leap courted all the queens within a two-mile radius, she was inclined to be annoyed.

  I eyed the buzzards overhead, the only shapes in a barren sky. The huge birds rode the thermals rising from the desert sands on lazy black wings. They followed our passage all day and I found their company ominous.

  That night when we stopped to make camp, I collected a mound of blankets and tried to make my bed under the stars. I was tired and stiff, and wanted nothing more than to be alone. The Jarbin girls laughed at me. They laughed, it seemed, at everything. Rodden explained that it was too cold to sleep out in the desert, and I would be soaked by the falling dew. I was bundled in with the girls instead and they were as raucous as parrots late into the night; more so, I suspected, for having a mute audience. There were three of them, two who shared one pallet and one who shared the other pallet with me. I had asked their names in the few words of Jarbin that I knew on three occasions but they spoke so rapidly that I couldn’t decipher the foreign syllables. It had become embarrassing so I’d stopped asking.

  The days unfolded much like the first: mute on my part, boisterous on the Jarbins’. By day I rode my horse at the rear of the train; by night I retreated into the wagon to pull a pillow over my head.

  My one pleasure was watching the Jarbin at dusk. They were a joy to watch, able to accomplish things that I’d never even contemplated the human body was capable of; often dangerous things, like juggling fire or even swallowing it, and treading, barefoot, on tight wires they strung between the wagons.

  But an evening came when I didn’t want to venture out even to watch the Jarbin. Instead I sat, arms wrapped about my knees, listening to the crackle of flames outside. I had an oil lamp for company and its soft yellow glow lit the painted interior. Leap sat at my feet, watching the moths dance before the light.

  Practice usually ended after dusk, but tonight there was festivity in the air. Instead of settling quietly onto mats to eat the evening meal, the Jarbin rushed about and I could hear musicians tuning their instruments. My sleeping mates had changed into dresses that rattled with silver coins and tinkled with bells, their attire as noisy as themselves. Instead of the scratchy woollen poncho I usually donned of a cold evening, I’d put on a pair of the diaphanous pants that hung like a skirt and a matching shirt that hugged my ribs. It was a heavier version of the attire I’d bought when first coming to Pol, made of burgundy wool and angora. I’d meant to join the others as soon as I’d changed, but now I sat on my pallet, hugging my knees, uncertain.

  For today wasn’t like the other days in the desert, where I could sit quietly and lose myself in the antics of the colourful Jarbin. Today was my birthday. I was seventeen.

  In this pale abyss the date meant little. It could just as easily have been yesterday or next week or not at all for all that it mattered here.

  But I knew. And across the miles, Renata knew.

  We were travelling further from Amentia every day, but I could feel its pull on my body as surely as I could feel the taut thread of the tors. I felt as if I was being torn asunder by my two fates, each one as hateful as the other.

  There was a rapping on the door. ‘Are you decent?’

  ‘No.’

  Rodden opened the door and stepped in. His black hair was neat and damp with water and he wore a shirt in the Jarbin style, with long cuffs and full sleeves. My heart flipped as I looked at him; desert life agreed with him. He was looking more handsome all the time. Tanned and vibrant in the heat. I realised that every day on this journey could be one less that I would spend with him.

  ‘I said I wasn’t decent.’ I clutched my knees tighter with indignation.

  ‘You can’t lie to a harming.’ He frowned. ‘What are you doing in here?’

  ‘What does it look like?’

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’

  ‘What for?’

  He sat beside me on the bed, reaching out to scratch Leap on the chin. ‘Your mother is a long way away.’

  I looked at him in surprise.

  He smiled. ‘Happy birthday.’

  I was silent a moment. ‘How did you know?’

  He raised a hand to the sky like a fortune-teller. ‘It was written in the stars.’

  I punched his arm.

  ‘I waited until your sulking reached epic proportions.’

  I punched him again.

  ‘Ow,’ he said, laughing. ‘All right, I asked Amis to find out from your sister before we left Pergamia. Are you coming out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Wait here, then.’ He disappeared outside.

  ‘I said I wasn’t going anywhere,’ I called.

  He came back brandishing a long object wrapped in a black cloth.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked when he handed it to me. He sat beside me again and pulled Leap into his lap. My cat purred and rubbed silver fur all over Rodden’s black shirt, flexing his claws in delight.

  ‘A birthday present,’ he said.

  ‘I can see that. You shouldn’t have.’ I hesitated, the parcel resting on my knees. ‘Actually, you should. I’ve been entirely miserable since we left Pol and you’ve ignored me to be with all your new friends.’

  He raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Have you made any attempt at all
to learn the language?’

  ‘Yes. I asked those girls their names so many times but I couldn’t understand them. Why didn’t you teach me any Verapinian or Jarbin? You didn’t even tell me they spoke other languages here. I woke up in the sick tent and thought my brain had melted in the sun when I couldn’t understand anyone.’

  ‘Sorry. I was distracted. And worried that I’d made a mistake bringing you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He reached for my hand and clasped it in his. ‘No, Zeraphina,’ he said, half-laughing. ‘You are determined to think the worst tonight. I meant I was worried for your sake.’

  I felt a pang when I looked at our joined hands, the silver rings we each wore. I remembered what he’d asked all those months ago on the parapet in Pergamia when I’d given the ring back to him. Something to remember you by? Would he remember me once we were parted; would he still wear the ring? Would I, once I was married?

  ‘Are you going to open it?’ he asked, nodding at the parcel.

  Reluctantly, I let go of his hand. I unravelled the black cloth to reveal a bow. It was the perfect size and weight for me: half the length of my body and made of taut, honey-coloured wood. I’d been without a bow since we’d been thrown from the Jessamine. I’d intended to buy one, but hadn’t found one of the right quality. I turned it in my hands. ‘It’s perfect,’ I breathed. ‘When did you buy it?’

  ‘That first day in Pol.’

  I thought back. That was the day we’d quarrelled, the first day he’d disappeared into the warren of laneways in search of something or someone he wouldn’t speak of. I thought that he’d forgotten me altogether as soon as he’d left our rooms. I wanted to ask, What came first? The bow for me? Or had there been someone else foremost in your thoughts?

  ‘It’s made of Amentine ash,’ he said, and I nodded, having already recognised the grain. I felt homesick as I stroked the polished wood, which was ridiculous considering how reluctant I was to return.

  ‘I miss the mountains,’ I said. ‘The desert makes me dizzy. What’s it like for you? To be home again after all these years, I mean.’

  Rodden rubbed at Leap. ‘Peculiar. I never thought I’d see my home again. I banished myself years ago.’ He nudged me with his shoulder. ‘There’s more,’ he said, nodding at the black cloth.

  I searched the folds and found bowstrings and a quiver of arrows.

  ‘Not Griffin’s,’ he said as I examined the mustard-coloured feathers the arrows were fletched with. ‘Local falcons. Fast ones. Lucky for arrows.’

  I hooked a string to the base of the bow, rested the butt on the floor and, holding it secure with my foot, looped the string over the other end with one fluid movement. I hefted the weapon with my left hand and pulled the string with my right. It flexed under my firm grasp. ‘It will be good to shoot some arrows again.’ I turned to Rodden. ‘Thank you.’

  He was watching me, and I realised he had been the whole time I was distracted by my present. I lowered the bow. Unbidden, my eyes flicked to his mouth. I felt the thread between us tighten. Though we sat close he held that part of himself distant, the part that could blend with my own like two rivers running together, if only he would allow it. I hadn’t expected to ever want that. I hadn’t expected to need that.

  I hadn’t imagined I would ever fall in love.

  He couldn’t help but hear the direction of my thoughts. I let him hear, and see their manifestation on my face.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he said. His lips when they came touched my cheek, soft but chaste. He stood and tugged on my hand. ‘Come on. They’ll be wondering where you are.’

  I fumbled with the cloth in my lap, eyes lowered so he couldn’t see the sudden sheen to my eyes. ‘Of course they won’t be,’ I muttered. But in my confusion I allowed myself to be pulled to my feet and out of the wagon. He stayed close as we paced through the darkness. I peered sidelong at his face but it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Though it was foolish, I allowed myself to hope that his kiss had been for my cheek and not my mouth due to an observance of chivalry. He’d kissed me once before; now I found myself hoping that he would do so again.

  The Jarbin had made a circle of rugs around a flat, hard-packed expanse of ground. Lanterns cast bright yellow light, and as we stepped into the circle a greeting rose above the chatter and music. Two boys jumped up and guided us to a carpet beside the leader. He stood and kissed my hands, and spoke a few words. Then he smiled, his large white teeth glowing in the lamplight.

  ‘He says happy birthday,’ Rodden translated.

  I turned to Rodden in surprise. ‘You told him?’

  He grinned. ‘I told everyone. An easy thing, as you might imagine, to keep secret from you.’

  My hands still in the leader’s, I gazed around the circle in amazement at upturned faces and warm smiles. After feeling like a ghost among them for many days, I blushed at the attention.

  I was bade to sit, and settled between the leader and Rodden.

  ‘How do I say “thank you” in Jarbin?’ I whispered.

  ‘“Preibek, Uwin.” Uwin is his name.’

  I turned to Uwin, and bowed my head respectfully. ‘Preibek, Uwin.’

  Uwin’s eyes shone with pleasure. He grasped my hand once again and called out to the tribe, which brought on cheers and delighted smiles.

  Beside me, Rodden laughed and applauded with the rest of them.

  ‘What? What did he say?’

  ‘He told them you just spoke your first words of Jarbin.’

  I reddened all over again. ‘For heaven’s sake,’ I muttered, smiling.

  Rodden accepted two cups of wine from a man with a flagon. ‘Preibek,’ he said, before turning to me. ‘I don’t think they’ve ever heard an Amentine princess utter a word of Jarbin, do you?’

  I looked around the animated circle and thought of the girls whose wagon I shared, and wondered if their effusiveness of an evening was their normal behaviour after all, rather than a ploy to annoy the foreign girl.

  Drumbeats filled the air. Six men leapt into the circle brandishing crossed swords over their heads. They were clad in boleros and white trousers. After displaying their swords – and their bared teeth – to the crowd with a zeal that bordered on threatening, they placed their crossed swords on the sand and began an intricate dance. They leapt over the blades, their bare feet just missing the sharpened edges, and twined around one another, arms akimbo, fists pressed into hips. After a short but wild performance, they retrieved their swords and flung their arms over their heads with a loud ‘Yah!’

  At our rapturous applause their stern faces melted into grins and they hopped about, bowing. Before running off again into the darkness they each gripped both their swords in one hand and held the blades behind them, and with their free hands took turns to grasp one of mine and kiss it. I barely had time to murmur ‘Preibek’ to each of them before they darted off.

  The sound of a lone pipe twined upwards in the evening air. A hush fell over the circle. A tattoo was rapped out on a tambourine, accompanied by the twangs of a stringed instrument. The tune was cheeky and rapid, and on its heels followed a troupe of dancers, ten women in coloured silk skirts and beaded halters. Arms rippling like water, they stepped into the arena. To the rapid beat of the music they assembled in two rows and began rolling their hips and stomachs. Their bellies were not one curved plane but several independently moving parts. Their spines seemed disjointed. I was as hypnotised by the swaying and popping movements as a snake by a charmer.

  When the women finished their dance and the applause died away, Rodden rose and tugged at my hand. He called to the musicians and they laughed and nodded, taking up their instruments once more.

  ‘You remember the brinle?’ he asked me, a twinkle in his eyes. The brinle was a courtly dance from Brivora.

  ‘You want
me to dance – after that performance?’ I tried to take my hand back but he held fast. ‘The musicians won’t even know the brinle,’ I protested.

  He pulled me to my feet. ‘They know “ol Gesta”, which is close enough.’

  ‘I need to practise – I can’t remember –’ I hissed, conscious of everyone’s eyes on us.

  He put a finger to my lips, eyes shining with amusement. In spite of myself, I found myself smiling back, and as the first notes began I allowed myself to be tugged into the centre of the circle.

  The brinle was a couple’s dance but this particular one was unusual as it was danced by only a single pair. I turned out my feet and fanned my loose trousers like I would a skirt. Rodden pressed his arms to his side. He caught my eye and winked, and I bit back a smile as the beginning of the dance demanded an aloof expression.

  Then we began. Like most court dances, the brinle consisted of simple steps and turns. But this dance told a story, one almost comic, of a girl purposely oblivious to the attentions of a suitor. I kept my chin up and face turned away from Rodden, my eyes on the stars when I knew he was looking, but sneaking looks when I knew he wasn’t. My alternating expressions of detachment and fascination drew laughter from the crowd. The music became rapid. The steps became skips, the dance a chase now, and the laughter became shouts of amusement as I evaded Rodden, still pretending I had no idea he was there. The finale came with a crescendo of beating drums. I evaded, turned – and found myself nose-to-nose with him, breathing heavily.

  We were both smiling as the applause erupted. On impulse I stood on tiptoe and pressed my mouth against his. He returned the kiss, but quickly broke it. As he pulled away I saw anger flash in his eyes.

  My pleasure at the dance faded. Why did I have to go and do a stupid thing like that?

  Rodden grasped my hand tightly – too tightly – and we bowed and curtseyed to the Jarbin. I kept a smile plastered on my face but my stomach was churning. He was angry. I had kissed him and he was angry.

  He steered me out of the circle of light, his grip hard and unfriendly, and into the hush of the desert. In the light of the moon I could see the familiar agitated set to his shoulders. His mouth was a grim line. When we’d disappeared behind the crest of a dune he at last came to a halt and dropped my hand.