Guardians of the Desert (Children of the Desert)

by Leona Wisoker

  Lord Scratha’s study served as the hub of the change. The furnishings were distinctively northern now: a wide-seated wooden slat-backed chair behind a massive blackwood desk, fronted by two thickly upholstered northern chairs—in which sat Alyea and Idisio—and two southern-style kneeling chairs. Drab brown, thick curtains had been replaced with equally thick white drapes, through which streamed intense afternoon light but little heat. Deiq nodded to himself, recognizing the work of Bright Bay weavers; another sign that Scratha Fortress would have much closer ties to northern merchants under Cafad Scratha than it had ever held before.

  Given Cafad Scratha’s obsessive nature, if he took it into his head to pursue that angle, Sessin Family might find themselves facing serious competition for the post of “king’s favorite” in short order; and what an interesting situation that would create, after the years of animosity between the two Families.

  Putting that thought aside for the moment, Deiq leaned against the wall by the door, arms crossed, and raised an eyebrow at Lord Scratha, who sat behind the heavy blackwood desk with an expression of strained patience.

  “He’s on his way,” Deiq said. Everyone turned to stare at him. Alyea and Idisio looked puzzled; Scratha’s scowl deepened.

  “Damned games,” Scratha muttered.

  “You’d do the same,” Deiq observed, then cocked his head, listening to the faint patter of someone walking quietly down the flagstones of the corridor nearby. “Here he is.”

  Scratha smoothed his expression into pleasant blandness just before his s’e-kath—what northerns would call his personal manservant, although with rather more duties than northerns usually assigned—opened the door to announce the arrival of Lord Evkit. The teyanin lord walked into the room with a serene expression and no trace of apology in his manner. He slid a blank stare across Deiq, bowed to Lord Scratha and Alyea, then climbed onto one of the kneeling chairs without a word.

  Scratha drew in an audible breath, glanced down at the floor; let out the air in a long hiss. “Lord Evkit,” he said with commendable courtesy. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Lord Scratha,” Evkit answered promptly, then sat still as stone, patient as death.

  Scratha glanced at Deiq, as though seeking advice.

  Let it go, Deiq advised, pleased that the man had at least asked before opening his mouth to rebuke Evkit for tardiness. Scratha might just grow into a good leader after all.

  Scratha let out another long breath, returned his attention to the three in front of him, and said evenly, “I called you here to discuss your departure, my lords.” He dipped his head in an inclusive nod to Idisio, who squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.

  Alyea might be deaf still, but Idisio, at least, Deiq could reach as he would a desert lord. Damn it, sit up straight, he sent. You’re his equal, even his superior, don’t you dare cringe like that!

  Idisio jerked in his seat and almost turned to stare at Deiq; caught himself at the last moment and managed to stiffen his spine a little. Deiq restrained a sigh. Teaching Idisio to let go of his human, street-thief upbringing was clearly going to be as difficult as convincing Alyea to abandon her northern protocols.

  Scratha blandly ignored the young ha’ra’ha’s discomfort and observed, “My s’e-kath tells me that our other guests have cleared Scratha borders, and that only the teyanain remain at the gates. He also tells me that the rainy season is due to hit this area in a matter of days.” He folded his hands together on the desk before him. “I do not have the resources to host you through the coming months. So I have to ask, rather bluntly, when you plan on departing.”

  His gaze settled on Lord Evkit, and his mouth twisted a little. The tiny motion made it clear resources had little to do with his question.

  “My people ready to leave at Lord Alyea’s word,” Lord Evkit said, just as blandly.

  Deiq didn’t need to see Alyea’s face to know she was deeply annoyed at being backed into a corner once again. He wished he could speak to her as he had Idisio, to offer some guidance; and he knew Scratha and Evkit expected him to be doing just that. Any mistakes she made would be laid at his feet; something else he hadn’t gotten around to really explaining. But right now, she probably wouldn’t have listened anyway.

  Without hesitation, as though she’d already been thinking on the same question, Alyea said, “Would tomorrow morning suit, Lord Scratha? Lord Evkit?”

  “Absolute,” Evkit said. Lord Scratha nodded.

  “Excellent,” Alyea said briskly. “I’ll meet you outside the gates an hour before dawn, then, Lord Evkit.”

  Exactly the answer—and, more importantly, the attitude—Deiq would have advised himself. He smiled, pleased and a bit bemused. Alyea, like all new desert lords, wavered between old and new habits seemingly at random. He found himself looking forward to the day she finally settled into her new life—the day, by implication, that he could move on and be free of his obligation to this stubborn northern.

  His amusement faded, his mood darkening. In the back of his mind, he heard the accusation again: Foolishness. And his own tart remarks to Idisio: You’re not human. Stop thinking that way . . . it’s too damn frustrating for us.

  Raising his head, he found Evkit had left the kneeling chair and was staring straight at him.

  “You travel also?” Evkit inquired, black eyes grinning in an expressionless face.

  “Yes,” Deiq said tightly, then realized what he’d admitted to the sharp-eyed teyanin lord in that instant.

  Damn it, he thought, exasperated at his own clumsiness. He should have indicated boredom, even amusement, over the notion; made it seem as though he was ambling alongside for his own purposes, or that the entire trip was somehow his idea, not Alyea’s. Instead, his tense reply only confirmed Evkit’s suspicions that Deiq followed Alyea’s lead, not the other way around.

  Evkit’s mouth spread into a smug grin. “I look forward to,” he said, bowed, and left the room.

  Deiq looked up to find Alyea frowning at him, clearly puzzled, while Scratha’s frown held much more understanding.

  But Scratha said only, “Deiq, I’d like your thoughts on the supplies you’ll be needing, if you please,” then busied himself spreading maps over the vast surface of his desk.

  Diverted, Alyea and Idisio moved to study the maps. Deiq took a moment to compose his temper and banish the lingering whisper of damn it and foolishness, then followed suit.

  Chapter Twelve

  Of all the rooms in the sprawling fortress, Alyea liked the small dining room best. Suitable for a dozen or fewer, the room was much cozier than the vast formal dining hall. A rough, dark red plaster covered the walls; in this windowless chamber, the only light came from hanging candles and large green-oil lamps set in alcoves around the room.

  The table sat low, intended for cushions rather than the higher northern seats. Gria looked completely at home, perched cross-legged and barefoot on a thick blue cushion; she had dressed in informal, desert-style, loose silk pants and an equally flowing top. Her hair, bound back into a combination topknot-braid, gave her the air of someone who had spent a lifetime in the desert. She unabashedly reached and leaned to grab from the baskets of flatbread or to scoop more rice into her tibi, the shallow, oval eating bowl most southerners carried with them as a matter of course.

  Scratha probably had a supply of much finer dishes; for some reason he’d opted to set out humble, wooden traveler’s tools this time. Alyea wondered if that was an oblique comment on the morning’s planned departure.

  In sharp contrast to Gria, Sela sat stiff and rigid atop three stacked cushions, her knees locked tightly together under the formal, tight-skirted northern dress and the tibi balanced precariously on one knee. Now and again she shifted uncomfortably, then quickly put a hand to the cushion, as though afraid that small movement would tip her over.

  Riss, sitting on Gria’s other side, wore an outfit that matched Gria’s in all but color; hers was a deep, shimmering red. The two girls chattered togethe
r in low voices, occasionally breaking into shared laughter, and ignored everyone else in the room. It was visibly aggravating Sela, who shot several poisonous glares at her niece and cleared her throat multiple times, without any noticeable effect.

  Lord Scratha seemed content to let everyone be for the moment. He ate quietly, his eyes fixed on his food. Idisio and Deiq, likewise, sat without speaking, eating without haste, their attention on their own thoughts.

  Alyea felt herself relax into the quiet of the room, the undemanding, ordinary nature of the meal. Dinners at home weren’t usually this peaceful. Her mother always seemed to be nagging about Alyea making suitable connections or why she wasn’t attending some event or other at court; after all, she and Oruen were so close. . . .

  Her mother would be incensed by Alyea not only having a child out of lawful marriage but then giving the child away. The roof might not survive the explosion when she found out that might be Alyea’s only child. . . .

  Alyea stifled a sigh just in time, and was actually grateful for the distraction when Sela spoke.

  “My lord Scratha,” she said, her fingers tight around the almost-untouched bowl of rice and flatbread on her knee. “There are a few—”

  “I’m not your lord, Sela,” Scratha interrupted, his dark stare coming back from wherever he’d been wandering in thought and focusing sharply on the northern woman. “You haven’t sworn yourself over to Scratha Family. Or did you intend to?”

  Sela’s face flushed a startling crimson color; she hesitated as though unsure how to answer.

  “No,” Scratha said, rescuing her from confusion, “I don’t expect you will, and there’s no reason for you to do so. You’re not part of the direct bloodline. You’re welcome to stay for a time, but I see no value in swearing you into the family.”

  Sela’s face cooled, taking on a harder cast at that unsubtle snub.

  Before she could say anything, Scratha added, “But in any case, in this informal of a setting, please, call me Cafad.”

  Riss broke off her conversation with Gria, her attention on Scratha now. “Could you explain that?” she asked, just as Sela opened her mouth again. “The naming conventions in the south, I mean. I’m a bit muddled about them.”

  Idisio’s expression changed to puzzlement, and he began to say something. Stopping short, he cut an aggrieved glance at Deiq, as though the older ha’ra’ha had kicked him under the table.

  Scratha’s mouth moved in the faintest of smiles. “Of course,” he said gravely. “Calling someone ‘my lord’, in the north, is a basic phrase of respect. In the south, however, using the possessive ‘my’ indicates that you have sworn service to that man or Family. So, ‘my lord Scratha’ would mean you serve Scratha, or me personally, depending on modifiers I won’t get into.”

  “How about my lady?” Gria asked, her dark eyes lit with a sly mischief.

  Scratha shook his head. “That’s almost wholly a northern term, and meaningless here,” he said. “You are numaina, not Lady; a Scratha noblewoman is one of several variants of numaina. A servant is one of several variants of the term kathain; s’e-kath, as with Seg—” He tilted his chin to indicate a tall man standing against the wall nearby.

  Alyea had been trying not to stare at the indicated man ever since they sat down; he displayed the rich darkness of the deepest southern coloring variations—and almost translucently light blue eyes. She’d never seen anything like it. The combination of height and coloring, set against those strange eyes, drew her attention repeatedly. And the way he stood so very still and watched the room with total focus told her that Seg was definitely more than just a servant, whatever Scratha claimed.

  Scratha continued: “S’a-dinne kath, as the dining servants; s’a-kathalle, as the cleaning staff.”

  “S’a,” Gria said, seeming truly interested this time. “That’s women, right? So only women can serve meals? I’ve seen male servants about the dining hall.”

  “That gets a bit tricky,” Scratha admitted. “There are a few instances where the desert tongue assigns gender to items or actions, where the northern tongue has no such concept. A servant is simply a servant, in Bright Bay; but the concept of serving, in the southern language, is female. A servant’s actual gender doesn’t have to match their job title. So s’a-dinne kath covers all dining hall servants; men, women, children, and neuter. Of course, you can break it apart and modify it to s’e-dinne kath, s’ii, and so on; but that’s not common, and really only used for exceptional servants, as a designation of honor.”

  Sela’s eyes glazed. She prodded listlessly at her rice, clearly not listening to the lecture. Scratha’s gaze flicked to her, and his smile widened a notch; he nodded at Riss and Gria as though to say thank you.

  “You look tired, Sela,” he said aloud. “I’ll have Seg take you back to your quarters.”

  Alert, the tall servant stepped away from the wall and moved to stand by Sela.

  “What?” the northern woman said, startling upright. “Oh! Excuse me, I—”

  Her jerky movement set the cushions under her skewing. A frantic grab to keep herself stable was unfortunately made with the hand holding the bowl, and the rim of the tibi cracked upwards against the lip of the table.

  Rice sprayed up into the air and scattered across Sela, the cushions, and Gria; the latter ducked and burst into laughter. Sela, her face crimson once more, scrambled to her feet, seeming caught between equally humiliating urges to curse aloud or to burst into tears. She settled for cuffing Gria sharply on the side of the head.

  Or tried to; Seg’s hand shot out and caught her wrist, turning the blow aside. Seg’s other hand latched on to Sela’s elbow, and with apparently minimal effort on Seg’s part, Sela stumbled into a sharp turn and several steps away from the table.

  “I think perhaps nu-s’a Sela is feeling tired and needs to retire for the night,” Seg said in a serene, clear bass. “My apologies, Lords. I will escort her.” He kept moving as he spoke, and had Sela at the doorway and out of the room before the final word died from the air.

  Alyea turned an astonished glance to Scratha. The man sat very still, a grave expression on his face and no trace of humor in his eyes. Gria, her grin wavering into a more uncertain expression, glanced around as though seeking an explanation of what had just happened.

  “I’ll have another talk with her,” Scratha said quietly, apparently to the room at large.

  “I don’t understand,” Gria said, her uncertainty folding into sterner, sulkier lines. She brushed rice from her shirt, picking at clinging pieces with a frown of distaste.

  Scratha put his hand over his eyes, his lips thinning. “Riss.”

  “Right,” the former stable hand said briskly, rising. She urged Gria from the room without further comment.

  An odd expression crossed Idisio’s face; he looked, for just a moment, relieved. Glancing away hurriedly before the young ha’ra’ha caught her staring, she found Scratha’s gaze directly on her.

  “Do you understand, Lord Alyea?” Scratha inquired.

  Alyea barely stopped a stammered, witless reply from emerging; but it only took a moment to see what the answer had to be. She drew a long breath and said, evenly, “Gria is Head of Scratha. It’s inappropriate for anyone to smack her like a child being scolded.”

  “Good,” Scratha said, his fierce expression gentling. He flicked a glance to Deiq, then to Idisio. “Riss will be fine, Idisio. She’s learning fast, and I’ll keep her busy.”

  Idisio’s face flared as brightly as Sela’s had. He stood hurriedly and muttered apologies, then almost bolted from the room.

  “Touchy,” Deiq said lazily. “He’ll grow out of that.” He smiled and stood, subtly urging Alyea to her feet at the same time. “Good evening, Lord Scratha.”

  Alyea didn’t resist. Something about the inexplicably darkening expression on Lord Scratha’s face sent chills up her spine.

  She found herself very glad they were leaving in the morning.

  Chapter Thir
teen

  Pre-dawn, the dying sliver of the Healer’s Moon was barely visible against a dense freckling of equally pale stars. Deiq tilted his head and scanned the sky, tracing constellations humans stopped tracking hundreds of years ago; many overlapped the new. The left paw and head of the Old Tiger now formed the chest and spear of the Hunter; the right wing of the Parrot was now seen by mankind as part of the Endless Fountain.

  No doubt the Northern Church had declared even more alterations, with their own distorted pantheon in mind. Deiq had never bothered going north long enough to learn such minor matters. Exploring the differences might be an interesting pastime on the road, however, and he could use the original star-stories as a way of teaching Idisio about the real history of the world they walked through.

  Slightly cheered, he returned his attention to the teyanain camp before him; what remained of it. Evkit’s grand tent, which had replaced the temporary shall offered to Alyea days ago, was as always the last to be broken down.

  Three athain were taking great care with the folding and packing of the sturdy, silky material and deceptively slender poles.

  Athain. Not ordinary servants, but teyanain spirit-walkers. In travel clothes, the only signs of their sworn calling were the peculiar triple-split braids hanging from just behind their right ears. Deiq was careful not to stare, not to show how much it disturbed him that Evkit had athain breaking down his tent. Either Evkit held his own holy men in a dangerous contempt—not likely—or there was something special about the tent itself . . . something that couldn’t be trusted to ordinary hands.

  Deiq itched to wander closer and sniff out any traces of several dangerous substances, most of which were strictly forbidden anywhere on the land of an active ha’rethe; knew he’d never get close enough without risking a rapid descent into open violence.