Guardians of the Desert (Children of the Desert)

by Leona Wisoker

  “Home at last,” she said cheerfully.

  “We have to talk before you go charging in there,” Deiq said, stopping in his tracks and lowering his head bullishly. “You don’t seem to understand how much has changed.”

  Her patience with his dour mood snapped. She pulled the pack pony to the side of the road, out of the way of other weary travelers headed into Bright Bay; the last group that would be allowed in, more than likely. Ahead, empty day-vendor stalls lined both sides of the road: further indication that the gates would be closing soon.

  “Here’s what we have to talk about, Deiq,” she said in a low voice. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking today, and I realized some important things. You have something to teach me, go ahead, but don’t think that puts you in charge. I made that mistake with Chacerly; I won’t do that twice. This is my city. I grew up here. I can handle myself here. I know the rules—from the inside.”

  His scowl deepened, as though that barb hurt; as it had been meant to. Idisio had gone very quiet, still, and colorless, visibly trying to avoid drawing notice to himself. A small, cold part of her mind noted, for future reference, the boy’s uncanny ability to blend into the background, and calculated that it had been a major part of his survival to date.

  She went on, “You were my guide in the south. Fine. I’ll be your guide here.”

  “I’m not that damn ignorant!” he snapped.

  “Really? How do you plan to explain a rich merchant being in charge of a noblewoman and new desert lord? That would put you superior to the king, by what you yourself explained. How’s that going to work, Deiq?”

  He glared, sullen and offended. “That’s for in public—”

  “There is no private,” she returned. “Servants gossip, which is why I won’t keep them. But you can’t very well shift between being in charge in private and being subordinate in public, Deiq. You’ll slip, or I will, or someone will overhear something at the wrong time. It’s one way or the other. And whichever way you turn, if you hover at my elbow with that ugly glare on your face, you’ll stir up more trouble than I want to think about.”

  Deiq stared at her, the blackness gone from his expression. He looked as though he were sharply reevaluating his opinion of her. Idisio, in the gathering twilight, was almost not-there in his utter stillness.

  “Understood,” Deiq said at last. “No more brooding. You’re right. But we still need to—”

  “Anything you want to talk about can wait until we clear Bright Bay,” she said. “I want to get through and back on the road as fast as—”

  “But that’s part of what—”

  The group passing by had thinned to a handful of stragglers. She shook her head.

  “The southern city gates close at night, Deiq. We don’t have time right now. We go in now, or we’re stuck at an outside inn for the night.” She turned and urged the pony back onto the road. “Talk as we go or leave it until later.”

  He grunted in distinct annoyance, but offered no argument. “I heard that Oruen was going to lift the curfew on the southern gates,” he said instead.

  “Talk to Oruen,” she said, blackly amused by echoing their teyanain guide. “I wasn’t involved in that.”

  He made a growling noise; she laughed, unable to help it. Whatever else happened, she was home. She could handle anything thrown at her now.

  Anything at all.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Aerthraim lanterns had replaced the tall torches at the southern gates. The eerie, ultra-white flame hurt Deiq’s eyes, and he kept his gaze away from them as much as possible. The guards, dressed in white, now displayed crimson and black sashes; given that Oruen understood the southern color scheme, that had to be intended as a warning.

  The guards themselves were hard-faced men and women whose sharp gazes picked over the incoming crowd and settled on Deiq with awakening interest.

  He kept his expression neutral and his hands visible as they approached the gate, but wasn’t at all surprised when two of the guards moved to block his path.

  “S’e,” one of them said. “Your business in Bright Bay, if you please?”

  “He’s with me,” Alyea said, every inch the arrogant northern; an effect rather spoiled by her travel-stained southern garb of loose leggings and pale, long-sleeved shirt, both made from the almost translucently thin, layered material peculiar to the deep south. In addition, her newly southern-dark skin made her look as though she’d never set foot in Bright Bay before.

  The guards studied her with dubious caution.

  “And you are, s’a?”

  “Lady Alyea Peysimun,” she said. “Returning from a mission as King’s ambassador to Scratha Fortress. This is merchant Deiq, and Idisio is bearing messages from Scratha Fortress to King Oruen.”

  Deiq shot her a sideways glance, surprised she’d used the northern title rather than her true status; but then, the gate guards really didn’t need to know about that. It would only complicate and delay matters. Still, he’d expected her to trumpet her title to the heavens. Every other new desert lord he’d known had bragged on it endlessly.

  The guards hesitated; then one, who had been staring at Idisio, said, “I remember that one! Lord Scratha called justice-right on him. Said he was a pick-thief.”

  Frowns gathered on all the guard’s faces, and they regarded the group with even more suspicion than before. Alyea’s forehead wrinkled.

  “Lord Scratha decided to take me on as a servant,” Idisio said, voice and gaze steady; but Deiq saw the tension ridging his thin shoulders. “Would he have done that for a thief?”

  “You might have run off,” the guard who’d recognized him said skeptically.

  “Have you ever met Lord Scratha?” Idisio said, winning a grin from one guard. “Trust me, running wasn’t an option. And he has no tolerance for thieves at all; I wouldn’t be standing here today if he’d truly caught me with his money in my hand.”

  Alyea’s face cleared, and she said, “I’ll speak for him, s’es. He’s no thief.”

  Idisio’s shoulders relaxed, and Deiq hid a smile; apparently Alyea hadn’t yet learned to pick out spoken lies from truth. Then again, Idisio showed a real talent for deceit; if Deiq hadn’t known the true story, he might have doubted his own instincts.

  “Still,” said the first guard, his frown unwavering. “I think we should send a runner for the captain, let him decide this one. Or have them wait at one of the outside inns until morning.”

  Deiq stifled a sigh; this was going nowhere fast. He said, lacing the words with a subtle push, “S’es, we’re very tired. If you could please simply let us pass?”

  The guards blinked, glanced around at one another, and slowly stepped aside; much more slowly than they should have, and with clear reluctance. Deiq tried not to frown, knowing that would break the effect, and wondered if a bribe would be required.

  “Thank you, s’es,” Idisio chimed in. “We appreciate your courtesy in letting us pass; Syrta bless your boots.”

  The words seemed completely innocent and contained no ha’ra’hain persuasion at all, but the frowns lifted into a much more normal indifference.

  “Go on already, then,” the leader said, and waved them through, already looking back to the southern road for any last stragglers approaching.

  Deiq shot Idisio a hard sideways glance as they cleared the gates. “Syrta bless your boots?” he muttered.

  “Not something you want to know about,” Idisio said, looking straight ahead. “I’ve met more than one of those guards before, and they just needed reminded of that. Leave it there.”

  Deiq checked, his mind connecting implications rapidly, and half-turned. Idisio’s hand latched onto his arm a moment later, fingers digging in hard.

  “I said leave it be,” Idisio snapped, and they locked glares.

  Alyea hadn’t stopped. Her voice floated back through the darkening air over the steady clop of hooves: “Can you have this argument later? I want to go home.”

&n
bsp; Idisio dug his fingers in a fraction more, with surprising strength, then let go and turned away to follow her. Deiq hesitated a moment, looking back towards the gates, which the guards were tugging closed for the night. They wouldn’t even see him coming.

  I was a street rat. Idisio’s voice cut into his mind. If I don’t care, what in the hells are you fussing about? Forget it. Come on already, I want a bath.

  It’s—Deiq didn’t have a word that Idisio would understand. He needed one that would convey dishonor, insult, outrage, offensive, and treachery all at once. Our children should never be used as kathain!

  I wasn’t kathain, Idisio said tartly. I was a whore. It was a living for a while. I decided I didn’t like it, and put my attention to stealing instead. Which I’m rather better at, thank you. And I didn’t know I was ha’ra’hain at the time, so quit frothing over it.

  Did any of those men ever hurt you?

  No answer; and Idisio’s mind went sharply opaque, which was answer enough.

  Alyea had all but disappeared ahead. Only the few torches lining the road showed her, leading the pony at a steady pace, Idisio beside her.

  Deiq took a last glance back at the gates, then let out a hard, irritated breath, shook his head, and jogged to catch up.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Their sunset arrival threw the Peysimun household into a frenzy of confusion. Within the first hour, Alyea wished she’d gone with instinct and booked rooms at one of the inns near the Gates, or even gone to her apartments at the Palace, instead of Peysimun Mansion.

  Her mother stared at Deiq, and he at her, with instant and mutual antagonism during the initial introductions. After so much time surrounded by southerners, Alyea found Lady Peysimun’s pale, plump skin and mouse-brown hair a strange sight; she had trouble believing they could possibly be related. The clothes didn’t help; Lady Peysimun, as always, wore a severely styled, long-sleeved and floor-length dress. It reminded Alyea of Sela, only with more glittering jewelry at ears, neck and wrist. She wore a small firetail bird feather dipped in silver as a brooch; Alyea remembered coveting that brooch before leaving Bright Bay. Now it seemed a pointless and even gaudy decoration.

  “S’e,” Lady Peysimun said, ice in her voice; “S’a,” Deiq returned, his face as bland as Alyea had ever seen it. Lady Peysimun granted Idisio a brief, assessing stare, taking in his drab, dusty trail clothes, then visibly categorized him as a servant. Alyea let the assumption rest for the moment, as one less battle to fight on the front steps.

  “Deiq and Idisio are my guests,” Alyea said, putting a chill in her voice equal to her mother’s, “and will be staying for a time.”

  Lady Peysimun nodded stiffly and motioned to a maid waiting nearby. “Make a room ready for s’e Deiq and his servant,” she ordered.

  Deiq’s mouth twitched in faint amusement; Idisio lifted one shoulder with a tiny, resigned sigh. Neither protested, so Alyea again let the matter rest. She’d correct her mother in private later on. For the moment, she was just grateful that Deiq raised no fuss over being roomed away from her.

  “We’ve already had dinner, I’m afraid,” Lady Peysimun said, her back stiff and her gaze aimed somewhere over Alyea’s shoulder.

  “I’m sure the kitchens can put together a cold tray,” Alyea returned, secretly relieved. Her mother’s preferred dinner tended towards the light and fluffy foods Alyea hated, and right now a servant’s meal of black bread, cold meats, bean salad, and hard cheese sounded much more appetizing.

  Her mother cast a hard stare at her. “I’m sure,” she said, and motioned to another servant hovering anxiously nearby. “A tray for our visitors, please. Bring it to their room. I’m sure they’d prefer to retire for the evening. And do bring them a bathing tub and water. They look to need refreshment after their long journey.”

  The words, delivered with impeccable precision, managed to stop just short of insulting. The implication underneath was clear: You’re dirty, you smell, and you’re not welcome here.

  Alyea resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Mother,” she said flatly. “Thank you for your courtesy to my guests.” She turned her head and looked Deiq full in the face, seeing the lines of amusement at the corners of his eyes and mouth. “Please consider this household at your disposal,” she told him.

  Her mother made an aggrieved, protesting sound. Alyea looked back and met her mother’s pale eyes with a hard stare of her own; after a moment, Lady Peysimun dropped her gaze.

  In a much more subdued tone, Lady Peysimun said, “Welcome to my home, s’e Deiq.”

  “Thank you,” Deiq said, tone solemn, eyes lit with a deep amusement. “I’m graced by your honor.” Idisio muttered something similar, barely audible, and Lady Peysimun’s expression regained some condescension as she glanced at him.

  “Well,” she said then, “Alyea, my dear. If you’ll be kind enough to join me for evening tea while your guests settle down for the night, we can catch up on what you’ve been doing while you were gone.” She pressed her lips together hard, then looked at Deiq and added, “Breakfast is an hour past dawn, s’e, if you’d grace us with your presence.”

  “I would be honored,” Deiq said gravely, and after a deep bow, steered Idisio after the servant detailed to lead them to a guest room.

  Lady Peysimun drew in a long breath, watching them go, then let it out in a hard sigh. “Let’s go have some tea,” she said, and taking Alyea by the elbow steered her in the other direction.

  Alyea’s mother poured tea with a shaking hand, the distress she hadn’t shown in front of outsiders emerging at last. “You look so . . . so gaunt, child. And so . . . dark. I almost didn’t recognize you!”

  Alyea accepted the cup, sat back in the heavily padded chair, and looked around without answering right away, feeling as though she’d never seen this room before. The heavy white drapes, which allowed light but cut down on heat, had always seemed plain, almost ugly. Now she noticed the lace trimmings and pale beads sewn onto the cloth; appreciated the way the folds fell and the feathery shadow-patterns the outside trees and bushes, backlit by evening lanterns, cast against the screen of curtain.

  The walls held numerous paintings and portraits: she’d never really looked at them. They’d always just . . . been there, throughout her childhood. Studying them now, she found an oddly patternless mix: light-hearted flower sketches and heavy busts of famous figures flanked portraits of stern-faced, elderly ancestors. Amid the chaos stood enormous indoor pots brimming with long-stemmed, wide-leaved plants.

  A floral scent drifted by as a breeze stirred the curtains, and a faint patter of rain began.

  Her mother shifted in her own chair, a worried expression fixed on her broad, pale face. Lack of outdoor activity and heredity had mixed to provide a far more “northern” appearance than Alyea herself possessed. Alyea’s father, one of the first casualties of the Purge, had been the one holding the stronger southern bloodline, and that had passed to Alyea. No doubt after all the time in the south, she looked even more like her father than usual. Her mother had always tried to make Alyea stay indoors, claiming that dark skin was unattractive on women.

  Alyea had long since figured out that it was more a case of her mother not wanting to be reminded of her dead husband. The less her daughter resembled the southern side of her heritage, the calmer Lady Peysimun became.

  Well, that game is out the window, Alyea thought. Studying her mother, she wondered if Lady Peysimun even consciously considered the difference between their appearances, much less the physical luxury of their surroundings anymore; or if, like Alyea, she had begun taking luxury, status, and safety all for granted.

  It hadn’t been so long since their assumptions of safety had been badly shaken. During the last months of Ninnic’s reign, fear had kept them all within the grounds, indoors more often than not. The stomp of guard boots passing along the street outside had drawn a tightness over every adult face and a breathless silence to the few occupied rooms. Nobody had been safe towards t
he end; certainly not the Peysimun household, after Alyea’s public disgrace and Ethu’s death.

  And now, because of me, more people are going to die . . . might already be dead. Just like Ethu, the Qisani tried to help me, and they’re paying for it. And once again, she couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

  Alyea looked down at her teacup reflexively, ready to blink back tears; but her eyes remained dry. Outside, the pattering rain increased to a steady drumming, and thunder rumbled briefly somewhere far away.

  Her mother said, “We’ll have a feast tomorrow night, to welcome you home. And . . . and to welcome your . . . your companions, of course. Although I must say you came home with some strange company.”

  Alyea lifted her cup to her lips, despair over the past lifting into amusement. Her mother had no idea. . . .

  The tea tasted of mint and oranges; one of her mother’s herbal blends, then, not a true tea. Alyea kept her face still against a grimace of distaste, thinking longingly of the tins of thopuh even now being loaded from the pack pony into the Peysimun storage rooms. She should have dug one out and given it to her mother as a homecoming gift; too late now.

  “Deiq is a powerful merchant,” she said. “And a friend. Idisio is . . . an emissary of sorts.”

  “I know who s’e Deiq is,” her mother said, her mouth thinning in clear disapproval. “He’s got a name, that one. Just how did you come to meet him?”

  “Apparently, he’s a friend of Lord Eredion Sessin,” Alyea said. “Lord Eredion asked Deiq to guide me through the southlands, as a personal favor. And he’s not quite as bad as his reputation would say.”

  Her mother raised her eyebrows in a skeptical expression. “Hmph. So he’ll be leaving, now that you’re home safely.” She looked distinctly relieved at the prospect. “And this . . . this boy, Idisio? He looks northern. How did he come to be traveling with you?”

  “He’s more traveling with Deiq,” Alyea said, hoping to avoid dangerous explanations, and saw her mother’s eyes narrow sharply.