Guardians of the Desert (Children of the Desert)

by Leona Wisoker

  “No,” Deiq said, his gaze returning to the bed. The utter relaxation, the trust, in Alyea’s limp body as she lay against a complete stranger made his eyes blur strangely for a moment; not tears, not even other-vision: more of a strained unfocus. He blinked hard and looked away again. “No, I’m not going to leave her side just yet. I’ll be fine.”

  “Deiq—”

  “Go tell the king Alyea will apparently be fine.” Deiq didn’t look at Er-

  edion as he spoke; unexpected bitterness thickened his throat. “If he

  wants . . . to visit . . . I’ll step aside.” He blinked again, and swallowed darker words.

  A long silence ensued, in which Deiq could feel Eredion’s emotions shifting through worry and exasperation. At last the Sessin lord said, “I won’t be long.”

  “Take as long as you need,” Deiq said. He couldn’t look at the bed, couldn’t face Eredion’s expression. He stared at the floor, at the curtains, battling a strong desire to pace the room.

  “Stubborn,” Eredion said dryly. “Is there going to be more blood in here when I come back?”

  Deiq didn’t answer. After a few moments, Eredion snorted and left without further protest. Deiq listened to the Sessin lord’s departure until the sounds of booted feet ticking against stone floor faded into the small sounds of servants and nobles moving around their various businesses.

  On the west side of the mansion, someone was singing; a servant, from the sound of it, washing clothes or going about some other mundane task. Deiq distracted himself by trying to figure out what day it was, and finally, hazily guessed at Fireday; centuries ago, in at least one now-obscure southern village, it had been bad luck to wash clothes—a water-based activity—on a fire-dedicated day. It might be Lordsday, though, in which case an entirely different village would have said. . . .

  He blinked, realizing he just didn’t care about historical trivia at the moment, and went back to watching Alyea slowly, visibly, heal from the inside out—in the arms of a boy no older than herself, who’d already damn near killed one powerful ha’ra’ha.

  He stayed in the chair, and watched, and waited—very quietly.

  Chapter Sixty

  The stifling humidity of late summer had reclaimed the air. By the time Eredion walked a block, he could feel perspiration beading across his body. Even two years ago he would have simply adjusted his body temperature and moved through the streets with perfect ease; but that sort of thing was becoming more challenging by the day.

  He walked and sweated, conserving his energy for the coming audience with Oruen.

  Theoretically, each of the Mansions within the Seventeen Gates had equal access to the palace. There were supposed to be seventeen entrances, each set in a direct-line path. Over the years, many of the entrances had been blocked up or built over, as politics and whim shifted the architecture. Ninnic—which, really, meant Rosin—had insisted on blocking up almost every entrance to reduce the danger of invasion from without.

  As with any such attempt, it had ultimately failed; the enemies had been inside the whole time. Even as Eredion brooded on that, a tall, broad-hipped woman in palace servant colors stopped in the middle of the street, staring at him. Her black eyes narrowed into a glare, and she ostentatiously slanted her path into a wide circle to avoid coming anywhere near him. Eredion blinked and nodded, keeping his expression bland; feeling her hatred even at the distance she’d chosen.

  He didn’t blame her one bit.

  Eredion turned east, deciding to take the formal entrance rather than the servant’s western access. It made no difference to the end result; this being Lordsday, Oruen would be in his centrally located “casual room”, no doubt negotiating and discussing southern matters. But going through the servant entrance always depressed Eredion. He’d seen too many servants torn apart for base amusement, and couldn’t stand to meet the eyes of the survivors. Like the servant he’d just passed in the street, they glared with unabashed accusation every time he passed through “their” areas; in their eyes an unvoiced, ever-present barrage of questions: Why didn’t you save her? Why didn’t you save him? What gave you the right to pick one to save over another? It should have been my lover, my friend, my son, daughter, sister, brother. . . .

  But every time he had saved someone slated for the basement of the Church Tower or marked as a potential victim of guards, king, or advisor—every single time, Rosin had known, and had taken great delight in punishing Eredion—not physically, because physical wounds would heal far too easily. But some other innocent, some worse crisis, would be dragged out in front of Eredion, by way of torture . . . and Rosin had known Eredion would still do it again, and had probably known before each rescue, and allowed it, just for the greater joy of tormenting a desert lord.

  Eredion hadn’t trusted a woman in his bed since his last partner was the target of one such retaliation, just after he’d smuggled a family of four out of the city. He’d only found her final resting place recently, far under the city. She’d had somewhat of a revenge on him then, little though a faceful of rot seemed when weighed against being tossed into the cellars for a mad ha’ra’hain to torture.

  He had long ago stopped trusting anyone. Even as the political atmosphere relaxed under Oruen’s regime, he found it almost impossible to reverse that habit. Ironically, Deiq probably stood as the closest thing Eredion had claimed to be a friend in years.

  The majority of the servants didn’t understand any of that. All they had seen, back then, was Eredion’s blank stare as their loved ones were dragged before the torturers; all they understood today was that Eredion hadn’t stepped forward to help them.

  Lost in memories of screams and far too much blood, he missed the shuffling skip of feet coming up behind him until a light voice said, “My lord?”

  Eredion jerked round, instinct finding no danger, intellect at full alert when he saw the young, battered girl standing behind him.

  “Wian,” he said, and left it flat, without any questioning inflection at all. She shrank back, her expression wary as she picked up on the implicit warning.

  “I thought . . . could I walk with you, lord?” she said, watching his face closely. “I have business in the palace, and I’m . . . I’m afraid to walk alone, lord.”

  He regarded her with a certain bleak amusement. “That would work on anyone else,” he said. “But remember, Wian: now I know who trained you.”

  Her face, already flushed from the heat and her short run, deepened a shade. “Lord Eredion, I know I haven’t always been a good person. But isn’t it permitted to try to change? And I am telling the truth: I’m afraid to walk alone in the streets. Kippin got away from you! He’d love to get his hands on me again.”

  “But you don’t have business in the palace.” Eredion suspected that Oruen wouldn’t want to see her right now, on any business at all; without a personal invitation, she wasn’t likely to get past the outer ring of officials and flunkies that kept the public from wandering through the palace halls like broody sheep.

  She looked away, lowering her chin to her chest, for just a moment; answer enough.

  “You want to get into the palace, on my tail,” Eredion said, studying her tiny, involuntary reactions to his words, “and even back into the king’s presence. To seduce him?”

  Wian jerked her gaze back up to his face, mouth pulling into a bitter line. “You think me that much of a whore?” she demanded.

  “I think you that much of an opportunist,” he said dryly.

  “That’s higher than I need to reach,” she snapped. “And I’m not who he wants in his bed anyway—” She stopped, one hand clapping over her mouth, and made a small whimpering noise.

  Eredion sighed, unsurprised. Servants gossiped worse than small children, and that had been bound to come up sooner or later. And the “slip” had likely been entirely intentional, to check his own reaction. Wian was proving to be a very good liar indeed.

  “Find your own way into the palace, Wian,” he s
aid. “Not at my side. I won’t be your pass.”

  Her back straightened, distress fading into a more honest glare. She turned and stalked away without another word or backwards glance.

  Eredion stood watching her go for a few moments, absently admiring her figure and the way anger swayed her shoulders and hips; then shook his head, realizing that reaction had probably been exactly what she intended to provoke.

  He’d have to be very careful to be sure that she wasn’t allowed, unsupervised, anywhere near Oruen. Not that the man was a fool, but he wouldn’t stand a chance against that level of skill.

  The guards at the grey door shook their heads as he approached.

  “No interruptions,” one said. “Sorry. There’s a waiting room—”

  “I know where it is,” he said. “How long?”

  They shrugged, expressions bland; he shrugged in return and took himself down the hall to wait.

  One of the plainest rooms in the palace, and the smallest, the king’s waiting room offered four large, comfortable chairs, a wide couch, two small tables, and—a recent addition—a stack of southern and northern puzzle-games for visitors to amuse themselves with. A wide window let in air; a white screen over the window blocked most of the rising heat but allowed in light. Nothing could be done about the humidity, which had stalked Eredion through the streets and hallways. He was uncomfortably aware of the large damp patches on his shirt and the stink of his own skin.

  He thought about retreating to his suite and ordering a bath, or going to the other side of the palace and visiting the sunken baths: one of the few Aerthraim marvels to survive the Purge. A clever diversion of the great river that swirled past Bright Bay to the east, the baths were constantly refreshed, a current of incoming water propelling dirty water out through a filtered drain.

  Eredion had never been sure whether Rosin had left the baths in place for their usefulness or simply because taking them out would have meant ripping up half the palace floors in the process; more likely the latter. For all his manipulative guile, Rosin had been remarkably short on patience for extended projects—especially if they inconvenienced him in any way.

  Finally deciding that he couldn’t risk missing an opening in which to talk to the king, Eredion stayed put. He’d pick up some spare clothes from his suite before returning to Peysimun Mansion—and hope that Lady Peysimun would be gracious enough to permit him a tub bath instead of throwing him out, now that Alyea was relatively awake.

  Although what the woman would say if she walked in to find her daughter stark naked and wrapped up in a close embrace with what she could only see as a common mercenary—and Deiq standing watch without protest . . . Eredion shut his eyes and covered them with a hand, realizing he really should have stayed.

  And he would have stayed—except that Deiq had told him to go. Finally, too late, he recognized what Deiq had done: reinforced the suggestion with such a subtle push that it hadn’t registered at the time.

  “Gods damn it,” he said aloud, exasperated. No wonder he hadn’t caught it; Deiq didn’t normally bother with subtle. But he didn’t feel any less stupid. “That bloody ta-karne!”

  A slight cough from the doorway brought his attention back up. One of the guards stood there, eyes crinkled with restrained amusement but expression politely grave.

  “He’s ready to see you now, Lord Eredion,” the guard said, bowed, and retreated to his post once more.

  “Thank you,” Eredion sighed, and hoisted himself to his feet. Glancing back, he saw the dark sweat stain he’d left on the chair and grimaced in distaste.

  It was something of a relief, when Eredion stepped into the king’s casual room, to see that Oruen looked no less sweaty and uncomfortable. He’d even abandoned the official robes and sat in a simple pair of light desert trousers and shirt, barefoot, his hair drawn up into a topknot. Eredion smiled, recognizing the dual purpose: this casual presentation would put southerners more at ease than visiting with a formally-attired northern king.

  Oruen rose and bowed as Eredion entered, smiling in apparently genuine welcome. “Lord Eredion,” he said. “Honor to you this Lordsday.” He went down on one knee, briefly and a bit awkwardly, then stood again, his eyes narrowing as he checked Eredion’s face for reaction.

  Eredion blinked, taken aback, then grinned. “Oh, you have been digging through the old books, haven’t you?” he said. “I haven’t heard that one since the days of Lord Arit.”

  Oruen spread his hands, shrugging. “In the absence of Chacerly and Micru,” he said, “that’s my only source of information on proper custom. I’m rather surprised at all they didn’t tell me, actually. I should have started reading for myself a long time ago.”

  “I’d be more cautious of trying to follow the old books,” Eredion said, deciding to angle the conversation away from Micru as quickly as possible. He didn’t want to let the king ask the questions that had to be on his mind regarding that topic. “You’d do better to find a loremaster for your court, if you want to know the right way to do things.”

  “How do I go about hiring one?” Oruen motioned Eredion to a seat and sank into his own chair, frowning.

  Eredion sat down on the least expensive-looking chair. “You don’t hire loremasters, Lord Oruen. You negotiate for one. You offer inducements and promises, and a place for them to gather undisturbed; because loremasters work alone much of the time, but when they gather, it’s like a flock of starlings in your yard: they arrive in dozens and settle in for a while.”

  “And leave a mess on their way through?” Oruen supplied wryly.

  Eredion laughed, startled at the image. “Not really,” he said. “Not in a physical sense. But they are awfully demanding, and touchy, and gatherings can sometimes be a bit difficult to host.”

  “You’re not presenting a good argument for me to bring one into my court.”

  “No. I suppose not.”

  Eredion sat back in his chair, reflecting that Oruen likely wouldn’t trust any individual advisors suggested to him at this point; the man wasn’t a complete fool. He had to have figured out that anyone standing by his side to offer advice on the southlands wouldn’t be an impartial source. A loremaster contingent in Bright Bay, while a complication for some issues, would solve several others.

  “Still,” he said at last, “loremasters are valuable, if you truly want to understand how to deal with the southlands. I think that would be a better use of your time and resources than searching through outdated books on southern etiquette—I’m surprised any even survived the Purge, come to that.”

  “A few were hidden well enough to escape discovery.” Oruen tilted his head as though thinking about that, then added, “Or perhaps were left as irrelevant and ultimately misleading.”

  Eredion smiled. “You’re learning, Lord Oruen.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” Oruen said without heat. “How’s Alyea?”

  “Healing,” Eredion said. “She’s going to live.”

  Oruen’s utter stillness lasted for several breaths. He blinked several times, staring at nothing in particular. At last he cleared his throat, focused on Eredion again, and said, “Good. And Deiq is still with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to see him.” The thread of emotion underlying that statement promised an ugly discussion. “I want him to come here and present himself to me this time.” The king’s lips thinned, the skin around his eyes tightening.

  Eredion’s stomach turned over. “Lord Oruen—”

  “And I expect you to stay with Alyea while he’s attending on me,” Oruen went on, ignoring Eredion’s attempt to speak. “I don’t believe I need your interference this time, Lord Eredion.”

  “This is a very bad idea, Lord Oruen,” Eredion said steadily, resisting the impulse to screech at the man. “There’s nothing good can come of any conversation between you two right now. Please—you’ve allowed me to be your voice of reason so far; listen to me again. Don’t summon him like a servant. Not right now. Yo
u’re both too upset.”

  “Phrase it to him however you like,” Oruen said. “But send him to me, and make it clear he does not have the option to refuse the summons.”

  Eredion drew a deep breath, organizing words. Before he could say anything aloud, Oruen stood, his expression far colder than the air around them.

  “Honor to you, Lord Eredion,” the king said pointedly.

  Eredion stood slowly, weighing the risk of pushing the issue against the danger of obeying; and made one last attempt: “Lord Oruen, please.”

  The king regarded him with an implacably flat expression and said nothing.

  Eredion jammed his teeth together against the scathing observations about Oruen’s mental capacity that he wanted to make. He settled for offering a stiff bow and stalked from the room without waiting for the return honor.

  Chapter Sixty-one

  Easing into a light meditative trance helped Deiq’s frustration and brought a detached clarity to his thoughts. Facts unrolled in his mind, a slow, steady procession of logic: Alyea had fought him from the first. Had turned against him at every opportunity. Showed none of the reactions that should be present by now, and had gotten herself badly injured through her refusal to listen to him.

  Through my own damn idiocy, the bleak part of his mind insisted. I made a hash of this.

  He focused on his breath and blanked his thoughts until detachment took over again, washing away the queasy self-loathing. Alyea was as much to blame as he himself; if she’d allowed him to train her properly—hells, if she’d just listened on the matter of the kathain. . . .

  Recognizing a slide back into emotional thinking, he shook his head and went back to just breathing for a time. Eventually, the outer suite door opened and Eredion’s distinctive energies approached. Deiq eased himself slowly from the trance and looked up, blinking to make sure his eyes were still set in human-normal patterns.