Fires of the Desert (Children of the Desert Book 4)

by Leona Wisoker

  The woman was already shaking her head. “Every one of my staff has been working with me for five years and more,” she said. “I have nobody new here, my lord, and certainly nobody who came in last night.”

  “You’re sure? Dark hair, northern build, worked as a housekeeper for me briefly.”

  “None such here,” the woman said, positively. “I’ve been running these kitchens ten years now, my lord. I know every servant as comes down here to snag a tray for their lord or lady, and I don’t let them into my kitchen to train. It never works out. Housekeeping staff don’t belong in the kitchens, my lord, any more than a good cook ought to be folding sheets.”

  “I see,” Eredion murmured. “Thank you, s’a. I’m grateful.” He withdrew quietly, dropping the curtain back into place.

  By the time he left the kitchen area, he was grinning; by the time he reached his suite, whistling.

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Early morning sunlight cast pale strips of color along the wall, muted by white curtains and stippled by interrupting plant leaves. Deiq watched the light shifting both tone and location, as he’d been doing to various degrees all night. Beside him, Alyea snored quietly, with a bubbling, whistling sound that was far more amusing than annoying.

  The snores faded to silence; a moment later she groaned and stretched into wakefulness.

  “Uh,” she muttered, raking her hands through her hair to get it out of her face, then sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Mruh... ?” She glanced over at Deiq as though his presence surprised her, but managed a creditably clear, “Good morning.”

  “Good morning.”

  He never had understood why humans felt the need to mark day and evening with such nonsense terms. It was one of the small mechanisms that made dealing with them easier, nothing more; he found himself mildly resenting the thought that he would now be saying the pointless phrase daily.

  Her face was still pale and rumpled from sleep. A crease in the pillow had left a line on her face. She rubbed her eyes again and stared at him as though waiting for something. “Did you sleep at all?” she said abruptly.

  “I normally don’t.”

  “I woke up a few times,” she said. “I could tell you weren’t asleep, but I couldn’t stay awake long enough to say anything.”

  “You were tired, and there wasn’t anything to say.”

  She leaned back onto her elbows and tilted her head, studying him from a sideways angle. “I had a strange dream,” she said. “Something about the two of us, swimming in warm water, and I didn’t need to breathe air because you were with me. And you...weren’t you. Not like you are now. I can’t remember clearly, but you looked...like you belonged in the water, if that makes sense.”

  His breath caught and staggered in his chest. He could only stare at her with a growing sense of dread.

  “There was this other girl, younger than me, just barely past puberty I think. You pulled her close and....” Alyea cleared her throat. “She was—enthusiastic, to say the least. But then something changed, and she started screaming, these horrible, gut-wrenching screams, and there was blood everywhere in the water, and then she disappeared. And you said to me, That went well...and I woke up.”

  Each shallow breath strained his entire rib cage. Alyea’s gaze felt like needles digging into his skin.

  “It didn’t feel like an ordinary dream,” she said quietly. “And the way you’re reacting—did I see one of your memories while I was asleep?”

  Impossible. He hadn’t slept, himself; hadn’t opened his mind to her sleeping consciousness at any point. She certainly hadn’t tried to intrude. He would have felt that, and she was genuinely puzzled.

  He shut his eyes and tried to relax his breathing. After a few moments, he felt strain easing enough to allow speech.

  “Yes,” he said. “It sounds as though you did. That would have been a very long time ago, though, before I...left home in order to learn about humans. The tribal structure still existed, back then, to give you an idea. No permanent cities to speak of. Humans were almost wholly nomadic.”

  “Did the girl die?”

  “No. What you dreamed about was an early form of the blood trials. Later on, they were separated out across three trials, but back then it was just one. That part you saw, you—you went through the same—almost the same thing. At the Qisani.”

  He drew a breath and made himself explain aloud, for the first time in hundreds of years, something that always made him feel seriously ill just to think about. He could feel his face acquiring the feverish heat of a painfully deep embarrassment.

  “That particular part is much less painful for men, because they’re giving seed, not receiving it, so there’s less—direct contact—required. But in true-ha’rethe form, which is the only way for ha’reye to—to give—children to a human woman, it’s not a, a good match, physically. We always...we....” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “Damage,” Alyea said softly. “You cause damage.”

  He swallowed and shut his eyes to avoid watching the color leaching out of her face. “Yes.”

  She didn’t say anything else. After a short pause, he went on, throwing words out just to fill the silence now. “They—we—learned, since that time you dreamed about, how to craft better illusions to mask what’s happening. But there still aren’t many healers who can repair the damage before the child, and usually the mother, is lost; all that effort and agony wasted. You were gods-touched lucky, Alyea, that Teilo came when I called for help.”

  He managed—just—not to admit aloud that her trial had been much, much worse than he’d expected. The Qisani could have healed the aftermath of a normal blood trial, but what had been done to Alyea went beyond anyone’s expectations.

  They’d wanted her to die. Absolutely no question there. And he couldn’t ever tell her that, or the reasons behind it.

  “And in your human form?” she said, barely audible. “Do you—cause that sort of damage if you want to get a human woman pregnant?”

  “No,” he said. “Thankfully, no. In this form, it’s—Well, you already know everything’s arranged as you’d expect.” He tried for a smile; it fell flat, so he went on. “But giving a child is much more difficult to manage this way. It’s never a casual accident. And—I won’t try to do that for you, because you....” He swallowed hard, locking away all thought of the why before he finished the sentence. “I don’t think you can safely have more children, for me or anyone else. I’m sorry.”

  “What if—”

  He sighed and pushed himself up to lean back on his elbows. “Alyea, I really don’t want to talk about this.”

  Coward, he accused himself, and had no argument with that self-judgment.

  “All right,” she said, and was quiet for a few moments before she went on: “Then I want you to think about something that kind of floated through my head, in the drowsy bit just before I completely woke up. You’re a First Born ha’ra’ha. You’re what, a thousand years old? You’re so powerful it’s terrifying to anyone with sense. You can literally do anything you want. You don’t even have to bother with humans. You could probably walk out into the ocean and go to the deepest part and just look at pretty fish and seaweed and sunken ships for a hundred years without needing to come up for air or food.”

  He had, actually, done something similar once or twice. It grew boring quickly. “So?”

  “So you chose to be here, with us,” she said. “You chose to meddle in our affairs and you try to help us along the way. You chose to breathe air instead of water, and deal with human beliefs and morals.” She paused, watching his face. “You chose to marry me,” she added softly. “You let me talk you into something completely insane, and I don’t think it was because I’m good in bed.”

  He opened his mouth, a response to that right at hand. She shook her head.

  “No jokes,” she said. “I’m being serious, Deiq.”

  His amusement faded into growing annoyance. “Make your point already, then
.”

  “Something I think you’ve forgotten,” she said, picking her words with evident care. “Something I think everyone’s forgotten: you may be a powerful, thousand year old ha’ra’ha, but...that still means you’re half human.”

  He grimaced at that insult, but she didn’t understand what she’d just said. “Alyea—”

  “Let me finish,” she said. “Humans don’t like to be alone, Deiq. We need company, and not just for sex. We need family, community, a belief in something larger than ourselves.”

  “None of that means anything to me,” he said sharply.

  “Really? You’ve been alone for a long time. Now you’re not. Are you really going to look me in the eye and tell me that doesn’t mean anything to you?”

  He bared his teeth at her, completely exasperated. “You keep wanting to think of me as human! I’m not, Alyea. You’re going to drive yourself crazy if you keep doing this. Stop it.”

  “Deiq,” she said, sitting up and turning to glare down at him, “I don’t think of you as human because you have two arms and legs and a—” She flicked a glance along the length of his body, then looked back at his face. “You’re human because you care, Deiq. About me, about Eredion, about the survival of humanity as a whole over the past thousand years. You’re certainly more human than Rosin or Kippin ever dared try for.”

  He shut his eyes, despairing. “You don’t understand. You can’t understand. You’re on entirely the wrong track, Alyea. Entirely.”

  “Then explain it so I do understand,” she said. “Partner. Husband. Lover. Friend, damnit. And while you’re at it, explain why you’re so averse to the notion of being seen as the least bit human by the people that know you the best, while you could care less if the commoners who shit in the street think you’re nothing but a merchant.”

  He’d been about to say something; her last sentence drove it completely out of his head. After one startled snort of laughter, he put amusement aside and thought about what she’d said. It made more sense than he’d initially expected her to come out with.

  “I never saw it that way before,” he said slowly.

  “I know you see human as an insult, something beneath you,” she said. “But you’re here, all the same, not down in the dark water with your other cousins. At first I thought you just enjoyed lording it all over us instead of being an equal among your other kin; that’s how you act. But that doesn’t match what you’ve done.” She paused. “Would a ha’rethe do any of what you’ve done? Would a ha’rethe have rescued me from Kippin, helped me through the blood trials, married me, promised not to hurt me? Would any other ha’ra’ha have done those things, or set up self-sustaining farms to make sure southerners didn’t have to rely on the north for food?”

  He shook his head. “Never,” he said, voice muted.

  “So if you’re half—”

  “All right,” he said. “I see what you’re saying. Stop talking, please.”

  Unsmiling, she scooted from the bed and went to the sideboard to fill two fist-sized cups with water. He sat up, allowing himself a stretch of his own to relieve the tension built up in his muscles.

  He drained the cup she brought him and handed it back, then decided to try brutal honesty in the hopes that approach might get through to her. He said, in a flat, hard voice, “Alyea, I’ve ripped humans apart like rag dolls. You saw one such incident already, but you don’t understand—Alyea, I enjoy doing that, as much as Kippin ever enjoyed hurting you. I like violence.”

  She sat on the edge of the bed and sipped her water, perfectly calm; not in the least disturbed by his admission.

  “Would you ever hurt me like that?” she asked, her gaze somewhere ahead and down, away from his face. She was finally figuring out how to avoid making a conversation into a challenge; he felt his chest loosen a little with relief. “Or Eredion? How about an innocent child on the street?”

  He chose his words with care, not wanting her to misunderstand and grant him more kindness than he actually possessed. “Not if I were rational. In control of myself. But I don’t always have that choice.”

  “The blood-rage. Yes. The teyanain explained that to me.” Her chin tucked in a bit more. She stared down at her cup. “It seems to me, though, that what you do when you’re rational is what ought to count. Otherwise, you have to hold me as a whore for—” She stopped, sucked in a fast breath, then finished, “for enjoying what Tevin did to me.”

  “But you were stuffed full of dasta and—” he began to protest, then let out a long breath through his nose. “Mnnph.”

  She rose to put both empty cups on the nightstand, then sat back down, somewhat closer to him this time. “You taught me the difference between lighting a candle and lighting a bonfire,” she said. “So answer me something. What’s the difference between friendship and love?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, annoyed all over again. “I’ve never really understood either one, Alyea. Friends betray one another, lovers abandon one another; the actions implied by the terms don’t match what actually happens over time.”

  She snorted. “Thanks for ruining a perfectly good dramatic moment.”

  He blinked, briefly puzzled; then, remembering, laughed. “Sorry.”

  She grinned back.

  “I do understand what you’re aiming for,” he told her. “Candle to bonfire, friendship to love. Even though the analogy doesn’t work for me, I see what you’re trying to convey. I still think you’re using far too human an approach to the whole situation.”

  “It’s not as though I know any other way to think,” she said dryly. “But I imagine you’ll teach me along the way. Are you going to let me teach you anything?”

  He drew in a breath, startled, then grinned again. “You already have. Now go get dressed—Eredion’s going to be here at some point to introduce his replacement, and Rill is standing just outside the door, waiting to bring in breakfast and then take you on a household inspection.”

  “Us.”

  “No,” he said. “You haven’t announced us as married yet. It’s not my place. And you’ll want to be the one to tell Oruen about that change first, not have him hear it from your household staff.”

  Her eyebrows dipped into a sharp scowl, her chin rising in indignation. “You knew about Nem?”

  “Of course.”

  She sat still, studying him, her expression grim. He permitted it for a few moments, then delivered an unsubtle mental nudge. She rose, then checked, glaring at him. He stared back without any apology.

  A moment later, abruptly, he found himself standing beside her.

  “If you can shove me around,” she said in response to his own ferocious glare, “I can shove you around. That’s how this works.”

  He turned his back and reached for clothes without offering her the satisfaction of an answer.

  Chapter Sixty

  Breakfast was a simple, light array of sliced fruit and pale cracker-bread. Apparently Rill had spoken to Nem at sufficient length to know Alyea’s preferences. Deiq excused himself from the meal with unusual courtesy, murmuring that some business items needed his attention today. Alyea didn’t argue.

  “My lord,” Rill said when Deiq had left, “there is a matter to discuss.” She surveyed Alyea for a moment. “I know you will not appreciate my saying so, but your clothing is not suitable for a head of household.”

  Alyea glanced down at her dark-green tunic and pale leggings. Rill was dressed similarly today, although the fabric was plainer and the cut slightly less than flattering to her rounded figure. “I don’t see the problem.”

  “I know,” Rill said without censure. “But that is too common of a garb, no matter that the cut and material are fine, for your new station, Lord Alyea. If you would allow, I have some items that should be suited to your current measurements in the wardrobe.”

  She’s right, Deiq cut in.

  Stop eavesdropping.

  Faint amusement trailed off into silence. Alyea nodded to Rill. “Let’s se
e the outfits, then.”

  To her relief, they weren’t all fancy dresses like the ones her mother had pressed her into wearing for years. The styles came fairly close to her preferred simplicity for the most part, but radiated an indefinable air of status. A touch of lace, an extra bit of piping or ruffle, a slightly wider sleeve or narrower waist; Rill definitely did know her job.

  “What am I paying you, Rill?” she asked as she sorted through the clothes. “Hopefully quite a bit; you ‘re earning it.”

  “I’m content with my wages, Lord Alyea. That red shirt, I think, would suit you today.”

  Alyea pulled out the ruby-colored shirt and held it against herself. It was a brighter red than the robe the teyanain had given her, but she was amused at the similarity all the same. The thought reminded her that she had a load of teyanain gifts to handle at some point soon, and more probably incoming from the other Families. But that could wait a bit longer. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “The grey pants—no. Forgive me. I think the cream pair would suit better—” Alyea smiled but made no comment. Rill shot her a questioning glance, then went on: “Perhaps with those black boots over there. And that sash—”

  In short order, Alyea found herself arrayed from hat to boots, tiny gemstone hoops dangling from each ear, carefully matched rings on each hand, and an ethereally thin golden necklace circling her neck. The hat offered just enough rim and shape to avoid being a skullcap, and sat at a stylish slant, with an accent piece of a burst of tiny firetail bird feathers whose quills were studded with tinier white gemstone chips.

  Rill gathered Alyea’s hair into a loose, nape-covering bun with quick, practiced movements, and fastened it in place with a simple pin shaped like a small bird. “Very good,” she said, stepping back to study the final effect. “Do you want the mirror, my lord?”

  “I’m afraid I’ll laugh at myself,” Alyea said ruefully. “No, I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Very well. I will take you to your personal servants first. They are responsible for selecting and maintaining your wardrobe and accessories, room furnishings....”