Shadows of Blood

by L. E. Dereksen

  That was an easier question. Every Guardian was ready for that. “Of course, sal’ah Al’kah.”

  But I hadn’t been fast enough to protect Bray. I remembered the shadows bleeding from his eyes. Dead. Staring at me, accusing me. Could I promise their safety? Could I really?

  A sliver of doubt crept into my mind.

  “During the day, you are responsible for the well’s progress. Your Guardians will help you, but ultimately, the success of this mission lies on you. You must conduct yourself with perfect discipline. You must be strong, decisive, and self-controlled.” He leaned forward, nailing me with his eyes. “Are you ready for that?”

  Bray died, and I had blamed Breta for it. I had struck her, screaming my frustration. Your fault! Yours! He’s dead because of you!

  “Sal’ah Al’kah . . .”

  He waited. Like he was watching the horror unfold in my mind. My fault. Not hers. Mine. I could learn from that. I could harness my shame, and next time, I would do better.

  I nodded stiffly. “Yes. I’m ready.”

  “I doubt that.” His lip twisted. “Shyandar will be watching you. The Temple will be watching you. Every day, from now through the duration of this mission, you must be without reproach. Under no circumstances, in anything, are you allowed to cast suspicion on yourself or this Hall. Can you do that? Can you swear on your honour as a Guardian, on your blood oath, that you are unassailable?”

  I thought of E’tuah. I thought of the Sending stone. I thought of the secrets I knew, the devastating truth, hovering on the edges of my awareness. And the emptiness, the pulsing wrongness that whispered to me without words, drawing me, reaching . . . I thought of everything that could possibly go wrong, and in every one of them, I was suspect.

  But this was my only chance to redeem all of that.

  I nodded. “Yes, sal’ah Al’kah.”

  “Then the expedition has my approval.” The Al’kah rose. “Give the boy whatever he asks for—within reason. And send some blasted good Guardians with him.”

  The man stalked from the room, slamming the doors on his way out.

  The absence of the Al’kah was like a cool draft of air. I took a deep, shaking breath. Yl’avah’s might, the man intimidated me!

  I caught Neraia and Umaala exchanging worried glances, and I wondered if they agreed with him.

  “Very well,” Neraia said at last. “Ishvandu ab’Admundi, we will hear your proposal. Choose two members of your kiyah and draft a solid plan for this expedition. But I must stress absolute secrecy at this point in time. This is your first test. If you produce a workable plan without rumours spreading from one end of Shyandar to the other, then we will proceed to the next step. Dismissed.”

  I chose Mani and ab’Tanadu.

  The old outrider didn’t look surprised when I pulled him into the Task Hall, though I noticed the wrinkle of worry around his eyes.

  “I need a plan to get Labourers, Crafters, and Guardians to function together in the desert and construct something that’s never been done before,” I told them. “Can you help me?”

  “And Acolytes,” Mani said quietly.

  I glanced at her.

  “If we’re going to do this,” she said, “we’ll need the Temple’s support. Someone’s going to get sick or injured. We need healers.”

  I shook my head. “Mani, I’m not sure that’s possible.”

  “Do you want my help?” she looked at me steadily. “Or not?”

  After that, we got straight to work.

  I soon realized I’d made the right choice. Mani knew exactly the number of people we needed to bring and how much work each could accomplish. She knew what resources the expedition would need. She knew the weight of the resources. She knew how tired the camels would get carrying that weight for various lengths of time. She immediately started a list of workers and supplies.

  Ab’Tanadu knew the desert. He echoed the Al’kah’s warnings and began talking to me about the challenges we would face and how to control them.

  “We’ll need help. This isn’t a job for the third. We could use overseers, supply managers, patrols, reinforcements.”

  “The second,” I tallied off the kiyahs. “Seventh, fourth, sixth.”

  “Stop.” Mani was in mid-scribble. “You’re talking about increasing supplies ten-fold. That’s unsustainable.”

  “Tala,” I said.

  They both looked at me, frowning.

  “What? Tala can do half of that herself. The people love her. She looks after them. They’ll respect her.”

  “You’re not just saying that because you want your sweetheart along?” asked ab’Tanadu.

  “Wife,” Mani corrected.

  “I thought she was still recovering from the attack?” he continued.

  “She should be back to full duties by the time we’re ready to leave,” I said. “She went with the fourth today. She’s well enough to ride.”

  “I’m not sure I like this,” ab’Tanadu grumbled. “I don’t want your personal issues getting involved.”

  “We’re both Guardians. We both have our duties. We do them. Tala is excellent at what she does.”

  “He has a point,” Mani replied. She nodded and bent to her lists. “Atali sai’Neraia comes.”

  I smiled. It remained to be seen whether Tala would thank me for including her.

  “Very well,” ab’Tanadu said. “Sai’Neraia is a worthy addition, I agree. But that’s still not enough. We need more muscle. The third is too small, and bringing this many people into an uncontrolled, unfamiliar environment—I guarantee you, we’ll have trouble on our hands.”

  I frowned at a sudden idea. Mani was still writing. Ab’Tanadu took a thoughtful sip of water.

  I cleared my throat. “What if we bring Umaala?”

  Ab’Tanadu snorted and almost choked. “What?”

  “Think about it. People are scared of him. A Guardian Lord patrolling the grounds? No one would dare act out.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Ab’Tanadu shook his head. “You don’t bring a Guardian Lord into the desert.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you don’t.”

  “But—”

  “We’re expendable,” he said, leaning forward. “Umaala is not. And don’t think because you’ve struck a trickle of water that you’re somehow invincible. The desert is still the desert, kid, and we could die every one of us for no blasted good reason. You want to be a leader? Really?” He stared me down. “Then be one. But that means taking responsibility for your own stupid ideas. That means not counting on Umaala to make this happen, like he’s some sigil you can haul around for your own benefit.”

  “That’s not . . .”

  Ab’Tanadu’s brows lowered and I swallowed my defence.

  “It’s not about showing off either,” he growled.

  “I’m not—”

  “You are. You’re desperate for his approval. Stop it.”

  The words stung. But real lives were at stake. Real resources. I wanted to jump to an explanation, to defend myself, but what in the blasted sands was the point?

  “Fine, it was a stupid idea,” I muttered instead. “Maybe Antaru from the fourth? He’s used to working with Tala.”

  “Better,” ab’Tanadu leaned back, and I caught the glimmer of a smile. I scowled, but I couldn’t help feel like I’d just passed some unspoken test.

  Mani was already adjusting the supplies list.

  I woke to Tala’s soft entrance through our curtain. I stirred.

  “Is it Darkening prayer?”

  “Almost,” she replied. She unwound her braids. She started unbelting her keshu—like she had no intention of joining the prayer.

  “Shouldn’t you wait until after—”

  “I’m tired,” she snapped. She shook off her robes. I caught a glimpse of the scar the Sumadi had left across her back, partly hidden by her shift.

  Something was wrong.

  “Tala?” I rose.

  “I don’
t want to talk about it.”

  “Is it something . . . I did?”

  She stopped and glanced over her shoulder. “Not everything is about you.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry.” I reached for my own keshu. If it was nearly Darkening, then it was time to switch anyway. Me on the wall, Tala asleep. Then me asleep, Tala out there. Except today I’d spent most of my “resting” time in planning the expedition, and I could feel the lack of sleep catching up to me. Sands, would I ever get a break? Would I ever get some time alone with my wife?

  Maybe ab’Tanadu was right. Maybe bringing Tala along on the expedition was a selfish act. Wanting to be with her. Wanting her close.

  I considered broaching the topic to Tala. Even with her living at the Hall again, we saw so little of each other, and if she was back early . . .

  Then I took another look at her aggressively shaking out her hair and decided now wasn’t a good time to broach the subject.

  “Maybe I should go,” I said.

  “Maybe you should.”

  That stung a little. I frowned, struggling to hold back my own angry retort. I dressed quickly, strapped on my keshu, and left.

  I got all the way to the inner yard before I realized my mistake.

  “Sands take that woman!” I growled. Then I turned and stomped back to the room. This wasn’t how it was going to be. I thought we had patched things up. I thought we were together again. If Tala was still angry at me for some reason, so be it, but how could I leave her like that? Surely there was something I could say.

  I slapped open the curtain and stopped. Tala was curled up on her side, weeping quietly into her arm.

  I stood there for far longer than I should have, stupidly, before I stumbled to her side and knelt, stretching out a hand. Completely at a loss.

  “Blast whoever it is, I’ll . . . I’ll rip off their arms and—”

  “Vanya, shut up,” she choked.

  I swallowed and shut up.

  I waited.

  I sat on the ground beside her, one arm resting awkwardly across her shoulders.

  “Tala?” I tried again after a few agonizing moments. “I . . . I want to help. Please.”

  She sniffed and wiped her eyes. She gave a few more shuddering sobs, then lay still.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally muttered.

  “Tala, you don’t have to apologize. It’s—”

  “Are you going to let me finish?”

  I swallowed. “Sorry.”

  She heaved a sniffling sigh, though I noticed she pressed closer to me, taking my hand.

  “Thank you,” she said after a moment.

  “For?”

  “Coming back.”

  “Always,” I whispered, chagrined that I had nearly not returned.

  She said nothing, so I kept waiting. I decided I would wait all night if that’s what it took, and sands take the watch.

  Finally she stirred. She pushed herself to a sitting position, still gripping my hand. Her face was splotchy with tears.

  “I’m a bad Guardian,” she finally said.

  I laughed in disbelief.

  She glared at me. “Are you going to listen or not?”

  “I’m listening,” I said. “I just . . . Tala, you’re the best Guardian I know.”

  “I’m not. I failed Alis. I got her brother roped when I should have been able to stop it. I saw there was trouble coming. I knew Dunya was involved against his will, and I was trying to find some way to help him. But I . . . I was too slow. I could have stopped it sooner. And now . . .” She shook her head. “I’m doing it again. I can’t do it, Vanya. I can’t be the Guardian I should be. I can’t. I can’t.”

  She slapped my thigh with a stinging crack.

  I winced. “Is there a . . . a problem?” I asked.

  “Yl’avah’s blasted might, yes!”

  “Can you tell me about it?”

  She groaned and covered her face, drawing her knees into her chest. “I can’t, Vanya. She’s just a mother. With a baby girl. I can’t. Not after . . . I’ll do anything. I can’t tell anyone. I can’t. I’ll die before I let anyone hurt her. But she deserves the law. A proper Guardian would . . . a proper Guardian . . .”

  Tears squeezed out of her eyes again. Angry, hurting tears. Tears for Dunya, screaming on the ropes. Tears for broken trust. Tears for a missing baby. A hole, where a tiny life should have been.

  I put my arms around her. “What do you want me to do?”

  She sniffled into my chest. “Help her, Vanya. Promise me you’ll help her.”

  “Of course, Tala.”

  “Don’t tell anyone.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You swear it? On your life, Vanya—you swear it?”

  “On my life.”

  She calmed down a little.

  “Can I know what happened?” I asked.

  She took a shuddering sigh. “Yl’avah’s blasted might. That stupid woman! What was she thinking? I went into her hut today. She always invites me in, has tea for me. Always. We talk. She tells me about Dima. That’s her little girl.”

  “The one with the rope doll named Tali?”

  Tala stared at me. “How did you . . . ?”

  “I was on fourth that day. It left an impression on me.” I smiled.

  “Yes, that’s her. The mother always invites me in. Only today she didn’t. I wasn’t even thinking about it. If I wasn’t so tired and sore—” She rolled her shoulder, wincing as the scabs pulled and bunched. “I thought a little break from the sun, some conversation, some tea . . . I went into her hut, and she came running after me. She was acting strange. Then I saw. There was a spot on the ground. It’s the most common way to hide things: stolen rations, extra goods . . . weapons. They have dirt floors, you see—”

  “Yes, I grew up on one. I remember.”

  “You dig a hole, you hide something, and you cover it up again. But then it’s obvious—fresh-turned earth. So you put something on top of it. Mats or blankets or crates. And we check these, just to make sure.”

  “I remember that too,” I said, recalling the Guardian patrols who would poke around our huts every now and then.

  “Lidyana didn’t do that, though. She was clever. It was in the entrance, where everyone is walking, back and forth, back and forth. Right there, Vanya! Of course it makes sense: you scuff up the ground by the door anyway, so it’s easy to throw a bit of extra sand on it and stomp around. What Guardian is going to look carefully at the entrance way? We go straight to the darkest corners.”

  “So you noticed something was wrong?”

  “She hadn’t disguised it yet. Must have been some emergency. I saw it and stopped, and Lidyana saw that I saw. And for the most horrible moment, I just stood there. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t look away. She had come after me and drawn the curtain—probably trying to block out some of the light. But it didn’t help.” Tala groaned and brought a hand to her face.

  “What . . . what did you do?” I asked.

  There was a long silence. The sounding horns began summoning us to the Darkening prayer. Neither of us moved. The sound swelled and grew—and then faded. And silence.

  “You think you know someone,” Tala whispered at last. “You think they’re honest; you think their smiling face is genuine. Maybe you even think you’re a good judge of character. Every day, they look at you, and smile, and talk. They have a beautiful girl who adores you. They seem happy. It’s an honour, they assure you. Over and over again. An honour to be the wife of a Chosen. Five years old, my girl, she says, and she barely knew her father. But she knows he was Chosen, and it’s an honour.”

  My insides turned cold and sour. I stiffened. Chosen. Sumadi. Chosen. Sumadi. The words clanged together in my mind, inseparable. Horribly inseparable. And I realized, with the distance between us, with the time apart, I hadn’t told Tala yet—about the Avanir, about Pol, about the emptiness at the heart of Shyandar that grew with every day of Kaprash. There hadn’t been an opportunity . . .
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  But Tala continued, and I didn’t dare stop her.

  “So many times, they’ve invited you in for tea—a small offering out of the smallness of what they have—and in Kaprash, a gift fit for the Al’kah himself. Sometimes you say no thank you, and you move on, but sometimes you say yes. You go in, and you talk, and you drink their tea, honouring them by accepting their hospitality, and you laugh about little things. It feels good. It feels like you have a friend. And then suddenly, one moment comes, and staring at a spot on the floor, you realize it was all a lie. The person who was your friend—they’re a rebel. They’re one of them. Tell me, Vanya. Doesn’t that make me a bad Guardian?”

  I swallowed. A question. Sands, now I had to answer a question.

  “I think . . .” I hesitated. “I think you showed your willingness to trust, and that’s important. You showed respect. I see the way they look at you, Tala. They love you. Because you respect them.”

  “Or because I’m a bad Guardian. Because they know they can fool me.”

  “Tala, that . . . that’s not true. You know it’s not.”

  “So what would you do?” She turned to me through the fading light. “In that moment?”

  I spoke slowly, uncomfortably aware of my wife’s scrutiny. “I . . . I would ask her to explain herself.”

  “And if she did—in excruciating, incriminating detail?”

  I sighed. “I would arrest her.”

  “Why?”

  “Because how could I trust her again, if she’d been lying for so long?”

  “And if you saw not a rebellious Labourer, but a mother and a friend? Would you do it then? If it was Jil or Breta? If it was Kulnethar?”

  “This isn’t about me. I want to hear what you did, Tala.”

  She took a deep breath. “I struck her. I . . . I’d like to say it was some objective Guardian discipline. It wasn’t. I was angry. How could she be so foolish? How? She had a daughter. She had a girl to look after. And hadn’t I always been there for them? Hadn’t I done everything I could? She would risk everything—for what? Some ill-conceived revolt?”

  I thought of Adar ab’Dara, my old foreman. I thought of Umaala’s hints and warnings. Dunya and Malishu had been roped up for more than the Circle was willing to say. Could it be true? Was there really a secret rebellion, a movement growing beneath our very feet? And now Tala had stumbled into the middle of it?