I don’t understand it. I’m stronger than Selen, but even if I were willing to cut loose in front of the other girls, I’m not sure it would matter. I get the feeling Selen is holding back, as well.
“Should have seen that throw comin’, Olive,” Wonda says after the other girls have been dismissed. “Got to know when to take your time and when to get aggressive. Life might depend on it someday.”
I know she means well, but it’s been a long day of disappointing my teachers, and I don’t know how much more I can take. Micha’s braiding has held, but I pull the tie and shake out my hair, trying to work out some of the dirt as I let it fall over the scrape where my cheek hit the ground.
Wonda notes the move. “Used to wear my hair like that, too.” She waves her fingers at the scars on one side of her face. “Covers things all right, but makes you feel ashamed over somethin’ you ought not. Gonna have a shiner there, but you earned it, workin’ hard. One time, Drillmaster Kaval twisted my arm so hard my shoulder went black and blue for two weeks.”
She has a strange notion of encouragement, but I take the point and pull back my hair. I don’t want people to see the mark. It’s a sign of my failure, and no doubt Grandmum will have something to say about it, but I’m tired of being ashamed. I may never be enough for Mother or Favah, but at least Captain Wonda knows I’m trying.
Wonda gives an approving nod and smiles. “Yer mum says I get to take you on the borough tour. Gonna be fun, even if we can’t go beyond the greatward.”
“Are the wild lands that dangerous?” I ask. “Should Selen and the others worry about getting cored?”
“Bah.” Wonda waves a hand. “Ent missin’ as much as you think, Olive. Cutter patrols did in all the corelings near the greatwards while you were still in nappies. Yur uncle Gared and I saw it done ourselves. Once or twice a year some coreling wanders into the borderlands, but you’d have to march days for even a chance at seeing one. Warded Children do for those before anyone even hears about it. Ent ever seen one on a borough tour, no matter what kids whisper in the schoolyard.”
“But it’s too dangerous for me, even with the captain of Mother’s house guard at my side?” I raise an eyebrow, hoping pride will get the better of her and she’ll let me go once we’re out from under Mother’s prying eyes.
Wonda looks uneasy, but her voice deepens. “Night’s always dangerous, Olive, and you can’t be too careful on new moon. Yur mum said no, and that’s that.”
It’s an important reminder. Wonda loves me. She believes in me. But like everyone else, she is Mother’s creature, and will keep my leash taut, even when she admits there’s nothing to be afraid of.
* * *
—
The rest of the day follows much the same pattern. I’m overwhelmed by all the equations in Chemics class, but manage to hold my own in Biology. Then it’s over to the Warders’ Academy.
A reverse of Herb Lore, Warding class is mostly boys, but Selen isn’t one to sit in back when she’s outnumbered. She takes a seat in their center and spins the tale of the bruise on my face into something to rival an ale story of the demon war. Her punch a last-ditch effort that only delayed my inevitable victory.
The bookish boys hang on her every word until the instructor, my grandfather Erny, raps his cane and sets us to work.
He comes to stand over my workbench as I struggle to carve a wind demon ward into the soft clay of a roofing tile before it’s fired. Demons vary depending on terrain, and a ward for corelings of one type won’t stop those of another.
I know the wards for the basic demon types—rock, wind, wood, flame, water, mimic, and mind—by heart, and a hundred more besides. With a needle and thread, I can embroider wardwork designs that make my dresses the envy of other girls, and even earn the occasional compliment from Mother.
But as in the Chamber of Shadows, I am clumsy with the tools in the warding shop, as apt to break whatever I’m warding as get it right.
“Smoother strokes, Olive.” Erny’s voice is endlessly patient, but still I feel I am disappointing him. “This isn’t stitching. Visualize the ward and commit to each line in one motion.” He takes a fresh tile, carving out the symbol with quick, efficient movements.
The ease of his cut makes me not want to work while he’s watching, so I ask a question, instead. “Why do we still ward roofing tiles, if the greatward protects us?”
“Humanity forgot how to ward once because the demons went quiet, and it nearly cost us everything when they returned,” Grandda says. “Won’t forget again, if we’re smart.”
“They went quiet for three thousand years,” I say, not sure I even believe the story, myself. “That’s a long time to remember.”
Erny sighs. “We do what we can, Olive. The rest is up to the Creator.”
* * *
—
“Ent fair.” Selen paces the tiles as I scrub my face at the end of the day. “The hike is safe enough for every teenager in the duchy, but you have to spend it locked in the nearest inn.”
“You don’t have to tell me.” I check the mirror, pleased to note the scrape on my cheek has already faded. I’ve always been a quick healer. “You’ll be lucky to escape Mother’s bubble, yourself.”
Selen’s mouth opens. “How’s that?”
I smile ruefully. “The duchess promised I would have my friends to keep me company.”
Selen shakes her head. “Da may be some big hero of the demon war, but he ent ever seen a fight like the one he’ll get if he goes back on his promise to let me go beyond the wards, no matter what the duchess says.”
“It doesn’t matter what he wants, Sel. If the duchess gives an order, Uncle Gared will follow it.”
Selen crosses her arms. “He does and I’ll steal away anyway.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And how will you manage that?”
“Same way you should.” Selen drops her voice, even though we’re alone. “Slip a drop of tampweed and skyflower into Wonda’s and Micha’s tea the night before. That little and they won’t even taste it. Won’t put them to sleep right away, but when it does, they’ll be out till noon. Hike starts at dawn. We can be miles from the greatward before they wake.”
Selen speaks with confidence, but I shake my head before it can infect me. “The guides will know we’re not allowed. Everyone in Hollow knows what we look like.”
“As girls,” Selen says.
I blink. “Ay, what’s that?”
“I can raid Da’s armory for a couple breastplates and helms.” She winks. “I’ll get Perin to hide them under the carriage. We slip off and join some group of bumpkins just off the farm. Boys don’t have to fight to go on the borough tour like us girls. They get a pat on the shoulder and a loan of Da’s armor. No one will look twice at us.”
My stomach clenches with nervous excitement as I realize she’s right. Wonda herself might not recognize us in breastplates and helms.
“There will be the Core to pay when we get back.”
Selen shrugs. “Ent gonna throw us in the dungeon, Olive. Same song as always. We say we’re sorry and promise never to do it again. Maybe a whipping if they’re really mad. Walk on tiptoe for a couple weeks, and then it’s forgotten.”
Selen is right. General Gared didn’t want her going on the borough tour at first, either. She’s spent her whole life wrestling with her father for rights and freedoms he gave without thought to her younger brothers. Since that day we wanted to spar, she’s fought for every step, the same as I have.
If you choose to be a boy, I will support you, Mother promised, that day.
But it was a false choice. I had no idea what it meant to be treated like a boy then. Even now, strapped tight in my bido weave, I don’t fully understand it.
Perhaps it’s time to learn.
4
I AM DARIN
My name is Darin Bales,
and everyone says my da saved the world.
It’s fine, I guess. He died before I was born so I don’t really miss him, and I’ve no shortage of family—blood and otherwise.
Saving the world is the kind of reputation that can stick to a family. Folk I’ve never met give me gifts and let me get away with just about anything. But sometimes I catch them staring, like they’re expecting me to do something amazing.
And when I don’t, I can smell their disappointment.
Mam tried to keep me from the worst of it. Brought me back to Tibbet’s Brook, the village on the edge of nowhere where she and Da grew up. Most of the folk here have ale stories about Da, too, but they didn’t know him in the war. Instead they embellish childhood antics into legends worthy of a Jongleur’s tale, taking pride in having known the Deliverer when he was knee-high.
Sometimes it feels like everyone knew my da except me.
* * *
—
I feel dawn coming without even looking at the window. It is still full dark by most folk’s reckoning, but my night eyes can see the coming light wash color through the sky.
I don’t like sunrise. The light stings as it takes away my night eyes, leaving me half blind until sunset. I feel the sun’s heat on my skin like the touch of a hot skillet. I burn easily if I forget to cover up.
Most of the world wakes with the sun. Plants tilt and insects buzz to life as their flowers open. Animals rouse and people wake. I hear every footstep, the sound of countless creatures stretching and rising and clomping about in search of breakfast. I smell every food, every bodily function, every lather of soap.
All of it, all at once. So much that it can be overwhelming if I don’t take care.
I want to flee, but first, like every morning, there’s chores.
I step over the threshold of Grandda Jeph’s farmhouse before the cock crows. The yard is safe, but Grandda doesn’t like me doing chores too early. Says it upsets the animals.
I snatch the cloth-lined wicker basket from its spot by the door and run to the chicken coop, ignoring the squawks of protest as I snatch eggs and am gone before the birds even realize I’m there, juggling them into the basket.
Grandda doesn’t like me juggling the eggs, but I need the practice if I’m to become a Jongleur. I’ve given this a lot of thought. Other jobs just seem like too much work, and no one looks twice when a strange Jongleur comes to town. I could go somewhere no one knows me, and they just treat me like regular folk. And if they figure it out, I go somewhere else.
I open the henhouse door and leave a scattering of seed in the yard, then dash indoors to leave the eggs on the kitchen counter while the house still sleeps. An instant later I’m on a stool beneath the first of the cows. They’re no less surprised than the hens as I blur through their stalls, but happy for a quick, efficient milking.
The windows of the farmhouse are still dark as I leave the milk in the coldhouse and rush to the rest of my chores. Feedbags for the horses and slop for the pigs. The wellhouse, the curing shed, the smokehouse, the silo. Like a wind blowing through the farm, I pay each a hurried visit, racing against the dawn.
The old rooster stirs. I hate that bird. It inhales just as I finish filling the firebox—the last of my chores. I cover my ears and flee, getting as much distance as I can before it begins to shriek.
* * *
—
I cut overland through fallow fields and thick stands of trees, keeping to the shade as much as I can. I skip over a wide stream, seeing faint indentations worn into the stones by generations before me. Reckon my da was one of them. This is the most direct route from the farm to Town Square. Stepping where he used to step, like reading his old journals, lets me know a little bit of him.
The sun is only a sliver on the horizon when I reach Town Square, but the smell of Aunt Selia’s butter cookies is already in the air. She’s left a tray of them by her window to cool. My mouth waters and my stomach grumbles to life.
Selia Barren is Town Speaker and head of the militia in Tibbet’s Brook. She ent really my aunt, but Mam always says family’s about more than blood. The other kids call her Old Lady Barren. Everyone’s scared of her, except me.
I scamper up her wall and peek in the window. The kitchen is empty. Quickly I stuff a cookie into my mouth, letting it overwhelm my senses. In an hour they will stiffen into the hard, crumbly biscuits Aunt Selia likes with her tea, but fresh from the oven, they are still warm, fragrant, and soft. The recipe is simple, letting the butter rule without confusing it with too many other flavors. I use both hands to stuff more into my pockets.
“Darin Bales, I knew it was you, stealing my cookies!”
I freeze as Selia storms into the kitchen. I should have scented her as she lay in wait, but I was too focused on the smell of the cookies.
“Sorry, Aunt Selia,” I try to say, but my teeth are full of cookie, and it comes out “thorry and thelia.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but her scent changes from irritation to amusement, and I can see the muscles around her mouth twitch. “You could just ask, Darin. I’ve never denied you a cookie.”
It’s true, but Selia always offers the oldest cookies, yesterday’s batch that sits in the crock on her table.
I swallow. “Better when they’re fresh.”
Selia crosses her arms. “You could still come in and ask.”
I glance over my shoulder at the rising sun. “Ent got time.” I snatch another cookie and set off running before she can shout.
The school bell rings, but I put my hood up, keeping to the shade as much as I can on the run to Soggy Marsh. Still, the light stings my eyes and makes me dizzy.
The Marsh gets an unfair reputation. When folk think of it, they think of the rice paddies—wet, bug-infested, and smelly. But the outskirts of the wetlands are actually quite nice, with lots of fishing holes and cool shady spots far from folk. Perfect for sleeping away the heat of morning.
I wake past midday, feeling refreshed. I finish the cookies in my pocket as I go down to the swimming hole to cool off. After a quick swim I climb a tree and take out my pipes, testing the reeds. One of the notes is sour. I close my eyes and run my thumb over the reed. There’s a hairline crack.
At the water’s edge I cut a new reed, then return to my perch and take out my tuning kit. I shape the reed and treat it with quick-drying resin, then carefully unweave the rough cord that binds the pipes tightly together. By the time I clean them all, the resin is dry and I replace the sour reed. Lashing them back together to act as a single unit is tricky, but I’ve done it so many times now it’s become second nature.
Again I test the notes. Satisfied this time, I begin to play.
I hear voices, soon after. Marsh kids released from the schoolhouse for the day, come down to swim.
There’s laughter as they hear my music. They spin around, staring up at the trees, trying to guess where the music is coming from.
“Schoolmam’s given up on you comin’ back, Darin Bales!” Ami Rice calls. “She don’t even call you on the roll anymore!”
I make my tune a little more playful, laughing through the music. Nothing could drag me back to the chaos of that crowded classroom.
“Come swimming with us!” Rej Marsh calls. “We promise there won’t be math!”
The others laugh. They don’t mean it cruelly. I can smell the playfulness. Their invitation is genuine. It always is, and that makes me happy.
But I never go.
The other kids in the Brook ent mean, but they don’t understand me, either. Ent the math or the spelling that drove me out, or any of them. It’s all of them. The noise, the smells, the constant chatter. It was being inside with everyone in close, squeezing the air around me.
It’s better this way—safe in the trees, away from the splashing and shrieking, but present with my music. Sometimes they
call out requests and sometimes I oblige, but mostly they act like I’m not there, and that’s fine with me.
The sun is setting as I circle back to Grandda’s farm for supper. I love dusk as much as I hate the dawn. Even indirect sunlight feels like a great fist, squeezing me throughout the day. But now that pressure is receding and it’s like waking up, feeling my senses expand and my powers return.
I’m almost home when I see fresh scars in the bark of a tall tree, throbbing with escaping heat.
My eyes flick around, noting similar marks on other trees as I follow the path to where the creature dropped down to the ground, leaving two great taloned footprints in the dirt.
Wood demon.
For the most part, corelings come in two types—Regulars and Wanderers. Regulars tend to hunt the same area every night. Wanderers roam about, following spoor trails and sound in search of prey. They can range for miles, coming in and out of a region.
Tibbet’s Brook was too far away to get purged of demons like the Free Cities did when Da destroyed the demon hive. But there were less out here to begin with, and Aunt Selia’s militia cleared out all the Regulars years ago.
Still, every once in a while a Wanderer finds its way onto someone’s property. If it finds prey, there’s a chance it might become a Regular. It’s hard to imagine one wandering so close to the farm’s greatward without drawing attention, but these prints are barely a day old.
Demons hate sunlight even more than I do. My skin burns easily, but they burst into flame. Like me, I expect they feel morning’s weight pressing on them long before the dawn. To escape they use their magic to dissipate, becoming insubstantial as they flee back underground using one of the natural vents magic uses to flow up from the Core.
But even Wanderers are creatures of habit. Whatever vent a coreling uses to escape the sun will be the same one it rises from the next night, which means the demon is still in the area.
The Desert Prince Page 5