The Desert Prince

by Peter V. Brett

  I nod, wanting to scream at the words. While my friends meet the Warded Children and see the wild lands beyond the wards, I get to braid flowers in my hair and toss poorly balanced rings at bottles for a chance to win trinkets.

  I used to love Solstice Festivals. I would spend months planning my outfit, and count the days until the celebration. Now it feels like a punishment for something I cannot control.

  Selen looks excited to go and join the crowd. And why not? I’m the one who’s holding her back. She deserves this, and so much more.

  “Go,” I say. “Add my share of fun to your own.”

  Selen wraps her arms around me, pulling me close to whisper in my ear. “We’ll have it together. I’ll be waiting in the woods behind the stable.”

  My chest tightens, but I nod against her shoulder, too subtly for the others to notice. “It’s not fair you get to go.” I make the words loud enough for Micha and Wonda to hear.

  “I’ll tell you all about it in a few days,” Selen promises, before dancing off into the crowd.

  * * *

  —

  The finest inn at Pumpforge is not luxurious, but it is spacious, with high ceilings and well-made furniture. We have the entire top floor, including a central dining area. Wonda no doubt thinks it a mercy to keep me from talk of the hike in the common.

  It’s surprisingly easy to slip the vial from my hidden pocket, counting drops into the pot of strong tea on the tray. Too little, and a big woman like Captain Wonda won’t do more than yawn. Too much, and she and Micha won’t wake for days. The whole vial and they might not wake at all.

  I pick at the food on my plate, but I have no interest in it. My stomach is turning somersaults.

  “Ent gonna eat?” Wonda lifts a thick cut of venison on her fork. “Game’s fresh out here. Ent like the grain-fed meat at home.”

  “That makes it better?” I ask.

  “Oh, ay.” Wonda stuffs the forkful into her mouth, lips smacking with juice as she chews.

  Disgusted, I push my plate away. “I’ve more in common with stock raised in captivity.”

  “Aw, Olive. It ent like that.” Wonda reaches for me.

  There is genuine hurt in her eyes, but I don’t care. I quickly get to my feet, stepping out of reach. “What’s it like, then?”

  “Your mum just wants you safe.”

  I cross my arms. “And the parents of the hundreds of children in the market square don’t?”

  “ ’Course they do.” Wonda spreads her hands. “It was up to me, I’d take you. Honest word. But it ent.”

  I stare at Wonda a long time. She means the words, but it makes her no less my goaler. But then her jaw tightens as she swallows a yawn. I never touched the cup of tea I was served, but she and Micha emptied the pot.

  “I’ll be in my cell.” I stomp off to my room, making a show of slamming the door.

  Inside I pace, listening to Wonda and Micha talking in low voices. I hear the clatter of plates as the table is cleared and turn down my lamp, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness. I’ve never needed much light to see—starlight from the window and the lights of other houses are enough. My ears strain, until at last I hear it.

  Wonda’s snoring.

  I slip quietly from the room to find Wonda passed out on the small couch in the common room. The door to Micha’s room is closed, with no light coming from beneath.

  Holding my breath, I pad across the room. With every floorboard creak I expect Wonda’s eyes to snap open, but she doesn’t even shift in her sleep as I put an ear to Micha’s door.

  I close my eyes, focusing on Wonda’s snoring and then deliberately tuning it out. There, like a trickle drowned by the roar of a waterfall, my sensitive ears make out the steady sound of Micha’s breath.

  I return to my room, shutting and locking the door. The window sticks, and for a moment I fear they’ve nailed it shut. Slowly I increase the pressure, muscles cording. Suddenly it comes loose, opening with a thump.

  I freeze, ears straining, but Wonda’s snoring continues unabated. I take a deep breath, then throw one leg out the window. A moment later I am perched on the sloping roof of the inn, gently sliding the window shut.

  I shiver in excitement as I slide down the roof, catching the awning lip as I go over the edge. My dress billows as I swing to the ground.

  My door is locked from the inside, and they will be in no rush to wake me. Even without the potion, they might not realize I’m gone until midmorning. If the tea does its work, I’ll have a head start of hours.

  And they won’t be looking for a boy.

  There will be the Core to pay when this is done. Micha and Wonda may never trust me again, and Mother will be a thunderstorm. But for just a few days, I’ll have a taste of what it’s like to be free.

  * * *

  —

  “How’s it feel?” Selen asks as I tighten the last strap of the wooden breastplate. Wooden tassets protect my hips, with vambraces and greaves for my forearms and calves, all of them carved with wards and glazed in hard lacquer. Beneath, I wear a dark coat and sturdy leggings to cushion the plates.

  I’ve taken off the bido, wearing the cotton underclothes Selen says boys favor. I don’t ask how she knows. It feels…odd to be unstrapped after years of binding myself tight.

  “Awkward,” I admit. “And lighter than expected. This armor’s supposed to protect me?”

  “Might not think it’s so light after a few days’ hike,” Selen says. “Wooden armor ent much good against a horse spear or a crank bow, but the wards will turn coreling claws better than steel.”

  “So they say.” I run my fingers doubtfully over the symbols carved into the wood. “When was the last time it was put to the test?”

  Selen shrugs. “Ent much chance of it being tested on this trip, either.”

  She hangs her lantern from a tree branch and holds up a hand mirror as I part my thick black hair in a boy’s style, braiding it at the nape of my neck and tucking it inside the breastplate to hide its length. I take my powder kit, darkening my brow and brushing a hint of shadow around my hairless jaw. Then I put on the open-faced wooden helmet and strike a dashing pose. “How do I look?”

  “Oh, my.” Selen fans herself with the mirror. “You’re going to be beating the girls off with your spear.”

  I open my mouth to snipe in return, but stumble over the retort as Selen steps back and holds up the mirror again. A stranger looks back at me. He has the same shaped face as me, the same sky-blue eyes, but the subtle effect of the hair and makeup is striking. With the armor adding weight and bulk to my frame, I doubt even Mother would recognize me if I walked past her.

  And I look…good. Handsome and powerful. The kind of boy no one would question on the borough tour. Like I’m about to debut a new dress, I can’t wait to see how people react, because it feels right.

  “My turn!” Selen hands me the mirror and puts on her own helmet. She laughs as she mimics my pose, but the illusion is real. Her broad shoulders carry the breastplate as if it were made for her, and her heavy jaw looks right in the helm.

  “If you weren’t my aunt,” I smile, “I’d hide in a dung stall for a chance to kiss you.”

  Selen swats at me but I dance away from the blow. “Look a bit like the general, if I’m giving honest word.”

  Selen smiles. “Mum says he was the handsomest man in Hollow before he lost his hair and added fifty pounds of ale to his belly. Nice to know I have that to look forward to.”

  I laugh, but Selen continues. “You ent one to tell tales. You look more like some desert prince than your mum.” She winks. “Just as well, with the duchess’ face on every coin in Hollow.”

  Mention of the duchess awakens a familiar knot of worry in my stomach. “Let’s go before it’s too late.”

  We set a quick pace to the market square, where h
undreds of teens have gathered their bedrolls into packs. The sky is turning violet with the coming dawn as youngsters from all over the duchy wait to be assigned guides for the highlight of the borough tour.

  Two dozen Warded Children stand by the fountain at the center of the square, holding up hands and shouting for folk to form up into groups of twenty.

  Like insects and light, folk are drawn to the Children, but they keep their distance for fear of being burned. The Warded Children are the last remnants of a magic that is passing from the world. Ale stories and tampweed tales of their exploits are spun by every Jongleur in Thesa.

  Mother says their powers have diminished since the war, but their very presence remains intimidating. Everyone was said to breathe a sigh of relief when they left Hollow to live in the borderlands. Civilized folk didn’t know what to do with them.

  The Children embody every freedom I long for, but I do not envy them. I want to join society, not eschew it. Some few wear plain, threadbare robes, but most are clad only in sandals and scraps of ragged cloth that leave little to the imagination. Ward tattoos run up and down their limbs and across their bodies. Their hair is cropped close, often shaved or spiked, with mind wards tattooed on their heads.

  Here and there I see bits of armor—greaves and bracers, a small buckler—but nothing close to full protection. Their warded skin is exposed wherever possible. My nostrils flare, catching the stink of sweat and hogroot—an herb known to repel demons.

  A handful carry weapons—spears, bows, or knives—but most are unarmed. Few of the Children are even as large as me. It’s hard to imagine any of them putting up a fight against an armored soldier—much less a demon—but they move with feral confidence, and folk jump when they bark.

  “I don’t think that one has anything under his loincloth,” a familiar voice says, and there are peals of laughter. I turn to see Minda next to me in the crowd. She catches my eye and smiles, and for a moment, I think we’ve been caught. Then I note the blush in her pale cheeks, and realize she hasn’t recognized me at all. She keeps looking, running a hand along her new silk Krasian scarf, and suddenly it’s my face that’s coloring. I don’t know what shocks me more, the way she’s eyeing me, or that I like it.

  “Over here.” Selen’s voice is gruff as she grabs my arm and pulls me through the crowd to where smaller groups from distant villages are banding together. We find some unfamiliar faces gathering by one of the Children—a tall woman with a pretty face and a long, lithe build. Her blond hair is cropped save in back, where a braid at least three feet long hangs.

  She wears the bare minimum of clothing decency requires, and almost every inch of her exposed skin is covered in tattoos. The warding is beautiful, elegant lines sliding under her clothes to make clear even her hidden flesh is inked. I wonder if she bothers with clothes at all, when not in town, and again I feel my face flush.

  None of the others seem perturbed at two strangers joining the tour group. Most are staring at our guide with varying degrees of fear, awe, and desire.

  As Selen predicted, we’re not the only ones with borrowed arms and armor. There are boys in ill-fitting shirts of metal links, leather jerkins studded with steel, and even two suits of warded steel plates. They carry an array of axes and spears, all etched with wards. The worn handles look older than the boys who carry them.

  “Ay, look at that one.” Selen tilts her head toward a tall boy with a steel helm tucked under one arm. His deep brown eyes match the thick curls of hair cascading over his brow. The steel plates of his armor are too large for his frame, but not by much. A scraggly brown beard clings to his heavy jaw, like the first blades of spring grass. He’s beautiful, but my nerve breaks when he looks up. I quickly turn my head before our eyes can meet.

  I don’t understand what’s happening. It isn’t as if I haven’t taken a shine to people before, but tonight, it’s all I seem able to think about.

  Most of the girls are unarmored, clad in sensible dresses and boots suited to hiking. They carry bows and small quivers.

  Two of them must have relatives who served in Mother’s house guard. Their borrowed wooden breastplates are sleeker than those Selen took from her father’s armory, with loose pants that flare at the legs before gathering into their boots. Standing still, they have the appearance of dresses, but with greater freedom of movement. I copied the design with a few flourishes for my riding gear. Crank bows are slung from harnesses on their backs with full quivers resting on their hips.

  It only takes a moment before Selen and I are noticed. We draw more than a few stares, and I worry again that we’ve been recognized. Three girls start whispering to one another, their eyes never leaving us. At last, they shove one of the group forward.

  “Are you Krasian?” the girl asks as the other two giggle at her back.

  I freeze. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. With every passing moment, I feel more and more exposed.

  Selen steps in, smacking me on the back. “Sorry about that. Aman’s a bit shy about his desert blood.” She bows as smoothly as one of her father’s footmen. “I’m Simen. We’re from Sweet Succor, north of Cutter’s Hollow.”

  “Lanna.” The girl smiles and spreads her skirts as the others gather close. “We’re from Apple Hill.”

  She’s pretty, with an upturned nose and round cheeks, brown hair gathered into a braid that rests on her shoulder and hangs down to frame a budding bosom. There’s a crank bow peeking from her weathered pack, but she doesn’t have the look of a hunter. Quite the opposite. She looks at me the way Minda did, and I feel my heart speed up in response.

  As my mind catches up with her words, I breathe out some of my tension. Apple Hill is nearly a week’s ride from the capital, and far from Sweet Succor.

  “Lotta mudboys born after the war.” The beautiful boy whose eyes I couldn’t meet steps in front of Lanna.

  “Oskar, don’t.” She puts a hand on his arm, but he yanks it free.

  I’ve heard tales of people with Krasian blood treated poorly in Thesa, but no one has ever dared say a word like mudboy in my presence. I stare at him, incredulous, but then he steps in close and by some instinct I mirror him, standing just out of arm’s reach. My fist clenches, and this time I meet his eyes with a cold glare.

  Oskar is larger than me, but I’m stronger than I look. I visualize Wind Against the Rocks, the sharukin that would bring the heel of my palm to his heavy jaw. If he comes at me, I will lay him out on the cobbles.

  Selen steps between us, nose-to-nose with Oskar. “Dressing in your da’s armor doesn’t make you a fighter. You’re smart, you’ll step back while you can.”

  Aggression radiates off her like heat, and he takes a step back in surprise. Then he glances at his friends and forces a laugh to cover his fear as he steps back in. “Or what? Mudboy will sharusahk me?”

  Selen raises a fist, her voice deepened to a growl I hardly recognize. “Ought to be more worried about me.”

  A few of the other boys, obviously friends of Oskar, gather in close, but whether it’s for a view of the brewing fight or a readiness to join in, I can’t tell.

  These outer-borough boys may be shepherds and farmers, but they have us outnumbered. Selen and I have practiced sharusahk forms all our lives, but neither of us has ever really fought anyone. Will our training be enough to stave off a beating? Even if it is, much of sharusahk is designed to cripple and kill. There won’t be an overnight if we injure one of these boys before we even leave the square.

  “Ay! Enough with the rooster strutting!” Our guide claps her hands, and everyone jumps, turning her way. She points a finger at Oskar and he pales visibly. “I know mudboys worth ten of you, apple picker. Leave the pretty one alone or you can stay behind.”

  Oskar steps back so quickly he stumbles in his heavy armor, and it’s only the quick hands of his friends that keep him from falling. He glares at me as they
steady him, and I give him a hint of smile.

  “Name’s Ella Cutter.” The Warded Child begins to pace in front of us, as I feel my knotted muscles begin to unclench. “Here to be your guide, not your wet nurse. Anyone doesn’t hop when I say jump is going to regret it. Say ay.”

  “A-ay,” everyone stammers.

  Ella stomps her foot, and the cobblestone cracks beneath her heel. “Say ay!”

  “Ay!” we cry loudly.

  Ella gives us a satisfied nod. “Ent ever seen a demon on borough tour, but that don’t mean we won’t. That happens, you’ll need to depend on one another. Gonna pick four leaders. Each will be responsible for four of your group-mates. I ask where any of them are, you’d best have an answer. Anyone in your group has a problem, you solve it, or bring it to me. And Creator help you if your group can’t keep pace. Say ay.”

  “Ay!” everyone shouts in unison.

  “Good.” Ella points at Selen, first. “You look ready for a fight. Simen is it?” Selen nods, and Ella grunts, pointing to four others in the group. “You four are Simen’s now.”

  Next she points to Lanna. “Taking charge will toughen you up. Can’t have boys acting like you’re a tackleball to fight over.” Lanna spreads her skirts and opens her mouth, but Ella is already turning away to point at Oskar. “Local bully, ay? Might be a little responsibility is what you need.” Oskar punches a fist to his chest like a soldier, and Ella snorts, turning to me. “And you, Mudboy. Respect goes a long way with ignorant louts. See if you can earn some.”

  Again, that awful word, but it’s different when Ella says it than Oskar, and she’s trusting me to take charge of others. Mother won’t even give me charge of myself.

  I reach for my skirts to curtsy, realizing too late I have none. By the time I manage a bow, Ella has turned on her heel and started striding for the edge of the cobblestone square. “Right, then! Time to go.”

  “You heard her!” Selen barks, waving her group along. The rest of us quickly follow.