The Desert Prince

by Peter V. Brett

  “Stela!” Mam holds out her arms to embrace her. Stela is leader of the Warded Children, but even she answers to Mam. The Children worship Mam, and her affection is real in return.

  But then Mam’s head tilts. “What’s happened?”

  “Demons struck a group of children on borough tour tonight,” Stela says.

  “Night.” Mam spits over the porch rail. “Anyone killed?”

  “Ay,” Stela says. “Ella was lured off before they struck. She cleared the lot when she returned, but several tourists were killed, and others crippled. And that ent all.”

  “Ay?” Mam asks.

  “Princess Olive was in the tour group,” Stela says.

  I start at the name, and feel a panic rise. It’s been years since I last saw Olive, but we’ve known each other since we were in nappies. If she’s hurt…

  “She all right?” I hear the worry in Mam’s voice as well.

  “Ay,” Stela says. “Micha was there to protect her. Ella left Olive and the others in her care.”

  Micha? I must have misheard. Hard to picture Olive’s meek, veiled nanny being much good against corelings.

  “She left?” Anger builds in Mam’s normally patient voice. “Demons tried to kill Olive rippin’ Paper, and Ella…left?”

  “Told Micha she needed to hunt the remaining corelings,” Stela said. “And that you needed to be told.”

  “Idiot girl!” Mam snaps. “Then why ent she here instead of you?”

  “Ella ate demon meat, Mrs. Bales,” Stela says. “Hunted for hours after she left Micha. Ent in her right mind. Acting crazy. Violent. You know how it gets. Barely got a rough of the story before she started causin’ trouble. Took five of us to haul her into the Bunker.”

  “Corespawn it.” For a moment, the wards beneath Mam’s skin start to glow, but then she takes a deep breath and they fade once more. “Too close to dawn to skate back now. Gonna have to wait out the day.”

  * * *

  —

  As the sun slips below the horizon, Stela fades to mist and disappears. Mam holds out her hand. “Come along, Darin.”

  She smells angry. Regretful. Impatient. All things I’ve smelled before—but this is the first time Mam has ever smelled afraid. Stela’s news has shaken her even more than the attack by Grandda’s farm. She’s eager to return to the Children and get to the bottom of things.

  Still I hesitate, knowing what’s to come.

  “Now, Darin.” Mam thrusts her hand my way again. This time I take it. I feel her will latch on to me the moment we touch, her magic mingling with mine.

  “There you are.” Mam’s voice is low and soothing. “Mam’s got you. Don’t be afraid.”

  Yet I am afraid. I can’t mist on my own, and I’ve never wanted to. Misting killed my da.

  But I’m helpless to resist as Mam stretches and hollows my body like she’s blowing a soap bubble. I want to scream but I have no voice, pulled thinner and thinner until something inside me bursts and I dissipate with her.

  Once when I was little, Mam caught me in a mud puddle. I wouldn’t stop splashing, so she dragged me out by the arm.

  That’s what it feels like now—dragged along like a child as she finds the nearest vent and dives down into it.

  It’s called skating. Magic vents from the Core to the surface along countless natural paths. The most powerful Warded Children can dissipate and slip into a vent, traveling deep underground to where they intersect with other paths leading to faraway places.

  I’m wrenched along like a twig in the brook at spring melt. It’s a journey through darkness, but I can “see” with my mind, a blur of roots and soil and stone, water and lichen and burrowing worms. We bounce from vent to vent, crossing hundreds of miles in the time it takes to skip across the stepping-stones of a creek.

  It’s a dizzying, terrifying experience. The trip only takes seconds, but in the between-state those seconds stretch out like tortured hours. As we go, I can hear it—the call of the Core.

  The hot center of the world pulses like a living thing. Composed of the near-infinite power that gives the spark of life to all creatures, the Core is a bright pure light, reaching for me with warmth and welcome.

  Da touched it, once. It gave him the strength to save the world, but he never came back.

  No one who touches the Core comes back.

  Mam has ahold of my essence, but I lock my will on her in return, clinging desperately to keep from being pulled down below.

  There is nothing to do but to endure. The journey across Thesa to reach the Warded Children would take a month even on swift horseback. In the immaterial state, it’s still twilight when we solidify.

  The Children have gathered in numbers I haven’t seen in years, filling the camp. Stela’s Wardskins, the wildest and most powerful faction, lounge in the shadows like cats, half napping but ready to coil and spring in an instant. Others are gathered in prayer, training, or working around the camp, but all stop what they’re doing and come to attention when Mam appears.

  I grew up here as much as Tibbet’s Brook, these people as familiar as family, but something is different tonight. There is tension in the air, a mix of fear and eagerness that sets me ill at ease.

  Brother Franq, the Children’s religious leader, is the first to greet us. His brown robes are plain, but the sleeves are rolled up to reveal arms sleeved in ward tattoos.

  “Welcome home, Mrs. Bales.” Franq bows to Mam, then turns to give me a nod. “Peace find you, Darin. You’ve grown since I saw you last. Soon the sacrament will be upon you.”

  I look at my hands, the skin of my palms still unmarked. It is forbidden to tattoo wards on anyone before their sixteenth summer, and next year will be mine.

  “Sooner the better with corelings scratching at the wards,” Stela says. I wonder how disappointed they’ll be—how disappointed everyone will be—when I refuse. Fine the way I am. Don’t want my body covered in wards, but the Warded Children are apt to take it personal.

  “Enough chatter,” Mam says, and everyone falls silent. “Need to see Ella Cutter.”

  Franq bows again. “Of course, Mrs. Bales. This way.”

  “I can wait—” I begin.

  Mam cuts me off. “Ent gonna coddle you, Darin Bales. World’s a dark place sometimes, and there’s no hidin’ from it. Want you to see up close why it’s dangerous to eat demon.”

  So we go into the Bunker. Dug deep into a hillside, it has three long, narrow corridors, each leading to a cell of poured crete reinforced with steel. Children can’t mist through worked stone, and the crete is surrounded on all sides with tons of soil and rock. The doors are warded steel worked with demonbone, thick as my hand. I can feel the wards tugging at my magic as we approach. I could slip through the bars, perhaps—I can slip through most any gap—but the wards might suck the life from me.

  “Don’t like it in here,” I mutter.

  “No one does,” Mam says. “but it’s for folk’s own good. Don’t get sent to the Bunker unless you’re gonna hurt someone—or yourself.”

  Maybe she’s right, but there’s no denying what the Bunker is—a goal built to hold Children too strong for normal cells. They say it was a real problem once, but I can’t remember the last time it was occupied.

  We reach the deepest cell, and Stela opens a viewing panel in the door. Inside is Ella Cutter, whose bawdy jokes make everyone blush, and whose laugh sets them at ease. Ella, the most talented tattooist in Thesa.

  Ella, sitting chained to the wall, her hands crusted in her own blood. The scrapes have long since healed, but I can see bloody cracks in the crete walls where she struck them. She looks up and meets my eyes, but I see nothing of the woman I know in that predatory stare.

  “Open the door,” Mam says.

  “Mrs. Bales,” Brother Franq warns. “Ella Cutter was one of the
first Children. She is strong and dangerous—”

  Mam waves him off. “Won’t be the first time I needed to take a fool gorged on demon meat and dunk their head in the trough. Open it.”

  “Ay, Mam,” Stela says, pulling the lever that unlatches and opens the door. Even she doesn’t want to touch the door itself.

  Mam doesn’t hesitate, entering the cell and leaving the door open. She approaches Ella directly but unhurriedly. “Evenin’, El. How you feelin’?”

  Hunched against the wall, Ella lifts her head to meet Mam’s eyes. Her ward tattoos glow and pulse with power. “How’d you feel, if you saved a dozen lives and got locked away for it?”

  “Ent how I heard it.” Mam continues to approach. “Heard you left your post, and a lot of kids died for it. Heard you left Olive Paper out in the naked night because you were drunk on demon ichor.”

  There is no anger in her voice. No judgment. Just simple fact. Ella bows her head, but I can see her magic gathering. Doubtless Mam sees it, too, but she keeps approaching.

  Ella is a blur as she springs, leaping as soon as Mam comes in range of her chains. She bares teeth still stained black with ichor, reaching out with dirty, jagged fingernails.

  Mam is ready, catching her by the wrist and pivoting, putting the heel of her hand to Ella’s throat. Mam’s wards appear on her hands, glowing fiercely. Ella yanks and thrashes about, but Mam holds her steady as a lamb for shearing.

  “Kill you! I’ll kill you! Kill…!” Ella’s wards throb, their glow dimming with each pulse even as Mam’s brighten. Ella throws a punch, but Mam diverts it, sweeping the younger woman into an embrace, more of her wards flaring as she continues to drain Ella’s excess magic.

  And then they sink to the cell’s smooth crete floor, Mam holding Ella tight as she cries.

  “Din’t mean it, Mrs. Bales,” Ella sobs. “Din’t—”

  Mam strokes her hair. “Ay, don’t give it a thought. You’re a good person, Ella Cutter. I was in your shoes more than once.”

  Ella nods, sniffling, and Mam gives her a moment to compose. “Need you to tell me what you saw. All of it, no matter how unimportant a thing might seem.”

  “Didn’t recognize Princess Olive,” Ella says. “Just looked like a boy with a bright aura. I could see her friend was a girl pretending to be a boy, but din’t think it was my business. Ent seen Selen Cutter since she was knee-high. Don’t know I would have recognized her even if I’d looked closer. Wasn’t till Micha showed herself that I put it together, and by then I…” She sobs into Mam’s breast.

  “Weren’t yourself,” Mam agrees.

  “Demons were smart,” Ella says. “Killed a pack of nightwolves not far from camp to lure me out for a look, then ambushed me. Thought I was keepin’ the fight from the tour group. Din’t think they were the target. Thought I was.”

  “They’d see the lot of us dead if they could,” Mam says. “Ent blaming you for being tricked.”

  “Two groups,” Ella notes. “Both actin’ smart.”

  “Three,” Mam replies. “At least. One group to bushwhack you, the other to hit the camp…and the group that tried to kill Darin last night.”

  Ella gasps, looking up at me with fear in her eyes. I can see her scan me up and down, making sure I’m all right.

  “I’m fine, Ella,” I tell her. “Safe and sound.”

  “Thank the Creator,” Ella breathes.

  Mam puts her head under Ella’s arm, helping the woman to her feet. She wobbles, weak as a kitten, but her scent is relaxed.

  “Send scouts,” Mam says as she exits the cell. “Groups of three at least. No one goes out alone. Find Olive, see her home safe, and look for other signs.”

  “Signs of what?” Stela asks.

  “Signs he’s back,” Mam says.

  “Who?” I can smell the tension the question brings to the others, but no one answers.

  “What will you do?” Brother Franq asks.

  Mam sighs. “Gonna need to visit Miss Prissy Perfect.”

  10

  TROUBLE

  We drag the wounded on litters, carrying them over the roughest terrain. Micha sets a brutal pace that I fear will be too much for the weakest of our group, but there is no choice. Selen left hours before dawn, running with full weapons and armor. Even if she encountered no demons, it was twenty miles to Pumpforge along unfamiliar ways with only her helm’s wardsight to navigate.

  If she made it, help is surely on the way. If not, no pace Micha sets can cover the distance before sunset without abandoning the wounded.

  What would Mother do, if faced with such a choice? Abandon her charges to save those she could? Or stay to protect them, with the likeliest outcome their collective destruction?

  I don’t need to wonder. The history books are filled with the answer. Mother never left her patients.

  My resolve tightens, and I nod to myself. Neither will I. If we don’t make it back before nightfall and the demons come, they’ll need to kill me before they reach the others. The chance to fight and die is more than I deserve. I brought this on everyone. The dead, the wounded, the terrified and grieving, all my fault. Because I was stubborn. Because I thought I knew better than Mother and broke her trust. And Micha’s. And Wonda’s.

  Maybe it’s better to die on coreling talons than face them after what I’ve done.

  But it isn’t meant to be. We crest a rise and see Captain Wonda and the Hollow Lancers galloping our way, followed by the royal carriage and wagons from Pumpforge. Selen, out of her armor and looking like herself again, rides behind Wonda on her massive Angierian mustang.

  The sight of them is such a relief I sob as Lanna and the others give a cheer. She moves to embrace me, but I step away, not wanting to be held. Not deserving it. I poisoned Captain Wonda, and she is going to be furious.

  Indeed, we can hear her shouting long before the words are clear, giving orders to her men and urging them to even greater speed.

  “Olive!” Wonda cries as they draw close.

  “Olive?” Lanna wonders aloud. I look at her a little too sharply, and she tilts her head at me.

  I’m saved from that look as Wonda gallops right up to me before reining in. She leaps nimbly from the horse’s back and comes at me in a rush. I flinch, expecting a blow and knowing I have it coming.

  But Wonda throws her arms around me in a crushing embrace. “Night, Olive, thought we lost you.” She shudders, and I realize she’s weeping. I didn’t think that was possible. “Gonna be all right now, I promise.”

  The soldiers quickly load the wounded and usher the others into the wagons. Wonda holds the door to Mother’s armored carriage, and I have a feeling that, once it closes, I’ll never see Lanna and the others again.

  I turn and see Lanna has come to the same conclusion. She comes over and I stiffen, but she only smiles. “I kissed Princess Olive? Guess it was my lucky day.”

  I blink. “You’re not upset?”

  She surprises me by leaning in and kissing me again. As before, her mouth is soft, but there is a hunger to it. “You saved my life. You can have all the kisses you want.”

  Wonda coughs, but she averts her gaze, saying nothing. Through the carriage window, Selen looks like she’s cheering.

  “Take it off,” Lanna says.

  “What?”

  “The helmet,” she clarifies. “Take it off.”

  She deserves that much. I lift the wooden helm, suddenly conscious of my sweat-matted hair and dirty face.

  “Not exactly how you imagined the princess of Hollow, is it?” I ask.

  Lanna’s smile widens. “It’s better.” She spreads her skirts and dips into a curtsy, then turns and takes her place in the last wagon.

  * * *

  —

  The duchess receives us in the small audience hall—the room Mother uses when she
wants to privately intimidate visiting dignitaries. The raised dais for her throne means that, sitting or standing, she is always looking down at supplicants. She has her warded spectacles on, and blackout curtains are drawn over the windows. She is Reading my aura even now, and Creator only knows what it is telling her.

  She isn’t alone on the dais. General Gared stands behind her right hand, arms crossed, his scowl flushed red as he glares at Selen. No matter what trouble she’s gotten into, I’ve never seen the general angry at his daughter, but he is angry now.

  I wilt under the scrutiny, missing the anonymity of my wooden helm and armor on the tour, but the price was too high.

  “What in the Core were you thinking?!” the duchess demands.

  “It was my idea…” Selen is ready, as always, to put herself between me and danger. Mother turns a cold glare her way, and I know that this time I cannot allow it.

  “No,” I blurt before Mother can speak. “Selen aided me, but it was my decision. I was the one who brewed the potion and put it in Wonda and Micha’s tea.”

  Mother’s lips draw into a hard line as she returns her glare to me. I shrink back in fear, but then Micha steps forward. She is back in the loose black robes and headwrap I have always known, obscuring the warrior hidden within. She kneels before the dais, placing her hands on the floor, eyes down, much as the khaffit in the market.

  “The failure was mine, mistress,” Micha says. “My spear was lowered to threats from within. I should have noticed the poison in the tea sooner. By the time I did, Wonda vah Flinn had drunk too much.”

  “But you noticed it before Olive left?” Mother asks.

  Micha lowers her head further, touching her forehead to the floor. “Yes, mistress.”

  “So you could have stopped her,” Mother snaps. “You should have stopped her.”

  Micha keeps her hands and eyes on the floor. “Princess Olive barred her door from within. I could not prevent her from escaping without breaking my cover.”