* * *
—
“That will not be necessary,” Mother says after a long silence. “There are other ways to build trust.”
“Your forgiveness, Duchess,” Belina says, “but there is nothing so binding as blood. It is a good match. Chadan is handsome, heir to an ancient family with abundant wealth and thousands of warriors at their command. Princess Olive would be Chadan’s First Wife, with dominion over his household, and her children will one day rule Krasia.”
Mother waves a hand at the papers on the table, outlining trade routes and tax proposals. “Was this all a ruse to give Aleveran’s issue a claim to the throne of New Krasia?”
“Nonsense,” Belina says. “If that was our wish, we would have gone to my husband directly. He would marry his heir, Prince Kaji, to a Majah princess in an instant, if he thought it would reunify the tribes. This is a union between Majah and Hollow.”
I clench my fists under the table, as they continue to speak as if I am not in the room. As if I have no say in who I will marry, and why.
Mother frowns. “None of the other cities sealed the pact with blood.”
Belina arches an eyebrow. “Did you not, Leesha vah Erny? Hollow would be under Krasia’s sandal much as the southland, had you not bedded my husband.”
“Ay, you can’t talk to her like that!” I snap, drawing Belina and Iraven’s eyes to me, even as Wonda reaches for her bow.
The duchess raises a finger at me without looking. I can always tell when Mother is angry, and right now she is furious. “Be silent, Olive.”
“The girl pours well, but she is spoiled and willful,” Belina notes, sounding like Micha noting flaws in an item before haggling the price. “She has not yet learned her place. Perhaps it would be best to send her away for the negotiations.”
I want to punch Belina in her ageless face, but I know it will likely end with Wonda or my brother on the floor, and blood feud with the Majah. I grind my teeth, making no effort to remove myself.
“There aren’t going to be any negotiations,” Mother says. “I think you have misunderstood Hollow’s role in these talks, Dama’ting, so please allow me to make one thing perfectly clear. I will not marry my daughter to settle her father’s disputes. There is nothing to discuss or debate. No argument to make or dower great enough. Olive will marry—or not—at her own liberty.”
I want to laugh. Liberty? From the woman who just told me to be silent? The woman who not long ago was speaking of the army of prospective suitors awaiting permission to approach? I may be safe from this match, but liberty is one thing I will never have.
“The alagai hora demand it,” Belina says. “If Olive Paper does not join her blood with Majah, Desert Spear will fall.”
The words fall heavily upon me. What does that mean? The dice do not lie, but neither is their truth ever completely clear. Will people die if I don’t go?
You must not trust anything they say. I hear Micha’s voice in my head as clearly as if she were beside me. It is sin for a dama’ting to bear false witness against the dice, but that doesn’t mean it’s never been done.
Mother is unmoved. “If that is so, it will be because you are too stubborn and mistrustful to accept aid offered in good faith.
“Let us adjourn for the day.” Mother rises smoothly from her seat, open hands spread with palms showing. “We have assigned your delegation a walled manse for the duration of your stay. There are stables and yard for your wagons and animals, and rooms for you and your staff. Take time to consider—”
“There is nothing to consider, daughter of Erny,” Belina says. “The Evejah teaches us there is no trust without ties of blood. Are you certain you will not entertain the match?”
Mother raises her chin. “Not for an instant.”
“Then there is no point in continuing these negotiations.” Belina rises, as well. “We apologize for wasting your time. Tomorrow, we return to Desert Spear.”
“You can’t be serious,” Mother says.
Now it is Belina who lifts her chin as she draws her veil back over her face. “As serious as a storm.”
Indeed, despite Mother’s increasingly generous entreaties, the Krasians begin packing immediately, and the next morning they are gone.
13
OLD PLAYMATES
I’m the first to look up as one of Mam’s scouts mists into the Warded Children’s camp. There’s a hissing noise when they rise out of the ground and begin reassembling themselves. Others can’t hear it, but I can.
It’s been a week since the attack. Scouts come and go every night, tracking coreling movements and carrying messages to and from the duchess of Hollow. Mam and Leesha were closer when I was little. We spent summers in Cutter’s Hollow and winters in Everam’s Bounty, the capital of New Krasia, and everyone got on. But then Mam and Leesha had that stupid fight, and we ent been back since.
I’d just as soon not hear the worrying reports, but sometimes my ears are a curse. Mam will barely let me out of her sight, and even when they whisper I catch every word.
Something is building, and the reaction among the Children is a restless eagerness. They polish weapons and touch up tattoos, pacing the camp like demons at the wards.
But I can smell their fear, and their hunger. Ella isn’t the only Child with a latent addiction to the rush of power that comes from eating demon meat.
The mist takes the shape of Stela Inn. “She’s ready to receive you.”
Unnerved, I feel my bladder straining, and step from the camp to find a private spot to relieve myself. As I do, a figure breaks from the crowd, following a few paces back. Ella Cutter.
I try to ignore her, but it’s no use. I won’t be able to go with her watching.
“Night, Ella,” I call over my shoulder, “can I make water by myself?”
Ella puts her hands on her hips. “Changed your wet nappies, Darin Bales, and held you steady while you aimed at the privy. Why so shy now?”
“Already got a shadow,” I say. “Don’t see why I need another.”
“Your mam just wants you safe,” Ella says. “Somethin’s in the air, Darin. Don’t pretend ya can’t smell it.”
“Ay,” I say. “But I ent some city boy never seen a demon. Been goin’ out in the naked night my whole life. Give slack on the leash so I can step behind a rippin’ bush.”
Ella twists her lip, fighting a smile as she turns her back and allows me to take a few steps away to untie my pants.
Mam is waiting as I come back into the camp. She holds a hand out to me. “Come along, Darin.”
I swallow my fear and nod, holding my breath as I take her hand. For a moment her magic joins with mine, filling me with love and warmth and fierce protection.
And then she rips me apart.
I wonder if this is what Da felt when he died. Just the sense of being pulled until I can no longer hold on to my sense of self and blow away like a handful of ash on the wind.
But I don’t have to hold on.
Mam’s got you, Darin. I feel the words more than hear them. And she does. I can feel her will controlling our dissolution, as smooth and effortless as whisking eggs in a bowl. Then it’s the frying pan.
Mam finds a magic vent—a natural pathway for magic to seep up to the surface from the Core—and we flush down it like a drainpipe into the dark below, following a vast network of vents at the speed of thought.
We come closer to the Core, but not close. The power at the center of the world is still an immensely distant thing. But here, without sunlight to burn the magic away, everything is saturated with it, humming the call of the Core. A sound resonating in my mind, so beautiful it is nearly impossible to resist. All I want to do is get closer, to snuggle up to it like a fireplace on a cold night.
But get too close, and you get burned. Like Da.
I never met him, bu
t I’ve got a picture in my mind. He looks something like Grandda and something like his paintings and statues, and nothing at all like me. I think of him diving into the Core, like a wooden doll thrown on the fire. I see him burning, and I scream.
And then I’m solid again, materializing in Duchess Paper’s private office.
It’s a small, intimate space, but I’m still screaming. I try to stop but it needs to run its course until the need for air forces my body to pause long enough to suck in a breath.
I feel everyone’s eyes on me, but worse is what I feel through the bond with Mam.
Pity. Shame.
I pull my hand away and turn my back on the reception, sleeving my tears away before I turn to face everyone.
Their eyes are all down, politely giving me time to compose myself. But I can smell their pity, their embarrassment at having been forced to witness my humiliation. Part of me wishes I had answered the Core’s call. Gone down and burned away, just like Da. The song is so beautiful. It can’t feel worse than this.
Olive and Selen look at me with the eyes of strangers. I pull in a deep breath and straighten as quick as I can, but the damage is done.
How many times has Mam misted me here, to Aunt Leesha’s office? Never made a fool of myself before. But now, when we ent been here five summers, this is how I make my entrance.
Selen and Olive and I used to play Wanderers and Regulars in this very room, hiding in the folds of the banner behind the duchess’ desk, or somewhere within the wall of heavy curtains. Nothing has changed.
Duchess Leesha and General Gared stand at the center of the room to greet us, but I barely see them, my eyes drawn to the princesses. Selen and Olive were my first friends, and if I’m honest, I never really made others, because who could compare? Who else in all the world understood me?
But the children I recall bear little resemblance to the women I see. They were always taller than me, but everyone said that would change in a few years. It hasn’t.
Olive was always a little vain, obsessed with fancy clothes and hair, but she’s mastered the spell since I’ve been gone. She’s everything boys look for in a pretty girl.
But she doesn’t smell like Olive anymore. Even from across the room I can smell the wax and dust and colorful herbs in the paint and powder on her face. The scents mix with her perfume into a vapor that burns my nostrils. If I focus on it too long, it will give me a headache that will last for days.
Her gown is pristine, trimmed with lace and wards stitched in silver thread. Thick muscled arms strain her sleeves. A circlet of gold holds back long, lustrous black hair, oiled with essence of flowers.
I am suddenly aware of my own shabby appearance, barefoot in a plain tan shirt and overalls rolled to my shins. Fine for Tibbet’s Brook, where everyone’s got dirt under their fingernails. Clean even, for the Warded Children, most of whom go weeks or months without a bath.
But here in the royal keep, I look like a hound that chased a cat through the mud. Mam ent much better in her homespun work dress, but she and Aunt Leesha don’t much like each other, and she’s always taken pleasure in tweaking the duchess’ nose.
I glance at Selen, grown much as Olive. Taller and broader, her pale brown hair is woven in a simple braid and her gown is of coarser cloth, but still finer by far than anything in Tibbet’s Brook. Her face is blushed from fresh scrubbing, but I smell a remnant of wax. She’d been painted for this meeting, and purposely washed it off.
I smile without meaning to. Selen’s mouth quirks in return and she throws me a secret wink that hits me like a punch in the chest. Selen Cutter never needed paints or powders to hit me.
I wink back, and just like that, everything is all right.
General Cutter is the first to break the peace, having decided he’s waited long enough to pretend my little display never happened. “Darin! Come give your uncle Gared a hug!”
He lunges forward and tries to sweep his arms around me, like he did when I was five. Like then, I let myself go slippery, sliding out of his grasp.
I don’t like being touched.
I remember shrieking with laughter as we played that game. The general is laughing right now. But I’m not five anymore, and I wish he’d just stop.
The duchess clucks. “Do I need to chase you for a hug, Darin Bales?”
She spreads her arms. Mam stiffens, but I know better than to slip this one, and I don’t mind hugging Aunt Leesha. The duchess’ heartbeat is strong and steady, and she doesn’t paint herself like Olive. Aunt Leesha’s hands smell of soap, but I catch a hint of fresh soil on her fingers. She’s been to the garden recently. Deep pockets in her dress are stuffed with dried herbs, enough to produce any number of remedies on the spot. Her hands are gentle, but they are not soft. They squeeze tight and I feel safe.
I smell Mam’s irritation as the embrace lingers. I think Aunt Leesha feels it, too, and we both let go and take a step back.
Aunt Leesha reaches out, brushing back the tangle of brown locks that normally hide my eyes. “My how you’ve grown. Starting to look a bit like your father.”
I know not to argue, but the idea is ridiculous. In paintings, Da is seven feet tall and covered in muscle. Mam says that’s all nonsense, but I find it hard to imagine he looked much like me. I’m not particularly tall, or strong. Ent even got a spot of whiskers on my chin. If I’m to give honest word, I’m not much to look at. I toss my head just a little to shake the hair back across my eyes.
“Leesha.” Mam steps forward, already smelling of irritation. She gives a nod of respect.
“Renna.” The duchess bows to her in turn. Her tone is respectful. Even intimate. But it isn’t loving.
“Ay, Renna!” General Cutter booms, giving her the hug meant for me. He lifts her feet from the floor and spins about.
“Gared Cutter, you put me down!” Mam cries, but she’s laughing as well, and hugs him tight when he sets her on the floor. “Missed you, too, Gar. How’s Emelia?”
The general looks like he swallowed a peach pit at the mention of his wife. “Same as ever.”
Mam laughs. “That bad, ay?”
“Olive,” Duchess Leesha says. “It’s been a few years since Darin visited. Why don’t you and Selen show him around while Mrs. Bales and I have tea?”
Olive flashes me a bright smile, but I catch irritation in her scent. I can’t blame her. I’d rather stay and listen in on the adults than walk around the keep with her watching me to make sure I don’t touch or sit on anything for fear I’ll dirty it.
Before anyone else moves, Selen sweeps over and holds out an arm, amusement in her eyes and scent alike. “Come on, Dar. Let’s go play Wanderers and Regulars.”
I take her arm without hesitation. I’d go anywhere, if it was with Selen Cutter.
* * *
—
Aunt Leesha’s keep is beautiful in wardsight. Most places have ambient magic drifting along the ground like fireflies, waiting for emotion or force of will to Draw it. Even well-warded places always have a bit floating around, like dust in a sunbeam.
But Aunt Leesha’s keep is…spotless. My eyes run along the wards trimming the walls, lintels, and jambs as Selen leads us down into the underkeep. The symbols shine like lectric bulbs to guide our way—not a speck of energy wasted in the air.
More than that, the wards…talk to one another. Power runs along the grid like raindrops down a window, gathering excess magic and allocating it around the keep as the duchess wills. When I had ten summers, it felt like the safest place in the world.
But that was five summers ago. Now the halls run with ghosts. Olive, Selen, and I, hiding, hunting, and chasing one another through these same corridors, laughing all the while.
But now we’re acting like strangers. “Aren’t we a little old for Wanderers and Regulars?” I ask as we reach an empty landing.
Se
len snorts, dropping my arm and rounding on me. She puffs a breath to blow the hair from my eyes. “Demons attacked you, too?”
I blink. “Ay.”
“Were you hurt?” The irritation is gone from Olive’s scent, replaced by concern.
Suddenly the years melt away, and I realize I’ve been a fool.
“Just scrapes and bruises,” I say. “Was trying to lure a demon out of the trees with my pipes, so Aunt Selia could kill it.”
“You figured it out?” Selen asks. “You can use those pipes for more than giving us something to dance to?”
“Darin, that’s incredible,” Olive says.
Both of them smell…proud. Olive and Selen were always the brave ones. I’m faster, but somehow I was always chasing after them. They look at me with new respect, no doubt imagining me in some heroic stand against the demons with my music, like Hary Roller. They don’t know how I failed, again and again, nearly getting everyone killed.
It would be easy not to tell them. No one’s going to say different. Just a bit of glory, to wash away some of my humiliation in the duchess’ office.
But it ent honest. “Ay, when it’s one coreling and I’ve got Aunt Selia standing over me to keep me safe and Hary at the ready to take over if I slip up. But when it was a copse of wood demons trying to kill us, all I could do was run for help.”
“It wasn’t much different for us,” Olive says. “I would have died before I even got my spear up, if not for Micha.”
A chill runs down my spine as I remember the attack on Olive was occurring at almost exactly the same time, hundreds of miles distant. It can’t be coincidence.
“Micha?” Her words finally catch up to my racing mind. “What did Nanny Micha do?”
“Oh, they didn’t tell you, either?” Olive leans in. “Nanny Micha is…”
“Tsst!” a voice hisses, making me jump. “There is little point in keeping to the shadows, sister, if you are going to blurt my secrets aloud in an open hall.”
Instinctively I go slippery as a Krasian warrior slides out of a dark alcove. She is slender and light-footed, but no one’s ever gotten so close without me sensing it. Some sort of powder masks her scent. She is of a size with Nanny Micha, but her heartbeat, stance, movements, even her aura, are all different. How can it be the same woman?
The Desert Prince Page 17