The Desert Prince

by Peter V. Brett

  More laughter from the other boys, but I pay it no mind. Chikga is the power here. “It was put there by nie’Damaji’ting Belina to ensure my obedience. If you can break her wardings and remove it, I would be most grateful.”

  The drillmaster’s dark skin pales a little at the name, and he shakes his head. “I am not fool enough to interfere with dama’ting scheming. Keep your pretty jewelry.”

  I step into the line, and see the boys smirking. “I like it.” One of them nods at the armlet. “Makes you look like a princess.”

  I clench my fist and anger makes me forget my fear. The Damaji may have Sharum to enforce his will, but I’ll be corespawned before I let some skinny boy bully me. Breaking his nose would clear away that sneer. If I was half myself, I’d do it.

  But I am barely a shadow. Every muscle still sore and weak, I’m lucky to be on my feet at all. I’m not ready to pick a fight. I breathe deeply, and let my fingers uncurl.

  The other students burst out laughing, and even Chikga joins in the mirth. He laughs as he walks up to the boy who spoke. “Well done, Thivan. You’ve just volunteered to teach ‘Princess’ Olive the basics of the sharaj. If I find her uninformed, the punishment will be shared by you both.”

  Thivan’s mirth vanishes as the other boys keep chortling. He glares at me as if it’s my fault he’s a coreling’s ass.

  “Fall out,” Chikga barks.

  * * *

  —

  “This is where we sleep.” Thivan’s voice is cold as he gestures to a large room with a stone floor. There are no beds, no furnishings at all, just a few dusty blankets—far fewer than there are students.

  A chill of fear runs through me. The thought of sleeping on a stone floor with the other boys, cold and uncovered, frightens me more than Iraven’s whip, but I say nothing. What could I say? It is not as if I could convince Thivan to conjure me a bed from thin air, or expect sympathy from a boy who seems to resent my very existence.

  Thivan is shorter than me, and perhaps a year or two younger. He is thin as a reed, just wiry muscle, skin, and bone. His head is shaved smooth, whereas mine still has jagged patches of hair clinging to it. It’s worse than being naked in some ways, to look so ragged even compared with the other boys.

  Like all the full-blood nie’Sharum, Thivan’s skin is darker than mine. In Hollow, my skin marked me as an outsider. Even though my rank and privilege forced others to accept me, I was often jealous of Selen and the other girls who could so effortlessly belong. I used to dream of visiting Krasia and experiencing what it was like to be among others who looked like me.

  But it is not to be. Here, I stand out for my lightness, and lack rank or privilege to armor me. I wish Iraven had put me in the half-blood sharaj, though it is doubtless just as dismal. Perhaps there I might fit in.

  “Gruel is served twice a day—after morning sharusahk, and at sunset,” Thivan says. “There’s never enough, so those at the end of the line go hungry. If you are wise, you will not let that happen. Even a single missed meal can weaken you enough for others to take advantage.”

  I realize I must have missed supper, though “gruel” hardly sounds appetizing. My stomach aches, but I ignore it. Admitting to hunger will be a sign of weakness. “What happens to the ones who don’t eat?”

  Thivan looks at me as he would an idiot. “When a nie’Sharum drops from hunger, they are cast out as khaffit. After that, who cares? Begging in the street for scraps, if they’re lucky.”

  “Princess Olive cares, because she will be joining them soon,” a sly voice says behind me. I turn to see a group of smirking nie’Sharum led by a boy perhaps a year or two older than me. Unlike the others—thin and stringy—this one is muscled and broad-shouldered, moving with an easy grace. His shaved head gleams like dark polished wood, and his square jaw makes him look older than his fellows, handsome and ready to leave sharaj a man.

  “The Nie Ka,” Thivan advises.

  The term translates “first of nothing,” an honorific for the leader of a class of nie’Sharum. My father was Nie Ka in his day. It means this boy stands at the front of the food lines, and is likely the most dangerous fighter here.

  The Nie Ka moves in close, looking me up and down, lip curled in exaggerated disgust. “The push’ting prince, raised as a woman. Tell me, did they teach you pillow dancing and how to paint your face?”

  The other boys hoot and howl. Some pretend to lunge forward in hope of making me flinch. I can tell the feints by the set of their feet, and don’t react. They won’t attack without approval from the Nie Ka.

  Night. Is this what passes for banter in the desert? It makes Oskar seem witty by comparison.

  Ignoring the others, I return the Nie Ka’s appraisal with an unimpressed look of my own. “We don’t pillow dance in the North, but I can paint your face, if you wish. It might make you less ugly.”

  “Ugly is a fine trait in a Sharum,” the Nie Ka says. “You, on the other hand, are too pretty to be a boy. We’ll have to do something about that.”

  “And who are you,” I ask, “to worry so over my looks?”

  “I am Chadan asu Maroch asu Aleveran,” the boy says proudly, “Nie Ka of the full-blood sharaj.”

  My face goes cold. The Damaji’s grandson. The one Belina kidnapped me to marry.

  “To think Grandfather wanted me to have you as my Jiwah Ka!” Chadan laughs, and the boys around him all join in. “A pathetic push’ting in silk veils.” He spits on the floor at my feet.

  In sharaj, fight, Micha said. The first day, fight. The advice frightened me, but Chadan is making it easy.

  “Hah!” I channel Grandmum Elona’s derisive bark. “As if there was any hope some backwoods princeling from a tribe of cowards was good enough for the princess of Hollow. Your grandfather needed to kidnap me for you to even have a chance.”

  He snarls, and I see the blow before it comes. His fist strikes the place my face had been a second before, but I’ve already slid to the side, catching the arm before he can retract it. I use his own energy against him, pulling Chadan off balance and throwing him across the floor. He lands hard on his stomach, breath wuffing from his lungs, and I hope I haven’t hurt him too badly. They’ll never let me see my sister again if I cripple the Damaji’s grandson.

  Chadan’s entourage gapes for a moment, but then their fists ball and one gives a shout, lunging for me. I set my feet, ready to meet him head-on. I may not be able to take them all, but I can teach them I am not some…

  “Wait!” Chadan pushes himself up, kicking his feet under him. “He’s mine.”

  I turn to face him, careful not to put my back to the others. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  There is blood on his teeth as Chadan smiles. “It’s too late for that, you greenblood rat, because I am most certainly going to hurt you.”

  He stalks in, hands at the ready, and I am careful not to underestimate him. The Majah are famed for their sharusahk, and no doubt the grandson of their leader has been training harder and longer than I.

  But even without magic, I’m stronger than I look, and trained by two legendary warriors.

  I manage to parry or sidestep Chadan’s blows, but his defenses are in place, and my return strikes are similarly evaded, keeping me from bringing my full strength to bear.

  No matter. He will tire before me, and with my strength I only need to land a single blow to turn the battle. Pain lances across my back as I move and strike. I can feel the wounds reopening, seeping blood, but it’s more irritant than inhibitor.

  We circle for a few more moments, and then I see an opening when Chadan blocks a blow he could have evaded. His blocking arm snaps out for a quick return blow and I sidestep, reaching for it.

  But this time, Chadan isn’t where I expect. I catch only air as he grabs my wrist and twists, pulling my arm straight and locking the elbow joint. The limb scream
s with pain as he follows through, using the power of my own attack against me. I have no choice but to assist his throw, leaping in the direction he pulls to prevent the built-up energy from breaking my arm.

  I hit the stone floor hard. The breath is knocked from me, but I remember Micha’s lesson and do not linger, rolling quickly back to my feet.

  “We’re even, greenblood.” Chadan allows me to collect myself, but I can see in his eyes the fight isn’t over. “Let us see what Hollow men are made of.”

  With that he comes back in, and his blows seem to have tripled in speed. I catch the first two, but the third hits me square in the mouth, and I taste blood as my head rocks back. Before I can recover, he lands two more jolting blows to my body, then hooks one of my flailing arms into another throw, slamming me painfully to the stone once again.

  Chadan could have put me in a submission hold and ended the fight, but it’s clear he wants this to last. I see now that I was lucky with that first throw, catching him by surprise. He has my measure now, and we both know I am not his equal. He fights with the grace of a cleric and the ferocity of a warrior.

  Again he comes at me, and I keep my guard in close, refusing to offer any energy he can turn against me, or limbs to force into submission. I stay on my toes, hoping to evade with minimal contact until he begins to tire. I slip his first punch, rolling under the second. I step back from the third and realize my mistake too late as he spins like a dancer, kicking me in the face.

  The sound is deafening, and I feel like I was hit by a club. I reel backward, struggling to think, unable to keep my balance.

  Again, Chadan does not immediately pursue, allowing me time to recover when he could have forced a submission and finished the fight. I shake my head, trying to clear my vision and the ringing in my ears. My back feels like a roaring fire, and every one of Chadan’s previous blows throbs with pain. I realize how precise the blows were, each striking a convergence point that leaves my joints weak and my muscles feeling like gelatin.

  Micha’s Precise Strike school of sharusahk targets the places in the body where convergences of energy are focused, but it seems the Majah have their own version.

  War is deception, Micha said. Hide your strength and bide your time.

  I give in to the pain and weakness, letting my guard slouch just a little. I gasp for air, groaning my pain, then grit my teeth and roar like a demon, springing forward.

  Chadan takes the invitation to grapple, just as I’d hoped. I can’t beat him in an open fight, but in a grapple, muscle against muscle, I have an advantage greater than skill.

  He gets behind me as we strike the floor, snatching my right arm to twist into submission. I contort, making sure his back is flat on the floor. Just before my elbow locks, I flex with all my strength, halting his momentum and reversing the pull. Before he can let go, I yank him up and see his eyes widen with disbelief just before I hook my left fist into his chest with everything I have.

  Chadan slams hard into the floor, his shaved head cracking against the stone with a sound that echoes through the chamber. It is so violent I recoil, afraid I’ve killed him. It’s a relief when his eyes open and he quickly rolls back to his feet.

  Another mistake. Chadan might have settled for humiliating me before, but now his eyes have the primal fury of the demons that attacked the borough tour. I don’t think he’ll hesitate to kill, as I did.

  We come together for another pass, and this time Chadan knows better than to grapple. He takes his time, hitting me again and again, each blow targeted for maximum pain and disorientation. I lose track of how many times he hits me, jolted by every blow.

  Eventually, he tires of the game. A push-kick drives me into the crowd of jeering nie’Sharum.

  “Give the push’ting prince a proper welcome.”

  Never stop fighting.

  I flatten the nose of the first boy who comes at me, but there are too many, all rushing in at once with kicks and punches. I black an eye here and punch a stomach there, but there is little I can do to stop the blows. Before long I curl up in a fetal position, just trying to protect my head as the onslaught continues.

  “Enough,” Chadan says, and immediately the others cease their attack, leaving me a weeping, shuddering ball as they go to claim spaces on the floor to sleep.

  24

  TIKKA

  I wake shivering on the floor, still lying in the place I fell.

  They didn’t kill me.

  I suppose it’s a victory of sorts. It was the first day, and I fought, as Micha bade. I will live to see the second.

  I imagine it will be very much like the first.

  It’s hard to focus on that distant worry, though, when the cold is here, now. I always imagined the desert to be eternally hot, but learned on the journey that the night quickly grows chill when the sun sets and the heat leaches away.

  The floor of the sharaj is cut below ground level to offer a cooler space during the day, but in the night…I understand now how coveted the scarce blankets I saw on the floor must be.

  I open my eyes, but it takes some time to adjust to the dim moonlight. I can make out Chadan in the spot closest to where I lay. He is the only one who sleeps alone, wrapped in two blankets.

  Others huddle in groups of three and four beneath the remaining blankets, and the remainder sleep skin-to-skin in shifting piles, pooling their body heat.

  Slowly, painfully, I roll to my knees. I’m cold, but I don’t dare join one of the piles, even those with younger students. Instead I crawl until I can put my back to a wall, hugging my legs close.

  I catch bits of sleep, but there is no way to tell if they are seconds, minutes, or hours. Again and again I am awakened by pain and discomfort. Each time I jolt, looking around frantically to ensure I am not threatened, then allow exhaustion to pull me back down.

  The call to prayer cuts through the haze, a high-pitched song that is both beautiful and jarring, designed to pull worshippers from the clutches of sleep to give praise to Everam.

  The nie’Sharum all rise and begin to file out of the room, beginning with Chadan, then the older, stronger boys who shared blankets, and finally the younger, weaker ones who slept in sweaty piles.

  “Come, greenblood,” Thivan says. “You will be on time for prayers or Chikga will have both our hides.”

  I follow the other boys into a training yard where the drillmasters are already kneeling. Their bodies are at rest, but their eyes watch as the boys file into the yard and kneel in neat rows. The strongest are in the front, the weakest in back. I kneel next to Thivan, close to the center.

  When the last boy has taken his place, the drillmasters begin making their obeisance. Facing toward Anoch Sun, the ancient city of the Deliverer, they press foreheads to the ground, whispering prayers.

  I know the words from Krasian Studies, but the prayers mean little to me. Mother gave clerics a place in her court, but she was not a practitioner. There is power in faith, and we must show it respect, Mother used to say, but a leader cannot be ruled by holy men, or depend on the divine to build bridges and collect the trash.

  I’ve always felt the same, never believing there was some cosmic Will watching over the world. I haven’t said a serious prayer since I was a young child. But here, under the watchful eyes of the drillmasters, I do not want to call any more attention to myself than I already have. What difference does it make if I speak the words to a Creator who does not exist?

  “Everam, giver of life and light, grant me strength…”

  When prayers are over, the drillmasters rise and begin leading morning sharusahk. The poses are different from the low, graceful ones I am familiar with. These are fast and violent, kicks and punches more suited to fighting other humans than demons.

  Thivan scowls, but after a glance at Chikga, he comes over to me. “Like this.” He assumes a pose, correcting my stance, then
takes me through the rest of the forms of the sharukin, kicking my feet and pulling my arms into the proper positions.

  “He even fights like a woman,” one of the boys says, and others snicker until the drillmaster looks their way.

  As we practice, I begin to see the power in the simple moves. They lack the precision of the styles I’ve studied, using weight and brute force over finesse. Given warning and room to maneuver, a dama’ting could kill even a drillmaster in single combat, but a dozen Sharum charging down a narrow hall would mow down a like number of dama’ting like wheat before the scythe.

  So I listen and I learn, throwing myself into the practice. Why shouldn’t I learn to kick and punch like Sharum? It will be easier to blend in if I can fight like a “man.”

  When the exercise is over, Thivan leads me to where an old woman, face and head wrapped in a black dal’ting scarf, stands over a great pot, spooning a brown slop into bowls. Like the blankets, the pot looks too small to feed us all.

  “That’s our Tikka.” Thivan nods at the old woman. “She does the cooking and distributes clean bidos once a week. Do not offend her, or you will regret it.”

  I haven’t the slightest idea what would offend a woman like that, but I have a more pressing question.

  “Why isn’t there enough food?” Fort Krasia’s walls surround a great oasis, with fertile land and abundant fruit trees. Perhaps it was not enough when the city’s population was teeming, but for just the Majah there seems no reason why any should go hungry.

  “Because the drillmasters want us strong,” Thivan says. “They want us to fight, to lie, cheat, and steal when we must. They want us to do whatever it takes to survive, because it will prepare us to fight twice as hard to survive the night.”

  I’m sickened by the idea. The drillmasters torture these boys to turn them into weapons against the demons. Is this what was done to Micha? To my father?

  Thivan moves to the center of the line, meeting eyes with another boy, who steps back to make room without challenging him. I try to follow, but the boy quickly closes the gap, shoving me away. “Back of the line, push’ting!”