The Desert Prince

by Peter V. Brett

  I wonder if my father roamed these same streets, wearing away with his sandals the same smooth, ancient stones that I tread upon. I wonder if my father’s father walked past this building or that, or his father before him, and on through the centuries. For a moment I touch something bigger than myself, and feel a connection to this place, a world away from home.

  “Mangoes!” a voice calls. “Mangoes and prickle pears!”

  I pull up short at the sound of the Northern tongue, turning to see a Thesan woman, her skin deeply tanned, but still pale compared with mine, which has darkened in the sun to something close to that of my full-blood compatriots. She has a scarf over her hair, but her face is uncovered, and there is a bit of faded color in her threadbare robe.

  She sees me looking and takes a small prickle pear from her cart, deftly shaving away the spiked skin of the fruit with a heavy knife. “Taste one free, young warrior,” she says in thickly accented Krasian. “Six for a draki. You won’t find a better bargain anywhere in the city.”

  “The greenbloods grunt like pigs,” Gorvan says, and Thivan snorts.

  “You sound piggish yourself,” I say, moving to take the fruit the woman holds out to me. I’ve never tasted prickle pear, and its juicy flesh is cool and sweet in my mouth. I eat it more quickly than I intend, and hand over one of my coins for more.

  “Are you honestly going to spend your money on fruit?” Montidahr is incredulous.

  “Hoping to find some toothless gray chin woman who will lie with you for your three draki, Montidahr?” Gorvan laughs. “Even push’ting heasah have higher standards.”

  Gorvan isn’t my friend, but he is loyal. As third in line, he takes it on himself to enforce Chadan’s and my commands, and is quick to chastise any who do not show us proper respect. I let the other boys enjoy a laugh at Montidahr’s expense before I put an end to it.

  “Quiet, all of you,” I keep my voice pleasant, “it’s not as if Gorvan has touched a woman since they pulled him from his mother.” Even Gorvan laughs at that, and they take a few steps back, talking while I turn my attention back to the vendor.

  “Where are you from?” I ask in the Northern tongue.

  The woman looks startled, but then she seems to notice my blue eyes, and her eyes flick over my skin, noting its shade. “I was born in Edon’s Vineyard, south of Fort Rizon, before the demon of the desert came and gave us to the Majah. Are you half-blood? What are you doing with this lot?”

  The demon of the desert. The schoolbooks say that is what the Northerners called my father when he came forth from the desert to conquer southern Thesa, but no one has ever dared speak it to my face. “I was born in Hollow, just after the war. I have only recently come to Fort Krasia.”

  “Honest word? Have they opened the borders at last?”

  There is such desperate hope in her eyes that I wince, knowing I must quash it. “They have not. I am a…special case.”

  “No matter.” The woman whisks her hand, as if brushing away hope is commonplace for her. “Can you tell me any news? Is Leesha Paper still Mistress of Hollow County?”

  Now it is my turn to be startled, hearing my mother’s name a thousand miles from home. “Leesha Paper is duchess of Hollow, yes.”

  “Duchess!” The woman claps her hands in delight. “My cousin fled to the Hollow when the Krasians came. She begged me to come, but my mother was too old for the journey. Now…” She waves a hand at her cart. “Mother died crossing the desert instead, and I live here.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, knowing the words are insufficient.

  Again she brushes the pain away. “It was a long time ago. I’ve made my peace with it. What of Rizon? Did you pass through my home on your way here?”

  I shake my head. “We sailed across the great lake instead, but by all accounts, my…” I nearly choke on the word father, covering it with a cough.

  “Here.” The woman hands me a cup, filling it with a splash of water from a jug on her cart.

  I take it gratefully, drinking. “Ahmann Jardir has proved a better leader than folk feared. Everam’s Bounty has been prosperous and at peace since the war.”

  “At peace with all save the Majah, since he has no doubt given our homes away.” The woman makes a spitting sound, but wastes no moisture in the dry air.

  I cannot blame her. The walk through the city has shown me much. The greenland thralls brought back with the Majah have formed a huge underclass in Desert Spear. They and even their half-blood children have limited rights, many living in deeper squalor than this fruit seller, when they aren’t owned outright by Krasian masters. The owned often live in greater luxury, but I know well that luxury is not the same as liberty.

  Mother and the histories say that Father’s conquest was to levy forces in time to fight the demon war, and that he stopped his advance when it ended, but can even that excuse what was done to these people? What would have been done to me, if I had humbler parentage? Krasians speak of blood debts that span generations, but if that is true, my debt is vast.

  “Olive, can we move on while you grunt at the greenblood?” Gorvan calls. “The day is wasting.”

  The woman tilts her head at me. “Olive? Like the Princess of Hollow County?”

  “I have to go,” I say quickly, pressing a second coin into the woman’s hand. Before she can react, I hurry after the others.

  “Did you just pay two draki for a handful of pears?” Thivan is incredulous.

  “Does that mean you don’t want one?” I reply.

  * * *

  —

  We wander the city for hours, but Gorvan and Montidahr never find heasah of any sort, or couzi for that matter. As the sun begins its descent, they grudgingly spend their coins on spiced meat skewers and fruit nectars on our way back to the training grounds.

  Chadan is there, looking freshly bathed and fed. The rest of us had a few minutes in the sweat room and a fresh bido from Tikka, but more than anything, I long for a proper bath.

  I catch Chadan looking at me when he thinks my attention is elsewhere, but he drops his eyes whenever I turn to face him. I wonder if Belina believed his story, and if he’s been questioned further, but it doesn’t matter. It’s clear the rules don’t apply equally to everyone in Krasia. Aleveran isn’t going to punish his own grandson, and so long as he believes he needs me for something, he isn’t going to punish me any more than he has to.

  By sunset we are atop the walls again, each carrying a waterskin for thirsty warriors in the Maze as we haul sling stones and scorpion bolts within earshot of the Sharum Ka. Chikga’s nie’Sharum support my brother directly, as much, I think, for Chadan’s benefit as my own. The Sharum Ka cannot show favoritism openly, but he can keep us close.

  Iraven catches my eye and gestures for me to come to him. I obey instinctively, though the sight of him brings with it an ugly churn of emotion.

  I want to hate my brother. Part of me still does. But even I was inspired by his courage in the night. Wherever the fighting was thickest as they retook the Maze, Iraven was there. He is the best fighter I have ever seen—graceful, quick, and precise like Micha, but with another hundred pounds of muscle and far greater reach. My threat of a blood debt against him was foolish posturing. Even after weeks of near-constant training, Iraven could kill me in three strokes.

  I keep my eyes on the wall, saying nothing as I approach. Iraven does not take his attention from the sands beyond the gates as he hands me a satchel. “Mother wanted you to have this.”

  I take the soft leather bag, understanding its purpose before I even open it. Favah had one just like it, back at Gatherers’ University. I open it to find herbs, a small mortar and pestle, tongs, and other healing implements. I turn it over to reveal the hidden sheath built into the back of the bag, containing a curved hanzhar dagger.

  And not just any hanzhar. A thin scrap of brown leather c
overs the jeweled hilt, but I recognize it all the same as I half draw the blade. It is the very knife Belina tried to sell me all those months ago in Achman’s bazaar. No doubt this one has magic the dama’ting can turn against me as well, but I cannot deny I feel safer with a warded blade.

  In both our cultures, words and a show of gratitude are expected upon receiving such a valuable gift, but I offer no thanks. My forgiveness won’t be bought so cheaply. “Healing will be easier with this.”

  “Healing is a woman’s art,” Iraven says.

  “I was raised a woman,” I say.

  He turns to look at me. “And what are you now?”

  I meet his gaze. “Your prisoner.”

  Iraven points to the Maze floor where a familiar Baiter stands, restored by dama’ting demonbone magic. “A prisoner would not leap down into the Maze to save a warrior from an enemy tribe.”

  I don’t ask how he knows. “The Evejah says all men are brothers in the night.”

  “So you are a man,” Iraven notes.

  “Are women not all sisters in the night?” I ask. “Are we not all siblings? Women sacrifice no less than men when the demons come.”

  “You are a woman, then?”

  I thrust the blade back into its sheath, irritated at his parsing of words. “Your mind is too small to understand what I am, brother.” The words are dangerously close to my secret, but in my anger I don’t care. My grip on the hilt of the hanzhar is so tight I feel the gemstones cutting through the leather.

  Drillmaster Chikga approaches before Iraven can reply. My brother turns his eyes back to the sands, careful not to be seen giving me too much attention. “Return to your post.”

  I bow and sling the satchel’s strap over my head, resuming my work.

  * * *

  —

  The corelings rise in numbers as the sun’s last light slips away, but not as great as I remember.

  Drillmaster Chikga seems to agree. “There are less of them. Perhaps the storm is passing.”

  “Perhaps,” Iraven echoes, but he sounds unconvinced. Laborers have spent the day hauling away the stones the demons brought, but we all know how quickly they can be replaced. “Raise the portcullis for a few minutes only.”

  Iraven’s new hornblower gives the command, and again the great gears turn, letting a wave of demons through before dropping the heavy gate back down, crushing any corelings unfortunate enough to be under the arch.

  The Baiters whoop and clash their shields, leading the demons as they did the night before, but there is an edge to everyone’s nerves tonight. Hidden in ambush pockets and gatehouses throughout the Maze, more than triple the number of Sharum lie in wait. If there is another trick tonight, Iraven means to be ready for it.

  But he isn’t. None of us are, as horns begin blowing from another part of the city.

  The greenblood quarter.

  * * *

  —

  “They’ve breached the wall,” Iraven says, listening to the pattern of the horns.

  “Is that even possible?” Drillmaster Amaj asks. “No demon has entered the city in three thousand years.”

  Iraven ignores him. “Sound the alarms. Every citizen to the undercity.”

  “With respect, Sharum Ka,” Chikga interjects, “the undercity hasn’t been used in twenty years. The palaces and full-blood districts will have maintained their entrances, but the chin…”

  “Won’t even know where theirs are.” Iraven is already moving. “Chikga, you and your students are with me. Amaj, you have the gate. Signal Kai Unden that the Maze is his until I return. Keep the portcullis closed and kill the alagai inside as quickly as possible. We may need reinforcements.”

  “Where are we going?” Chikga’s tone makes it clear he already knows, and does not approve.

  “To get the chin to the undercity.” Iraven turns to Konin. “The chi’Sharum know the district best and are better prepared to lead the evacuation. Find their kai and have him send his men ahead while we muster a force of dal’Sharum to seal the breach.”

  Konin punches a fist to his chest and runs off. Thivan and Rekaj are similarly sent to alert the kai of the elite units Iraven wants at his back.

  Chikga frowns. “The alagai may be trying to take our attention from the gate. How many warriors can we spare to defend the chin quarter?”

  Unspoken is the sentiment many of the Sharum seem to share. No chin is worth a full-blood warrior’s life.

  Iraven moves faster than I would have believed possible, punching Chikga in the face and dropping him to the walltop. “We are one people in the night, Drillmaster. I will not leave anyone, from the Damaji himself to the lowest chin beggar, to the alagai. Suggest otherwise, say anything other than ‘your will, Sharum Ka,’ and I will throw you from this wall.”

  “Your will, Sharum Ka,” Chikga groans. “I meant no offense.”

  My brother casts his gaze around at the other warriors staring at the scene. “That goes for all of you.”

  As one, man and boy alike punch fists to their chests. “Your will, Sharum Ka!”

  Iraven’s eyes turn to me. I grit my teeth, but he’s right, and everyone is watching. I put my fist to my chest. “Your will, brother.”

  “Nie Ka.” Iraven turns to Chadan. “You will command the nie’Sharum of all four sharaj—full-blood, half, khaffit, and chin. Assist in the evacuation of the greenbloods and escort them to the undercity while the chi’Sharum hold the alagai at bay. Go to the armory first for shields.”

  “Why not spears?” Gorvan dares ask.

  Chikga cuffs him on the back of the head. “So you’re not tempted to do something foolish, boy.”

  Iraven nods. “You’re not here to fight. When the last of the chin make it to the undercity, you’re to lock yourselves in with them until dawn.”

  * * *

  —

  We run along the wall to the chin quarter, where the source of the breach is obvious. Cracked and upended paving stones lie in scattered ruin around a mound of soil like a gigantic molehill. The corelings managed somehow to tunnel beneath the wall and find a gap in the wards. It shouldn’t be possible. The walls of Desert Spear are legendary, and the guile and forethought to plan such an attack should be beyond demon ken.

  Yet sand and clay demons are pouring through the breach. They were contained last night—the Maze was built to offer Sharum every advantage—but now they are on the open streets of the city, in the poorest district where wardings are meager at best.

  The chi’Sharum, warriors levied from the Thesan thralls of the Majah tribe, outnumber the dal’Sharum. They have inferior training and equipment, but despite the bragging of the full-bloods, they are a formidable force, motivated as much by the need to protect their families as a sense of duty. They have locked shields across the narrow streets, creating bottlenecks that drive the demons away from the fleeing Thesans.

  “They should be killing, not holding the alagai at bay,” Chikga growls, but he is careful not to make it seem a criticism of the Sharum Ka, who watches impassively. If the goal is to protect life, the chi’Sharum are taking the wisest course, deflecting the enemy until their families can reach safety.

  We descend from the wall via a guard tower to a plaza where Iraven’s warriors are already mustering. The demons haven’t gotten this far yet, but it won’t be long if they are not contained.

  Pit Warders, the elite dal’Sharum who maintain the wards in the Maze, have already prepared a solution in the form of a cartload of wardposts.

  “Sharum Ka.” Their kai steps forward. “We can form a ward circle around the breach, but we will need to contain the alagai long enough to set and align the posts.”

  “How long?” Iraven asks.

  “If the plaza was clear? Perhaps ten minutes,” the kai says. “In this chaos?” He shrugs.

  “What
will stop them from tunneling somewhere else?” Chikga asks.

  “There are wards built into the foundations of the city,” the kai says. “I do not think this was spontaneous or luck. It would have taken the alagai some time to dig this tunnel without anyone noticing.”

  “Waning,” Iraven says. “A demon prince is directing them.”

  The minds are all dead. I want to believe it. I need to believe it. But the way that demon looked at me…

  I get that feeling in my stomach like I might be sick, and breathe in rhythm as the drillmasters taught us, embracing the feeling rather than fighting it, then blowing it out with my breath.

  For the first time, I wish for my mother’s warded cloak, left in my chambers a thousand miles away. I want to run away, to hide in the undercity. I will draw corelings like flies if they see me, putting everyone in danger.

  Iraven is shouting orders, readying his men with talk of Everam and glory. Would he listen if I went to him now? I don’t think so. Certainly Chikga would not.

  I heft the shield. Large and heavy, made of wood with a warded sheet of steel hammered and riveted to its convex surface, it is proof against any coreling blow. The circle of wards around the rim is large enough to stand on, offering an area of protection just large enough to create a forbidding around a single warrior.

  “Keep low,” I whisper to myself. “Do your job and get to the undercity.”

  “What was that?” Chadan asks—the first words he’s spoken to me since breakfast.

  I shake the fear away, meeting his eyes. “Nothing, Nie Ka.”

  He eyes me a moment, then nods, shouting orders much like Iraven. Chadan has trained all his life for this, and it shows. As the dal’Sharum make for the breach, we cut through the warded doorways of buildings to get behind the chi’Sharum lines.

  The streets are in chaos. Some of the chin have lanterns, and there are a few lamps burning in the streets, but they do little to abate the darkness. Folk stumble half blind, some carrying children or pulling them by the hand. Others struggle to assist the elderly and infirm. Just a few blocks away, wardlight flashes like lightning as warriors shout and demons shriek, adding terror to the frantic evacuation.