The Desert Prince

by Peter V. Brett

  The only person I ever risked confiding in lies cooling on the ground because of me. Because I wasn’t strong enough. Because I was a fool.

  I try to shake my head, but my body is frozen. It’s the demon’s doing, just like these spinning thoughts. They are mine, but he is creating a whirlwind of them to hide how incomplete a picture they make. Perhaps these memories are true, but that does not make them Truth. What does it matter, who I was raised to be? What does it matter, who others see me as?

  A seventh sense comes into focus, beyond the human five, or even the infinite complexity of wardsight. This sense abandons the physical entirely, existing in the invisible space between. I sense Alagai Ka in my mind, feel the vibration in the air, connecting us.

  I am Olive, I tell him. That is all that matters.

  Then I lash out with all my strength. Not the strength I have always relied on—my arms, my muscles. That is meaningless here. What matters is my will, my sense of self. But abandoning the boxes others have sought to put me in has given me power unlike anything I have ever felt.

  I seize the connection with my mind like a wrist in sharusahk, pulling it taut and letting it guide me along my return strike.

  Alagai Ka is powerful, but he is arrogant, and unprepared as I shrug off what had been an overwhelming assault a moment ago. Like an opponent caught off balance, his defenses are not fully in place, and I force myself into his thoughts, seeking answers of my own.

  56

  METAMORPHOSIS

  I wake from hibernation with a start. After nearly a turning, my greatward has restored me to strength, but even here at my center of power—a safehold far from the remains of the hive—I no longer feel secure. After millennia of domination, I am…hiding. From surface stock.

  The idea disgusts me, but though my flesh has healed, it still tingles with the memory of the symbols of power forcibly inked into my body, using my own magic against me. Of the burning chain that bound me.

  Not since I was a hatchling had any creature, even the most powerful of my brethren, dared touch my body, or made me fear for my life. Yet these filthy mammals, no older than a blink of my eye, struck me. Bound me. Tortured and mocked me. Forced me to debase myself to survive. To lead them to the hive, that they might attempt to destroy it.

  With no way to refuse, I twisted their goal and made it my own. Once, the hive queen had been a sleek killing machine, radiating power and intellect. It was a pleasure to serve her. But queens grow with each laying, and she had grown so bloated she could no longer leave the birthing chamber. Millennia trapped there atrophied her mind.

  After thousands of turnings, none wished to be free of her more than me. Free of her constant need for the security of my presence, her constant hunger, her irresistible psychic demands. I had been her slave too long.

  If the humans failed to penetrate the hive, I needed only take care not to die with them. And if they succeeded and killed the queen, I would be free of her, and a new, hatchling queen would be free to take over and strengthen the hive under my guidance.

  So I led them to the hive, and escaped amid the confusion as my captors battled the queen’s bodyguard. I was less than an ember of the flame I had once been when I fled to my Safehold.

  Now, after many cycles bathed in the power of my greatward and nourished by my personal stock, I am restored, and can once again turn my attention outward. I do not know the outcome of the battle, but whatever the new power structure of the hive, none of my brethren remain who are powerful enough to challenge me. I will kill the new consort and regain primacy, and then I will seek my revenge.

  It is true night on the surface, when there is no satellite to reflect the day star and the flows of magic are strongest. Even in hibernation, I sensed it. I need information before I act, and now is the time to seek it.

  I concentrate, pulling currents of magic into my greatward and Reading them. The human cities on the surface are thriving, each protected by greatwards that cast forbiddings over vast areas. My kind have been pushed to the edge of their territory, a scattered remnant of lesser castes, abandoned by their minds and too stupid to realize they have lost.

  The queen is dead, then. She would never have tolerated this from the surface stock. It tells me the new queen and consort are weak, and regaining primacy will be as simple as killing whichever of my lesser get has bound his mind to hers.

  I reach further, easily finding the Draw of the hive’s three-dimensional greatward—formed of caverns and waterways and tunnels cut into living stone. It is my life’s work, a nexus of incredible power. Greater by far than the smaller greatward hidden beneath Safehold. The hive calls to me. Sings. But the song is hollow, like wind through a stalagmite field.

  There is no life within.

  My colony is gone.

  Safehold’s greatward responds to my sudden terror, feeding me vast amounts of magic, enough to sunder a mountain.

  I concentrate, restoring my calm and releasing the excess power. Such a display is a beacon my enemies will sense, and they will send armies to destroy my greatward and hunt me down while I am weakened.

  Even now I am loath to leave Safehold, but I do not hesitate to enter the between-state, shedding my physical form to become pure energy and will. I strengthen the probing tendril that connects me to the hive and use it to leap the distance, materializing at the center of the greatward at almost the exact moment I vanish from Safehold.

  The hive ward holds a great well of power, and I drink deep of it, becoming connected to every part of the massive symbol at once.

  All I sense is death. Echoes of psychic screams as minds and queens and countless drones died. Their scorched bodies have rotted where they fell, for even now, no predators are bold enough to enter our territory.

  I have underestimated the humans again—this time to the extinction of the entire colony. The hive greatward remains intact, but without drones and a royal caste, there is nothing to give it life. Even the livestock has fled.

  But here at my center of power, time can be peeled back like layers of flesh as I Read the imprint of the hive’s magic.

  The divergence is easy to find, and I absorb it, reliving those last moments as if I were there myself. I see the Explorer touch the Core and harness a power too great for any physical body to conduct. He was consumed like all that touched the Source before him, but an indomitable will can work a fraction of the Core’s near-infinite magic, if only for a moment before they are destroyed.

  My sire taught me that.

  A fraction of infinity is still without end. The victory was near-total, destroying every demon in the hive and thousands on the surface. Only the drones at the farthest reaches of the hunting grounds survived.

  A change in hierarchy I could navigate, but without a queen, there is no way to rebuild the colony. What good is it to rule over a grave?

  There are other hives, but they are in faraway places, and will have powerful consorts of their own.

  Desperate, I extend my senses, amplified by the greatward, and search. The ichor in my veins grows colder as I sift through the pathetic dregs of drones that escaped the surge more by fortune than fate. Only on the sands of the ancient lands are there drones in abundance, and those of the weakest, least useful caste.

  I am reaching the edge of my perception when I sense it, still guarding the ruins where I was captured. A lone mimic demon, one of the bodyguards I brought to that hated place. It was stranded when our mental connection was severed and has not fed in a turning, but still the creature brims with power.

  I touch it with a tendril of magic, and the mimic enters the between-state instantly, rushing to me like an excited pet. I run a hand over its liquid black scales, shivering with pleasure at their latent power.

  I can feel my body changing. Without a queen to suppress me, I begin emitting triggers, both pheromonal and magical, that the mimic
absorbs.

  I divide my consciousness and take control of its body to flee to Safehold, but we are unable to enter the between-state. Already the triggers have set off a chain of events that cannot be interrupted.

  Instead I climb on the mimic’s back as it takes the form of a giant wind drone. I draw wards to cloak our passage through the night sky, but still I clutch the precious drone tightly until we reach Safehold and I feel the greatward’s protections envelop us.

  The magics here are strong, the location remote. We are nestled in stone beneath my secret larder, a breeding ground of human stock who have no contact with the outside world, no defenses against my kind. I am a god to them, and they willingly deliver sacrifices for our repast.

  The mimic feeds voraciously. The changeling drones can take the form of almost anything, but this is no ordinary transformation. It is becoming something greater than either of us.

  When we are sated, I lead it to the well of power at the center of my greatward, and there we curl together and fall into a deep sleep, unmoving for many cycles.

  When I wake at last, the mimic has left my embrace and spun its cocoon. I hiss in pleasure, gliding a talon over the soft silk, feeling the life inside, pulsing as it pulls vast amounts of Core magic from my well.

  Already the power of the young proto-queen is overwhelming my senses, bonding me as her consort. I am in ecstasy as she dominates my will, making her needs my own. She is not a true queen, but still she is above my caste, and I want nothing more than to be her slave. After thousands of turnings, I had forgotten how it felt. The vitality and power that can only come from a hatchling queen giving me true purpose.

  I stand spellbound for cycles more, waiting for the metamorphosis to complete. When it does, the proto-queen slashes open the silk of her cocoon with a swipe of the deadly stinger atop her powerful reticulated tail.

  I have human stock ready, marching them to her by the dozens. She is savage in her hunger, and it is a glory to behold.

  The proto-queen notices me when her hunger is momentarily sated. She emits an irresistible trigger, and arousal subsumes my being. My male organs have swollen to many times their normal size during my vigil, even as my limbs have frozen. I am immobile, defenseless as she pulls me in.

  Her mating is nearly as savage as her feeding, but I offer no resistance. I am helpless before her, our minds linked. If she wished to feed on my body—as mating queens often do to lesser consorts—I would offer her my throat without hesitation.

  Even without feeding, she nearly kills me. All the power I have been absorbing these many cycles upon my greatward is sucked away with my issue, leaving me with barely a flicker when I am cast aside.

  Again she spins a cocoon, falling into a deep sleep as a single egg forms within her. A true queen.

  The hatchling queen will gorge first upon her mother, flesh and magic alike, then she, too, will need human stock to sate her hunger before compelling me to mate once more.

  Then she will spread her great wings and return us to the hive, where she will feed endlessly, her abdomen distending as she births a new colony.

  * * *

  —

  Alagai Ka’s terrible will fixes on me then, yanking me from his memories. I emerge disoriented. I realize only a moment has passed, but in that time I feel as if I lived years in the demon king’s body.

  Minds still bound in twisted tendrils of will, I can feel Alagai Ka’s anger at my invasion, his…indignation at being probed by a human. He bats me from his mind as easily as one might swat a fly, slamming my consciousness back into my own body, still caught in the demon’s iron grip.

  The demon’s face wears a recognizable expression at last—open fury. But we were linked, and I know his true anger is at himself, humiliated to once again be humbled by a mammal.

  I’ve found his weakness.

  Maybe it’s not just the queen that was getting old and weak? I cannot speak the words with the demon’s clawed hand grasping my throat, but he is in my mind, hearing the thoughts like a mocking whisper.

  Alagai Ka’s charcoal lips pull back, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth. I can see the hate in his reflective black eyes—feel it thrumming all around me.

  This time the demon doesn’t need Iraven to speak. His words resonate in my mind, exploiting my own weakness.

  My new queen will need a repast worthy of her glory. One that proves my strength and loyalty. It is customary for a consort to feed his hatchling queen his enemies.

  The demon’s long tongue snakes out over the rows of teeth to lick my cheek. Try as I might, I cannot hide my revulsion, and I know that gives him pleasure.

  The first flesh she feasts upon will be your parents. Then you, and Darin Bales.

  I struggle. Against his grip. Against his will. Both are overwhelming.

  And then the Woodcutter will come, and the Pillow Queen. All my enemies, compelled to seek us out as I guide them to the open maw of my queen, that she may feast and make their power her own.

  And when there are none strong enough to threaten our return, we will return to the hive in swarm.

  His crushing will closes on my mind, even as he squeezes shut my throat. I try to fight, but all I manage is a weak convulsion before oblivion takes me.

  57

  PIPER

  The Damajah’s resonance wards pulse in time with my pipes, filling the air with music. Micha rests her voice as she leads us through the vast undercity as assuredly as she did the hidden passages and shortcuts of Sharik Hora. Her scent is steady. Focused.

  Angry.

  Everyone smells of it. Micha and Selen at Olive, Rojvah at Arick.

  Maybe something in me is broken, but I don’t understand why. I only know how to be angry with myself.

  Ay, Olive was wood-brained to try to fight a mind demon alone, but given the choice of running off alone or taking my friends along with me into a likely slaughter—I wish I had the stones to do the same.

  It’s what Da did, when he left us behind and touched the Core.

  I could have left Selen, that first night on the road. Night, I should have. Without her slowing me I could have caught the Majah before they got Olive anywhere near that boat. Maybe I couldn’t have fought them, but reckon I could have snuck around and figured out a way to open whatever locks they had on Olive and Micha. With an hour’s head start, even dama’ting dice couldn’t have caught us before we got back to Hollow.

  Creator, even if they caught us, it’s Olive and me the demons want. Selen and Rojvah and Arick could be safe behind the wards right now if I’d had half as much sack as my da.

  But I was scared and didn’t want to go alone, and now we’re all going to die.

  What’s the point of being mad at Olive and Arick when I should be mad at myself?

  The feeling makes its way into my music, as they often do. There is no worthy prey here, my pipes tell any coreling that might chance to hear them, gently guiding their attention elsewhere with my own feelings of inadequacy.

  It doesn’t take long before I can sense the demon greatward. Its power is so great it glows on the horizon like a coming dawn. Even the others can’t miss it.

  “How could this have grown unnoticed inside the city?” Rojvah asks.

  “The Majah don’t have enough Warders to maintain the entire undercity,” Micha says. “Easier to close it off and use the Holy Undercity. It’s more than big enough.”

  “Ay,” Selen agrees. “But that doesn’t explain why the Sharum never noticed.”

  Micha has no reply to that, but there is worry in her scent, and she increases the pace.

  Ent much of a Warder, but I’ve seen magic whorl in the symbols for as long as I can remember. Power will flow to its center, and like a spider in a web, that’s where the demon will set.

  All of us have blessed hora weapons and shields, but Selen a
nd I have Cloaks of Unsight, as well. Rojvah and Micha have no such protection. Da would have given his cloak to one of them, but the cloak and the knife are all I have left of Mam, and I ent got the stones to give either of them up, especially here.

  Micha seems to come to the same conclusion as we enter the demon greatward, lifting her voice to harmonize with my pipes. Immediately, Rojvah does the same, the three of us taking the song’s power to new heights.

  Our trio has only played together a little, but already Micha and Rojvah weave their voices like sisters with a lifetime of practice. Both are more skilled than I am, but they let me lead, probably because they don’t think I could keep up.

  Our spellsong transcends anything I could effect alone, creating a halo of sound to keep us invisible to corelings while subtly nudging them out of our path like water flowing around a stone in a brook.

  The cloaks and music and blessed bone shields have a cumulative effect, but there are demons everywhere. Enough to put everyone on edge. Wanderers patrol the tunnels openly, and regulars hide around corners and behind stalagmites, or in crevices in the stone above our heads. Twice I sense hidden ambush pockets, warded like the ones Sharum use in the Maze. Even I can’t see or hear the sand demons clustered within.

  But I can smell them. Taste them on the air.

  I suck in, knowing it will hide my own scent, but I can do nothing for the others. The demons smell us, as well. I see the wanderers sniff the air, probing with their snouts as they vainly try to pinpoint the source.

  But smells are not enough to spur the demons into action. We pass without incident, continuing to wind deeper along the ward with every step.

  I add a sharp note to my piping, and everyone stops short. Across the tunnel in front of us are thick strands of clear, sticky silk. It is invisible in wardsight and hidden from the natural spectrum here in the darkness.