Secrets of the Sands, Ch 10-15

Chapter Ten

The bulk of Water’s End sheltered in a natural bowl. Cliffs rose to all sides, some over a hundred feet high, and the path sloped steep and narrow down a hand-carved pass in the ancient rock. Sentries dressed in eye-catching white perched high along the cliffs: steady on impossibly thin ledges, supported by sturdy rope and leather harnesses. Long metal braces lined the tops of the cliffs; by the look of it, the sentries could slide sideways several feet in either direction.

To Alyea, the engineering of those braces seemed as much a marvel as Oruen’s solarium. How could they secure perfect metal rods into solid rock? Incredible. But this wasn’t the time to ask about that.

“Are those teyanain?” Alyea asked Chac after a single swift, furtive glance upwards.

“No,” the old man said. “Their authority stops at the ridge we just crossed. Water’s End has its own guards. Every desert family tithes to support Water’s End; some of them send their young men and women to train here as guards for a time. It’s something of a coming-of-age ritual, serving time here as a guard.” He glanced up and sighed.

“Did you serve here?” Alyea asked, prompted by the wistfulness in the old man’s expression.

“Yes,” Chac said, and pulled his horse to a halt. “Lead your horse down by hand.”

Alyea glanced back as she swung off her horse. Micru had already dismounted and stood ready, hand on bridle. “Do the guards get upset if you ride down?”

“No,” Chac said. “Trail’s too tricky to ride.”

“What about caravans?”

“Different trail,” Chac said. “There’s three north trails. One two-way trail for caravans; you have to pay to use that one, and it’s a hefty fee. One free trail for walking out, one free trail for walking in.”

The rocky, sandy ground underfoot proved slippery and treacherous. Alyea placed her feet with care and tried to avoid having her horse step on her toes. That quickly turned out to be a lost cause as they slipped and scrambled their way down the narrow trail.

“Why… isn’t… the trail… wider? Smoother?” Alyea panted halfway down. Sweat trickled down her face, funneling into her thin shirt; she’d look a proper mess when they reached bottom.

“Why should it be?” Chac said over his shoulder. He moved like a cat over the uneven ground, guiding his horse easily, and didn’t seem the least bit out of breath. “Deep southerners don’t want much to do with the northlands. This serves as a natural barrier to kings that get a mad notion of taking over the desert Families’ lands. If anything gets past the teyanain, they won’t make it past this.”

The idea of an invading army trying to make it down this slope brought a sour smile to Alyea’s lips.

“What about the other trails?” she said, jerking her foot away just as a heavy hoof slammed down. Hard boots weren’t helping; her feet felt bruised and she suspected at least one toe might be broken already. “Or ports?”

“The other trails both have their own tight spots, and you have to have a recognized guide to make it through,” Chac said. “The ports wouldn’t be friendly to invasion attempts, either.” He fell silent, his attention on navigating a tricky turn.

They were nearly at the bottom of the trail. Water’s End spread out before them, a patchwork of stone buildings, some two and three stories; tents, at the edges, and even, incredibly, lush patches of garden greenery. Alyea had been expecting something much cruder, from Chac’s comment at the first way-stop.

“I thought you said Water’s End wasn’t much,” she said as they descended onto relatively level, wide ground again.

“Never said that,” the old man said. “Just said it was a larger version of the way-stops, and it is. Prettier, too.” He drew a deep breath and surveyed the area as the guards finished the descent and gathered behind them.

Alyea looked as well, and forgot her sweat, her disheveled appearance, the dirt and dust on her clothes, her aching feet.

The scent of desert rose and whitemusk flowers, feather-herbs and bitter onion, fresh baked bread and citrus fruits all clashed in her nose. With a shift of the faint breeze, those aromas faded into the dust, dirt, and sweat of a busy camp in hot weather. The smell of metal lent a tangy accent to the air, and nearly everyone seemed to be wearing a sword or dagger.

People wearing brightly patterned, lightweight fabrics filled the winding streets. Most wore their hair either intricately and tightly braided against their skulls or completely shaven. The predominant skin tone ranged from dark brown to black, a shade she’d rarely seen in Bright Bay; as Chac had said, the deep southerners wanted little to do with anything north of the Horn. Here and there she saw the bronze or burnt-almond skin tone and hawk-like face of an old, noble bloodline; crowds parted before those visages. The people moving out of the way didn’t even seem to glance up first, as if they felt the presence before seeing it.

A cacophony of laughter, shouting and arguing filled the streets, punctuated by the erratic screams of caged desert birds. Now and again an asp-jacau howled or whined; there were more of those creatures here than Alyea had ever seen in one place, all neatly groomed and obediently trotting behind their masters. Some wore gold, silver, or gem-studded collars; a few had swirling patterns bleached or dyed into their fur.

Alyea blinked wind-flung dust from her eyes and looked at Chac, feeling overwhelmed and helpless. He stared at her, his expression thoughtful; when she met his gaze he nodded as if coming to a decision.

“This way,” he said.

The group wound through a seemingly erratic path, past tents, buildings, and gardens, finally halting again in the courtyard of what must surely be the largest building in Water’s End. It stood three stories high, block upon huge limestone block set and firmly cemented together. The wide windows on the upper stories were flanked by heavy, metal shutters, currently open and fastened securely back to the sides of the building.

A nearby stable building, large enough to house fifty horses in comfort, boasted a fenced enclosure with thick grass and three thick-trunked oaks with huge, abundant foliage. Several horses dozed in the shade created by those giant leaves, their tails twitching idly.

Small statues of rearing horses, dancing children with jugs in hand, and howling asp-jacaus dotted the central area. Water poured from each statue into a stone trough, which ran for several feet before turning into an underground pipe.

“Incredible,” she breathed.

“Aerthraim engineering,” Chac said, sounding smug. “Wait until you see inside.”

Grooms trotted towards them, smiling cheerfully; one rattled off a question: “Ka-s’eias, ahaki t’ass ekita? Pahaki t’ess?”

“I’m sorry,” Alyea said, “I don’t…. ”

“T’ass, s’eias, essata; keyassa natoya su-s’a Peysimun,” Chac said. “Let them take your horse, Alyea.”

Feeling suddenly lost, Alyea let the nearest groom lead her horse away. “What did they say?”

“They asked if we were staying at the enclave or just stabling the horses for a while,” Chac said. “I told them we were staying, and gave him your family name so they can bring the baggage to our rooms.”

“What’s ka-s’eias?” Alyea said. “I haven’t heard it that way before. S’eias is a mixed group of people; what does the ka make it?”

“It’s unique to the deep southlands,” Chac said. “Means they’re not sure of our exact status, but know we’re not commoners and want to offer proper respect. ‘Honored’ is probably the closest translation. Now that they know you’re a northern noble, you’ll find everyone calling you su-s’a: northern lady.”

“What are they going to call you?” Alyea asked, with a touch of mischief.

Chac’s expression went remote. “Chacerly.”

“What, no term of respect?” Alyea teased, and immediately regretted it. Chac didn’t even look at her. His expression changed from remote to stony.

“No,” he said curtly, and started towards the enclave building.

Alyea hesitated before following him. She couldn’t imagine what the old man could have done to lose even the most basic term of courtesy before his name, especially in the deep south where respect counted for everything. Deiq’s words came back to her: the men you ride with aren’t the ones to trust… they watch you with the care of men that serve two masters.

For the first time, Alyea wondered if she and Oruen were the ones Chacerly served.

Chac reached the door to the enclave and went inside without even looking behind to see if she followed. She put her suspicious thoughts aside for the moment and hurried to catch up.

Considerably nicer than the last way-stop, this room held a single bed and a lower cot for a servant to sleep on. Halla looked around the room, seeming uncertain, and sat on the cot with a lost expression.

“What’s the matter?” Alyea asked, dropping her pack on her own bed and sitting next to it.

“I don’t know where to go,” Halla said. “I’ve been asking and asking after my son along the trail, and nobody knows anything.”

Alyea thought about Chac’s lessons on southern custom, sighed, and said, “Halla, I have to explain something to you.”

She sketched out the obligation concept as clearly as she could. The northern woman looked steadily more baffled.

“I have to pay for someone to tell me where my son is?” she demanded at last.

“Well, not with coin, and no—” She forestalled the woman’s gathering indignation. “Nothing to do with sex. You don’t have to sell yourself. But you have to have something to give in order to get any information about your son.”

“So the people I asked could have been lying?” Halla looked perplexed. “Why would anyone lie to a mother looking for her son?”

“It’s nothing personal,” Alyea said. “That’s just the custom here. I’m having to learn it myself; Bright Bay isn’t like that.”

Halla sat brooding, frown gathering deeper, and finally said, “No offense, my lady, but your southern world is madness.”

“Just different from your customs,” Alyea said. “That’s all.”

“No,” Halla said, shaking her head. “Any place where people could lie to a mother seeking her son is completely mad.”

“They may not have lied,” Alyea said. “They honestly might not have known. Don’t think the worst until you have to.”

“I have nothing to offer,” the northern woman said.

She looked so miserable Alyea couldn’t help crossing to sit beside her. She put a hand on Halla’s shoulder. “Chac told me there’s an old saying: sooner or later, everything comes through Water’s End. We’ll find word of your son here. I’m sure of it. And don’t forget, you have some status by being my servant. Don’t be afraid to use my name; it might tip the balance.”

“But won’t that put you in debt?” Halla asked dubiously.

“Maybe,” Alyea said lightly, “but I’m sure I can afford it. Go on, go ask around.” She gave the woman a few small coins. “Buy me one of those wonderful red silk tunics I’ve seen people wearing around here.”

Not that she wanted the tunic, but the errand would give Halla a reason to be out on the streets talking to vendors; the northern woman’s nod held instant understanding. “It may take me some time,” Halla said, testing, and Alyea nodded.

“Take as much time as you like,” she said, smiling.

“Thank you, my lady,” Halla said with deep sincerity, and hurried out the door without a backwards glance.

Still smiling, Alyea crossed to the window and watched: the northern woman emerged into the street and headed for the market with eyes modestly lowered and a stride that held nothing but purpose. People moved out of her way, as they did for the desert lords, without really looking; then seemed oddly perplexed, glancing back over their shoulders at the northern woman.

Behind her, Chac coughed, alerting her to his presence; she half-turned and motioned for him to join her at the window.

“It’s a busier place than I expected,” she said when he stood beside her.

“It’s the heart of the southlands,” he said, frowning down at the street. He seemed less than pleased about something. “Where’s your maid?”

“I sent her on an errand.”

“Alone? Are you mad?” He stared at her.

She shook her head, remembering how people had moved out of Halla’s path. “She’ll be fine, Chac.”

“This isn’t Bright Bay, damn it,” he said, unaccountably upset, and went to the door. She heard him speaking with one of the guards in a low voice; he returned to her side a few moments later, his frown eased only slightly. “They’ll find her. Don’t ever send her out without an escort to protect her. Don’t try walking alone, yourself, not here. It’s not safe. You don’t have the status for it just yet. Gods know I’ve been trying, but it’s not taking hold.”

She turned her head to look at him. “What do you mean, you’ve been trying? What have you been doing?”

“While you’ve been chatting along the way with Deiq,” he said tartly, “I’ve been trying to arrange alliances to keep you safe on the road and get us to Scratha Fortress. So has Micru. It’s not been going well at all. We haven’t received a single invitation to visit any Family yet. That’s bad, Alyea, that’s very bad. Past Water’s End, your only source of water and food is the fortresses. You don’t just show up at the gates and bang on the door to say hello. You need an invitation. And we don’t have one. Not one.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” she demanded. “I could have—”

“You don’t know how,” he cut her off. “If Deiq hadn’t taken an interest in you, I would have introduced you round each dinner and maybe had better luck; but all they saw was you sitting with him, and they wanted no part of that. He’s not trusted much, south to north, commoner or noble.”

“You could have said,” she complained.

“I did tell you to get rid of him,” Chac reminded her impatiently.

She grimaced, wondering if Deiq had understood the impact his attentions would have; if it had been calculated. I can get you to Scratha Fortress safely, he’d said, and promised help if she asked for it.

“Damn it,” she said aloud.

“Yes.” Chac seemed about to say something else, but then his attention drew sharply to the street again; she leaned, looking to see what had caught his eye.

Gria and her mother stumbled by below, wrists weighed down with heavy chains and cuffs. The guards in the party walked very close to the women, and Alyea could make out a dark bruise on the older woman’s face. Sela seemed to be halfway between shock and apoplectic rage; her daughter’s expression alternated between blank and frightened. The machago Ierie, cheerful and smug, sauntered down the street in front of the small procession.

Alyea felt her chest tighten at the sight. “It isn’t fair. It isn’t right. They believed him; that’s their only crime.”

“I doubt it,” Chac said. “Do you really think a machago would make the long trip just for one pair of northern women? They upset someone powerful enough to pay a slave-trader to come all the way past the Horn and steal them away to a place they’d never escape.”

Alyea stared down at the street, hardly seeing the crowds now. The slave trader’s party had passed out of sight now, around a corner.

“Deiq knew,” she said under her breath.

“What?” Chac’s attention sharpened on her. He scowled.

“He said he knew what was going on with them,” Alyea said. “But he didn’t tell me. I didn’t ask,” she added to the fierce glare the old man directed at her.

“Good,” Chac said. “At least you did that right.” He rubbed his temples. “I have to go make some arrangements. I’ll be back soon. Stay here; for the love of the gods, don’t go out there until I’ve secured something for an alliance.” He walked out without looking back.

She sighed and went back to staring out the window.

Not long afterwards, a firm knock rattled the thin door behind her. She crossed the room and opened the door with her expressionless public face firmly in place, and held to it with all her might a moment later as machago Ierie grinned at her unpleasantly.

“Lady Alyea,” he said. “A present for you.”

Behind him, the two northern women glared at Alyea as if they held her responsible for the situation. Four guards loomed behind, their attention completely on the slaves, ready to grab them if they tried to bolt.

The bruise on Sela’s face, at close range, looked very dark, and very large.

“A present?” she said sharply.

“From nu-s’e Deiq,” the man said. “He has purchased these women and wishes me to give them into your care.”

“When did this happen?” she demanded.

“My lady,” Ierie said, unruffled, “the hallway is not the best place to hold this discussion.”

“You certainly aren’t entering my room!” she said before thinking.

He shrugged. “Do you accept this gift or not, Lady Alyea?”

It had been sensible, before, to stay out of the troubles of the northern women. It would be beyond madness, now, to refuse the gift; another kind of madness to accept. She’d made herself an easy target for whatever game Deiq had set up. He’d guessed her sympathy for the northern women, and now she owed him a debt beyond paying, whatever phrasing the machago used to hide it.

If this was a gift, she was an asp-jacau.

“Yes,” she said at last.

Smirking, Ierie produced a leather document case and handed it to her. “Your paperwork, my lady. You are now wholly responsible for these mac’egas; the mark on their bands is registered with the Water’s End hayrar under your name. If they attempt to leave Water’s End, by any road, while not in your presence, they will be stopped and returned to you.”

Alyea felt her stomach curdling from the intensity of Sela’s stare.

Ierie stepped aside and motioned for the two women to advance. Alyea opened the door wider and moved out of the way as the northerns, prompted by an ungentle shove from the guards behind them, stumbled into her room.

“The cuffs,” Ierie said, “do not come off. They will be slaves, south to north, for the rest of their lives. I recommend you do not try to take them back into the northlands, but that is your choice entirely. Good day, my lady.”

He turned and sauntered away, his guards following.

“Gods,” Alyea said under her breath, and closed the door. She stood staring at the plain, scarred wood for a few breaths, gathering strength and sorting her thoughts, before turning to look at her new slaves.

“You tried to warn us,” Gria said miserably.

“How convenient,” her mother snapped. “And now you own us, do you? Let me tell you, I don’t accept it! I want this cuff off and I intend to bring charges in front of King Oruen!” She brandished her arm at Alyea, as if intending to use the heavy metal cuff as a weapon.

“He said they don’t come off,” Gria said.

“Nonsense. That was just to scare us. We’ll be free of this mistake soon.” She fixed Alyea with a stern glare. “Won’t we, my lady?”

Alyea drew a deep breath and sank into a chair. “No,” she said. “I’m afraid not.”

Chacerly examined the proffered hand soberly. He shook his head after a moment of tapping and poking at the band, and looked up at Alyea. He’d been furious on finding the two northern women in Alyea’s room, but that anger seemed to have vanished now, replaced with a deep concern.

“I haven’t seen this in years. I thought it was a lost art.”

“Art?” Sela said bitterly.

Chac sat back on his heels and looked up at her, then stood.

“It is an art,” he said. “What it’s used for may not be. Look—see that silver twisting through the metal?” He pointed to a fine network of shining lines woven through the duller metal of the slave cuff. “That’s called ugren. It’s a rare alloy. There’s nothing I know of that cuts or melts it, once it’s hardened and set. And as it’s contacting your skin, it’s likely bonded to that as well. Attempting to remove the cuffs could rip your flesh right down to the bone beneath.”

Sela stared, her face bone-white. Gria moaned softly, looking ill.

“It’s not a common slave cuff,” Chac said harshly. “Whoever hired Ierie to come get you wanted to be damn sure you’d never be considered free again, north to south.”

Alyea put a hand over her mouth.

“Oh, it gets worse,” Chac said, turning a fierce glare on Alyea. “Far as I know, only ones who know how to put on an ugren cuff without killing the slave are the teyanain. And when they get involved, everything goes to all the hells. On top of it all, you said Deiq bought these women, and presented them to you as a gift?” He shook his head, lips tight. “What a damn mess. Did you ask him to get involved?”

“No,” Alyea said as strongly as she could without shouting. “Not even a hint.”

Chac studied the northern women for a moment, seeming to consider something, then looked back at Alyea. His expression had acquired a chilly, frightening detachment. “You have two options,” he said. “The first one is to find out who they were going to be sold to originally, and send them on to him as a gift.”

Alyea shook her head. “I won’t do that. ”

“Then you have to kill them,” he said.

She stared at him, shocked. Sela whimpered. Gria shivered, huddling closer to her mother.

“They’re dangerous by their very presence,” he said. “You’re under a debt while they’re in your service. You’re involving yourself in political games you know nothing about if you keep them alive, and it could destroy you. What you’re doing is more important than two northern women. Let me—”

“If you lay one hand on them, Chacerly,” Alyea said with measured chill, “I will see you stripped and sent into the deep sands to die.”

They matched glares for a long, silent moment.

“It’s safer to be rid of them,” he said. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I don’t believe in killing innocents to save myself some trouble,” she said. “And they’re legally mine. Not yours. I make the decision on this.”

“You’re letting emotion drive you,” Chacerly said. “Not reality.”

“I said no.”

His lip curled for a moment, then he shrugged and said, “As you will, my lady. I’d advise asking them some very hard questions, if you’re still listening to anything I have to say.”

“You’re my advisor, Chac,” Alyea said, trying to lighten her tone. “I always listen. I just make my own decisions about your advice.”

“Talk to them, then,” he said. “Find out what’s going on before it catches up to you. I’d offer to help but I doubt you’d care for my methods.”

He turned and left the room without another word, shooting the northerns one final dark, misgiving glance as he passed. Alyea sighed and let herself fold into a chair. Before anyone could speak, Halla burst into the room, beaming. Her smile faded as she took in the two women sitting on Alyea’s bed.

“What—” she started, a frown beginning to form.

“I’ll explain later,” Alyea said, and made a peremptory gesture for the northerns to be silent. “What is it?”

Halla studied the women for another moment, her forehead furrowed in concern. “Perhaps this isn’t a good time?”

“It’s as good a time as any other,” Alyea said. “Out with it.”

“Well, it’s like this,” Halla said uncertainly. “I… I think I’ve had word of my son.”

“That’s good,” Alyea said, unable to summon up more energy for enthusiasm. “What did you hear?”

“I was… I went to the washing square… and spoke to the other women there. And men! They have men doing the washing here, my lady.”

Alyea’s smile felt more genuine now. “And someone there told you about your son?”

“Well, I said I was looking,” Halla said. She seemed to have forgotten the two sullen northern women. “I told my story, and explained how I was working for you while I searched for my son. One of the women said she’d seen a northern boy locally, one with a light slave cuff on; she said that means he was working off a small debt or something minor, and would be free to go once that was up. She didn’t know his name, but gave me a description and an address.”

“Go find out, then,” Alyea said. “What are you waiting for?”

Halla hesitated again, twisting her hands together nervously. “Well, my lady, I’m fairly sure it’s my son; the description fits, right down to the mole on his cheek. It’s just… the man he’s working for… she said it was Deiq.”

Alyea shut her eyes and muttered, “Why am I not surprised?”

She stood and crossed the room to the small desk. As she’d expected, she found writing supplies inside; she pulled them out and swiftly wrote a brief note, blotted it, and rolled it up. At a loss for a seal, she spotted several lengths of ribbon in the drawer and used one to tie the parchment roll securely. The other three women watched her with varying degrees of silent bewilderment.

Alyea handed Halla the note and said, “Take this to the local judge, the hayrar. It’s an affidavit that Peysimun Family will be personally liable for whatever debt or service your son has incurred, and to release him into your care immediately. Make them write you a note transferring the liability and take it to the place your son is staying. I’m sure he’ll know who to present the release to.”

Halla held the note as if it were the most precious thing she’d ever seen.

“Thank you, my lady,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears.

“Go on,” Alyea said, and the woman almost ran from the room.

“Does this Deiq make a practice of holding slaves?” Sela demanded before the door had fully shut behind Halla. “I thought it illegal!”

“In the kingdom, it is; but we’re all far from home, Sela. And before you launch another tirade, keep in mind that I did try to warn you!”

“And what could we have done?” Sela cried. “Run, and be captured? Or run, and find out you were lying, and disgrace ourselves beyond hope? What else was there to do?”

Alyea sighed. “Why would anyone want to enslave you in the first place?”

“How should I know?” Sela snapped.

“It cost someone a lot of time and money to bring both of you down here and put those cuffs on your arms. Why are you so important?”

“You’d know more about southern reasoning than I would,” Sela said nastily.

Alyea rubbed her temples, trying to ease the beginnings of a monstrous headache, and murmured to herself, “I can see this is going to be a long night.”

Chapter Eleven

The building that rose before them measured no larger than any other in the village, and hardly seemed as opulent as the palace in Bright Bay. It did, however, have carefully trimmed hedges, neatly shaped rosebushes, a paved courtyard, a small stable to one side, and two armed guards at the plain wooden door.

The guards watched them approach without a flicker of emotion crossing their broad faces. Idisio felt a chill crawling along his spine as he came closer. He’d seen eyes like that before—in men who killed for coin.

Scratha seemed undisturbed by the cold stare of the guards. He strode up to them as arrogant and assured as he’d ever been in the King’s Palace and stopped just out of their reach.

“We’re here to see Yuer,” he announced.

“Yeah, we figured that,” one of the guards said, surveying the three visitors with a dark squint. “Either that or you want to sell the girl, and she don’t look whipped enough for that.”

“Yuer,” Scratha repeated coldly.

“Yeah, go on in. He said you’d be here tonight.”

Scratha checked mid-stride and turned a hard stare on the guard. “Excuse me?”

“You’re expected,” the guard clarified, and jerked a thumb at the door. “Go on in already. Unless you’ve changed your mind about the girl?” He leered at Riss. She shrank back.

“No,” Scratha said, and pushed the door open. He strode in without looking back. Idisio and Riss almost tripped over each other crowding in behind him.

The small room beyond held little more than a comfortably smoldering fireplace and four low, wide chairs set around a short-legged round table. Idisio rocked to a stop and stared in unabashed fascination at the man in the chair facing them.

There was a lot to stare at: skin like a bleached hide pulled too tight over prominent bones and a face filled with a mass of drooping wrinkles, as if all the spare skin had somehow migrated there. Wispy, dark hair scraggled along a pale scalp. The man smoothed his long-fingered, almost skeletal hands repeatedly over a thick, dark red lap-blanket, although Idisio found the room uncomfortably warm.

Bright dark eyes stared back at Idisio, and the man’s thin mouth twisted into a wide grin.

“Please, come sit,” the man said in an astonishingly clear bass. The sound of that rich tone coming from the frail, wrinkled form made Idisio’s jaw drop again. “Hot tea?” He leaned forward and lifted the ceramic teapot, tilting it to fill three small cups with a rich, steaming amber liquid. The scent of cloves and cinnamon filled the room.

Scratha didn’t move. “You expected us.”

“Of course. And I must say it’s lovely to see you again, my lord.” He arranged each of the small cups a little distance apart from each other, choosing each spot with careful precision, then looked up at them. “Oh, do sit down. I get a twist in my neck so easily these days.”

“I thought you’d gone further north,” Scratha said.

“Oh, it’s far too cold up north,” the man said. “Speaking of which, the tea is getting cold.” He blinked at them with a lizard-bright sparkle in his eyes. “Won’t you sit and have tea with me?”

Scratha drew in a long breath, let it out through his teeth, and slowly sat in a chair, motioning Idisio and Riss to follow suit. Idisio sat down gingerly and reached for a small cup of tea without really thinking about it. He passed one to Riss and the last to Scratha, uncomfortably aware that the wrinkled man seemed to be watching him attentively.

“Idisio, Riss,” Scratha said, “this is Yuer.”

“Ah,” Yuer said, reprovingly. “You didn’t introduce me properly, my lord. It should have been ferahd Yuer, son of Lord Regav Darden and dista Atha; you’d say bastard son of a whore, I think, in the northern tongue.”

Scratha’s face tightened. “I saw no need to introduce that.”

“I’m not ashamed of it,” Yuer said. “I can hardly claim to control my birth, can I? And my mother was a favorite of Lord Regav’s until his unfortunate meeting with that Aerthraim bitch.”

Scratha’s face settled into a dark frown. “Yuer, don’t bait me.”

“Still fond of dear old Azni, are you? Well, spare me a moment of fun,” Yuer said. “I have so little of it these days.”

Scratha shook his head and didn’t answer.

“And you think you have no time for my foolishness,” Yuer said. “Well.” He sipped at his tea, his gaze shifting among them. “Perhaps you don’t, at that. But time is an odd thing, isn’t it? I recall you saying once that if you never spoke to me again in this lifetime it would be too soon.”

“You’ve said the same of me,” Scratha said. “And I’ve said many things over the years, some of which should have been left silent.”

Yuer made a faint coughing noise, almost but not quite a sniggering laugh. “Now you admit mistakes? Could these children have made such a difference? Could you have possibly have grown… attached to them?” His eyes glittered. A chill ran down Idisio’s back at the tensions rising in the air.

“Stop it,” Scratha said, his stare as flat and dangerous as a snake’s. “That’s enough, Yuer. This is today. If all you’re going to do is rake through the past, I’ll leave, and then I’ll send my report to Lord Oruen. He’ll take great joy in hanging you one piece at a time from each of the Gates.”

In the silence, the sound of rain came pattering gently against the window shutters. Idisio stifled an impulse to bolt from the room.

“Ah,” Yuer said at last, his voice soft. “You do have a compelling argument there. I am fond of my skin remaining intact, such as it is.” He poured himself more tea and sipped thoughtfully for a few moments.

Idisio glanced at Riss. She slouched back in her chair, both hands curled round the small cup, looking deeply unhappy.

“Politics are never simple,” Yuer said at last. “And they reach into the past further than any of us have been alive, and will echo into the future far beyond our children’s lives.”

“Politics or profit?” Scratha said.

Yuer smiled briefly. “Politics is all about profit on some level, whether that be coin or other gain; successful profit involves understanding politics. You worry over a few pounds of dasta and esthit and redweed moving south to north, untaxed, illegal. In your mind, it is all wreaking horrible havoc in all lives involved. But it’s such a small, small piece of the overall politics that it’s hardly worth noticing… unless, of course, current politics move attention to that tiny piece.” He sighed.

“Dasta is illegal in the northlands,” Scratha said. “The Church bans it, and Lord Oruen has backed that ban.”

Yuer grinned and shook his head. “A knife is not evil. The hand that holds it can use it to cut bread or cut throats. Look to the hand, not the knife.”

“I’m looking for the ones who seek out assassins to sell their knives to.”

“Why?” Yuer asked, still smiling. “You’re no King’s Guard or secret enforcer. Why would you worry over the nonsense of the northlands?”

“I want to know how it gets through the Horn,” Scratha said. “If Darden has corrupted the teyanain, that’s valid desert business.”

“Corrupted?” Yuer’s smile broadened. “The teyanain are incorruptible.”

“Then how can they let your carriers move through the Horn?” Scratha said, leaning forward and putting his cup on the table with a hard click. “There’s a two-hundred-year-old agreement on that!”

“Agreements change,” Yuer said. “Initin the Red was a wise man, a good leader, but he couldn’t predict that when he died, his chosen successor would refuse the throne and turn control of the kingdom to a minor branch of the royal family.”

“What?” Scratha sat up straight, scowling. “You don’t believe that old nonsense, Yuer. It’s never been anything but a madman’s rumor.”

“Madness for madness,” Yuer said mildly. He poured himself another cup, shook the pot gently, and set it back down. “I’ll have a servant make more.”

“I want you to explain how you can give any credence to that mad story.”

“Because I know the name of his chosen successor,” Yuer said. “And because the families of Mezarak, Ninnic, and the other mad kings had never shown any evidence of instability before taking the throne. Their madness came from a curse laid on the line for forsaking the proper order of things.”

“Who?” Scratha demanded.

“You won’t believe me.” Yuer smiled. “You’ll call me a liar and a fool.”

A faint noise brought Idisio’s attention to Riss. She’d begun drowsing in her chair, empty teacup held loosely in her hand. The rain must have put her to sleep; Idisio had to fight the urge to let his own eyelids slide closed.

“Say it and let me judge,” Scratha said.

“Ienna Aerthraim,” Yuer said. “Mother to Asoana Aerthraim, who gave birth to Osenna Aerthraim, who gave birth to Aziarna Aerthraim, who gave birth to your darling Azaniari Aerthraim. They run a matrilineal heritage, like Scratha does.”

Idisio found himself blinking rapidly. The list of names had been so similar in sound—a standard complaint by northerns about the desert Families—that he’d completely lost track. But it sounded as though Lady Azni, who had been so kind to him and given him that miraculous salve, should have been in line for the throne in Bright Bay.

What a different world he would have grown up in if that had come true!

Scratha shook his head slowly. “How did you come to find that out?”

“The teyanain keep records of everything,” Yuer said. “They have books going back to before the Split. Every king had a teyanin attend his court as a record-keeper since the beginning of the kingdom; that is, up until Ienna refused her calling. After that the kings refused to allow a teyanin the post of record-keeper, and as a result the royal line bears a curse.”

Riss snored softly. Yuer glanced at her and smiled.

“That’s not possible,” Scratha said. “I would have—”

“No,” Yuer said. “You wouldn’t have known. Even your beloved Azaniari probably doesn’t know. Ienna wanted no part of a throne; she wouldn’t have told her descendants. The Aerthraim have never accepted a public office that would bring them notice. Ienna passed the throne to one of her lovers.”

“I don’t believe any Aerthraim would dishonor her family that way,” Scratha said, and stood, expression grim. “If all you have to go on are slanderous falsehoods, I’m through listening.”

“I did say you’d call me a liar,” Yuer noted, looking amused. “But I’ve been through the records of every desert fortress that would let me in, and a few that didn’t know of my presence, before I was encouraged to leave the southlands. On my way through the Horn I gained access to the books of the teyanain. There’s no argument with the facts!”

“How did you get into the books of the teyanain?” Scratha demanded.

“I rendered them an indispensable service,” Yuer said, and his grin turned unpleasant. “You don’t need that story. I think this is more important right now.”

“Go on,” Scratha growled, settling back into his chair.

Yuer glanced at Riss, then at Idisio. A faint frown passed across his wrinkled face, barely noticeable. “First, more tea.”

A gesture brought a quiet servant into the room with a second teapot, almost identical to the first, and four fresh cups. After tea had been poured and the tiny cups taken in hand, Yuer said, “Those books I studied… each of them from a different point of view, each of them with a tiny piece of the overall truth. I doubt too many people have seen as many of them as I have, to see such a complete picture.”

“You flatter yourself,” Scratha said, frowning over his tea. “You’re no wise scholar, Yuer.”

“Not when you last knew me,” Yuer shot back, “but people do change, don’t they? I think I could name a few myself, and I know you can.” His gaze moved, rather speculatively, to Idisio for a moment.

Scratha snorted and shook his head, but sipped his tea and made no other argument. “Go on with the story.”

“It’s interesting,” Yuer said, leaning forward a little, his eyes narrowing, “that this boy is still awake. I’d expected you to be awake, not him.”

The room suddenly seemed very quiet, and very warm. The soft rain outside faded to an occasional plink. Idisio stared at his tea in horrified understanding.

“You tried to drug us?” he squeaked, and bit his lip at the cracked, whiny sound of the words.

“It’s always been one of Yuer’s favorite games,” Scratha said dryly. He took another sip of tea, his dark stare fixed on the wrinkled old man. “I’m surprised, myself, that you’re still awake.”

Idisio stared at his master, appalled and feeling rather betrayed. “You knew?”

“I expected it,” Scratha said, not looking away from Yuer. “The question is why he’d risk it.”

Yuer smiled. “I knew I’d at least slow down your servants,” he said. “With them asleep, you’d be less likely to run before Pieas gets here.”

Scratha sat up straighter. His scowl made Idisio cringe into his chair reflexively, even though he knew he wasn’t the target.

“Pieas!” Scratha said; the name came out as a dire curse.

Yuer smirked. “Yes. I received a bird-messenger this morning that he was on your trail and to hold you against his coming.”

Scratha snorted. “You think I would have run from that little ta-karne? He’s been all but disowned by his own family, he’s on the run in disgrace, and he’s got a blood-right call on his head. I certainly wouldn’t hesitate to kill him, in or out of your home, Yuer.”

Moving with exaggerated care, he pulled several sheets of parchment from his pouch and tossed them on the table.

“Read it!” he said. “A message from the king’s own hand, telling about Pieas’s disgrace.”

Yuer grabbed the folded papers. His dark eyes scanned the close-set lines of writing rapidly: page after page, four in all. He read through them again, more slowly, then looked up at Scratha.

“Pages are missing,” he said.

“The others held no relevance to you.”

Yuer looked down at the pages, shaking his head slowly as he settled back in his chair.

“Disgraced,” he mused, rattling the parchment. “That changes… quite a bit.”

“I won’t hold the mistake against you,” Scratha said, baring his teeth in a thin, humorless smile. “We all make mistakes, after all. Even you.”

“Apparently so,” Yuer murmured, his gaze distant. “It seems I have some talking to do with Pieas when he arrives—which ought to be soon.”

“Even disgraced,” Scratha said, “he’s still the child of a powerful desert family. I’d advise against killing him yourself. There’s enough other people after him for that.”

“Oh, I’m not too concerned over killing him,” Yuer said, and his expression sent a shiver down Idisio’s back. “I’ve other methods for expressing how upset I am with him. And other reasons besides this incident.”

A faint rattling sound, like feet scraping against gravel, came clearly from outside. One of the guards opened the door and looked in, his broad face furrowed in a frown.

“Man running,” he said briefly. “Got by us, think he was listening. Follow?”

Yuer sat up, his face flushing with instant rage. “He was eavesdropping? On me? He dared? Yes, gods damn you, bring him to me!”

The door clacked shut as the guard sprinted away. Scratha and Idisio both leapt to their feet and headed for the door. Idisio checked just shy of the threshold, turning a worried glance back to Riss, who still drowsed peacefully in the chair. Yuer flapped a thin hand at him impatiently, the gesture serving as reassurance and imperious command all at once; Idisio nodded and bolted after Scratha.

Just as they reached the main village road, the light haze of mist condensed into a heavy, thundering downpour. Idisio’s foot hit a mud slick; he went down hard and spat mud along with curses while rolling clumsily upright. A hard hand caught in his armpit and yanked him the rest of the way to his feet.

“Let the guards get themselves soaking wet searching like fools,” Scratha said in Idisio’s ear. “Stables, Idisio. He’ll have to get back to his horse to run anywhere in this weather.”

Idisio slogged after Scratha as fast as he could; whatever had been in that tea seemed to be affecting him at last. His legs seemed filled with sand and his body worked sluggishly; he fell behind despite his best efforts, and Scratha disappeared into the downpour ahead.

Unable to move another step, Idisio stopped, panting. Not far ahead, a woman screamed; the sound jolted him back into motion. A handful of steps later, a thudding sound barely gave him time to fling himself out of the way as a large black horse thundered by, rider crouched low on its back.

“Looks like he got away,” Idisio muttered, picking himself up off the ground for the second time, and trudged, in no hurry at all now, towards the stables.

Scratha stood in the center aisle of the stable, his expression bleak as the weather and three deep scratches threading blood trails down one cheek. He glared at a woman who crouched, weeping, at his feet.

“Get up already,” Scratha snapped.

She raised a shaking arm over her head and cowered, as if expecting to be struck. Idisio, unable to help himself, moved forward and crouched beside her. He could feel Scratha’s hard glare on the back of his neck.

A splotch of damp mud slid off his head as he leaned forward; it splatted on the floor right next to the girl. She flinched further into herself and whimpered.

“S’a?” he said tentatively.

Her thin, bruised face tilted up towards him, revealing wide, wild eyes and a desperate stare.

“Don’t let him hurt me,” she whimpered. “Don’t let him—”

“He won’t hurt you, s’a,” Idisio said. The pattern of bruises and cuts on her face and arms warned him against trying to touch her right now. Overhead, Scratha breathed heavily. His looming, intimidating presence filled the air with an almost palpable anger.

Idisio risked saying, “Master Scratha, could you… back up a step, please? Maybe a few steps?”

Scratha growled but moved back two long steps. “He threw her at me. The little ta-karne threw her at me.” He touched the ripped stripes on his cheek gingerly. “Damn you,” he added.

“He hit me,” the woman whimpered, quivering. “Don’t let him hit me again.”

“She clawed my face,” Scratha said unsympathetically, glowering.

“He won’t hit you again,” Idisio reassured the woman. “I promise. I won’t let him.”

“Then she’d best not claw at me again,” Scratha retorted. “Get up, get up, woman! What in the hells are you doing here? Who are you? Why did Pieas leave you behind?”

“Wian. I’m Wian. I’m Lady Alyea’s… I was….” The woman shuddered and shook, crying again, and refused to say anything else.

“I think she’s best off resting to calm down,” Idisio said, looking up at Scratha. “And having a healer look at these cuts. Some of them look infected.”

“Hells,” Scratha said. “All right. Let’s get her back to Yuer’s.”

The woman looked up sharply, her face turning a stark white. A moment later, her eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped in a thoroughly unfeigned faint to the dirty stable floor.

Scratha blew out a hard breath, then crouched and gathered the limp form into his arms. He stood with as little effort as if he’d picked up a sack of feathers. Which might not, Idisio admitted to himself, be far off; the rips in Wian’s dress showed a gaunt form barely above starvation.

“Maybe we shouldn’t take her back there,” Idisio objected. “She seemed upset when you said Yuer’s name.”

“All the more reason,” Scratha said. “Time to find out what in the hells is going on here.”

#

That plan proved fruitless. Seeing the limp girl in Scratha’s arms, Yuer summoned servants to take her away and dismissed his guests with unmistakable finality. Idisio shook Riss awake; muzzy and confused, she followed them tamely out the door and back to the inn. By the time Idisio finished cleaning himself up and changed into dry clothes, Riss had recovered enough to know she’d missed something important. Idisio filled her in while Scratha went to bathe.

“He what?” she said several times, each one more incredulous and furious than the last. As Idisio finished the account and Riss drew breath for an obvious tirade, Scratha returned.

“He drugged me!” Riss began, just as the desert lord stepped back into the room. “I’m going to—”

“You’ll do nothing,” Scratha cut in. He shut the door behind him and regarded her soberly. “You weren’t harmed. Let it go, Riss.”

“How could you have left that girl with him?” she demanded, turning her anger on Scratha. “How could you trust him like that?”

“Yuer always goes with his highest profit,” Scratha said. “From his reaction, he wants the girl alive. He’ll get her back on her feet sooner than any of the village healers could. He was a promising ketarch student, at one time. He knows a lot about medicines.”

“And drugs,” Riss said bitterly, unappeased.

Scratha shrugged. “I never said he’s a nice person, Riss, or trustworthy. But the welfare of a strange girl Pieas dragged along, probably for his amusement on the road, isn’t my concern. At this point, even finding Pieas isn’t all that interesting to me. He’s useless. He ran. Whether he went north or south, he’s finished. He’ll never be anyone important now. Nobody would touch him as an ally, after such a show of cowardice. And he’s offended Yuer, which is as good as a death sentence in itself. No. Let him go. I’ve other business to attend to, more important issues to consider.”

“Like what?” Riss demanded, still scowling. “You can’t just leave her behind!”

“Of course I can,” Scratha said sharply. “If you want to stay with her, feel free. I’m sure she’d appreciate a friendly escort back to Bright Bay. Or take some coin and be on your way alone. The same applies to you, Idisio,” he added. “I won’t need a servant much longer. I’m going back south.”

They stared at Scratha in shared disbelief.

“But… you were told… you promised,” Idisio stammered idiotically.

“Back south?” Riss said, suspicion and anxiety mingling in her expression.

“I humored the king with this nonsense assignment,” Scratha said. “I wanted to see what he’d do, given the chance at a desert holding; now I know.” His expression darkened. “He explained in his letter what’s been happening, and I can’t believe he’s fool enough to think I’d stand for it. He’s making a hash of everything. I’m going home, and taking my lands back, and he can squeal all he wants from Bright Bay. There’s nothing for me past the Horn anymore.”

Riss put a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. “Chance at a desert holding?” she said, the words almost inaudible behind her palm. “The king?”

“But the king,” Idisio protested.

“Has no true authority over me,” Scratha said. “Desert business comes first.”

“You’re a desert lord?” Riss breathed, her face starkly pale. She twisted her hands together. “I beg pardon, my lord—”

“For what? You’re done nothing wrong, Riss.”

“I’ve argued… been disrespectful….”

“You thought me nothing more than some idiot noble on a fool’s errand,” Scratha said brusquely. “Let be. I’m not angry.” He pulled the money pouch from his bags and tossed it on the table. “Split what’s left and go your own ways. I don’t need servants in the southlands.”

Idisio didn’t hesitate. “No. I want to stay with you.”

Scratha frowned at the refusal, then cocked an eyebrow at the latter statement as though surprised. “Why?”

“Oh, Master, just the other day, you said you couldn’t do without me,” Idisio said, deliberately calling to mind his initial ploy in front of the king. Scratha’s mouth twitched; clearly he recognized the reference.

“Mmph,” he said. “I said I’m getting used to having you around. Fine. I’ll take you, if you insist. But Riss—”

“I stay too,” Riss said, rather unexpectedly, and wouldn’t look at either of them. “I can’t very well go home again. And traveling alone isn’t a good idea for a woman, whatever money you give me. I’d rather stay with… in good company.” She colored a little. “My lord. If you permit.”

Scratha cast a shrewd glance at Idisio and smiled. “Very well. Get some rest, then. It’s a long ride to Sandlaen Port, and I want to leave early.”

Chapter Twelve

“I told you,” Sela said, “I don’t know!”

Alyea sighed. Brief though her aqeyva training had been, she’d learned to read people fairly well; and one of these two, if not both, knew something they weren’t admitting. She’d tried every way she knew to charm the women into trusting her, but even Gria now regarded her with open hostility.

She stood and crossed to the door, leaning out to speak to the guard.

“Send for Micru,” she said, then withdrew into the room again.

“So you’re going to torture us?” Sela said, her expression bitter and her voice shrill with tension. “See the kindness of the southern lady, Gria?”

“Why do you think that?” Alyea asked.

“I’ve seen that look before,” Sela said, tossing her head. “I know your kind, my lady. Start out kind and turn to whips when you don’t get what you want.” She spat on the floor.

“Gods, you’re an idiot,” Alyea said, and turned her back on the woman.

A light tap sounded at the door; Micru slipped into the room, his flat, dark stare taking in the entire room in one professionally quick sweep. “My lady?”

“Do you know who these women are, Micru?” she asked.

He surveyed them for a long, silent moment, considering. “I know what they are.”

Sela stared at Micru as if beginning to feel fear for the first time.

“Slaves,” she said, in an attempt at scorn. “That’s obvious enough.”

“Ugren slaves,” Micru said, and settled into a chair. He studied the women, one knuckle resting against his mouth. “Northerners. Quasi-nobles. And fools, beyond a doubt.”

They stared at him warily.

“Fools,” Micru said, his tone eerily, almost hypnotically, flat. “Fools who thought they could buy their way into a place beyond money.”

“I wasn’t interested in going south!” Gria shrilled suddenly. “She made me! She’s the one after money!”

Sela moved, snake-fast, and slapped her daughter hard.

“Be quiet!” she snarled.

Micru smiled. He crossed to the door; opening it, he told the guards, “Remove the older one. Stay with her in another room.”

“No!” Sela shrieked, bracing herself in front of her daughter. Alyea forced herself not to react as two guards wrestled the woman out of the room.

Micru shut the door again.

“Now that your mother isn’t here,” he said as he settled back into his chair, “tell us what you know, girl. It may save both your lives.”

His tone held an offering of hope, not a threat, as though he truly sympathized with the girl and wanted to help her. Astonished, Alyea watched Gria crumble.

“She’s not my mother,” the girl said. Her gaze stayed fixed on a point somewhere past Alyea’s left knee. “Don’t hurt her. I’m the one they want.”

The words threw all the possibilities Alyea had considered into chaos. She opened her mouth to speak, caught Micru’s sharp gesture, and stayed silent.

“I’ve always known I was a foundling,” Gria said, still in that lifeless voice. “It never made any difference. She always treated me as her own. She couldn’t have any of her own, and her husband never produced any bastards, so I was the best….” She stopped, shut her eyes, and swallowed hard.

“Best chance at an heir?” Micru said.

Gria nodded. “My children will be treated as full blood of my adopted father’s line,” she said. “Would have been.” She raised her left hand, looked at the cuff, let it fall back into her lap.

“Did Sela’s husband ever try fathering children on you directly?” Micru said with implacable, emotionless logic.

Gria shook her head, her expression still blank. “When that… that man came, it seemed so good, so wonderful, that we might gain that status… and the s’iopes said it was an honest offer. She’s always trusted the priests. And she… talked me into it. Into going south. I didn’t want to go, I had someone… but they didn’t approve.” Gria opened her eyes, brimming with tears now. “Mama Sela insisted on coming. She knew I’d run away… and they promised she’d be sent back with my first male child. The s’iopes said it was in writing, in the contract, that it was legally enforceable and honest… they said it was truth sworn to under all four gods.” She wiped at her eyes, staring at Alyea appealingly now, ignoring the man in front of her.

“A southern slave trader would hold no bond under a Northern Church oath,” Micru said. “Past the Horn, those oaths and those papers don’t carry the weight of a grain of sand in the deep desert.”

“We found out,” Gria said bitterly, and wiped at her streaming eyes again.

“Why are you the one they want?” Micru said.

“I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t. I just know I’m the one they wanted. I heard Ierie talking with his guards, once, when they thought I was asleep, about killing Mama Sela. They decided I’d be more pliable if she was around.”

Micru hummed to himself softly, his expression troubled. “When and where were you cuffed?” he said at last.

“Just outside Water’s End. Some men appeared. I never saw them before. They were frightening.” She shut her eyes. “They drugged us both, but I didn’t fall asleep. I don’t know why. I wish I had.”

“Frightening,” Micru said patiently. “Why?”

“They looked… cruel. Uncivilized. Some had bright blue tattoos.”

Micru sat up straight, his eyes intent now. “Was it here?” He pointed just below his right collarbone.

Gria opened her eyes to look and nodded.

“Did it look like a swirled star?”

She nodded again, mutely, and Micru stood up. “Keep her close, Alyea,” he said. “Keep her very close. And keep a dagger closer. Stay here. I’ll send more guards.”

“Wait,” Alyea said as Micru turned for the door. “What’s going on? What does the swirled star mark mean?”

“Chacerly’s made a mistake. A very, very big mistake. Don’t trust him any longer.”

“What—”

The door swung shut behind him, cutting off more questions. Moments later, three guards pushed through, their expressions grim, and took up stations around the room.

“What in the hells is going on?” she demanded. They looked at her briefly and didn’t answer.

Alyea stood and walked towards the door; the nearest guard put out a hand in warning, shaking his head. She sat back down, furious and trying to decide who to pin it on: Micru, for abandoning her without answers, or Chac, for apparently creating the situation. She had just about settled on being angry at herself for ever getting into this spot when the door opened again and Chac strode in.

He nodded to the guards and crossed to the bed. Alyea rose; he ignored her, looking down at Gria instead for a long, thoughtful moment.

“I was right,” he said finally, “you should have killed them both. Too late now.”

Alyea pushed between him and the girl.

“You tell me what’s going on!” she said, all the frustrated restlessness of the last several hours flaring into sudden aggression.

He stared at her. For just a moment, his face lit with a rage worthy of a desert lord; then it dissolved into stoniness again.

“We’re leaving,” he said. “It’s not safe here for you now.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have time for your stupid questions,” Chac said. He stepped back and signaled to the guards. “If she doesn’t follow me, knock her out and carry her. Bring the other girl as well.”

The old man strode to the door. Two of the guards moved towards Alyea without hesitation; the third, frowning, said, “Wait… this isn’t what Micru said—”

Chac turned and flung out a hand, almost too fast to follow; something small and dark whipped through the air and buried itself in the doubtful man’s neck. The guard sagged, clawing at his throat, eyes wide and astonished. Before Alyea could do more than open her own mouth in surprise, the remaining guards moved in front of her, blocking her view. She heard gagging noises from behind them, like a man desperately trying to breathe; then a sour smell in her nose took her into darkness.

#

Alyea awoke hot and muzzy, with sweat pooled under her back and legs; she groaned and rolled to her side. Wiping an arm across her face to clear sweat-blurred vision, she propped herself up with her other elbow and looked around.

She lay in a wide, low-ceilinged carriage, on a low bed with thick cushions. A bench seat nearby held a neatly folded pile of clothes. Latticed windows took up most of the walls on three sides; the fourth had a simple latched door.

A tiny, thin, hot breeze wandered through the lattices. Sounds came from outside; people talking, people walking around. The smell drifting through the air set her stomach rumbling, although she couldn’t place the aroma.

She ached all over, stiff and sore as if she’d been bedridden for days, but she wasn’t tied or, as far as she could tell, hurt. But she was incredibly hungry. Alyea sat up slowly, looked down at herself, and added naked to that list.

“There’s a jug with some water by the bed,” a voice said from outside the carriage. “And a cloth, to wipe off the sweat before you get dressed. Clothes on the bench.”

Alyea turned her head, staring through the lattices, feeling suddenly trapped and exposed.

“Don’t worry, northern,” the voice went on. “Nobody can see you, and nobody cares anyway. Hurry up.”

Alyea took a deep breath and reached for the jug.

Cleaning off the worst of the sweat gave her a sense of preparing to face whatever waited outside. The clothes turned out to be a deep-southern style she’d rarely seen in Bright Bay, and one she’d never thought to wear herself: a long silk robe, brightly colored and almost transparently thin, with a wide, braided-silk belt. The front dropped into a deep V; bending over would display everything.

She tried to remember how the women of Water’s End had managed to move in these robes without being immodest, but her attention hadn’t been on that at the time. She suspected she would quickly disgrace herself in this outfit.

“C’mon already, northern,” the voice said.

Alyea shrugged the robe around her shoulders and fastened the inside ties and outer belt. She didn’t see any shoes or slippers; after a moment of looking around helplessly, she went to the door. Half-expecting it to be locked despite the urging to come out, she rattled at the latch tentatively and jerked back when someone tugged it open from outside.

“C’mon already,” the voice repeated. “Food’s ready.”

She stepped forward cautiously, looking around, and saw a short man with dark skin watching her with amusement. His long shirt, cut from a rougher cloth than her robe and a sharp white color, draped like scarecrow clothes against his spare frame; his leggings almost matched the clear blue sky overhead. His bare feet showed noticeable calluses.

“I don’t bite,” he said.

Sand gritted against her feet as she came through the doorway. It shifted and sank underfoot as she walked a few steps away from the carriage. Questions ran through her mind: Where am I? Who are you? What’s going on?

She stayed silent and studied her surroundings. The carriage had no wheels, only long poles to either side; she understood why when, looking to one side, she saw four muscular men sitting under a rough shelter of hide and wood, eating what looked like stew from small wooden bowls. Two more men were busy dousing the small cookfire and disassembling the charred cooking spit.

Sand lay in all directions; great, rolling swells of it, with only a faint haze of mountains to the west to break the monotony. No sign of Chacerly, Micru, Halla, Gria, or Sela. More questions, more worry; she set her teeth lightly in the tip of her tongue to keep from asking. If any of the rules Chac had taught her applied, she would be in debt for the answer; and right now, she couldn’t afford that. Being alive and unhurt might be a debt all in itself, for all she knew.

“Come,” the man said from behind her. “Eat.”

She resisted the pull of her stomach and turned to look at him. His amusement deepened into an actual grin; she let her stare grow into a glare.

It didn’t seem to bother him.

“Eat,” he said again, and made shooing motions with his hands, directing her towards the tent.

Alyea drew a deep breath and walked towards the stew pot. Three small wooden bowls and carved spoons sat on a small tray, and a large ladle hung from the side of the stew pot. She scooped out a bowl of stew, trying, as she moved, to watch the men nearby; they showed no interest in her. They ate silently, staring straight ahead, faces dull and slack.

“Over here,” the small man called. She followed him around the side of the carriage. A thick, coarsely woven mat had been spread on the sand; another, larger one slanted overhead to shade the area.

Alyea settled down on the mat as gracefully as she could and began to eat. A few mouthfuls into the stew, the mild spice taste flared suddenly into an eye-watering heat. Alyea had laughed when northerners choked on food she considered almost bland; now it was her turn to gasp and cough, and her guide’s turn to laugh.

But: “Don’t bite into the cactus peppers,” her unidentified guide said without any hint of laughter, glancing down at her as she sputtered. He unhooked a leather bag from his belt and passed it to her. She stared at it uncertainly.

“Hah, northern, like this.” He took it back, upended it over his mouth, and squeezed; a cloudy liquid squirted into his mouth.

She tried it, managing to get most of the liquid into her mouth, and swallowed through almost pure reflex. The fire of the cactus pepper faded, replaced by a vile sourness; she coughed and almost gagged at the lingering taste.

“What was that?” she said when she could speak again.

“Perroc-s’etta,” the man said. “Cactus milk. Fermented.”

Alyea drew a careful, deep breath, and set the bowl aside. “I’m done, thanks.”

“Finish eating,” the man said, unsmiling now. “You need it. Just don’t bite any of these….” He leaned down, dipped forefinger and thumb into her bowl, and pulled out a long, white strip Alyea had thought to be some sort of potato. “Cactus pepper.” He dropped the pepper in his mouth and chewed with a contented expression.

Alyea shuddered, considered refusing to eat, and decided this man would probably pour it down her throat if he had to; he had that look to him—friendly, to a point, and business after that. If that had been the expression on her own face while questioning Gria and Sela, small surprise the women hadn’t trusted her.

Alyea certainly didn’t trust this man: not with questions, not with answers should he ask any himself. She ate the soup quietly and set the bowl on the ground when she finished.

He picked it up and walked away. She stared out at the heat-bleached landscape before her and, on impulse, went back to her aqeyva lessons. Let thought fade, Ethu had taught her. Let the questions go; fear and anger and worry all become irrelevant. She’d never been very good at it before, but somehow, in the utter, heat-hazed stillness of the desert, it seemed simple. Soon only her breathing registered, rasping in and out of her throat. Even the sweat trickling down her face faded from notice.

At last she took a deep breath and opened her eyes. The small man squatted in front of her, an arm’s length away, an odd expression on his face as he watched her.

Calm, centered, and alert now, she picked up on details she’d missed earlier: the pattern at the edge of his shirt, the calluses on his fingers—and on the edges of his hands. Micru, and some of the other Hidden, had hands like those. A dark tattoo looped around and around his left forearm in a flowing, twined line. She’d seen that mark in an old book, one Chac had saved from the Purge and given to Oruen. This man followed one of the old gods: probably Comos, the god of neutrality.

She met his dark stare without flinching. “Nu-s’e,” she said. “I am su-s’a Alyea.”

He nodded slowly. “Ka,” he said. “I’m honored by the gift of your name. I am Juric, taska. Courier, carrier, guide, and watcher.”

“Ka,” she said. “Thank you for the food and drink.”

He smiled a little and stood, stepping onto the sand without apparent discomfort. Alyea glanced at the thick callus on his feet and stayed put, then looked up at the sky to check the sun. The endless blue sky had shifted into blazing streaks of orange and violet; she’d been in aqeyva trance for hours. No wonder he’d been looking at her like that. She’d never stayed in trance that long before; nobody she knew ever had.

He smiled at the expression on her face. “The desert tends to take time from you,” he said. “Why are you here?”

It had the feel of a formal question, almost a riddle game. She considered, watching the tiny shifts in his face as he returned her gaze; she thought about the tattoo on his forearm and what it implied, and finally said, “Am I here?”

“I am here,” Juric said. “You are here. Why?”

She drew a deep breath, let it out very slowly, and gambled. “Ask the wind.”

A moment of silence hung, while he stared at her; then he smiled again, but it held a dangerous edge this time. “You do not follow Comos.”

“I’ve never been called, no.”

“Alyea,” he said, abruptly dropping out of the formal tones, “do you know why you’re here?”

She stopped herself before she could say: because I’m an idiot, and swallowed.

“No,” she said. “I don’t. I’m ignorant.”

“Ignorant,” he said, “not stupid.”

She stared at him. Had he heard her unspoken words?

He smiled. “I also trained in aqeyva, Alyea. For much longer than you have.”

Alyea tried to smooth her expression to the blandness Juric had shown a few moments ago.

“Not bad,” he said, grinning. “Keep practicing.”

She set her teeth in her tongue to stop the questions she dearly wanted to ask.

He nodded, as if pleased at her continuing silence, and motioned her up and off the mat. She found, to her surprise, that the sand felt warm, but hardly as scorching as she’d expected. Juric lifted the two mats, then rolled them up into one thick bundle with quick, professional movements; his gaze swept the sky and surrounding sands, darting back to his work now and again.

The rolled mats held in one hand, he gestured to the carriage.

“Get in,” he said.

She obeyed without protest, noting in passing that the men had broken down their tent, bundled the poles and fabric into a neat cylinder, and kicked sand over the remnants of the small fire, obscuring it completely. Under the steady evening breeze beginning to flow across the sand, all traces of their passing would be gone within hours.

She shivered, feeling vulnerable and frightened again, and sat on the low bed. After a few moments, Juric followed her in, shut the door behind him, and after tucking the rolled mats under the bench seat, settled on the bench almost across from her. The small space suddenly seemed much smaller, and his dark stare less friendly.

Juric rapped his knuckles on the wall by his head, and the carriage lurched as the men lifted it. The carriage swayed; a low chanting came from outside, cadence time in a foreign tongue. They moved forward, carried on the shoulders of six strong men.

“Machago,” she said in a low voice, glaring at Juric. “You’re a slave-master.”

He shook his head. “Taska. Courier. Carrier. Errand-boy. I’m not their master.”

“They’re slaves.”

“Of course,” he said. “But not bound slaves. They’re working off crimes and debts. Once they work off their due, they’ll be free with no stigma.”

“Crimes,” she repeated, careful to keep it flat and non-questioning.

He smiled, showing even, white teeth. “We don’t have time for the formal games, right now; you’ll incur no debt by asking open questions. Except,” he added, holding up a hand as if she’d jumped to speak, although she’d made no move. “I tell you when you can ask questions, and you have to answer my questions honestly.”

She considered, looking for traps, and finally nodded. “Accepted.”

“Ask,” he said. “Two questions.”

She drew breath, chose carefully from the myriad of worries, and said, “Where is Gria?”

His eyebrows rose, as if he’d expected a different question. “Your ugren slave? With the hask.”

She debated asking what hask meant, but she suspected he meant Chacerly, and she had a more important question in mind.

“Why is Gria so important?” she said instead.

His smile faded. He studied her for a few breaths, that odd look on his face again, and finally said, “The hask underestimated you badly. You’re better off with me. I ask you in return: what do you know of desert Family bloodlines?”

“Everyone’s related,” she said before she could stop herself, and bit her tongue.

His amused look returned.

“True,” he admitted. “Another question: have you heard of the blood trial?”

“I’ve heard the words,” she said, “but I don’t know what they mean.”

“To become a full desert lord, men must go through the blood trials,” Juric said. “Each man’s trials are different, but all must be tested by Callen followers of Comos, of Ishrai, and of Datda, the old gods of the desert. All three Callen must be unanimous in their agreement that the supplicant is worthy to become a desert lord. Not all who apply are accepted to go through the trials, and not all who are accepted survive.”

She waited. He nodded, approving, and went on:

“Different families have different rules on who is allowed to become a desert lord. Sessin will only allow their full-blooded children to attempt the blood trials. Scratha has always been less… particular, but perhaps that is because their matrilineal reckoning ensures the blood will stay in their family in the end.”

He bent and slid open a thin drawer from under the bed. Lifting out a thick tan shawl, he handed it to her and closed the drawer. She draped the wrap around her, only now aware that the temperature had begun to drop rapidly. The sand-colored shawl felt thick and warm; she hugged it tight and said, “Thank you.”

“The Callen take whatever applicants come to them,” he said, ignoring her gratitude. “Once in a while, a supplicant comes who has not been sent by a Family. This is exceptionally rare, but it has happened before. Cafad Scratha was one such exceptional person; his entire Family was slaughtered while he was out on a desert vigil. Nobody remained to back his application, and the other Families, for whatever reason, would not put their names behind his. He opted to take the trials without a sponsoring Family. It was the only way he could become Lord of Scratha Family and remain in possession of his lands.”

His voice came from a gathering shadow as the light faded. Alyea shivered again, tucking the shawl closer around her body. She thought about asking if they could light a candle or hand-lantern, but the dark didn’t seem to bother Juric, and the carriers apparently could see well enough.

“Understand, Scratha Family has always been highly respected as scholars and diplomats,” Juric’s voice went on. “They studied old writings and were always able to smooth over political difficulties. A gathering was considered lacking if a Scratha lord did not attend. They brought families to a peace-table that had glared at each other over drawn daggers for hundreds of years. Their highest achievement was something nobody believed possible: the arranged marriage of Cida Scratha to Lord Evkit of the teyanain.”

“The what!” she said before she could stop herself. “I never heard of that!” And why would I? she thought, annoyed with herself. I didn’t even know the teyanain existed before traveling south. I’m starting to act as though I grew up here; how ridiculous!

“It never happened,” Juric said. She couldn’t tell in the darkness whether he sounded sad or amused. Too much depended on the speaker’s face.

It occurred to her that he couldn’t see her, either. That relaxed her nerves considerably.

“Cida was willful and stubborn,” Juric said. “She ran off with a commoner the night after the announcement of her engagement to Lord Evkit. She destroyed literally years of negotiations and agreements. Her desertion was a mortal insult to Lord Evkit.”

Alyea sat very still, staring at the faint silhouette of Juric’s head.

“The teyanain are very bad people to insult,” Juric said. “Scratha Family found themselves no longer welcome at any of the other Family gatherings. Their allies fell away, leaving Scratha Family open and vulnerable. Scratha guards deserted with no warning. Their food animals fell ill with strange diseases; their wells clogged unexpectedly. One by one, the lords of Scratha abandoned them or died; one changed his allegiance to Darden Family. Another, according to rumor, went south, possibly hoping to find help from the Forbidden Jungles. He was never seen again.”

“They just ran away?” Alyea said, incredulous.

“Desert lords, like all people, have their personalities and quirks and fears,” Juric said. “And it’s a rare human that won’t at least consider jumping from a rapidly sinking ship, especially when there’s a sound and ready vessel at hand to step onto.”

“But if they hadn’t left….”

“If this, if that,” Juric said. “I’m telling you what happened. I’m not saying the lords of Scratha acted very admirably during that time. Do you want to hear the rest?”

“Yes,” Alyea said, putting aside her anger with an effort. “Please, go on.”

“One after another, the desert lords of Scratha left or died,” Juric said. “The wells dried up. The people began to starve. And nobody would send aid. Not a single family. Not even the Aerthraim. It was said the line of Scratha was cursed.”

The carriage rocked and swayed, the hoarse breathing and soft chanting of the men carrying it the only sound.

“And then,” Juric said, “Cafad Scratha went out on his first walkabout, as part of his training to become a desert lord. He returned to find every single member of his family dead and the floors covered in their blood.”

“I’m surprised he survived this long,” she said, then covered her mouth, appalled at her heartless comment.

Juric didn’t seem to mind.

“Scratha is matrilineal,” he reminded her. “Cafad is male. In the long term, he’s meaningless. He’ll never have the authority a woman could gain, no matter how many children he has. He’s gone through the blood trials, and he’s Lord of Scratha, but it’s a house without walls. Nobody’s ever challenged his status: why bother? Desert Family guilt gave him everything he has. Of course, nobody’s ever found Cida Scratha, either; she’s been presumed dead for years.”

Breath caught in her throat as the implications connected in her head.

“Oh, gods,” she said, horrified. “Gria’s the heir to Scratha?”

“Your slave is a foundling,” Juric said, “raised by a northern lordling. She would need a full Scratha lord to speak for her bloodline before that notion could even be hinted at publicly.”

“A foundling the teyanain wanted badly enough to put an ugren cuff on,” she said.

“Questioning the ways of the teyanain,” Juric said, “is a shortcut to a cursed life.”

She let out a long breath and thought about it. “I’ve been blundering about like a horse in a glass shop,” she said.

“True.”

Alyea shook her head, wishing she could read his face, but it remained invisible in the darkness. “Chac should have told me all this,” she said. “Long since, I should have known what you just told me. I would have handled things differently. Why didn’t he tell me?”

Juric made no reply. She heard him shift, and scraping sounds; a moment later, a small lantern flared. He quickly hooded it to allow only a faint leakage of light, then hung it on a long-shafted hook. Alyea watched it sway for a moment, almost hypnotized by the motion, then tore her gaze away and looked back at Juric.

“To be a desert lord, you have to go through the blood trials,” Juric said. “Quiet. Don’t speak. Listen to me. Only the blood trials will give you the authority you need in this situation. The king’s word isn’t good enough here, and your advisors knew that.

“The hask arranged for you to go through the trials, but it’s a farce. He doesn’t think you can do it. He intends you to fail. I believe you can succeed.”

He waited, his shadowed stare fixed intently on her face.

Alyea stared back, frozen, unable to believe what he had just said. She had to take three potentially fatal trials just to serve as king’s proxy at Scratha Fortress? Madness.

Another piece turned over and connected: a full desert lord had to verify Gria’s bloodline. None of the other Families, from the sound of it, would offer such a concession, and Scratha had been banished to the Stone Islands; calling him back could take months.

Furthermore, Juric’s words implied that if Alyea survived the blood trials, she’d be granted more authority on the basis of her gender than Cafad had ever held. The logic of that escaped her, but this wasn’t the time to argue southern customs.

Alyea could name Gria heir to Scratha and annul her slavery. If she survived the blood trials.

“How long do I have to decide?” she said, barely above a whisper.

“The hask bid me bring you to him for your first trial,” he said. “But I am a Callen of Comos, follower of the winds. I answer to myself alone, and my trial is always the first to be given. At your request, I can begin your trials. But once begun, you must continue; you cannot change your mind halfway through.”

She shut her eyes, feeling ill. Events had spun too far from anything she’d expected. Every time she thought she understood, something else knocked her off balance. Juric had said he thought she could do it; did that mean he favored her, or was that a simple assessment without bias either way?

“I’ll do it,” she said at last. “With you to start the trials. Let’s get this over with.”

He lifted a hand and rapped sharply on the side of the carriage. “Then we begin now.”

Chapter Thirteen

Idisio discovered two things over the next several days. The first, and most obvious, was that he hated sea travel. He hated the constant motion, he hated the enclosed spaces, he hated the fact that he couldn’t leave if he wanted to. He hated that if something happened and the monstrous thing sank, he’d be dead because he’d never learned to swim.

He didn’t get seasick, but he couldn’t sleep and his appetite vanished. He couldn’t decide what felt worse: sitting in the tiny cabin they’d been given and staring at swaying walls or sitting out on deck watching the swaying waves. Shortly after they boarded, Scratha handed him a thin sheaf of blank parchment, a pen and inkwell, and a bound book of children’s stories to practice his still-uncertain skills; but the idea of trying to concentrate on writing exercises soon held little appeal.

He couldn’t even vary the monotony by visiting the horses. They’d been left in Sandsplit Village as a “gift” for Yuer. Idisio suspected more politics he didn’t understand had been involved in that gesture.

The second thing he realized was that he missed Riss’s company. She’d been very quiet since that first night at the inn. She could be found out on deck in all sorts of weather, just walking or standing by the rail, staring out at the waves Idisio hated so much. She hadn’t given Idisio more than a distracted wave and a half-hearted smile since they boarded.

And Scratha didn’t seem inclined to talk either. He spent most of his time brooding: standing at the rail himself, staring south and west. His replies to comments or questions remained curt and mostly uninformative; Idisio gave up trying within a day of leaving Sandlaen port.

The sailors, on the other hand, talked. In fact, Idisio sometimes thought they never shut up. One in particular, a brawny man with developing streaks of grey in his bright red hair and a thick coating of freckles everywhere else, seemed to always be singing, talking, or laughing. Sea-songs, old ribald desert tunes, northern hymns, slave work-songs: the man seemed to know every tune ever penned in the kingdom. The second day out, he sang a verse that made Idisio sit up and stare, unable to believe the man’s gall:

There was a king, a lovely king
Who loved a lady fair
He didn’t hold her to himself
But let her spread her wares.

He grinned at Idisio’s shocked stare, and went on to the second verse:

And in the town they said of him
The rot had caught his brain
The lady fair, that spread her wares,
Should not be seen again.

“A little off-key, I think,” the man said, and ambled over to where Idisio sat openmouthed. “At least, by your face.”

“I can’t believe you’re singing that,” Idisio said.

“What, ‘The Lay of Dusty Rose’? You’ve never heard it before?”

“I’ve heard of it,” Idisio said carefully. “But it’s banned, with an execution order on anyone who sings it.”

“Oh, if I only sang allowed songs,” the man said, “I’d have nothing fun to sing about.” He turned away and went back to his work, lifting his voice in another verse, one Idisio hadn’t heard before:

The lady she stayed by her king
(And by all the town as well!)
And when the time came for her end
They rang the great king’s bell.

The king he went quite mad with grief
And screamed out like the crows
For ten days full he mourned his whore
Whose name was Dusty Rose.

“Gods,” Idisio said under his breath. He understood now why the singers he’d heard had never made it past the second verse before being firmly evicted from the area.

The next four verses became increasingly explicit as they told the story of the sorrowing king’s decision to take his lady’s name for his own, and his death, shortly after that, from the “rot” that had killed the original Dusty Rose.

Upon finishing, the sailor turned and bowed in all directions. The others roundly ignored him, although one or two grinned.

“Ah, talent is never appreciated,” he said, coming to stand beside Idisio. “Red.”

“Sorry?” Idisio said, startled.

“Red,” the man repeated. “My nickname. Red. Kinda hard to forget.” He raked a hand through his hair.

“Oh,” Idisio said. “I’m….” Not for the first time, he wished he had a nickname like that. The only tag he’d carried on the streets had been “Lifty”: not a name to introduce oneself to honest people by. “Idisio,” he finished.

“It’s true, y’know,” the man said unexpectedly.

“Sorry?”

“The song. Dressed up a bit, but true at the core. That’s why it’s banned.”

Idisio had grown up hearing the gossip and back-door history of Bright Bay, but that notion had never crossed his ears before. “Really?”

“Really,” Red said with a straight, earnest face, then laughed again. “Don’t take it all so serious, Idisio. You worry yourself into an early grave that way.”

He clapped Idisio on the shoulder and sauntered away, whistling. Within a few steps, he’d broken into another song:

There is a lake, a ghosty lake
Far to the north it lies
And they say should a woman draw near
She gets a big surprise….

The words faded, drowned out by the creaks and pops of a ship under full sail.

“He’s mad,” a voice said from behind Idisio.

Turning, Idisio saw another sailor looking at him from a few feet away.

“Don’t pay him no mind. The more attention he gets, the worse he is. You’re just a new audience for his nonsense.”

“I figured,” Idisio said, feeling vaguely disappointed for some reason. “But….”

“What?”

“Well… is it true? That song?”

The sailor sighed. “That’s the bitch of it. He’s at his craziest when he’s telling truth.”

Red turned out to be the best part of what became too long a voyage. Scratha stayed moody. Riss continued to ignore him. The other sailors, talkative as chatterbirds with each other, gave Idisio only the briefest of noncommittal nods as they went by. Only Red displayed openly friendly behavior. Idisio couldn’t decide whether to take the man seriously or not, but he was always entertaining. When the sailor worked on deck, Idisio usually tried to find a spot nearby.

Red only repeated the song about the “ghosty lake” once. It told of a lake to the north of the Great Forest, populated by strange creatures that seduced innocent women and stole any children that came from the union:

And the king he heard of this
By his pious advisor’s word
“Evil” they named the lake
But truer to so name the priest’s heart….

It wasn’t a funny song; it didn’t have a regular rhythm or rhyme, and it cut closer to the bone than the one about Dusty Rose. The song painted the king as overshadowed by his Northern Church advisors, and a helpless plaything of their malice; Idisio, suspecting the song referred to either Ninnic or Mezarak, had his doubts on that view.

Red didn’t bow for applause afterwards, and Idisio decided against asking for the truth of that song; he didn’t want the answer. He stopped following Red around, afraid of hearing more songs like that. He chose instead to spend his time on deck standing at one of the rails, staring out at the passing view.

To the east, the Kingsea seemed to stretch in an endless sheet of frothed blue and green; to the west rose the Horn. Red sometimes paused beside Idisio, dropping a casual remark or two before moving on again.

“That bump up there,” he said once, pointing over the starboard rail, “that’s a fair-size way-stop. I been through there. Strange people; they’ve been digging the dirt out from around their houses so long, most of ’em look like they’re up on little pillars.”

“Why would they do that?” Idisio asked, mystified.

“To build more houses,” Red told him, and wandered away again.

Idisio squinted up at the distant ridge Red had pointed to, thought about it, and decided the man had been pulling his leg. Nobody could be that foolish.

But in a rare moment of conversation with Scratha, his master confirmed the sailor’s story.

“Brickroot grows thickest up there,” Scratha explained. “It’s a profitable business and the main Horn industry. Most buildings in the outer desert areas are made of some form of brickroot blocks. I know the way-stop he mentioned; they’ve carved their existing soil down to the underlying rock in places. Stupid, really; there’s no replacing the dirt they’re selling. They’ll have to look for another means of income soon.”

Something about that thought prompted Scratha into another brooding fit, and Idisio slunk away without his absence being noticed.

Another time, Idisio stood watching a ship passing to port, some distance away, when Red stopped beside him. The sailor squinted and said, “Merchanter. Look, Idisio: see that flag? Pay attention to those colors. That’s out of Stass; one of merchant Deiq’s ships, carrying sweets and fruit. Man makes a living on it. You ever try suka?”

“Once or twice,” Idisio said. His mouth watered at the recollection.

“What did you have? A stick or a chew?”

“A stick,” Idisio said. The soft candies had been more expensive, and so harder to steal; he’d never tried, more concerned with survival than sweets.

Red rummaged in a worn belt pouch and handed Idisio a small, soft candy wrapped in brightly colored paper. “Here. Try one of these.”

It tasted even better than Idisio remembered. The soft taffy clung to his teeth, giving him a moment’s worry that he’d be scraping it off with a splinter, and then abruptly dissolved into nothing more than a lingering sweetness and a marvelous memory. He rolled his eyes and sighed blissfully. Red grinned and nodded.

“Thank you,” Idisio said fervently when the last scrap of taffy had melted away. “That was wonderful.”

“Wish I had more for you,” Red said, “but I got to save a few for my boy.”

“You have a son?” Idisio said, and tried to think of the usual thing to say next. “Um, how old is he?”

“I’m not sure,” Red said. He turned to stare south with an expression not unlike Scratha’s brooding look. “I just found out about him. Maybe ten, maybe fifteen by now. I don’t know. I lost track of the years, somewhere along the way.”

“Um,” Idisio said, at a loss again.

“Don’t even know for sure he’s mine,” Red said, still staring into the distance. “But he’s got red hair, and that’s not so common in the southlands. Well.” He shook himself, gave Idisio a distracted smile, and moved away.

They passed by the port of Stass that night. Idisio was disappointed when Scratha told him, the next morning, that he had slept through it; he’d been hoping to stretch his legs on land. Scratha had insisted that they all stay below during the stop in Bright Bay, to avoid being seen–a sensible precaution, and Idisio hadn’t argued. But he’d been looking forward to seeing Stass Port, and said as much aloud.

“You didn’t need to wake up,” Scratha said. “I paid the captain extra to provision heavily in Bright Bay so we wouldn’t lose time stopping there. We’re headed for Agyaer.”

Idisio still didn’t understand his master’s driving urgency, unless it was to get off this wobbling monstrosity called a ship. But Scratha still wasn’t talking; every hour they traveled further south, the more he drew into his proud, isolated lordly shell. Idisio, seeing the flickering of madness in the man’s eyes almost constantly now, prudently withdrew and avoided him as much as possible.

Riss took to staying in her cabin, coming up less and less frequently for air. Even Red became curt on occasion, although he always apologized immediately and profusely, and went out of his way to make Idisio laugh again. The other sailors went on ignoring everything, doing their work, gathering in clusters to rest, and dispersing to work again.

Idisio busied himself with reading, writing, and practicing aqeyva meditations. The meditation provided the most relief; he found it possible, even easy, to slip into a trance for hours. Any long stretch of time when he wasn’t aware of the ceaseless swaying around him was perfect as far as he was concerned, and soon he spent more time in trance than out of it.

Even so, the voyage stretched out too long and too lonely. Idisio let out a long breath of deep relief at the cry of “Agyaer!”

The port city sprawled along the coast for miles before the docks came into view. An imposing slope of rock dwarfed the city, which spread mostly across the broken and erratic skirts of that wall. Caravans, mules and people could be seen trudging up a wide stair cut into the cliff. Looking at that steep path, Idisio had a bad feeling that they’d be climbing it themselves soon.

Closer to the ship, tiny coast-hopper boats rowed busily back and forth along the shoreline, laden with everything from huge baskets of fruit to bolts of fine cloth. The sounds of singing and laughter drifted across the water, punctuated with drum beats, rhythmic and arrhythmic all at once. Idisio stood at the starboard rail, entranced.

“Welcome to Agyaer,” Red said, leaning on the rail beside him. His eyes were bright, his expression expectant as a child about to open a gift. “See that, over there? That blue roof? That’s where Yhaine lives. I’d almost forgotten about her. Years ago and more than one bottle, as the saying goes. I’ll be seeing her soon enough, and my son.” He shook his head, eyes fixed on the distant, barely visible roof until it was lost to sight.

“How did you find out?” Idisio ventured, not sure what to say. “About your son, I mean?”

“Ran into an old friend of mine, one I hadn’t seen in years,” Red said, craning as if in one last attempt to see the roof. “I’ve been working Stone Island and Kismo ships out in the Goldensea; more profit to be had, more exciting. But excitement gets old, and so have I. This side of the Horn has nice, easy work, long as you stay on coast runners like this one. I wouldn’t go on one that tacks out over the open water of the Kingsea, not me. What was your question?” He looked back to Idisio, his bright blue eyes puzzled. “I’m sorry. I’ve been losing track of things lately. Can’t seem to stop thinking about Yhaine.”

“You answered it,” Idisio said, trying to smile.

“Oh, good.” Red smiled vaguely, then his expression sharpened. “Idisio—would you… d’you think you could go with me?”

“Ah….” Idisio blinked, taken aback. “Go where?”

“To see Yhaine,” Red said as if it should have been obvious. “I don’t know, I just… I haven’t seen her in so long.” He turned and looked back at the passing town, brooding again. “You don’t have to come to the door with me, just… just walk me there. I’m afraid I won’t make it all the way to her door if I go alone.”

“What do you think will happen to you on the way?” Idisio said, utterly confused. What good could a scrawny boy do against something that could overpower a large man like Red?

“I’m afraid I’ll bolt,” Red said starkly, his hands tight on the rail and his gaze straight ahead. “I’m scared, Idisio. You’ll remind me of what I’m going for. Just you being there will remind me.”

Idisio opened his mouth, shut it again, and swallowed. He wasn’t sure if he’d just been handed a compliment or called a child.

“I don’t know if I can,” he said. “My master’s in a hurry for some reason.”

“I’ll have a word with him,” Red said with sudden determination, and turned on his heel, almost sprinting away before Idisio could say a word to hold him back.

“Oh, no,” Idisio said, and ran after him.

#

The desert lord’s stare seemed to bore into the sailor; Red endured the examination with stubborn determination.

“You’re telling the truth,” Scratha said finally. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes, my lord,” Red said, voice shaky. “I wouldn’t dare lie to a desert lord, my lord.”

“Don’t let him get hurt,” Scratha said.

“No, my lord. I won’t, my lord.”

Scratha glanced to Idisio. “Do you want to go with him?”

Idisio opened his mouth, not sure how to reply, and was astonished by the strong “Yes, my lord!” that emerged.

Scratha stared at Idisio for a long, narrow-eyed moment, then nodded. “I have arrangements to make anyway. It’ll take time, and we’ll have to lodge here tonight. I’ll be taking two rooms at the Silver Sands Inn; come back there when you’re done.”

He even gave Idisio a half-round of gold to spend as he liked.

“Wages,” Scratha said in response to Idisio’s incredulous stare, “and rather overdue.”

Idisio barely had time to stammer thanks before Red grabbed him by the arm and hustled him off the boat.

“Good man, your master,” Red said. He seemed hardly aware of what he was saying. “Lord, I mean. Desert lord. Sorry about that.”

He switched abruptly into an explanation of how the houses they passed had been built, then rattled on feverishly for several blocks, seizing topics apparently at random. At last, he fell silent, released Idisio’s arm and slowed to a more casual walk. His eyes looked a bit wild and his breath came in unsteady gulps; after a few more steps he stopped.

“I can’t do it, Idisio. I can’t. It’s been too long. He’s got to be at least ten by now. Older. Maybe even fifteen. I’ve never been good with time. Gods, I can’t do this. They won’t thank me for interfering now. I’m mad to be thinking of doing this.”

He turned on his heel as if to retreat; Idisio grabbed him by the arm and said, without thinking, “Red, I’d love my father to come find me!”

Red froze, staring down at Idisio. “You never knew your father?”

“No,” Idisio said. “I grew up on the streets of Bright Bay as an orphan.” He looked away from Red’s horrified gaze, feeling intensely embarrassed at the admission. He hadn’t intended to say it; hadn’t even known he felt that way. He’d meant to say something encouraging to bolster the man’s resolve, not expose an old hurt he’d thought long ago healed over.

“Oh, gods, Idisio, I’m sorry,” Red said. “I had no idea. I wouldn’t have asked… you must think me completely heartless.”

“No,” Idisio said, trying to smile. “I think you’re great. Just don’t run away. That’s why you brought me, right? To keep you from running away?”

Red stared at him for another moment, then nodded sharply and turned back around. “Let’s go,” he said, and strode forward.

Chapter Fourteen

The slaves settled in a silent circle, their attention fixed on the ground in front of them. Juric guided Alyea to the opposite side of the carrier, away from their view. He spread the mat on the ground and motioned her to stand on it.

“Take off your clothes, and sit,” he said, stepping back several paces. He sank to the ground himself, sat cross-legged, and stared at her with a challenging gaze clear even under the faint light from stars and waning moon.

She drew a shivering breath, uncertain. Would she fail the trial if she refused? Or would obeying be a failure? Was the test to see if she blindly obeyed a strong voice or used her wits to choose her own path? Would Juric kill her the moment she failed? She had a feeling she’d never see the death blow coming.

So much rested on her sketchy memories of what the deep south believed; she wished she’d spent more time reading with Oruen about that. It had never interested her very much. What had that old book said? Comos represented neutrality. The god of the winds, the god of balance, everyone stood transparent before him… and transparent could be translated, loosely, as ‘naked.’

She stripped off the loose robe and sat, fervently hoping she’d remembered it right. A light breeze feathered against her skin, chilling her instantly; she shivered and hoped even more strongly this wouldn’t take long.

“You called on Comos earlier without knowledge,” Juric said. “I forgive the ignorance. You did not know me as Callen. Never call on a god blindly. They will answer, and mortals often regret their reply; and the followers of a god can be less gracious yet.”

She bowed her head, not sure what to say.

“If you had to choose between your two ugren slaves,” Juric said, “which would you give life, and which sentence to die?”

Alyea knew this game. She’d heard Chac drill Oruen with questions like this, day after day.

She slowed her breathing and focused, centering herself to speak from the calmest, most objective place possible. That had been Chac’s first lesson: politics demand that you decide from the mind, not the heart, and that mind must be perfectly still. But did Juric look for the same answer Chac would have wanted?

“Gria to live,” she said at last.

“Why?”

“The death of Sela would cause lesser ripples,” Alyea said, choosing her words with care.

“How do you know?”

Another question Chac had made Oruen answer countless times.

“I only know what I see,” she said. “What I see tells me Gria has more power to change the world around her than Sela.”

“Is that a reason for Gria to live, or to die?”

Alyea hesitated. Chac had never asked that question.

“To live,” she said at last.

“Because she has power? You would kill those without power, then?”

Although Juric’s voice remained completely emotionless, Alyea had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach now. He’d maneuvered her into a trap, and she didn’t know the way out.

“That isn’t what I meant,” she said at last.

“When you follow the words of another instead of your own wisdom,” Juric said, “you often speak other than you mean. Try again, Alyea, without the crutch of the hask’s teachings this time. I will give you a second chance, which others would not. Which of your slaves would you sentence to die, if you had to choose?”

What she said next surprised her. Words bubbled up as if freed from a long-sealed vault: “I would ask them to choose. It’s their lives, not mine; why should I decide their fate?”

A long silence hung between them.

“Always use your own wisdom,” Juric said at last. “If you die from it, at least you die with honesty in your mouth. If I asked you to mark for death one of the slaves that carried us here, what would be your answer?”

“It would depend on the reason for the death.”

“Why?”

“If it was a madman’s whim, with no just cause, I would refuse,” she said. “I would protect the slaves as best I could. If the reason was good, I would ask first for the slaves to choose, and pick only if I had to, and as blindly as I could.”

“You lived under a madman who took your slaves from you. Is this how you acted then?”

She licked suddenly dry lips and sat very still. How had he known that? A chill ran down her spine. “No. I was afraid.”

“Is fear a reason to allow another to die that you may live?”

Tears dripped from her chin onto her bare chest; the moisture slid slowly around the curve of her breasts, leaving a damp trail that chilled her further.

“No,” she said. “It’s not a good reason.”

“Reason,” Juric said, “is not good. It is not bad. It is what it is. Fear is a reason, anger is a reason, love is a reason. Good or bad does not attach. That is the way of Comos, to see the truth of what is. Aqeyva comes from Comos, and it is a powerful tool. Masters of aqeyva can hear the wind, which circles the world and knows everything that has ever happened and will ever be. With that understanding, it is impossible to judge right or wrong, good or bad.”

Alyea listened, frowning at the dimly lit figure in front of her. “Even Ninnic? Even Mezarak and Pieas?”

“What you see as a monster,” Juric said, “is the least part of a man. The slaves that carry you are named comisti; they have been convicted of crimes ranging from theft to rape. They appealed to Comos, and were granted the following terms: they are sworn to silence. They will not look at nor speak to anyone but their master. They will be worked hard and relentlessly for all the days of their sentence. At the end of their service, some comisti find themselves called to the service of a god; others go on about their lives. But whatever their choice, their debt is paid, their crimes forgotten as if they never happened. The only sign they bear of their service is a small, easily hidden brand. That is the justice of Comos.”

“And if they repeat the crime, or commit another?” Alyea asked.

“If a comisti appeals a second time to Comos, they receive the same terms as before, with one difference: this time, when their service is up, they will be granted an honorable death. There will be no dishonor to their family or bloodline.”

Juric held up a hand to stop Alyea as she began to speak again. “Enough questions. I have another for you; if the choice was between the two of us, that one must die, what would your answer be?”

The words remained as emotionless as before, but the hair rose on the back of her neck. She thought back over everything that had been said. Her breathing steadied and slowed as she considered, and she found herself slipping into a light trance. She allowed it, deciding it couldn’t hurt to have more clarity of mind. As her pulse settled, she found herself on a mental high ledge of sorts, looking down at the question from a distance.

Did she deserve to live? What had she done that made her life of value?

Her faults, her mistakes, from childhood on, paraded in stately logic before her. She’d failed, not once, but many times; she hadn’t protected her servants, hadn’t listened to the people around her, hadn’t lived her values at all. She’d believed herself special, all her life, better than a commoner because of her blood; later, she’d thought herself better than the court because she’d been seduced by a man who later became king.

Not easy to look at, even from a distance. She could feel tears rolling down her face and dripping onto her chest again, steady as her pulse. Many of the thoughts that appeared she’d never consciously been aware of before; but she could see now that her life had been filled with selfish, fear-driven motives.

She turned her attention to what she had done well, and another series of past decisions unrolled in front of her. She’d tried, to the best of her abilities and knowledge, to do right; and how could sacrificing her life help anyone? Ignorance and arrogance had influenced her life, but not ruled it; bright spots offset the painful memories. She’d found the courage to dismiss all her servants rather than risk losing any more to royal mishandling. She’d stepped in front of Chacerly to save a pair of obscure northern women. She’d had many discussions with Oruen, before and after he took the throne, about the standard beliefs about women and what she wished could change. Some of the changes he’d started had come from their long talks.

She’d done poorly, and she’d done well.

And Juric likely felt the same way about his life. Did he have more or less worth than she did? Should he die for her to live? Should she die so that he could live? The breeze stirred her hair, drew her attention away from her thoughts, pulled her into feeling every shift and whisper against her skin.

She opened her eyes, the answer clear in her mind at last, and found Juric watching her, his head cocked slightly to one side.

“I do not have the wisdom to choose between our lives,” she said steadily, “and would ask the wind to decide.”

He stood, motioning her to rise; she obeyed, stood unafraid and naked in front of him, waiting for his decision.

“The test of Comos is the test of the self,” Juric said. “It is a test of the ego, to see if you can set your own wants aside for the larger good. You cannot be a desert lord if you put your own fears before the good of those you rule and protect. You cannot be a leader if you listen only to yourself. You must recognize when you are too close to make a decision, and allow another to step in. The desert is harsh, and life is not fair; a cowardly or arrogant leader would cause many deaths. That is why a full desert lord must have the approval of Comos.”

He paused. She trusted her instincts and stayed quiet.

“You pass the test,” he said at last. “You may bear the mark of Comos. Come here.” As she approached, he drew a small glass box from a pouch at his waist. “Turn. Hold still.”

He smeared a cold paste on her mid-back, in a precise pattern no larger than the palm of her hand. A breath later, the cold turned to fire, and she screamed without intending to, dropping to her knees. His hands locked around her wrists, and she realized she’d been trying to claw at her back to get the stuff off.

“Quiet,” he said in her ear.

She gasped and forced herself to a muted whimpering, and finally to silence, but couldn’t stop the tears or the trembling. Dimly, she sensed that Juric had released her hands; she bent forward, crouched like an animal on the ground, and tried to breathe through the scorching agony. Her breath came out in uncontrollable hoarse gasps.

Seconds or minutes or hours later, she felt pressure and a coolness as Juric smeared another, thicker paste over the first. The fire cooled, as if doused by ice water, and abruptly the trembling shifted to shivering. Her muscles began to loosen from their pain-locked tension; then the stars went out and darkness graciously took away sensation.

#

Alyea woke to darkness and the feel of a thick dressing on her mid-back. She’d been laid on her stomach. She lay quietly for a while, examining her memories; she must have fainted from the exhaustion of enduring that much pain. She’d seen people do that before, and they generally woke stiff and cramped, almost unable to move.

She stayed still, blinking, letting the sway of the carriage soothe her frayed nerves. She could feel Juric nearby, hear his breathing. If he had the aqeyva training he claimed, he knew she’d woken, but he said nothing. Letting her think, maybe, or waiting to see what she would do now, or possibly in trance himself. From the even serenity of his breathing, she guessed the last to be most likely.

Finally she risked movement. A finger first, twitching experimentally, then the hand, bending the elbow, and finally shifting the whole arm slowly to one side. No pain, no stiffness. She moved the other one similarly, took a chance and propped herself up on her elbows; nothing twinged. The dressing shifted with her, with no feeling of cracking or sliding off.

“Wait,” Juric said then, and partially unhooded the lantern again. He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Pain?”

“No.”

“Lay flat again, and hold still.”

She couldn’t help tensing as she settled back down, expecting him to rip the dressing off her back along with a layer of skin.

His hands patted the dressing lightly here and there, as if testing. He made a clucking, satisfied-sounding noise, worked his fingers under the edges, and slowly rolled the mass up. It didn’t hurt; rather, it felt as if a layer of wet cloth had just been removed.

“Done,” he said.

Propping herself up, she saw a bundle of fabric in his hands: mottled with an evil, greenish yellow ooze and interspersed with flecks of thick white, like rotted milk.

“The fire of Comos,” Juric said, holding it up, “removes many evil things from your body. Your first purification is complete.” He dropped the mess into a leather bag, peeled off thick black gloves, and dropped them into the bag too. Tying the bag tightly shut, he pushed it to one side and sat back. “Hungry?”

Even after seeing that revolting mess, her stomach growled at the word. She sat up the rest of the way, shifting into a cross-legged posture without conscious thought. He smiled and handed her a spoon and a bowl of the same stew she’d eaten the day before.

“I removed the cactus peppers,” he said. “Eat safely.”

She ate the cold stew, watching him steadily as she chewed. He sat quietly, eyes closed, indifferent to her intent regard.

“Where to now?” she said when she finished, and held out the bowl. He took it without opening his eyes and set it on the bench beside him.

“The trial of Ishrai,” he said. “We’ll be there by morning. Sleep.”

“Will Chac be there?”

“No. He waits at the trial of Datda.”

“Where are my slaves, and my servant Halla?”

“I already told you that,” he said. “They are all with the hask, and safe.”

“Chac wanted to kill Sela and Gria,” Alyea said, unable to resist pushing a bit more. “If they’re with him, how can they be safe?”

Juric opened his eyes and smiled at her.

“They are safe,” he repeated, then doused the lantern. She heard him sliding the panels near him open, and a chill breeze filtered in through the latticed windows.

“He will not harm them. Sleep.”

She twisted her lips in a silent snarl, then sighed. He clearly had no intention of telling her anything else; but his advice made sense. She didn’t have anything else to do, and her head still felt thick with exhaustion. As she stretched back out, he draped a thick blanket over her. It occurred to her then that she still didn’t have any clothes on. For some reason, that didn’t bother her at all.

#

Dawn had just begun to streak pale colors across the dark sky when they came to a halt. Unable to sleep, Alyea had finally taken refuge in an aqeyva trance. The shift in movement shook her out of the meditation; she opened her eyes and looked at Juric.

He leaned forward and laid her robe across the foot of the bed, then stood.

“Dress and come out when you’re ready, ka-s’a Alyea,” he said. He offered her a deep bow, an odd maneuver in such a cramped space, before leaving.

She took a deep breath, reaching for the calm from the aqeyva trance, but it had shattered beyond recovery. Her whole body seemed filled with a buzzing tension: not quite anxiety, not quite expectancy. She’d passed one test; would she pass another, and one more after that?

She pushed the blankets aside and slipped the robe over her head. Juric had called her ka-s’a: honored lady. It meant progress: she’d earned status in his eyes at least. She held to that thought as she stepped out of the carriage.

Juric and the comisti were nowhere in sight. A chunky spire of worn rock towered before her, easily two hundred feet high and almost that wide. Two tunnel openings were visible from where Alyea stood; one seemed hardly large enough for a child to crawl through, while the other stood wider and taller than a large man’s reach.

A woman stood in the wider tunnel mouth, watching Alyea. She looked to be shorter than Alyea, unless distance deceived, and considerably rounder. She wore a robe of either deep green or black; hard to say in the still-dim light. When she saw Alyea looking at her, she lifted a hand in an unmistakable beckoning motion.

Alyea stopped an arm’s length from the plump woman. Up close, the robe color proved a deep, rich green. Probably past childbearing age, the woman had dark hair marked with the distinctive iron grey streaks of an aging deep southerner, and her angular face held a network of thin lines. She studied Alyea with dark, lively eyes; after a moment, her sober expression split into a wide smile.

“Welcome to the Qisani,” she said in a thicker, more musical accent than Alyea had ever heard before. “Please follow to me.” She started walking away as Alyea puzzled out what had been said.

Alyea hurried after the woman, catching up in a few swift strides.

“No need to run. I do not move so fast. You could take nap and still catch up.” The woman laughed, the sound bouncing rich and full from the curved stone walls around them.

Alyea slowed her pace and looked around as they walked. Just past the entrance, the tunnel took a sharp turn to the right and narrowed briefly. Sturdy doors leaned loose against the wall before the turn. They looked just the right size to wedge into the tunnel as a barrier; Alyea remembered tales of skin-shredding sandstorms in the deep desert and shivered.

The walls around them held few tool marks, as if mostly blasted through by years of sandstorms. Alyea glanced back over her shoulder, wondering how often the storms came.

Lamps were set every few feet. Alyea paused briefly to examine one: it seemed a simple oil lamp, a rough, lumpy glass globe set in a sturdy iron bracket; but bright green liquid showed inside, and the flame burned whiter than any she had ever seen.

She put her question about that aside with all the others; one day, she promised herself, she’d sit down with a native and twist his arm as hard as she could until she had everything answered.

Ahead, the passage opened into a wide room. Alyea followed her guide into the room and stared, mouth open in unabashed shock. A deep pool of water filled most of the room. Trays of plants floated at the edges, supported by some sort of inflated bags. Alyea recognized some of the herbs, but most of the plants were foreign to her. More than one bore brightly colored flowers. Wide stone benches lined the walls of the room, some with thick, colorful cushions on them. The room felt warm and humid, and seemed empty of other people.

Light without a source filled the room; looking up, Alyea noticed several slanted openings in the ceiling and the gleam of mirrors high above. That had to be Sessin’s craft; she’d heard of such things in tales of what the palace had once been. The s’iopes had long ago made sure to smash all such “demon-spawned” things in Bright Bay beyond recovery.

Some people had said, very quietly, that “demon-spawned” meant anything Wezel or his priests did not understand.

Alyea took another long look at the room, marveling, before focusing her attention on the woman.

“This is the ishell,” the woman said, looking around with a satisfied air. “Do you need to empty your bladder?”

“Yes,” Alyea said.

The woman pointed to the opposite side of the room and politely turned her back. Alyea moved around the edge of the pool and found a chamber pot that seemed to have been carved from solid rock. She lifted the heavy lid carefully, holding her breath against the expected stench; but the pot looked as clean as if it had never been used. A large pile of clean moss, beside the pot, had an obvious purpose. When she finished, she set the lid back on the pot and walked back to join the woman.

“Refresh yourself,” the woman said, indicating the pool of water.

Alyea hesitated. This didn’t seem like a common bathing room, somehow; it felt like a place for sacred ceremonies, with chanting, drumming and prayer. Dunking her whole body in seemed disrespectful. She settled for kneeling at the edge and dipping her hands in, with a silent moment of gratitude for the presence of so much water in such a dry place. She wiped her damp hands over her face and stood, turning to face her guide again.

The woman nodded, seeming pleased. “You are cautious. That’s good. Water is to honor. Even the water you passed will be used for curing lizard skins. Nothing is wasted here.”

She seemed to expect a reply, but Alyea couldn’t think of one.

“Come,” the woman said after waiting a few moments, and turned to leave the room. Alyea followed her, increasingly confused; had she failed the test already?

Her guide turned down a side passage that Alyea hadn’t noticed before, probably because it slanted sharply back towards the entrance. This passage also led steeply down; rough ridges had been carved in the floor to improve footing. The lamps they passed sat in deep alcoves and gave off a more muted light than the ones by the main entrance.

No other passages seemed to branch from this tunnel, but Alyea stayed too busy watching her balance and footing to look around. At last the slope leveled out, and the tunnel widened into a cavern: man-made this time, with smoothed-over chisel marks all over the walls.

A large, curved table took up half of the room, with matching benches arranged on either side. Four women in plain white linen robes sat on the benches, eating what looked like stew from small bowls. A large black pot, identical to the one Juric’s slaves had used, sat to one side, supported on a thick metal tripod over a small fire pit. Only faintly glimmering coals remained beneath, but steam still rose from inside the pot.

“Sit,” the plump woman said. “I will get you food.”

Alyea thought about refusing; she’d had enough of the spicy stew already. But it seemed rude, and she might need the nourishment, so she nodded and sat down near the other four women. She picked a spot carefully, not too close to be intrusive, not so far away as to seem unsociable; they looked up at her, offered bright, friendly smiles, and went back to eating without a word.

“They are under vow of silence,” the plump woman said, returning with a bowl and wooden spoon. She set them on the table in front of Alyea and moved to sit across from her, exchanging nods and smiles with the others.

“Why?” Alyea asked, hoping it wasn’t a rude question, and prodded at the stew with her spoon. She couldn’t see any cactus peppers, and the stew looked and smelled different than Juric’s had; she risked a bite.

It tasted creamy rather than sharp, the vegetables soft and the broth thick. Not long ago she would have thought it bland; now she thanked the gods it didn’t have cactus pepper in it.

“They have taken shelter with Ishrai for crimes,” the woman said readily. “They do not speak until they fill term of service.”

Alyea shifted uncomfortably. It seemed tactless to speak about the women as if they weren’t there, but none of them seemed the least bit offended.

“It is all right,” the woman said, catching her discomfort. “They would say to you themselves, but they are not allowed. Ask me, ask anything.”

“Juric told me about the comisti,” Alyea said. “I assume this is fairly similar.”

“In many ways, yes,” the woman said. “These women are called ishraidain, and they serve the Qisani until released.”

Alyea sorted through questions carefully. Whether this conversation served as a test or just a friendly chat, she didn’t think she’d be granted unlimited time for questions. Each one had to count.

“What is the Qisani?” she said at last.

“This,” the woman said with a broad sweep of one thick arm. “This marvelous, wonderful place. Aerthraim dug out many rooms for us, Sessin gave us glass lamps and oils, F’Heing and Darden have given herbs and plants. All Families, even lesser ones, donated something. All Families support, tithe every year, keep us sustained. This rock has always been sacred place. Conclave gave it to Callen of Ishrai as haven, long time ago, many years ago.”

After Juric’s silence, this woman almost overwhelmed Alyea’s tight nerves.

The woman sat smiling at her contentedly, completely at ease, and said, “I am sorry I do not introduce myself or ask your name. I know to you northerns that is rude. We do not use names here. Only ishai-s’a is allowed to use names. She will be here soon.”

Alyea took that to mean the woman in front of her wasn’t the Callen who would be testing her. Her tension eased sharply, and she turned her attention to the remaining stew with far more appetite.

“It is good to see someone enjoying stew so much,” the woman said. “We have it almost every day, and so it becomes dull.”

“I’ll take anything without cactus peppers in it right now,” Alyea said.

“Oh….” The woman looked dismayed, then puzzled. “But it does have cactus peppers.”

Alyea stopped eating immediately and poked with the spoon through her bowl again, searching. “I don’t see any.”

“We chop up fine,” the woman said. “Oh, I understand. Your comii-taska is from Shakai region. They cut cactus peppers in strips, and leave inner membrane on. That is where heat lives.”

Alyea nodded, relieved. “Thank you. I was in tears when I bit into one of those strips, but he just dropped one in his mouth and ate it like it was nothing.”

“Shakain do not think a meal is good unless they burn their mouths,” the woman said. “And they actually like perocce water.” She shuddered. “Tastes very bad. Most people do not drink it unless they have to.”

“He had something he called perroc-s’etta,” she said. “Is that….”

Stifled giggles stopped her question. The women around the table stared at her, smothering their amusement behind their hands. The youngest of them turned bright red. The guide rattled off something in the desert tongue to the women, and they dropped their hands and turned their attention back to their food, looking rebuked.

“Do not say that in public,” the guide said, returning her attention to Alyea. “Is crude, is rude word. Let me think how it would translate for you.” She thought for a moment, then said, “Perroc is cactus; s’etta is male… fluid. Do you understand?”

Her stomach lurched. “Yes,” she said, swallowing hard. “Unfortunately, I do.”

The guide looked surprised for a moment, then shook her head violently. “No, no,” she said, looking frustrated. “It is only from a cactus, but the Shakain name translates that way. There is not anything mixed in.” She made a face, as if disgusted at the thought.

Alyea breathed a sigh of relief. “Why do they call it that?”

“The Shakain are very male,” her guide said. “They celebrate men, do you understand? Everything men. Very unusual for a Shakain to take the path of Comos. Comos is not male, is not female. Callen of Comos must to be… neutral. Not sex. Not….”

She grimaced and made a motion with one hand like scissors opening and closing. “Do you see?”

Alyea stared at the woman, horror-struck. “They have to be castrated?”

“Yes, yes, that is the word,” the woman said, cheerful again.

“Women too?”

“No, no,” the woman said, waving her hands. “Women understand balance better than men. But they have to be past the time of blood to go out in the world. Younger women stay with their, with their….” She grimaced, shaking her head. “I cannot translate it.”

“With their teacher and community,” a new voice said from behind them.

“Yes,” the woman said, and bowed her head. “My thanks, ishai-s’a.”

“And mine to you. S’a Alyea, if you would come with me?”

Alyea stood, studying the woman who had just entered the room.

The ishai-s’a stood easily a foot taller than Alyea. A thick braid of dark hair, pulled forward over her left shoulder, reached to her stomach. Her face had the angularity of an old desert line, but Alyea couldn’t place which one. In contrast to the guide, this woman looked as if she didn’t have any extra fat on her body, other than in the generous curves that her thin robe did absolutely nothing to conceal.

Alyea remembered a Bright Bay saying: A woman to make a eunuch cry. This woman, without making a single seductive movement, fit that description perfectly. Alyea wondered if that was why she stayed hidden away in the middle of nowhere: surrounded, presumably, only by women.

The tall woman waited patiently, smiling; Alyea realized she’d been staring. “My apologies, ishai-s’a,” she murmured hastily, dropping her gaze. She could feel a flush starting to climb across her face.

She heard a series of choked noises from behind her that could have been laughter.

“No, s’a Alyea,” the tall woman said, “you have not earned the right to call me that yet.” Her dark stare moved past Alyea to the table beyond. The sounds from the other women stopped short.

“Gods,” Alyea said under her breath. She felt fumbling and hopeless, afraid to even speak now. “I’m sorry.”

“You only repeated what you heard, and that was a word you should not have heard yet,” the tall woman said, still staring past Alyea at the now-quiet women. “You will learn. Come with me.”

She led Alyea back to the ishell and motioned her to sit on one of the benches. Eyeing the stone surface, Alyea chose one with a cushion. The woman drew a curtain across the doorway; it looked like hundreds of rough glass beads, strung on individual lines, and settled in place with a gentle chinkling noise, swaying slowly for some time.

The tall woman moved to sit beside Alyea, turning herself sideways, and sat cross-legged; Alyea copied the movement, careful to keep space between so their knees didn’t touch. The woman’s presence was close to overwhelming; not sexual, exactly, but powerful. Alyea felt as if she sat within reach of a blazing fire that produced all the impact of heat without burning her flesh.

“You may call me ka-s’a-ishrait. That translates to ‘honored Callen woman of Ishrai,’” the woman said. “If that is too long, simply ‘ishrait’ will serve.” She smiled. “The other term means ‘sister under Ishrai.’ It should not have been said in your presence; you do not bear our mark. If you pass your blood trial, you may use that term; not before.”

“I’m sorry,” Alyea said again.

The ishrait shook her head. “Apologize once. If your words are not accepted the first time, they will never be accepted. It is a weakness to apologize many times.”

Alyea nodded.

The woman studied her for a moment, seeming to deliberate, then said, “You are a problem, s’a Alyea. Do you understand that? No. I can see you don’t.” She sighed. “The blood trials are not a short process. The trial for Comos alone can take weeks to months; you went through it in less than two days. The trial of Ishrai should take a full year and should come last. You will be given less than a week. You are being given very short trials, and out of proper order.”

Alyea picked a question carefully. “Why have the trials been shortened for me?”

“Politics,” the ishrait said. “You are, as I understand it, in a unique position: King’s Emissary, proxy holder to Scratha lands, and sent with a hask and a sheth-hinn as advisor and protector. You own two ugren slaves, one of whom may upset a very delicate balance in the southlands. You’re under the protection of a thass, but the teyanain are hunting you in defiance of that protection.”

“Pardon, ishrait,” Alyea said, “I don’t know most of those terms. I can’t fully understand what you’re saying.”

“Sheth-hinn is an assassin,” the ishrait said.

That had to be Micru. “What about—”

“Thass,” the woman said, cutting her off, “is a person with great status, beyond even noble rank. It is not your king,” she added, seeing the expression on Alyea’s face. “Your king has little status in the southlands. I have been asked not to tell you the name of your thass just yet.”

Alyea reflexively began sorting through names that might suit. Chac? But Juric had spoken of him with utter contempt. Or had it been Chac Juric referred to, after all? What if one of her guards was actually the mysterious hask?

The ishrait smiled, as though sensing Alyea’s confusion, then went on, “When your thass asked to bring you here to be tested, it alarmed me deeply. The involvement of the teyanain only makes matters worse. You put us all in danger, s’a Alyea. This is not a good place for you to be.” She glanced at the pool with a frown and seemed to hold herself back from saying more.

Alyea shook her head slowly, then stopped, afraid the ishrait would see it as rejection. A question finally came clear, and Alyea worded it with care: “Will shorter tests be open to political challenges?”

The ishrait sighed. “No,” she said. “That’s part of my concern, s’a. The reason the tests take so long is that they involve instruction to prepare the supplicant for the trial. You are having the trials without any preparation. You cannot imagine how dangerous that is, especially for the trial of Ishrai. I am astounded that Juric granted you the mark of Comos. I know Juric; he would not have granted you more than one mistake. Most supplicants are given three, even after months of preparation, but Juric is a very hard man.”

Alyea felt a sharp chill run down her spine. “He told me that by giving me a second chance he was giving more than most Callen,” she said.

“Were those his exact words?”

Alyea thought back. “’I will give you a second chance, which others would not.’ ”

“Callen are allowed to lie during the blood trials,” the ishrait said. “But he must like you. He only twisted his words. It would have been kinder for him to say ‘I will only grant you one mistake, where most give three; be warned.’ But that is not Juric’s way, especially with a woman. He has served Comos for many years, and he does try to be fair, but he was raised Shakain and has not totally lost that bias.”

“Or his love for cactus peppers?”

The ishrait’s smile returned. “Every time I see him, we hold a contest to see who can eat the most cactus pepper before reaching for tea. I am not Shakain, but I come from a village near the Haunted Lands, and their spices are far bolder than in Shakai. Juric was not always a Callen, and neither was I; we traveled together for many years, and he still comes by whenever he can. It is very likely he volunteered to test you so that he could come see me.”

“I thought….” Alyea started, then bit her tongue.

The woman seemed to understand. “Eunuch? Of course,” she said. “But that does not stop a friendship, does it?”

“I’m sorry, ishrait,” Alyea said. “That was rude.”

“It’s a common reaction from northerns,” the ishrait said. “We believe the choice to give up that part of life is a powerful decision. Anyone strong enough to do that, for whatever reason, should be respected and honored, not mocked as a weakling as northerns do.”

Alyea thought of the fat, sour old eunuchs she’d seen in the courts all her life, and the spare, vibrant energy of Juric, and had to agree a vast difference lay between the two.

The ishrait drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, closing her eyes while she exhaled. “S’a Alyea, Juric no doubt told you that once you begin the blood trials, you cannot stop. That was truth. I should not tell you this, because the decision should come from the soul, not the mind, but there are two exceptions he would not have mentioned. One, you may break from the trials by swearing service to one of the three gods as a Callen. Callen renounce all claims in the world; family, status, bloodline, political power… slaves… lovers. We are removed from all debts and dishonors, and nobody can lay hand on us for past actions. Once we go into the world again, of course, we are held accountable for actions from that point on; but anything prior to the oath is gone as if it never happened. Not even the teyanain would dare breach that beginning neutrality.”

Acana paused, watching Alyea’s face closely, then went on, “The other option is to volunteer to participate in another supplicant’s blood trial. That is considered a holy service and frees the volunteer from all previous commitments and challenges, wiping your past clean just like the first option. But the decision to accept a volunteer rests with the Callen administering the trial, and you may only volunteer once in your entire life; so if the Callen rejects your offered service you cannot try elsewhere. I do not recommend you take that option. But it is your life, and your choice. I cannot advise you further on the matter.”

The ishrait dropped her gaze to her linked hands, a faint crease across her forehead, and waited for a reply.

Alyea considered, looking at the issue from as many angles as she could think of. Distilled to bluntness, what the woman had said was: You’re racing against death. I don’t think you’re going to win. Here’s a way out.

Juric’s words came back to her: The test of Comos is a test to see if you can set your own welfare aside for the larger good. What would happen to Halla, Sela, and Gria if she abandoned her responsibility to them because she feared for her own life? What about the trust placed in her by the king? What would happen to Scratha Fortress and lands, if the representative sent to hold them walked away from that position?

“I thank you, ishrait,” Alyea said finally, “but I won’t do that. I won’t turn away from the people that are looking to me to carry this through. I won’t turn away from myself. If I die through the trials or through the teyanain, at least I’ll die with honor.”

The ishrait looked up again, a broad smile appearing. “Now I do believe you passed Juric’s test without flinching,” she said. “I will allow you to take the blood trial of Ishrai.”

Alyea hadn’t expected that; but looking back over what Juric had said, and untangling his words, she understood. Not all supplicants are accepted. But he hadn’t told her, directly, that each and every Callen had to accept her individually.

She shut her eyes and swallowed hard, realizing what a fine edge she’d been walking; then wondered how many lies the woman had just told her.

Callen are allowed to lie during the blood trials.

She’d have to watch the ishrait very carefully.

“Come,” the ishrait said, swinging her legs off the bench and standing. “I will prepare you for the trial.”

Chapter Fifteen

The house with the blue roof had a matching blue door, and the small yard around it looked neat and tidily kept. Several large pots of herbs and vegetables stood in the sunniest parts of the yard. For some reason, Red frowned when he saw that, and checked his step.

“The rose bush is gone,” he said under his breath, looking around.

The door opened just then, and a tall, heavy-set woman came out, carrying a small bowl and a knife.

“Good day,” she said amiably, then squinted at Red. “Do I know you, s’e?”

Afraid the man was about to bolt, Idisio elbowed him lightly in the side. It seemed to break Red out of his paralysis.

“Ah… I’m looking for Yhaine,” he said hoarsely.

The woman’s stillness warned Idisio of trouble before she spoke.

“I’m sorry, s’e,” she said. “Yhaine died years ago.”

“And… and her son?” Red said in a near-whisper. “The boy?”

The woman came a few steps closer, studying him. “I remember you now. You’re that sailor she was fond of for a time. I’m her older sister Filhane.”

Red nodded. His expression held a heartbreaking mix of dread and hope. “The boy, s’a?”

“Why do you ask?” the woman said, cocking her head to one side, a hard light in her eyes now. “You think you’re the father? Bit late in the day to come knocking, isn’t it?”

Red began to shift his weight back, as if readying himself to retreat. Idisio kicked his ankle and said loudly, “He only just found out, s’a. Have some mercy, would you?”

The sailor looked lost and bewildered at the unexpected support. Filhane transferred her hard-eyed stare to Idisio, who glared back with every ounce of street-thief gall he could muster.

“He only just found out,” Idisio repeated, more softly. “Look at his face, s’a, if you doubt his sincerity.”

Filhane took a long look at Red, then sighed. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Listen to me then, sailor: you may have bedded my sister, but I doubt you knew her. Let go of the romantic memory I can see in your eyes. She wasn’t like that at all.”

Red frowned and opened his mouth to speak; Filhane held up a hand and went on. “She was sweet, when she wanted something. And mean as a roused micru when she was denied. She actually did like you; that’s why I remember you. But I’ll bet you never saw her mean streak, or the esthit she used.”

“That must have been after….” Red began.

“No,” Filhane said. “She started using esthit when she was ten. I couldn’t stop her. Nobody could. Our father beat her time after time after time and couldn’t make her stop. I begged and pleaded and screamed at her. Nothing worked. I’ll guarantee that every time you saw her, she was lost on dream-dust.”

Red began to look angry now, sullen, as if he wanted to argue. Filhane didn’t give him a chance.

“Here’s something else for you, to take the shine off that romantic memory of yours: you weren’t the only man she was bedding back then,” she went on remorselessly. “Don’t look like that. Did you hold faithful to her, when you were in another port?”

Red opened his mouth, shut it again, then looked at the ground, a deep flush beginning to crawl up his neck.

“I didn’t think so,” Filhane said. “Believe me, sailor, as much as you don’t want to hear this, I wish I didn’t have to say it more. But my sister was a whore, and addicted to esthit, and no amount of wishing will make it different.”

Red took a deep breath and rubbed the back of his neck with one large hand. “Thank you, s’a. That’s a good hard lesson you’ve handed me. I’ll leave you in peace.”

“Wait,” Idisio said, grabbing the man’s arm hard, just below the elbow, as Red began to turn away. “The boy. What about her son?”

“He’s likely not even mine,” Red said bleakly. “I was a fool to think that.”

“Now that I don’t know,” Filhane said. “What made you think he was yours in the first place?”

Idisio tightened his grip; after a moment, Red said, thickly, “The man who told me of the boy said the child had red hair.”

“Red hair?” The woman’s eyebrows rose. “He’s seen the child, then. I never did. Yhaine was out of the house and living with another man by the time her pregnancy was showing. There was enough bad feeling between us by then that we never saw the child; it took me months to get word of her death. I always thought the child must have died stillborn, as there was no word of it to be found.”

Red stood very still. Idisio, glancing up at the sailor, saw a mad glitter surfacing in the blue eyes.

“He’s seen the child,” Red repeated softly under his breath. Idisio doubted the man had heard much past that point. “Living with another man.”

“If the child has red hair,” Filhane said, “it may well be yours, after all. There aren’t many redheaded sailors come through this port, and you’re the only one I can remember my sister taking up with during that time. I’d track down that man she was living with, to find out what happened.”

“I’ll do that,” Red said. “Do you know his name?”

Filhane frowned, thinking for a moment. “Something like Ikle or Itckl.”

“Iticali?” Red said.

“Yes, that was the name,” Filhane said. “You know him?”

“That,” Red said through his teeth, “is the old friend who told me about the boy.” His hands clenched into fists.

Filhane retreated a cautious step. “I don’t know much else,” she said. “I think Iticali was in the service of some desert lord at the time. Perhaps he placed the child with his lord’s family.”

“Which lord?” Red said.

“I don’t know, sailor,” Filhane said. “I have no more answers for you, but I do have work to do. Please, take your righteous anger elsewhere; I’ve no time or help for it. I gave up on being angry about my sister years ago.”

Red turned without a word and walked out of the small yard; and this time, Idisio made no move to stop him.

“Boy,” Filhane called as he turned to follow the sailor.

Idisio paused, casting an inquiring look over his shoulder.

“If you do find the child… send me word?”

Idisio nodded, not trusting his voice, and ran to catch up with the fast-moving sailor.

#

“Not our problem,” Cafad Scratha said, some hours later. “Absolutely not. Don’t even think about it this time, Idisio. We’ve enough problems as it is. Don’t add a randy northern sailor to the pile.”

“But—” Idisio started.

“No,” Scratha said. “He’ll have to find his own answers.”

“You’re a desert lord, though,” Idisio said, persistent against Scratha’s gathering scowl. “You could get answers he couldn’t.”

“I swore I wouldn’t hit you again,” Scratha said through his teeth. “Don’t make me break that promise. Let it go, Idisio. You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Then tell me,” Idisio said. “How am I any good to you if you have to protect me from my ignorance?”

They matched glares; then Scratha sighed.

“I should have left you in the streets,” he said, without any real force. “Asking for anything, whether it be favors, goods, or information, carries a price in the southlands. I don’t want to be indebted to someone for the sake of a foolish northern sailor.”

Idisio breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The strangeness had left his lord for the moment, the dark track of his thoughts diverted to something less important. And this language he understood; the street thieves of Bright Bay operated in much the same way.

“I’ll pay it,” he said.

Scratha stared at him. “You can’t. You have nothing to pay with, Idisio. It’s a generous offer, but it’s not possible.”

“I can,” Idisio said, sure of himself now. “What kind of things would another lord ask for?”

“It could be anything,” Scratha said. “And it’s not the lords that you need to worry about; it’s the hirelings and mercenaries. Some of them are… not kind. Idisio, no. Let this northern find his own answers.”

“What’s the worst thing they could ask for?” Idisio pressed. “What’s the worst you’ve ever heard of being asked in exchange for this kind of information? It’s pretty trivial, isn’t it, asking after a lost child?”

Scratha drew a deep breath and shut his eyes. “You don’t want to know.”

“I do.”

“You don’t,” Scratha said without opening his eyes. “It’s foul.”

Idisio waited, not speaking, until his lord finally looked at him, then said, in as emotionless a voice as he could, “I’ve probably done it already, whatever it is. That’s part of growing up in the streets.”

Scratha stared at him, looking horrified.

“The people that raised me didn’t give free handouts,” Idisio said. “They wanted a profit out of their effort. That’s how it is. That’s why I jumped at the chance to go with you.” He paused, drew a deep breath, and forced his tone to become flat and hard. “If you don’t help Red, I’ll go asking myself.”

“No,” Scratha said, and it was an order, carrying an unspoken threat that Idisio would be lucky to escape with bruises if he disobeyed.

Idisio swallowed hard and threw his last die, praying his hunch about Scratha’s one vulnerability turned out to be right.

“I used to dream, at night, that my father would come find me,” he said. His voice wouldn’t obey him; it wavered and stuck. At least he wasn’t crying. “I used to think one day, everything would be all right, it would all turn out to be a bad dream or a mistake. Someone would rescue me. But nobody ever did, my lord; I pulled myself out on your tail, and you were kind enough to let me. Not everyone is that lucky.”

Scratha started to speak, stopped, swallowed hard, and said, “There’s nothing saying he’s on the streets, Idisio.”

“There’s nothing saying he’s not,” Idisio shot back.

“Sessii ta-karne, i shha!” Scratha spat, suddenly furious; the moment passed quickly, and he rubbed his temples as if to ease a headache. “Fine. I’ll ask around. If you swear to keep your own mouth shut.”

“I promise,” Idisio said readily. “What did all that mean, just now?”

“If you ever learn the old language,” Scratha said, his expression still sour, “you’re welcome to punch me for what I just called you. Now go away.” He tossed Idisio a gold round. “Take Riss out for a good meal, and buy yourselves some proper desert clothes. I don’t have time to see to it now. If you run out of money, tell them to send me the bill. And go find Red; tell him to come see me.”

“Yes, my lord, thank you, my lord,” Idisio said, and bolted before the man could change his mind.

#

He went after Red first, reasoning that the search would be quicker without a girl tagging along. It didn’t take long for Idisio to be glad of that decision. Several of the streets and taverns he passed through in his search made him nervous, and a female face would have caused a riot in at least one of them.

He finally found the sailor, sitting alone in a dark and musty-smelling wine shop, staring at an almost-full glass of wine. Judging by the bartender’s expression, the sailor had been sitting without drinking for some time.

“Idisio,” Red said, looking up with a distracted frown. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” Idisio said. “My lord wants to see you.”

“What for?”

“I talked him into helping you look for your son,” Idisio said, and watched the dour expression lighten into incredulity.

“Why would he do something like that? Why would you?” Red stood, leaning forward onto the table as if in need of the support. “You walked me there, like I asked; you don’t owe me anything else.”

Idisio shrugged. “Better hurry, before he changes his mind.”

“Gods,” the man said, and threw a silver coin on the table. “Where do I find him?”

“Silver Sands Inn,” Idisio said. “Wait, I’m headed back there too—”

But the sailor had already slammed through the door and was almost running down the street. Idisio sighed, offered the sullen barkeep a shrug, and followed.

Not in a hurry now, he found himself paying more attention to the people he passed, especially the younger ones. Ten to fifteen, Red had said; no older than Idisio, and with bright red hair. Something about that tugged at his memory, disturbing him. He’d known a boy with bright red hair once, in Bright Bay; could it have been…? But that was ridiculous, of course. He put it out of his mind.

Once or twice his step slowed too much, and he found himself the target of coarse invitation by nearby whores, male and female alike. He’d never liked those offers, and with old memories churning fresh in his mind, liked them even less. He shook his head each time and hurried past without speaking.

He made it back to the inn without seeing a single naturally red-topped head, male, female, adult, or child. There were even more people in this town with dyed hair than there had been in Bright Bay, but the colors here tended towards blue and yellow and even white, all in strips, usually set in dozens of long, tight braids. An astonishing number of people, young and old, were shaven completely bald. Many wore thin, hood-like head coverings that wrapped around the face, leaving only the eyes visible.

As Idisio entered the inn, he belatedly thought about what he’d just done: challenged a desert lord and offered himself as payment for whatever debt was incurred. Jumped in on the side of a near stranger, a randy northerner as Scratha had named him.

He’d lost his mind. What had he been thinking?

Traveling away from the city had softened his survival wits. He’d had it too easy, too safe, for too long; he’d jumped straight into madness without even looking first.

With barely a glance at Idisio, the innkeeper told him the room numbers, sounding thoroughly distracted. Idisio offered thanks with little more coherence. His troubled thoughts carried him blindly to the door of the room he would be sharing with Scratha. He could hear voices inside, and decided Red and Scratha were best left alone for the moment. Riss had the next room over; he moved to it and knocked softly on the door.

After a moment, he rapped harder, and that brought an indistinct mutter from inside. It sounded like an invitation, and Idisio, mind still fixed on the enormity of what he’d just done, pushed through the door and stepped inside.

More bare skin than Seshya had ever shown him presented itself.

“Ohdeargods,” he said, and slammed back out of the room, eyes shut tight. Weak-kneed, he leaned against the opposite wall and tried to think of a way to pretend he hadn’t just walked in on Riss with no clothes on.

He hadn’t managed anything beyond slowing his racing heart by the time the door opened. Riss stared at him, wearing a light robe and looking bemused herself.

After a moment, she said, “Your hearing’s not much good, is it? I said ‘wait a minute.’”

Idisio shook his head dumbly, looking anywhere but at her.

“Gods, you’re an idiot,” Riss said after a moment, sounding impatient. “Come on in; don’t stand there in the hallway. You look like you’re about to faint.”

“No,” Idisio said, aware that his voice was emerging at a rather higher octave than usual. “That’s all right, I just….”

“Oh, for the love of the gods,” Riss said. She grabbed his arm, yanked him into the room and closed the door behind him. “Haven’t you ever seen a girl without clothes on before? It’s hot here! I was trying to cool off. Sit down.”

He shook his head, still at a complete loss for words, and sank into the chair she pointed to.

“Was there something important, or did you just barge into my room for fun?” Riss said waspishly.

“Ah,” he said, intensely grateful for a question he did have a good answer to. “Lord Scratha wants me to take you out for a meal and to buy some clothes. Proper desert clothes, he said.” He took a chance and opened his eyes again.

“Good,” Riss said. “Everything I have makes me sweat. Did you find the sailor’s boy?”

“No,” he said, staring determinedly at the floor. “He’s gone….”

He felt a sudden dizziness, and a hot, dry wind whispered against his cheeks and forehead. The taste of sand rolled against his tongue. A memory rose, of the red-haired boy he’d known and his odd mannerisms; he had been southern. He might have been Red’s son, after all. Wouldn’t that be funny… but the thought held no real humor against the continuing overlay of wind whispering in his mind.

The moment passed. Riss knelt beside him, her face white, gripping his arm hard. “I thought you were about to faint. What happened?”

“Nothing.” He blinked, trying to focus. “I just… I just need to go eat something. I haven’t eaten today. I think. Let’s get going.”

She stared at him for a moment, then cautiously released his arm as if afraid he would fall over. He stood, correcting a slight wobble before she could react to it.

“Wait outside, then, so I can dress,” she said, looking as if she held back much sharper words. Idisio left the room and leaned against the opposite wall again. Like before, his knees felt treacherously unready to support him, but this time it wasn’t embarrassment and shock; it was fear.

#

It happened again while they were walking back to the inn.

Full, content, and relaxed, he began telling Riss about the visit with Filhane and about Scratha agreeing to help. He glossed over how he’d gained his lord’s support, and although Riss gave him a hard look reminiscent of the one Azni had used weeks ago, she left it alone.

“So what now?” Riss said. “Is this sailor going to be traveling with us?”

“I don’t know,” Idisio said, startled. “I hadn’t thought of that. I figured they’d ask some questions locally; the boy can’t be far from here, can he?”

“If he’s been taken into a desert lord’s family, he could be anywhere,” Riss pointed out.

“I don’t think….” Idisio started, and his vision blurred again.

He felt a sense of being elsewhere and other than himself. Stone walls rose around him and silence, blessed silence, and a warmth began in his chest; the faintest glimmer of hope that it was over, that he had found a safe place at last, and an anger….

He came back to himself, on his knees, his cheek stinging as if Riss had slapped him. His throat felt raw, and the packages he’d been carrying were scattered over the ground as if he’d thrown his arms out wide and heedless.

“You screamed,” Riss said, her face white. Her voice trembled as she went on, “I think you made one man piss himself. I almost did. Gods, what’s going on with you?”

“I don’t know,” he said. People were beginning to gather around, staring. He climbed to his feet, brushed off his knees, and started picking up the dropped bundles.

“Let’s get back to the inn,” Riss said. “Quickly.”

#

“You have to tell Lord Scratha,” she said once they were back in the inn. They’d gone to Riss’s room by unspoken agreement; the packages were piled in a corner.

“No,” he said immediately, hunching into himself. Afterimages still danced through his mind at odd moments; a phantom glimpse of red hair, a tickling urge to scream and never stop.

“You have to,” Riss insisted. “He’ll know what to do. What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid,” he said, lying altogether; the lift of her eyebrows called him on it. Before they could argue further, a knock sounded and Scratha stepped in without waiting for invitation.

“I see where you learned your manners,” Riss said a bit sourly.

Scratha cast her a puzzled look, then shrugged it aside without asking. “It’s getting late. We have to get up early in the morning. If you could manage without Idisio’s company, we all need to get some sleep.”

“Lord,” Riss said, ignoring Idisio’s frantic motion to stop her, “Idisio needs to talk to you.”

“No,” Idisio said, ducking his face away from the dark stare turning his way. “No, I’m all right.”

“He’s had fits twice in the last four hours,” Riss said over his protest. “He’s afraid to tell you for some reason.”

“Thank you, Riss,” Scratha said, voice completely calm. “Idisio, come.”

Idisio shot Riss a poisonous glare as he left the room; she shrugged and made a shooing motion with her hands.

“Fits,” Scratha said quietly a few moments later, closing the door behind them. He moved to the edge of the low bed and sat down. “Tell me.”

Seeing no point in protest, Idisio gave as much detail as he could remember of each incident. When he finished talking, Scratha shut his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, then sighed and dropped his hand.

“Have you been practicing the aqeyva meditations?” he asked.

“Every day,” Idisio said. “Hours a day.”

“Hours,” Scratha repeated, and shook his head. His dark eyes scrunched more tightly closed, then opened again. “I didn’t think you’d practice that much on your own. I should have paid more attention.”

“Did I do something wrong?” Idisio said, bewildered. “I thought I was getting really good at it. Is that wrong?”

Scratha let out a half-snort, half-laugh. “Wrong? No. But you should have had more guidance. I should have been watching you. I let my own concerns distract me. You’ve been in trance for hours a day?” He sounded as if he hoped the answer might change to “No, I lied.”

“It passed the time,” Idisio said, trying to sound indifferent. He fought an urge to cower; the very air seemed to have darkened with the desert lord’s mood.

“Do you have any idea how rare that is?” Scratha said. “I’ve been practicing aqeyva most of my life and can’t hold a full trance more than two hours.”

“It’s just… paying attention to yourself,” Idisio said, fumbling for words. “It’s not that hard. I don’t understand, my lord. It’s no different than seeing what’s really in front of you, like when you had me look at that mug; I just never thought to turn it to myself before. And it would have been dangerous, losing track of everything around me like that. But it’s not that hard.”

Scratha shook his head again, his expression bemused. “You make it sound so simple,” he said. “Only aqeyva masters can do what you’ve done. And these visions, and not being affected by Yuer’s drugs… You never had anything like this before you started practicing?”

“No,” Idisio said after a moment’s thought. “I’ve always relied on hunches, but nothing, ever, as… as solid as these. They’re almost visions.”

“That’s exactly what they are,” Scratha said. He rubbed at his eyes. “I think you have Ghost Lake blood, Idisio. You have too much northern in your face for anything else.”

“What’s…?” Idisio stopped, remembering Red’s song. “That’s the place up by Arason? Those stories are real?”

“Oh, yes. There was more truth than myth to the tales that sent witch-hunters to Arason. How you came to Bright Bay I don’t understand, and we’ll probably never know, but you’re ha’ra’ha, without a doubt.”

Idisio shut his eyes. He thought he might scream. “What’s a ha’ra’ha?”

After a brief silence, Scratha said, “It’s… well, we’ll talk about it more, later. I need time to think how to explain it. I never thought I’d have to… well. Go to sleep. We can talk in the morning.”

Idisio accepted that decision with deep relief; but after a time of staring up through the darkness, wide-eyed and wakeful, began to regret letting it pass. At last he said, tentatively, “Lord Scratha?”

The desert lord sighed. “I can’t sleep either,” he admitted. “All right. I don’t suppose you’ve learned any real history, so I’ll have to start a ways back for you to make sense of the answer. That’s why I’ve needed to think, to find the shortest way to explain.” He blew out a gusty breath and shifted on the low bed. “You’re not fully human, Idisio.”