Guardians of the Desert (Children of the Desert) (12 page)

The soles of Alyea’s feet were, as promised, whole and unmarked by the time Deiq shook her awake in the grey pre-morning. Her feet had even regained their former calluses, which last night had been worn away to raw skin. She ran her hands over the rough flesh, shaking her head slowly in disbelief; looked up to find Deiq watching her with a strange smile on his dark face.

He made no comment, however, just handed her a cup of thopuh and a tibi of morning-rice, which differed from the evening meal only by having bits of cooked dove egg scattered across the top and the addition of desert-sage to the flavorings.

As she ate, the teyanain broke down the
shalls
and methodically wiped away all traces of their presence. Even the fire pit was well-buried by the time she finished eating.

Knowing what to expect this time made falling into the walking-trance easier, although it laid an uneasy shiver along her spine that walking from the Qisani to Scratha Fortress with Deiq hadn’t provoked. Instead of the glorious wonder of seeing everything at once, she felt as though the athain had wrapped her up in a protective cocoon and were carrying her along on a wave of nearly inaudible chanting.

With her vision blurred, she had no real notion of her surroundings, which also disturbed her; but Deiq made no protest, and according to her understanding of the teyanain, they were bound to treat her safety as paramount while she was their guest.

Heat flared and swirled around her, and a growing heat seared across the bottoms of her feet, racing up her legs, then as swiftly dispersing. She wondered what her feet would look like tonight; it seemed impossible that they could be unharmed after walking a hundred miles in less than twelve hours. But to heal overnight from the state her feet had been in was also impossible. She set worry aside and tried to relax into the flow of the day’s travel.

At last the warbling howl of the travel-ending chant broke the haze, and she staggered a step, then another; felt Deiq’s hand close around her arm, swinging her to stand against him. She grabbed him for support and leaned into his warmth for a few breaths. When her balance settled, she let go and stepped back, blinking hard. At least she hadn’t dropped to her knees this time. Perhaps next time she wouldn’t even stumble.

She turned to look at their new surroundings, and forgot everything else for a long, stunned moment.

Great arches lofted overhead in staggered ranks, segments of interior walls left bizarrely exposed by the almost complete destruction of the outer ones. Bright red and white stripes endured, somewhat faded now, on the tops of each archway, and the pillars that still stood were as broad around as massive oaks. Intricate carvings wound up each cracked pillar from ground to archway topping: scripts in a language she’d never seen intermingled with detailed images of flowers, fountains, and birds.

The ground underfoot, sandy, dusty, and damaged, still showed a few tiles of what had once been a magnificently designed floor. A cracked black granite orb lay some distance away, its polish dulled by centuries of sandstorms. Fragments of a chunky white granite pedestal were scattered like stone petals around the dark globe.

Alyea took in a deep breath of hot, dry air, inhaling the smell of neglect and abandonment; of death and decay. No birds sang here; not even a lizard scurried through the lengthening evening shadows. And nothing grew.
Nothing
. Not so much as the deceptively dead-looking sticks of plants waiting for the next rain. It seemed as though nothing ever grew here, and no rain ever fell.

Her throat burned with the lack of moisture in the air. She took a cautious sip of water, looking at her companions. The teyanain guards had fanned out, prowling through the ruins around them, clearly checking for danger in this lifeless place; the athain stood still, regarding their surroundings with weary blankness. Evkit studied the destruction with a faint smile that sent unexpected shivers up Alyea’s back; and Deiq squinted, tight-lipped, with an expression of utter loathing that broadened her nervous shiver into a wide ribbon of worry.

Idisio stood quietly, eyes closed, head cocked a little as though listening.

“We camp here tonight,” Evkit said, bizarrely cheerful.

Deiq cast him a dark glare. “Of course we are,” he growled. “Of course you
would
.” He turned and stalked away before anyone could answer.

Evkit’s smile widened. He nodded as though pleased with himself and made a sweeping gesture that managed to include Idisio and Alyea.

“Come,” he said. “I show you, while daylight lasts. Then we eat.”

Alyea blinked, caught against the urge to go after Deiq, and opened her mouth to refuse. Just then, Idisio opened his eyes; something in his expression stopped her words cold in her throat.

“I’ll go with him,” he said quietly, not quite looking at her. “By your grace, lord Evkit.” With as little ceremony as Deiq had shown, he turned and trotted after the older ha’ra’ha.

Evkit seemed unoffended and unsurprised. He bowed gravely to Alyea and repeated, “You come. I show you.”

Seeing no politic alternative, and trusting that Deiq wouldn’t have walked away if she’d been in real danger from Lord Evkit, she shrugged assent. As she followed the little teyanin lord into the ruins, she realized that her feet and legs, as promised, felt no more sore than they would have after a brisk walk from her palace apartment to the throne room.

“This place,” Evkit said, apparently not in the least disconcerted by having to look up at her as he spoke, “was once as Bright Bay. Central. King-city, yes? Life, trade, large.” He gestured around broadly.

“What happened?”

“Humans said
no
to ha’reye.”

Alyea stopped short, unable to believe that bald statement, and stared down at the teyanin lord, horror-struck. “
What?
”

Evkit hopped lithely atop a crumbled section of wall and stood eye-to-eye with her. “Ha’rethe dying. Ha’rethe say, give me child, last child, to rule over city after ha’rethe death. Lords of city choose the one to go to ha’rethe; the chosen one refuses.”

He turned half-away from Alyea, his dark gaze sober as he looked around the ruins. A shiver ran down Alyea’s spine: would her child one day rule over the Qisani? And if so, would she ever know?

Evkit went on, “No time left for another choice. The chosen already sworn, ceremony already begin. But she refuse, and she do worse: she try attack ha’rethe when it come for her.”

The silence hung, deepening like the purple twilight descending over the ruins. Alyea tried to imagine having the presence of mind to do such a thing; she remembered being utterly bewildered and overwhelmed. Such a thing almost had to be planned in advance. She looked around at the ruins and swallowed hard.

“This first true human city,” Evkit said softly. She could barely see him now. “And first to fall. Ha’reye not friends, Lord Alyea. Never friends. And ha’ra’hain not allies.”

“Was this . . . the Split?” Alyea asked. Her dry throat snagged on the words; she took a sip of water and repeated the question more clearly.

“Part of,” Evkit agreed. “The Split not one thing, not one event. It many years of many problems, some human stupid, some ha’reye stupid. All disaster in the end.”

“Deiq knows this place,” she said suddenly, unsure how she knew, but certain all the same that the dark loathing in his stare spoke of personal memories.

“Yes,” Evkit said.

Implication shuddered through her; she couldn’t breathe for a moment. “Then he’s . . .
old
.” Her mind refused to tally how many years ago the Split had been: too large a number for ready translation into years of age.

Evkit let out a little yip of amused surprise. “You not know that already?”

“I thought . . . maybe a hundred years.”

Again, a muffled yip.

She said, feeling the need to defend herself, “He said Lord Eredion was his father. And Eredion can’t be
that
old!”

Dead silence. “Eredion not Deiq father,” Evkit said eventually. “Deiq alive long before Eredion born. He lie to you, Lord Alyea. Big, big lie.”

“Why would he lie to me about that?” she demanded, a familiar simmering resentment climbing her spine.

A huffing yip; the teyanain chuckle. “He ha’ra’ha,” Evkit said. “They breathe, they lie. All same. You no trust anything a ha’ra’ha say, not ever. You count your fingers after dealing with one, and touch them to be sure it not illusion they still attached.”

Alyea let out a harsh chuckle of her own. Deiq had said the same thing about dealing with Lord Evkit. She almost asked
And what lies are you telling?
; finally kept her mouth shut, aware that Evkit’s amicability could change to blinding rage at any moment.

“Dinner,” Evkit said succinctly. Alyea heard him climbing down from his perch.

She turned, only then realizing that the fast-arriving desert night left her blind. The only light came from the stars, and the air had acquired a distinctly dangerous chill.

“I can’t—Lord Evkit?”

Silence.

She stood still, sudden terror swamping her; her breath hitched in her throat once, twice, before she controlled it. “Lord Evkit? I can’t see.”

“I know,” Deiq said from behind her; she yelped, spinning to face him, and lost her footing on a loose rock. His hands grasped her upper arms, holding her steady and keeping her upright. A fierce warmth burned through her, banishing the chill.

“He just
abandoned
me,” she blurted, fear melting into a blurry anger.

“No,” Deiq said. “He knew I was here.” His hands loosened, but didn’t fall away; she welcomed the contact as her only point of reference in the blackness.

“This isn’t a game!” she snapped, glaring at the vague silhouette of his head.

He made a soft, amused noise and turned her, moving to stand shoulder to shoulder with her.

“Look up,” he directed.

Unwillingly, she tilted her head to stare at the overarching spray of stars, picking out constellations almost reflexively. The Fountain had always been her favorite, because of the stories associated with it: the many ways the southern kings battled the demons to keep their water flowing. The tales were filled with wit and trickery, treachery and danger, and had set in her mind indelible images of great stone cities with striped archways—

She blinked, hard, and lowered her gaze to stare into the darkness around her again.

“Many stories come from this place,” Deiq said. “Some of them even resemble the truth.”

“Did you hear Evkit telling me the story of this place?”

“Yes.” His tone, mordantly amused, said
Of course
.

“Is that true?”

“More or less.”

“And you were—”

“Leave that for another time. Let’s go get some dinner,” he suggested.

She opened her mouth to protest, to demand the rest of the story; then found herself at a loss for words and suddenly aware that she
was
hungry.

Deiq’s grip on her upper arm tightened. He let out a small sigh, then turned her around and steered her through the maze of broken stonework to the small teyanain campsite.

Teyanain trail food never sat right in Deiq’s stomach; this time, the offering was stale flatbread soaked in boiled goat milk and a side of fermented black beans. Alyea’s nose wrinkled, but she had the sense not to protest or to hesitate about eating; Idisio showed no discomfort over the smell or appearance. Deiq gagged down a few bites, then handed the rest off to Idisio without comment.

The smell of the camp, from the food to the rank sweat of a day’s hard travel, suddenly felt like a thick slop in his nostrils. He stood and walked out into the dark beyond the firelight. Once far enough away that he could breathe again, he put his back to one of the few remaining upright pillars and studied the stars, a vast, irritated restlessness stirring in his muscles. He wanted to move, but didn’t dare go too far from Alyea; and right now, walking off his frustration would take him miles from camp in short order.

Some time later, he felt Idisio approaching. Not inclined to talk, he allowed himself a small grunt of acknowledgment.

“Everyone’s settled,” Idisio said quietly, and perched on a chunk of overturned column.

“Good for them,” Deiq said, glaring out into the dark, and wished Idisio had stayed in camp; he wasn’t in the mood for inanely pointless statements.

Idisio scuffed a foot lightly across the litter of stone chips on the ground. “I’ve never been able to see so well on a moonless night before,” he said. “It’s strange.”

Not as stupid a comment; worth answering, at least. “You’re growing into your heritage,” Deiq said. “Over the next twenty or thirty years, you’ll see more changes.” He tilted his head and looked up at the constellations overhead, thinking about his intention of teaching Idisio the old stories; but surrounded by the ghosts of his failures, he couldn’t bring himself to care enough.

“How come I thought I was human all my life?”

“Because that’s how you were raised,” Deiq said, impatience returning. “If you’d been raised by a family of ducks you’d have thought yourself a mallard.”

“Really?” The startlement in Idisio’s voice was a sharp reminder of his youth and inexperience.

“No,” Deiq said heavily. “It’s an allegory.” He stalked a few paces away to relieve his frustration; humans didn’t understand such things, and Idisio had been raised with human blinders. Deiq didn’t have the patience at the moment to strip them away.

“Don’t you mean metaphor?” Idisio said from behind him, not moving to follow. Deiq stopped and turned around slowly, annoyance melting into a mild interest.

“No,” he said. “There’s an old tale I’m referring to. Allegory.”

Idisio hopped off his crumbling seat and came over to stand beside Deiq. “Show me the well?”

Deiq blinked, taken aback. “The well?”

“From the story I told you.”

“I told you that story wasn’t any good. It’s distorted.”

“But any big city needs wells,” Idisio pointed out. “And ha’reye like water. And you told Alyea that Evkit’s story was reasonably accurate. So whatever happened, was near a well.”

Deiq stared at the younger ha’ra’ha’s night-blurred features, astounded at the sharp reasoning; perhaps Idisio didn’t suffer from human blinders quite as much as Deiq had thought. And he shouldn’t have been able to eavesdrop without alerting Deiq.

He settled for saying, “I didn’t know you were nearby, hearing all that.”

“I’m good at sneaking around,” Idisio said with some pride.

“Apparently so.” Deiq let out a long breath, debating whether to warn the younger of how rude he’d been, and how dangerous stalking an adult ha’ra’ha was; decided Idisio already knew, and didn’t care. The boy was brash and arrogant, just like Deiq himself at that age.

I’m not old, damn it. I’m not! He’s just too damned young, that’s all.

Deiq pushed aside that line of thought and turned to stare over the ruins, gathering his bearings.

“All right. This way.”

Sunlight poured through enormous stone arches painted with vivid red and white stripes. The floor beneath was thick whitestone tile, cool under bare feet even on the hottest day of the year. Walls were sparse, more dividing sections than true barriers; the staggered archways led from the lush gardens to the luxurious throne room with little visual interference.

Fine draperies of handwoven silk, laced with threads of silver and gold, hung between the pillars in the throne room, providing some privacy but allowing the intermittent wind to wander through unchecked. Sunlight seemed to bounce from every surface; the white underfoot, the drapery threads, the massive, gem-bedecked throne on which the kaen sat, draped in shimmering cloth and watching Deiq’s slow approach.

Sunlight failed to light the kaen’s face, which was shadowed and harsh, pitted from a childhood bout of sun-pox. His deep-set black eyes glared unforgivingly.

“Ha’inn,” the kaen said, but the word was a curse, not an honor. “Come for my other daughter? Or perhaps for my only son?”

Deiq blinked away from sun-flooded memory into midnight darkness, and realized he’d gripped the low wall in front of him so hard the stone was beginning to crumble under his fingers. He let go gingerly; a few small fragments skittered to the ground with a hissing rattle.

“This was the well,” he said aloud, smoothing his palm gently over the wall in silent apology to the innocent stone. “The central well of the city. This is where the seers and wise men and priests came to commune with the gods . . . and with the ha’reye.”

“Plural?” Idisio said beside him.

Deiq decided he’d
definitely
have to stop thinking of the younger ha’ra’ha as ignorant. “There was only one here,” he said, “but back then, there were so many more of them . . . speaking to one might as well have been speaking to all. It was . . . like a net. Tug on one, the rest feel it. Now there’s too much space between. . . .”

He stopped, pursing his lips; none of this was news to the teyanain, but still, no point risking the conversation moving into areas they might not know about. He wasn’t stupid enough to think he’d sense one listening nearby; today’s teyanain had an uncanny ability to hide from
other
-vision when they wanted to.

“So what really happened?” Idisio asked, trailing his own fingers across the well-wall surface.

“I was an idiot,” Deiq said, and sighed. “I didn’t see it that way at the time, but I made a bad mistake, and upset the kaen; and he passed that anger on to his son. It didn’t help that the son turned out sterile. . . .”

In the back of his mind, he remembered the young kaen’s rage:
Lift your curse!
he’d demanded. Deiq had shaken his head, over and over, trying to explain the condition had nothing to do with their mutual antagonism, and couldn’t be so simply cured. Not surprisingly, the young man hadn’t believed him. . . .

“He thought I’d done something to stop him from fathering children,” Deiq said after the memories subsided enough to allow him speech again. “He swore he’d have his revenge on me. I tried to tell him it wasn’t my doing. He wouldn’t listen.”

Although he could have done a better job of explaining, in retrospect: arrogant, temperamental, and powerful, flushed with youth and surety, Deiq had seen humans with only a fraction less contempt than his parent ha’rethe. He’d made mistake after mistake and seen it all as human idiocy rather than his own rashness.

“He threatened to refuse the annual gifting if I would not give him back the ability to father a child,” Deiq said, his voice thickening in his throat. “I told him the death of his city would be on his own head, and I left.”

“Left the room?” Idisio’s tone said he knew better.

“The area. I didn’t come back for two hundred years, and by that time the city was long since destroyed, and the land barren.”

Heavy silence hung around them for a long time. At last Idisio said, shakily, “You knew that would happen?”

“Yes. I warned him, and he said I was lying to him, as ha’ra’hain always lie. I got angry, so I walked out . . . and kept going.”

It had been so much more complicated than that, of course. But explaining years of built-up tension in a midnight discussion to a younger ha’ra’ha who had no idea how things had been back then wasn’t realistic. Maybe as they traveled, he’d be able to tell bits and pieces of the painful story, and make Idisio understand; but Deiq felt he had reached the limit of what he could talk about at the moment.

“You could have stopped it,” Idisio said, his tone filled with accusation.

Deiq stood silent, looking back through memory at the proud folk he’d been dealing with; at the prickly pride he himself had nursed at the time; at the many, many misunderstandings that had lain among the humans, the ha’reye, and the half-breeds—most of which still stood to this day.

“Maybe,” he said at last. “I don’t really know.”

“But you didn’t even
care
, did you?”

Deiq blinked, rage rising fast and hard; he gripped the wall again. It crumbled sharply under his fingers, and he let the pebbly bits fall, rattling, to the ground. Some fell into the well itself, and landed not far down; the sands of a thousand years clogged the funnel.

Idisio backed up several hasty steps, and Deiq felt the younger’s fear rising as sharply as his own anger. A red haze began to haunt the edges of his vision.

“Go back to camp, Idisio,” Deiq said through his teeth. “
Slowly
.”

Idisio took a startled, bounding step, then froze, breathless, as Deiq whipped around.

“Slowly, Idisio,” Deiq breathed. The pulse in his temples overcame all sound, all sense; and the red haze was closing in. “
Slowly
.”

Idisio edged a cautious step further away, another, and another. Deiq forced himself to turn around and stare into the blackness of what had once been a massive well. He fixed his thoughts on what the buckets had looked like: larger than a man, they had been hauled up throughout the day by an ingenious winch system only the Aerthraim understood today.

At last Idisio and his jagged, provocative fear moved out of range, and Deiq let out a shaky breath; desperately hoping none of the teyanain had been around to see
that
, and wishing, not for the first time in his life, that he could find solace in prayer.