Guardians of the Desert (Children of the Desert) (19 page)

Deiq waited with Alyea while servants removed her cousin; said nothing, and kept his expression neutral. But he could feel the shock reverberating through her entire body, and when she abruptly turned to leave, he followed close behind.

Three steps later, she whirled and said fiercely, “Leave me alone!”

“No.”

She glared, sullen and defiant, and walked away at a fast clip. He kept pace, and when she tried to slam the door to her suite between them, he stopped it with a hand, eased inside, and shut the door behind him.

“Damn it, go away!”

He shook his head. “Not while you’re this upset.”

“I could have killed him!” She put the back of one shaking hand to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears. “How the hells should I feel?”

The world would be a better place if you had killed the little ta-karne
, he thought. He knew better than to say that aloud, though.

“Upset,” he said dryly, and urged her into a chair.

Alyea’s room was much larger and lusher than the guest room he and Idisio had been given, but showed remarkably little of Alyea’s fighting personality. Instead, delicate lacy designs and pastel shades dominated, more Lady Peysimun’s style than her daughter’s. Deiq had a feeling Alyea didn’t spend much time in this room or even within the mansion, which meant she had an apartment within the palace itself.

He’d have to see about moving them there tomorrow. Being here was throwing Alyea back into all the old patterns he’d been trying to break her of; even now, her muddled surface thoughts centered on worry over her mother discovering Deiq in her rooms, unsupervised.

He sighed and sat on the arm of her chair, one hand on her shoulder, wishing he could give her a shot of stiff desert lightning to settle her raw nerves; but the household appeared sternly dedicated to light wines.

“Alyea,” he said, “this is exactly why you need me by your side right now. You can’t afford to lose your temper when I’m not around. It wasn’t the physical slap that knocked your cousin out; I stopped most of that when I grabbed you. But you were mad, and your anger can hurt people now. You wanted to hit him, and so even though I stopped your hand, the blow carried through just from your willing it to do so.”

She stared at him, bewildered. “Because I . . . wanted . . . ?”

“Yes. You have to start being very careful when you decide you want something. You can do a lot of damage without meaning to, even though there’s no protector bound to this area.”
Any more
, he added silently, and held his face still against a pained grimace. “That’s why aqeyva is an essential discipline for desert lords. You have to practice, every day, until it really becomes a part of you. Until restraint isn’t just about not punching someone, but about stopping the anger before it goes to dangerous levels. And that’s why kathain are so—”

She stiffened and began to say something, a ferocious light in her eyes.

“
No
,” he said, overriding her; trying not to think about leaning forward and gathering in that intoxicating fierceness. “You listen to me this time. Kathain are important for desert lords because they’re trained to see when their lord needs distraction. If you start losing your temper, you’re liable to find your kathain rubbing your back or acting silly, just to change your mood. It’s much more complicated than a tumble, and kathain are not merely whores.”

She looked away, the line of her jaw set hard and stubborn. He studied her profile for a moment, then decided to go for shock, to see if he could finally break through her preconceptions.

“Alyea,” he said evenly, “at the moment, because you won’t listen to me on this,
I’m
having to act as your kathain. And I don’t care for that much.”

She jerked around at that, and found him leaning in close. He heard the rapid tripling of her heartbeat; her eyes dilated instantly. He could feel the strength, the rock-solid confidence that her whole being rested upon, and his hands fisted against the need to pull her in closer.

Oh, Meer . . . Oh, gods, no. Not again. Never again.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, both to her and to the memories in his head; his voice barely rose above a whisper. Their faces were almost close enough together to brush noses. “I’m here to
teach
you. To help you stand on your own as a full desert lord. But I can’t do that if you don’t listen when I explain these things to you.”

She stared at him, transfixed. He saw the light glaze in her eyes and realized he’d fallen into a trancing-voice without meaning to. Cursing himself internally, he carefully changed his pitch and tone to bring her back out to normal consciousness.

“Your cousin is a fool, and he’s very lucky I was there.” He leaned back as he spoke, slowly increasing the distance between them. “And you are lucky I was there—and damn lucky that I hold to my promises.” He hadn’t meant to say that last part aloud; it carried a betraying measure of his raw frustration.

Gods, it had been a long time . . . In the back of his mind he heard Meer’s dying scream, and the deeper hunger dulled to mere physical desire; much easier to master than that other, long unmet, need.

Foolishness
. . . He needed to visit the Tower. Soon. To remind himself of why he’d made the vow.

She blinked once, twice, shook her head as though to clear it of a fog; then stared at him with awakening suspicion. He’d seen that expression hundreds of times before: the awareness that he could have done anything he wanted in that moment.

And there goes what was left of her trust
, he thought as she stood up and backed away several jerky steps. He made no move to stop her; studied his fingernails with ostentatious indifference, trying not to let the dull ache coiling in his stomach show in his expression.

“I want you to leave,” she said, cold and precise. “I will see you in the morning.”

He aimed a cool smile at her and moved, instead, to sit in the chair she had just vacated.

“I’ll stay here,” he said, “and make sure you don’t flatten the
sanahair
. Chamberpot servant,” he added in answer to her uncomprehending expression. “It’s a joke. Never mind. Go get some sleep.”

“I don’t . . . I won’t. . . .” She stopped and shook her head. “You’re going to give my mother fits.”

“Won’t be the first time I’ve upset someone,” Deiq said dryly, and leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes. “And you should be worrying less over your mother’s sense of modesty, and more over how you’re going to explain to her that you’ll be moving into the Palace tomorrow, don’t want to attend that dinner she’s planning, and
really
don’t want Oruen at that dinner.”

He heard her draw in a sharp breath. “How did you
know
all that?”

“Because I know you,” he said, not moving. “And I understand your mother, and I understand Oruen. And because I know how to train a desert lord. This household won’t work for you right now. You need to get away from this place before you completely fall apart.”

Not that he was happy at the notion of being in relatively close quarters with Oruen; but that was a situation he could handle. Probably.

“Go get some sleep,” he said again, and faked a yawn, stretching a little and kicking his legs out long as though settling down to sleep in the chair. The simple maneuver worked. She murmured something that sounded like a good-night and went into the bedroom, closing the door between them.

Once the sound of her moving about in the other room stilled, he rose and warded the door of the suite, then returned to the chair and allowed himself a light doze as a reward for surviving another day without killing anyone.

(excerpt)

It never fails to astonish me how widely etiquette has diverged between our two cultures, given that all life began here in the southlands. I suspect the advent of the Northern Church has done more to redirect notions of polite behavior than any other single influence. For example, in the southlands, a woman is generally free to take whatever partners she cares to indulge herself with. There are, of course, individual variations depending on status and Family, but a woman simply spending time alone with a man is not cause for comment or concern. In the northlands, this small matter is often enough to brand her as a whore and lose her crucial respect; as I understand it, further north, where the Northern Church has a stronger hold yet, such a simple thing can actually cost the woman her life.

This may come into more relevance as the cultures mix together, as in my earlier-noted concerns regarding northerns moving south and southerners moving north; but even in your main city of Bright Bay, you will already be seeing the effects of greater traffic from the south on the culture of your populace.

I suspect your more conservative northern supporters will not be at all happy with the changing dynamic of society.

From the collection
Letters to a Northern King of Merit
penned by Lord Cafad Scratha during the reign of King Oruen

Alyea woke in the grey light of dawn to the sound of her mother shouting. Not at all uncommon; the woman seemed born to fuss over anything that came to hand, and had delivered tirades at all hours of the day and night over undusted side tables and dishes with water spots.

Alyea had long ago learned to sleep through it without stirring. She blinked and rubbed at her eyes, wondering hazily why she’d woken this time; then the words came clear.

“
S’e
Deiq, I don’t know what passes for etiquette in the barbarian lands, if you even
have
such a concept, but in
this
house an unmarried woman does
not
have a man in her rooms—”

“Ohgodsoh
shit
—” Alyea muttered, grabbing a light robe.

She opened the door to find her mother about to storm into the bedroom. Face to face, Lady Peysimun continued her rant: “Alyea, I am
shocked
that you would allow—”

A glance past her mother into the main room showed Alyea that Deiq had, at some point, turned the chair to have a clear view of her bedroom door. He was grinning, utterly unbothered by his host’s anger; his cheerful insouciance reassured her, and she managed to regard her mother’s flushed face without fear.

“Good morning, Mother,” she said. “Is breakfast ready?”

Lady Peysimun stopped mid-word, her mouth remaining open for a moment, then said, “Are you even
listening
to me?”

“No,” Alyea said. “I’m not. Excuse me.” She very gently shut the door in her mother’s face and locked it just before the handle rattled violently.

She was being a coward, leaving Deiq alone to face that fury; but she also suspected that he could probably handle it on his own.

Digging into the back of her clothes cupboard, she picked out a simple outfit she had long ago hidden to avoid Lady Peysimun throwing it away: long black trousers and a blue long-sleeved shirt, both of a light, loose cut that held up well under humid Bright Bay summer heat.

The outer door of her suite slammed. Alyea winced.

After dressing, she took the time to tie her hair back into a simple, triple-bound tail down her back, and added some minor pieces of jewelry she’d left behind on her last stay at Peysimun Mansion. At last, admitting that she was stalling, she opened the door and stepped into the outer room again.

Deiq still sat in the chair, his expression serene. He smiled a little, meeting her eyes, and said, “I think your mother would very much prefer me to not step under her roof ever again.”

“She had that opinion as soon as she saw you,” Alyea said.

“True. She doesn’t think much of southerners, does she?” He rose to his feet. “Breakfast will have to be quick. We’ve been summoned to see the king.”

“Already?” she said involuntarily, glancing at the vague rosy flush limning the curtains.

“Yes. That’s why your mother came to your rooms in the first place.” His expression darkened. “Apparently Idisio decided to go walkabout last night and landed in a hell of a mess that got him hauled up in front of the king. The messenger didn’t have details, but I’m guessing, from the tone of the message, that delay probably isn’t a good idea.”

Even with dawn barely spread over the sky, a crowd of people craned and stretched to stare at Alyea as she walked up the steps of the palace with Deiq at her side, and she felt an apprehensive chill run down her back. Just how bad a mess had Idisio gotten himself into?

She glanced sideways at Deiq—and admitted to herself that they might all be staring at him, not her. He had dressed plainly as well, but the overall effect was startling: he’d chosen an emerald-green shirt and black pants and drawn his dark hair into the same triple-bound tail style as hers, with one thin braid left hanging past his right ear. A polished marble of green jade on a thin gold chain hung around his neck, a small ruby earring glittered in his left ear, and a thick gold ring with a blood-red stone graced his right index finger. A bracelet rested on each wrist; three strands of polished wood and bone beads, barbaric in contrast to his finer jewelry. He looked . . . impressive. Powerful. A little frightening.

During their time at Scratha Fortress, Alyea had managed to acquire some understanding of the strange bead-language of the southlands, but Deiq’s bracelets resembled nothing she’d learned about. Green meant wealth, as did gold, of course; and red generally involved bloodshed or death to some degree. And the more strands or width to the bracelet, the more important the wearer.

The variations introduced by material still confused Alyea, but she knew the ruby earring meant something different than the red stone of the ring. Every meaning she’d learned, however, involved metals or gemstones, not wood and bone.

Probably just a favorite piece of decoration, nothing more
, she told herself, and didn’t believe it for a moment.

In the peculiar cool light of a clear dawn sky after a night of heavy rain, there was an odd translucence to Deiq’s dark skin. She thought, once, when he turned his head a certain way, that she saw a faint glitter, like silver scales; a heartbeat later it was gone. She decided it had been a trick of the light and her own imagination, and put the moment out of her mind.

She didn’t quite dare to ask why he’d chosen this morning, this situation, to be so clearly visible and remarkable.

People moved out of their way in a great, sinuous wave as they strode through crowded palace corridors to the audience hall. Following Deiq’s lead, Alyea ignored the whispers and pointing, the wide-eyed stares, as if deaf and blind to them. Inwardly, she gaped at the sheer number of people gathered outside, in the halls, and no doubt in the audience hall already.

What the hells had Idisio done?

To Alyea’s surprise, the audience hall doors were still shut, not swung wide as they would be for open court. Stiff-faced guards edged the doors open just far enough to admit them and waved them through, barely glancing at Deiq and Alyea as they passed. Their attention seemed fixed on the gathered crowd in the hallway, as if to ensure nobody else entered the audience hall unseen.

That sent a chill up Alyea’s back. For the first time, she wondered if Idisio’s antics were the only thing drawing people to the palace in such crowds. The sight of the group assembled before the throne—only two of whom she knew—and the taut expression on Oruen’s face did nothing to reassure her.

“Lord Sessin,” Alyea said as she strode forward. “Lord Oruen. Idisio.”

She stopped just shy of the group and met their examination directly, her head high. Although the gathered man all wore “ordinary clothing” rather than Family colors, she had no doubt they were all desert lords—although two of them looked young and a touch nervous, so they were probably in training. In any case, she was one of them now; no need to cower like a child. Eredion’s eyes crinkled with his usual ready smile, but it seemed distinctly strained this time.

Idisio nodded, his expression miserable. He looked as if he hadn’t gotten any sleep at all; dark circles marked the skin beneath his eyes, and his hands showed a tendency to tremble. He stood with his hands tucked deep into the sleeves of a rough dun-colored servant’s tunic too large for him, his skinny legs lost in equally large green trousers.

He looked like a street-rat just barely dry after a rainstorm: all waif-thin face with too-large grey eyes, shivering pathetically.

“Lord Alyea,” he muttered. “Deiq. Glad you’re here.”

Deiq bent a glare on the young ha’ra’ha; Idisio shrugged in response, fragile pathos melting into a flash of hard, cynical indifference. Alyea hid a smile at the brief exchange and turned her attention to the man on the throne.

Though Oruen wore full royal regalia of embroidered robes, jewelry, and crown, she still saw the gangly, rough-dressed man beneath: the one who’d walked along the beach and thrown rocks into the water out of frustration with the madness of the city behind him. But he’d developed some new wrinkles since taking the throne, and more since her departure; at the moment, he looked to be carving every one of them deeper.

“Alyea,” he said. “Good to have you home. Apparently things didn’t . . . quite . . . turn out the way I expected.” He glanced at Idisio, his forehead puckering a little more. “Several things.”

Alyea decided to ignore the lack of title. This didn’t quite feel the right time to press that issue. “May I present my escort, Deiq of Stass,” she said, deciding that if Deiq wanted to claim his real status he could speak up for himself. “And you’ve already met Idisio, I see. He’s . . . under the protection of Peysimun Family.”

“And mine,” Deiq said promptly.

Idisio made no protest at being designated dependant, so Alyea’s guess that he wouldn’t want to discuss his true heritage just at the moment had been right. She relaxed a bit.

Oruen nodded at Deiq, his frown shifting to an expression of strained politeness. “Welcome to my court once again,
s’e
.” He didn’t sound particularly sincere.

Eredion cleared his throat. “I think, as we’re reasonably alone here, it’s time to drop the nonsense, Lord Oruen. You know who—and what—Deiq is.”

Oruen grimaced. “Yes. You’re right. My apologies,
ha’inn
.” The last words sounded forced, and he avoided looking directly at Deiq as he spoke.

Deiq inclined his head, a faint smile appearing on his face. “’Honored One.’ I do like the sound of that.”

Oruen’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Lord Eredion said dryly. “And I believe you owe Idisio the same courtesy, actually.”

Oruen’s eyebrows rose. “Are you telling me a
ha’ra’ha
tried to pick Lord Scratha’s pocket?”

A long silence ensued, in which Idisio’s face turned a bright crimson and the other desert lords stared in open astonishment. Alyea bit her tongue against a bark of disbelief; she’d been told Idisio started out as Scratha’s
servant
, and later discovered his true heritage. But Oruen naming him
thief
was different from a gate guard’s suspicions, and nobody was arguing this time. She couldn’t believe she’d actually spoken in Idisio’s defense at the gates, putting her own reputation on the line—How could Deiq have allowed that? It only took a glance at the lack of surprise on his face to see that he’d known all along.

He lies
. . . Chac had been right, all along.

And now Idisio had “gone walkabout and gotten himself in trouble”, had he? He must have stolen from one of these men. Well,
she
certainly wouldn’t intervene against his punishment. She’d been embarrassed enough already—

She caught Deiq’s stern stare and felt her own face flush. After being annoyed with her mother for jumping to conclusions, she’d done the same thing herself at the first opportunity. She’d seen no sign of faithlessness in Idisio, but a single loose comment had been enough to break her trust in him. Just because he’d been a thief once didn’t mean he still was; Lord Scratha certainly wouldn’t have put up with such behavior, and she didn’t
think
Deiq would either. She looked at the floor, ashamed of herself.

“I think,” Eredion said at last, carefully, “that might need to be explained another time. As it’s a less relevant matter just at the moment.”

Oruen nodded and flicked a hand, but his dark stare stayed pinned on Idisio for some time.

Eredion cleared his throat, glancing at Deiq as though for support, then said with more confidence, “Introductions.” He motioned to the five men standing beside him. “Lord Filin of Darden Family. Lord Geier of Eshan Family, and Lord Madioc of Tereph Family. These other two are in training to become desert lords: Wendic, training under Tereph Family, and Rendill, training under Eshan Family.”

He bent a dark glare at the last two as he named them. They looked barely old enough to shave, and with the gangly arrogance of youth were now openly looking Alyea over.

“I’m honored, my lords,” Alyea said, and hesitated, not sure of the proper address to use for the trainees.

Eredion made a dismissive gesture. “Let’s not stand on formality too hard,” he said. His mouth quirked. “I know my family is famed for propriety, but this really isn’t the time.”

Deiq grinned briefly, then sobered again. “So what is important enough to bring four full lords and two trainees all the way into Bright Bay?”

Alyea blinked, surprised that his first question hadn’t been about Idisio; then realized that whatever had happened obviously involved a much bigger situation than she’d expected. Deiq, of course, had seen that instantly.

Eredion glanced at Alyea, then back to Deiq. “How much does she know?” he asked. “About what really happened with Ninnic?”

“I have no idea,” Deiq said, his mouth thinning as though the question deeply aggravated him. “Ask her.”

“You mean the mad ha’ra’ha who was controlling Ninnic,” Alyea said, and watched, out of the corner of her eye, as Idisio jerked, clearly startled. “Yes. Lord Evkit told me about that.”

Deiq scowled thunderously; Eredion didn’t look pleased to hear that name himself. The trainees stopped ogling Alyea and stood up straight, their expressions now showing startled, wary respect. Oruen leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.

Before the king could speak, Eredion said, “Did Evkit tell you we had to kill it?”

“He didn’t say
who
was involved,” Alyea said carefully, keeping an eye on Idisio.

The boy looked terrified, and she could guess why. He’d only just found out he was a ha’ra’ha; now he’d been presented with the information that ha’ra’hain could go mad, and would then be destroyed by a group of grim-faced men like the ones around him—who already regarded him with intense distrust. It would make anyone nervous.

She added, pointedly, “I believe you had good reason, though.”

Eredion followed her gaze and winced. “Idisio, you’re in no danger from us,” he said hastily. “This was an extremely exceptional situation.”

“And you’re not going mad,” Deiq added. “Believe me, Idisio, I would know, probably long before you did.”

Idisio didn’t seem much relieved by the assurance, but his face regained some color.

“I was involved,” Eredion confirmed, returning to the earlier question. “As was Lord Filin. The two trainees are replacing lords that were lost in the . . . conflict. And two others have gone their separate ways; Lords Geier and Madioc stepped in to replace them. We stayed to clean up the . . . aftereffects.”

“Aftereffects,” Alyea said flatly; found herself briefly amused by the realization that phrasing questions as statements was becoming a habit for her.

“Mm,” Eredion said, uncertain, and glanced at Oruen. The king watched them with a distant expression, his attention mainly fixed on Alyea, as if he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

She ignored him.

“Well,” Eredion said, scratching his cheek, “it was rather a large . . . event. Situation. The . . . child. . . .” He glanced at Idisio apologetically, then went on, “It had been influencing things in Bright Bay for a long time. The city had gotten . . . used to it. Some people, some things had started to almost depend on its presence. We had to keep things from getting out of hand afterward. It’s taken a lot of subtle persuasion in the right spots, at the right moments. And it wasn’t exactly a job we could hand over to the Guard.”