Guardians of the Desert (Children of the Desert) (4 page)

“Don’t be dense,” Faer said. “They don’t have desert lords at all.”

“Excuse me?” Irrio said, nodding towards Azaniari. “They don’t?”

“I stopped considering myself a member of Aerthraim Family a long time ago, Lord Irrio,” Azaniari cut in without hesitation. “And I believe they still return the feeling. I
asked
not to be introduced as Aerthraim at this Conclave.” She cut a sharp stare at Scratha, who lifted one shoulder in a tiny, unapologetic shrug.

“What you
consider yourself
isn’t the question,” Irrio responded, frowning at her. Alyea thought he seemed disproportionately miffed over the slight to her status. “Legally, like it or not, you are considered an Aerthraim desert lord, representing Aerthraim Family at this Conclave.”

Azaniari flicked a hand and shook her head as though warning Irrio to let it drop. Her ornately beaded earrings, shaped like dangling feathers, chinkled and swayed with the movement.

“In any case, Lord Faer is correct that Aerthraim Family wouldn’t take Alyea in as a desert lord,” Azaniari said, “so that’s not an option, either. Lord Scratha, do you have any ideas?”

Everyone looked up the table at Scratha, but Alyea spoke first. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not going to apply to anyone. You called it right; I’m an independent. I don’t need to join any desert Family.”

Azaniari smiled as though deeply amused by a private joke.

“That’s ludicrous,” Faer protested. “You can’t do that!”

“Why not?” Alyea said. “I’m going back north after this Conclave, and I’ve no real intent of returning. I don’t see any need to live south of the Horn.”

Rest quavered, “But nobody’s
told
you?”

“Told me what?” Alyea glanced around the table, noting that Scratha looked faintly embarrassed. Nobody seemed inclined to speak; even Deiq dropped his stare to his hands and avoided her eyes. “
What?
”

Deiq cleared his throat. Without lifting his gaze, he said, “Desert lords don’t like to travel far from their fortresses. They don’t like losing contact with their Family—protector.”

Alyea wondered if that tiny hesitation meant anything other than a momentary search for the right word; wondered why he hadn’t simply said
ha’rethe
. But the conversation went on without pause, and she let the question go for the moment.

“It’s like going
deaf
,” Rest said violently. “Blind. Mute. You can’t
feel
anything.”

“At least if you travel to another Family fortress you have courtesy-rights,” Rowe added, his plump face creasing in distressed lines. “The local ha’rethe honors you as a lord. But if you go beyond any ha’rethe’s range . . . it’s horrible.” He shuddered.

Idisio’s expression shifted to startled understanding; although what he’d suddenly seen clearly, Alyea had no idea. Probably something to do with the time he’d spent traveling in Scratha’s company.

Alyea protested, “But Lord Azaniari—and Eredion! And Lord Scratha spent plenty of time in Bright Bay.”

“Well, Bright Bay’s about as far as you can go and still have any sight,” Rowe said. He glanced at Azaniari.

The thin, elderly woman shrugged. “It’s peaceful, living outside the range,” she said. “I’ve enjoyed it, actually.” She smiled at Alyea. “It’s not as bad as they make out,” she added gently. “They’re spoiled, that’s all.”

Irrio shot her a hard stare, and Alyea thought she saw a flicker of something tormented in the man’s eyes; but it passed too quickly to be sure.

Scratha snorted. “It’s not fun,” he said. “I rode from Bright Bay to Sandlaen Port and thought I was losing my mind. Nobody warned
me
.” He shot a hard glare around the table again.

“Nobody thought you’d be mad enough to ride past Bright Bay,” Faer said with surprising acerbity. “Why would we warn you? We never think of it ourselves.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” Alyea said. “I do have family of my own in Bright Bay, you know. I can represent Peysimun Family.” The notion startled her even as she said it, but felt right in a way she had no words for.

“You
can’t
,” Rest said, the quaver firming into anger. “Even if you can endure the discomfort, the politics won’t allow it! A desert lord for a northern family? Let you wander around the northlands with no obligations to the south at all? Madness!”

“Rather like what I’ve done for years,” Scratha noted dryly.

“Not at all!” Rest snapped. “You’re part of a proper southern Family! You always knew you had a reputation, a community, a responsibility! She’s. . . .” He waved a hand in the air. “It’s impossible. Her family has no idea how to handle a desert lord. They’d ruin her, or she’d ruin them. You’ll have to take her in, Scratha.”

“I don’t
have
to do anything,” Scratha said. He leaned back in his chair and seemed to be enjoying the moment. “If you recall, I had nothing at all to do with Lord Alyea taking the trials. I wasn’t consulted, advised, or involved in any way. So no
have to
attaches to me.” He steepled his fingers under his chin and looked at Alyea. “Do you intend to apply to me, Lord Alyea, for membership in Scratha Family?” His tone, while utterly courteous, still held enough ice to warn her what the answer needed to be.

“I do not,” Alyea said firmly. “I have no interest in being a part of any desert Family.”
Especially not Scratha
, she carefully held silent; saw the glitter in Scratha’s eyes and knew he understood.

“Oruen will be terribly disappointed to hear that,” Irrio said. “Didn’t he send you down here to take control of Scratha Fortress? And you’re really going to trot back empty-handed? How remarkable.”

“My original charge,” she said carefully, with a quick look to Scratha’s stony expression, “involved responsibility for the fortress during Lord Scratha’s absence.”

“Good gods, don’t get this started again,” Faer cut in. “Irrio, don’t be an ass. We don’t need to go into the regrettable misunderstandings involved in Lord Scratha’s absence. It’s sorted out. The man’s here; he’s bound; the issue’s over and settled.”

“Not quite over,” Irrio observed. “There’s the matter of an heir. Or lack thereof.” He smirked.

Gria’s face went from white to red to white again; and Scratha stood, leaning forward to rest his fisted hands on the table. Before either one could say anything, Azaniari said in a loud, heavily-tried voice, “Knock it off, you two. Get back to the question at hand, which is Lord Alyea’s investment. There’s no law that she has to be part of a desert Family. Sit down, Cafad.” She smacked the desert lord’s taut arm with one hand, sparing him only a brief glare; Alyea glimpsed a small sepia design inked on the palm of her hand. “And Irrio, quit needling him. You know that isn’t a valid Council issue to raise right now.”

Alyea had to smile; Azaniari sounded like a mother scolding two quarreling children.

“No law,” Faer said with evident relief as Scratha sank slowly back into his chair and Irrio dropped his glare to his hands, “but is it entirely wise?”

“Wise or unwise, what we have is what sits before us,” Azaniari said crisply. “We can’t force Lord Alyea to be a part of a desert Family, and there’s no legal reason to deny her investment. Call it, my lords, and have done! Raise a legitimate objection or welcome her as a desert lord.” She slapped her right hand down on the table in front of her, palm down, and aimed a severe stare around the table.

After a moment, one by one, each desert lord copied her motion, most of them looking severely disgruntled about it. Evkit, Alyea noted, actually seemed amused about something. That worried her; she trusted Evkit even less than she trusted Deiq.

“That’s over with, then,” Azaniari said cheerfully, winking at Alyea. “Let’s finish the remaining business and move on to my favorite part: the after-Conclave feast.”

“Sounds good, but I think I’ll pass on the coffee this time,” Alyea said dryly, and was rewarded with a round of relaxed laughter. Even Evkit pulled a pained face and joined in with a brief chuckle.

“Well done,” Deiq murmured as talk turned to relatively minor matters needing rulings. “But watch Evkit—he’s got something in mind. I don’t like that look on his face.”

“You sound like Chacerly,” she sighed. “He would have said the same thing.”

“That’s because he’s no fool,” Deiq said. “When a teyanin smiles, you count your fingers and toes to see what’s missing; when a teyanin lord smiles, you check to see if your throat’s been cut. And as this one’s
the
lord of the teyanain, he’s doing far too much smiling for my comfort.”

Eredion knew the dead woman.

Even though he’d sent her to her death years before, her face, laughter, and scent remained in his memory, as clear as his knowledge of northern family trees, as enduring as the echo of Rosin Weatherweaver’s laughter.

Eredion put his torch into a nearby holder and knelt by the long-cold remains, noting the lack of decay and scavenger damage; the creature that killed her hadn’t liked anything, not even natural processes, touching its toys.

In what little fairness Eredion felt able to extend, it hadn’t actually
intended
to kill her. It had only wanted . . . to make friends. To play. Unfortunately, its understanding of
play
came from Rosin Weatherweaver.

If a ha’ra’ha couldn’t resist Rosin’s manipulations, what chance did a simple desert lord have? But Eredion didn’t—couldn’t—accept that excuse.

I could have walked away. I could have exiled myself, risked being disowned, let someone else stand there and stare into that horrible grin every damn day. . . .

No. I chose to stay because I was afraid who they might send to replace me . . . and what would happen if I wasn’t there to at least try to rein in the madness.

But would Kallia thank me for that? I doubt it.

He began reaching out to close her bulging eyes; stopped and sat back on his heels with a dry bark of self-disgust.
I could have saved her. She wouldn’t even have come to Rosin’s attention if not for me.
He shut his eyes, but that only made the pressure of bitter memory and self-recrimination worse.

Damn me, if I’m not already, for this alone. Oh, Kallia. . . .

He sucked in a breath through his teeth, focusing on the taste of the moldy, rot-filled air, then forced himself to stretch out his hand again. As soon as his trembling fingertips brushed the dank flesh, it exploded like a puffball mushroom gone to spore, flinging long-repressed rot and mold in all directions—including across Eredion’s face.

He coughed and spat, his eyes hot and watery. The thick mask secured across the lower half of his face blocked most of the evil mucus, but he had to rinse his eyes out with a precious handful of water from his flask before his vision cleared.

“Little enough revenge,” he muttered at last, looking down at what remained of her face.

With a deep sigh, he began to recite prayers: one for cleansing a tormented soul, one beseeching forgiveness for wrongs done, and an invocation of all three gods in their proper aspects, to guide and bless the dead wanderer into the proper realm.

This was his fourteenth such recitation this morning.

Far overhead, the palace bells began to count off another hour towards noon: far too many of which, like the bodies in these dank catacombs, remained.

By noon, Eredion gathered nearly enough human remains to fill the charnel-cart. Mostly he found piles of bones, many chewed—he felt a surge of nausea every time he found another one like that—but some entire, and even stacked in elaborate patterns, as though the creature had
played
with them.

Eredion hated dismantling those. The bone sculptures emanated a slick, oily aura that had nothing to do with tactile senses; but once he overcame revulsion and picked them respectfully apart, chanting prayers of cleansing as he worked, the remains lost that grotesque awfulness and became simply dead bone.

Even the air felt cleaner afterwards, which made moving on easier.

Still, by the time the Palace bells rang the noon hour, his head ached as though a thousand blacksmiths hammered at his skull, the inside of his mouth tasted like the leftovers of a four-day drunk, and he wanted to get the hells out of the catacombs.

He’d bring the charnel-cart to the grave keeper; she would do her own prayers and ceremonies and burn the day’s recovered remains on the giant graveyard slab, and then Eredion could go take a nice hot bath and get very, very drunk for the rest of the day.

And not think about having to come back tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after.

His attention fixed dreamily on that bath—and the drinking—he reached out to open a plain black metal door and found the latch secured by a huge padlock looped through sturdy metal bars welded to the door itself. It wasn’t too unusual for a door in the catacombs to be locked; it only meant that the person behind that door had once held value to Rosin.

But nobody had opened that door for months. Only Eredion dared enter, laboring day after day to remove the worst of the gory hell as part of his self-imposed penance. Bit by bit, he had found and opened the secret passages, the secret rooms; but Eredion knew his ignorance kept him moving through the catacombs far too slowly.

If anyone had breathed behind this door when Rosin died, they wouldn’t be doing so now.

Eredion raised the sledgehammer, guilt and frustration surging like fire into his muscles, and shattered the padlock with one gigantic blow.

As the door sagged open, shaken free by the tremors of his attack, the darkness within flowed out, enveloping Eredion in a cloak lined with a thousand tearing claws.

He caught a brief glimpse of a tormented, grey-eyed stare; then an all-too-familiar pain racked through every nerve in his body.

Oh, gods, not again!
Eredion thought hazily.

The floor came up under him and consciousness, mercifully, fled.