The Hidden Queen, page 6
I hold it up for Olive to see. “Knife was like a part of Mam’s body. She used it for everything from pickin’ her nails to cutting down rock demons, and anythin’ in between. Every important moment of her life, it was in her hand or on her belt.”
Olive nods, smelling impatient, but she does not press me.
“Item like that has emotions imprinted on it,” I say. “Even here in the day I can feel them buzzing against my hand. Mam taught me how to pull magic through a print like that and Read it. Something like the flashes you had in the demon’s mind.”
Again, that scent of revulsion, but now Olive nods in understanding. “What did you learn?”
I shake my head, thankful for the hair in my eyes. “Haven’t done it.”
Olive cocks her head. “Why not?”
“Reckon it would be like readin’ her diary.” I shift my feet. “Personal stuff she might not want folk to see. Be the core to pay next time she saw me, I did that without permission.”
Olive crosses her arms. “You overhear personal stuff all the time, Darin Bales. And what does that matter, if she’s gone?”
“Dun’t,” I agree. “But maybe it says somethin’ I ent been brave enough to risk it. All I know is, until I got real proof Mam ent alive, I’m gonna act like she is.”
Olive looks at me a long time, and there’s love in her scent. “I’ve missed you, Darin.”
“Ay, well.” I shift uncomfortably. “Your mam’s dice said there was a city in the eastern mountains. That was where Bloodfather went looking for them, before he disappeared. If they’re alive, reckon that’s where we’ll find them.”
“A mimic demon hungers beneath a city in an eastern mountain valley.” A flash of anger enters Olive’s scent, and I remember how Aunt Leesha questioned her like a schoolmam for hours, until Olive could read the throw herself.
“It didn’t make sense then,” Olive says, “but I saw it in Alagai Ka’s mind. Mimics are shape-shifters. With the queen dead, Alagai Ka induced this mimic to become a sort of…proto-queen. It isn’t a real queen, but it carries an egg for one. And if it hatches…”
“…then my da died for nothin’,” I finish, “and the rest of us won’t be far behind.”
“So we mount a rescue,” Olive says, “and charge right back off the greatwards.”
“Ay.”
“Solstice is in six weeks,” Olive says. “I mean to be back in Hollow building an army before the festival.”
* * *
—
The caravan yard is even louder than it was when we left. A disgruntled group of Sharum have been shunted off to the side, replaced by Olive’s Princes Unit.
“Merchants ent happy about your men taking over,” I say. “Hear Achman grumblin’ the guards were hand-selected and loyal, and about this contract and that.”
Olive shrugs. The merchants are khaffit, and in Desert Spear, khaffit who disobey the Sharum often don’t live long enough to do it twice.
“They’re all spies anyway,” Olive says. “Achman worked for Belina when they stole me from Hollow. I don’t trust them, and I certainly don’t trust their hired spears.”
“What if Aleveran finds out?” I ask.
“I think he’ll consider twenty of my loyalists out of the city a bargain for getting rid of me,” Olive says.
Selen and Arick lounge in the shade with a group of Olive’s brothers, waiting for the order to move. Everyone’s at their ease, laughing like old friends as Selen spins a story with the ease of a master Jongleur.
“So there I am, chatting up this tall farmer’s son dressed up in his da’s armor,” Selen tells the rapt audience. “While Olive has snuck off to play kissy with the girl he shined on.”
“Prince Olive?!” Gorvan is incredulous. The eyes of the other Sharum go equally wide and they roar, shoving one another in their delight. I cringe at the primitive display, but Selen and Arick just laugh and join in the shoving.
“So I take my helmet off,” Selen continues when the shock has worn off, “and suddenly he’s not so worried about what his little apple-picker’s daughter is up to.”
The warriors look scandalized—everyone is, when Selen tells one of her stories—but again they roar it away.
“But just when things were getting to a boil, up the hill tromps The Biggest Rock Demon. Big enough to blot out the stars! Picks up a stone the size of an outhouse and throws it right into one of the great wardstones! The ward shatters and demons pour into the camp. Suddenly kissy time is over and I’m fumbling for my spear.”
I take a deep breath, inflating a chest suddenly gone tight. Selen Cutter’s the only girl I ever played kissy with. Only one I ever wanted to. But that was a long time ago, and I see now I ent the kind of man she likes.
And why should I be? Selen’s got more in common with warriors than she does with me. Olive Paper is six feet tall, and Selen’s got inches on her. She’s loud. Confident. Beautiful. The men are drawn to her like bees to a flower, and she soaks it in like sunshine. The pheromone stink from that pavilion is overpowering.
So it ent much surprise that Selen Cutter shines too bright to really see me, sneakin’ in the shadows. Don’t expect she’d be impressed even if she did.
“Prince Olive!” Parkot cries as we draw close. “Is it true you kissed an apple-picker’s daughter?”
“Night, Sel,” Olive snaps. “I can’t leave you alone with my men for a quarter hour?”
“Sorry,” Selen calls, but she smells delighted. Nothing Olive and Selen love more than embarrassing each other.
“All right, you lazy logs!” Olive barks as she moves toward the group, but her words are good-natured. “That’s enough of Selen’s kissy stories for one day! On your feet! We’re leaving!” She smells as relaxed among the raucous men as Selen and Arick.
“What was her name?” Menin shouts, as the men start collecting their gear.
“Lanna.” Olive crosses her arms, but I can see the muscles of her face twitching as she fights a smile. “She was pretty as a sunrise, and far too good for you, Menin! Now on the double, and tonight I’ll tell the story of how Selen ended up in a dung stall to keep her father from catching her kissing the stableboy.”
Again the men howl and start shoving, Selen laughing hardest of all. It’s more than I can take, so I slip away amid the sudden bustle of activity, looking for shade and quiet. There will be too much noise and dust as carts and animals and people get moving. Better to wait it out and catch up to the caravan once they’re on the move.
The sun beats down on me with an almost physical weight. It’s the price I pay for my little magic tricks. Even with my hood up and layers of clothes, sunlight leaves me drained, dizzy, and sweaty. Any exposed skin feels like it’s touching a hot skillet.
The nearest escape is Rojvah’s white tent, though with Arick out in the yard, she’ll be alone.
To tell honest word, Rojvah scares me a little. Hard to get a read on her scent sometimes, and I don’t like how she looks at me. Like a bug that both fascinates and disgusts her, and she has half a mind to squash.
But anything’s better than all the stink and noise and dust out here in the hot sun. I move to the shady side of the tent, where the direction of the light lets me see right through the canvas to make sure she’s awake and alone.
I gasp, turning away quick as I can. As Olive promised, Rojvah is strip-searching Dama’ting Belina, and I glimpsed more than was proper.
I hurry away before anyone sees me, but there ent a lot of options as merchants and warriors break down temporary shelters from the sun and stow them on the carts. I find my horse, Dusk Runner, instead. Runner’s a sturdy young courser, and like me, he doesn’t like a crowd. I climb into the saddle and put up the sun shade. It’s not considered manly, but I don’t care. I pull my hood low and lift my pipes, creating a wall of music to drown out the noise as I ride on ahead, putting some distance between me and the rumbling caravan.
The guards at the gates to the Holy City do not hinder me. Why should they? The surrounding city, destroyed by corelings just a few nights past, is no welcoming place.
Many of the streets and buildings are structurally unsound, but still folk brave the ruins. Organized teams salvage building materials, families weep over lost homes and search for heirlooms, and scavengers roam the rest, seeking to loot whatever they can find to help build a new life in the Holy City.
My music turns mournful as I pass through, following the freshly cleared Messenger Road to the remains of the great gate, shattered from the inside out.
* * *
—
The caravan moves slow. I’ve got plenty of time to ride up ahead, and find a bit of afternoon shade to nap in. They stop early to set up camp, and I return just long enough to leave Runner with a groom and let myself be seen by enough folk that Olive and the others won’t worry.
Ent exactly stealing the flat loaves of Krasian bread I snatch from the dinner cart, even though they weren’t handing them out yet. I take the prize and move away from the dusty clay road, into the sands. I walk a mile or so, close enough to hear if there’s a commotion back at camp, but far enough that I won’t have to listen to any more kissy stories told by the fire.
I pull my hood over my eyes and doze through the glare of the setting sun, but I don’t need a rooster to wake me when it finally slips beneath the horizon. I feel it in my whole body as magic begins to vent up from the Core, drifting along the sands until it finds me, clinging like bees on a comb. My night eyes come to life, and my other senses expand with them.
Easy to forget it’s nearly winter during the day, but the temperature drops quickly with the setting of the sun. I can hear the crystals starting to form on the water in my bottle, but cold doesn’t bother me when there’s magic to keep me warm.
The desert is beautiful at night.
Folk say deserts are dead places, but they ent, if you know how to look and listen. In the light, rodents bound across the sand and reptiles skitter and slither after them. Hidden in the dust are dormant seeds and animals, ready to wake with the rain. There is water, too, if you know where to find it, and stubborn plants that cling to the outskirts of the moisture.
Demons rise with the flowing magic. I can see them out in the night, their auras bright pinpricks of light in the darkness, even as their scales blend into the surrounding sands. None are close enough for concern, and Mam’s warded cloak, wrapped around me like a swaddle, would keep them from noticing me in any event.
But then I hear something, off in the distance. Ent the cries of a demon, or the quick feet of a desert animal shushing through the sand. Ent the wind, or the noisy warriors back in camp.
The sound’s up ahead, away from Desert Spear, but I’ve got a bad feeling still. No reason Aleveran couldn’t have sent an ambush to wait down the road.
I get up and breathe out slowly, turning slippery. It’s a trick of magic that lets my particles slide a little farther apart. I’m lighter when I turn slippery, frictionless, and pliable.
Soft sand is as firm as clay under me now, and my feet glide across the surface as I run toward the sound. Don’t expect Olive or Selen would want me going on ahead, but they’d just cause a ruckus coming along, and ruin any chance of surprise.
The buzzing gets louder as I draw closer, white noise coalescing into voices, then accents, then words. A mix of Krasian and Thesan not unlike what is spoken in Desert Spear. Could this be a Majah force, waiting in the right position to attack us on the road?
But then I hear a familiar voice, and crest a small hill, finally getting line of sight to the camp.
“Ay, you gotta be kidding.”
“Sure that’s my da?” Selen squints at the approaching riders, still too far for anyone but Darin to see clearly.
They spotted us this morning. Only one road in the desert, and we’re both heading opposite ways on it. A smaller group has broken off from the main force to ride ahead and meet us. Still, they’re close to our small caravan in number, with reinforcements not far behind.
Darin points to one, towering over those beside. “Know anyone else with a horse that big?”
Uncle Gared’s Angierian mustang, Rockslide, is famous at twenty-one hands tall. Taller than any horse in Hollow, and too big for almost anyone save the general himself to ride.
Coveted as warhorses and draft animals alike, wild Angierian mustangs evolved to survive the naked night—bigger, stronger, and faster than horses bred in captivity. Heavy and powerful enough to flee, fend off, or outright stampede over the field demons hunting the grasslands. Mother surmised some of them must have eaten the meat or licked at the ichor of dead corelings after a stampede, growing larger and more powerful, and passing some of that on to their offspring.
“Ay, that looks like old Rocky.” Selen squints at the silhouettes on the horizon. “But Da ent that…” she makes a vague gesture with both hands around her midsection, “…shape.”
The laugh is welcome. Even with my own men posted around the camp and Belina shackled, it was difficult to find sleep, like there was an asp in my bedding. And now this new variable.
“Honest word,” I agree. “But he’s probably been out searching ever since I disappeared, four months ago. Been away from all those sugar cakes his chef likes to make.”
Just imagining those cakes makes my mouth water and my stomach rumble to life. When was the last time I tasted sugar frosting? After nothing but Krasian food for months, I am suddenly craving Hollow fare.
Selen doesn’t look satisfied. “Four months in the saddle doesn’t turn a barrel into a beanpole.”
“Perhaps not the saddle,” Arick volunteers. “But if he’s been off the greatwards, fighting alagai’sharak…”
I grunt at that. I’ve seen what feedback magic from fighting demons can do to a body, pushing it to its physical prime. None of my spear brothers—myself included—had found our full growth when we were thrust into combat. A short few weeks later we had put on inches and pounds of muscle as if five summers had passed.
My brothers gloried in the strength and reach of their new adult bodies, though mine presented problems, as well. Even now, my breasts are flattened and bound beneath my armor, lest someone see me remove it and ask questions I am not ready to answer.
But there is another effect of the magic, more coveted by the warrior class. Just as it pushes a young body into fullness before its natural time, magic can restore aging warriors to their fighting prime. “If he’s been killing demons as they cross the desert…”
“Demons came to their camp last night,” Darin says, “and they didn’t leave it to the wards. Cutters put their axes right to work. Saw Uncle Gared strangle a sand demon with just his gauntlets.”
The words exhilarate me. I would love to have seen that. To witness the general—the most storied warrior in Hollow—in action. To test myself beside him. I imagine what it would be like to choke a thrashing demon. The rush of power from the wards on my gauntlets. The…dominance of it. My fist tightens, and I feel my heart pumping.
But then I catch sight of Darin, and my blood cools a little. Darin looks more haunted than enthused at the memory. Like he’s about to sick up. He’s too gentle for this. Not for the first time, I wish he hadn’t come, even as I love him like a brother for doing so.
“How many spears do they have?” I ask.
“Four hundred, countin’ axes,” Darin says. “And no hangers-on. Two hundred Cutters and a like number of Sharum’ting.”
“So two hundred warriors,” Gorvan laughs, “and a like number to cook their meals and warm their beds!”
Selen doesn’t hesitate, turning and shoving Gorvan so hard he loses his feet entirely, crashing to his backside in the dust.
“Say that again,” Selen growls as Gorvan scrambles back to his feet, glaring at her.
Such challenges were commonplace in sharaj, but rare for Gorvan, the largest and strongest boy in our class. Only Chadan, with his superior training, and I, with my enhanced strength, ever dared.
But Selen shows no sign of backing down. She’s taller than Gorvan, but he outweighs her, all of it muscle and heavy bone. Gorvan is loyal, but he is a brute, and takes pleasure in dominating other men. I’ve been thinking of making him my drillmaster.
Men striking women is a crime in the North, but there are no such provisions in Krasia. Gorvan seems eager to return the blow, but he is not a fool. Selen is my mother’s sister, and a princess in her own right. My spear brother glances at me for permission, and I know it will shame Selen if I refuse.
“Got this, Sel?” I ask, hiding the nerves in my voice.
“Stay out of it.” Selen never takes her eyes off Gorvan.
I shrug and give Gorvan a nod. Selen isn’t unnaturally strong like me, but she’s about as naturally strong as one can be, and I know firsthand how she fights. She’s got the edge in skill if not muscle.
The Princes form a circle, shouting, and the merchants, no fools when opportunity presents itself, start calling odds for wagers.
But when Gorvan turns and launches an attack, Selen doesn’t bother with sharusahk. She slips a punch, sidesteps a kick, then launches herself at Gorvan’s thigh, grabbing it and stealing his balance, slamming him back down into the dust.
Selen’s got three younger brothers, all of them built like goldwood trees and taught to wrestle since they were old enough to run. She’s been putting them in their place a long time now, and this is no different. Gorvan’s weight and muscle aren’t worth as much on the ground, and Selen is faster at getting a hold. Her arms redden as she begins to squeeze, and Gorvan bellows in pain as his shoulder threatens to twist free of its socket. More insidiously, Selen’s forearm is pressed against the artery in his neck, cutting off the flow of blood to his brain.
