The Hidden Queen, page 9
Then it’s all shouting and cursing and stabbing. Wet, horrible noises, and the sounds of hatred too great to contain. I feel battered by it. Sick.
“Done your part, Darin, but this ent a place for you!” Gared barks. “Git behind the wards!”
I want to argue, but in my heart I know he’s right. The sounds of battle, the smell of blood and ichor and spilling bowels, the horrific sights and the slick, slimy ground are too much for me.
Olive’s confidence was well founded. The demons would have overwhelmed our small caravan, but with the general’s forces, they are beaten back. I can hear in their shrieks that they are ready to break and run.
The warriors roar with the final push, unified and proud. Arick is among them, his hesitance gone. Even Rojvah remains with the fighters as I slink off and hide like a coward, trying to shut it all out.
I’ve underestimated Darin again.
I’ve always loved music, but have neither desire nor ear for making it. Mother’s tutors drilled the history of spellsong into me like a thousand other subjects, but I’d never seen it in practice on the battlefield at scale. The Majah do not implement spellsong in combat, preferring to fight in the old ways. I learned to command warriors in the Maze with spear and shield, ward and wit, not this subtle art.
But now…applications are coming to me faster than I have time to consider in the heat of combat. This is a powerful weapon against the demons, and we will need every advantage in the months to come.
Still, for all his power, I am relieved when Darin finally takes cover. He’s braver than he knows, but Darin’s always been too sensitive for fighting. Even a benign crowd can be too much for him, much less the chaotic cacophony of violent melee.
Back when we were kids in Hollow, Darin had me and Selen to bully folk away from him whenever he had one of his…episodes. Out here, they’re a liability that could get him killed.
Rojvah and Arick, on the other hand, make a great team. I can see sharusahk training in how she moves, but Rojvah doesn’t fight. Doesn’t need to. Her song does the work for her, keeping alagai confused and off balance for Arick and the other warriors to dispatch.
Selen warned me that Arick was at risk of losing control under the influence of feedback magic, but there is no sign of it in his focused, efficient protection of his sister. I’ve seen the look of men hungry for the rush of magic, and the wild actions of those caught up in it. Arick is anything but wild. His spear and shield move in perfect harmony as he rolls around Rojvah, driving off or killing any demon that ventures too close to her path. Rojvah strolls the battlefield with impunity, moving to bolster warriors wherever the fighting is fierce.
I, too, look for those hot spots, letting none falter where I can offer support. Gared and Selen fight at my right, and at my left, Faseek and Gorvan are ever present, guarding me with shield and spear as they relay my commands to our brothers down the line.
It feels right, my Princes fighting beside Hollow’s finest warriors. For so long I’ve struggled to understand my place in the world, but perhaps I have found it at last. I can be a bridge between people, rallying us back to strength, if time enough remains.
Thanks to Darin, the clay demons that burrowed into the camp did not have time to mar the wards or cause too much damage before we came and swept them out.
The alagai sense the changing tide of battle and flee before they are completely destroyed, but we have done plenty of damage to the storm. All around, Cutters and Sharum finish off injured demons before they can heal.
It’s a victory, but for all the glory of the fallen alagai, there is a price among our own. Brothers and sisters lie dead on the sands, and with the demons gone, the camp sounds of the familiar groans and rapid breath of warriors too proud to cry out.
“Gather the wounded,” I tell my lieutenants. My hand drops to the healing pouch at my waist as I scan the carnage, wondering who to help first, but as the heat of battle cools, I realize that even with Rojvah’s help, this is beyond my skills. I can stem a bleeding artery or cleanse and close a wound, but this…
Belina exits her tent as these thoughts run through my mind. The dama’ting has taken pains to avoid me thus far on the journey, but now she approaches boldly, meeting my gaze with a steady one of her own as she holds out a hand.
“I will need my hanzhar,” she says, referring to the razor-sharp curved knife dama’ting use in both combat and surgery, “my herb pouch, and hora.”
The words send a chill down the back of my neck, and I shiver inside my Tazhan armor. Even without hora, a dama’ting with herbs and her hanzhar is deadly dangerous. With demonbone to work magic, she could easily escape, or worse.
“Absolutely not,” I tell her.
“Do not be a fool, son of Ahmann,” she tells me. “I have seen your skill at healing, but this is beyond you. Will you sacrifice limbs and lives to keep your illusion of control?”
I draw a slow breath, embracing my fears, and blow them back out. She’s right. I knew it as I spoke the words to refuse. Rojvah and I have some training, but neither of us has a fraction of the knowledge and experience of one who has taken the white veil.
If Belina escaped, where could she go? She would not be welcome in Desert Spear, even if she managed to cross days and nights of open desert to return. She wouldn’t get far with the armlet on, in any event. She might attempt to kill me and take the control piece, but I don’t see how it could end well for her even if she succeeded.
So I return her tools, and pray I haven’t made a terrible mistake.
* * *
—
The demons do not return in numbers again as we cross the sands. Alagai Ka’s influence is limited between new moons, and we put the fear of the Creator into that storm. By the time the demon king can rise and exert control again, we will be safe in the summer palaces of my father’s court in New Krasia.
I hear a sound in the distance one morning as we cross the seemingly endless clay flats at the outskirts of the desert. The cracked clay is easier for the horses and wagons, but somehow feels even more lifeless than the sands.
Darin points to a hill in the distance. “They’ve spotted us from Lookout Hill. Crack the reins and we’ll be in Everam’s Watch by nightfall.”
I can’t see this Lookout Hill even with a distance lens, but I trust Darin. Indeed, the hill and town become clear by afternoon, when the clay flats have given way to spare vegetation and signs of life. By the time we reach proper green and the village at the desert’s edge, I can see a formal escort waiting for us. Male Sharum warriors, outnumbering our entire force, Ashia’s Sharum’ting included.
“Be ready for anything,” I tell my lieutenants. The Princes gather close, surrounding me, and Gared similarly puts a guard of Cutters up front.
“Have no fear,” Ashia says, pointing to a white turban on one of the warriors who rides to the fore as we come into sight. “That is your brother Hoshkamin, the Sharum Ka.”
“That doesn’t reassure me,” I say, remembering my treatment at the hands of my brother Iraven.
“That is wise,” Ashia says. “Not all of your siblings are to be trusted. But I know Hoshkamin well. If he is here personally, the Damajah must have foretold your return and sent him here to ensure we reach Everam’s Bounty in safety.”
I let it go at that, resisting the urge to loosen my spear in its harness. We are close to the assembled warriors when the dama’ting appears. Set against all the men in black, she looks like an apparition in her flowing white robes. The men give her a wide berth. It is a crime to lay hands on a Bride of Everam or hinder her in any way.
“Is Princess Olive among you?” Prince Hoshkamin asks as we pull up before the force blocking the road.
I lift the turban from my sweaty head, hanging it on the horn of my saddle. “I am Olive Paper, brother.”
Hoshkamin blinks, taken aback. His eyes flick to Ashia, who gives the slightest nod.
“Of course.” My half brother swallows his confusion, removing his own turban helm and dismounting with the grace of an acrobat, even with armor of warded glass over his Sharum blacks. He bows deeply to me. “We are relieved to see you returned safely to the lands of your father, Princess.”
“Prince.” I match his dismount and bow, showing equality, not deference. The word is no more accurate than princess, really, but I know how women were treated in old Krasia. New Krasia may be more enlightened, but it is still a patriarchy, and I will not cede the power I have fought so hard for among my southern relations.
The dama’ting glides up to me, her bow much shallower than Hoshkamin’s but still a sign of respect. “Welcome…child of Ahmann. Is it true Dama’ting Belina travels with you?”
“Tsst.” I turn to see Belina looking out the window of the carriage that serves as her makeshift prison. She is not allowed to leave it unescorted, but I let her have the view. The dama’ting’s dignity would not allow her to climb through a carriage window to escape, even if her curves would allow it.
Linavah catches sight of her, as well. “Hello, Mother. The Damajah foretold you would return with Prince Olive, but I did not want to believe it.”
Belina has a rare moment of speechlessness, but I can see her skin pale slightly at the words. Linavah’s disgust is palpable.
She inclines her head, and a group of eunuchs detach from the other warriors, distinguished by the gold shackles at their wrists and ankles. The men are said to volunteer for the shackles of dama’ting guards, though the price is high.
The eunuchs move to push past the Princes I have guarding Belina’s cart, and the men look to me before responding.
I don’t know what drama is playing out between these two, but I know when someone is attempting to take power from me, and I won’t have it. I gesture, and my men lock shields, barring the way. The eunuchs similarly raise arms, but show no further aggression. Both groups are well trained, waiting on further orders, and I breathe my relief at that.
I turn back to Linavah. “Belina is my prisoner, sister. Given to me by Damaji Aleveran in recompense for the blood debt she owes me.”
Linavah does not react, but I recognize the artificial calm of a dama’ting in control. Favah tried to teach me the art, but I was never good at hiding my feelings.
“My mother is ginjaz.” Linavah uses the Krasian word for “traitor.” “She and all Majah cowards who abandoned their posts before the final battle of Sharak Ka.”
My Princes are disciplined, but they are still men, and they chafe at being called cowards and ginjaz. I can feel their tension, hear their grumbles. Gorvan spits at the golden anklets of the eunuch facing him. This will erupt into bloodshed, orders or no, if it goes on much longer.
I turn back to Linavah and see her eyes crinkle condescendingly. “You see…sister, our blood debt predates yours.”
Wisdom dictates I let this go. I don’t want Belina. The Damajah can have her, for all I care.
But now my blood is up, too.
I spit at Linavah’s feet, and everyone gasps. Even Ashia lets out a “Tsst!,” but I need them all to know this is serious. “Belina is in my custody, sister. Sharak Ka is not over. I have seen this, and so declare your debt unfounded. The Majah are no traitors.”
At last, a break in the vaunted dama’ting calm, as Linavah’s brows tremble with anger. “I spent half my life among Majah, brother. They are zealots, minds still stuck in the sand even after our father, the Shar’Dama Ka, led them to the green lands. That is why Aleveran returned to Desert Spear. To strip women and khaffit of the rights our father gave them, and drag our people back into the past because they were too afraid to face the future.”
More shifting from my men. This isn’t going well.
I take a step toward Linavah. My hands are open and at my sides, but like her mother, she stands below five feet, and I am over six. I look down at her, and can feel her tension as she tries to maintain serenity.
“You’re not wrong about Aleveran,” I agree. “He is a man ruled by his grievances, and he punishes his own people for it.”
Linavah nods. “Just as Everam left demons in the sands to punish cowards and ginjaz.”
“Everam does not work His will through alagai!” My shout is manipulative. I don’t believe in Everam, but I know most if not all of the assembled warriors do. I take another step forward. Linavah holds her shrinking ground, but around us I feel everyone tense. If I so much as touch her, there will be blood.
“I have shed blood with the Majah in alagai’sharak, sister. Night after night after night in the Maze. They are no cowards.” I lean in closer, lowering my voice. “And if you call my spear brothers ginjaz again, dama’ting or no, I will put you down.”
Linavah’s eyes widen, and then she glares. Has anyone ever dared speak to her thus? Her mind must be racing now. The law forbids a man to lay hands on a dama’ting, but until this meeting, the world knew me as Princess Olive, daughter of Duchess Paper.
I see her veil bow inward as she takes breath to reply, and I cut her off. “Test me and see if I don’t.”
Before Linavah can reply, Hoshkamin breaks the tension. “We can encircle their entire force, sister. Your mother will not escape before the Damajah has a chance to greet her.”
Linavah takes another breath, and then steps backward, giving a quick series of gestures in the finger language of eunuchs that makes them stand down. “The Damajah will hear of this.”
I snort loudly. “I will tell her myself of the disrespect I encountered on my first visit to Father’s domain.”
Linavah turns and glides away, and I wonder if it is a mistake, to make an enemy of her when she would better be a friend. I have no allies in New Krasia, and do not know what the Damajah will say when I stand before the Skull Throne. But I entered Majah lands a prisoner, my rank and powers stripped away. I will not suffer that a second time.
* * *
—
The remainder of the journey passes quickly, and in comfort. Scouts mounted on light-footed coursers race back and forth along the road, and the villages where we stop for the night open their finest inns and restaurants to our officers and royals. Even the rank and file billet in comfort in fallow fields with full bellies and fresh supply.
The coming winter strikes with less force in New Krasia than the freezing desert nights, or home in the North where snows will soon fall, but still I feel a chill as night descends. Massive obelisks, carved with wards of protection, stand in the village centers and enclose their perimeters. No demon is said to have set foot in New Krasia in more than a decade, but still my Princes and I keep our weapons close.
It is another week before we reach Everam’s Bounty, the seat of my father’s power. But Father is missing, like Mother and Mrs. Bales. The last time that happened, my brother Asome attempted a coup and tore our people apart. Ashia assures me that will not happen again, but I am less trusting these days.
We are met at the palace by another priestess, this one in the white robes and black headscarf of a Damaji’ting. Beside her, I am surprised to find a familiar face. Politics might have prevented my father from visiting Hollow, but Abban the khaffit visited often, as his emissary.
“Olive!” Abban steps forward, thumping one of his camel-headed crutches against the marble steps. “It is good to see you well!” He makes no mention of my change in appearance since I saw him last.
“Please allow me to present Damaji’ting Amanvah, who…”
I lay a gentle hand on Abban’s shoulder, and he falls silent as I walk past. He is like an uncle to me, but it is Amanvah who holds my attention now. My eldest sister, who cut me from Mother’s womb when I was too strong to birth naturally, perhaps saving both our lives.
Amanvah doesn’t tense as I approach. Instead she does something unexpected, opening her arms to me, uncaring of my dusty armor and clothes. I accept the embrace even as the others look on in shock. “It is good to see you home, sibling,” she whispers in my ear. “I am so proud of you.”
It is my turn to look surprised. Of course Amanvah, who was there at my birth, knows my secret. But she, too, was the one whose foretelling cast me into the guise of princess for half my life.
“Everam’s will cannot be denied,” she answers my unspoken words. “You are who you were always meant to be.”
She turns to regard Rojvah and Arick. “Of my reckless children, I am less proud. We will speak of this later.”
The twins, so brave against a demon storm, immediately cast their eyes down. “Yes, Mother.”
“They have earned honor and glory to make any parent proud,” I dare to say.
“Perhaps,” Amanvah agrees. “But that does not justify sneaking off into the night without a word.”
I grit my teeth, wanting to argue, as I did with Linavah. My own mother did much the same when I similarly snuck off, but it wouldn’t have happened if she had accepted me for who I was, and not who she wanted me to be. If she had prepared me better for the realities of the world.
But where Belina is my responsibility, I am not interested in inserting myself into this fight. It will be for Rojvah and Arick to fight for themselves.
Amanvah offers me a slight bow. “The Damajah accepts your claim of blood debt with Dama’ting Belina, sibling, but she wishes to meet in private with her errant sister-wife. I ask that you temporarily relinquish control of her for the meeting, with assurance that Belina will remain detained, and shall be returned to you when you are ready.”
I bow in return, more relieved than frustrated. “Thank you for your respect, sister. Had Linavah spoken thusly, perhaps some…unseemliness could have been avoided.”
