Fires of the Desert

By Leona Wisoker

Book 4 of the Children of the Desert series.

Lord Alyea Peysimun gambles everything.
Deiq of Stass makes an unexpected commitment.
Lord Eredion Sessin trades loyalty for ethics.

Don't ever call it love.

Since her return from the southlands, Alyea has been de facto Head of a newly minted, not-yet-official desert Family—in Bright Bay. Recent events have exposed her enemies and foiled their plans. But things grow only more complicated. She must risk everything to protect what matters—and redefine her understanding of loyalty. What she does next will send yet another shockwave through power structures both north and south.

For centuries Deiq has stood poised on the razor edge between man and monster. The conflict has left him exhausted and suicidal, and he risks even worse if the Jungles find out what he's been up to. When he discovers himself in the midst of a war between rival teyanain factions, the conflicting pressures on him reach new heights. If it is true that ha'ra'hain have souls, Deiq will bet his on the people and cause to which he commits himself. Not even the teyanain can predict what will happen next.

Eredion has had more than enough of Bright Bay, but the situation is too precarious for him to retire as Sessin liaison to the king: he has long since moved past restricting himself to protecting Sessin interests, and is trying to rebuild sanity in the Northern Kingdom. When the Head of Sessin Family takes the decision out of his hands, Eredion must confront the gap between what is expected of him and what he believes to be right.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReAnimus Press
• Release date: Dec 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310312083

Leona Wisoker

Leona Wisoker writes speculative fiction that usually involves coffee but rarely involves Arthurian legend. She also teaches, edits, reviews, and blogs about her journey from amateur to professional writer. Visit Leona Wisoker's website: www.leonawisoker.com for behind the scenes information, background, upcoming appearances and new releases. Her blog is at leonawisoker.wordpress.com. You can also follow Leona on Facebook: facebook.com/wisokerwriting and on Twitter: @leonawisoker

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Praise for Children of the Desert

The final product put me in awe of where the world-building skills of Wisoker are at this early stage of her career...reminiscent of something out of an Ursula K. LeGuin novel in detail and complexity. Wisoker, like the best authors of this genre, has created a completely original society upon which to tell her story.

—SF Site

intriguing...engaging.

—Publishers Weekly

An absorbing story, a unique world, and fascinating characters. Leona Wisoker is definitely a writer to watch!

—Tamora Pierce

...a lushly visual and highly detailed world of desert tribes, a language of beads, and a unique way of viewing the world.

—Library Journal

"Leona Wisoker is a gifted storyteller and in Secrets of the Sands she has succeeded in crafting a refreshingly unpredictable tale set in a stunningly rich and detailed world."

—Michael J. Sullivan, author of the Riyria Revelations series

"For its complexity, intriguing story, and (as in the first volume) for its characters I find totally fascinating, I heartily recommend Guardians of the Desert."

—SF Revu

A storyteller with a good deal of promise. Give this one a try.

— CJ Cherryh

You realize it’s been too long sine you’ve read a Leona Wisoker novel the moment you pick up a new one and begin reading. Momentarily overwhelmed by the staggering amount of pages and the density of the copy, you are immediately drawn in by the writing and, within a few pages, you are already regretting that a book which seemed so large now suddenly appears depressingly short. Thank the gods there is a fourth on the way already. A world without new fiction from this talented scribe is simply a world too sad to contemplate.

—C.J. Henderson

With a flair for evoking exotic locales and an eye for detail, Leona Wisoker has crafted a first novel peopled by characters who are more than they first seem. From the orphaned street-thief who possesses an uncanny ability to read situations and people, to the impetuous noblewoman thrust into a world of political intrigue, Wisoker weaves a colourful tapestry of desert tribes, honour, revenge, and an ancient, supernatural race.

—Janine Cross, author of the Dragon Temple Saga

Wisoker makes a praiseworthy work when it comes to world building, creating with care and without haste a strong world, one piece at a time...another unique element of the story which...certainly will be developed more in the series’ next novels.

—Dark Wolf’s Fantasy Reviews

FIRES OF THE DESERT

by

LEONA WISOKER

Produced by ReAnimus Press

Other books by Leona Wisoker:

Secrets of the Sands

Guardians of the Desert

Bells of the Kingdom

© 2014 by Leona Wisoker. All rights reserved.

http://ReAnimus.com/authors/leonawisoker

Interior illustrations by Ari Warner Copyright © 2009

Cover illustration Copyright © 2012 by Aaron Miller

Cover design by Rachael Murasaki Ish

Smashwords Edition Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

~~~

For my mom, who stuck with me through it all.

~~~

Table of Contents

Praise for Children of the Desert

Children of the Desert series

Acknowledgements

Royal Library Map no. 123

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Chapter Forty-five

Chapter Forty-six

Chapter Forty-seven

Chapter Forty-eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-one

Chapter Fifty-two

Chapter Fifty-three

Chapter Fifty-four

Chapter Fifty-five

Chapter Fifty-six

Chapter Fifty-seven

Chapter Fifty-eight

Chapter Fifty-nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-one

Chapter Sixty-two

Chapter Sixty-three

Chapter Sixty-four

Chapter Sixty-five

Chapter Sixty-six

Chapter Sixty-seven

Chapter Sixty-eight

Epilogue One

Epilogue Two

Glossary and Pronunciation Guide

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Children of the Desert series

by Leona Wisoker

Book One: Secrets of the Sands

Book Two: Guardians of the Desert

Book Three: Bells of the Kingdom

Book Four: Fires of the Desert

Book Five: Servants of the Sands (forthcoming)

Acknowledgements

This book, as with all my books, could not have been written without a wide network of support and encouragement. I’ve gone into great detail on names and reasons, in the Acknowledgements of previous volumes, so this time around, I’ll just say: ditto to all of it, and ten times on the gratitude.

I still consider myself very lucky to have found a home under Mercury Retrograde Press’s wing, and to have the marvelous artwork of Aaron Miller and Ari Warner gracing my novels.

Thank you to each and all, and may the adventure continue to unfold for all of us!

Royal Library Map no. 123

{{c}The Southlands and Southern Kingdom{c}}

Chapter One

The small candle flame went out without warning, leaving Alyea in complete darkness. In the silence, her own breathing seemed loud in her ears, and her sweat stung her nose, pungent and sour.

Midnight-chill air currents flowed around the edges of the shuttered window. She shivered, sweat cooling to icy unease; a warm breath on the side of her face did nothing to reassure.

See it lit, Deiq said in her ear, his low voice as dark as the room around them. His presence warmed her back and legs. "Know it’s lit."

Alyea drew a deep breath, closed her eyes, and tried to remember what a lit candle looked like. Deiq’s presence behind her was a distraction; she had a sudden recall of his hands sliding over her skin—had it been only hours ago? She shivered again, but not with chill this time.

He sucked in a sharp breath, his hands closing around her shoulders. "No problems with your memory, at least, he muttered. His fingers dug in, then relaxed, amusement returning to his tone. You need to focus. Put that aside and focus, Alyea. Think of the candle—"

She made herself think of the candle; put her attention on thinking about the shape, the color, the stand, the wick. The image solidified in her mind. She saw a glow forming at the tip, a faint yellow, blue, flaring orange for just a moment—

Deiq’s hands tightened again. Open your eyes.

Across the room, the candle flame swayed in the air currents.

"Good," Deiq said, giving her a little shake. First try. That’s damn good.

His arms came around her from behind, hands splayed across her stomach. He pulled her back against him; she started to turn, found he wouldn’t allow it.

See it out, he said in her ear. Bring back the dark.

The heat of his body against hers made it impossible to think about anything else. He’d turned out to be very good as a lover; as he ought to be, with centuries of experience. Her breathing hitched, went ragged.

You have to learn to handle distractions, he said, staying perfectly still. Candle, Alyea, candle. Think about the—

On mischievous impulse, she focused instead on an explicit memory from earlier that morning.

He grunted as if struck, his own breath turning rough; went to his knees as though they’d simply given way beneath him. His arms wrapped around the outside of her legs.

"We have got to get you some kathain," he said, then laughed, ducked down, lunged forward and up, lifting her onto his shoulders. She shrieked like a child without meaning to, grabbing his hair for balance. Her face went hot with embarrassment at the involuntary reaction.

Still laughing, his hands anchoring her legs, he turned to face the candle again. Look at the damn candle, he said. "See it out."

Darkness descended a heartbeat later.

Good, Deiq said. Now, while I have your attention, think about what you just did. No amusement or warmth remained in his voice. You decided something would be a certain way, and it was that way. A candle is small. It doesn’t take much effort. Don’t mistake a bonfire for a candle.

Suspended in darkness and silence, her pulse jagged from the surprise lift, she had no breath or voice to answer with.

Deiq stood still for another moment, as though waiting, or thinking; then, in a swift movement, reached up, lifted her over his head and down to the floor again. He pulled her against him and said, There’s something needs to be done. I haven’t—been able to. Maybe you can.

He breathed against her hair for a few quiet moments, his hands tight on her hips.

Follow me, he said at last. The candle flared to life again as he stepped back, releasing his grip. Alyea turned to look up at him and found his expression bleak and grim. She stepped back rather than forward, a chill running through her chest.

No— she said, suddenly knowing, if not what, at least where he was talking about.

He shook his head, then turned away and walked through the doorway.

"Could we at least wait for daylight?" she said to the empty room, knowing perfectly well his sharp hearing would pick it up.

No answer. Her hands clenched into fists as the silence continued and the candle slowly began to gutter.

"Shit," she snarled, and made herself follow him.

The stairs seemed to go on forever, yet ended far too soon. Deiq was waiting for her, leaning against the wall beside the lowest door to be found in the entire tower: a heavy metal door, studded with black rivets and radiating an underground chill. A lantern hung on a hook by the door provided barely enough light to see Deiq’s taut expression.

Veils of shadow gathered in every crease and hollow of his lean face, threaded along the long strands of ebony hair. His black eyes gave away nothing in bright light; and here, masked in uncertain illumination, they conveyed even less than usual.

She stopped three steps from the bottom, staring down at him with a sudden bright hatred blossoming in her chest.

He glanced at her, then put his attention to the floor before him. I’ve never been inside, he said, voice muted.

Her rage damped instantly.

Deiq knew what had happened in the room beyond that metal door as well as she did; had his own weight of pain over the matter, obviously, although he’d never shared that with her. The rooms above their heads were almost entirely decorated with breathtaking murals of sunny days and vast landscapes, images that portrayed only joy and love and beauty. Images done by a master’s hand.

Deiq’s hand.

He’d painted the inside walls of the former Northern Church tower with an eye to the good that had gone on here, not the evil that had slowly wormed through the previous inhabitants. It had to have taken him months of unsleeping, unrelenting effort and attention—and he’d never come below the first floor? Not once?

What had happened to him here? She knew better than to ask aloud, and the slight, sharp movement of his head told her that he’d heard the thought and wasn’t answering.

Alyea came the rest of the way to his side and said, hoarse with conflicting pains, Get it over with, then.

He let out a long breath and raised a hand. The door shifted in its frame, opening as though on its own. A fetid stench spilled out. Alyea put a hand over her nose, gagging.

Deiq gripped Alyea’s shoulder hard. Fine tremors ran through his muscles, and he breathed in great, rasping gasps.

Ah, gods, he muttered. "Bad idea—"

Focus, she said sharply, prodding him in the stomach; his eyes popped open, and he stared at her as though shocked from a dream. Focus, damnit!

He wet his lips, his gaze fixed on her with disconcerting intensity. Yes, he said. Focus. Thank you. He swallowed hard, raising his head to stare at the darkness beyond the now-wide-open door. After a moment, he let go of Alyea’s shoulder and said, I can’t do it. It’s—I can’t explain right now.

He raised his hand again; the door began to swing ponderously shut.

Alyea put out a foot and stopped it. No, she said, black fury suddenly surging through her. I’m not walking away. I’m not letting what that ta-karne did stop me.

Alyea—

"No." She swung to face the doorway and willed any candles in the room to light.

Deiq let out a sharp, pained hiss.

The room beyond flared into bright detail. Multiple lanterns along each wall, as many thick candles in arrays and singles; a loose pile of candles had been dropped atop a rumpled mound of dark cloth. The cloth went up a moment later, kindling that had only been waiting for an invitation.

Alyea spared the growing blaze a disinterested glance, enough to be sure it was only cloth and not a body left behind. She advanced a step into the room, studying the contents with growing anger.

The walls were a pale yellow, a mild and obscenely pleasant color compared to what lay within their bounds. Alyea recognized a number of the tools laid on the small tray stand by each table; Tevin had used most of them on her. She’d only been spared from the items too large to fit into Tevin’s work chest, and there weren’t many of those.

Worst of all, the tools were, one and all, clean; even shining, as though the occupants had scrubbed them and polished them with meticulous care before setting them in neat rows and walking away to some other, more reputable way of making a living.

The stench of the room had no clear source; no blood staining the tables, no urine sprayed against the walls. But Alyea could hear the screaming that had happened here, could feel the pain washing through the air like a dark rip-current.

For just a moment, she thought she could smell rosemary and garlic.

"Fuck this!"

She didn’t realize she’d said it aloud—no, shouted—until she felt the strain tickling through her throat in its wake. A heartbeat later, the candles and lanterns—

—just—

—exploded, throwing a white flare of heat across the room; she staggered back a step, felt Deiq’s hands lock onto her, drawing her out of the way. The metal door slammed shut, leaving them outside the room. A series of muffled booms shook the ground.

"Gods damn," Deiq said, his whole body trembling, and pulled her close against him.

Alyea heard something sizzling inside the room. A thick heat began to emanate from the metal door. The booming faded to a sharp, erratic popping.

It took her a few more moments to realize that Deiq was shaking, not with fear, but with laughter. She jerked free and glared up at him.

Well done, he said, grinning openly. Now, about the difference between a candle and a bonfire—

You— Bastard never made it out. A wave of dizziness crashed over her, and she fell forward into complete darkness.

The difference, someone said in a grey haze, is the anger. Fire needs strong emotions; the stronger the emotion, the stronger the fire.

She blinked. The grey stayed, blocking her vision.

To work with water needs an entirely different approach, Deiq’s voice went on, placid and even. As does air, and earth, and spirit. And each one takes a different toll on you.

Bastard, she managed to croak.

Don’t waste your time with being angry at me, he said, tone mildly amused. Pay attention. A snapping noise in front of her; then he asked, Can you see me?

Abrupt terror washed through her. No!

He grunted. Give it some time. You did the hells’ own job on that room. I doubt we’ll find anything left besides melted slag once we open the door. That took a huge effort on your part, and it had to come from somewhere. You’re paying that price I mentioned.

"You tricked me!"

I taught you something important.

Sensations resolved: the feel of the thick bed-mat beneath her, her clothes hot and scratchy, muscles from wrist to shoulder quivering as though just released from an incredible strain. Air currents chilled one side, warmth radiated on her other. Deiq had to be the source of the warmth.

She punched out to the left, hard. He caught her hand in his own and laughed.

You’re wasting your energy, he said, moving her hand to rest on her chest. "There’s no point being angry at me, Alyea. What emotion do you think you need to work with water? What’s opposite from anger and hate?"

She drew in a long breath, squeezing her eyes shut, and made herself be calm and still. Grief, she said at last.

No.

She considered a while longer; at last said, tentatively, Love?

He hummed to himself for a moment, then, "Not exactly. But that’s a mistake most humans make. Do you know what hatred is? You know what it feels like. But what is it, really?"

She opened her eyes; the grey haze blocked vision, so she shut them again and lay still, thinking about that. Anger still simmered through her, a desire to shout and scold Deiq until he understood that he’d been wrong—

Think about what you’re thinking, Deiq said. That’s your answer.

I’m not thinking that—

She stopped, considering, and finally abandoned her initial protest of I’m not thinking that I hate you; that was too obvious an interpretation, and Deiq rarely did that. So he meant her to see something else. She thought about her anger, her desire to argue with him, and slowly sorted through to what he had more probably meant her to see.

I don’t—have the words, she said at last. Something about...not wanting to understand the other point of view. Shutting out anything but your own belief.

Good. Deiq hitched around to sit directly behind her. He leaned forward, his breath warm on her forehead; worked his fingers into her hair, rubbing Alyea’s scalp lightly. His hands slid around to just behind her ears, then he hooked his fingers gently under the base of her skull, to either side of her spine, and tensed into a slight pull.

Alyea moaned as knots of tension dissolved, and relaxed into his hands without hesitation.

Deiq released his hold, massaged her scalp again briefly, then splayed his hands along her cheeks and said, You’re doing very well, Alyea. I mean that. Most desert lord trainees are already aware of what I’m teaching you before they ever reach the trials. I’m doing things the hard way because we’re having to skip over years of training in a hurry.

She listened to the thudding pulse working through his hands and said, Is that an apology?

His hands tightened a little, then pulled away.

No, he said. I don’t have anything to apologize for.

Annoyance flared tension back into her body. "I’m blind! You could have warned me."

It’s temporary, and it’s only one of several possible consequences. You’re in a safe place to experience any of them. Stand up. He shifted position again. His hands tucked under her shoulders, urging her up, then wrapped around her arms, steadying her as she stumbled to her feet. The grey haze remained unrelenting, and terror chilled her again as Deiq let her go and stepped away.

Don’t— she said involuntarily, taking a cautious step forward; one arm out ahead, the other to the side, fingers spread wide.

I’m right here, he said. Stand still. Shut your eyes. Where am I?

She caught control of bubbling panic and forced herself to look without her eyes, as he’d taught her. His presence was a dark bulk, more sensed than seen, to her right.

He said, Focus. I’m reaching out to touch—

Right side, she said immediately, and put her hand out without hesitation, grasping his fingers tightly.

Good. See, blindness isn’t important. He tugged his hand free. She could feel him moving another step away and to her left; she turned, eyes still shut, to find him in his new location. It won’t last long, in any case. Less than a day, I think.

"You think?"

Mm. Stay there.

She stood still, eyes shut, and listened carefully to the small sounds he made over the next few moments; at last she said, You’re—undressing?

Yes.

Why?

Why not? The laughter had returned to his voice. He returned to stand in front of her.

She blinked, unable to find an answer to that. His fingertips stroked the sides of her face, then continued down the sides of her neck, shoulders; down her arms to her wrists, which he took in a gentle grip and lifted upwards, over her head.

Reach up, he said. Stretch. His hands trailed down her arms, along her sides, lifted the bottom edge of her shirt; she sucked in a breath and arched her back as he set his mouth against her stomach, sending hot chills through her entire body.

Is this another lesson? she rasped, bringing her hands down to rest on his head.

You could call it that, he said. Or a way to pass the time until the next one. Whichever you prefer. He stood, tugging her shirt over her head as he moved.

"We have got to get you some kathain," she said, grinning into the grey haze.

No, he said, voice suddenly rough, we don’t. Not while you’re around—

His hands caught into her hair, then moved to other areas. Surprise at that comment faded fast, and soon even the comment was forgotten completely.

Chapter Two

The Northern Church Tower seemed almost to glow with vitality around Deiq, as though it had absorbed the tremendous energies thrown forth over the days of his seclusion with Alyea. The last trace of the evil that had once lingered within the stone walls had been comprehensively washed away, leaving only an entirely unexpected sense of wholeness, of healing, of release in the air. Deiq couldn’t bring himself to leave any more than a child in a comfortable, loving womb could bear to expel itself prematurely.

Once her eyesight returned, Alyea had gone out twice, to bring back food. She hadn’t gone far, and returned quickly, clearly feeling the same reluctance to face the outside world. He knew that wouldn’t last. Her human nature meant that she sensed every day as part of her life escaping, at a level far below consciousness. Ironically, many desert lords, with their extended life-spans, felt that urgency more, rather than less, strongly: Deiq suspected that tied into their higher sex drive.

He saw her restlessness beginning to grow as she recovered from the strain of incinerating the cellar contents. Only time would tell if the release of her anger had eased the internal pressure of what Kippin and Tevin had done to her. He might have to set her loose on something else, to burn off the rest of it. He was back on familiar ground now, with the time and privacy to handle her training as he liked; and she wasn’t fighting him any longer.

The restlessness growing inside himself was a surprise, though. So when a shivering, nervous messenger tapped at the door with a request for Lord Alyea to meet with the king, Deiq didn’t argue—much—her insistence on going alone. After what she’d been through, and after what they’d shared, she’d easily flatten any human to lay a hand on her, and know ill intent before it came within two blocks.

Oruen still wouldn’t want to see Deiq, much less at Alyea’s side. The man was sharp enough to pick up on the changed relationship between them, and it would make him surly as a bear woken too early from its winter rest. Better she handle this meeting alone. She had the control now to avoid hurting Oruen if he pressed her temper. And if things went really sour, Deiq would know, and could step to her side easily enough.

He hadn’t been this strong in a very long time. It felt as though some strange sludge had been blasted clean from his veins and muscles, freeing him of all restrictions.

Deiq stretched out on the floor, listening to the rain patter down outside, and basked in an inner warmth that left him feeling generally half-drunk; and that turned out to be a damn good thing.

His memories were returning, in great searing sheets and gobbets. If not for the cocoon of contentment, he might have spent days screaming at the horror of revelation; might have taken the stibik-esthit oil still sitting, untouched, on the table in the highest room of the tower, and slit his arms from wrist to shoulder.

As it was, he thought about ending himself, more than once, as the memories pierced his soul with agonized, helpless fury at his own stupidity. He’d made so many mistakes...and either blocked the memories or buried them under the cascade of pain he’d endured over the last fifty years. He couldn’t believe, looking back, that he’d ever been so immature and foolish.

For a thousand year old ha’ra’ha, Eredion had said once, you occasionally do a remarkable imitation of a fifteen-year-old human.

Remembering, Deiq thought: Eredion, you have no damn idea....

The suicidal urge passed swiftly each time, fading into the cooler realization that done was done, and as the future could—finally—be different, killing himself over the past would be stupid and wasteful. And now there was Alyea: finally, finally, he had found a companion who wouldn’t flinch. It was enough, short though it would be; and with a desert lord, there were ways to extend that time, if she proved worthy of that gift.

So he shut his eyes, drifted from contentment to nightmare and back without making a single external sign of the change, and let himself really rest for the first time in decades.

He even allowed himself to brood—lightly—over the question of why feeding from Alyea caused her no discomfort. He hadn’t yet found a sensible explanation for it, and that frightened him more than he wanted to admit. It wasn’t possible, and yet, and yet....

A hard rattling knock at the door, far below, finally roused him from semi-sleep. Grumbling, he raked a hand through his hair, yanking it back into a tie; pulled on clothes reluctantly, and padded barefoot down the several sets of stairs to the lowest floor.

He half-hoped the visitor would have lost patience and gone by the time he opened the door. No such luck: a stolid, lean man in News-Rider garb stood in the shelter of the recessed doorway, water dribbling down a handspan behind him. He didn’t back up when the door opened.

"S’e Deiq?" he said, lifting an unconcerned glance, and proffered a thin, oilskin-wrapped packet.

Thank you, Deiq said, and took the packet without asking any questions as to how the man had found him. News-Riders had their ways. He also didn’t bother offering any gratuity. The News-Rider turned with no change in expression and plodded away through the rain, apparently indifferent to the wet, chill weather.

Returning to the highest room of the tower, Deiq lit several lamps with a careless flick of one hand, a trick he hadn’t been able to use so easily for more years than Alyea had been alive. He grinned, watching the wicks flare into life, almost childlike in his sudden joy over such a simple thing.

The packet proved to be a letter, four sheets in all, in a still-awkward hand, front and back. He knew Idisio had written them before he read the first word. He sat down at the table, moving the bottle of stibik oil aside absently, and laid the pages down, frowning and rubbing his hands against each other. He sensed no hint of the taint that Idisio had carried when controlled by his mother, but there was instead a strange otherness to the energy in the pages that worried him and made him hesitant to touch them again.

At last, blinking hard against sudden tension, he lowered his head and began to read.

Chapter Three

Tank liked tangling his fingers in hair, a holdover from being shaven nearly bald for most of his early life; and Dasin, for reasons he hadn’t explained and Tank didn’t ask about, liked kneeling.

It worked out well enough.

They sprawled on the bed afterwards, both breathing hard, Dasin’s bony back and shoulders hot and knobbly against Tank’s chest.

That merc, Tank said when he caught his breath, continuing the conversation they’d interrupted some time earlier. You have to go meet him, Dasin.

Dasin let out a soft, annoyed grunt, pushing one shoulder back hard. Can this wait?

No. He worked his fingers into thin, damp blond hair and tugged lightly at the shorter, curly hairs near the base of Dasin’s skull. You can’t keep avoiding it.

Hhhhh. Bastard. Taking advantage of the moment.

Yep.

Dasin grunted again and rolled up to a sitting position, his back to Tank. No way out of it, is there?

No.

The thin shoulders tucked forward in a hunch, then out again, determination replacing despair. Dasin stood and reached for clothes. He began to dress, not looking at Tank.

Don’t agree to pay him more than you’re paying me, Tank said, propping himself up onto one elbow.

I’ll pay him what Yuer damn well told me to pay him, Dasin retorted. He stomped into his boots with unnecessary violence and shot a pale-eyed glare at Tank. Which is what it is, and not your damn business to ask after.

So it is more, Tank said, grinning without any humor at all. Figured that.

He rolled onto his back and laced his hands behind his head, resisting the urge to get up and plant a fist in Dasin’s face. From passion to poison: that had already settled into a routine, and only his understanding of what lay behind the brittle insults kept him from striking—or walking—out.

Tank had held Dasin more than once as the blond shuddered from residual childhood nightmares. That touch, no less than his recent encounter with Lord Alyea, had shown him more than he cared to know about another living person; Dasin’s memories were entirely too similar to his own. But then, Dasin had been there in turn when Tank’s own recently stirred-up memories of horrors past seared him, screaming, from his rest.

They understood each other. It worked out well enough, in the end.

Not a good idea to let Dasin stomp off angry, though. Tank shut his eyes and said, flatly, Dasin.

Hostile: Yeah? Followed by quiet, then the tick of boots on board, coming closer. A thin hand pressed around Tank’s elbow: the apology Dasin couldn’t voice. You coming along?

You want me to?

Dasin exhaled hard. You think I can handle this alone, or do I need you holding my hand?

Go ahead and try it, Tank said, not opening his eyes. Nothing Dasin said or did would shift the basic outcome to any great degree regardless of whether Tank went along; but he didn’t bother pushing that reality into view. Dasin knew.

Bastard, Dasin muttered, with considerably less heat this time. He released Tank’s elbow and rattled the few steps to the door, slamming it behind him.

Yeah, Tank said under his breath. He let out a long sigh of his own, then reached for his clothes. He had business of his own to take care of, while Dasin was safely elsewhere.

Bright Bay didn’t seem quite so alien, or as frightening, as it once had. Still, he stayed alert while walking the streets, knowing perfectly well that the street thieves had only increased in number since Ninnic’s fall. And while he hated the fact, Tank was known by more than one dangerous person; not that he’d ever asked for the attention, but he had it, and staying safe meant always staying aware of his surroundings.

A toddler, filthy and bawling, wandered out directly in front of him: a distraction. Without pausing, Tank shot a hand down and caught the skinny wrist of an older boy coming up from behind. Without any particular emphasis or kindness, he bent the hand back sharply, twisting. The would-be thief screeched outrage.

Tank turned then, and glared down into a dirt streaked, thin face under a mop of grimy blond hair. He bent the trapped hand over a little more, until the boy went down to his knees, squalling in earnest now.

"Next time any thief tries for me, Tank said, leaning in close, I’ll snap every fucking bone in both hands. Pass it on."

He let go and turned on his heel, coming face to face with a taller, older boy who’d been moving up behind. Sharp metal glinted in one gnaw-nailed hand. Tank set his feet square and glared ferociously. The boy faltered, paused, and reversed a few steps.

A seagull grackled, sharp and sudden, somewhere nearby. The knife disappeared, and the boy took to his heels. A scrabbling sound behind him told Tank that the other thief had fled as well.

Tank let out a long breath and stood still for a few moments, listening with care; a heavily-laden cart trundled past on the next street over. A flute played somewhere nearby. Ordinary people walked by without even glancing towards Tank, busy discussing or thinking about their own lives.

Had that thief-warning come from Tank’s own actions, or had someone else—someone powerful—seen the situation and passed the word to leave him alone? The latter possibility set a strong shiver up his shoulders. He blinked hard and started walking again, trying to look more confident than he felt, and hoped that the next part of the plan would go better.

"Hah!" Sticks clashed together; someone swore. Thuckwhap—Tank winced at that sound even as he stepped through the arched exit. The smell of sweat, metal, and oil laced the air; in the training ring a stone’s throw away, a thickly built young man lay on one side, curled into a tightly defensive pose, one arm thrown up to shield his face.

Captain Ash stood some distance away, leaning on a wrist-thick wooden staff taller than himself and smiling with catlike satisfaction. His gaze flickered up as soon as Tank stepped out of the archway’s shadow, and he lifted his chin briefly. It was a warning, not a welcome.

Tank stayed where he was, waiting.

Oh, get up already, boy, the captain said.

The pole abruptly spun in his hands, prodding the cowering youth in a delicate spot. With a yelp, the young man rolled farther away and scrambled to his feet, eyeing the captain sourly.

Captain Ash grinned at the young man; a baring of small, stained teeth, less than friendly. You’re a useless sack of shit, boy, whatever your beloved father may have said. I can teach you, but you’ll mop the floors and wash dishes for it while you learn. Still interested?

The boy spat out a sullen curse by way of answer and staggered past Tank, his face damp and blotchy. One eye was already beginning to swell, and a nasty split in his lip oozed blood over his chin.

Useless, Captain Ash repeated, leaning on the staff again. Comes of nobles teaching their children a fancy dance and calling it fighting. That boy doesn’t know the first thing about aqeyva, though his parents told him that’s what he was learning. Sunlord’s-pox on the watered-down nonsense northerns are trying to pass off these days. Bloody useless. And now his father will come fussing at me over abusing his son. Hells with them. His eyes fixed on Tank as he spoke, intent and searching; he seemed hardly aware of his own words. Then he said, abruptly, You still with Yuer?

Yes.

The captain grunted, apparently hearing more than a simple affirmative. I won’t protect you on everything.

I know. Tank paused, to see if the captain had something else to say, then went on, Merchant Dasin is running Yuer’s main caravan from Bright Bay to Sandsplit for the next few months, on a trial basis. I’m working for Dasin, as is another mercenary Yuer suggested. Dasin’s meeting with him now.

Which one?

Raffin.

Captain Ash’s mouth tightened, but he said nothing.

Tank waited, giving the captain time to offer up the information, and finally asked. Is Raffin an unsworn?

No. He’s still hanging on to his sworn status, last I knew, the captain said. He squinted, seeming to consider. At last, he added, Not someone to tangle with, mind you. Experienced. Holds grudges. Knows his business. He won’t take second place to you without a fight; and I know you’re good, boy, but flat straight: he’s meaner. You buckle under if you have any sense.

Tank let out a breath, not surprised at all. Yuer wouldn’t have let it be so easy as all that, not until he and Dasin proved themselves.

Situation in Kybeach you ought to know about, Tank said, letting the matter of Raffin go for the moment. I—uhm—scrapped a bit with the local stable-boy. He’s shaken more than anything else, but seemed the sort to whine. Might have trouble on my way through next time; wanted to know about...well, limits.

Captain Ash’s frown relaxed. Man comes at you with a fist, use a fist. Comes at you with a knife, use your knife. They try to arrest you, show your Hall marker, give ‘em your name, and tell ‘em to bring me the complaint. They fuss past that, tell ‘em to stuff it up their arseholes. Nobody along the Coast Road messes with my hall. North of the Forest, different situation; but you’re only going to Sandsplit, so that’s a talk for another time.

Thank you. Tank began a step backwards, intending a polite retreat.

Tank.

He stopped, balanced, squared his stance again. The captain’s face crinkled in thoughtful amusement.

I could use your help with training the nits as come through the door, the captain said. If you want another road.

Tank shook his head. I’d rather be moving, he said. And Dasin’s not so bad to work with.

"I may not know him, but I know him, if you take my meaning, Captain Ash said. And what I see is, he’s a sneaky little shit."

Tank held back a smile.

Yeah, he said. I know what Dasin is.

Captain Ash shook his head dourly, but let it go.

Come back alive, he said; his usual farewell.

I’ll do my best.

You’re learning.

Chapter Four

The palace seemed like an alien land as Alyea strode through its halls and rooms. Sights she’d once taken for granted now seemed crisp and fresh, filled with new symbolism. Smells came sharp and pungent: traces of cleaning vinegar, of oranges and mint, of human sweat and harsh soap. A whiff of roast chicken and fresh bread drifted by as she passed the entrance to the kitchens. Whether the new clarity came from being blind for a short while, or from some continuing development as a desert lord, she couldn’t tell, and didn’t really care.

She’d used one of the servant entrances, deliberately, to avoid a fuss. The single guard on duty there had eyed her thoughtfully but let her pass without challenge. Servants spared her faint, perplexed glances as she went by, but made no protest, which told her others had used this route—likely for the same reason—in the past.

The entryway was simple but not plain, a wide wooden door with a pattern of three-lobed brickroot leaves in a wide strip down its center, and the same pattern repeated along the frame. Tenacity, that meant, and strength against adversity; a fitting symbol for a servant’s entrance. The flagstones underfoot in the following corridors were coarse, pale grey slabs, probably from the Horn or one of the southern mountain ranges. Seeing something odd, she paused to study them, and discovered shallow carvings on each flagstone.

Excuse me, she said to a servant passing by, a short, fat woman with several missing teeth and the scars of a hard life all over her sallow, wrinkled skin. What do those marks mean?

The woman eyed Alyea for a moment, as if debating whether or not to answer, and finally said, Names, my lady. Palace servants who’ve passed on, or fallen in service. We remember them.

She bobbed a quick bow and scurried away, while Alyea stood as breathless as though she’d just been punched in the stomach. Slowly, she turned and looked back at the path to the door, then around again to the way forward. Every stone she could see held marks.

How many had been added during the Purge?

Alyea shut her eyes, shuddering. Too many, she whispered. Too damn many.

After a few moments, she collected herself and moved on, glancing down only occasionally.

She took a circuitous route after that, examining her surroundings with more care. Huge archways led out into courtyards filled with abundant plantings, wide stone benches, and gravel paths, all glistening under the constant drizzle of rain that had been going on since early morning. Chill, damp air drafted through the outer hallways that opened to those courtyards. She shivered in spite of her heavy cloak and turned to a more indoor route.

The inner hallways, not as wide for the most part as the outer, had floors decorated with a vaguely geometric pattern. The tiles were a mixture of the coarse, light grey and some of a smoother, charcoal grey. The pattern was punctuated on occasion by triangles of an oddly familiar pale yellow stone. It looked newly laid to her eye; she paused again, frowning at it, trying to remember where she’d seen that yellow stone before. At last, giving up, she moved on; the memory would come to her if it was important.

The walls held thick tapestries displaying historical events: the first she came to showed King Ayrq of Bright Bay as he accepted the surrender of the last warring tribe. His booted foot rested on a pile of skulls and his hands reached up to place the crown on his own head as his former enemies knelt before him, eyes downcast. A similar mural decorated the formal palace dining hall; Alyea had never liked it much, finding it entirely too grim for her taste. But something about this one felt different. She paused to examine it more closely.

In the background, she spotted three small, hardly noticeable robed figures: one in green, one in white, and one in black. Their hoods were pulled forward over their faces, obscuring their expressions, but their hands were outstretched, palms up and raised to the sky, as though calling down the blessings of the gods upon the moment.

Alyea moved on, smiling now, and at each new tapestry paused for just a moment, finding some small, often subtle symbol of the Three Gods worked into the background. A few were worn, frayed, or damaged; clearly they’d been hidden during the Purge, then pulled out to decorate the hallways as a mark of triumph after Oruen banished all the priests from Bright Bay.

Did that mean Oruen had sworn his allegiance to the southern three, rather than the northern four? Or was this a servant subtlety, a minor rebellion reflecting the change of regime? Alyea wasn’t sure how to interpret it, and knew Oruen was canny enough not to reveal the answer until it suited him to do so.

Hall tables and shelves, also, held the signs of change: candelabra worked in complex forms that resembled the desert symbols she’d seen on the Scratha Conclave banners; sprays of flowers arranged in color-patterns that she suspected had more meaning than simple beauty; small, beautifully worked stone figurines of a nearly translucent, striated stone that reminded Alyea of the delicate cups of the teyanain.

Hard to believe these hallways had ever been grim and lifeless. Hard to remember that the bleak decorations of the Four Gods had been the only permitted display throughout the palace, and indeed the entire of Bright Bay. It had all swept away, like a receding tide, as swiftly as it had come in, leaving only detritus behind.

Alyea glanced down at the floor, her mood sobering again even though the tiles here held no marks, and quickened her pace. She’d seen enough, idled enough; and the king would be waiting for her.

Rain pattered and streaked overhead, smearing the glass in the ceiling to a watery refraction; the room, normally cheerful in sunlight, held a grey chill even against the light from numerous torches and candles. Once again, Alyea looked around with a new appreciation of her surroundings.

The chairs, well-padded and covered with thick blue fabric, had wide seats, thick legs, and slender backs decorated with carvings, each one different. One bore a seagull design, another a sea-eagle, a third a desert hawk. She couldn’t tell what the carvings on Oruen’s more elaborate chair showed, because he was sitting in it.

Grey and blue tiles, interspersed with squares of that same strange yellow stone, had been laid underfoot. She couldn’t recall what the floor had looked like before she left for Scratha Fortress, but thought that here, again, the work seemed relatively new.

The walls held more tapestries than she remembered, showing an array of animals: one displayed four different types of badgers, another twenty different snakes, a third a series of turtles. She ignored Oruen for another few moments as she turned in place to examine the new decorations; when she finally looked back to him, his expression was a mixture of bemusement and annoyance.

You’ve never paid so much attention to my casual room before, he said.

She sat down in the chair with the desert hawk carving as she said, I’ve never paid attention to a lot of things before, Lord Oruen. You wanted to see me?

He regarded her with an unusually cool intensity. Your mother has been to see me.

Alyea’s spine stiffened. His expression did not bode well for the result of that meeting. I should have gone to see her before this, she thought ruefully. I was too busy...enjoying myself to even think of her.

In...in Open Court? Alyea guessed, dreading the answer.

No, thank the gods, he said, and rubbed at his eyes with one hand. She asked for a private audience. He paused, then added, She’s seriously upset with you.

I know, Alyea said, repressing a sigh. What did she want?

She believes that you’ve lost your mind.

Alyea sat up even straighter, shocked. "She said that? Literally? Good gods!"

Oruen nodded, a tired smile quirking across his mouth. She told me that you’d spun a bizarrely nonsensical story to account for your whereabouts and actions, then walked out and haven’t been seen since. She believes you’re off raving through the city somewhere. And as your tale was all obviously fantasy, she wants you found, restrained, and removed from official authority over Peysimun Family.

Alyea sat still, speechless.

I think she’s still a touch peeved over your interfering with my attendance at that party she threw for your return, Oruen said dryly. I believe she actually lost quite a bit of respect, promising that I’d be there and then having to endure the disappointment of some fairly influential people. This could be, in part, revenge for that.

What did you say?

Oruen tugged at his lower lip and studied her face for a long, quiet moment before answering.

I told her, he said finally, dropping his hand to the arm of his chair, that the matter stood between the two of you, and that I had no authority over a full desert lord’s actions. I told her that I did not think you were insane, nor raving; I said I was fairly certain she could locate you in short order, simply by asking Lord Eredion. She declined. His mouth quirked. In rather strong terms. So I told her that I would find you, and call you in for a talk. I also told her that I believed you were quite probably telling the truth about your experiences.

Thank you, Alyea said, then drew a deep breath and asked, How did she take that?

"She wasn’t quite upset enough to challenge my sanity, Oruen said, but you really do need to have another talk with her. Soon. And settle the question beyond a doubt. His expression hardened. I suggest not bringing Deiq to that conversation. She’s even more angry at him than at you, and I can’t say I blame her. He has a habit of bringing complications to every situation he involves himself in, and I’d like nothing better than to see him out of this city for good."

Alyea stood, her nerves snapping taut, and said coldly, "That matter is between the two of you, Lord Oruen. If there’s nothing else, I’ll take my leave now."

He stayed seated, regarding her without affection. There’s quite a lot else, he said in clipped tones, but I suspect that’s all you’ll listen to at this point.

Good day, Lord Oruen, she said crisply, and strode from the room without looking back.

The Palace took up as much room outdoors as in. There were the royal food gardens, flower gardens, and herb gardens, all interspersed with fruit and nut trees; the royal leisure-area; the lesser lounging spots, where benches and pavilions afforded shelter from sun and rain for courtiers and palace staff; even a small outdoor meditation spot, which for some reason had not been entirely destroyed during the Purge.

Apparently even priests of the Northern Church had liked a quiet area in which to pray from time to time. All they had done was to remove all traces of the `pagan’ southern religion from the area. Even Alyea had to admit that the difference, in the end, was minimal.

On sunny days, Alyea had often visited the meditation area herself; as it afforded no shelter from poor weather, she bypassed it today. She considered pausing to brood in one of the pavilions, but the grey of the day seemed to be creeping into her bones. She wanted to get out of the rain, out of the chill, into somewhere warm and comforting.

Her thoughts turned to Deiq, waiting for her in what had once been the Northern Church tower. Ironic, that the place she had hated the most out of the entire city of Bright Bay was turning into her refuge.

Oruen had been almost right, she mused: Deiq had a habit of bringing changes to any situation he became involved with. And those changes could be complicated.

She passed through the outer palace gates with an absent-minded nod to the guards, barely noticing that they’d opened the gates for her and bowed. Normally she would have smiled at them, perhaps even paused to say hello if she knew one by name, but today such small courtesies seemed unimportant against the problem of what she was going to do about her mother.

Pausing a few steps past and to one side of the gates, she admitted to herself that Oruen had been entirely right on one point: bringing Deiq to see her mother at the moment would be a bad idea. She’d have to handle the discussion alone, and she might as well do it now, while she stood within the Seventeen Gates.

She turned left, deciding to pick up a bottle of Stecatr blue wine first. It was her mother’s favorite—and, of course, one of the most expensive wines sold in Bright Bay. Perhaps that would sweeten the discussion.

Peysimun Mansion’s grounds boasted a tall fence and wide, sturdy gates that hadn’t been closed since the Purge; and even then, the gates hadn’t been guarded. But now they stood not only firmly

Reviews for Fires of the Desert

[maureene87 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I read the first book last month and really enjoyed it a lot. So I was looking forward to this one. Unfortunately, I wasn’t nearly as enamoured of it. I like the resolution of the central relationship, but there was this whole plotline that I didn’t like at all, and one of the major characters from the first book just sort of disappears! There appear to be two more books in the series, and I’ll probably stick around for them, especially since I liked the first book so much. (And hopefully that disappearing character will reappear.) [June 2011]