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Idisio had held his silence for too long. Questions were crowding in his throat, becoming painful. He burst out, “My lord, Sire—what does it mean?”
“Ah,” the king said, smiling again as his gaze shifted to Idisio. “This one, at least, is safely ignorant, if there is any such thing.”
Scratha shook his head, brooding, and said nothing.
“What does it mean?” Idisio repeated.
The king answered, as Scratha sat silent. “It translates to 'Blood on the Sand.' The
sa'a
at the beginning marks it as matrilineal, where a line run by male parentage would call it
se'edenit
. It comes from an old verse. I learned it as a child, but I probably received a poor translation. Here's best I can recall.” He began to chant in a hoarse voice:

When the desert sleeps
It does not forget its secrets
It does not forgive the blood
The blood that was shed without cause.
Stone grows cold and flowers close
But the desert remembers the warmth of life
The warmth of the blood as it fell to the sand.
The blood on the sand may disappear
But the desert does not forgive the death.
With the sun's awakening the blood flows fresh
And the killer is damned by the desert
Because the desert does not forget
And the desert will never forgive.

The king paused, then repeated softly, “'The desert will never forgive.' That verse always gave me chills.”
Idisio nodded fervently in agreement, goose bumps running up and down his spine.
“That
was
a poor translation,” Scratha said. He had crossed his arms during the recital, and still looked distinctly displeased. “It's much longer than that, and more explicit. Northerns like to water everything down. But that version serves the point.”
“It's a call for vengeance,” the king said quietly, his gaze fixed on the desert lord. “A thoroughly ugly call, at that, when it's translated without what you call 'watering down' the words.”
“I will find the hand behind my family's slaughter,” Scratha said, equally soft and calm, but madness flickered in his eyes again. “I will have their blood in equal measure. Never think I'm giving that up, however far you send me. Who knows, maybe the northlands will have clues I couldn't find in the south. Stranger things have happened in this world.”
The king opened his mouth, checked, then sighed. “King's Researcher Gerau Sa'adenit it is, then. I really hope you've thought this out, Cafad.”
“I have,” Scratha said, and stood. With two long steps he loomed over the king; then he knelt and held out his hand, palm up, offering a heavy silver ring with what looked like a family sigil stamped on the face.
Oruen stared at it for a moment, as if the desert lord were offering poison; then he reached out and picked the ring gingerly from Scratha's palm. “I'll tell people you've gone to the Stone Islands,” he said, not taking his gaze from the ring. “At least I can give you that much protection against gossip.”
“As you wish,” the desert lord said, sounding supremely indifferent, then stood, retreating as swiftly as he had advanced. “May we retire, Lord Oruen?”
The king waved a weary assent, sinking further into his chair. The last glance Idisio had of the king showed a deeply worried expression and a note once again crumpled between royal hands.

They didn't return to their room, as Idisio had expected. Instead, his lord guided him through another seemingly endless march. They turned and twisted through various hallways, climbing a shallow flight of steps and then descending, several changes of direction later, a rather longer set of stairs.

The air grew noticeably damp, and Idisio put his arm over his nose to ward against the increasing tang of mold and mildew. The space between the guttering wall sconces grew until islands of light lay ahead and behind while they walked in darkness. The hallway narrowed, too; eventually Idisio could put his hands out to either side and feel the walls. And then the passage tightened further, until he could extend no more than elbows.

Finally there were no more torches ahead: only cold, unbroken silence and empty, dark, stinking air.
“My lord?” Idisio ventured, voice just above a whisper, hoping his growing panic wouldn't show in the low tone. This place felt
foul
; although no smell of blood or refuse registered in his nose, an itching nausea seemed to lurk in the very air.
Something
bad
happened here. Lots of bad things.
Idisio felt as though the dead crowded close, their slimy hands caressing his arms and back and legs.
The noble made a low shushing noise and went on, his feet making no noise on the pitted rock that had long ago replaced smooth stone underfoot. Idisio drew breath, cursing himself for a fool, and followed, one hand out to avoid running into his lord from behind.
And then something
stirred
, something deep and wild and formless; there came a shriek that had no sound and a moment of grey eyes staring desperately into his own. Scratha's hand, latching onto his wrist, jerked him back to the moment and almost brought the held scream from Idisio's throat. With a faint whimper, he followed the man's tug to the left.
To Idisio's intense relief, the feeling of foulness faded with each step they took. Scratha walked behind him from that point on, steering with one hand on Idisio's shoulder. Every so often Scratha tugged him to a brief halt, nudged a little faster, or turned this way or that, all in complete darkness. At times Scratha reached to touch, push, or pull something hidden, provoking muted clicks or distant grinding noises.
The floor finally sloped sharply upwards, and the air freshened, feathering Idisio's hair. The darkness became that of an open, cloudy sky on a moonless night.
“Wait here,” Scratha said in a low voice, and slipped back into the passage.
Idisio stood still, trembling with relief, and stretched his arms out full in all directions, just to prove to himself that he could. Returning, Scratha made an odd noise that might have been amusement and nudged Idisio's shoulder.
“Come on. We've a walk yet.”
Idisio couldn't hold back a groan. More walking sounded as welcome as an asp-kiss.
“Where are we going, my lord?”
“We're leaving. I've arranged everything to be left at a safe spot not far from here. And don't call me
Lord
any more. I'm Gerau Sa'adenit, Master Gerau to you, now.”
“What happened to first thing in the morning?” Idisio muttered.
Behind them, the Bright Bay Watch-Tower bells sounded the midnight hour. Idisio cast an aggrieved glare towards the sound and stomped after his new master.

In her dreams, Alyea danced.
Not the stately movements of the court waltzes and pavanes, not even the wilder peasant dances she'd secretly attended from time to time. She could find a partner for those anytime she liked, these days.
But her dreams had long been the only place she could safely dance
aqeyva
, the only place it was safe to hate the
s'iopes
—the priests of the Northern Church. Even now, as the city slowly settled back into unaccustomed sanity, she found herself reluctant to find another teacher and take up the training that had ended, once before, in such bloody horror.
Her feet slid across the sand and chalky grit which Ethu insisted on scattering over his training floor. Sweet strain shook through her muscles as she leaned forward on her right leg, lifting the left high, higher, and up! above her head, fingers brushing the ground—not into a flip, not this time, although she'd mastered that long ago—and back down, turning, drawing in close, closer, and straightening to stand solidly on both callused feet again.
The calluses were the despair of Alyea's maids. She wouldn't let them smooth her feet; she liked the feel of rough skin scraping against stone and grit. She smiled, sliding the hardened heel of one foot up against the calf of the other, just to feel the difference in texture—and the dream changed.
She was back at
that day
, in the public square, tied to a chest-high post, sweat stinging the cuts and bruises from her training sessions: wrists bound to a hook near groin level, the bindings forcing her shoulders forward and down, arms wrapped around the post in an obscene parody of an embrace. Two s'iopes in brown and white linen garments tied Ethu to a post beside her.
“No tears,” Ethu hissed.
Alyea's stomach turned over. A scream wanted to emerge from her mouth, but her throat refused to make a sound. This was a dream: she had to escape it; but events moved on inexorably.
A gold-robed s'iope stepped in front of her: Rosin Weatherweaver, the head of the Bright Bay Northern Church, faithful advisor to King Ninnic and a thoroughly evil bastard all around. His eyes glittered as he intoned her crimes: “You come before us accused of heresy against the gods, rebellion against not only the gods but their earthly representatives and the king himself; you have performed acts forbidden to women, committed sacrilege in the sight of gods and men alike. . . .”
It went on for some time. Weatherweaver repeated the offenses in several different ways, managing to make it sound as though she had committed an entire host of depravities. The crowd seemed to breathe as one, a slavering entity intent on blood and tears; among them, her mother swayed, white-faced and horrified, more afraid and ashamed than Alyea would ever be.
Weatherweaver's voice rolled on, seemingly unstoppable. “—deceit against your guardians, sacrilege against the laws of gods and men—” Sweat slicking what clothes they'd left her, sand grating under her bare feet, Alyea wished he'd just get it over with already.
At last he came to his offer:
“Publicly repent your sin and swear devotion to the Four Gods undying, or to go into death a heretic, casting your family into shame for ten generations to come. And if you choose heresy your family will be given punishment as well, to ensure the lesson is never lost.”
Her mother moaned, face whiter than bleached sand, and sagged in the grip of the two s'iopes holding her.
Alyea opened her mouth, but before she could make a sound, Weatherweaver snatched two whips from one of the nearby s'iopes and leapt to stand behind her.
The first blow shredded her breath and her voice; the second and third loosed her bladder and bowels, a small humiliation in the face of the moment. But she didn't scream. She didn't cry. She hung on to Ethu's command like a lifeline, determined not to give them the satisfaction. A long, awful pause; she began to draw in breath to speak, but just as her lips moved to form a word the fourth blow came, driving all thought and courage from her mind. She crumbled, unable to stand another stroke. Forcing breath, forcing words, she husked, “No more. Please. Repent. I repent.”
Weatherweaver came around to stand before her, leering as he leaned forward.
“What's that?” he whispered. His eyes glittered. “You want your mother to go through this too?” The whips in his hands dripped with her blood.
Her mother swayed, face even whiter than before, and let out another low moan.
“Repent,” she tried to scream; it came out as a hoarse croak, but loud enough, thankfully, for nearby ears to hear.
“Louder,” demanded a lesser s'iope; Alyea noticed, with surprising clarity, that the priest's hands had crumpled sweaty wrinkles into the front of his formerly immaculate brown and white shirt. Weatherweaver shot him a hard glare, then straightened, his expression sour and disappointed, as the junior priest repeated, his own volume rising defiantly, “Say it louder, so all can hear.”
“Repent. I repent.” She didn't—couldn't stand to—look at Ethu as she spoke. “I repent my sins. I swear undying devotion. I swear.”
They made her repeat it again, and once more, each time louder, until her voice finally gave out.
“Enough,” the junior s'iope said at last, casting a nervous glance at Rosin Weatherweaver's glowering expression. “We accept your repentance. Now—”
Weatherweaver's eyes brightened. “Five more, I think,” he purred. “To make sure she doesn't forget.”
“I don't think that's—” the other s'iope began, but Weatherweaver was already moving.
Alyea lost track of sound. She drifted through a white, orange, and yellow tunnel of agony, hanging on to Ethu's command with everything she had.
No tears
. It was all she had left.
At last her bonds loosed and hands tugged her to stand in front of Ethu.
Weatherweaver loomed up in her peripheral vision, a wild gleam in his eyes, whips still in his hands. “Your words have condemned this man as guilty,” he declared loudly. Then, lowering his voice, he added in her ear, “Persuade him to repent. Death can be fast for him if he repents.”
She stared at Ethu. He looked back at her, eyes blacker than black and face stony as a mountain. He said only, “No tears.”
That moment was the closest she came to losing control.
Ethu looked straight at Rosin Weatherweaver and told him to do something anatomically impossible and thoroughly obscene, elaborating loudly on that theme even as the blows began.
Alyea woke screaming, as she always did, the image of Ethu's bulging eyes and bloody, bitten lips seared into her mind. He hadn't screamed, not once; not when they threw buckets of salt water over him, not even when bone began to show through the cuts on his back.
She shook in the darkness, bathed in sweat but freezing with remembered terror, and nobody came to comfort her.

Scarcely any s'iopes remained in Bright Bay. Alyea had made Oruen promise to get rid of every single one if he gained the throne, and he'd held to his word. Most had left months ago, trundling out the eastern gates in fours and eights and sixteens: headed east to Salt Road or north through the Great Forest, returning to their legally acknowledged holdings. One small, stubborn band of holdouts had built a group of cottages at the western edge of the city, and for some reason Oruen allowed them that space; but they kept to themselves, and Alyea was content to let them be if they stayed out of her sight.
The Audience Hall in which the priests had dispensed their notion of justice through a mad, puppet king had been destroyed, and a new one was being built. But more petitioners filled the ballroom that served as temporary Audience Hall than ever before: an untidy line of supplicants, ranging from rich to poor, mostly southern but quite a few from north of the Great Forest. Today there was even a desert lord. Not as unusual as it had been under Ninnic, but still rare enough to send an excited buzz through the court and prompt everyone to crowd in, just a little, to hear the conversation.
Curious to see if it was Lord Scratha—the man could chill a fire to ice in seconds, and an audience between him and Oruen would be something to see—Alyea pushed and slid though the crowd, gathering more than a few sharp glares along the way, until she could see the desert lord clearly.
From where she stood, his back was to her, and his voice didn't sound familiar. She leaned to one side as a large woman, shifting restlessly, moved into her line of sight. There was no visible insignia on the desert lord's clothing of blue and sand-tan, but those weren't Scratha colors in any case. A wide, beaded band covered the man's right forearm from the wrist nearly to the elbow, but he stood too far away for Alyea to make out any distinct patterns or colors.
Alyea heard the Hall steward begin to announce someone's arrival just as the large woman stepped directly back and stumbled against her. In the resulting fuss of sharp words and apologies, she lost her chance to hear the identity of the new arrival. It had to be someone important, or the steward wouldn't have bothered calling out the name; and the reaction of the crowd around her suggested it wasn't someone particularly well liked.
She managed to catch a glimpse of the desert lord; he had turned to look towards the approaching newcomer. Even seeing his face clearly, she couldn't place him, but the man striding towards the throne was much younger—and she recognized him instantly: Pieas Sessin.
Alyea would never forget his face pressed close, his breath foul with wine and drugs; would never forget the pain, never forgive the humiliation which had led, in the end, to Ethu's death. Not that Pieas Sessin likely knew about that, or even cared.
Nausea thickened her throat, along with a wild desire to call out his crimes; but she couldn't do it. Not in front of Oruen. Never in front of Oruen. She'd promised herself that much, long ago.
As Pieas passed, arrogant in emerald green and sand-tan, the normal low chatter of the Audience Hall ceased completely. Even the most witless courtiers edged away as he passed. In the complete stillness of the room, his voice carried clearly:
“
S'a-ke
Eredion,” Pieas said, cold and deliberate, using the familiar
mother's-brother
rather than the formal
s'a-ketan
; a subtle insult all its own in this highly formal setting. “You neglected to inform me you had secured an appointment with the king.”
Turning, he added, “Lord Oruen,” while dropping a just-adequate bow to the man on the throne. “I offer my apologies for my late arrival. Please continue.”
He straightened further, tucking his strong hands behind his back, then stood silent, poised like a desert hawk about to plunge. His arms, neck, and ears were all completely bare of ornamentation: another insult, implying that Oruen wasn't important enough to warrant such a display.
Eredion Sessin took a deep breath. “As I was saying, Lord Oruen—” The desert lord's clear voice carried in the continued stillness. “The next shipment of glass is well on its way to being completed.”
That
wasn't
, Alyea knew after a swift examination of Oruen's face, what they had been discussing before Pieas swept into the room. Nice try, but it wouldn't hold; too many others had heard the discussion and not all of them could hide their surprise.
Pieas turned his head, his sharp eyes obviously picking up the slight start here and twitch there that spoke volumes about the lie presented.
“
S'a-ketan
,” he said, the formal term now even more of an insult, somehow, than the informal had been moments ago. “Surely we aren't wasting our lord's time with servant's talk? I had thought we asked for this audience to press our complaint against Scratha.”
Eredion's chin lowered, and his shoulders rounded forward as he turned a stare that could have melted glass on his nephew. “Surely you don't intend to tell me what I may and may not discuss,
s'ai-keia
.” While his tone stayed mild, the threat—underlined by a word one would use to a sister's son still in drooling infancy—was unmistakable.
“Of course not,
s'a-ketan
,” Pieas said humbly, apparently backing down, to the extent of physically retreating a step. “Please forgive me.”
But the damage had been done. Complaint against Scratha? Those words had exploded a susurrus of murmurs across the room. Alyea dearly wished she'd arrived sooner, secured a better view, caught even a bit of the earlier conversation. They'd probably been discussing, in careful, sideways terms, the very thing on which Pieas had demanded public attention.
Eredion Sessin looked ready to take the man to pieces with his bare hands.
Oruen shook his head slowly. “I assume this is about Nissa? If so, I should tell you that I spoke to your sister before she left for Sessin. I also summoned Lord Scratha. And I have already settled the matter to my own satisfaction. Lord Eredion, just before you arrived,
had
agreed to wait on a more private audience to discuss it further, later in the day. You may attend that discussion, if you wish.” His flat stare dared Pieas to protest further.
“Yes, Lord Oruen,” Pieas said. Alyea thought some of the humility in his voice might be real this time; the man looked badly rattled.
Eredion spoke, his voice and hands tight: “We beg your leave to withdraw, Lord Oruen.”
At Oruen's weary nod, Eredion dropped a deep and profoundly apologetic bow, gripped his nephew's elbow in what looked to be an iron hold, and hustled him from the room.
Intrigued, hoping to see Pieas receive a serious scolding, Alyea wormed her way back through the crowd and followed them. She slipped into the secret passageways and, undetected, watched them from hidden posts as they returned to their rooms.
Their private quarters were one of the few with multiple watch-holes, but only one other watcher was in place when Alyea arrived. She recognized the lean face and dark eyes of a man who had seen, if reports were true, three kings come and go. Not that Ninnic and Mezarak had lasted their full natural lifespans; but still, it spoke of capability. She didn't know his true name. The Hidden Cadre left all prior identity behind when they entered royal service. His call-name was a word from the old language:
micru
, the black and tan-banded viper that moved faster than thought and could kill a healthy draft-horse.
Micru gave her a swift and disinterested glance as she slid into the spying area, then put a finger over his mouth in a wordless warning:
be silent and you may stay
.
She nodded, agreeing, and peered through one of the spyholes. She found the two men speaking quietly, not shouting as she would have expected. Even with her good hearing, she had to strain for their words.
For a long, annoying time, she caught only a fragment or an occasional word, not enough to make out what they were discussing. A glance at Micru showed him sitting perfectly still, intent, eyes half-closed as he listened. Alyea guessed he could read lips, and wished she had been able to pick up that skill; but her feeble attempts at it had always been disastrous.
After a while, Pieas stormed out of the room. Micru didn't move, his attention fixed on Eredion; she stayed, wondering what he was watching for now. It finally occurred to her that he'd be sitting here for hours; Micru was posted to watch the room, not Pieas.
She was being an idiot, and her presence was useless. No matter how adept she was at sneaking through secret passages and moving quietly, she was no palace spy and never would be.
The admission galled.
So did Micru's brief, amused glance as she slid past him on her way out of the passage.
Just tired enough to want to avoid chance encounters with ambitious nobles and courtiers, Alyea chose a little-used passage back to her rooms. While her family had a small estate within the Seventeen Gates, Oruen had set aside a small suite of rooms for Alyea within the palace itself, and she stayed there more often than not. Her mother never complained, more than content that her only daughter should remain as close as possible to the king. Alyea had given up trying to convince her mother that Oruen would never offer marriage. Once that woman got an idea, a mountain of sand couldn't smother it.
Swinging around a corner, she stopped, startled.
Alyea didn't know all the servants, but she did recognize the simple ruby-and-silver ring visible on this girl's right hand as she struggled with the man pinning her against the wall. Along with the long dark hair and a scar on the back of the girl’s right hand, it served as positive identification: Alyea had given that ring to her favorite maid before dismissing her years ago.
Alyea pulled the man away and shoved him staggering sideways before he had time to react to her presence.
“Stand off,
s'e
!” she barked.
“How dare you!” he shouted simultaneously, catching himself against the wall.
The man out of the way for the moment, Alyea turned to the servant girl. “Wian, are you hurt?”
A livid bruise shadowed the side of Wian's face, and her simple servant's dress was in disarray. “I'll survive, my lady,” she said, sagging back against the wall with one hand to her throat. “Thank you.”
“How
dare
you!” the man raged, straightening and advancing a step; and at last the voice registered as familiar.
Alyea turned to stare at the man. Pieas Sessin—again! For a moment she didn't know what to say, and Pieas seemed to be searching for a suitably harsh reprimand. He obviously didn't recognize her; just as well.
“How dare you?” Pieas repeated, moving another stride closer. “This is none of your concern!”
“She's not willing, so it certainly is my concern.” Her anger, now back in full force, burst loose. “You have no right to take any servant inside the Seventeen Gates against her will!”
“She's willing enough to have lured me here,” Pieas said, arrogant in certainty. “Any cry of rape would be a lie; she almost dragged me with her.”
Alyea stared at the man in disbelief. She didn't need Wian's pale, frantic head-shake to know Pieas lied. “And the bruise?” she demanded. “And her struggle to be free? Do you take me for a complete fool?”
“She only fought when she heard your step,” he said smoothly. “And the bruise was there before she flung herself at me. She can't cry rape just because she's embarrassed at being caught!”
“She doesn't need to; I know her, and you, and
I
call it rape. Stay away from her and the other servants, or I'll see you barred from setting foot inside the Gates.”
“You have no such authority,” he said, laughing at her now. “Cry all you want. I'll let the little whore go; there are others more interesting.” He turned to leave.
“You're a fine champion for your sister, Pieas Sessin,” she snapped.
He stopped and turned with shocking speed and grace, looming over her before she had time to draw a breath. “Don't you dare compare my sister to some palace whore!”
“Wian isn't a whore,” Alyea said, “and neither was I.”
“What, you've known me as well?” he asked, almost laughing again, then stopped, searching her face more carefully. A faint frown creased his forehead, and he began to speak.
She cut him off. “Go away, get out of the Palace, Pieas, before I call the guards to escort you out!”
His frown shifted to a sneer. “Go on, call them! They can't touch me. Desert Family immunity, in case you've forgotten your lessons.” He cast the maid a thoughtful glance that sent ice down Alyea's back, and sauntered away, whistling loudly.
“Gods,” Alyea muttered. She turned quickly to her former servant. Wian had sunk to the floor, head on her knees, breathing in great, wobbly gasps. “Wian, come, let's get you back to Lady Arnil's.”
“I didn't encourage him,” Wian said shakily, “I swear, I didn't. He followed me all evening, and I was trying to avoid him, I know his kind, I know that look, and I thought I was safe, cutting down this hallway, and didn't know he followed me. . . .”
She started to cry, shivering, her eyes wide and dilated with shock.
“Hush, Wian,” Alyea said, gathering the terrified girl into a tight hug before tugging her back to her feet. “I know. Believe me, I know.”