Guardians of the Desert (Children of the Desert) (42 page)

“All right. But if I say you need to rest, you’re going to listen to me. We can pick up the talk later. Agreed?”

She made an impatient gesture. “I’m
fine
.”

“Promise or I don’t talk.”

She snorted. “Fine. I promise.”

He nodded, then looked down at his hands, trying to think how to begin. He considered numerous approaches, abandoned them all one by one; as he’d been doing since he’d volunteered, days ago, to take Deiq’s place for this particular talk. Faced with a blank slate holding no ideas at all, he sighed and said, “I wouldn’t call it love. Don’t ever make that mistake.”

Glancing up, he saw he had her full attention. Not surprising, with that opening. He smiled wryly and went on:

“There’s always been something of a . . . translation difficulty between humans and ha’reye. They don’t have any words to match our concept of love, which has led humans to believe that ha’reye don’t possess any tender emotions. That’s not quite true. Ha’reye are probably some of the most passionately emotional creatures you’ll ever meet—but they channel their emotions into specific goals. By their view, humans waste their emotional energies all over the place, like water leaking through a sieve. Ha’ra’hain have just as much passion, but they constantly battle their human urge to waste against their ha’rethe urge to conserve. It’s not surprising how many of the First Born went mad, before we learned how to help them through that conflict.”

Alyea nodded, her eyes bright, as though finally understanding a number of things all at once.

“Add in,” Eredion said, “that a ha’ra’ha usually lives for hundreds of years, and you’ve got a real translation problem when it comes to setting the human concept of love against a ha’ra’ha or ha’rethe’s needs and desires. You just can’t
love
something that can’t understand you, can’t match your strength in any way, and is doomed to die in a relatively few years. It’s like loving a fish in a tabletop bowl. All it does is break your heart a dozen times a year.”

“But desert lords. . . .” Alyea said, tone questioning.

He nodded. “Desert lords are the closest match ha’ra’hain can hope to find outside their own kind,” he agreed. “We live much longer, we’re strong enough to at least hold our own most of the time, and we’re enough a part of their world to have a hazy understanding of their lives. But most of the surviving ha’ra’hain, over the years, have opted to stay closer to their ha’reye roots, and tend to live either underground or in the water, or, if possible, both. Deiq’s one of maybe five true ha’ra’hain walking the human world right now, and I include Idisio and his mother in that number. And Deiq is the only First Born doing it.”

He paused, thinking back over what he’d just said.

“Has anyone ever explained the differences between the ha’ra’hain to you, Alyea?”

She shook her head mutely.

“First Born,” Eredion said, “were the original offspring of the Agreement.”

Her face lost color rapidly, and he almost stopped there, afraid she needed to rest before hearing more. But then she said, in a thin voice, “So Deiq is . . .
really
old.”

“Ah. Yes.” Eredion cleared his throat. “I thought . . . didn’t you already understand that?”

“I asked him once how old he was. He wouldn’t answer. I thought perhaps a hundred years or so.” Alyea swallowed hard, color slowly returning to her face. “And Lord Evkit said . . . something about the Split. But he doesn’t
look
any older than thirty! It’s so hard to think of him as . . . as older.”

“Deiq was already well into adulthood during the Split,” Eredion said dryly. “I can see how that would be a shock. I’m sorry, I thought you understood.”

She sat staring at nothing for a time, then shook her head and motioned sharply for him to continue.

“Well, there are the First Born, and then there are the first-generation; those are still direct crosses between ha’reye and human, but came out much more stable. I don’t know why. In fact, what I’m telling you isn’t something one desert lord in twenty even knows, so if you want deeper answers than this you’ll do better to ask Deiq.” He paused again, watching the small shifts in her face and eyes, then went on. “There are also second-generation ha’ra’hain; those are the ha’ra’hain to human crossbreeds.”

“So Idisio’s children will be second-generation?”

Eredion started to answer, then stopped to think more carefully. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know enough about his heritage to answer that. If his mother is first-generation ha’ra’ha and his father was human, then Idisio himself is second generation, and his children will likely be as human as makes no difference. The traits just don’t carry further than that. But we don’t know enough about his parentage yet.”

“And . . . Deiq?” Alyea said, her voice almost a whisper.

Eredion drew in a long breath, then released it, and said, “I don’t know anything about the children of First Born, Alyea, although I’m sure there must be some. But Deiq is unique. Every other First Born . . . went completely insane. They had to be destroyed.”

Alyea put a shaking hand over her mouth and stared at him in open horror.

Eredion let the silence rest for a moment, then said, evenly, “At times I have my own doubts about Deiq. But he doesn’t kill unless he has to, and he doesn’t enjoy killing when forced to it—”

He tried not to think about Deiq’s charge into Lady Arnil’s house.

“Ninnic’s child is a good example what the First Born were like, if the stories I’ve heard are anywhere near true. And Deiq’s nothing like that. Nothing at all like that.”

Eredion wondered, privately, if he were trying to convince her or trying to convince himself. With a sigh, he stopped talking, giving her time to think and himself a chance to choose his next words carefully. She was looking decidedly pale again; almost time to put her back to bed.

And hope that change didn’t kick in just at the wrong moment. Given how damned long it had been since Eredion himself had trusted someone enough to take them into his bed, and how overpowering a new desert lord could be when the need hit,
no
wouldn’t really be an option. Deiq might not enjoy killing, but Eredion doubted the ha’ra’ha would work too hard at controlling his rage if he walked in on
that
.

He shut his eyes and swallowed hard, blocking that image, and train of thought, as swiftly as he could. This was not the time to fantasize, not with Alyea’s perceptions edging steadily towards the highest they’d ever be and Deiq’s nerves on a raw edge. He had to be very, very careful.

“So I won’t say he loves you,” Eredion went on when he had his thoughts under control. “That would lead you to some bad assumptions. But he cares, passionately, what happens to you, and about your safety and happiness. Sometimes it won’t look like it: he thought he was doing right by denying the ransom demand. We both thought it was nothing but a few bandits out after a rich merchant’s money. You could have handled that easily.”

She shut her eyes and swayed a little. “I should have,” she said in a blurred voice.

“Mm. Time for you to go back to sleep. No, you promised. Come on.” Eredion stood and guided her back to the bed. “We’ll talk more later. I promise.
After
you talk to Oruen, because he’ll have me torn apart otherwise.”

She mumbled something, already incoherent and likely not hearing his words at all. He sat beside her and cautiously stroked her hair until she fell into a deep sleep.

Exhaustion racked through Alyea, leaving her more incapacitated than pain ever had. Just the small effort of dressing—with, embarrassingly, a servant’s help—left her sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling like a limp noodle. Eating a bowl of cold fruit soup and a thick piece of peasant bread gave her enough strength to reach the couch in her outer suite, where she rested in a grey haze, listening to rain patter down in random bursts outside. A welcome cool breeze sifted through the room, dispelling the evil odors of convalescence, stirring vases of dayflowers and bundles of rosemary into releasing their fragrances.

Alyea held up her right arm, studying the smooth skin with an odd feeling of detachment. Only a faint tracing of red lines remained to show the damages, but she remembered: Tevin had set the edge of the knife just
there
, under the elbow, and had traced a sideways cut to
there
, just above the wrist—working the thin blade into the cut, and little by little
peeling
—

She shut her eyes, dropping her arm back to her side, and shook with remembered horror.

“Alyea,” Eredion said, and his large hand closed around hers as he knelt beside the couch.

She jerked and let out a sharp yip, pulling her hand away; he let her, then patiently recaptured her wrist. This time she forced herself to relax and allow the contact. His hands felt warm and dry, and a strong pulse thudded in his thumbs.

“Alyea,” he said again, searching her eyes as though to check for sanity. His face held a grey tinge. After a moment, he let out a hard sigh and sat back, releasing his grip; her hand prickled with a brief chill. “Gods. Hasn’t anyone taught you the first damn thing about shielding yet?”

She stared at him, uncomprehending, then understood. “I wasn’t—thinking about being overheard,” she said thinly.

“Obviously.” He ran a hand over his eyes. “Not that I blame you; that
was . . . extreme. But you have to learn to remember . . . even the worst
things . . .
quietly
. Or every damn sensitive in the area will see it. And Deiq will—” He stopped short and swallowed back the rest of that sentence, his gaze shifting to one side. His mouth set in a hard line.

“What will—”

“Never mind,” Eredion said, tone curt. “This isn’t the time. The king’s waiting to see you.”

He held out a hand. She took it, let him help her up to a proper sitting position. Eredion pushed pillows behind and beside her for support, poured her a cup of hot tea, then left the room, his taut, grim expression unwavering throughout.

Alyea sipped tea and tried to steady her breathing and emotions, feeling as though she’d just awoken from a heart-stopping nightmare and still hung in that aftermath of disoriented uncertainty. Nothing could be the same; her life would divide, in her own mind, as pre- and post-Tevin. She’d thought, previously, that she knew how depraved humanity could be; thought the whipping she’d endured the worst torture she could ever imagine, and the pain of the blood trials the highest end of the scale.

Now she understood those things had been mere annoyances compared to what was really possible—especially for a desert lord who could heal . . . so fast. . . .

She blinked hard and sipped tea, sharply restricting her thoughts to the moment. A grumbling, subterranean unease continued in the back of her mind, chewing over the simple, incredible fact of her survival.

A rattling knock on the door sounded. A moment later, Eredion stepped in and said with brief, cold formality, “Lord Alyea. May I present Lord Georn Oruen.” He bowed and stepped out again. Oruen came in, shutting the door behind him.

Alyea felt a chill race down her spine. Oruen had opted to appear in full royal regalia, from blue and grey robes to the heavy formal-court crown. His expression held no trace of humility or friendship; his gaze was distant and aimed somewhere past her. He stopped, four long steps into the room, presented a formal bow deep enough to require a steadying hand on the crown, then seated himself in a well-upholstered chair facing her.

“Lord Alyea,” he said, his dark stare settling on her at last. “How does the day find you?”

She fought the urge to respond with familiarity and said, matching the cold in his tone, “Well enough, Lord Oruen. I tire easily still, but that’s about it.”

“That comes as a relief,” he said. “Some reports had me believing you on death’s doorstep.”

She said nothing, delivering a severe stare instead.

His gaze moved to the thin red lines still visible along her arms, then back to her face. “I am advised, by some,” he said, “that I should not involve myself in prosecuting or searching for your kidnappers. That, as you yourself asked that Peysimun Family be made independent, this is, in fact, a desert Family matter.”

Alyea’s breath caught in her chest. “A valid point,” she said, forcing her tone to remain level.

“Other . . . advisors . . . have suggested,” Oruen continued, “that the actual crime occurred on Kingdom soil, by the kidnap being on the streets and the . . . damage . . . being performed at Lady Arnil’s estate; and thus the matter lies under
my
jurisdiction.”

“I wonder who
that
advisor was,” Alyea muttered, glancing towards the door.

Oruen was the one who said nothing this time, his gaze dark and sharp.

Alyea studied his fiercely intent expression for a few moments, then said, “So you’ve just spent an hour listening to my mother and Lord Eredion go at you on the matter from opposing sides, is that it?”

Oruen’s mouth moved towards a smile. “Something like that,” he admitted. He removed the heavy crown and set it on his lap. “What do
you
want me to do?”

She leaned back against the cushions, seeing the larger question: to reaffirm Peysimun independence, or put herself under the king’s authority once more.

“I believe,” she said at last, “it’s best to allow Peysimun Family to handle this matter ourselves, Lord Oruen.”

He nodded as though he’d expected that answer. “I think you’ll find some internal resistance to that decision,” he said dryly.

“I expect so. I’ll handle it. Thank you.”

He pursed his lips, his gaze moving again to her arm, then said, “Your mother isn’t going to take being set aside as Head of Family lightly, Alyea. Under northern rule, she has status of her own; you’re taking that away from her.”

“With all respect, I’m not discussing this with you, Lord Oruen.”

He stared at her, half-smile fading to a frown, and said, “Can we
possibly
take this out of the formal for a moment or two?”

“Fine. I’m not talking about my mother with you, Georn.”

The dry smile returned. “Understood. A more personal matter, then. What happened to you made me realize—I’ve been a fool.” He glanced down and away, the smile gone; his throat worked for a moment. “Alyea, I’m sorry. I only saw political angles—that’s how Chac taught me. Without him around, I’m seeing—some things differently.”

Alyea said nothing, watching every small twitch of his hands and face with a new alertness.

“Chac was the one who advised me to set you aside; there were alliances that could only be made if I was . . . unattached.”

Alyea raised an eyebrow, bleakly amused over where this was obviously headed, and decided to spare them both the embarrassment.

“Georn,” she said, “A year ago I would have already been on my knees thanking you. Now I can’t help thinking how much more advantageous an alliance I would be than any of the noble daughters who’ve been courting your attention, and how you’d have Peysimun Family back under your control if I married you.”

He shrugged, not in the least offended or surprised. “True. But it’s not politics alone that has me here today, Alyea.”

She shook her head. “Georn—has anyone told you yet that I’m not likely to have any children?”

His skin went an odd grey shade. “Because of that bastard—”

“No,” Alyea interrupted hastily. “It happened during the blood trials.”

Oruen’s mouth thinned, a flush replacing the shock. “So it’s my fault? Is that why you won’t—” He stopped, his gaze dropping to his fisted hands.

Alyea regarded him without any sympathy. “Done is done,” she said after a few moments. “I made my own mistakes on that road. But I’m not interested in alliance through marriage, Georn; we went to bed together once, that’s all, and not even because you loved me. I was there, and I was willing, and you’d just seen something awful; there wasn’t anyone else you trusted not to stab you in the back that day. I was . . . I was your kathain.”

He shot her a startled, sick glance. She laughed, genuinely if blackly amused.

“Don’t make more of it than it was,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m feeling tired and would like to rest. Good day, Lord Oruen.”

He stood, slowly, staring as though unable to take his eyes from her face. “It’s Deiq, isn’t it?” he said. “That’s what’s changed you. His influence.”

Alyea leaned her head back and shut her eyes, weariness threatening to swamp her thoughts into incoherence. “No, Lord Oruen,” she said. “Not Deiq. I think it’s actually something called growing up.”

Silence hung in the room. After a few breaths, it was broken by soft, shuffling footsteps, and then by the door quietly closing.