Servants of the Sands

Acknowledgements

What is there left to say that I haven’t already said in the acknowledgements for the first four books? I’m surrounded by an absolutely amazing community of friends and family. I’ve learned so much from writing this series: about myself, about the real world, about the craft of writing, about the business of writing and self-promotion. I’m deeply indebted to everyone who’s taken a moment to help along the way. There really are far too many people to list here!

That being said, there are three new people I need to thank this time around: L. M. Kate JohnsTon, who reviewed a lengthy excerpt as a sensitivity reader and caught a handful of egregiously foolish mistakes. Malcolm Gin, who has also read some of my work with an eye to pointing out unseen bias. Kat Tanaka Okopnik, whose discussions proved excellent at making me rethink many underlying assumptions. They were not the only people to help, but made the greatest contribution overall. I’m not arrogant enough to think I got everything right, but any remaining missteps are entirely my own fault and not the result of poor teachers.

I will, as always, point out my wonderful husband, Earl Harris, without whom I absolutely would not have made it this far in so many respects. In addition, over the two years of my frequent travels dealing with my mother’s decline, during which much of this book was written,  Russell Schroeder and Patrick Winch were equally sturdy supports (and excellent drinking buddies!).

This is the first book in the series that was not edited by Barbara Friend Ish; as much as we both would have loved that, circumstances intervened on multiple levels. Instead, the editor for Servants of the Sands was Edward Morris, a ferociously intelligent gent who beat me about the head and shoulders about adding details and yanking out passive wording alongside my overly beloved em-dashes and semicolons. The book is much, much better for his input.

Last but not least, I owe a deep bow of gratitude to my publisher, Andrew Burt of ReAnimus Press, who gave this series a new home when the original publisher folded. Andrew has been incredibly patient and understanding in spite of the manuscript delivery taking *cough years cough* a bit longer than expected.

Thank you, everyone. Thank you so very, very, very much, for so many, many moments. I hope the book proves worth the wait!

Foreword

Once intended as a three book story, Children of the Desert has sprawled a bit. In part, each book has grown as my grasp of adding detail and complexity of plot has improved; in part, they’ve expanded because of the need to wrap up plot points from previous volumes.

In Secrets of the Sands, a fairly standard adventure story, a young street thief (Idisio) finds out that he’s more important than he ever dreamed of being, and a young noblewoman (Alyea) finds out that she’s less important than she thought. Ancient creatures (ha’reye) stir from slumber, raising their heads to take note of a world drastically changed from their last visit to human time. In the deep background, multiple factions (Aerthraim, teyanain, Kingdom, Sessin, Darden, F’Heing, Toscin, and more) are plotting to advance their interests. Deiq, a ha’ra’ha (half human, half ha’rethe), interferes with matters mainly from malicious amusement, and misses the hooks being gently set as he plays with human lives. Alyea’s quest for power becomes more about helping others than protecting herself, and she nearly dies in the process. Idisio is forced to revise everything he thinks he knows about himself, and steps up to a visibility he really doesn’t want.

Their path takes them from the northern city of Bright Bay to the deep southern Scratha Fortress, where Alyea, who had intended to take charge of the deserted territory in the name of the nothern king, is faced with a very angry Cafad Scratha, who is not in the least willing to cede his claim. Deiq intervenes again, and matters are uneasily settled, with Cafad committing to restart his Family (something he’s been avoiding for a long time) and Alyea and Idisio under Deiq’s wing to keep them safe as they figure out what to do next.

At the time of writing Secrets, I didn’t have the skill to show many small moments as clearly as I would have liked. Looking back, I wish I’d been able to show the deviousness of the teyanain, not just their ruthlessness; I wish I’d been able to show why Alyea was so completely biddable in her innocent ambition, rather than pressing for the answers she later learns to demand up front. I wish I’d been able to show that Deiq had repressed so much of his memory, at the time of their first encounter, that he was a completely different person than even fifty years previously, and to hint at how incredibly fortunate that was for all concerned.

But done is done, and after all, that book is written from the point of view of two characters who are completely unaware of what they’ve walked into.

At the end of Secrets, Alyea and Idisio both have a beginning grasp on an entirely diferent sort of power than what they set out to have. They’re now People Of Significant Interest, and there’s no going back.

In Guardians of the Desert, the cast expands, offering more experienced views on the developing situation. Deiq starts off the story with the irritable realization that he’s basically promised to help Alyea for an indefinite length of time, which is a colossal waste of his energy; but the aforementioned repressed memories remain locked away, and so he dismisses his annoyance and keeps mentoring Alyea. He also completely fails to point out the danger his tentative allies have put themselves in by restarting Scratha Fortress. He traipses off with Alyea and Idisio, leaving the foolish Cafad Scratha and his household to fend for themselves. Whether he actually allows himself to think about the scope of what he’s abandoning is an open question at this point. He’s so very good at lying to himself, after all, and those hooks set in the previous book are starting to tug ever so gently.

Alyea and Deiq trade off viewpoints in Guardians, the former showing a growing understanding of complexities and the latter a growing awareness of how much he’s blocked out of his memory over the years. They run afoul of teyanain plotting, not for the first nor last time, and Deiq is tricked into a nearly intolerable political subordination to Alyea. Returning to Bright Bay, Alyea, Deiq, and Idisio walk straight into more drastic threats: a mad ha’ra’ha is rampaging through the city, searching for something unknown, and a mad human is out for revenge against Alyea. The resulting tangle winds up with Idisio kidnapped, Deiq seriously wounded, Alyea near death, and the appearance of a new face: Tank, a young man with a complicated past and a great deal of raw, largely untrained psychic power. He heals Alyea where Deiq fails, which triggers Deiq into a mixture of intense jealousy and despair. Alyea, in turn, has to bring Deiq back from the edge of destroying himself, and their bond deepens further, even as Deiq’s memories start returning and his personality begins to revert to a considerably harsher tone.

In Bells of the Kingdom, a fair part of the story overlaps with the beginning of Guardians. I felt that the opening situation, a tricky political meeting, was pivotal enough to later events that a thorough examination here would avoid a lot of explanation down the road. Some readers have expressed annoyance at having to read the same events twice over, although through different points of view. Today, I would probably have shortened the overlap considerably or skipped it. At the time, it was a technique I’d always wanted to try, and so I did.

Bells is the most complicated book of the series, in my opinion, with a great deal of emotion, action, and multiple character perspectives packed into a relatively short tale. The mad ha’ra’ha from Guardians gets to tell her story, as do a northern priest, Idisio, and Tank. It’s not a gentle book. It contains a hefty amount of sexualized violence and abuse by way of obstacles to overcome. It’s intended to be a dark book, a stomach punch, and it’s also designed to be easy to skip if a reader can’t tolerate that sort of tension. I did my best to add enough explanation to the following two books to support stepping around this one.

I will never again write a book like Bells. It was hideously hard to write. I cried and felt nauseous throughout most of the process. I never want to get that dark ever again, but it was a side of the story, an angle of the politics, that is so essential to later plot points that it couldn’t be avoided or lightened.

Ha’reye are not nice creatures. Ha’ra’hain are not nice creatures. Humans are not nice creatures. That’s the underpinning of the entire series, really, and it becomes starkly evident from this point on. No amount of salvation curve can erase the damage done along the way.

In Fires of the Desert, the story returns to Deiq, Tank, and Alyea, with a new character added: Eredion of Sessin Family, an aging statesman who’s done good in the service of evil and evil in the service of good for so many years that he’s having trouble telling the difference these days. Deiq is once more attacked, then abducted to parts unknown. Alyea sets off to rescue him, turning her local political responsibilities over to Eredion. Once more, the teyanain wind up being a central part of both abduction and rescue; there’s been a political split amongst them for the first time in centuries. The hooks set into Deiq, back in the first book, get yanked on hard this time. He winds up marrying Alyea in a ceremony far more powerful than he anticipated, which drains away (he thinks at the time) the bulk of his abilities for an unknown length of time.

The ceremony also burns away the last of the mist Deiq’s been keeping over his memories, and he sees just how deep the hole he’s flung himself into is, and what needs to be done to fix an array of mistakes—including his choice to walk away from Scratha Fortress. Even convinced that he’s dangerously crippled, he chooses to leave Alyea behind and heads south at best speed, hoping to be in time to stop a disaster.

In Servants of the Sands … well, you’ll have to keep reading to find out, now, won’t you?

Servants was the first book I wrote without the guidance of Barbara Friend Ish. It’s also a book in which I attempted to gather up the many loose threads from the previous four. I discovered, after initial publication, that I had missed several, despite the excellent guidance of my new editor. One reason for republishing this is that the missing bits have been bothering me so badly that I can’t move on without fixing them.

I am a perfectionist, so I see various mistakes I made in this book that I cannot fix because they are too deeply ingrained in the story to change. The one I regret the most involves the trope I fell into regarding Seg, Cafad's closest advisor, a black man with pale blue eyes. I did not know enough, when I wrote the book initially, to avoid that trope; all I can do is promise to never do that again, and hope the reader forgives me this time around.

All substantive changes are in the second volume, including an entirely new ending epilogue chapter that closes out Idisio’s story far more satisfactorily. I am extremely grateful to Andrew Burt of ReAnimus Press, for supporting my desire to make the book better both in content and appearance. I dearly hope you, my wonderful readers, like the changes as much as I do.

It’s been a long journey from that first page of Secrets of the Sands, and I’ve learned so much along the way. I’m not done with these characters, nor this setting. How long it will take me to get the next book out is impossible to predict. But with this burden off my mind, I’ll proceed with more confidence and energy. There’s little quite as draining to me as the hovering, anxious surety that I’ve not done my very best. I’m proud of all of my writing, even the terrible stuff, because each story is markedly better than the previous. And what else can a writer really ask for from life?

On to the story, then. Teth-kavit, and remember: never play a game of chabi with a teyanin.

They cheat.

Royal Library Map no. 123:

The Southlands and Southern Kingdom

PART ONE: WALKING INTO THE DARK

Prologue

Suanth 15, KY 1161

I’m going to ask her to marry me, Azni.

Early morning light striped through the wide glass windows, broken into shifting patterns by a light wind moving through the flowering shrubs outside. Cafad sat on a bright blue cushion, looking at the shadows, shifting his vision to focus on motes of dust in the air, picking out the spots in the room where the specks collected in whirling drifts.

The silence hung for a long time. Cafad looked at everything in the room by way of distraction: the sturdy wooden benches, the glazed earthenware vases filled with flowers both fresh and dried, the shelves of jams, jellies, and various pickled things floating in glass jars. Finally, giving up, he raised his gaze to the woman sitting on the other side of the low, thickly varnished harpwood table.

Azni was old, her long white hair braided neatly back and clubbed up into a stubby queue. Her skin nearly matched the surface of the table between them, both in its lines and in its dark, red-honey color. She wore a pale linen dress, no shoes, no jewelry, no makeup. She’d always been one of the least ostentatious people Cafad knew.

She was regarding him with a skeptical expression, one eyebrow quirked high. As soon as he met her gaze, he felt color rising to his own face. "And you came out here at the gods own hour to tell me this—why?" she said. "Do you want my blessing, Cafad?"

He dropped his gaze to the table and traced wood grain lines with a finger. No, he said. I just—I wanted to know if you think it’s a mad idea.

"To be completely blunt, from what you’ve told me, yes. She’s considerably younger than you are. She can’t possibly be experienced enough to rebuild Scratha Family. Or strong enough, come to that. You scarcely even know her! How can you ask her to lead a desert Family?"

He shook his head slowly, not looking up. She won’t have to, he said. I’m going to settle in Bright Bay with her.

You’re letting Scratha Fortress go. The flatness of the words spoke volumes. You’re going to abandon your claim.

I might as well. Cafad drummed his fingers on the tabletop restlessly. Azni, I make the trip south twice a year to keep my claim active, and the rest of the time I’m either here at your home or wandering around Bright Bay. I haven’t found anything about who slaughtered my family. Nobody believes me when I say Sessin was behind it.

Glancing at the fine glass windows, he scowled deeply. Everyone wants Sessin Family to be their friend—no, I’m not going on a rant again, don’t worry. He splayed his hands across the table top, flattening them out, feeling distinctly peevish at her skeptical expression. I’m sick of the sneers, the laughter behind my back, the condescension. Everyone thinks I’m mad, Azni.

You are, a bit. He shot her a hard look. She shrugged. It’s a bad idea, Cafad. Letting Scratha Fortress go will create a huge political hole. Everyone will want to claim it. You’ll set off an inter-Family war.

Let them squabble, he said bitterly. It would serve them right for all the snubs.

Her stare could have melted stone. That’s childish.

His hands tightened into fists. He spread them out again with a conscious effort. It doesn’t matter, Azni. I’m going to ask her. Today. I’ve already commissioned a ring. I’m negotiating the purchase of an estate on the northern edge of town. It belonged to one of the nobles who fell during the Purge. His family doesn’t want to stay in town any longer. Bad memories. They’re moving north of the Hackerwood. He grinned sourly. It seems fitting for me to move in there, given that I’m leaving my former home because of the memories.

She shook her head. You have to announce it formally. Call for a Conclave and present it there. Let the arguments happen safely in a teuthin. You can’t simply walk away and allow chaos to take over.

"As soon as she says yes, I will, he said. I doubt my stepping away will cause as much chaos as you think, Azni. Nobody pays attention to me. Nobody seems to care if Scratha Fortress sits empty until the end of time. They could have assassinated me a triple dozen times over if they cared so much about taking over the Fortress. The fact that I’m even still alive speaks to how little I matter."

"As long as it’s claimed, and at least marginally maintained, there’s nothing they can do, she said sharply. Assassination isn’t as lightly handled as you seem to think—who have you been talking to? Besides, you’re not the most congenial company, Cafad. Are you truly surprised that nobody seeks you out, after all the years of you snubbing and insulting them?"

He rose, unable to hold still any longer, and paced across the room and back with long, taut strides. You’re baiting me, Azni, he said, facing her again.

Of course I am. Not that you’re listening, any more than you ever do. You’re Head of Scratha, Cafad. You have responsibilities, no matter that you’ve been avoiding them for years. She slapped a hand on the table as he opened his mouth, her dark eyes hard and angry. "No, Cafad, you hold your peace and let me finish—I’ve been keeping this silent for a long time. How dare you throw your heritage away? You don’t seem to realize that your Family was important, that people have been waiting for you to get your head out of the sand and tend to your duties! You don’t have to restart the Fortress for that. You can set up in Water’s End and present yourself properly. Everyone’s been waiting on you to do just that—I certainly have!"

Then you’re the only one, he replied sourly. "You still aren’t understanding, Azni—you can’t understand, you’re not a desert lord. I can tell what people are thinking, and all I’m seeing is contempt when people talk to me. Nissa is the only person I can trust—the only person who’s honest with me."

He paced across the room again, breathing hard. Although Azni wore a distinctly peculiar expression—almost amusement—she didn’t interrupt.

Nobody takes me seriously, he said. I’m a joke. I’m the sole survivor of a murdered Family, and there’s no interest in finding out who was responsible for the murders. That tells me that one of the Families were involved. That there’s a conspiracy to stay silent, there has to be, there’s been no damn effort to investigate—

Cafad, stop. It’s too early in the morning for me to listen to that rant again.

"—fine." Cafad turned away from her and went to one of the windows, staring out at the white-flowered fernleaf bushes, watching their feathery leaves swaying in the breeze. He tried not to look at the glass, tried to ignore it, but it colored everything he saw: Sessin. Sessin. Sessin made the window. Always Sessin. He couldn’t get away from their presence.

I won’t have a single godsdamned Sessin window in my new home, he told himself. I’ll break every one to bits, then find someone local to create replacements. Even if the windows are garbage. I’d rather look through distortions than be faced with Sessin manufacture every day.

I’m going, he said abruptly, facing her. I have to. I have to, Azni, I can’t live this—this half-life any longer. I have to settle in one place. And I’m choosing Bright Bay.

He tried for a smile, but felt it fail as her frown intensified. Azni, please—don’t be angry with me. I have to do this. It’s the right thing to do. Grabbing up his cloak, he moved for the door.

You’re being a fool, Azni said.

Won’t be the first time. I’ll send you an invitation to the wedding, but I won’t mind if you don’t attend.

He left before she could answer, slamming the door behind him.

Normally, the six-mile walk between Bright Bay and Azni’s home took Cafad nearly two hours. He never hurried in either direction. Visiting Azni was always a reprieve, a treat, a restful interlude.

This time, his pace quickened by anger, the trip back to Bright Bay took him under an hour. How dare she scold him like a child? How dare she disapprove of him? She didn’t understand. She wasn’t a desert lord, merely a foolish noblewoman who’d run away from her Family to follow her lover. And she was old, as well—easily twice Cafad’s age. She couldn’t possibly remember how it felt to be in love. She’d been alone for so long, and living in the north. She had no idea of what was happening in southern politics right now. She didn’t understand.

She’d never seen Scratha Fortress sitting empty and abandoned in the midst of a sizzling heat wave. Never walked the corridors, listening to the echoes, in the middle of the night, or stood atop the towers under a full moon and looked out across a depopulated land. Never looked at the storerooms and treasury of a dead Fortress with a growing realization that everything the contents represented was gone.

Why not sell it all and have done with the memories? Replace desert drought with the ever-present humidity of a port city, replace silence with the laugh of a beautiful woman, replace solitude with the warmth of her body pressed against his?

Duty be damned. Duty hadn’t done his parents any good, in the end. It hadn’t protected anyone in Scratha Fortress. They’d died, slaughtered by an invisible hand, and the other Families hadn’t done a godsdamned thing to find out who was responsible.

Who cared that he hadn’t met Nissa all that long ago? What did it matter? She was the first woman to care about him as a person, instead of as a political symbol.

He blinked, pausing mid-stride. The streets of Bright Bay formed around him. This wasn’t the first time he’d been so deep in brooding as to lose track of his surroundings, but it always startled him.

To his right, five broad steps led up to a stubby brick building surrounded by a ridiculously wide wraparound porch littered with tables and chairs and sun-tents. Over a dozen of the chairs were occupied by people drinking from thick ceramic mugs. From the scents swirling through the air, they were drinking mostly coffee, and some herbal teas.

Thank you, Oruen, Cafad thought with bleak humor. Lifting the heavy restrictions on southern trade had been one of the new king’s earliest acts. Bright Bay’s economy was climbing sharply out of disaster as exotic items streamed into the city. This was the only dedicated coffee and tea shop in the city, as far as Cafad knew. The raw materials were still madly expensive.

To his left stretched a row of slightly taller buildings, butted up against one another. An oversized thread spool hung above one door, a pair of wooden scissors over another; the next a shoe, and the last in the row a mask. Each of the shops had one large window facing the street and two long, narrow windows near the roofline. The shutters were all propped open, and the doors stood wide. The cobbler, a stout man with wildly curling red hair and a shaggy beard, sat outside his door, resoling a lady’s boot. He looked up at Cafad, waving genially.

Good morning, my lord, he said. How are those boots suiting you? He scratched at his beard idly. Cafad resisted the impulse, not for the first time, to observe aloud that the man would be more comfortable in the southern heat if he went clean-shaven.

Good morning, s’e Decobb, Cafad said. They’re wearing in nicely, thank you. He took a step, then hesitated. That one you’re working on looks familiar.

Ah, yes. You would recognize this set, I suppose. S’a Nissa dropped it off yesterday. That young lady does rather a lot of walking, doesn’t she? The cobbler grinned down at the shoe in question, shaking his head, then looked up at Cafad again. Quite the independent sort, your lady is. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen her with a servant at her side. Says she doesn’t need one. He shook his head, disapprovingly this time. It’s a good thing the Northern Church is losing its hold on this city. You ought to speak to her, though, my lord. It’s still not a wise thing for her to be doing. The city isn’t safe, even for someone with her connections.

Cafad scowled. It’s none of your concern, cobbler.

The tradesman shrugged. As you like, my lord, he said. Enjoy your day. Let your lady know I’ll have her boots done and delivered to the Golden Perch steward by end of tomorrow.

I’ll do that.

Still scowling, Cafad strode deeper into the city. How dare the man make such comments? Nissa was southern. She didn’t follow nonsensical northern customs. She could take care of herself. Southern women weren’t foolishly pampered and protected like northern women. Even the lowest servant girl in the south could handle basic weapons.

I’d like to see someone try to lay hands on Nissa, Cafad thought with smug pride. I’d like to see how much was left of them afterward! Given the underlying muscle to her body and the way she moved—alert, graceful—she’d been trained in aqeyva. The signs were unmistakable. Not at all uncommon for a southerner.

He cut down a side street barely visible from the cobbler’s shop. Time to go pick up the ring, and then find Nissa and—

Cafad’s stomach lurched. He regained his composure and quickened his pace. I’m going to do this. I’m going to ask her to marry me.

He’d commissioned the ring from a jeweler in the metalworking district, not from one within the Seventeen Gates. Being under constant scrutiny by petty northern nobles with nothing better to do than to spy on their betters made him hate being inside the Gates.

A handful of trinkets from the Scratha treasury had financed the ring. Those had been quickly and eagerly snapped up by an aging, shortsighted noblewoman who lived on the edge of town. She hadn’t known exactly what she was buying, or who Cafad was. She’d simply liked the exotic nature of the presented items. In truth, she’d probably overpaid, by southern valuation. But the woman was northern, and foolish about status, and items from the south were still in high demand.

Best to ride that while it lasted. When Nissa said yes... and she would, she had to, he absolutely refused to think of any other answer... he’d make one more trip to Scratha Fortress, hold the Conclave—Azni had been right about that much—then gather up everything of value and let the southern Families squabble over the leavings.

No—two trips. One to gather up items to sell, then one more for a Conclave. That way there are no arguments over who owns the contents of the treasury. It’s not looting if it’s my own damn Family vault!

The crunch of something breaking underfoot and a sudden aroma of decay—dirt, old wood, rust—brought his attention back to his surroundings. Once again, he’d lost track while he brooded, and his steps had gone off course. He stood at one corner of an intersection in a worn, shabby commercial district. The bookseller, scribe hall, and paper-goods craftsman displayed broken signs and boarded-over shutters. The limner was still open for business, as was a glass-crafter’s shop.

Nissa had worked with glass before: a brief apprenticeship with one of the lesser, independent southern crafters. It had only lasted long enough to leave her with unmistakable burn scars along her forearms and a fondness for well-done glass craft, although she displayed the same distaste for Sessin products as he himself felt.

Given the scent of failure in the air, this particular crafter had already been struggling to keep his business afloat during the Purge, and was now ready to drown himself. There was simply no way for any small crafter to compete with the flood of Sessin imports at this point.

Nissa likes glass baubles. Maybe there’s something here I can give her, before I give her the ring. He went across the street to the glass crafter shop, sure that it would be a collection of rough garbage. But Nissa had a knack for finding unexpectedly charming pieces in back-alley shops like this. Surely he could do the same once in a while.

The interior bore signs of having once been a thriving business. Two walls were lined with mostly-empty shelves. The enormous carpet, once noble shades of red and purple, was now faded to a mottled burgundy that showed deep imprints where heavy tables once stood. The street side of the room had two large windows, whose shutters were propped half open. Near the ceiling on the back wall, the shutters were completely pushed back from two long horizontal windows, presumably to let in more light and air.

At the back of the room, a plump man sat on a high stool, several pieces of glassware before him on the table. Good morning, my lord, the man said as Cafad entered. He rose from his seat, bowing deeply. You honor my shop.

Greetings, Cafad replied, smiling. I’m here to buy something nice for my lady.

The man’s gaze flickered over Cafad appraisingly. You’ll be wanting our best, no doubt. We’ve some new merchandise ready, as it happens. Fine, fine items, best in the city. He pointed to the glassware on the table. I was just deciding on pricing, my lord, so take a look and see what you think it’s worth to you. No doubt you’ve seen fine work many a time, and you look to be an honest man. You wouldn’t offer me a price below its true valuation, I’m sure. He grinned, but his pale eyes held no warmth.

I’m sure. Cafad was dryly amused by the man’s attempt to manipulate him. He crossed the room to study the indicated items.

There were two glass goblets, stained a bright, regal red at their bases and halfway up the stems. The color continued in fading streaks up into the cup itself, giving it a wavering, striped appearance. Beside the goblets sat a shallow glass bowl, whose design was filled with loosely swirled patterns in shades of red and blue. The last of the items on the table was a vase as tall as Cafad’s forearm and absolutely clear, with loops of glass laid in an ascending swirl of coils that became a perfect array of flower petals at the vase’s mouth.

Cafad ran a finger over the smooth surface of the bowl, frowning. It was fine work. Exceptional work. And it didn’t belong in this back-alley shop. True red glass, here? He picked up the bowl and turned it over. The mark scratched on the bottom was an unfamiliar one.

Who made these? he asked, not looking at the shopkeeper.

I did, my lord, the man said. I’ve made everything in this shop. Been working as a glass crafter for thirty years now.

He was speaking truth, but it simply wasn’t possible. Cafad put the bowl down, then went to the nearest shelf.

That’s older work, my lord, the man said hastily. It’s not nearly so fine—

Cafad picked up a thick-walled vase and turned it over in his hand, studying the straight, undecorated lines and barely bubbled glass. The same mark was scratched into the bottom of the vase as had been on the bowl. He set it down and looked at the other items on the shelf, which were of the same quality. Good work, for a small craftsman of experience: simple, mostly sturdy pieces with various swirls and decoration. The colors tended towards light blue or yellow, with a rougher cutoff between colors than the subtle blending of the tabletop pieces. A few showed real skill and a delicate hand, but none came close to the detail and grace of the newer work.

He turned back to the table and met the shopkeeper’s gaze. The man was beginning to look anxious now, his skin a shade paler and his lower lip caught between his teeth. My lord? he said. Is—is something wrong?

This, I believe you made, Cafad said, waving a hand at the shelves. That— he pointed at the table. That isn’t just better craft, s’e. That’s— he hesitated, then made himself say it. "That’s Sessin craft."

The man blanched. No, my lord, no, he protested. No, I made every one of those pieces myself. I swear it!

Then who taught you these tricks, s’e? Cafad asked, returning to the table. "I refuse to believe you went from that to this without help!" He looked at the man’s hands. They were large, and thick, but they showed muscle and scars consistent with glass crafting.

I don’t—I can’t— The man paused, chewing on his lower lip, and glanced around as though confirming that they were alone. I can’t speak of it. Part of my agreement was to keep—my teacher’s—identity silent. But I’m telling you the truth—I’ve made these items myself!

You’ve been stealing Sessin secrets, Cafad said ominously.

No! No, my lord, merely studying craft—

You’re not stupid enough to think that whoever’s given you these tricks is simply an accomplished crafter! What are you paying for these lessons?

The man ducked his head, swallowing hard. I can’t say, my lord, he muttered. I swore an oath. I can’t.

It’s your neck, Cafad said. I certainly won’t help you. He glared at the items on the table, deeply tempted to pick them all up and smash them to bits. Then it occurred to him that losing their monopoly on fine glass would hurt Sessin Family deeply.

Cafad grinned, deciding he could live with that.

My lord, my lord, please, the shopkeeper babbled, it’s my last chance to make a living, lord, please, I’m desperate, I barely survived the Purge—you can see how poor this area is, lord, please—

I won’t tell anyone your secret, Cafad said, still smiling, but only because I hate Sessin Family so deeply that I’m amused at the thought of a traitor selling their dearly-held crafting secrets to a tiny shop on the muddiest little back street in Bright Bay.

The shopkeeper flushed, his back straightening. Not the muddiest, by far, my lord, he said austerely. "We aren’t that far fallen yet."

I don’t care, s’e. I won’t say anything. But I’d suggest finding a less obvious way of applying your lessons—anyone with half a wit will know what you’ve done. I truly pity whoever was foolish enough to hand you the secret of true red glass. They’ll be paying a high price for their betrayal when they’re discovered.

Thank you, my lord, thank you—please, ahhh, take one of these items, no charge, allow me to express my gratitude for your forbearance—

Cafad hesitated, looking at the vase. It was well done, and it represented a wonderful treachery. Nissa would like that aspect of the matter. I won’t give this to her today, he decided. The ring is more important. This can be... a present for after she says yes.

I’ll come back for the vase, he said. Set it aside for me.

I can deliver it to your home, lord, the shopkeeper blurted. No charge, no trouble at all.

Very well. Take it to the fourth cottage at the Golden Perch.

The shopkeeper blinked, seemingly taken aback. The—the Golden Perch, lord?

Yes. Do you know where it is?

Y-yes, my lord. Yes. Of course. I—yes. Fourth cottage. I’ll have it there by the end of the day, lord.

Cafad squinted at the man. What’s the matter with you?

N-nothing, my lord. Nothing at all. The man bowed deeply. I—ahhh, I wish you a good day, my lord, I thank you for your presence—your—your presence graces—your grace— He shut his eyes and shook his head, his throat working.

Cafad stepped in closer to the man. Tell me, he said, layering absolute command into the words.

The man gagged briefly, then babbled, The Golden Perch cottages is—is where—the young lady who’s been helping me—she mentioned once that she has rooms there. He sagged back onto his stool, one hand to his throat, shivering noticeably. Oh, gods, he muttered. "You’re a desert lord, my lord. You didn’t say... you’re supposed to warn a man...."

Cafad stood very still, staring at the man; thinking, with abrupt clarity, about the burn scars on Nissa’s hands—and her routine deflection of questions about her past. This young lady, he said slowly. What does she look like...?

Chapter 1

Azni had stopped being afraid of the dark long ago. For a desert lord, night was no more dangerous a time than day. Night was safer, actually. Small noises stood out, and the natural human reliance on sight faded, opening the other senses.

She needed those other senses just now. She needed all the edge she could get to maintain the decades-long pretense that she still operated as any sort of desert lord. She’d been able, so far, to pass off her lack of ability, and her apparent age, as a side effect of having lived out of any ha’rethe’s range for so many years. She’d been able to turn aside questions, to keep people from thinking about her inability to move with a desert lord’s uncanny speed and heal at an accelerated rate, among other expected behaviors.

She’d gotten used to her disability, in her quiet, isolated northern home, away from all the Family and kingdom machinations and plots. But here, here of all places—she absolutely had to command the respect of the servants, and the girls, and most of all Cafad.

He’d been so shocked to discover that she was a desert lord—and then, promptly, furious that nobody had ever told him. How in all of the Northern Church’s hells he’d managed to go through his life to date without hearing that tidbit of information had always been beyond her; but he had an immense capacity to simply not hear things that didn’t fit with his perception of reality.

And to be entirely honest, she knew of at least two occasions where he’d been deliberately steered away from sensitive information, over the years. In his younger years, he’d burnt so many holes in the political weave without even knowing it, without caring, that Azni agreed with the general decision to keep him as ignorant as possible.

Unfortunately, now that had to be remedied, and quickly. His anger had prompted a confrontation with Scratha ha’rethe: You are a lord of the Aerthraim / you have betrayed the bound lord? This is against the Agreement!

Only Deiq’s intervention kept the creature from striking her down on the spot. No, he’d said. On this point, the bound lord is incorrect. This desert lord is sworn to Darden. After that point, the conversation blurred. Azni had no idea what else Deiq had said, but he calmed Scratha ha’rethe in the moment. It was still unhappy with her presence—she’d felt its attention focused on her more than once in the days since her arrival, as if watching for an excuse to reject her status—but it was, for the moment, letting the matter rest.

Still, Deiq had saved her life—again. She wished she didn’t owe the elder ha’ra’ha her life so many times over. It would be easier to hate him the way he so richly deserved.

Dangerous thoughts, even with the layering tricks Eredion of Sessin taught her so long ago. She’d selected a suite of rooms, far from Cafad’s, that clearly once belonged to a desert lord. The walls were laced with protective aenstone blocks. But this courtyard carried no such shielding. She mustn’t get complacent.

Azni shut her eyes and focused on the warm sand surrounding her feet, the way the heat eased the aches, the dry gritty rasp as she flexed her toes. She thought about having her kathain rub her down with a lightly orange-scented salve to ease the papery feel of desert-dried skin. She listened to the laughter of servants, well into their own night of celebrations. Now and again, the laughter died away into a brief, ugly scuffle, then faded back into raucous merriment. Perfectly normal, when servants from multiple Families were put into one harness. Culture and custom clashed far more brutally and directly at the servant level than at the noble.

Her hearing magnified, instinct focusing on a new sound—a soft scrape, a huff of breath. The sounds clarified into a pattern. Someone was coming toward the courtyard, stride certain and more than a little arrogant. Her refuge had been discovered.

She’d chosen the smallest of the servant courtyards, fairly sure that the noise and smell of nearby celebrations would mask her physical presence, and that the overall thii of the area would make it a blind spot for the subtler methods of searching. Few southerners would think a desert lord, however disgraced, would lower herself to sit here.

Whoever was coming didn’t care about thii or thio or any sort of dignity. Given that Cafad, Deiq, and Idisio were all occupied with other matters, and her own less-than-ideal thio among the desert Families, that left a very short list of people who would bother to search her out tonight, especially when far better amusements were on display at the various after-Conclave celebrations. She hadn’t wanted to face any of those people, but dignity forbade any attempt to flee.

Lanterns and torches set throughout the small courtyard flared to life with a discordant series of hisses and pops. Filtering out the crackling hiss of the closest torches, she listened, chin tucking in a bit to her chest, as footsteps approached. They were barefoot, and light of movement. An earthy aroma, thick from a day of walking through dry heat, reached her nose as the intruder neared. She inhaled gently, recognizing subtler notes of clove-orange soap, and sighed, thinking: Well, I knew this was coming sooner or later.

Hiding, Azni? the man asked, quite ungraciously.

Azni straightened her back and opened her eyes, studying him for a moment before answering. There was plenty of light to see by. He’d lit every torch and lantern throughout the courtyard, as though to emphasize his easy command of such trivialities.

He’d chosen to wear his Family colors for once: a long, dark red silk shirt, trousers that looked red or black depending on the light, and a vibrant yellow sash that cinched the shirt around his waist. Barefoot, as she’d sensed and heard. His narrow, callused feet left little imprint on the sand, and while he’d put on weight, all of his movements were still lithe.

His long dark hair was pulled neatly back to reveal a face nearly free of age lines. A single, sinuous white scar ran along the left side of his face, a bleached strip of tissue from eye to mouth. He hadn’t had that scar at their last meeting, some years ago now.

She didn’t ask what injury could have caused the peculiar mark. She didn’t have to. She bore her own such scars, thankfully easier to hide beneath clothing.

Lord Irrio, she said with measured chill, and watched him pause, his dark eyebrows dipping fractionally.

Sorry, he said after a few moments, and sat on the bench beside her, straddling it so as to face her profile. Azni hauled herself round to face him, rucking her skirts to make sitting crossways on the bench marginally comfortable. A faint smile touched his thin lips as he watched her adjust and tug at the recalcitrant folds of fabric.

Scratha’s uneasy that you’re not by his side, Irrio said, once she’d settled. There’s others have noticed, too. You’re not doing yourself any favors, Azni.

His eyes strayed over her body in rapid, jerky glances. The tautness in his jaw told her that he had something else altogether on his mind.

I’d rather be less visible just now, she said. Irrio inhaled as though to say something sharply rebuking, then stopped and looked away. After a few breaths, he looked back at her.

Azni. What the hells happened to you? Last time I saw you—

A lot has happened since then, she said, glancing down at her age-freckled arms, and drew calm around herself, layering gritty sand and flickering light and clove-orange through the forefront of her mind as she spoke.

I almost pissed myself when I saw you—

Wouldn’t that have been a moment to remember? she said lightly, hoping to sidetrack the coming questions.

Godsdamnit, he said with an unexpected passion that silenced her. He drew a deep breath and calmed himself again. Azni. You’re younger than I am. You’re Binto’s age. Even living for so long out of range, you’re a desert lord. And you’re not— you shouldn’t be.... He made a helpless gesture that took in her whole body.

Old, she supplied dryly, looking at her thin arms, the knobs of wrist and knuckle that stood out clearly under dark skin stretched pale. Not for the first time, she wondered how her change had affected Allonin. Also not for the first time, she buried that thought almost before it consciously registered. This isn’t the place to talk about it, Irrio. You know that.

I know I won’t get you away from here to any place where you can discuss it, he countered, then his tone softened towards rueful. "And—I know you’ve no reason to trust me these days, but I wish you’d walk with me to the borders, Azni."

What, sneak away in the middle of the night without leave, like randy children? For that, she won a sharp answering grin. Her chest hurt, seeing that smile in the flickering light, his dark skin burnished with gold, his expression open and generous for one fragile moment. He looked so damn much like his brothers.

His eyes narrowed, his smile fading. "You’re thinking about Regav, aren’t you? You still miss him?"

She shut her eyes, her own throat too tight for speech. He’d always been irritatingly good at picking up her thoughts—on that topic, at least. When the thickness eased, she said, Every day. Every moment. It’s my fault he’s dead: an old and grey thought that still held a powerful sting.

I suppose I should be grateful you’re not brooding over Binto, Irrio said sourly, then let out a breath that was as much curse as exhalation. Damnit. I told myself I wouldn’t throw that in your face again.

She shook her head, opening her eyes, and regarded him with a tired smile. I’m used to it, she said. You always do think of your brothers when you see me. I suspect you always will, considering that it’s my fault that they’re dead.

Irrio shut his eyes briefly, clearly gathering calm. Let’s not talk about them.

That would be a nice change. She kept her tone light, despite a feeling he’d aim for something even more painful next. Darden men were almost uniformly predictable in some ways.

Irrio began to speak, then stopped, his face set and hard. After two more failed attempts, he said, I’d hoped, when I heard you would be here— He swallowed the rest of the words and looked away, his mouth set in a grim line.

Even suspecting a trick, her defensiveness softened. I know, she said, and feathered a fingertip touch against the back of his hand. We never did properly finish that... conversation my children interrupted. I’m sorry, Irrio. It’s too late now.

You came back south after all, despite your fine protests, he said, not looking at her. "But you came here. For him. You wouldn’t do it for your own children when I asked—"

She shouldn’t have given him an opening. Irrio. Don’t do this. Not here, not now.

He was adamant. I still want answers, Azni. What’s happened between you two over the years? Why have you put up with Scratha’s asinine behavior? Why has he kept haunting your door?

Because it was safer than having him wandering about and disrupting the entire southlands with his hunt for answers, was one response to the latter question. Because Eredion asked me to, was another. Neither of those were safe to tell Irrio, for complex reasons both personal and political—and thinking about those things wasn’t safe, not with a restless ha’rethe stirring underfoot and Cafad likely to be testing his newfound powers at erratic intervals.

I still won’t talk about it, Irrio, she said sharply. Gods, have some sense. Not here!

A humorless smile stretched his mouth. No, he said. Of course not. And gods forbid I speak rudely of my host. Forgive me. I should avoid anything stronger than water, apparently.

She bit the inside of her cheek and resisted the impulse to roll her eyes at that bit of typical southern false courtesy.

Lord Irrio stood, bowed with ostentatious irony, then left the courtyard. As he passed through the archway, every light went out at once with a sharp, petulant pop.

Chapter 2

The tapestry to the kathain quarters displayed a ginger plant twined around a staff, flanked by groundhogs standing on their hind legs facing the staff, each with one front paw resting on a leaf edge. Goldenvine wove across the bottom edge of the curtain, each funnel-like bloom splayed ostentatiously wide.

Subtle, Cafad muttered, then sprawled on the bed and shoved himself back against the piled-up cushions. The movement wrenched at his loose trousers. He rearranged the thin fabric, irritated, tempted to simply strip down and have done. But that wasn’t polite, not yet, not until he was actually going to sleep.

Or was he remembering that correctly? He’d spent so much of his life wandering amongst differing Family and social constraints that he had trouble remembering his own Family customs at times. It didn’t help that he felt nearly drunk at the moment, which didn’t make any sense at all. He hadn’t allowed himself more than a single courtesy cup of wine tonight. But what else could he call the wandering, fuzzy sensation fogging his mind and turning every movement he made clumsy?

The last time he’d felt like this, he’d just been bitten by a venomous snake in a wretched excuse for a village. He’d had to focus on preventing his servant from panicking and dragging in a ‘healer’ who would have done more harm than good.

Idisio’s grey eyes hung in his memory: huge, lambent with terror, his face white and stretched. Cafad recalled his own astonishment at the strength of the boy’s reaction. He’d genuinely feared that the bite would cause Cafad’s death. Even though Cafad had been brutally unkind to the boy more than once, he had cared....

Idisio. Have to start remembering names. And boy was wrong, too—disrespectful—Idisio was, as it turned out, ha’ra’hain: Cafad’s superior in terms of status. That still itched. He’d be glad when the boy—when ha’inn Idisio—left his lands.

Mostly. Probably. Almost certainly.

He didn’t want to think about that any more. He didn’t have to think about that any more. He was Lord of Scratha Fortress. He could put his attention on... whatever he liked.

I should eat something. There was a small dining room, not much more than an annex, truly. It had two doors: one that opened to the outer suite and one that opened to his bedroom. It was a long walk for the servants carrying food from the kitchens, a deliberately awkward setup intended to encourage the bound lord to emerge from his rooms and join the fortress at meals. Even so, he could ask for a platter of cold meats and cheeses and bread to be sent out. That was little enough to ask. Except: I’m not hungry. I don’t want to eat. He rubbed at his eyes, feeling extraordinarily sullen.

He’d expected his new position to mean more. He’d finally claimed his due, his rights, gotten the respect he’d wanted. He’d ended his meandering, distracted lifestyle in favor of solid, productive behavior. There was nothing left in the north for him. There never had been anything for him in the north, only a series of delusions that he’d desperately wanted to believe in. He’d been a fool, and he’d very nearly sunk himself past recovery.

Cafad put out a hand to the bedside table, touching the side of a thick bowl crafted from a translucent orange and white rock. It was of teyanain make, one of a set of six, each gifted to a different Family at a Conclave long enough ago that Tehay had been a recipient of one of the bowls—which, more than likely, now resided in a F’Heing hall.

The Scratha bowl had been appraised, sight unseen, in Bright Bay for a sum that would have erased any concern over money for the rest of Cafad’s life—even given the lifespan of a desert lord.

I almost sold it. I almost walked away from my heritage, almost gave everything over to a lying whore of a Sessin—

Lord, a voice said. A tall man with coal-black skin and pale blue eyes stood just inside the doorway to the outer rooms. Your tea is ready, lord.

Don’t want any, Cafad muttered, scowling more at his own childish tone than any irritation with the servant. He hastily added, Sorry, Seg.

I’d advise you to drink a cup, lord, Seg said placidly, brushing a piece of lint from his immaculate, intricately embroidered shirt. It will ease the disorientation you’re feeling.

Cafad sat up straight, lurched, and caught himself with an outstretched hand before he toppled from the bed. Suspicion rose, acidic in his throat. Had the meal been poisoned? The one cup of wine? Seg’s job was to prevent such things, meaning he would have been involved....

What did you do to me? he demanded.

I have done nothing, lord, Seg said. Your disorientation is part of your new role, as I understand it. Ha’inn Deiq recommended a certain tincture be added to your cups for a few nights, to avoid—complications—while you adjust to circumstances. The tea—

"You’ve put something in my drink because Deiq told you to? Cafad demanded, staggering to his feet. Are you completely insane?"

The tea, Seg went on as though Scratha hadn’t spoken at all, "will ease the slight side effect of disorientation that you appear to be experiencing. It will also ease your increasing irritability. Lord." The last word held a distinct emphasis.

Cafad leaned against a wall, breathing hard and staring at his unrepentant servant. Bring it in, he said at last, and wobbled back to the bed before his legs could give way.

A few sips of the pale tea later, his head did feel considerably more clear. He studied Seg, who had returned to his post by the door, hands clasped behind his back. The man didn’t move a muscle, and didn’t appear to be looking at anything. Cafad could scarcely catch the tiny movements of breath passing through Seg’s body.

Cafad looked at the fabric and cut of Seg’s clothing, noting the images of plump fish embroidered in gold thread along hem and sleeves, the deliberate contrast of pale stitching and indigo cloth, the precise, formal lines of the outfit. There was no mistaking this man for an ordinary servant, nor for an in-service kathain. He was s’e-kath: northerns would probably translate the concept as master servant, a bewilderingly nonsensical phrase in Cafad’s opinion.

Whatever the translation, Seg was, very obviously, an excellent s’e-kath: as quiet and unassuming and, underneath, as dangerous and complex as Chacerly or Micru had proven themselves to be. He’d gone through specialized training to gain this position. It wouldn’t do to underestimate him, or treat him like a fool.

S’e kath Segnilious, Cafad said eventually, keeping his tone even. About that tincture.

Seg’s gaze focused on Cafad’s face. He made no other movement.

Why did you trust Deiq of Stass on something so personal as putting a tincture in my drink? Cafad said, trying to keep his tone reasonable.

Seg answered without hesitation: Because Lord Azni approved it, lord; and because the ha’inn has no reason to wish you harm. Because the ha’inn is the type for a direct blow, lord, not a treacherous poison; and because while bound so closely to a ha’rethe, you are safe from any poison I know of. Because I drank it myself, lord, before allowing the tincture near your cup. Because—

Enough, Cafad said. I get the point. You didn’t trust him blindly.

Seg’s face remained expressionless, but Cafad caught a tiny crease of amusement around the man’s eyes. I did not, lord.

"You can stop that, too. I don’t need you to call me lord every sentence."

As you like. I suggest that in public you allow me to address you with proper formality.

Fine. Cafad tossed down the last drops of his tea. Seg moved forward, lifted the intricately worked ceramic teapot from the side table, and refilled Cafad’s cup. I feel better. Thank you.

Seg went back to his silent stance by the door.

Who do you serve, Seg? Cafad asked.

You, lord.

Cafad made an impatient gesture with one hand. He saw no real point in worrying about courtesy with his personal manservant. Either Seg would take offense and leave, or he’d put up with Cafad’s irascible behavior. Better to know now, before he came to rely on the man.

Before that, Cafad said. Who loaned you out?

Seg’s right eyebrow raised the tiniest bit. Nobody loaned me out. I chose to come and serve you.

And when you leave my service?

If that day comes, Seg said, unruffled, I will choose another lord to serve.

Cafad resisted the urge to say something obscene. Choosing his words with more care and keeping his tone neutral this time, he tried, Who did you choose to serve before you arrived here?

Lord Tereph.

Cafad’s teeth set together hard, and he shut his eyes. Meaning Sessin, he said through his teeth.

No, lord. Meaning Tereph.

Cafad glared at the man. "Tereph is Sessin, Seg."

Seg bent his head, picking another bit of lint from his shirt sleeve. No, lord. Tereph is Tereph. Sessin is Sessin.

That’s not the way I remember it!

When was the last time you visited Tereph, or Sessin? Seg inquired gravely. Even desert Families change, lord. Even Sessin Family adjusts to new political times and necessities.

Cafad stared, his mouth slightly open, then blurted, Just who is in charge of Tereph these days?

Seg folded his arms over his chest. Lord Olla.

Breath left Cafad’s body for a