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“I've never been called, no.”
“Alyea,” he said, abruptly dropping out of the formal tones, “
do
you know why you're here?”
She stopped herself before she could say:
because I'm an idiot
, and swallowed.
“No,” she said. “I don't. I'm ignorant.”
“Ignorant,” he said, “not stupid.”
She stared at him. Had he heard her unspoken words?
He smiled. “I also trained in aqeyva, Alyea. For much longer than you have.”
Alyea tried to smooth her expression to the blandness Juric had shown a few moments ago.
“Not bad,” he said, grinning. “Keep practicing.”
She set her teeth in her tongue to stop the questions she dearly wanted to ask.
He nodded, as if pleased at her continuing silence, and motioned her up and off the mat. She found, to her surprise, that the sand felt warm, but hardly as scorching as she'd expected. Juric lifted the two mats, then rolled them up into one thick bundle with quick, professional movements; his gaze swept the sky and surrounding sands, darting back to his work now and again.
The rolled mats held in one hand, he gestured to the carriage.
“Get in,” he said.
She obeyed without protest, noting in passing that the men had broken down their tent, bundled the poles and fabric into a neat cylinder, and kicked sand over the remnants of the small fire, obscuring it completely. Under the steady evening breeze beginning to flow across the sand, all traces of their passing would be gone within hours.
She shivered, feeling vulnerable and frightened again, and sat on the low bed. After a few moments, Juric followed her in, shut the door behind him, and after tucking the rolled mats under the bench seat, settled on the bench almost across from her. The small space suddenly seemed much smaller, and his dark stare less friendly.
Juric rapped his knuckles on the wall by his head, and the carriage lurched as the men lifted it. The carriage swayed; a low chanting came from outside, cadence time in a foreign tongue. They moved forward, carried on the shoulders of six strong men.
“Machago,” she said in a low voice, glaring at Juric. “You're a slavemaster.”
He shook his head. “
Taska
. Courier. Carrier. Errand-boy. I'm not their master.”
“They're slaves.”
“Of course,” he said. “But not bound slaves. They're working off crimes and debts. Once they work off their due, they'll be free with no stigma.”
“Crimes,” she repeated, careful to keep it flat and non-questioning. He smiled, showing even, white teeth. “We don't have time for the formal games, right now; you'll incur no debt by asking open questions. Except,” he added, holding up a hand as if she'd jumped to speak, although she'd made no move. “I tell you when you can ask questions, and you have to answer my questions honestly.”
She considered, looking for traps, and finally nodded. “Accepted.”
“Ask,” he said. “Two questions.”
She drew breath, chose carefully from the myriad of worries, and said, “Where is Gria?”
His eyebrows rose, as if he'd expected a different question. “Your ugren slave?” he said. “With the
hask
.”
She debated asking what
hask
meant, but she suspected he meant Chacerly, and she had a more important question in mind.
“Why is Gria so important?” she said instead.
His smile faded. He studied her for a few breaths, that odd look on his face again, and finally said, “The
hask
underestimated you badly. You're better off with me. I ask you in return: what do you know of desert Family bloodlines?”
“Everyone's related,” she said before she could stop herself, and bit her tongue.
His amused look returned.
“True,” he admitted. “Another question: have you heard of the blood trial?”
“I've heard the words,” she said, “but I don't know what they mean.”
“To become a full desert lord, men must go through the blood trials,” Juric said. “Each man's trials are different, but all must be tested by Callen followers of Comos, of Ishrai, and of Datda, the old gods of the desert. All three Callen must be unanimous in their agreement that the supplicant is worthy to become a desert lord. Not all who apply are accepted to go through the trials, and not all who are accepted survive.”
She waited. He nodded, approving, and went on:
“Different families have different rules on who is allowed to become a desert lord. Sessin will only allow their full-blooded children to attempt the blood trials. Scratha has always been less . . . particular, but perhaps that is because their matrilineal reckoning ensures the blood will stay in their family in the end.”
He bent and slid open a thin drawer from under the bed. Lifting out a thick tan shawl, he handed it to her and closed the drawer. She draped the wrap around her, only now aware that the temperature had begun to drop rapidly. The sand-colored shawl felt thick and warm; she hugged it tight and said, “Thank you.”
“The Callen take whatever applicants come to them,” he said, ignoring her gratitude. “Once in a while, a supplicant comes who has not been sent by a Family. This is exceptionally rare, but it has happened before. Cafad Scratha was one such exceptional person; his entire Family was slaughtered while he was out on a desert vigil. Nobody remained to back his application, and the other Families, for whatever reason, would not put their names behind his. He opted to take the trials without a sponsoring Family. It was the only way he could become Lord of Scratha Family and remain in possession of his lands.”
His voice came from a gathering shadow as the light faded. Alyea shivered again, tucking the shawl closer around her body. She thought about asking if they could light a candle or hand-lantern, but the dark didn't seem to bother Juric, and the carriers apparently could see well enough.
“Understand, Scratha Family has always been highly respected as scholars and diplomats,” Juric's voice went on. “They studied old writings and were always able to smooth over political difficulties. A gathering was considered lacking if a Scratha lord did not attend. They brought families to a peace-table that had glared at each other over drawn daggers for hundreds of years. Their highest achievement was something nobody believed possible: the arranged marriage of Cida Scratha to Lord Evkit of the teyanain.”
“The what!” she said before she could stop herself. “I never heard of that!”
And why would I?
she thought, annoyed with herself.
I didn't even know the teyanain existed before traveling south. I'm starting to act as though I grew up here; how ridiculous!
“It never happened,” Juric said. She couldn't tell in the darkness whether he sounded sad or amused. Too much depended on the speaker's face.
It occurred to her that he couldn't see her, either. That relaxed her nerves considerably.
“Cida was willful and stubborn,” Juric said. “She ran off with a commoner the night after the announcement of her engagement to Lord Evkit. She destroyed literally years of negotiations and agreements. Her desertion was a mortal insult to Lord Evkit.”
Alyea sat very still, staring at the faint silhouette of Juric's head.
“The teyanain are very bad people to insult,” Juric said. “Scratha Family found themselves no longer welcome at any of the other Family gatherings. Their allies fell away, leaving Scratha Family open and vulnerable. Scratha guards deserted with no warning. Their food animals fell ill with strange diseases; their wells clogged unexpectedly. One by one, the lords of Scratha abandoned them or died; one changed his allegiance to Darden Family. Another, according to rumor, went south, possibly hoping to find help from the Forbidden Jungles. He was never seen again.”
“They just ran away?” Alyea said, incredulous.
“Desert lords, like all people, have their personalities and quirks and fears,” Juric said. “And it's a rare human that won't at least consider jumping from a rapidly sinking ship, especially when there's a sound and ready vessel at hand to step onto.”
“But if they hadn't left. . . .”
“If this, if that,” Juric said. “I'm telling you what happened. I'm not saying the lords of Scratha acted very admirably during that time. Do you want to hear the rest?”
“Yes,” Alyea said, putting aside her anger with an effort. “Please, go on.”
“One after another, the desert lords of Scratha left or died,” Juric said. “The wells dried up. The people began to starve. And nobody would send aid. Not a single family. Not even the Aerthraim. It was said the line of Scratha was cursed.”
The carriage rocked and swayed, the hoarse breathing and soft chanting of the men carrying it the only sound.
“And then,” Juric said, “Cafad Scratha went out on his first walkabout, as part of his training to become a desert lord. He returned to find every single member of his family dead and the floors covered in their blood.”
“I'm surprised he survived this long,” she said, then covered her mouth, appalled at her heartless comment.
Juric didn't seem to mind.
“Scratha is matrilineal,” he reminded her. “Cafad is male. In the long term, he's meaningless. He'll never have the authority a woman could gain, no matter how many children he has. He's gone through the blood trials, and he's Lord of Scratha, but it's a house without walls. Nobody's ever challenged his status: why bother? Desert Family guilt gave him everything he has. Of course, nobody's ever found Cida Scratha, either; she's been presumed dead for years.”
Breath caught in her throat as the implications connected in her head.
“Oh, gods,” she said, horrified. “Gria's the heir to
Scratha
?”
“Your slave is a foundling,” Juric said, “raised by a northern lordling. She would need a full Scratha lord to speak for her bloodline before that notion could even be hinted at publicly.”
“A foundling the teyanain wanted badly enough to put an ugren cuff on,” she said.
“Questioning the ways of the teyanain,” Juric said, “is a shortcut to a cursed life.”
She let out a long breath and thought about it. “I've been blundering about like a horse in a glass shop,” she said.
“True.”
Alyea shook her head, wishing she could read his face, but it remained invisible in the darkness. “Chac should have told me all this,” she said. “Long since, I should have known what you just told me. I would have handled things differently. Why didn't he tell me?”
Juric made no reply. She heard him shift, and scraping sounds; a moment later, a small lantern flared. He quickly hooded it to allow only a faint leakage of light, then hung it on a long-shafted hook. Alyea watched it sway for a moment, almost hypnotized by the motion, then tore her gaze away and looked back at Juric.
“To be a desert lord, you have to go through the blood trials,” Juric said. “Quiet. Don't speak. Listen to me. Only the blood trials will give you the authority you need in this situation. The king's word isn't good enough here, and your advisors knew that.
“The
hask
arranged for you to go through the trials, but it's a farce. He doesn't think you can do it. He intends you to fail. I believe you can succeed.”
He waited, his shadowed stare fixed intently on her face.
Alyea stared back, frozen, unable to believe what he had just said. She had to take
three
potentially fatal trials just to serve as king's proxy at Scratha Fortress? Madness.
Another piece turned over and connected: a full desert lord had to verify Gria's bloodline. None of the other Families, from the sound of it, would offer such a concession, and Scratha had been banished to the Stone Islands; calling him back could take months.
Furthermore, Juric's words implied that if Alyea survived the blood trials, she'd be granted more authority on the basis of her gender than Cafad had ever held. The logic of that escaped her, but this wasn't the time to argue southern customs.
Alyea could name Gria heir to Scratha and annul her slavery.
If
she survived the blood trials.
“How long do I have to decide?” she said, barely above a whisper.
“The
hask
bid me bring you to him for your first trial,” he said. “But I am a Callen of Comos, follower of the winds. I answer to myself alone, and my trial is always the first to be given. At your request, I can begin your trials. But once begun, you must continue; you cannot change your mind halfway through.”
She shut her eyes, feeling ill. Events had spun too far from anything she'd expected. Every time she thought she understood, something else knocked her off balance. Juric had said he thought she could do it; did that mean he favored her, or was that a simple assessment without bias either way?
“I'll do it,” she said at last. “With you to start the trials. Let's get this over with.”
He lifted a hand and rapped sharply on the side of the carriage. “Then we begin now.”

Idisio discovered two things over the next several days. The first, and most obvious, was that he hated sea travel. He hated the constant motion, he hated the enclosed spaces, he hated the fact that he couldn't leave if he wanted to. He hated that if something happened and the monstrous thing sank, he'd be dead because he'd never learned to swim.

He didn't get seasick, but he couldn't sleep and his appetite vanished. He couldn't decide what felt worse: sitting in the tiny cabin they'd been given and staring at swaying walls or sitting out on deck watching the swaying waves. Shortly after they boarded, Scratha handed him a thin sheaf of blank parchment, a pen and inkwell, and a bound book of children's stories to practice his still-uncertain skills; but the idea of trying to concentrate soon held little appeal.

He couldn't even vary the monotony by visiting the horses. They'd been left in Sandsplit Village as a “gift” for Yuer. Idisio suspected more politics he didn't understand had been involved in that gesture.

The second thing he realized was that he missed Riss's company. She'd been very quiet since that first night at the inn. She could be found out on deck in all sorts of weather, just walking or standing by the rail, staring out at the waves Idisio hated so much. She hadn't given Idisio more than a distracted wave and a half-hearted smile since they boarded.

And Scratha didn't seem inclined to talk either. He spent most of his time brooding: standing at the rail himself, staring south and west. His replies to comments or questions remained curt and mostly uninformative; Idisio gave up trying within a day of leaving Sandlaen port.

The sailors, on the other hand, talked. In fact, Idisio sometimes thought they never shut up. One in particular, a brawny man with developing streaks of grey in his bright red hair and a thick coating of freckles everywhere else, seemed to always be singing, talking, or laughing. Seasongs, old ribald desert tunes, northern hymns, slave work-songs: the man seemed to know every tune ever penned in the kingdom. The second day out, he sang a verse that made Idisio sit up and stare, unable to believe the man's gall: