The Hidden Queen (31 page)

They had all risen now, and al’Tamar took an involuntary step backward under the concentrated gaze of so many eyes filled with power. Then al’Jezraal’s face softened. “
Hai,
lad, the look on your face! No, we will not breathe fire upon you. But if you do know anything of a place called Gul Khaima, you must tell us.”

“Not quite…that,” said al’Tamar. “Ul’khari’ma. But you spoke of stone, and sea, and it fits. It bears a different name on the maps, but its folk name it thus. Ul’khari’ma is in the north, I fostered there briefly with al’Talip ma’Shadir, my mother’s kinsfolk. It is a small place, a handful of people—a place where they fish for had’dan and for amber, beneath a great cliff.”

As al’Jezraal looked around, he met first Anghara’s eyes, then ai’Farra’s.

“It is the best we have,” he said. “At least it is a start. You will take us to Ul’khari’ma, al’Tamar, as soon as it might be arranged.”

T
here was a word for this too—it was simply another kind of sand, in a land made of it. But this sand sloped gently toward a whispering ocean, indigo in the starlit darkness. Anghara sat with her burnoose laid on the ground beside her and her knees hugged in the circle of her arms, watching the silver glimmer of breaking surf and listening to the murmur of the water on the shore.

It was Sight more than any other sense that warned her of a presence approaching at her back, but it was a physical and rather disagreeable noise, at once a snap and a wet squelching sound, that made her turn. She saw al’Tamar bending to examine something he had just ground with his heel.

“Red crab,” he said by way of explanation, without looking up. The silvery-blue soul fire Anghara had first sensed in Al’haria played about al’Tamar’s bright hair like a faint halo. “If not quite poisonous, then relatively unpleasant. They bite anything that moves, and the consequences are…uncomfortable, to say the least.”

Anghara accepted his presence, his action, without question.
Hama dan ar’i’id,
the saying went, You are never alone in the desert. Anghara had learned what that meant, out here in the caravan. It was a simple truth that not a single Kheldrini in the desert watched his own back—but always that of his companion. If there were no companion, there were always the Gods, who were understood to take on the role of watcher as well—given the right rituals had been followed beforehand. Something like this, in effect an enforced altruism, might have been thought unusual in a society where feuds could start with such ease—but defending against a feud was always better done when someone else stood between the man and the deed. In Kheldrin, whenever one man wished ill to another, there was always a watchful third to warn of its coming, eyes in a man’s back. And in this caravan, al’Tamar had chosen to become Anghara’s particular shadow.

It had not been a large caravan that set out from Al’haria in search of Gul Khaima, and al’Jezraal was happy to have it so. To accompany her, ai’Farra brought along only one other
sen’thar,
a gray sister being groomed for gold, whom she trusted implicitly. Her presence was a hedge against Hariff supremacy—if she wasn’t Sayyed, which was what ai’Farra would probably have preferred, at least she was Sabrah, a clan whose fortunes were closely allied to those of ai’Farra’s own. Clearly ai’Farra had accepted this quest and was throwing her full weight behind it, but she was not going to allow this covenant of a new oracle to become something the Hariff could claim for their own—and just in case they tried, ai’Farra had brought along a witness.

The secular part of the company was made up of al’Jezraal and al’Tamar. A handful of trusted Hariff servants to care for the needs and comforts of this illustrious party completed the cast, and if one or two looked more at home with a bright martial blade than a simple kitchen knife, they managed to remain relatively inconspicuous. They were only there as insurance, in any case—al’Jezraal hardly expected to have to put his guards to use on this trip.

For the most part, the route they followed was well established—the trade passage from the coast, along which sea-amber flowed into Al’haria for her craftsmen and dried fish for her people, with livestock and commodities manufactured in the cities and the nomad hai’r’en making the return journey. The trail was well known and routine for most of al’Jezraal’s small caravan—everyone except Anghara had made this particular trip up the coast at least once. Inured to Kadun Khajir’i’id’s sights, they appeared content to ride blind and wrapped in their own thoughts and largely ignore the vistas which broke into new wonders every time Anghara looked in a different direction. The red desert had not failed to astound her, yet again, with its infinite variety.

It was not something she could easily share with ai’Jihaar—she could hardly exclaim “Look!” to the blind
an’sen’thar
when she saw yet another thing which left her breathless with its beauty, and expect ai’Jihaar, however augmented her senses were, to respond. She hardly knew the gray
sen’thar
and ai’Farra was only just reconciled to tolerating her. By the same token, she could hardly ride at al’Jezraal’s knee like an exuberant child. While he would have been happy to explain, or teach, he always treated her with the grave courtesy due both to her royal rank and the
an’sen’thar
gold, and somehow she felt foolish at the thought of giving way to her enthusiasm beside him.

Which left al’Tamar.

Anghara had not been able to figure him out yet—he was still an anomaly, al’Jezraal’s right hand when he should have been ensconced in the
sen’thar
tower years ago. But ai’Farra seemed blissfully unaware of his gifts, as was her companion; Anghara had tried asking ai’Jihaar about male
sen’en’thari
without being specific, but they had been sidetracked by other things and the subject had been lost in the chaos of the preparations and then the journey itself. But once on the trail, al’Tamar seemed to sense her curiosity and awe of Kadun Khajir’i’id, and it was soon customary for the pair to ride out together in the van. He became an enthusiastic guide and teacher, and, before long, a friend.

“See that?” al’Tamar pointed at an insignificant-looking pile of what seemed to be shrivelled brown leaves on the red sand. “That is sarghat. The desert is full of it, for those who know where to look.”

“What’s sarghat?”

“Below that mop of leaves is a root as long as your arm and as thick as your thigh,” al’Tamar said, with a fine disregard for proprieties. “When you are lost in the desert that root can let you live long enough to get to help. Nomad tribes will sometimes offer you sarghat when you arrive into their camp, usually immediately followed by something much more palatable.”

“Something like pa’ha?” Anghara grinned, remembering ai’Jihaar’s fastidious shrinking from the pungent liquor in the Kadun’s Shod Hai’r on the night Anghara had first met al’Jezraal.

“Something like sweetmeats,” al’Tamar said, but he was not quite able to hide a quick grin of his own. He was all too aware of his aunt’s tastes. “It is very symbolic, and their way of saying that their tents are offered as sanctuary against the desert—sarghat root, which is hardship and privation, followed by nomad hospitality in terms of something that is their own specialty.”

Another time it had been the edge of a desert hai’r, and Anghara had succumbed to the desert heat to the extent of giving in to a massive headache, pain buzzed inside her skull like a hive of disturbed bees. Once again, al’Tamar had come to the rescue with his herb lore. “Khi’tai,” he’d said, pushing a pair of thick, waxy leaves into her hand. “Drink it as an infusion, or just chew it raw, and the headache will go away.”

It was fleshier, but the shape of the leaves looked familiar. “It looks a bit like wirrow,” Anghara said, peering at the glossy leaves. “We use it in Sheriha’drin too. Headaches, and fevers…once, in Cascin…”

When she fell silent, al’Tamar allowed himself a small sigh. “Perhaps there will come a time,” he said, “when I too will be allowed make the pilgrimage.”

“Allowed?” asked Anghara, folding the khi’tai leaves into her palm. “Who is to give you permission?”

“It is usually only
sen’en’thari
who go,” said al’Tamar briefly.

It had been a perfect opportunity, but Anghara had been rattled and dazed by the headache and missed it completely—and al’Tamar had turned away, offering nothing further. The next day neither made any reference to what had been almost a confidence; it remained unspoken between them. Toward sunset al’Tamar pointed out a silkseeker descending in slow spirals, which could only mean a jin’aaz spider lair nearby. When they peeled off to look for it, al’Jezraal came with them. They found it in time to see the silkseeker tease out several fat silk-wrapped cocoons with its long sharp beak and begin feeding. It was a neat and utterly pitiless spectacle, the beautiful gold and white bird dispensing impartial death; they were too late to save any of the cocoons for their silk, but Anghara watched the episode with a feeling that was half fascination and half revulsion.

“Survival,” said al’Jezraal on their way back to the others. “Out here, you are the eater or the eaten. The desert harbors nothing soft.”

“What eats the silkseekers?”

“The vultures,” said al’Jezraal. “And sometimes the jin’aaz.”

“The
spiders?
” asked Anghara, her eyes wide. “But I just saw…”

“It fed on the cocoons,” said al’Tamar. “The young. The adult spider was not at home. Sometimes even silkseekers get unlucky.”

“How big are these spiders?” gasped Anghara, trying to envisage something that could consume the silkseeker. The bird was not large, but it was certainly bigger than any spider she had ever seen.

With a wide grin al’Tamar dropped his reins, showing a size as wide as an Al’hariani serving platter between his open palms. “But do not fear,” he added, seeing her eyes go even wider. “They are largely nocturnal and very shy. They would not come near a man.”

“And when you go to get the silk?”

“The spider is lured from the den first, with bait of food,” said al’Jezraal.

“I suppose they’re poisonous, like everything else,” said Anghara.

“Is that what you think? We have been remiss, then, in showing you the things that bring life in the desert,” said al’Jezraal with a smile.

“No,” said al’Tamar, his own answer far more specific.

“Not exactly poisonous. But a spider bite is liable to lead to swelling and, if it is about the face, sometimes to temporary blindness. Not life-threatening, but largely unpleasant.”

The words were almost the same as those he’d used to describe the red crab he had just pulverized on the Kadun Khajir’i’id shore. It had been another lesson.
Hama dan ar’i’id.

“Sit with me,” Anghara invited, patting the sand. “You said that you fostered at this place which we seek?”

“For a while,” said al’Tamar, sitting beside her. “They are cousins, my mother’s kin. Her mother was sister to al’Talip ma’Shadir, the village headman. He is old now, but he still leads the fishing fleet at Ul’khari’ma.”

“Why did they send you there?” asked Anghara, staring out to sea.

It had been an innocent question, but the silver-blue aura flared briefly into an incandescent glow before being furiously damped down. Anghara turned sharply.

“You know,” he said flatly, glancing up in resignation at this reaction. “Of course you know,
an’sen’thar.
And one other does—my aunt, ai’Jihaar, because she was the one who hid me from the rest.”

“Hid you? But why?”

“I could not join a tower,” he said, rather bleakly, kneading the sand with restless fingers. “I am my father’s only son, his heir, the heir to a Hariff silver mine. If I went, it would lapse—to another clan, perhaps. So they sent me first to the furthest place they knew where I had kin, and where
sen’en’thari
were few. And when a
sen’thar
came to Ul’khari’ma, I left, and came to my uncle at Al’haria.”

“But there are more
sen’en’thari
there than just about anywhere else in this entire land,” said Anghara, frowning.

“Yes, and my uncle is the one man who can keep me from ever being near one for long enough for them to suspect,” said al’Tamar. “And my aunt has placed some kind of a block on me, something that prevents them from seeing what I am. I do not understand it, but then, I was never trained. I never will be.”

“Would you have liked to be?” asked Anghara.

“A man has never yet worn the gold,” said al’Tamar, and his voice was very soft. “I think I would have liked to try.”

“Perhaps you still may,” said Anghara, very gently.

He tossed his head, sending the long loose copper hair swinging. “It is too late.”

“It’s never too late,” she said. “Look at me.”

He did, and offered one of his quick grins, tinged, however, with sharpness. “I said I thought I could wear gold,
an’sen’thar.
Not hear dead oracles and raise the dead.”

“But…”

“I was there, Anghara. I saw you heal.”

“Others can heal also,” she said stubbornly.

“Not,” he said, “without knowing how, without knowing what they were doing—and that is what you did that night in Shod Hai’r. I made you do it—I saw it—I have never forgotten it. And I have seen Gul Qara; I have seen it before you came there, and I have seen it afterward. There has always been an odd power there—now no more, and I can often sense that power in you. You carry Gul Qara in you. As I said, I thought I could wear gold. But take an oracle and carry it in my blood…” He shook his head again. “No. It could never be too late for you. But for me…I do not know. Even if a tower would have me, I do not know if I could ever regain all the lost time that lies between me and what might have been.”

“But you cannot…”

He lifted his hand, and she closed her lips over the words she had been about to say. “If, one day, they let me go to Sheriha’drin, I shall be content,” he said. “But otherwise I have to do my duty, to my family, to my clan.”

Duty. Anghara knew the word well, and its weight. Though al’Tamar’s were young shoulders to carry that weight, he would not bow under it. What she felt was beyond words—an odd sense of companionship with this lonely young man, a strange, bittersweet sadness no less potent for that it was tinged with so much understanding. So he wasn’t trained, but there were some things Sight didn’t need training for—emotions and feelings did not need interpretations and special skills, they simply were. The gold kindled, very soft, no brighter than, perhaps, candlelight; the soul fire reached, touched, gentle as a whisper.

At its touch al’Tamar’s own aura brightened into a cloak of silvery blue; the two fires brushed, merged, trembled for a moment ravelled and twined into one another, and then Anghara pulled away, and al’Tamar allowed his own soul fire to die down to a banked glow. His eyes were huge in the luminescent ocean night.

When he finally spoke, after a long pause, his words were unexpected. “It is a hard gift,” he said, and there was surprising compassion in his voice. Evidently he had received so much more than Anghara had originally meant to convey. Some of her own loneliness had gone into her touch, and where she had thought to communicate only her comprehension of his sense of duty, it seemed obvious, in retrospect, that this would have been colored by a vision of her own, and the way her Sight affected it.