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  No one trained harder than I did, for the other warriors were already well versed in the usage of a wind-cutter sword. They needed only to keep the edge of their skills honed, while my fledgling skills were like a blade with no edge that must be ground on the wheel. At least that was how Brother Drajan put it, for he was as at home in a smithy as a kitchen, and taught me how to sharpen and maintain a blade.

  When it came to Brother Yarit’s teachings, it was another matter altogether, in that I had the advantage of the grown men, who had started training far too late to ever gain full mastery of Shahalim methods. Brother Yarit took a certain grim satisfaction in the knowledge, for he maintained a degree of resentment at being forced to reveal his clan’s secrets. But with me, he did not stint; he pushed me harder than he pushed any of the other warriors.

  And so it was that I spent every waking hour save my morning lesson with Brother Ehudan and the midday rest training, training, training.

  When I slept, I dreamed of training, my limbs twitching in my sleep like one of the dogs the tribesfolk used for hunting.

  I grew stronger.

  I grew taller, tall enough to deal a solid blow to the third paddle on the spinning devil.

  Brother Merik measured the length of my arms and deemed me ready to begin learning to use the kopar.

  Brother Yarit honored his bargain and began teaching me to throw zims, training my hand and eye and mind to work in concert.

  I exulted and despaired in these fresh challenges. The kopar was a tricky weapon with a long, sharpened prong in the middle flanked by two shorter prongs on either side. Its usage wasn’t native to the desert tribesfolk, but rather the city guardsmen of Merabaht. As a defensive weapon, it could be used to deflect or trap other weapons or an opponent’s limb at close range; it could be reversed to lay flat along one’s forearm to deflect a blow thusly. As an offensive weapon, it could be used to stab and pierce, or to strike with blunt force like a truncheon. When reversed, the heavy pommel could also be used to strike a crushing blow.

  Throwing zims was easier, at least at first. Oh, but throwing zims with anything like the speed and accuracy that Brother Yarit demonstrated—with equal ease with both his right hand and his left—would require years of practice. There was scant consolation in discovering that Brother Yarit found the heshkrat a good deal more difficult than he expected.

  There were some elements of Shahalim training that Brother Yarit was unable to teach for lack of supplies. As winter gave way to spring, he became more vociferous in his complaints.

  “There are no doors in these damned caves,” he said to Brother Saan. “How am I supposed to teach Khai to pick a lock? And I need bells and rope and … watery hell, the kid’s going to need a whole set of his own tools if we’re going to make a proper thief out of him.”

  Brother Merik thumped his fist on the dinner table. “Elder Brother! Surely there must be a limit to this madness. Khai is to serve in a position of honor! Why would he need to know how to pick a lock?”

  “I do not know,” Brother Saan said mildly. “Only that Pahrkun’s will in the matter is clear. What Brother Yarit has to teach, Khai will learn, and it will become a part of our lore. Perhaps it will be important one day. The last shadow failed due to a lack of knowledge regarding poisons.” He raised his brows at Brother Yarit. “Can you teach us about poisons?”

  “How should I know about poisons?” Brother Yarit said. “The Shahalim are thieves, not assassins.”

  Brother Saan shrugged. “I had hoped. Perhaps you know someone who does?”

  “I—” Brother Yarit paused. “I’ve heard rumors regarding certain apothecaries, Elder Brother. Send me to Merabaht with your blessing, and I’ll find you one.”

  There was no disguising the note of naked hunger in his voice. Brother Saan shook his head gently. “One day, perhaps, but neither now nor soon, brother. But I will send to Merabaht for the supplies you desire. Give Brother Drajan a list of all that you require, and the names of these apothecaries.”

  “They won’t talk to just anyone. You need to send someone who knows the ways of the city.” Brother Yarit was not yet ready to admit defeat.

  “Brother Drajan is familiar with its ways,” Brother Saan said calmly. “Give him your list.”

  Thus it was determined. Brother Drajan—patient, steady Brother Drajan, whom I had no idea was familiar with the city of Merabaht—was gone for fifteen days, leaving the cooking to his assistant.

  It put Brother Yarit in a foul mood. “I hope he brings the oranges I asked for,” he grumbled. “Don’t you ever get tired of goat meat and stewed squash?”

  “No,” I said honestly. “What’s it like?”

  “Oranges?”

  I shook my head. “The city.”

  Brother Yarit glanced around, but we were alone in the Dancing Bowl that afternoon. “It’s a glorious place, little brother, filled with taverns where for the price of a bowl of spicy crab noodles and a flagon of date-palm wine, you can hear some of the greatest musicians in the land perform. And the dancing girls!” He kissed his fingertips. “They wear robes and veils of the finest silk from Barakhar, so thin and fine you can almost see right through it.”

  “Do the Sun-Blessed?” I asked.

  “I’m told that in the privacy of the women’s quarter, they wear the finest silks of all,” Brother Yarit said. “Red and gold, the colors of fire. They wear gold bangles on their wrists and gold anklets with tinkling bells. When they venture out of the Palace of the Sun, they’re carried on golden litters, so their precious feet need never touch the ground.”

  I tried to envision it. “What are they like? Are they very different from you and me?”

  “Not as much as they like to imagine,” he said dryly. “A long life doesn’t always grant wisdom.”

  “Like the one who commissioned you to steal rhamanthus seeds?” I’d been wanting to ask him about it for months. “What was she like? It seems a foolish thing to do.”

  “Ah.” Brother Yarit gave me a wry look. “If you think I was so privileged as to meet a daughter of the Sun-Blessed in the flesh, you’re mistaken. The royal women are cloistered in their quarters. Not even Princess Fazarah would deign to meet with the likes of me.”

  “Which one is she?” I asked.

  “The only member of the House of the Ageless to turn her back on the gift of the rhamanthus. But that’s not something that need concern you right now.” He pointed at the throwing target. “Get practicing, Khai. You’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

  Reluctantly, I obeyed.

  FIVE

  Brother Drajan returned with a string of laden pack-horses, but no apothecary. “These things take time,” he said in his unflustered way when Brother Yarit grumbled about it. “They’re suspicious. If I return next year with gold in hand, they’ll be less so.”

  It was the only cause Brother Yarit had to gripe, for Brother Drajan had brought everything else he requested, including a sack of oranges. There were padlocks of varying shapes and sizes. There was an array of used garments. There were grappling hooks, yards and yards of rope, and dozens of brass bells, the purpose of which mystified me. There were several sets of zims and slender probes for picking locks.

  Among the new assignments that these supplies portended, I found picking locks to be the easiest. According to Brother Yarit, it required keen ears and a delicate touch, both of which I had. Beneath Brother Saan’s tolerant gaze and Brother Merik’s disapproving one, the younger brothers and I practiced picking locks while Brother Yarit stalked the ground of the Fortress of the Winds, wearing coils of rope over his shoulders and muttering to himself.

  I tried to imagine under what circumstances I would need to pick a lock in the service of Princess Zariya. What if she ordered me to steal something? That I could not in conscience do.

  Or could I?

  Oh, but what if she were abducted or falsely accused and I needed to rescue her? That would be an honorable use of my skill. But then, if such a
thing came to pass, I would already have failed her, would I not?

  One could go mad wondering about the unknowable, so I gave up wondering about it and wondered about the princess instead. Was she vain, riding in her golden litter with her silk robes and veils, her precious feet never touching the ground?

  I wondered what Zariya looked like. Was she pretty? What did a pretty girl look like?

  What did a girl look like?

  I had no memory of women or girls; I knew only the men of the Brotherhood of Pahrkun. I had some idea that they were small and fragile, like the desert flowers that blossomed after the spring rains, and must be protected.

  I wondered if she wondered about me, her shadow. I wondered if she wondered what I was like.

  I hoped so.

  At length we learned what Brother Yarit was about with the ropes. First, we were to learn to climb them, throwing the grappling hooks and scrambling up sheer cliff faces that afforded no grip to fingers and toes, hauling ourselves up the ropes with strong arms and nimble feet.

  Second, we were to learn to walk across a rope that was secured at both ends above the ground.

  It should not have been so different than crossing the stone bridge above the Dancing Bowl, and yet it was. Stone stayed put. It might evince a faint tremor beneath bare feet, but it did not sway. Rope swayed. No matter how tightly it was tied, it stretched and gave under the weight of a human body, even my lesser weight. It was a good thing Brother Yarit found outcroppings to which to secure his rope that were not high above the ground.

  I fell.

  Often.

  And yet there was something in it, something of balance and wind and the abyss of the fall, that spoke to me.

  For the third thing, Brother Yarit begged permission of Brother Saan to use the Hall of Proving. There he tied ropes across it at all manner of angles, low and high and angling in between, and to the ropes, he strung brass bells.

  “All you have to do is cross the hall without ringing any bells, kid.” He gave me a pat on the shoulder. “Think you can manage?”

  I stood straighter. “I do.”

  “Good.” Brother Yarit unwound a scarf from about his neck and tied it around my eyes, then spun me around three times for good measure. “Did I mention you’ll be doing it blindfolded?”

  I sighed. “No, brother.”

  I did not succeed the first time or the fifth, but neither did Brother Hakan or any of the others. Still, it taught us to focus and apply the tenets of stealth that he had imparted to us. Blind and disoriented, we crouch-walked through the Hall of Proving, keeping our bodies low and centered, outstretched hands feeling for the first brush of a rope obstacle. We crawled on our bellies beneath some; we high-stepped as carefully as the cranes that Brother Yarit had described to us over others.

  None of this sat well with Brother Merik, and he was not alone in his disapproval. One night, returning from a late visit to the privy, I chanced to overhear him lingering over the dinner table in conversation with Brother Drajan and Brother Saan.

  My first instinct, learned from my earliest and most honored teachers, was to withdraw out of respect, as I had always done in the past. My second, learned from my latest, was to be silent and listen.

  This time, I heeded the latter.

  “… forget the purpose of the Brotherhood of Pahrkun,” Brother Merik was saying in a low tone. “First and foremost, it is under our auspices, and ours alone, that the desert tribes will unite to defend Zarkhoum in a time of need.”

  “I forget nothing,” Brother Saan said. “But if Zarkhoum is threatened at the moment, it is from within, not without.”

  “Because of the rhamanthus seeds?”

  That was a piece of news Brother Drajan had brought back with him. Anamuht the Purging Fire had not been seen in the city to quicken seeds in the Garden of Sowing Time, and the shortage continued.

  “It may be a sign that change is on the horizon,” Brother Saan said. “There is discord in the House of the Ageless.”

  “There is always discord in the House of the Ageless, is there not?” Brother Merik said wryly. “The king’s heirs are restless. They are always eager to kill one another, and they have been waiting on khementaran to come upon him for the past fifty years.”

  “Yes, and they may wait another fifty,” Brother Saan said. “Regardless, those are the circumstances for which we are training Khai.” His voice took on a rare fretful note. “I would that we could locate Vironesh! Broken or not, he is the only living soul who knows what it truly means to serve as a shadow to one of the Sun-Blessed.”

  “If he yet lives,” Brother Merik reminded him.

  “I have Seen him in my dreams,” Brother Saan murmured. “And I do believe he has a role to play. But wherever he is, it is beyond the scope of my Sight at this time.”

  Brother Drajan cleared his throat. “A thought, Elder Brother. What if Brother Vironesh is no longer in Zarkhoum?”

  There was a pause.

  “Where would he go?” Brother Merik asked in an incredulous voice. “Why? And how? In a boat?”

  “I do not know,” Brother Drajan said apologetically. “But it is the one thing we have not considered. Many outland traders hire mercenaries to guard their ships. It is not inconceivable that Vironesh followed this path.”

  Another pause ensued as they pondered the conceivability of anyone willingly departing Zarkhoum; on a boat, of all things. I will own, I could not conceive it myself.

  “It would explain why he has not been seen anywhere in Zarkhoum,” Brother Saan mused at length. “Surely, a purple man should not be so difficult to locate otherwise.”

  A purple man? I shook my head, thinking I must have misheard him.

  “… if he yet lives,” Brother Merik was repeating.

  “Yes, yes.” Brother Saan’s voice took on a more decisive tone. “Brother Drajan, when you return to Merabaht next spring, you will make extensive inquiries of outland traders.”

  “Yes, Elder Brother.”

  “And the concerns I voiced?” Brother Merik inquired.

  There was yet another pause. “I do not take them lightly.” Brother Saan sounded troubled. “Indeed, in some ways I share them.”

  “What we discussed, Elder Brother,” Brother Merik said. “If we do not take this opportunity to send Khai, there may not be another for some years. If it were to be done, it would be best done before—”

  “Yes, yes,” Brother Saan said again, interrupting him. “I think we all know what deadline nature imposes upon us.” A note of finality entered his voice. “I will think and pray upon the matter.”

  It was my cue to depart and I took it, my bare feet moving silently on the stone passageways.

  In the morning, after I had concluded my lesson with Brother Ehudan, Brother Merik consented to allow me my first genuine bout with Brother Hakan.

  It made me forget all thoughts of overheard conversations. Brother Hakan was nineteen years of age, slight of build and only a head and a half taller than me. Being desert-born and reared to it, he was more skilled than I with the yakhan, but he wielded the kopar no better than me.

  We faced off on the floor of the Dancing Bowl with the entire Brotherhood gathered around the perimeter and above to watch. I willed my mind to stillness and took slow, deep breaths, preparing to channel Pahrkun’s wind, feeling its warm breath on the bare skin of my chest and arms. Sunlight glinted on our weapons and my blood quickened in my veins. I had fought practice bouts with wooden weapons before, of course, but never steel upon steel.

  Brother Hakan …

  Brother Hakan, whom I thought of as a friend, looked down his nose at me. He was a handsome fellow, usually quick with a smile or a jest, but not today. Today there was contempt in his dark eyes.

  He touched the blade of his yakhan against the central prong of his kopar so lightly that it might almost have been an accident, except that he did it twice, tapping his left foot on the floor of the Dancing Bowl. Click-click-tap.

&n
bsp; He did it again.

  Click-click-tap.

  It was a variant of the traditional tribal challenge of thunder and lightning against an unworthy opponent. One of the watching brothers chuckled, and I felt myself flush with anger and embarrassment.

  “To first blood!” Brother Merik raised one arm, fist clenched. “Try not to maim each other, please. Go!”

  Filled with fury, I launched a flurry of blows at Brother Hakan. He fell back before my onslaught, deflecting it with ease. I needed to get inside his reach, but his footwork was better than mine. I had spent too much time on stealth-walking, not enough time on fighting. Every time I tried, he pivoted deftly away from me, the blade of my wind-cutter sliding harmlessly off the tines of his kopar.

  Still, I was faster than him; I knew I was faster. I feinted and lunged, only to find him side-stepping with a half turn to avoid my thrust, and that I was already past him and overextended.

  Brother Hakan’s kopar smacked the back of my skull like a truncheon. I staggered, my arms wheeling like the paddles of the spinning devil. With an effort, I managed to catch my balance and turn to face him.

  “You—” I began angrily.

  He smiled, but it was not his usual smile. His yakhan wove in a lazy figure-eight pattern, slow and insulting. “Yes, little brother?”

  I trapped his blade with my kopar. “Ha!”

  That was the last syllable I spoke before Brother Hakan struck me a smart blow to the center of the forehead with the butt-end of his kopar; a blow that raised a lump and split the skin.

  I dropped like a stone.

  The blue sky was black and full of spangles, and there was no feather floating in it. I had not earned Pahrkun’s favor today, that was certain. My head was ringing like a sounding-bowl. I blinked my eyes, trying to clear my vision. Something dark loomed between me and the sun. I couldn’t make out Brother Saan’s face, but I knew the shape of his head.