The Demon Cycle Books 1-3 and Novellas: The Painted Man, The Desert Spear, The Daylight War plus The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold and Messenger’s Legacy. Peter V. Brett
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tossing them into the water. When he left, he carried a satisfying catch of fish. He set aside a choice few for himself and cleaned the others, salting them and setting them alongside the fruit to dry.
Taking a forked tool from the oasis stores, he then searched around the stones, at last spotting telltale grooves in the sand. Soon he had a snake pinned with the forked stick, and snatched it by the tail, cracking it like a whip to kill it. There was likely a cache of eggs nearby, but he did not search them out. It would be dishonourable to deplete the oasis more than necessary. Again, he put part of the snake aside for his own use, and set the rest to dry.
In a carved nook in one of the great sandstones, marked with the sigils of many Messengers, Arlen retrieved a cache of tough, dried fruits, fish, and meat left by the previous Messenger, and refilled his saddlebags. Once his harvest dried, he would replenish the nook for the next Messenger to succour here.
It was impossible to cross the desert without stopping at the Oasis of Dawn. The only source of water for over a hundred miles, it was the destination of every desert traveller in either direction. Most of these were Messengers, and therefore Warders, and over the years that exclusive society had marked their passing on the abundant sandstone. Dozens of names were cut into the stones; some were simply scratched print, while others were masterworks of calligraphy. Many Messengers included more than just their names, listing the cities they had visited, or the number of times they had succoured at the Oasis of Dawn.
On his eleventh trip through the oasis, Arlen had long since finished carving his name and those of the living cities and villages he had visited, but he never stopped exploring, and always had something to add. Slowly, using beautiful scrolling letters, Arlen reverently inscribed ‘Anoch Sun’ into the list of ruins he had seen. No other Messenger’s mark in the oasis made such a claim, and that filled him with pride.
The next day, Arlen continued to increase the oasis’ stores. It was a matter of honour among Messengers to leave the oasis stocked better than it was found, against the day when one of their number should stumble in too injured or sunstruck to gather for themselves.
That night, he composed a letter to Cob. He had written many, but they sat in his saddlebag, unsent. His words always felt inadequate to make up for abandoning his duties, but this news was too great not to share. He illustrated the wards on the spear’s tip precisely, knowing Cob could spread the knowledge to every Warder in Miln quickly.
He left the Oasis of Dawn first thing the next morning, heading southwest. For five days, he saw little more than yellow dunes and sand demons, but early on the sixth, the city of Fort Krasia, the Desert Spear, came into view, framed by the mountains beyond.
From afar, it seemed just another dune, sandstone walls blending with their surroundings. It was built around an oasis much larger than the Oasis of Dawn, fed, the ancient maps said, by the same great underground river. Its warded walls, carved rather than painted, stood proudly in the sun. High above the city flew Krasia’s banner, crossed spears over a rising sun.
The guards at the gate wore the black robes of dal’Sharum, the Krasian warrior caste, veiled against the ruthless sand. While not as tall as Milnese, Krasians were a head taller than most Angierians or Laktonians, hard with wiry muscle. Arlen nodded to them as he passed.
The guards raised their spears in return. Among Krasian men, this was the barest courtesy, but Arlen had worked hard to earn the gesture. In Krasia, a man was judged by the number of scars he carried and alagai – corelings – he had killed. Outsiders, or chin, as the Krasians called them, even Messengers, were considered cowards who had given up the fight, and were unworthy of any courtesy from dal’Sharum. The word chin was an insult.
But Arlen had shocked the Krasians with his requests to fight alongside them, and after he had taught their warriors new wards and assisted in many kills, they now called him Par’chin, which meant ‘brave outsider’. He would never be considered an equal, but the dal’Sharum had stopped spitting at his feet, and he had even made a few true friends.
Through the gate, Arlen entered the Maze, a wide inner yard before the wall of the city proper, filled with walls, trenches, and pits. Each night, their families locked safe behind the inner walls, the dal’Sharum engaged in alagai’sharak, Holy War against demonkind. They lured corelings into The Maze, ambushing and harrying them into warded pits to await the sun. Casualties were high, but Krasians believed that dying in alagai’sharak assured them a place at the side of Everam, the Creator, and went gladly into the killing zone.
Soon, Arlen thought, it will be only corelings that die here.
Just inside the main gate was the Great Bazaar, where merchants hawked over hundreds of laden carts, the air thick with hot Krasian spices, incense, and exotic perfumes. Rugs, bolts of fine cloth, and beautiful painted pottery sat beside mounds of fruit and bleating livestock. It was a noisy and crowded place, filled with shouted haggling.
Every other marketplace Arlen had seen teemed with men, but the Great Bazaar of Krasia was filled almost entirely with women, covered head to toe in thick black cloth. They bustled about, selling and buying, shouting at each other vigorously and handing over their worn golden coins only grudgingly.
Jewellery and bright cloth were sold in abundance in the bazaar, but Arlen had never seen it worn. Men had told him the women wore the adornments under their black, but only their husbands knew for sure.
Krasian men above the age of sixteen were almost all warriors. A small few were dama, the Holy Men who were also Krasia’s secular leaders. No other vocation was considered honourable. Those who took a craft were called khaffit, and considered contemptible, barely above women in Krasian society. The women did all the day-to-day work in the city, from farming and cooking to childcare. They dug clay and made pottery, built and repaired homes, trained and slaughtered animals, and haggled in the markets. In short, they did everything but fight.
Yet despite their unending labour, they were utterly subservient to the men. A man’s wives and unmarried daughters were his property, and he could do with them as he pleased, even kill them. A man could take many wives, but if a woman so much as let a man who was not her husband look at her unveiled, she could – and often would – be put to death. Krasian women were considered expendable. Men were not.
Without their women, Arlen knew, the Krasian men would be lost, but the women treated men in general with reverence, and their husbands with near-worship. They came each morning to find the dead from the night’s alagai’sharak, and wailed over the bodies of their men, collecting their precious tears in tiny vials. Water was coin in Krasia, and a warrior’s status in life could be measured by the number of tear bottles filled upon his death.
If a man was killed, it was expected that his brothers or friends would take his wives, so they would always have a man to serve. Once, in the Maze, Arlen had held a dying warrior who offered him his three wives. ‘They are beautiful, Par’chin,’ he had assured, ‘and fertile. They will give you many sons. Promise you will take them!’
Arlen promised they would be cared for, and then found another willing to take them on. He was curious about what might lie under the Krasian women’s robes, but not enough to trade his portable circle for a clay building, his freedom for a family.
Following behind almost every woman were several tan-clad children; the girls’ hair wrapped, the boys in rag caps. As early as eleven, the girls would begin to marry and take on the black clothes of women, while the boys were be taken to the training grounds even younger. Most would take on the black robes of dal’Sharum. Some few would come to wear the white of dama, and devote their lives to serving Everam. Those who failed at both professions would be khaffit, and wear tan in shame until they died.
The women caught sight of Arlen as he rode through the market, and began whispering to one another excitedly. He watched them, amused, for none would look him in the eye, or approach him. They hungered for the goods in his saddlebags – fine Rizonan wool, Milnese jewels, Angierian paper, and other treasures of the North – but he was a man, and worse, a chin, and they dared not approach. The eyes of the dama were everywhere.
‘Par’chin!’