by K T Munson
“Please,” she whispered, “save him.”
The movement of shapes gathering around Eliron was the last thing she saw before she fell unconscious.
Chapter 52
Hadrian
Roanoak was not everything he had expected it to be. He had expected there to be a period of adjustment for the people to accept him. What he hadn’t expected was that Rodrick and his offspring would have been so well liked. They were calling him The Murderer. Not for the hundreds lost when he captured the city, but for killing Rodrick or more specifically for killing the People’s Princess. He had seen her name written on pamphlets and he feared it would contribute to building towards the resistance, which had slowly started to grow. Ashira was on every corner, on everyone’s lips, and now in written word, in Roanoak. They were chanting of her sacrifice to the enemy; to assure peace.
In contrast they cursed him, threw food at him, and called for his death. Unfortunately, taking Roanoak proved easier than ruling it. Hadrian knew he was their rightful heir but everyone had forgotten him and had accepted Rodrick. He would need the People’s Princess more than he thought. He knew Celia was searching for her and would likely find her. Suddenly, she was more valuable to him, now, and he wanted her as soon as possible. Vivia’s daughter; it was difficult to think of her. There was a knock on the door pulling him from his thoughts.
“What is it?” Hadrian asked.
Old Kal entered, his face grave, as he said, “There was a box delivered from the north.”
A messenger carried the box in. It was a wooden box with markings around the outside. Even before he stood and walked around the table, towards it, he had an idea what it was. The Commander was a butcher.
“What is it?” Hadrian demanded as he slid it back.
“It’s severed heads,” the old man responded. “The Commander sends his regards.”
There inside the box was the severed heads of four men and one woman. Their eyes had been liquefied and their faces were almost indistinguishable. Hadrian looked over each one slowly, because he was the cause of their deaths. The Commander was sending a message.
“What does this make now?” Hadrian asked sliding the box closed.
“Six,” Kal responded.
“Slaves running from oppression and caught trying to get here,” Hadrian said shaking his head. “The Commander deserves death.”
“We have only just gotten here,” Kal reminded him.
“I know that,” Hadrian snapped. “I have a moral duty to think of those who cannot help themselves.”
“You are one man,” Kal said and Hadrian wanted to slap him for his impertinence.
“Leave me,” Hadrian commanded returning to his desk.
“Is it necessary to send more men after the princess?” Kal asked unmoved.
“I am the one who decided what is necessary. She is necessary,” Hadrian retorted. “I believe I dismissed you.”
“Of course,” Kal said before leaving.
Hadrian looked over at the box, and all but could hear them whispering; whispering that it was his fault. He caused their deaths and he did nothing to help them; that he was a coward because he ran and deserved to be hated.
He pushed the document he had been reviewing aside and began to draft three letters: one to Vargos demanding arms join him in his march north and the other two would go north to Sylon and Lorian to explain his intent. The Commander had killed his last slave.
Chapter 53
The Water King
For weeks he had felt like he was swimming. Underwater; everything was blurred and he was floating along unaware. Sometimes he knew where he was and what was happening. Then before he knew it, he was underwater again, dreaming of his life.
He would remember his parents who died when he was very young. His sister crying into the night as many told him she may not survive. He couldn’t stand her crying. His mindless focus to end the war, as his father wanted; Lisbeth’s marriage, as he passed her off to her husband, in their father’s place. Most of all he dreamt of Ashira.
He would remember where he was and see her, she was always there. He wanted her to live, not die for him. He remembered her screams in his fevered state and tried to move. Darkness, then hands passing over him while lights flashed in and out. Then nothing at all; silence filled him.
Then he felt the lightest touch of fingers curling around his hand. He tried to grip back but his brain wouldn’t listen. Yet he could feel them there, holding tight with worry. Then he felt liquid on his lips and it slid down his throat. It tasted of cinnamon and liquid sunlight.
It was difficult to focus on the flavor; the strangeness of it was masked by cinnamon. He tried to call Ashira’s name, call out to his wife, but he couldn’t. He felt the sudden painful clench of muscles. He could feel his body tense as he began to shake. His body jerked violently as it burned through his veins all the way to the tips of his toes.
“It will not be easy,” he heard a woman say as he gasped.
Eliron opened his eyes wide and his mouth trying to gasp for air. He felt something pour out of his wound as his skin pulled together. It was both painful and wonderful all at the same time. He tried to see but everything was blurred. He felt hands wiping away at his skin, the worst of it from his shoulder. He heard something glop into a metal bucket, as the smell of rot filled his nostrils.
“He’s in pain.” It was Ashira’s voice.
With newfound strength his fingers tightened around hers and he heard her little gasp of surprise. The last of his injuries were closing now, they were like fire and ice all over his body. The worst of it was his shoulder; he could feel the muscles knitting themselves back together.
“Only because he was so close to death. Parts of him have died set to decay,” a man explained. “Whatever did that to his shoulder was killing him slowly and painfully. Our boon shall set it right.”
“Can he hear me?” Ashira asked.
“For now,” the same man responded, “but when his shoulder closes, he will likely sleep for a long time.”
The feeling of ice danced across his shoulder and he felt himself relax. Whatever they had given him had done its work. The man was right, no sooner had it finished, and he fell into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter 54
Ashira Highlander
Black puss welled up from Eliron’s shoulder and dripped down onto the ground behind him. Ashira watched as he gave a content sigh and fell asleep. The women cleaned him completely and Ashira licked her cracked lips, thankful to be alive. When his grip on her hand loosened she let go and moved out of the way.
The women swarmed around her; she had kept them away until Eliron was seen to. They had wanted to tend to them both but Ashira would not leave him. She had traveled so far to save him and she had to see it through. Although they had saved her, she was not yet ready to accept that they didn’t want something in return.
As the women sat her down and gave her a smaller potion, she stared at it a moment. She had seen the man cut himself and let his blood drop into the vial. She had seen it with her own eyes. That was their secret and she knew it. She had no intention of telling anyone but it was strange to think the ability to heal came from their blood.
When one of the women said something that Ashira didn’t understand, she smiled and drank it. Her arm hurt and then she saw the same black goop expelled. The women began to wash her and bind her wounds. They brushed her hair and applied a strange salve to her lips. They talked amongst themselves but Ashira couldn’t understand them.
When she was dressed and presentable the women swept her along again. They led her to a large room with sunlight leaking in. There were fields of wheat growing and up at the top were perfectly angled mirrors. They were reflecting the sunlight to make the plants grow. A man stood out in the field inspecting a grain, he looked up when they approached.
“The Rohan of old,” the man said and she took a few steps into the tall wheat field. “How are your skin, bones, and blood?�
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“My skin, bones, and blood are well,” Ashira said, remembering that the People of the Dunes spoke in riddles. “I have much gratitude for your actions.”
“Your gratitude is felt by all,” the man said stepping forward. “I was named at birth Qye and I was fortunate to be named leader of this great place, Rohan of old.”
“Leader Qye,” Ashira said with a slight bow of her head, “once my companion is well we will leave this place.”
“Your haste is not needed here,” the leader said drawing close, “You are our blood, a part of our history. We welcome the lost clan home again.”
“I don’t understand,” Ashira said and then remembered herself, “I mean your words are not clear to me.”
He put his hand up and said, “You must be without energy, I can comprehend your plain speak. Say naturally what you wish to say and I will not be lost.”
“Why do you call me Rohan of old?” She retorted.
“Your blood,” Qye explained, “When you drew near we felt you on the sands. Though your blood does not sing as strong as it once did, it is the blood of the clan Rohan.”
“I came from here?” Ashira asked clearly shocked.
“Those that came long before you did,” he explained. “It is rare that one of our own leaves, it is hard to function beyond our sanctuary. Yet the woman of Rohan left the clan and joined herself to another beyond the sands. That is why we name you Rohan of old.”
“My name is Ashira Highlander,” she managed weakly, feeling uncomfortable.
“The only Highlander here is recovering,” Qye countered. “You should feel the blessing of our blood. Were it not for your Rohan blood, you would have perished in the sand. We do not feel drudgery of ailments, like the rest of the world.”
Ashira realized it was Rohan blood in her veins that kept her from getting sick. Whenever she or her brothers hurt themselves the physicians always said they healed quickly. She had never broken a bone, and couldn’t recall her brothers ever breaking anything. She looked down at her hand and tried to remember any ailments in her life. Her mother had not been of Rohan blood but her Aunt Padma was. War or old age were all that killed a Rohan.
“Can I heal like you?” Ashira finally asked staring at him quizzically.
“No,” Qye said as he walked with her from the field of wheat, “Though your children, and their children’s children will feel the positive effects of this blood.”
“Do you live completely under the sand?” Ashira asked her gaze wandering around the room.
“This has been our home for eons,” Qye said holding up his arm to sweep around the entire area crafted from stone. “The sand covered us, over time, protecting us as one large family.”
Ashira suddenly felt the pull of pain on her heart. Averting her eyes a moment, she tried to compose herself. She had thrown herself so completely into saving Eliron that she had blocked everything else out. Now it attempted to spring free without her permission.
“Is there a place for me to pray?” Ashira asked clearing her throat.
“The world is open for your prayers,” Qye responded. “I believe your culture and people sing whenever they pray.”
“Yes,” Ashira said nodding. “Though normally we join voices so that it might reach the heavens and Sadar.”
“Our voices are the same, though ours sing to the sands,” Qye said softly and walked her back the way they had come, “I believe you will be welcomed in our fields.”
Ashira followed him to another section of fields that were being harvested. She heard the singing before she saw them. Women in simple clothes, with a strange curved blade, moved through the field. Their voices were raised in unison as they collected the wheat. Ashira stood with Qye, let her spirit soak in what she saw. It filled her with a feeling of serenity, which she longed for and desperately needed.
Chapter 55
Lancel Storm
The sands were not a place for the faint of heart. Lancel and Cain were able to move faster than Ashira with a wounded Eliron but had no idea where she could have gone. Days turned in to a week and then a second. Lancel and Cain had formed a grudging sort of friendship. Inside the ring of fire at night they would talk about Ashira and Eliron. Lancel would tell Cain stories about his king and his friend. Cain would in turn tell stories about Ashira, when she was young and how much the people loved her.
It was hard not to think of them and worry that they would only find death. Although they had not come across tracks, the sands turned over again and again, they continued on. Neither mentioned that Ashira would have run out of tar and water by now.
On the fifteenth day, Cain pressed his horse up next to Lancel and whispered, “We are being followed.”
“I know,” Lancel said scanning his surroundings; he had sensed eyes on him.
“From the port?” Cain asked trying so subtly to look around as well.
“No,” Lancel said.
Cain’s face loosened as he said hopefully, “Is it the sand people?”
“They prefer to be called the People of the Dunes,” Lancel said loudly raising his head, “Isn’t that right?”
“What are you doing?” Cain said reaching for his sword.
“Trust me,” Lancel muttered shaking his head at the sword before saying loudly. “I am searching for a woman with hair as black as the night, as fair as the day, and eyes of land and rain.”
Cain gave him a strange look and asked, “What are you doing?”
“They speak in metaphors and riddles,” Lancel explained holding up his hands. “We mean no harm and only wish to see the woman.”
Suddenly they appeared, their clothes the color of the sand but Lancel could see their movements now. It did not take long for them to be surrounded. Cain shot Lancel a glare that clearly wasn’t happy. Finally, one came close enough and pushed back his hood.
“Descend,” the man said curtly.
They exchanged a worried glance before Lancel swung his leg over and slipped onto the ground. Cain did the same a moment later with noticeably more grace. They walked around to the front of their horses together hands raised.
“What now?” Lancel asked.
There was a distinct thoooop noise followed by something sticking to his chest. Lancel reached down and picked up a small dart. He glanced over at Cain who had a shocked expression. Lancel felt himself fall into the sand as a second thoooop noise, was heard.
“Trust you?! Good plan!” Cain yelled as Lancel lost consciousness.
He felt like he was floating, hovering on water as the waves sung to him. He could hear them singing as he began to wake up. His eyes slowly opened and adjusted to the hardly lit room. Lancel slowly sat up his body felt battered but everything was where it should be.
He searched around the room until he saw Cain on a cot next to him. Lancel nudged him and Cain rolled over. He sat up shaking his head and clearly tried to get his bearings. Lancel could still hear the singing and wondered if he was still asleep.
“Where are we?” Cain asked clearing his throat.
“I think they brought us to their home.” Lancel said as he heard a rustle of keys.
A tall man, with dark skin stepped into the room. His hair was tightly curled to his head and his eyes were bright and shone in the darkness. When Lancel’s eyes adjusted he could see that the man wore a strange robe with a sash at the waist and had pleasant features.
“I was born Qye,” the man began.
Before he could continue Cain stood up and said, “That is Ashira’s voice.”
Cain hurried forward and all but pushed Qye out of the way. Lancel could hear him running down the hall, as Qye stepped back. Lancel also moved towards the door; where Ashira was, Eliron would likely be. He stepped out into the hallway before hurrying after Cain. The singing stopped and he rounded a corner to find Cain and Ashira embracing.
They collapsed to the ground still holding each other, as Ashira cried out, “They are all dead.”
“I know,” C
ain said pushing her hair back from her face, “but you are well.”
“Cain,” Ashira said with tears on her cheeks. “Father died in my arms. I was too late to save him.”
Qye came up next to him and said, “That is the first she has cried since coming here, though her burden was great. Her voice has sung to the sand, for the last two days, for her husband.”
“Where is he?” Lancel asked.
“Sewing his wounds in sleep,” Qye answered.
Healing, Lancel interpreted, annoyed at their strange wording. Why were these People of the Dunes so cryptic? He was about to ask to be taken to Eliron when he saw movement across the room. Eliron walked into the room, focused on only one thing. Ashira looked over Cain’s shoulder and saw Eliron. She immediately seemed breathless and Cain turned back to see what had caught her attention.
“Eliron,” she exhaled and Lancel saw the love that had formed between them.
Lancel’s heart hurt from the knowledge, and disappointment danced around him. He was torn between despair and the happiness that they were alive. He tried to focus on the second emotion as the first turned into a dull ache. Relief nearly brought him to his knees, to see Eliron alive.
Eliron walked directly over to her and held his hands out. She took them and he helped her rise. There was a strange tension between them as she looked into his eyes. Eliron framed her face as Cain stood and glanced between them.
“I heard your voice in the darkness,” Eliron said kissing her forehead.
Ashira threw her arms around Eliron’s neck and held on as though she thought he would disappear. Eliron gratefully returned her hug as Cain smiled. Lancel couldn’t describe what he was experiencing. He had come for his king and queen. Yet a part of his heart whispered that he had come for Ashira.
