Crownless

by M H Woodscourt

“Go, cousin.” Rille’s voice was a faint murmur.

  Jinji moved toward the tent flap where a figure cloaked in shadows waited. What could the storyteller intend to do in the dark? Jetekesh grabbed his blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. Slipped on his worn-out boots. Picked his way through the sleeping bodies scattered across the tent floor.

  He passed the cloaked figure and stepped out into the night. His jaw slackened. A myriad of stars, larger and brighter than any he’d ever seen, filled the velvet darkness. The stars weren’t all white in this place, but red and blue and purple as well. White dust sparkled around the brilliant spheres like a stream of diamond dust.

  “Your Highness.”

  He tore his eyes from the heavens and stumbled through the tall grass after Jinji. Footsteps behind him brought Jetekesh’s head around. Prince Aredel followed, visible under the full moon and bright starlight.

  The Blood Prince offered a wry smile. “You’ll find no man more intriguing than our mutual friend.”

  Jetekesh scowled. “He’s not my friend.”

  Prince Aredel raised his brow. “No? Then you’re a fool.”

  Jetekesh turned forward again and found Jinji on the edge of the desert, waiting, the candle still in his hand, its flame extinguished.

  “Thank you for coming with me, my friends,” said Jinji. “Aredel, I lied concerning the time when I would enter the Drifting Sands. It must be when the sands are still. That is only at night.” He tilted his head toward the desert. Jetekesh froze.

  The sand, golden bright in daylight, now glowed white beneath the slivered moon. It shone and sparkled like moonlit water. A faint wind breathed over the grains of sand, and they lifted in a lethargic dance, glittering, flashing like the stars overhead, white, red, blue, purple. His lungs constricted. The sands danced around themselves to form twisters that rose upward like flanking pillars, lining a pathway running deep into the crystalline desert.

  “It is time,” whispered Jinji. “Aredel, Jetekesh, come.” The storyteller stepped over the border. The pillars of twisting sand halted in place, tall and proud as sentinels.

  Aredel followed at once.

  Jetekesh hesitated. Sucked in air. Stepped onto the sand and found it warm even through his boot. Another step, and a breeze ran through his hair like fingers. He glanced back.

  The camp had vanished. Only a vast desert stretched behind him, bright and white under the moon.

  “Come, Jetekesh. Come.”

  Jinji’s voice was no longer somber or weak. A laugh followed the beckoning.

  Jetekesh scurried after the two men now far ahead. He caught up, and the three followed the path lined by the pillars of sand. Jetekesh paused before one pillar and reached out to touch it, half afraid it would collapse against his fingertips. His hand slipped between the grains, and a tremor spread up his spine as his fingers tingled. That was all. No collapse. No torrent of wind. He pulled his hand free and jogged to Prince Aredel’s side.

  Neither of them spoke. Somehow it seemed wrong to converse in this place. Only Jinji was immune to the feeling, for he urged them twice more to hurry along.

  Ahead lay a different structure of sand: An arch, silvery white, glowing brighter than fire.

  “Here,” said Jinji. “This is it, Aredel, Jetekesh. This is Shinac.”

  Jetekesh stared. Was it possible? Was it real?

  “Here I must leave you.” Jinji smiled, and his eyes were full of starlight.

  Jetekesh started. “Leave us?”

  Prince Aredel nodded. “I understand.” He bowed his head. “It has been an honor, my friend. I shall miss you greatly, but this is as it should be. You do not belong in Nakania. Perhaps you never did. Shinac is your true home and should be your final rest.”

  Jetekesh looked between them, chest tight. “But we—we aren’t going through? We can’t see Shinac?”

  Jinji laughed. “It is not that you are forbidden, or the sands would not have let you reach the Arch. You may come if you choose, Jetekesh. But those who pass beneath the Arch into the bastion of magic rarely return to the world of Nakania; for once you are a denizen of Shinac you are banished from the mundane realm.”

  Jetekesh lowered his head to hide his disappointment. His shoulders slumped. “I see. Well then, I suppose I mustn’t pass through.” He swallowed, worked his face into something approaching indifference, and raised his eyes. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “To let you see what you would see,” answered the man from Shing, “and feel what you would feel.” His eyes radiated the same strength and virtue as the sands. “Jetekesh, if you turn from here and never think of me again, I would not blame you, for while in my company you have suffered great pain. But please do not forget this place and how you feel within it. Know that only those with noble hearts may enter the true Drifting Sands and reach this point.

  “You can do amazing things, my prince, if you will strive to do so. Do not be as your Mother, proud and selfish. Let your father guide you to something greater, and you shall stand as a mighty king in deed and memory. I shall miss you.” He set his hand on Jetekesh’s shoulder and squeezed, then turned to Aredel. “Farewell, my friend.”

  “May the gods of valor attend you,” answered the Blood Prince.

  Jinji’s eyes twinkled as they flicked between Aredel and Jetekesh. “So they have.” He turned to face the Arch. His shoulders quavered. “I am going now.”

  “You will be safe, won’t you?” asked Aredel. “Shinac is a harbor of safety, yes?”

  The storyteller didn’t turn around. “Go now, Aredel. Take the young prince, take him home. I must go on.”

  Jetekesh glanced at Aredel and found him frowning.

  “Jinji.” The Blood Prince’s voice was a low warning.

  The storyteller stepped into the Arch. Vanished in light.

  The sands twisted in their slow dance.

  Gone. Jinji had left him for Shinac, for the lost prince, for the dragons. Jetekesh started. “No! Wait. He’s gone to stop Lord Peresen from sacrificing maidens and conquering Shinac and Nakania both. I remember—”

  Aredel cursed. “We cannot enter Shinac. You heard him. We’d never be allowed to return home.” His eyes narrowed. “Drat the man! He must go this alone. We cannot help him this time. I can’t help him anymore.” He turned away.

  Jetekesh glanced toward the Arch one last time, stomach churning. He’d barely known Jinji. Had mocked him. Shouted at him. And in the end Jinji had shown him something unbelievable—something real. More real than Mother and her endless revelries. More real than court squabbling. More real than clean hands. Now he was gone, and all his tales with him.

  “He never said goodbye to the others. Rille and Sir Yeshton. Tifen and his father.”

  “He’s never been good at bidding people farewell. Come on.”

  Jetekesh started to follow.

  A voice, faint, indistinct, called from within the Arch. Jetekesh whirled back around. Moved toward the Arch. “Do you hear that?”

  The voice returned, high and panicked. A girl’s voice, raised in a plea. A shriek followed. Jetekesh stepped back. He mustn’t enter. He glanced at Aredel, who stood beside him, eyes riveted on the portal.

  Another piercing scream.

  “Stop!” cried Jetekesh. His voice rang above the pillars and across the white sand. “Don’t hurt her!”

  “Who are you?”

  This voice was different. Male, young.

  Prince Aredel approached the Arch. “Do you hear us? Who are you?”

  “I am called Sharo, Blood of the Woods. Will you answer me now, stranger?”

  “I am Blood Prince Aredel of KryTeer. I stand with Prince Jetekesh of Amantier beyond the Arch.”

  “Ah.” The Arch flashed with light as a note struck the air. Jetekesh threw his hands over his eyes until the sound ceased. When he lowered his arm, he found a hand protruding from the undulating storm of light.

  “I offer my greetings, royals of Nakania. I have waited long
for you. Come, and be welcome.”

  Aredel shook his head. “We cannot cross, or we will be unable to return home. So Jinji of Shing has told us.”

  “That is unless you are invited as guests into Shinac by its rightful rulers. And so, I invite you. Come, if you will. Great is my need of you. Come.”

  Jetekesh glanced at the Blood Prince, heart hammering. Aredel was frowning, his brow furrowed.

  “I’m going.” Jetekesh jumped at his own voice. What am I saying? Aren’t there enough troubles in Nakania? I have no time for Shinac! His feet took him to the light. He grasped the proffered hand. It clasped his fingers and pulled him through the Arch.

  The air felt strange, almost misty, though the day was clear and bright. The sky was a blue color more alive than any hue he’d ever beheld.

  He stood upon an old highway, surrounded by tall, thick trees, where the road cut a sliver between them to disappear around a bend. The woods felt hallowed somehow, and a breeze whispered like a lullaby as it swept through the creaking limbs.

  Ahead upon the unkempt path stood a young man, tall and comely, with snowy locks pulled into a ponytail atop the crown of his head to tumble past his shoulders and halfway down his back. His eyes were the blue of the ageless sky, lit with humor. He wore the shabby remains of once-fine raiment, and his boots were in desperate need of replacement.

  Jetekesh’s jaw fell. Prince Sharo was just as Jinji had painted him.

  “So, you are the prince of Amantier.” The prince of Shinac bowed. “It is quite an honor to meet you at last.” The blue eyes traveled past Jetekesh. “And you are the infamous Blood Prince of KryTeer. You do not disappoint, good sir.”

  Jetekesh spun to find Aredel upon the same road.

  The Blood Prince smiled dryly. “You must be Prince Sharo.”

  The young man’s laugh was light and clear. “So I was, once upon another age. Now I am merely Sharo Wanderer, for so I am called in present days.” He gestured down the road behind him. “If you will accompany me, I will direct you to my humble encampment and present you to my companions, one of which you know.” He started down the forest road.

  “Jinji?” Jetekesh flushed at the excitement in his voice.

  Sharo laughed. “Indeed, yes. He will be delighted to see you, once I have explained you are not trapped within this realm.” His step faltered. He glanced over his shoulder. “I fear that in my haste I did not explain what may befall you in Shinac. We are not in the peaceful times that once we claimed. Dark things have invaded our land since the capture of our rightful prince. Foul things. Shinac is a poison to the heart of any man who seeks power.”

  “Like King Darint and Lord Peresen,” said Jetekesh, nodding. “Jinji told us.”

  “Did he? I am glad to hear it. That makes this easier. I am traveling now to the lair of that same Lord Peresen. Once already I have thwarted his efforts, but now he intends to try again on the night with no moon. He stole three fair maids from the fae woods, and the fairies alerted me to his plot. I came to this point in company with my charger, Amaranth, and the lovely Ashea. Now I am joined by two princes of Nakania, along with two of my own former knights, and the renowned Jinji of Shing.”

  He rounded the curve, and Jetekesh followed to find a tiny trail leading from the old road into the woods. The scent of wood smoke lingered on the air. Birds sang strange music overhead. He followed Sharo along the trail, Aredel on his heels. A few moments more brought the threesome into a clearing where a fire blazed and several bedrolls adorned the forest floor. Two men stood near the flames, conversing in quiet tones. There. Jinji lay upon a bedroll beyond the fire, his eyes closed, chest rising and falling.

  “Ho the camp,” said Sharo cheerily.

  The two knights at the fire lifted their hands in unison.

  “Hail, Sharo,” said one. “What bring you now to our camp? We already have one storyteller, finest in all the realms of Shinac.”

  “Perhaps vagabonds then? Ruffians? Thespians?” asked the second.

  “Princes,” answered Sharo.

  Jinji’s eyes snapped open, and he sat up. “Aredel? Jetekesh?”

  “Do not fret,” said Sharo. “They were invited. There is a way home for them, and so they chose to come and aid us.”

  Jinji stared a moment longer, then sighed and smiled. “You never cease to surprise me, Aredel.” He turned to Jetekesh. “I am glad you are allowed to see Shinac. I wished it could be so, but I hadn’t the power to invite you myself.”

  “They are grander even than their stories.”

  Jetekesh stumbled backward at the sound of a woman’s voice, so near yet invisible.

  Sharo laughed. “My deepest apologies, Prince Jetekesh. What you hear is the voice of Ashea, my fairy friend, lady of the willow. Look down just a little.”

  Jetekesh’s eyes dropped, and he found the tiny, winged thing flitting and darting in the air before him. She was hardly the span of a man’s hand, delicate and fair. Her hair was the pale lavender of flowers, and she was robed in filmy sheets of delicate, pale gold, long and flowing. Her tiny hand reached out. He lifted his own to let her rest her little fingers against his finger. The fairy tilted her head, hair rippling against her back, wings beating so fast they were a blur. Her eyes met his. Molten gold. Shining like the sun. Her delicate lips lifted in a fond smile.

  “I like you, Prince of Amantier. There is a fire in your soul.” She released him and flitted to the Blood Prince, where the same scene played out. He extended his hand, and she took a finger in her little grasp. They regarded each other. “You smell of blood and power, Great One. But you smell of honor as well, and that matters most. I am glad of it.” She darted backward, fleet as a hummingbird, and landed upon Sharo’s shoulder. “I like them both, Sharo.”

  The Shinacian prince beamed bright as a sunrise. “I am glad, Ashea. Then I made the right decision.” He gestured to the two lost knights. “These are my companions upon my quest: Sir Chethal, the elder, and Sir Blayse, the younger. We met last eve upon the road, and it seems our purpose is the same.”

  “So it is,” said Sir Chethal. He was a man of fifty, dark haired and greying, of average height and stubble-chinned, just as Jetekesh had seen him in Jinji’s tale. His armor was old and mended in several places, his scabbard dented. Wisdom lent strength to his declining stature.

  Sir Blayse was still growing into his full height and likely to remain lanky. He was plain of face and absentminded in his nature, with unruly hair of copper brown. His armor, too, was worn and bent. He carried himself well, despite his height, and the sword at his belt was comfortable there.

  Jetekesh started at his own thoughts. How could he know so much, see so much, feel so much about these men? He had barely met them.

  He found Jinji, still seated on the bedroll. Was the storyteller responsible? Had the images conjured by his stories permitted Jetekesh to understand these men? Did stories allow that to happen?

  I’m one of them now. I’m part of the tales.

  The idea warmed him through.

  “Supper is almost ready,” said Sir Blayse.

  Sir Chethal nodded as he stirred the cauldron simmering over the flames. “Just need to add the chestnut sauce.” He poured in a milky liquid.

  Jetekesh’s mouth watered.

  “Come,” called Ashea. It took a moment to spot her on a rock near the fire. “Sit near me, both of you. You will discover you are very tired from your passage through the Arch. Time flows much differently here, and your bodies will find that strange.”

  As though her words held magic, Jetekesh staggered as he moved toward the flames. Aredel steadied him. They sat beside the fairy.

  Am I dreaming?

  Ashea cleared her throat quietly. Jetekesh glanced at her twinkling eyes.

  “Not a bit of it, Princeling. You are truly in the realm of Shinac.”

  26

  The Second Prince of the Blood

  “But where did they go?”

  Yeshton watched the serva
nts of the Blood Prince run around, searching for their lord. Searching for the storyteller. For Jetekesh. But Rille sat in repose under the shade of the tent, watching with those knowing eyes. Yeshton remained with her.

  Tifen was another matter. The protector searched with the others, going from wagon to wagon, tent to tent, even sneaking a glance inside the palanquin.

  There was no explanation. Jinji of Shing, Blood Prince Aredel, and Prince Jetekesh had all vanished in the night.

  “Sir Knight.” Rille’s tone was sharp.

  She pointed at the fabric of the tent behind them, as though she could see through it to something beyond. He rose at once and sprinted outside to stare northwest. In the distance, thick clouds of dust rose into the air. Yeshton returned to the tent.

  “An army is coming. It will be here within fifteen minutes, I would guess.”

  Sir Palan stepped into the tent, with the cloaked King Jetekesh beside him. They too had joined the hunt for the missing princes and storyteller.

  “We’ve got company,” Sir Palan said. “KryTeer banners.”

  “Yes,” said Yeshton. “We know.”

  “We will be unable to escape,” said Rille. “Best we not start a fight that will end in death.”

  Yeshton glanced at her. “If we don’t…”

  “We will go to KryTeer. Yes. I do not think there is any helping that now.” Rille sighed. “I wish I could have gone with them.”

  “With whom, my lady?”

  She turned a scornful look at him. “You cannot guess?”

  Yeshton colored. “You mean Jinji and the two princes. But where did they go? Into the desert?”

  Rille sighed and stood to brush off her skirts. “They have gone to Shinac, Sir Knight. Do you still not believe in it?”

  He frowned. “I’m…uncertain, my lady.”

  “It is a hard thing to accept,” said King Jetekesh, his tone careful. “But it would explain their disappearance. There is no trace at all.”

  Sir Palan shook his head. “No tracks. And I would deem that impossible. Unless—” He shrugged. “It is a wonder, I will grant.”