The Sand Prince

by Kim Alexander

  Lelet’s private worry was that she was going to turn out like her little sister, or worse, her mother. She could hardly remember her face, but what she could recall wasn’t good, or kind, or motherly at all. No, remaining normal, that was the most important thing.

  By the time she got to Althee’s, the story had grown into a saga of theft, injustice, and destruction. "Red eyes," she told her friend. "Red eyes and fire! Where does she come up with this stuff?"

  Chapter 17

  Eriis City

  15 years after the War of the Door, Eriisai calendar

  75 years later, Mistran calendar

  Royal Library

  "If I'm going to teach you how to fight back," said Ilaan, "we need a place to practice. I gather that going out onto the play field is not on the table?"

  Rhuun had at first been deeply offended by the offer. He'd never asked for help, nor did he want it. Mother Jaa had given him everything he needed. He was just fine. And anyway, Ilaan was barely fledged! He threw his scarf over his head and stormed out. But after a long walk through the fine, grey grit outside the city wall, he finally had to admit that Ilaan was not only unusually gifted, he was also the only one who was willing to show Rhuun how to defend himself, rather than simply use him as a target.

  "Anyway," Ilaan had said. "You'll be doing me a favor. Because when you pull Niico out of the sky, and you will, who'll be there to nurse him back to health?" Aelle and Rhuun shared an eye roll. "I always have a plan, Beast, remember that."

  They moved the battered couch, the sprung, shedding armchairs, and a few near empty bookcases away from the center of the back room in the library. Rhuun said it had to be the back room—he had insisted, and he rarely insisted on anything—that it was the only room he would consider as a practice area. He didn't tell Aelle or Ilaan he was afraid someone might wander in and see his efforts, which in his mind were already comical. But he paid attention, and despite his lack of flame or flight, he began to be able to do more than merely crouch into a ball and protect his head.

  Standing up straight was proving to be the biggest challenge. Ilaan had instituted a system by which every time he caught Rhuun crouching, slouching or hunching his shoulders, he had to take one walk unescorted across the play yard. That served as an excellent motivator.

  The inside stuff wasn't so bad, though. Once Rhuun realized he could move pretty quickly and even with some grace, the rest started to follow more easily. And there were weapons other than flame, and attacks other than from above.

  And if everything really turned to sand he could show his True Face, although that would be like setting your house on fire because your chair was broken. Anyway, the only benefit changing his form to his True Face would gain him, was disabling his opponents through their falling down laughing.

  He could do it, despite his inability to do practically everything else. He'd practiced in front of his mirror turning from one ugly thing into another. One second, his normal face—smooth golden skin, along with a few faint scars here and there, and those unfortunately shaped red-amber eyes—the next, an unrecognizable charcoal colored thing roiling with smoke and ash. Only the eyes were the same. When first manifesting, the children dared each other to show their True Faces, and he'd seen a few of them himself. They became slender flames that had only the barest resemblance to their normal forms—a suggestion of arms and hands, graceful sweeping flares for legs. They'd all wanted to see his True Face but he'd lied and said he couldn't change, maybe one day. He was so distressed by the sight of his own True Face that he vowed to never show anyone, ever.

  Thinking about that day was when he'd agreed to allow Ilaan 'show him a few things,' as the younger boy put it.

  Momentum, now that was an interesting thing. And fulcrums.

  Ilaan, for all his practiced boredom, had spent some time studying the books in the library. He showed Rhuun a particular human move called punching. "Something like this might be useful to you, if you can get close enough."

  "It looks like it hurts," he observed, squinting at the line drawing in the old book.

  "I believe that is the general idea of punching."

  "Can I try it now?" Rhuun made his version of a fist, but Ilaan had vanished and reappeared in one heartbeat behind him.

  "You can try," he laughed, "but I think you'll have better luck punching the wall, or a chair. Now, we were talking about defense...."

  ***

  Ilaan took what was clearly a perverse pleasure in knocking Rhuun's feet out from under him.

  "Your feet are very far away from the rest of you," he'd observed. "One might say unnaturally. That's what I'd aim at, if it were me."

  "It is you," Rhuun muttered. He'd tripped and fallen hard against a remaining bookcase, and made it worse by angrily kicking it as hard as he could.

  "Instead of beating it to death," drawled Ilaan, "you could move it out of the way."

  Being the only one of them really suited for physical labor, the siblings stood and watched as he shoved the heavy case out of the way. The last few books, softened by age, fell out and onto the floor. Something landed on his foot. It was a bright fabric package. The three of them spent a moment just taking in the reds and blues of the fabric. It was so bright!

  Rhuun opened the silk bag and inside was a little paper-bound book. As he looked at the cover, he had the strangest feeling he'd seen it before, although he knew that couldn't be the case.

  Aelle and Ilaan leaned over his shoulder to see what he was looking at.

  "Humans," said Aelle with distaste.

  "How interesting!" said Ilaan. "It must be really old."

  The cover was a painting of a man and woman, that much was clear. But they were unlike any Rhuun had ever seen. The woman's skin was very white, and her hair was bright red. Even though she appeared to be an adult, her hair was worn loose. And if that wasn't strange enough, her eyes were green. At least the man had proper black hair, although he wore it tied back, almost like a woman. His eyes appeared to be dark. Also, the way he loomed over the lady, he looked to be some sort of giant.

  Ilaan asked, "What's he doing to her?"

  The woman in the picture had a hand up as if to defend herself but also had her head tipped back and her lips parted. Her other hand was pulling on the lace drawstring of her gown. The man had a billowy white shirt half-open and was reaching for her with a very determined look.

  "I think he wants to kiss her," said Rhuun, "but there also seems to be an element of battle."

  "Well, she'd better raise a flame if she intends to ward him off," said Aelle.

  "Humans can't do that," said Ilaan, "as you would know if you paid attention in class. And I don't think she's trying all that hard."

  "The Claiming of the Duke," read Rhuun, "by Malloy Dos Capeheart. Funny name. But it looks like a real antique. What's it doing down here?" He leafed through the fragile, yellow pages. "And look, some of it is missing. And there's writing all over the back cover. It's all stained. Maybe I ought to give this to Mother to let her Mages take a look."

  "No," said Ilaan quickly. "Then you'd never see it again. They'll only cut it apart and set it on fire or something. Read it first, you're always going on about humans this and the other side that. Have you ever seen a real book from over there? This could be your only chance. Look at it and then if you still think you should, you can give it over."

  Rhuun nodded slowly.

  "Would you mind if we quit early?" The meeting with the edge of the bookcase had made his whole arm go numb, but he'd learned a good lesson about avoiding a blow. "And I want to look at this."

  Aelle shrugged. Ilaan said, "See you tomorrow?"

  Rhuun, who was already absorbed in his reading, did not answer.

  ***

  The Duke was a brave man, as it turned out, and also clever, although not particularly kind. He was some sort of ruler of his kingdom, although there were other characters like Princes and Counts and Lords and Ladies that also seemed to hold a lot of infl
uence. There was even a Queen, whom everyone spoke of with great reverence and a little fear even though she never made an appearance.

  Queens must be the same all over, Rhuun thought.

  The Duke had two problems: the first one was solving a murder and the second was in the form of a young lady named Gwenyth (although sometimes it was spelled Gwyneth. Were there two of them? He thought not). Was the Duke supposed to marry her? He treated her very poorly, thought Rhuun, although she seemed to respond to his rudeness with increasing affection. He gathered that was how a male human behaved towards a lady he was fond of. And how could he not be fond of her? She was curious, capable, sweet, she never had a cross word for anyone, and best of all, she never used two words when one would do. Rhuun appreciated that.

  He also couldn't help but read and reread the passages that involved her bosoms, which were frequently described as 'creamy', 'alabaster', and 'heaving.' Sadly, and in part due to missing pages, he couldn't find any references to anyone joining (although he certainly looked) so her bosoms would have to suffice.

  He found he thought about Gwenyth a lot.

  He also found himself wondering more and more about the human world.

  Rivers, what were they like? He pictured the endless plains of sand outside the Old City replaced by something else, but it was very hard to mentally stretch the contents of a water glass across a valley. And just as interesting, smells. Food, for instance. The coffee was rich, the apples were sweet (he knew what sweet tasted like, but how could a smell be sweet?) and there was something called chocolate that seemed to have a strange, almost magical effect on the women.

  And the women! He understood sweet Gwyneth's behavior—she was just trying to figure out how to get the Duke to be kind to her—but some of the others, like poor murdered Lady Cybelle, they carried secret weapons, they spoke in riddles, and they were absolutely obsessed with their own clothing (and that of their friends). And yet they all lived in fear of the men, who were also their greatest prize.

  And this human world was packed full of creatures—not just men and women but things like birds and dogs and fish. (Fish remained a cipher. How could you live in water? Could you breathe it?)

  The only things that had survived the Weapon were his own people, flying insects, and a variety of little jumping rats. It turned out making meat from meat was much easier than making meat from sand, so rat farming was big business. In fact, his mother had not only a huge ranch but a whole species of jumpmice named for her. Hellne Gold’s, the Queen's Own Finest. At one time, he'd been told, there were Rhuumice, flying mice made especially for his Naming Party. They proved to be voracious eaters and finicky breeders, and they quickly died out. He was embarrassed at the idea of something having his name on it (or near enough to his name), but he thought the idea of flying mice was charming. He wished he could see one. He'd asked his mother, many years before, if he could visit the Mages in their Raasth to have them make him one, and she'd nearly torn his head off. Something about never coming back once he went down those stairs, strictly forbidden, I'll kill you with my own hands if they don't do it first—the point had been made in abundance. His mother had actually looked frightened, something he rarely saw.

  He never asked again. Even when walking in the statue garden, he gave the entrance to the Raasth a wide berth. The sudden dark gap in the wall filled him with unease. Unlike his adventures in the Old City, he felt sure there really was something down there... something hungry.

  But a flying mouse, now that would be a fine thing. Of course, something made just for show would be a huge luxury. He'd heard stories about the days right after the Weapon, when people were so hungry they didn't bother transforming anything at all. Everyone knew what their food and drink were transformed from, but now no one talked about it at the dinner table. It was better that way.

  In his book there was some sort of transformation regarding birds and fish as well. It all went to the kitchens and to Cook—that he understood—but when it came back out it was under another name. Almandine. En Croute. Coq Au Vin. Sandwiches. It just wasn't clear.

  Then there were horses.

  If the Duke himself was a wonderful teacher of human behavior, and if Gwyneth was his private, perfect shani, then horses were something like a personal miracle. The Duke was always riding off on his horse, Mammoth, and Rhuun searched the other old books until he found a line drawing of the human people riding into battle. Horses, it seemed, could take you anywhere, they were huge and did your bidding without your even having to tell them where to go—now, that was magical. You wouldn't even need to fly, if you had a horse. It was better. It would defend you and protect you. It could be your friend.

  He began talking to Mammoth in his head or under his breath, as if the great beast had replaced his own feet.

  Aelle caught him mumbling.

  "Who are you talking to? Who's Moth?" she asked.

  He made sure to set that habit aside. It was bad enough being crippled without also being the Queen's Mad Son.

  Also less than successful, was his attempt to copy the way the Duke looked on the cover of the book. (For who else could it be?) His hair was the proper length and color, so he tried tying it back with a piece of heavy string. He was very pleased with the style, but Ilaan took one look and laughed until he had to sit down and couldn't speak for a full five minutes.

  "Please tell me," he finally could gasp, "that you didn't go outside like that."

  Rhuun threw the ribbon out the window.

  Chapter 18

  "McVeigh, I'd be lost without you," said the Duke.

  "Yes, sir," replied the older man. McVeigh had been his valet, butler, and occasional sparring partner since the Duke had been in short pants. McVeigh fastened the black pearl, big as a blueberry, on the Duke's cravat.

  "Care to attend this ridiculous circus in my place? All you have to do is dance with a few empty headed girls, laugh at their father's jokes, and not get so drunk that you vomit on the pool table."

  McVeigh nodded and handed the Duke his coat. "That was unfortunate, sir. Who knew felt would be so expensive?"

  -The Claiming of the Duke, pg 22

  Malloy Dos Capeheart, Little Gorda Press (out of print)

  Mistra

  100 years after the War of the Door, Mistran calendar

  20 years later, Eriisai calendar

  va’Everly residence

  "Up? Or down?" Lelet sat at her mirror and pushed her hair around on her head.

  May lounged on Lelet's bed and glanced up from her novel, "Up, I think. Not that there's much to work with."

  Lelet shrugged. "I like it short. When it's long it's not nice and curly like yours, it just hangs there."

  "I hear the boys prefer long hair on a lady," her sister replied.

  "Ugh, boys. Billah doesn't care one way or the other." She carefully twisted and pinned sections of her bright pink hair above her ears. "He likes it this color, though."

  "I shouldn't say that's a mark in his favor," May said with a smile. She wasn't overly fond of Lelet's latest beau or hair color. "You're seeing him this evening?"

  "Yeah, there's a party." She placed the last pin, admired the enameled cornflower against her bright hair, and sat back. "I kind of don't want to go, though."

  May set the book down and sat up. "Something wrong?"

  "It's just..." Lelet stood abruptly and crossed the room to open her balcony doors. The tall glass panes shivered as she banged them open. Cool, rose scented air drifted in from the beds planted below. "Did you ever count the number of parties you went to?" She leaned against the doorframe and began to gnaw on a fingernail. She was trying to quit smoking and her hands were paying the price.

  "Don't slam and don't bite your fingers," May said, more out of reflex than hope of correction. "Since when do you not want to go out?" Lelet had made a career of escaping from the family's home, as if it were on fire, at every opportunity, starting with climbing down the trellis from her balcony when she was b
arely old enough to reach the railing.

  Lelet held her hands out with a grimace. "Sorry. Maybe if I got them painted I wouldn't chew on them. I do want to go, I'd rather not hang around the house all night, and Althee will be there, at least." May took some comfort in the news. Althee was famously sensible, even if May thought she dressed like a lunatic—redheads should not wear red. At least Lelet looked like a proper young lady. (Except for her fingernails, of course, and the unfortunate hair color.)

  "Maybe you should date Althee," May said.

  Lelet laughed. "Probably I'd have a better time. I think it might be Billah, though. He's the problem. I mean, there's nothing wrong with him. Exactly."

  "Is there anything right with him?" May found the young man overly familiar and too fond of his own voice. But he had a handsome face, and that was all that mattered to Lelet—at least, it appeared, until now.

  "After a few drinks, he's perfect." She sat next to May. "Did I tell you what he said about that bottle of wine I brought over for dinner the other night? He said it was," and here she put on a low yet somewhat nasal voice, "‘woody, yet aromatic, with notes of ocean and juniper.’ He takes one class, and he's an expert! Honestly, who talks like that?"

  "Well," said May, "was it woody yet oceanic?"

  "No. Maybe. I don't know, it was just wine." She flopped onto her back, dislodging a few hairpins. "Everything is just everything," she muttered.

  May decided she'd had enough of Billah for the time being. "You know, Scilla will be here next week. She can't wait to see you." It was the first time their youngest sister would make the trip home for a visit since joining that relic of the past, the Order of the Door and The Veil. May had argued with their father but tradition would not be denied. It was a great honor to have a Fifth join the Order, and off Scilla had gone. "I'm planning a special dinner. You'll be there, of course."