The Sand Prince

by Kim Alexander

  ***

  One day, Scilla had an idea. It struck her with such force that the pen leapt out of her hand, leaving a blob of ink on her verses and a stain on her brown dress. She told the elder she had a stomach ache and asked to be excused.

  She raced back to her little room, down the stone stairs, past the candle master who was busy in the east tower replacing tapers (who told her not to run), past an unlucky novice who had mid-morning floor scrubbing duty (who told her not to step in the wet bits), finally arriving at her own wooden door. She touched the ancient grain, now slick as glass. It would be the door to her room for the rest of her life, unless....

  Scilla opened her notebook. There was nothing new from her friend but she knew as soon as it heard her idea, it would answer her—it would be so proud. She wrote:

  What if we could figure it out, together? You and me—what if we could open The Door?

  With her heart in her mouth, she waited for an answer. It came quickly.

  No, Scilla! It’s far too dangerous!

  There are books in the library from before the War. I could just look. It wouldn't be dangerous at all.

  No, there is no way I could allow you to do something like this. You are clever, of course, but if you got caught—I couldn't bear it. The books you'd need to find are so rare, they'd be hidden carefully. You'd never be able to take them back to your cell.

  But if I found the right books, and brought them back here without being seen, what then?

  Well, of course under the right circumstances—and your safety is my only concern—it would be my honor to take this journey with you, my sister.

  Scilla's eyes filled with tears. The Voice was her true sister, brother, parent—her friend and only companion. She'd find the books, and she and the Voice would open the Door. They'd walk along the Gilten Mile together, and everyone in Eriis and Mistra would know their names.

  That very day, Scilla asked to speak with Brother Blue.

  "I wish to volunteer to help clean and sort the library."

  He looked less surprised than she'd anticipated. "You have a mind for old things, my dear. As an old thing myself I find that quite agreeable. I used to be something of a scribbler myself, back in the old—the very old days. We'll be glad for a young face and a strong back. You do have a strong back, I trust?"

  "Yes Brother." She was only half listening, she could already smell the ancient volumes. Her search had begun.

  Chapter 25

  Eriis City

  20 years after the War of the Door, Eriisai calendar

  100 years later, Mistran calendar

  Yuenne’s family residence

  Aelle liked to tell people she simply wasn't very efficient at shimmering from place to place, but the truth was closer to feeling like she couldn’t breathe. If she didn’t intimately know the destination, all she could picture was reappearing inside a wall. But in the case of a short hop to her room she felt confident enough to do it. And it was much more satisfying than simply clomping on her own feet from her brother's room, who never walked when he could help it. He'd say he didn't look down on those not as talented, but she felt judged anyway.

  She reappeared—not inside a wall—and took a calming breath. Unlike her brother who enjoyed his lofty perch, her suite of rooms opened onto a walled courtyard. She'd lined it with shallow bowls of stones which cast a fine golden glow at night, and had a small reflecting pool installed in the center. Of course, it was only filled with the inch or so of water it held when she had guests, but on those occasions it made a dramatic centerpiece. Other times, she kept it dusted.

  She tossed a handful of long scarves from the chair at her dresser onto the floor, and sat and looked at herself in the mirror. She closed her eyes, and looked inside to find the pathways and cut-throughs, the ropes to climb and the ledges to leap off, and when she looked up at herself again, a different face looked back, narrower through the jaw and with darker eyes. A fuller lower lip. Quite pretty, really. It was easier to create a new face than copy an existing one, but she could do that, as well. She smiled. Good at something, after all. She slowly rotated through her friend's faces, fixing flaws, changing hairstyles, until she got to Rhuun, and here she stopped. Her smile faded. She fixed the shape of his eyes and nose and erased his scars, but that made it worse, because it wasn't him anymore. She changed him back.

  "Why won't you be happy?" she asked the reflection.

  As usual, the reflection only looked worried and a little sad.

  With a sigh she changed back to her own face and went to the cabinet in the room they didn't quite share. Her bed wasn't long enough, he’d told her, and anyway, Yuenne looked at him like he was a new species of jumpmouse. He rarely spent the night. The only time she stayed the night with him, she'd encountered the queen early the next day, and seen pity in the older woman's eyes. From then on, she told Rhuun his room wasn't big enough for one, much less two, and he'd better get used to the walk home.

  The bottle of sarave in the cabinet was empty, and she was certain it hadn't been the last time she'd looked. She put the bottle with the others in the bin in the corner and threw her own dress on the bed. Stepping into the dryroom, safely away from the fine fabrics, she turned.

  Catching a glimpse of her True Face in the mirror—a flick of flame, a snap of sparks—made her feel better. And as usual when she changed back she felt refreshed and cleansed. Her doubts were burned away along with the pile of ash at her feet. She transformed the ash into a flat square and tossed it in the bin along with the bottles, ready to be re-translated into something useful.

  She shook out her long hair, enjoying the freedom from the tight coils, before pinning it back up. A fresh tunic, this time a pale grey silk over white leggings, and she was ready for the evening.

  I'll just suggest Rhuun talks to Hellne, she decided. Telling him to do anything is like shouting at the wind, but if he thinks it’s his idea, it might happen. She can't go on pretending time isn't going by, and neither can he. They just need a little push to get them working together. She sighed, this time with frustration. He's so clever, as smart as Ilaan in his own way, and if he let people, they would love him. I'll talk to him while we're at Ilaan's party, he'll be in a good mood—it is Ilaan’s party, after all, and he thinks Ilaan makes it rain. He’ll be certain to listen to me. Yes. Everything will work out. It’s got to.

  ***

  "Aren't you curious?" she asked him the first time she'd been invited to the Night Cafe. "It's supposed to be amazing. Come with me, it'll be fun!"

  He'd looked at her over the top of whatever he was reading and said, "Define fun."

  He was lounging in her largest chair (she'd had it made for him) with his feet propped on her windowsill. Looking at his long, long legs, she almost changed her mind and said she'd stay home, but that would be giving in. As they got older, she hoped she'd get some sort of control over her feelings, but it was no use. Despite his appearance (or perhaps because of it) she wanted him, all the time. More than he wanted her, she suspected. More than he deserved.

  "Rhoosa will be there." She knew he liked Rhoosa. And he did look up again.

  "And who else?" She didn’t need to answer. He chuckled and shook his head. "Right."

  "I won't be very late." She hesitated. "Will you be here when I get home?"

  He looked up at her again. "Do you want me here?" He knew very well she did.

  "Do what you like," she snapped, "it's up to you." She threw her scarf over her head and stormed out.

  He was gone when she returned. After that she stopped asking, and he never questioned where she went.

  No, she decided, no point in going all the way over there and chancing a run-in with Hellne only to be rebuffed.

  If only he’d give it a chance, if only he’d let himself have fun, if only he acted like he wanted to be with me... She was beginning to find her own company tiresome. The Night Café would be a welcome distraction. No, she decided, no trip to the Palace and no him.
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  Instead, she ran into her father.

  "A bit late for an evening out. Are you meeting Rhuun?" he asked.

  She gritted her teeth. So close to a smooth exit! She turned and said, "No, Father. I'm going to meet with some friends from school. Please don't wait up."

  "I hope you don't intend to go outside the city wall. Things are improved, but I wouldn't call it safe."

  She frowned. "Why do you..." then touched the scarf at her throat. "Oh. No. This is. It’s. No, it’s sort of come back into fashion. You know, like you say, Father—fashion is mostly useless things."

  He nodded slowly. "Fashion. I see."

  She waited to see if he'd let her go or call her back for more questions. You never knew with her father.

  "Well, don't keep your friends waiting, then." He shook his head and with a little laugh headed back to his own room. "Fashion. Of course."

  She took a breath and calmed herself. Then she threw the scarf over her head, and thus rendered anonymous, headed towards the Old City.

  ***

  The twists of alleys and courtyards looked even dirtier and more dangerous at night, and she was glad of the little glowing hand stones to show her the way. She felt like a daeeva lurking about in the dark, it was positively thrilling. The destination was an ashboard door like every other she'd passed, but with a black mark in the upper corner. She walked right by it the first time. Next time, the night cafe would be in a different place.

  The door was charmed and since she was invited, it opened to let her in. She threw back her scarf. The space was surprisingly cavernous on the inside, and noisy with young people chattering and laughing and drinking. The special here was a beverage the barkeep insisted was a direct copy of one from the other side, something called birr. It was bitter and an ugly tan color, but it cooled the throat.

  The party had started and she found a place along the wall. The first few times she'd attended she'd only watched, amazed, until she finally was brave enough to try it herself. Now she made a point of visiting the night cafe as often as she could get away. She spared a moment for Rhuun—he'd love this. Too bad.

  Rhoosa bounded through the dark room, shimmering from doorway to back wall, shouting for quiet, and stood on a stool so everyone could see her. She clapped her hands.

  "Time! It's time! If you're in, get ready." The demons formed a large, loose circle, leaving a space in the center of the room.

  "I'm first," she said, and stepped off the stool. She stood in the circle, threw her arms out and tipped back her head. It got very quiet.

  Her long white tunic turned bright pink.

  A cheer went up.

  "A new color!" she exclaimed. "I've never done that one before! Who's next?"

  Aelle recognized a young man from her class—Hollen. He wore grey and in his turn in the circle made it turn to light green. Then, just when everyone thought he was done, he turned it dark green. It was tremendous.

  Now it was her turn. She gulped the rest of her birr and took her place in the circle.

  Stripes! Red and black. People gasped. When it was over she fell back against the bar, flushed and exhilarated. Shifting her face was easy, that was how she'd manifested, but transforming inorganics took a lot out of her.

  Hollen handed her a fresh birr. "That was something—you've been practicing!"

  "I have, but it isn't easy," she told him. "If my father caught me he'd send me to the Crosswinds. I have to lock myself in the dryroom. Nice colors on you, too."

  He smiled. "I couldn't decide between green and blue. Hey, let's both do blue next time."

  She nodded, "Like a team!"

  A voice at her ear said, "Aelle! Nice job. Where's your man? He's too big to hide."

  "Daala," she said to the woman beside her. "Hello."

  Hollen headed towards the other side of the room, calling "Blue! Don't forget!" over his shoulder as he went.

  "Daala, Rhuun never comes to these things, you know he hates a crowd." They watched as another young man made his tunic ripple rapidly in white and black. An unusual choice, but allowable on the strength of the pattern. "Are you going tonight?" she asked.

  "No," Daala replied, "I can't beat what's already gone. I'm saving it ‘til next time. Have another." She passed Aelle another cup of birr. Aelle paused, then shrugged. No harm. And it did quench the thirst, despite the taste.

  "I think Hollen's taking it this time," she said.

  Daala smiled. "Taking what, 'Elle? I saw how he looked at you." Daala saw lechery everywhere.

  "Bet he can raise a hot flame, too." Aelle set the glass down. How much had she drunk? "Not that it’s the most important thing...."

  Daala leaned closer. "You know what they say, the taller the flame..." Aelle knew they were no longer talking about Hollen. Of all the friends he didn’t like, Rhuun didn’t like Daala the most. She never failed to ask about him, though.

  "No flame. Nope. But like I said, it doesn't even matter." I think I'd better stop talking, now.

  They watched another demon take the circle, turning her garment into a rich amber red. Ah, nicer than mine, even though it’s only one color. I'll try again next time she thought. A beautiful shade. Not quite red, not quite gold. Like his eyes. Wherever he is right now.

  "He doesn't need to raise a flame for me," she said angrily.

  Daala raised her brow and said nothing.

  "He does other things. I don't want to talk about him anymore."

  Daala handed her another birr. "I think maybe this ought to be your last, 'Elle. I'll get Hollen to see you home."

  The winner, by applause, was the startling black and white patterned tunic, although it was hardly unanimous. Wasn't color the whole point? Rhoosa jumped back onto her stool.

  "No sad faces, and get those sour words out of your mouths! You'll have another chance next time. One more for each of you and then off into the night you go."

  She left ahead of the crowd, politely declining an escort. She had to remember on nights where she took a turn, not so much birr! But a cup of cold water set her right, and she even enjoyed the walk back home.

  ***

  To her surprise, Rhuun was waiting for her. Well, he was asleep, but he was there. She stood at the side of the bed and looked down at the length of him, the dip and curve at the small of his back. Was that the most beautiful part of him? The only beautiful part? She could see the tracery of his scars even though she knew she couldn't feel them. In the faint light of the nightstones it looked as if he had a ragged silver net thrown over him. The coverlet teasingly hid the rest of him, and she wanted to pull the blanket off and wake him with fire.

  She looked up at the mirror and smiled at her reflection: long red hair, green eyes, and white, white skin. She was saving it as a special gift for him. She looked down at him again. If he woke up now his heart would burst in his chest, that wouldn't be much of a gift! She changed back to herself, and just in time. He stretched and rolled onto his back, pushing the hair out of his face. He looked up at her for a moment with those strange red-amber eyes, and then reached out and ran his hand along the inside of her leg. He stopped at her ama and gently rubbed the jet and gold piercing with his thumb.

  She threw the coverlet on the floor and, putting her questions aside, sank into his arms, her hands already glowing with a dim blue flame.

  Chapter 26

  Eriis City

  20 years after the War of the Door, Eriisai calendar

  100 years later, Mistran calendar

  Yuenne’s family residence

  Ilaan felt a change coming, and it wasn't just that the dust was rolling back by mid-morning instead of lunchtime.

  He'd been going over the last few words of the inscription (which he privately referred to as 'that scorping book', or 'the damned thing' or 'I wish Hellne had given Beast a new pair of sandals like a normal mother').

  He was so close he could smell it, and it smelled like blood most of the time. The writing appeared to be a poem, and a fairl
y simple one at that; just a call to another person on another shore, tearing down the barriers between them, walking under the same sun, that sort of romantic nonsense.

  He'd long since decided the writer of the spell (and the donator of the bloodstains) was the same person who wrote the text. The poem was sentimental, and that fit with the absolute rubbish between the covers. Was any race of people ever this willfully obtuse, unpleasant, and rude? A race of lumbering, murdering, ignorant giants!

  "You can't judge them by our more sophisticated cultural standards," Rhuun had argued in his typically stiff necked way. He would defend that ridiculous thing to the very end. "They're not like us, and it would be a lie on the author’s part not to reflect the prevailing norms of their behavior. Anyway, I like it."

  There was no accounting for taste.

  Ilaan preferred military history. There was always a clear winner, and he paid close attention to who won and why.

  He stood and stretched. He was so close to having it completely worked out. Right now it looked like there was enough blood—and the blood was the catalyst that got things moving, that much he knew—there was enough blood for one trip to Mistra, another back to Eriis, and that was it. Hopefully, if Rhuun was able to track down dos Capeheart and bring him back, their human guest would be willing to part with a little more—he'd have to if he wanted to be sent back home. They'd have to keep him away from the Mages, though. He understood better now why Hellne was doing this without their knowledge. At first, it was a secret he held with the Queen, and that was all he needed to know. But she herself had written into law, shortly after the devastation of the Weapon, that the Mages get the first and the finest, whatever they needed to complete their work. If a real human didn’t count as first and finest, he didn’t know what did. A whiff of fresh human blood might be enough to make the Zaalmage leave his Raasth and see the daylight. The Zaalmage talked about human blood the way an old man talked about the beautiful women he'd joined with in his youth—frequently and in glowing terms. No, Hellne had been quite right to keep this quiet, as, he thought, she was right about so many things.