by A. R. Cook
Desert Rain stopped stirring, as if struck by a thought, but then continued on. “I’ll let you know if I see a Wretched, how’s that?”
“Dezzy, there could be hordes of Wretched infiltrating areas we don’t know about. It’s your job as a Hijn to protect your region—”
“I’d rather go to the Eternal Deep than keep having this conversation.” Desert Rain took a swig directly from her water skin.
Clova frowned, slamming her mug on the table. “Very well. I see I wasted my time. I’ll just grab Mr. Mac and be on my way then.”
She walked out into the hallway, head held high although her spirits were low. As she walked down the hall to find Mac, she stopped before a large mural painted on the wall. She knew of Desert Rain’s artistic abilities – the entire burrow was covered in portraits and murals of all kinds. This particular mural was of the twelve Hijn, with one man prominently in the center. She recognized the knight, wearing silver armor and a matching mask, holding up a shining sword that emitted a white light. Clova’s anger dissolved as she looked at each figure, recognizing herself as one of them – how much attention and love had been given to each painted representation. She hasn’t forgotten us! She thought to herself.
Her smile faded, however, as she noticed one of the figures on the end had been scratched and smudged out – there was only the vague outline of a woman with long dark hair and long ears, and it was set somewhat apart from the rest of the group. Clova gently touches the image the washed-out figure. But…she’s forgotten who she is, Clova realized.
She was so lost in thought, she hadn’t heard Desert Rain come up behind her.
“Clova…I miss you too,” Desert Rain said. “And I’m sorry. I…I’m so used to being alone, I apparently don’t remember how to…”
“It’s all right, Dez. You don’t need to apologize.” Clova smirked, and tapped her finger on the image of the knight on the wall. “Besides…he misses you too.”
“He?” Desert Rain averted her gaze.
“The Swordmaster. He asks about you. Mage Skyhan says so. And I heard that the Knights of Luuva are coming this way.”
Desert Rain’s eyes widened. “What makes you think that?”
“A little bird told me.” Clova chuckled. “Well, actually, it was a Falcolin, so it was a big bird. As I was passing through Syphurius, this Falcolin was telling everyone how his brother was a Knight and had sent a message that he and the others were coming to announce their victory over the Wretched…the Court of Bloodburn, I believe.”
Desert Rain sighed in relief. “So the Knighthood is going to Syphurius, not here. Of course.”
“But you know they’ll go see Mage Skyhan for healing, and she’s not all that far from here, so I bet if I went to see them, I could convince them to stop here too.”
Desert Rain was quiet by nature, but she had on several occasions spouted how she admired the heroics of Swordmaster Skyhan. Clova knew simply mentioning Sir Skyhan’s name made Desert Rain blush, so would playfully tease her about it whenever possible. Desert Rain had seen Swordmaster Skyhan but a few times, and those times had been so long ago that
Desert Rain knew he would not remember her. His image, his poise, his silver hair shining in the sun, had inspired Desert Rain to write five songs, two plays, and paint one very lengthy
mural about him. She had never seen his face, but then no one ever saw his face, due to the war mask that he wore with undying persistence. Yet his triumphant tales of leading the Knighthood of Luuva against the Courts of the Wretched allowed her to paint her idea of what his face could be. Desert Rain knew she was in the majority of those who felt such adoration for the greatest and strongest of all Hijn, and she also dreamed about all the kinds of lovers he might have in each city, lovely women without ugly donkey ears or mismatched eyes.
“Or, say, you and I unexpectedly show up at Mage Skyhan’s house while they’re there,” Clova continued. “I mean, they don’t know that we know they’re coming. It would be a fun surprise, no?”
Desert Rain grinned weakly. “I’ll have to pass. You need to rejoin the merchant caravan before they leave Ulomin, if they’re going to help you travel back to Juka Basin.”
Clova looked disappointed, but nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”
After retrieving Mac, who had become hopelessly lost on the lower levels of the burrow and was calling out for “rescue from this-ss mind-bogglin’ labyrinth,” Desert Rain guided him and Clova back to the front entryway and bid them both safe travels.
“Much obliged for your hospitality, Dez. Miss Flor, shall we?” Mac offered his arm to her, and Clova looped her arm around his.
“It was lovely to see you, Dezzy,” Clova said. “You’re always welcomed among the Ahshi, you know. Don’t be a stranger.”
“I have always found the rainforest elves to be more than welcoming,” Desert Rain replied.
As Mac and Clova walked out, Desert Rain felt that sharp pang again. But she had learned her lesson, and she allowed the pang to run its course in silence as she scooped out some stew for her breakfast.
***
A few days later, right before Desert Rain began making a supper of roasted cactus chunks and sand toad stew, she noticed Jubis had not come bounding into the kitchen as usual to watch her cook. When she heard his wild yipping outside, she popped her head out of her burrow to see what was the matter.
The light from the overcast sky bathed the sand gray, and Jubis’s barks were somewhere off in the blustering dust. Desert Rain perked up her long ears to determine the direction of the barking, and she started off towards the west. Out there was an oasis, and she figured Jubis must have gone there to hunt small green-and-black-banded snakes. That might be where Ayu was as well. She had begun to worry about his absence.
She found Jubis not too far off, standing atop a short dune and yipping at something to the south. Desert Rain could not see what he was so excited about—at first. But then she could see spouts of sand leaping up about a half of a mile away, bursting up every couple of seconds. As the spouts came closer, she could see something else, something diving in and out of the desert, as if it were swimming through water. Every time it erupted from the ground, a shower of sand exploded from its force.
Desert Rain was amazed at first, and then grew increasingly petrified as the thing came closer and grew larger. Jubis stopped barking and scampered between Desert Rain’s legs for protection. Soon the thing was close enough that she could see its flaming red color, with carnelian-colored ridges along its spine. It dove beneath the sand again, but then did not reemerge. Desert Rain scanned the sands, looking for any motion beneath the surface, any indication which direction it went. A minute went by, and she hoped that perhaps it had turned around and gone off another way. The fifty-foot long serpent suddenly erupted from the sands and soared right over them, its underbelly only a few feet above Desert Rain’s head. It was enough to snap her out of her mesmerized state, and immediately she grabbed Jubis and ran. The serpent skidded to a halt atop the sand, and turned to look at what it had passed by. Atop the giant serpentine body was a head with large black eyes and a fang-filled mouth. Crimson fins fanned out from its back and sides.
“Y-you and your s-s-snake hunting,” Desert Rain stammered to Jubis.
She tripped and hit the ground in time to dodge the thundering snap of the serpent’s jaws. The serpent smashed into the sand right in front of Desert Rain, and the slithering body
skidded for several feet before disappearing back into the sand.
Desert Rain got back up and ran with all the speed of a hurricane wind. She barely sprinted for a few seconds before the serpent shot up from under her, tossing her like a twig and sending her and Jubis tumbling. Desert Rain sat there, stupefied as the serpent reared up, preparing to bring its massive head down on her like a hammer.
A blade sliced out from inside the serpent, tearing open the underside from where the stomach should have been. The serpent’s shrieks sounded like a
chorus of teapots screaming raw fury. The blade carved a gash upwards, all the way to the serpent’s chin, and a river of bloody fluid poured out from the wound, washing Desert Rain back with incredible force. From out the serpent spilled a person within the river of dark gummy fluid. The serpent thrashed about madly and then started to…fall apart. Shreds of flesh dropped off the serpent like a rain of maggots, until the entire reptile had wasted away into a scattered pile of wriggling bits. Then everything was deadly quiet.
Desert Rain was lying in a puddle and drenched from head to foot. She arose, and summoned up the courage to inspect the remains of the serpent. All over the soaked sands were six-inch-long red eels, garden-variety pests caught in fishers’ nets along the coasts. They twitched in gasping spasms, and shriveled in the desert heat. The smell of frying fish was already attracting a pack of weaselly dune screechers, who started happily eating up the writhing eels.
Desert Rain breathed a heavy sigh of relief and turned to the mysterious figure lying nearby. It was a man decked in armor, as smooth and white as ivory. Wet silvery hair trailed
down to his shoulders, and the tanned skin on his hands possessed tattoos of silver-tinted rune markings. He coughed to clear his lungs, and he was no doubt grateful that the mouth area on his metallic mask was cut away. It was a simple war mask, made from the same pearly material as his armor, and it had come to be known as the Mask of Truth, for it was said to reflect the inner-most self of whoever gazed into its surface. Strapped to the man’s back was an impressive long sword, with a sapphire-encrusted hilt, in a sheath of fine leather stitched with golden thread. Two more sheathed swords with matching hilts were attached on each side of his waist, plus three daggers
tugged securely into his belt. The weight of those weapons should have been burdensome, but he arose and stood as if the weight had been part of him his whole life. Each weapon was distinctive and rare in beauty and craftsmanship, but it was the sword on his back that was legendary: the demon-slaying Silverheart.
“Great Guerda-Shalyr,” Desert Rain gasped. She was sure this was a dream. Swordmaster Skyhan couldn’t be in front of her right now, he couldn’t!
Skyhan steadied himself and spat out a spurt of liquid. He turned and faced her, and from behind the mask his eyes showed that he was surprised to find someone with him.
“Pardon me,” he said, and he wrung out his hair. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
Desert Rain shook her head, dumbfounded.
The man coughed again, clearing his throat. “You wouldn’t happen to know of a place we could take cover and dry off?”
It took Desert Rain a longer moment than usual to process that she had been asked a question. She snapped back to reality, and nodded. “This way.”
“That was demon magic, what you saw,” Swordmaster Skyhan explained as they walked towards Desert Rain’s home. “A Wretched spellcaster sent that giant creature after me. That monster was twisting about so fast, I couldn’t steady myself for a decent strike until it slowed down. I’m guessing that you distracted it.” He paused. “Where am I, exactly?”
“Not too far outside Ulomin,” Desert Rain replied. “Would you like something to eat?” she added quickly.
Swordmaster Skyhan smiled. “I am famished.”
***
Desert Rain went out to gather cactus milk, dragging her tall jug from plant to plant in an effort to fill it up. Her vessel was about half full when she wore out, and she had quite a time lugging it back across the sand and down the stone steps into her burrow. Swordmaster Skyhan stood in the hallway at the bottom of the steps, regarding the mural of the Hijn Council on the wall.
She was breathless as he lifted his eyes to her. Desert Rain felt like she was being inflated with sunlight as she looked at him. There was an authoritative yet compassionate glint in
his eye that everyone respected. He had removed most of his armor so his clothing could air out, yet he stubbornly continued to wear his mask and swords. Rumor was that the mask, as well as the armor, was molded from the scales of the dragon that had bestowed him with the grace of Hijn, the Sage of Honor and Virtue. What that dragon’s name was, Desert Rain never learned it and the Swordmaster never spoke of it.
“There you are,” Skyhan said. “I don’t feel right that you didn’t let me do that for you.”
“It’s okay. I do this all the time.” The jug began to slip from her grasp. She caught and supported the jug with both hands and a foot, while wobbling on one leg.
Skyhan walked up to her and took the jug gently from her grasp. He handled the vessel as if it weighed no more than a bowl of feathers. “Perhaps I should go and let you rest.”
“No, not at all,” Desert Rain chuckled. “Please stay.”
She had found some old but comfortable cushions Clova had given her as a burrow-warming gift ages ago, made from moth silk and stuffed with goose feathers. She set them around her stone-slab table, and gestured for Swordmaster Skyhan to take a seat. The Knight sat down, while Desert Rain scrambled over to a shelf, taking down a bowl of cactus-paste salad and a
plate of assorted treats she had made earlier that day. She placed them on the table.
It was apparent that he wasn’t quite sure what to make of them at first.
Desert Rain could feel her ears quivering in anxiety. “It’s not much, I’m sorry I don’t have anything more—”
“It’s more than enough. You’ve been more than gracious to share your food and drink with me.” The Knight selected a caramel, and took a bite. “These are very good,” he said.
“I’m glad you like them. Desert cicadas only burrow up once every twenty years, so I won’t be able to make caramel cicadas again for a long time.”
Skyhan paused mid-bite of a second treat. “Cicadas?” He finished chewing and swallowing what he had, but was less enthusiastic about it. “Well, I admit, that’s a delicacy I have never had before.”
Desert Rain became mesmerized by the movement of his lips and the clear, deep sound of his voice. It was strange to her; he might as well have grown a pair of glowing wings from his back, the whole situation felt so surreal.
“Would you like some of this?” Desert Rain practically shoved the bowl of cactus salad at him.
Skyhan’s lips parted for a moment, as if the sudden attack of the salad had taken him off guard. A small smile formed. “Thank you.”
Desert Rain sat back, mentally cursing herself for acting so foolish. “I…heard you had a victory over the Court of Bloodburn.”
Skyhan’s lips tightened tensely, as if someone had asked him to perform some foul act. He eventually sighed. “News travels faster than I thought.”
“Was that supposed to be a secret? I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“I should expect these things to happen by now. I hope such news doesn’t endanger the people. It doesn’t help if the other Wretched Courts know where our Knights are concentrated in battle. They might slip into the Noblelands around us.”
Desert Rain nodded in agreement. She stood up. “I was starting some stew earlier. I would have to heat it up. Would you like some?”
“You don’t need to go through all this trouble for me,” Swordmaster Skyhan insisted. “I’m not used to being waited on.”
This struck Desert Rain as funny. She thought that he would have so many admirers in various towns, that he would be given much better hospitality than what she was able to give him. “I admit, I’m not very good at waiting on people. I don’t get guests very often.”
Skyhan suddenly became still. He looked as if he was in deep concentration. He closed his eyes.
“Are you all right?” Desert Rain braved to ask.
He slowly opened his eyes. The warmth and kindness that had been there was now replaced by tension and awareness. He craned his head over his shoulder, and then rose, walking out of the room as if driven by a possessive force. Desert Rain cautiously followed him, down the burrow halls, until he paused at a tunnel where the path sloped do
wnwards sharply, a path unlit
by torches or any other means of light.
“What’s down there?” he asked in a dark tone.
“There? Some other rooms. Not much to see, really.”
Without giving a response, Skyhan began to make the descent down the dark hole. Desert Rain quickly grabbed one of the torches off the hallway wall and then proceeded after him.
The lower rooms were small caves that housed random items that Desert Rain had uncovered in the construction of her burrows: jewels, old bones, objects of gold and silver that ranged from small rings to boxes and jars made from precious metals. Desert Rain knew that ages before the desert became swathed in the sands and encased in rock, there had been a magnificent realm of a great Hij-Urawran that was given these valuables as offerings. She knew this for she had seen that creature herself, long ago. The remaining proof of its existence was a massive stone carving from a wall of the old temple, a carving of a crescent moon lined with silver bands and
small stones of snowy pearls and blue sapphires. Around the moon was a menagerie of priestesses and monks who performed a ritual, and above the moon hovered a flying figure that could no longer be deciphered due to Time’s wearing away at the rock.
It was this carving that Swordmaster Skyhan now stared at intently. Desert Rain went about lighting the torches of the room with her own torch, and the fiery glow rippled off the metallic objects. She walked over to Skyhan, wondering why the carving fascinated him so.
Suddenly, Swordmaster Skyhan removed his long sword from its sheath. The blade flashed a silvery light that seemed to radiate from within the sword itself, thus why the name Silverheart had been bestowed upon it.
Desert Rain stepped back in surprise. “Sir Skyhan, what is it?”
“This must be destroyed,” he confirmed.
“Destroyed?? Why?”
“I can feel a strong dark energy emitting from this place.
Do you know that you have built your home under a temple of shadow?”
