The Sand Prince (15 page)

"Aelle, we've been through this. I will never have her seat."

She smiled a private sort of smile. "We'll see."

"Anyway," he continued, "all the politics. All that posturing. The only one who likes all that is Ilaan. It drives me wild with boredom. I only attend so Mother won't—"

"Won't what? Throw you out of the royal quarters? Give you the silent treatment? Make you have dinner with her three times a week instead of two?"

"Bite your tongue." She had already bitten his.

"Well," she said, trying to be reasonable, "we'll just have to make sure you are sufficiently entertained. Maybe I'll learn to divide. It's difficult but I'm certain I could do it."

He thought of joining with two of her and didn't know whether to laugh or cry—he seriously doubted he'd survive the experience.

"Or maybe you'd prefer this?" She flickered, and he blinked. Standing in front of him was a double image of himself. He looked away.

"Ugh, really Aelle. It’s bad enough one of us has to look at that. I don't know how you stand it."

She changed back into her own form.

"One becomes acclimated," she said.

"Being entertained is different from being happy," he said. "Would that life make you happy?"

"Why are you asking these things? You know it’s what I want. What we want. We will be together at Court. And one day we will share the spark—no, don't get that face. They'll look like you or they'll look like me and it'll be fine. What more is there?" She was starting to get that little line between her eyes. He hated it when she mentioned the spark; she knew full well he would never consent to passing his deformities on to another generation. But he wasn't the only one who was lately tempted to provoke.

"That's not what I meant by 'more'..." he said.

"I know exactly what you meant. That stupid book again."

"It’s not—"

"It is exceptionally stupid. Little human persons doing human person things. It’s not real. It doesn’t exist." Her skin was starting to steam.

"Of course it does. The other world—don’t you wonder? Wouldn’t you like to see it?"

She placed her palm on the center of his chest. Curls of smoke immediately started to rise.

"This is real. We exist. That other world—what do I care? The war ended and they sealed the Door and left us to die in our own filth. Well, guess what, humans? We didn't. We are here. We are alive. This is what we have and we’d all better learn to live in it. If I ever saw a human I would kill it on the spot, and you should feel the same way. I will never understand your obsession with those creatures. So yes, I do want more and that road runs through you." She frowned and looked confused for a moment. "I didn't mean it that way. I only want us to be together in the best world we can make for ourselves." She took a deep breath and smiled. He could see her centering herself. "We will do so well together at Court. Look how well we do here."

She stood up and gave the fingers of her hand a little shake. "There. Good as new. Next time perhaps we can get a flame going. I love a good singe." She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "See you at dinner. Remember to dress for the performance after. Your mother expects us at first moonrise." She chuckled. "Isn't it funny how we say that? When was the last time anyone saw the moons?"

After she had gone, he leaned back on his too-short bed with a glass of
sarave
and encouraged his skin to knit, letting the pain slide off and go where he directed it. He regarded his chest, which was still a smoking ruin.

I shouldn't feel this at all. Or maybe it should feel like something other than pain.
And for the millionth time,
What is wrong with me?

As he watched, it began to mend.

He stood to dress, and consulted his reflection to make sure he was acceptably in one piece. The top of his head was cut off; after the third time, he'd gotten tired of re-hanging the mirror. Nothing new there, oval eyes just plopped onto his face, and a long straight nose, a permanent dark mark near his hairline on his left temple from whacking his head on doorframes and windows. But hardly anyone stared or whispered anymore, as Aelle had pointed out, they were more or less acclimated. Now he was met with a sliding away of the gaze a sort of invisibility that suited him very nicely.

He leaned down and examined his face more closely. He ran his hand over his chin—yes, it was time. He didn't know why his face felt like sand every week or so, or why if he did nothing it turned into hair, he only knew it was different from everyone else and so it had to go. There was only one way to change his skin, and long ago he'd discovered that showing his True Face burned the stubble to cinders. This time he watched. Sometimes he didn't. When he was younger, he'd shut his eyes tight and count to ten—that was enough. But now it seemed like too much effort. He bent down and leaned on his elbows, leaving another scorch mark on the old wooden dresser, one of many dozens. He turned, saw the seething monster in the mirror, counted, and turned again. Done.

Done or not, it would never be enough for Aelle, who wanted all eyes on her all the time. And with her face and bearing, it was proper she should be admired. He had learned long ago that what she felt, she was completely confident that everyone felt. It simply did not occur to her that someone might not like to be stared at or talked about.

Aelle treated him as if he were normal, and thus to her he
was
normal. She knew just when to allow him to not attend yet another party, and she certainly didn't hold back on his behalf during their joining—which he thought perhaps, would have been worse. The only thing that aggravated Aelle was his study of the humans and his interest in the book. And if that was the only thing they had to argue about, well, he was grateful. He was lucky, wasn't he? She was beautiful, accomplished, clever, and her company was certainly more entertaining than dodging fireballs in the play yard. But in his heart he knew she’d never be satisfied until he replaced his mother at Court. And she still believed he'd take his mother's seat, when everyone from the head cook to the sand workers to the Mages in their dark Raasth, knew that would never come to pass.

Even if that was his dream and not just hers, he'd never rule this place.

Just as he'd never 'get a flame going.'

And he'd never stop thinking about the other world.

And his book wasn’t stupid at all.

He was getting tired of feeling grateful. He'd have to do something about Aelle.

***

T
hat evening, exactly as she had predicted, he sat to his mother's right, and Aelle sat to his. The theater, Cloud Forest in the Mountain, was recently restored and its second season of new and classic works was doing excellent business. People were anxious, after all this time, to see and be seen, and the performances gave everyone a reason to dress and go out.

This was the opening night of Yridaane's
Fire and Desire: A New Perspective.
Rhuun shifted uncomfortably in the too-small seat, keenly aware that the unlucky theater-goers behind him were also shifting and grumbling, because he was in their way. He told his mother and Aelle he wanted to sit in the back, and they looked at each other and smiled. The Queen and her entourage always sat front and center. It had been so before The Weapon, and so it must be the case now. It would have been a grave insult to the actors and playwright to do otherwise.

"Yridaane would fill his mouth with sand! You know how he is," said his mother. "As for them," she glanced dismissively at the audience, "let them crane their necks. They can tell each other what an honor it was to have their view blocked by the prince." And that was the end of it.

The performers, all gifted in sharing sense-memory, led the audience through the four stages of passion, from the first look to the touching of the hand, through fire to ash. Those in attendance were intended to feel the emotions and intentions of the actors, and add their own back into the action in a neat synchronistic loop. It was an unusual skill, and one that nearly died out for lack of use after the Weapon. Rhuun found it dull, until they got to the fire part, and then he found it painful. But everyone else, including Aelle, had a rapturous look on their face. Again, they felt something he didn't. Ash represented the end of passion, because according to Yridaane, consummation was the same as destruction. Rhuun hoped that wasn't true.

***

"P
retentious," his mother said afterwards, as they sipped
sarave
in the Great Courtyard. It was custom for her to host a party after any performance she attended, and the audience members, even those who couldn't see half the action on stage, were delighted to attend. "But one cannot say one was not entertained," she smiled. "Personally, I preferred the old perspective."

"I liked it, mostly," said Aelle. "But I didn't like the end. What a sad outlook, that once a flame is lit, the romance is over."

"You thought this performance was about romance?" said Hellne. "That's sweet."

Aelle flushed and was about to reply, but her father appeared at her elbow and quickly added, "She has the innocent heart of the young." He looked at Rhuun. "And she's never been disappointed."

"Father..." she had gone bright pink. "Please."

Rhuun knew he ought to say something nice to Aelle, but what? "I thought it was about romance, also." He did not. "And I didn't much care for the end, either." It had been his favorite part, because it meant he could get out of that tiny chair and get a drink. He wanted to tell Yuenne he hoped he'd never disappoint Aelle, but that would be such a grotesque lie, it didn't even bear repeating.

"Ah! The great Yridaane himself!" said the Queen. "Congratulations, another triumph." They all gave a polite round of applause as the playwright joined them. He had two thin braids at his right temple, held at the ends by a black and a white bead, and his black tunic was lined in cream (in what Rhuun thought was an over-the-top attempt to copy his own family's colors). He mentally rolled his eyes.
Artists.
Yridaane also had a dark smudge on his cheek, perhaps from the pretty young actress who had performed the role of Ash, and who stood close by his side. Again, Rhuun allowed himself to feel superior—Ash being represented by someone covered in soot didn't seem like much of a stretch. But maybe he just didn't get what the artist was trying to say. Maybe Aelle would explain it to him later.

Yridaane bowed deeply. "I go where the pen takes me," he said. "I can only hope my audience is willing to follow." He looked from face to face expectantly.

"I thought it was beautiful," said Aelle.

"Moving," added Yuenne. "Especially the end." He dipped his head at Ash, who smiled and blushed.

"Um, it was interesting?" said Rhuun. "I liked how they put their, um, hands and feet?"

"I see," said Yridaane. "Hands and feet. Well, everyone takes something different away, or else I haven't done my job. I suppose."

"Hands and feet are very important," said the actress. "I think you're very perceptive." She smiled at Rhuun in a way that made him both uncomfortable and a bit warm. He could feel Aelle stiffen as she moved closer to him.

"He doesn't think much of theater," Aelle told the actress. "He prefers books."

The girl's eyes widened and she leaned forward. "You are a writer?" Now Yridaane got a bit of a look on his face. Rhuun wanted to say he was, just to see what would happen.

"No, I'm more of a reader. But I did like the play." He found he was smiling back at the girl. Aelle placed her hand on his arm. He could feel the heat through his sleeve.
I'll pay for this later
, he thought. But he kept smiling at the actress.

"Sometimes the best drama happens off the stage," said Yuenne. "Your Grace, may I fetch you another glass?"

"That would be lovely," said Hellne. "We don't want to keep you two all to ourselves," she told Yridaane and the actress. "I know there are many here who wish to compliment you both." The playwright looked grateful, but the girl could barely conceal a frown as he led her away.

Hellne turned to Rhuun. "Hands and feet? Really?"

He shrugged. "Should I have said I didn't understand it? He'd have thrown himself into the Crosswinds."

She shook her head. "I did nothing but expose you to the correct influences, I don't know why I even bothered." She stalked off after Yuenne, stopping every few feet to acknowledge her guests, her face a composed mask.

"I'm sorry about that," said Rhuun.

Aelle looked away. "About what?"

He leaned down so she could hear him without raising his voice, the courtyard had become crowded. "What my mother said to you. She didn't mean anything by it."

"So you aren't sorry about practically
scorping
with that little actress right here in front of me?" She had removed her hand from his sleeve but he could still feel the heat boiling off of her.

"You see things that aren't there, Aelle. You take offense where none is given."

She looked up at him, the blank expression on her face at odds with her words. "So now I'm seeing things? The way she looked at you...."

"I can't control other people's eyes. And her job is to please the Court. I am the Court, as you like to remind me." He looked at the crowd, and his heart sank. People were glancing—discreetly of course—in their direction. "I didn't want to come to this thing at all."

"Well maybe next time you should stay home," she said, still smiling pleasantly.

"Maybe I will."

They stopped and looked at each other, realizing how foolish they sounded, and she sighed. "Go home, then. Go have a drink."

"I do not want a drink," he said.

She raised a brow and opened her mouth to speak, then changed her mind. She said, "Do what you like. I'm feeling a bit tired, I think I'm going to go home as well."

"I'll see you tomorrow?"

She shrugged without turning back to him as she walked away.

He thought he might like that drink, after all.

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