The Sand Prince (23 page)

Rhuun was silent and still for a second. Then he burst out laughing.

"That is beautiful. Seriously, lots of strong storytelling elements. Did you run this tale past my mother?"

"Your mother's the one who says you have to go. Now." Ilaan had the paper in his hands and was turning it over and over. It was covered not only with dark bloodstains and ancient inscriptions, but now had a fresh layer of writing—still in the old tongue, but spelled out so anyone could read the words, even if they didn't know what it meant.

Rhuun rubbed the back of his head again. "What if I don't believe you?"

"Then the Mages will probably break in here and take you down to the Raasth."

"Even if this nonsense was true, Mother wouldn't let them actually harm me," he frowned. "Would she?"

"She wrote the law. She implicates herself no matter what happens. The law she wrote gives the Mages whatever they need. And they need you. I think they've suspected for a long time, they needed proof... of your blood—the human part of it. The humans sealed the Door with blood, and yours will blow it right off its hinges. I've seen where they'll do it; it’s a big flat table. It has drains in it." Thinking on it, Ilaan felt sick. It’d had stains on it. Grooves that fingernails would leave and places to attach restraints. He'd leaned on it, and they hadn't mentioned it. The Mages had acted like it was just another piece of furniture.
Oh this, it’s just where we perform our sacrifices
. And he had been ready—eager to join them. He'd traded Rhuun's life for it.

Rhuun slowly rose to his feet. "If this is a joke, it’s not a funny one."

"I am begging you, read the spell. I—I'm not sure it'll work, there are some words missing. It might only get you as far as the Veil. But you won't be here, and you won't be dead."

"I assume Aelle doesn't know about this." Ilaan was silent. "She will kill you. Tell her I said not to, and please extend my apologies." He looked at the flimsy sheet of paper, which Ilaan had put in his hand. "Do I get to come home?"

"I don't know. No, I
do
know. I will figure this out. I won't leave you there, I swear it. And if you find Malloy, the writer, maybe he can help you. If we're lucky, this may even take you to him. Get him to help you. After all, he wrote this, he can certainly write another one."

"I..." There was the sound of many running feet from the far end of the corridor. "So. What now, Ilaan? Fight?"

Ilaan nodded at the paper. "Fly. I won't leave you there," Ilaan said brokenly. "I'll bring you home."

"Take care of my mother," said Rhuun. "Take care of Aelle. Lock the door. And let's get started."

Rhuun read the spell slowly, carefully sounding out the translated words. As he read, the page burned itself above his fingers, line by line. There'd be no using it again.

He got to the end. Nothing happened. He'd been afraid, then excited, and he still didn't know what to make of it—human? Half-human? Blood and the Door and the Mages... it was too much to comprehend.

It doesn't matter, you're going, you're really going. You'll see horses, and find the girl....

There was pounding on the door now, and many voices. Somewhere outside Rhuun thought he heard his mother's voice. She sounded very angry. He was tired. He wished he'd never found the book. He wasn't human, that was absurd. He rubbed his aching eyes and looked up, saying, "I'm sorry, Ilaan. It looks like we have to let them in."

But Ilaan was gone. His room and his door and the people on both sides were gone. Eriis was gone. It was dim and quiet and cool, and completely deserted.

He was in the Veil.

––––––––

"I heard voices, my Lord" said Gwennyth.

The Duke turned, trying to block what she already had seen.

Cybelle dos Shaddach lay upon the stairs, her head at a most alarming angle, her face quite blue.

-The Claiming of the Duke, pg 110

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

––––––––

M
istra

100 years after the War of the Door, Mistran calendar

20 years later, Eriisai calendar

The Guardhouse

Disaster, my sister.

That was the message Scilla saw when chores were done. She'd returned to her cell and eagerly reached for her notebook. The Voice had been telling her about the seasons. They had been discussing whether snow and ice were more beautiful on Eriis or Mistra and she wanted to continue the conversation.

Disaster, my sister.

But how? What did it mean? She quickly dashed a note—could she help? Was her Voice in danger? She paced through the night.

Finally, near dawn, a message. A most disturbing one.

One of our own has fled into the Veil. This degraded creature thinks to escape its rightful place as our prisoner and wreak havoc among you humans. We cannot reach this monster from Eriis.

Let me help—let me go after it! I know I can do it.

We cannot justify putting you in such a dangerous position. I argued against it myself—even knowing as I do, your cleverness and strength. It is simply too much to ask.

You don't have to ask! I want to do it! Just tell me how. If we work together, I know I can capture this beast.

You would do this for us? For me? I won't forget your bravery when the time comes to stand on the City Wall and receive the thanks of all of us in Eriis. Here is what you must do....

And this, the most important part:

As soon as you sense it, it is vital you bind it. It must not be allowed to escape. Capture it, bind it, and hold it. Bring it back with you thus contained and wait for me. I will explain how to dispose of the creature and our gratitude—my gratitude—will be boundless.

Scilla already had the rare and exotic books she'd need to complete the binding spell. In fact, the best and most valuable parts of the Order's library now resided in her own room. No one ever noticed. The rest of the night was spent racing between her notebook and the piles of books on her bookshelf, shoved under her bed, and stacked in her wardrobe.

Finally, with the sky barely lit with dawn, she was ready to go.

She lit the candle and read the words she’d so painstakingly transcribed and translated.
Maybe this was the first time anyone had ever said them out loud
, she thought. Certainly the first time they’d been read in this place
.

I am breaking a window a generation old. I am climbing through the window.

She never stopped to wonder if anyone dedicated to patrolling those windows would notice a broken pane. She never considered she might fail. She said the words, she made the shapes, she created the hole. And last and most importantly, she took a needle and pricked her finger. Just a tiny drop—barely enough to see in the dim candle light. But the blood made it work. Without blood, she and the Voice would do nothing but shout at each other through the locked Door until the moons fell into the sea.

The blood hit the page.

She pulled back the Veil and went through.

Her room was gone, and Scilla knew she was in an in-between place. The light, what there was of it, was dim. It was very quiet and it smelled a bit stuffy—like a long neglected closet. It seemed both limitless and cramped. It felt heavy. She waited. Would the escaped prisoner come to her? It was important that she sense it before it found her. She realized with a thrill, that she was a little bit scared.

A long time later, or maybe just a moment, she decided to look around. She walked for miles—possibly the length of her room. It looked the same. There was no way to tell. It all looked the same. It all was the same, really. She was no longer scared or even particularly excited. She felt as if the strange place was seeping into her brain and pushing her own thoughts to the side. Knowing this, she realized she didn’t really care.

"I'm looking for something... What was it? Oh well. I guess I'll know it if it happens to come by."

Despite her strangely languid mood, a tiny flare of anxiety lit in her belly. This place—the Veil—looked like nothing, was made of nothing, and what if she couldn’t find her way back? She tried to retrace her steps, but it was all the same—cool, dark, and quiet. She felt a strong desire to sit down. Maybe take a nap. The Voice would just have to wait. Her mission drifted until it was a boring story she'd heard ages ago. Unless she'd dreamed the whole thing. Yes, that was likely. She’d been here in the dark forever. It was so perfectly simple. This was real and it was so wonderfully quiet....

Then she knew she wasn’t alone. Nothing changed, but Scilla sensed a ripple in the stillness. Something brushed her cheek and she felt the hairs on her arms rise. She heard a breath. Not her own.

"Don’t panic. Panic is for everyone else." She tried to slow her heart and control her terrified panting, but her body wouldn’t obey. "Say the words," she told herself. "The binding spell. I know them, I’ll say them, I’ll go back to the Guardhouse. Lower the Veil." She couldn’t remember how the words had started. Despite the cool, her shift stuck to her back.

Out of the dark haze, she saw a hand reaching out, blindly groping for purchase. Without thinking, she reached for it. She pulled. And then she screamed and let it go, because the hand was as hot as the inside of an oven. But she'd already said the words, and the Veil was falling back down around her.

She could hear screaming. She recognized the voice as her own. She was tumbling backwards, and the owner of the hand she'd pulled was tumbling with her. She was shrieking the words over and over. Then the Veil and the darkness collapsed on her and the air rushed out.

––––––––

Gweynth looked sadly back over her shoulder at her father's farmstead. She knew she'd never see it, or her brothers again. She opened her little bag and made sure for the hundredth time that it was there—her favorite book of children's stories. If she had nothing else to bring to the household of this Duke, at least she had her stories.

-The Claiming of the Duke, pg 25

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

––––––––

M
istra

100 years after the War of the Door, Mistran calendar

20 years later, Eriisai calendar

The Guardhouse

Scilla opened her eyes. Same cell. On the bed. Candle still lit, and predawn light at the window, which was no light at all. But there was one new thing—crouching on the floor was a man. At least, it resembled a man. It seemed to have been recently on fire because wisps and curls of smoke rose from its dark grey skin. It looked soft despite the char. Scilla wanted to touch it but realized that would have been forward of her, even if her guest was a demon. She glanced at her hand. The palm was bright pink with a fresh burn. It smarted. She'd deal with it later. This had to be the escapee her Voice had warned about. And she'd captured it! That meant... well, what did it mean, exactly? Her Voice hadn't said. But the Voice had been abundantly clear on one thing; when you captured a supernatural creature, it was prudent—no,
vital
—to put a binding spell on it. Not only could it not set you on fire, or make you dematerialize, or turn you into some sort of lizard, but if you bound it, it had to obey you. The Voice would be delighted by how carefully she'd carried out her mission.

From the Voice's pained tone, she was certain this was a somehow inferior species. Maybe a lower-natured cousin, far removed from the race of elegant demons who walked the glass skyways over the glittering seas. This thing... this creature on her floor looked up at her now. Its eyes were a bright, clear red-gold and it stared at her appraisingly. Other than the eyes, and the smoke, and the skin, it looked enough like a man to almost be one.

"Are you Malloy?" Scilla wasn’t sure she had heard it correctly. It repeated itself. "Are you Malloy Dos Capehart?"

"Who? No!" she replied. That name, it sounded familiar.

It sat back, obviously confused. "Then why did you bring me here?"

"I—" She paused.
It knows I went hunting, but the binding should protect me. Just don't tell it anything. Don’t panic now. That's for other people. And demons.
"I simply went fishing in the Veil, and look what I caught! You work for me, now."

"Release me at once," it demanded. "This is highly improper."

"Yes, I’m sure you think so, seeing as you're the one who’s been caught." She folded her arms and tried to look imposing, even a little bored by the whole thing.
Who doesn't have a captive demon?

It leaned forward and she drew back despite herself.

It cocked its smoldering head and asked, "What if I were to kill you right now?"

She dared another quick glance at her burned hand. She had no doubt it could kill her easily. But would it? This had not occurred to her. The binding spell should protect her from any attack, but what if she'd gotten it wrong? She kept her face still and said, "If you killed me, how would you get home? You wouldn't."

It sat quietly for a while. She began to make a little list of jobs in her head.

"There will be repercussions for this," it finally said, running its hands over its head. As it did, ash fell to the floor.

"No doubt. But until they come due, you’ll have to do as I say." She had no personal evidence of this, but she had grown up on fairy tales and politics—and in any case the demon hadn’t argued. The room was starting to fill with smoke. "And can you not do that? It's getting hard to breathe. Can’t you do that thing where you hide your face and look like a regular person?" She'd done a great deal of research, her 'independent studies,’ on just this sort of thing.

"Not here." It pointed at her stacks of antique books, which she gathered were keeping it from transforming into something else.

"Who is—what was that name you said?" she asked.

"No one. Someone I wanted to talk to." It shook its head. "This is not what I expected."

Scilla felt the start of something—this was going to be thrilling. "Well, you can just talk to me instead! I have so many questions! Where to begin. Um. So, what were you doing so close to my... ah, net?"