The Sand Prince (32 page)

He was too late.

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E
riis

20 years after the War of the Door, Eriisai calendar

100 years later, Mistran calendar

Dzhura Square

If it was the purpose of a party to fill the mouths of every gossip at Court and in the market square, then Yuenne's fete to celebrate his son's ascension to the Mages was the one to which all others would aspire, until the moons fell into the sand.

'The Queen shimmering in as if it were her dry room and not the home of the Counselor, that was interesting, don't you think? She takes liberties, if you ask me.'

'The Prince staggering off during an argument with poor Aelle, well, that was common enough, but still worth mentioning. And didn't that nice young Hollen pay her some proper attention? That would be a match that made sense to look at, too bad Hollen's family came from nowhere. Does he even have prospects at Court? Oh well. Yuenne would never allow it, he's already invested too much in the Prince.'

'But hadn't you heard? That was the best part. The Mages came bursting through the door—Yes, I know, but there they were.'

'Half a human? Things are starting to make sense regarding that unfortunate young man. And now he's nowhere to be found. I heard he went through the Door.'

'I heard he's fled to the Edge, and his mother close behind.'

'I heard young Ilaan had something to do with it. He may never get that Zaalmage robe, after all.'

'And poor Aelle, no Seat for her. Yuenne is beside himself.'

'Wouldn't have expected it of our Queen.'

'You didn't know her in the old days. Before the War. Everything was different, then.'

'Everything is different, now.'

***

S
tanding in front of her son's door, Hellne put on her best smile, the one she saved for emergencies, and thanked everyone for their concern, but insisted the Mages were mistaken, and even to consider such a thing was preposterous. But she watched as Yuenne and the Zaal whispered together and knew it was only a matter of time.

You are recorded, Princess. Payment due.

She heard nothing from behind the door. Was Rhuun safely away or simply passed out? She wanted to kill him. She wanted to hide him.

She couldn't hold them off forever; the Mages, Yuenne, and a handful of curious partygoers were pressing in. She made a note of which of them tagged along to Rhuun's door, and she wasn't going to forget their names. But finally she had to agree to let them 'just talk to him.'

The room, she was relieved to see, was empty. The Mages made a show of looking under the bed and in the dryroom, and Yuenne stood in the doorway, sadly shaking his head.

"Hellne, you should have told someone. You could have prevented this... ugliness. You should have confided in me."

She barely glanced at him and said, "Can we reconvene this little carnival tomorrow before the High Seat?" She had to find Ilaan and make sure Rhuun was through the Door, and that meant she needed all these people gone.

The Mages were loath to leave the room. The Zaal was in a blind rage, "You swore. You wrote it into law. The first and the best. Can you say you gave it to us?" He squeezed the bridge of nose. "The blood was here all along. I can still smell it." He pulled the coverlet from the bed and held it to his face. "It's in everything."

Hellne yanked it out of his hands and snapped, "We are talking about the prince, not a bucket. Take your leave. All of you. Now." The Zaal, furious to be denied his prize, led his Mages back down the stairs, where they would no doubt open a special
sarave
of their own vintage in honor of being right all along. The partygoers wandered off, looking for places to spread this new, astonishing story.

Hellne pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. Was her debt cancelled with the death of the old Mage? Was Malloy still alive, and would Rhuun be able to find him? She needed to sit and think, she needed this night to be over. But like sand in your sheets, Yuenne was hard to get rid of. Yuenne colluding with the Mages. She should have seen it.

"This isn't like hiding a torn dress from your father, Hellne. A human man? What in the world made you think it would never come to light?" Yuenne moved closer to her and made to touch her shoulder. "Let me help you now. Just tell me where he is and we can deal with the Mages after that."

She drew back from him. "'We can? Really? And how do you intend to do that? Give Rhuun up to the Mages? All at once or in pieces?" She narrowed her eyes. "How quickly can we get our children wed, do you think? And how long will he live afterwards?" She laughed bitterly. "I always wondered why you pushed her on him, all those years ago. I knew you disapproved of him, now I see what you were up to, you and your friends in the Raasth. Well, I guess the wedding's off."

He shrugged. "Maybe not. Plans change. Perhaps we can salvage something from this after all. But you have to let me help you. Where is he?"

She smiled, "The last place you'd look."

Yuenne stopped smiling. "What do you mean?"

"You're not the only one making plans. Well. Places to go. I suggest you go home and see to your party."

Yuenne took another look around the room before leaving, "Human trash on the walls, well, aren’t you the permissive parent?" He let his little smile slip. "If Ilaan is mixed up in this, they’ll both find themselves in the Crosswinds with their mouths full of sand. And where will you be, Madam?"

Hellne waited until he was gone before shimmering away, leaving a bright spot in the air of the dark little room.

––––––––

Gwyneth gave a little scream of laughter as he kicked Mammoth into a canter, and she let go of the pommel and clutched at his legs. "I’ve never felt anything so powerful. It’s so big!" She twisted in the saddle to look up at him, and as their eyes met he....

-The Claiming of the Duke, pg 131 (fragment)

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

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M
istra

100 years after the War of the Door, Mistran calendar

20 years later, Eriisai calendar

Rosemont Park

Since her conversation with May, Lelet had been as good as her word. Despite her hairbrush vanishing off her nightstand, and the pictures mysteriously toppling themselves over, she'd done nothing in return. More peculiarly, there would appear every so often an orchid on her bed. She hadn't thought of the pretty glass house in ages, and had forgotten all about the plants, but it looked to her like Rane—or someone in his employ—was keeping them alive.

When the second dainty blossom appeared, she became curious enough to go through the garden to the greenhouse, which was tucked against the sunny wall of the stable. To her astonishment, it looked as neat and well maintained as the day she'd abandoned it. It was a pocket of a building, only one wall and three shelves of orchids, but as she went from one to the next, she could see someone was misting them, trimming dead leaves, and even staking blooming stalks so they wouldn't droop or rot. The leaves were as shiny and leathery as the day she'd had them brought in, the pots were in good order—either glossy or painted or made of some exotic stone or wood, and of course the flowers—long sprays everywhere of purple and white and orange. It didn't look real! How had this mystery person gotten them to all bloom at once? She didn't even know that was possible, but of course she hadn't made a thorough study of orchid propagation. All she knew was the one word she'd memorized:
phalaenopsis
, also known as the Moth Orchid, the prettiest ones, and those most invulnerable to death by neglect. After all, her good intentions were just that: intentions. And sure enough, she'd forgotten to mist for several days in a row, and then forgotten she'd forgotten, and after that? She dreaded seeing a room full of dead plants, so she put the whole project aside. Clearly, someone else had taken it on, even the red clay on the floor was swept and clean, and she could see more evidence that someone had been here—large footprints, back and forth. One of the gardeners, she decided. She hoped they enjoyed it. They certainly earned it.

As for herself, she had been enjoying two things lately—going riding, and being a martyr. The latter was a new experience for her, but she threw herself into it. Her friends spent much time and a lot of wine trying to get her to confess what she had planned for Rane. All she'd do was sigh and say, "That's behind me now. I've... moved on." They'd howl with laughter and insist whatever plan she was cooking up had to be world class.

In fact, she had no plan, and was enjoying the results of doing the right thing almost as much as the thrill of doing the wrong thing. It must be driving Rane crazy, he was still accusing her of taking and breaking, when she knew for a fact that couldn't be the case—unless the house had a ghost!

So if Rane wanted to carry on stealing her toiletries and leaving her flowers, well, that was strange, but that was her brother in a nutshell.

She’d had plenty of time to think about how strange he was and how far he'd be willing to go to force her hand, having spent the last several hours in a ditch.

The afternoon had started promisingly enough, she'd even given one of the grooms little helpers an extra coin to help her get the horse ready to ride. What a sweet child!  She'd been wearing her favorite red coat, trimmed in black satin, with her second favorite boots (the best ones were at the cobbler) and turning heads as she rode was often enough to seal a good mood.

Then, a tiny jump, not even a jump, really more of a lunge over a trickle of water, and the saddle had come completely apart. That little boy seemed like an old hat, but he clearly didn't know what he was doing. And here she was, her horse, Petrel, long since wandered off, and she at least not in the water and in a shady spot. She thought her wrist might be broken—she was afraid to look at it, much less move it around—and there was something unpleasant going on inside her boot at the ankle, but she wasn't about to hop up and try to limp home. She knew eventually someone would spot Pete with his gear in tangles and someone would come and find her.

She made herself as comfortable as possible and looked at the sky. She hoped they'd find her before it got dark. With much hissing and gritting of teeth, she managed to get her coat off, so someone coming by could see it, but she was afraid it would be too dark to see even the bright scarlet wool pretty soon. Also, her boot was getting extremely tight and she didn't want to think about what her father would say if they had to cut it off. At one point she thought she heard a horse but no one came along. For the first time she began to worry.

"Miss Lelet? Are you alright?" A tall figure stood in the last bit of sun, and she had to shield her eyes.

"Oh, Per—am I happy to see you! Had a tumble. I think I've done something to my ankle, and my wrists gone all funny too. Did you find Pete?"

"No," said Per, kneeling next to her and gently examining her wrist, "but we will. Not to worry. Horses know." He tried to rotate her foot and she yelped. "This boot, I'm afraid it’s a goner. We'll cut it off back at home. You stay put and I'll bring the cart around, we'll have you home in a flash."

***

M
oth watched from the treeline a few feet away.

I wanted to rescue her
, he realized.
Too late.

For her part, Lelet seemed more upset about her boots than anything else. Did she know what Rane had done? He imagined he'd find out soon enough. He watched the groom (not the one who he'd seen on her trellis, he decided) lift her off the damp grass and help her into the little cart and then drape her red coat around her shoulders.

Dinner should be interesting.

––––––––

The door opened and the Duke strode in. Gwenyth spun to face him with a sharp gasp; she thought he was out riding Mammoth.

"Why are you wearing that?" he asked. He does not sound angry, she thought. Do not provoke him.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I'll take it off and hang it away at once."

"Do no such thing, Gwenyth. You were born to wear silk."

Her heart pounded in her breast and she felt warm all over. He had never called her by her name before.

-The Claiming of the Duke, pg 142

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

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M
istra

100 years after the War of the Door, Mistran calendar

20 years later, Eriisai calendar

The Guardhouse

Three months.

Scilla had the days and weeks checked off in one of her notebooks. She kept one for important events: when she got a letter from home she put a circle around the date. When she was particularly clever in class, she marked it with a check. When she spoke to the demon, that was an X, when she got him to do something he didn't want to do, a double X. When she heard from the Voice, she planned a star, but three months had gone by, and there were no stars to be found.

Three long months, and finally, the Voice came back to her. When Scilla opened her notebook (a special one, just for this purpose) and saw:

...await word, as ever.

She had fallen back on her little bed and sobbed in relief. Not only had she dearly missed the conversation of an equal, but she was growing desperate to send the increasingly surly demon back where he came from. She didn't know why or how, but here was her Voice, returned to her. They had a lot to catch up on. She decided there was no reason to tell the Voice what she'd been doing with her pet for the last few months. And if Moth tried to accuse her, well, who were her friends on Eriis going to believe?

Where have you been?
she wrote.
I've been so worried!

We have been prevented from contacting you somehow, but you have never been far from our thoughts. Thank Light and Wind you are well—and you captured the beast? You were successful in your trip to the Veil?

I do have the creature; I've held him all along. He is safe—we both came through the Veil unharmed—and no one but me knows he is here.