The Sand Prince (10 page)

Diia thanked him, passed him his payment, and closed the door to the Queen’s receiving room behind him. She laid the package on the desk.

Hellne tore away the ash-paper wrapper to reveal a dingy old piece of fabric. It had once been a cheerful white curtain, but years of dust and countless hands pulling it aside had rendered it light tan. The bottom was in tatters.

"Mother Jaa was kind to me. I don’t know that I would have managed Rhuun’s arrival without her." Hellne tried to recall his birth, but it was a jumbled blur of pain. It was the first and only time in her life she understood what Malloy had been talking about. She also distinctly remembered Jaa’s cool hands on her brow. Other than that, it was mostly light and sound. The sounds, she’d been told later, were her own screams. Two maids had fainted dead away from all the blood, it was a marvel she and the boy had both survived.

"You did the right thing," said Diia. "Jaa always had something to say. Maybe too much."

Hellne folded the curtain, stroking the ripped edge flat. "It’s just that I need to be the one to tell him... talk to him..."
Tell him what?
she asked herself.
That his father’s hand was on the Weapon that made him a cripple?
She’d told the story so often, the effects of the destructive magic of the Weapon on her unborn child, she sometimes wondered if it might be true after all. Maybe if his father had been a proper Eriisai, he’d have turned out the same way. She sighed and shook her head. He had his father’s face, and to imagine otherwise, was admitting she was simple in her wits.

Diia gently removed the curtain from Hellne’s hand and folded it small. She rewrapped it in the paper and put it in a cabinet, out of sight. "There is talk, Madam."

Hellne looked up. "Talk?" She chuckled. "How unusual." There was an old saying about the wind stopping when all the Eriisai held their tongues at the same time. "Some water, if you please. That rag brought dust in with it."

Diia busied herself with wiping a silver cup clean. She held it up, it had a thick lip and kept the water cold. She laid a tray with the cup, bowl of ice, and a slim pitcher of water. "Talk in town. About your son."

"That he hasn’t manifested, that there’s something wrong with him." She waved her hand. "I know this, Diia."

Diia used a pair of etched ebony tongs to carefully set a sliver of ice in the cup and set it in front of Hellne. "Not exactly. I mean, not completely."

Anyone else would have been escorted out already. Hellne did not welcome conversation about her child. The Weapon had an unfortunate result; what more needed to be said? On the other hand, Diia did sometimes carry back useful gossip from town. She had clan relations who had come in after the Weapon, from the dead fields and hills to the Quarter. Those people were rumored to still manifest gifts that city dwellers, in their lives of idleness and indulgence, no longer possessed; gifts of premonition, gifts of speech with the dead. It was Hellne’s belief that there were no such gifts. That they told those stories to make themselves feel superior to their betters inside the Arch, and lessen the sting of their lost homes in what was now called the Vastness. But if anyone spoke to the
daeeve
, it would be someone from the hills. And if anyone were to perceive that her son was something beyond crippled, it would be one of them as well.

"You might as well tell me," she said. It was bound to be some superstitious nonsense, but it might come in handy one day.

"Madam," Diia looked Hellne in the eye for the briefest instant, then at the floor. "They say he will bring back the rain."

Hellne laughed bitterly. "The rain? Really. Do they think he can turn the calendar backwards? Or do they say he’ll suddenly manifest as a great Mage? Will he make the flowers bloom again? Will he tear The Door down while he’s at it?" She glared at Diia, angry at herself for allowing her futile anger and frustration to surface. "Did you and Jaa have a hand in this?" At the time, she had agreed a little word dropped here and there by a friendly voice would do no harm, and possibly some good. This was far beyond ‘a little word.’

Diia blanched. "No, Madam, to all of it. I am merely repeating what I’ve heard in town. Jaa and I, as you agreed, made sure his name and yours were honored. We spoke of your hard work and love for all your citizens." She cleared her throat. "The other, they’ve been saying all on their own."

"Well then they will be disappointed. I mean, obviously no such thing will ever happen. At least, not because of anything that boy does." Hellne took a sip of water.
Bring back the rain. The poor thing can barely manage a fork.

Diia swallowed nervously. "Shall I try and put a stop to it?"

"Of course," she began, and then paused. If the people in the Quarter painted Rhuun to be some sort of potential hero, well, the key word was
potential
. That could mean anything, and there was no expiration date. If they believed in him, they would, naturally, want to protect his beloved mother against anyone who might think to cause her harm. She thought again of Yuenne, and his little smile. And the Mages. They’d been quiet lately but they were always there, literally underfoot. "No." Diia looked confused. "No, let them talk. Better they should tell themselves he’s different and special. After all, he doesn’t appear to be simple, and he’ll one day have some sort of place at my Court, Light and Wind alone knows what would be appropriate."

Malloy, though
, she thought.
He wasn’t simple. He was clever. He was cleverer than I was. He tricked me into taking his spark, and that’s a long step past clever. Malloy, are you still alive? I’ve got a weapon of my own now, and I still have your little book. Remember? It’s the key to our being together.

She smiled and helped herself to another sliver of ice. "Let them talk, Diia. He may not bring back the rain, but that doesn’t mean he won’t bring us something important, one day."

––––––––

E
riis City

14 years after the War of the Door, Eriisai calendar

70 years later, Mistran calendar

Royal Library

"Rhuun, I know you're in here. Where are you?"

He heard Aelle calling from the door of the library. He was leaning against a far wall, the big slabs of yellow stone had somehow retained some coolness. He was reading a biography of a general named Kaata. General Kaata had died during the War, and he had heard a rumor that one of his mother's generals had been his father.

Rhuun had become quite a collector of rumors. His transformative ability had never manifested in any meaningful way, but he had a little reactive trick he could always count on, a way of blending into the background. It didn't make him invisible as much as unnoticeable. It was a mean sort of gift, but it worked very well for him. He found he enjoyed eavesdropping. It was so much more satisfying to hear people call you 'simple' and 'a shame, really' and ‘a cripple’ and 'something to do with The Weapon, it must have been' when they didn’t know you were listening rather than hearing it whispered behind your back. Right now he was examining the book more than actually reading it—it was slow going indeed for a supposed man of action—and looking for clues. So far his mother hadn't appeared, it was just a list of battles and how he'd provisioned his troops for them. Lots of grain and sheep. The most interesting part were the things that no longer existed. Grain and sheep. He was close to putting it aside, and when he heard Aelle call for him he was glad for the distraction.

"Back here," he called out. "Come and look at this. I took it from the kitchen."

She appeared around a corner. He held up a dark brown bottle. "You took
sarave
? Is it good?"

"No, it’s awful," he acknowledged cheerfully. "Try it."

She shot a thunderous scowl at something in the corridor behind her, then reached for the bottle.

"Give me that." She took a long drink, making a horrible face. "Not good." She took another drink, then motioned sharply for someone to join them.

A young male demon stepped from behind a bookcase. He looked to be a slightly smaller version of Aelle, and very attractive—even by their look-alike standards—with eyes that leaned towards the darkest garnet. Aelle's were much lighter, her eyes were touched with pale rose, like her mother. The boy's appearance was somewhat diminished by a freshly burned cheek—so fresh it had barely started healing. The boy stepped forward with a smile.

"I'm Ilaan. You must be The Beast." Aelle gasped and Rhuun rose to his feet, the book tumbling to the floor. The boy raised an appraising brow and made a show of craning his neck.

"Aelle, you were not even kidding." He looked from one to the other, seemingly surprised that Aelle looked like she wanted The Weapon to vanish her, and that Rhuun was about to commit some sort of uncategorized violence. "Oh, sit down. She just says that because you're so tall. She thinks you're the rain, why else would she drag herself down here all the time? For the books? Aelle, do you even know how to read?"

She had gone a funny color.

"Aelle," said Rhuun, "who is this?"
She thinks I'm the rain? Really?

"This," she said with all the adolescent distaste she could muster, "is my brother Ilaan. I'm to look after him. For obvious reasons."

"Can I have some of that
sarave
?" asked Ilaan.

"No!" they said in unison.

"What happened? To your face?" asked Rhuun.

"Niico," the boy answered. Rhuun passed him the bottle.

"He's got a thing for Niico," said Aelle, with an impressive eye roll.

"I appreciate perfection," said Ilaan. "He hasn't come around to my way of seeing things." He took a tentative sip of the
sarave
. "This is disgusting."

"Ilaan hasn't come around to keeping his mouth shut," Aelle added. "So Father said he should spend more time with me to learn how to behave. Also, to keep him from being dismembered."

"Next time I'll get you
sarave
that tastes like something, not that your Dirt Brew here isn't a fine choice," Ilaan told them. They both looked at the boy.

"What? The cook likes me. She won't tell anyone if a bottle here and there vanishes. And who would she tell? Your mother? Doubt it. That's a conversation no one wants to have. Although, she
is
pretty amazing. Your mother, I mean, not the cook."

"How has he not already been dismembered?" asked Rhuun.

Ilaan grinned and pointed at the ceiling. Instantly a very narrow band of focused fire leapt from his hand and a tiny hole to the sky opened. It was no wider than a finger. The thin shaft of light pierced over three feet of rock and made a pinpoint circle at their feet. He said, "For some reason no one wants to practice with me. Niico only did this," pointing at the quickly fading burn, "because I was distracted. He actually spoke to me."

"Big day in Boy Town," said Aelle. "I am sorry, Rhuun, but I'm stuck with him."

"I hear you can't do much of anything at all. Tough luck on that, Beast." They ignored him.

"Doesn't your father think I'm a bad influence, what with my ‘tough luck’ and all?" Rhuun had often wondered about that, and since they'd already brought up the subject of their father, he figured he could ask.

"Oh, no," said Ilaan before Aelle could speak. "No, just the opposite. I mean, if you were the child of some poor peasant or soldier or something, you'd be even bigger target practice than you are now—no offense."

"Too late," murmured Rhuun.

"Aelle wouldn't have come within a hundred miles of you. Your mother, being your mother—now that makes you the very best kind of friend for Aelle to have—according to Father. It was his idea. Got big plans, does our dear father. High seat shaped plans."

Aelle threw her hands up and a sheet of fire blasted towards the boy's face. He waved his hand at it and it vanished.

"That," gritted Aelle, "is the only reason he's still alive."

Rhuun sat back down against the wall, watching the two of them argue. He felt as if he were watching a performance at Court, except he could follow what was going on and no one was looking at him or whispering behind their hands. He understood that Aelle's friendship hadn't been completely her idea—she was too pretty and too conventional to seek him out. It was just luck that she’d decided to keep coming back.
And she thinks I'm the rain? No, that can't be true.

And her brother? There was something about Ilaan that said he'd stick around, if only to be the center of a gossip whirlwind when they'd appear anywhere together.

"So," said the boy, bored with arguing with his sister, "What’s good to read down here in the Book Mausoleum?"

He picked up the fallen biography. "General Kaata? Really? I'd rather take my chances out there," he nodded in the direction of the practice yard. Rhuun said nothing. "I see," Ilaan said. He noticed the scars Rhuun had already collected up and down his arms. "Aelle, why don't you and I go see the cook and I'll get us something without quite so much dust in it. Beast, don't move. We'll be right back."

Beast
, thought Rhuun.
I guess it could be worse.

He leaned back against the wall, the General forgotten, and waited for his friends.

––––––––

E
riis City

14 years after the War of the Door, Eriisai calendar

70 years later, Mistran calendar

Inside the Arch

As Aelle and Ilaan walked arm in arm through the royal wing, arguments momentarily set aside, Ilaan said, "I like him. Strange but deep, I think. Doesn't say much, though, does he?"

"
Please
do not call him Beast," Aelle asked, although she was pretty sure the sand was out of the bottle. She was mentally burning off her hair for ever letting Ilaan hear her say it.

"Are you joking? He liked it."

She laughed, her face a perfect mask, and nodded at an acquaintance of their fathers. Lady something or other. She had two maids in tow, all richly dressed in shades of sand and grey. Since they had learned to control their internal temperatures, the fashion had returned to pre-war embroidered and brocaded robes and gowns. Both maids carried baskets; one of flowers and the other of bread. Neither had any fragrance whatsoever, but that was what you got when you transformed sand. Flowers were a huge luxury, she must be having a party. The bread—Aelle suspected—was for the poor. That was how it worked—wealth with one hand, charity with the other.