The Sand Prince

by Kim Alexander

  "Look, Rhuun," she said. "This is Aelle. She is the clan daughter of our friend Counselor Yuenne. You like him."

  The boy looked suspiciously at the pair. Like all of his kind, they looked quite similar, slender and poised— one just a larger version of the other. The girl had silky black hair loose around her shoulders, his mother's was tightly coiled and dressed with sparkling black and white beads, as was proper. He knew Counselor Yuenne. He smiled all the time. Rhuun had seen him kick another boy down a flight of stairs for walking in front of him too slowly. And this was his daughter. She wasn’t smiling, at least.

  "Aelle will be taking lessons with us for a while."

  "My father is traveling. I am to stay here," the girl said. She looked indifferently around the library. "Can we go outside? I want to practice." The Queen crouched down so she was eye level with the child.

  "Rhuun prefers to stay in here. Perhaps you can convince him to go outside with you. Now, have a nice afternoon."

  She turned and vanished, leaving a bright spot in the air. That was one of her favorite abilities, she'd told him, one of the nicest things she could do. Be in one place and then suddenly be in another. You never knew who you'd surprise, and that was great fun. And if anyone ever said anything you didn't like, well, you could just leave. Then they'd have to think about what they'd said and why. He'd understand when his own abilities manifested. There was plenty of time, she said.

  The boy imagined she would reappear—poof!—sitting on her High Seat at Court, startling and surprising her councilors. She was very important, his mother. It was easy to understand why Counselor Yuenne handed his child off to her. But what was he supposed to do with the girl?

  Aelle had crawled into a once-handsome wing back chair which someone had pushed up against his favorite couch. Her feet stuck out in front of her. The chair might have been designed for a giant or a human, she nearly vanished into it. She scooted herself forward and looked around at the rows and stacks of books. They were mostly historical documents, along with some memoirs of those who had survived the War of the Door. In other words, boring.

  "Can you talk?" she asked. "I heard you were simple in your wits."

  "Of course I can talk," he answered testily.

  She reached out and poked him in the arm. A tiny jet of flame shot from her finger. He yanked his arm away.

  "Don’t do that."

  "So you can talk, but you are simple." She nodded as if that explained everything.

  He scowled. "Where’s your father?" he asked. "I bet he’s dead. I bet he got sucked up by the Crosswinds. That's why Mother is being nice to you."

  Aelle looked furious. Tears stood in her eyes. He would learn Aelle never cried unless she was angry.

  She said, "He is not dead. At least I have a father."

  He immediately felt sorry for her. Why was he so stupid? "I’m sorry. Don’t cry. He’s not dead."

  She rubbed her nose and got up, wandering around the dark room. "Let’s go out. It’s boring in here."

  "I don’t like it out there. I can’t fly. I can’t do fire. And Niico is there."

  The first time he'd been scorched, he figured he'd been no more than 5 or 6. He'd been burned across the backs of his legs by Niico, who had recently fledged and was showing off his new little wings. He'd stumbled home to tell his mother, who'd taken a look at him and said, "Can you walk?" He nodded, trying not to cry. (She hated when he cried.) "Then you will heal."

  She turned her attention back to her maid, and continued planning the evening meal. It wasn't the last time Niico had gotten a strike on him, but it was the last time he'd cried to his mother.

  Aelle nodded. She'd been a target as well, as they all had at one time or another.

  "They get you. The bigger ones. They used to get me too, until I fledged." She brightened. "And I got my fire last year, so I can blast some, too. But Niico is the fastest. He's the best."

  "He's the worst." There was a pause. "Mother says I’ll get my fire soon. I don’t think that’s right, though. I don’t think I’ll ever get it." He had never told anyone this, although he was certain it was true. He wasn’t simple, far from it, but he was different. And here, that was worse.

  He wasn’t sure why he was telling Aelle. Maybe because she had cried in front of him?

  Aelle took his arm, taking care to avoid grabbing a still healing burn. "Come on. Let’s go out."

  "But I can’t—"

  "But I can."

  The bigger ones didn’t get him that day. Aelle was around a lot after that.

  ***

  She was around a lot, but she wasn't always, and besides, it would have made him feel like a baby to have someone standing in front of him all the time. So, after lessons about heroes from before the Weapon, the geography of cities that no longer existed, and the names of the mountains that no one could see anymore (they were still there, of course, hiding behind a sky full of dust), there were still days when the bigger ones caught him.

  This particular day, he'd done his best to avoid ruining another tunic, but still ended up with a tear on one knee. At least the leggings were black, that way no one could see the bloodstain. It was because I got mad, he told himself. That's why they came after me. If I was invisible, they'd leave me alone. But he had yelled after them in a rage, and they'd left off picking on some other pre-fledged victim and come at him.

  He ran for it.

  He headed for the Streets of the Pearl Suspended in Sarave (which in the ornate, old language of Eriis referred to the Pearl Moon adrift in the sarave of the night sky, but these days everyone just called the Quarter) where the buildings were close together and there wasn't room to fly, and sure enough, after several twisting alleys, they got bored or lost him, because he was alone.

  His mother told him to stay out of this part of the Old City, but like so many other things she said, there was never an explanation. He hated it when he didn't understand something, and finally, he decided he'd obey his mother if he could figure out why she gave the order. So far, the Quarter was just little kids playing in the dust, shops, people hurrying and talking and laughing, and (sometimes) loud voices. No one bothered him, and while there were just as many furtive stares, there were far fewer whispers.

  Usually he had time to stop and say hello to the old Master who sorted sand from chunky grit to stuff so fine you couldn't feel it even if you stuck your hand in the basket. And the Mother who made sweet ice always had a new flavor to sample. (He was partial to the brown kind.) He always nodded at the group of kids, some fledged, some not, who hung around the doorway of their own school. It was smaller by far than the school the royals and the clans sent their own children to, but he wished it was his school. It had no play yard, for one thing, just a dusty side street and marks on the walls where generations of fireballs had struck. They acknowledged each other but had never exchanged a word.

  Today he passed it all by, blind to everything but his own anger. The children watched him pass, noting his fierce scowl and ripped leggings. They nodded to each other as if to say, "You see? He may be the prince but he comes here to escape his problems."

  Rhuun finally ran out of steam and came to a stop, looking around curiously. It was quiet and a little dim on this side street. He didn't think he'd been this way before. Then he remembered the sting of the gravel when he'd fallen, the laughter of the bigger kids, and the white pain of the fire that caught him on the arm. He got angry all over again.

  "Scorp," he muttered, examining his leggings. "Scorping scorp." It was the worst word he knew. It had something to do with joining, but he only had a vague idea of what that meant, either. He just knew that when he said it, his mother nearly took his head off.

  "Is it as bad as all that?" a gentle voice asked. There was humor, but it didn't seem to be directed at him. He looked up from his torn leggings to see a woman sitting just inside the doorway of a crumbly stone building. He rubbed away some angry tears and stood to face her.

  "Sorry Mothe
r," he said politely, addressing her as he had been taught to call all older women who were not part of his mother's retinue. "I've got a big hole, see?" She didn't lean forward to look. "My mother will be angry. But sorry."

  "I know you," she said. "You're the Queen's boy." Now she did rise from her stool, and leaning heavily on a carved stick, came out into the alley. She was tiny—at eight Rhuun was already nearly her height and her thin hair, cropped close to her scalp as was the prerogative of widows, was more grey than black. Her mouth was heavily bracketed by lines, but the skin around her eyes was smooth as a girl’s.

  She can’t see, so she doesn't squint, he thought, so she doesn't have lines.

  "I am called Mother Jaa, and I was there when you were born, young Prince." He knew he was easy to spot, a tall boy with strange eyes was a well-known sight in the Old City, but how would she know who he was? If she was one of his mother's ladies, why wasn't she at Court? She didn't look like any of the ladies he'd ever seen, that was sure. For one thing, none of his mother's ladies were blind.

  "Come inside and I'll make you some cold water. You seem a bit overheated." He hesitated, but the thought of learning something, maybe a secret thing, about his life was irresistible, so he followed her in. The house had no door, just a white curtain covering the doorway. She had it tied to one side so she could sit on her stool and take the breeze. If it was a house, it was the smallest he'd ever seen. The room where his mother kept her robes and silks was bigger. He looked at the table and chairs, the cot in a curtained off corner, the vase and bowl.

  "Where's the rest of your house?" He didn't see a door leading to a courtyard, or a corridor, or even a dryroom where she might refresh herself.

  She laughed and handed him a cup of cool water. "This is all I need. Now, there was some trouble with your leggings, I understand?"

  "I fell," he said, and left it there. She nodded and went to a cabinet in the corner and retrieved a needle and thread. He watched, amazed, as she threaded the needle on the first try. "How did you do that?"

  "I know where things go," she told him. "Now let me see," and she took his knee in her small, warm hands, and joined the ripped edges of the fabric, "My clan sister's eldest daughter is your mother's Lady of All Work—Diia. And when you came into this world, I was there to greet you. What a set of lungs! We thought you'd call the daeeva down from the mountains!" She smiled at the memory. "Your mother was very brave—no screaming or crying from that one. She was very happy to see you."

  Rhuun wondered if, because she was blind, Mother Jaa was thinking of a different woman and a different baby. The daeeva, now, that was superstitious nonsense, as his mother called it, the spirits of the dead which came around if a child misbehaved or made too much noise. Diia had threatened him with the daeeva more than once, until the Queen had taken her aside and reminded her they lived in a royal city, not in a hut with the pigs. There weren't pigs, not anymore, but he’d never heard about the daeeva again—until now.

  "There." His leggings were perhaps not as good as new, but good enough to avoid his having to offer an explanation. "Now, what about this?" She laid a crooked finger on the fresh burn on his arm. He couldn't recall anyone outside of his mother touching him as much as this old woman had in just the few moments since he'd come inside her house.

  "It's nothing. It'll go away." In fact, it made him see bright lights behind his eyes with even her barest touch.

  She nodded. "Of course. I find if something troubles me, I look for a good place to put it. Until this goes away, perhaps we should find a place for it?"

  He had no idea what she meant.

  "I told you, young man, I know where things go. Useful, very useful to tuck things away. You never know when you might need them. And look, you can put things in their place as well." This time she placed her finger on his forehead. "Close your eyes, do you see? There's a place for things like pain. You see it, don't you?"

  And for a second—just one second—he did.

  "Fly now, Young Prince, but do come and see me again. I think we can find a place for many things. It would be my honor to have your assistance."

  ***

  It became Rhuun's custom, after that, to divide his time between the safety of the library and the adventure of a trip to the Old City. He started a game with himself of finding shortcuts to Mother Jaa's house, knowing that even if he got lost in the maze of alleys and courtyards, someone could point him in the right direction. Everyone knew her, and, after all, everyone knew him. Despite his mother's concern, he was looked after far better than if he'd spent his afternoons at the play yard. None of the people in the Old City wanted to be the one to damage a prince.

  Aelle asked him where he disappeared to, and he said he went for walks in the oldest part of the city. She was beginning to study form shifting, which had recently come off the proscribed list of talents and abilities (along with skills in the arts and certain luxury items like simple flowers and body ornaments) and didn't have time to wander around.

  "I don't understand," he'd said to Mother Jaa one hot afternoon, sweeping the dust from her doorway. "If you can just make the dust go outside, why bother with the broom?" It was considered quite rude to ask a person what their abilities were, since not everyone could do everything equally well, but he'd seen her do marvels and felt it was a fair question.

  She was raising and lowering the temperature of a cup of water in her funny white mug. It looked broken to him, but she let him touch it and he found that the cracks were only on the very surface. As he watched, rising steam was replaced by a rapid crawl of ice crystals. He thought sometimes she did things just so he could see that they could be done.

  "The dust gives the broom something to do, and the broom gives you something to do." That explanation seemed to satisfy her. She nodded and went back to her cup.

  He leaned on the broom, looking skeptical, which he knew she could feel, if not see. "Very well," she said finally. "I find a simple task clears the mind. The dust goes outside, the floor is clean, the broom has done its job, your hands have done their job—so many things accomplished and you aren't even thinking of them." She leaned forward. "That's how we found the place for pain. That's how you'll be able to find it again, anytime you need to use it."

  He surprised her by saying, "I found it. Just like you said."

  ***

  Two nights earlier, his mother had noticed his leggings had been repaired by a hand other than her own. He told her he'd done it himself, silently cursing himself for not simply wadding up the torn, stained garment and shoving it in the back of his big wooden dresser, as he'd done in the past.

  "Don't lie to me," she snapped, "I know you didn't do this." He was as stubborn as she was irritated, but he felt if she knew about his visits to Mother Jaa, she'd have something worse to say about it, and maybe Mother Jaa would be in trouble as well. He stared at the floor and stuck to his story, even after she lost her patience and finished the argument with a sharp slap. He didn't see it coming (he usually did) and instead of grabbing onto the sting and holding on to his anger, he let it slide past. It was gone, like a mouse into its hole, like water into sand.

  Now he did look up at his mother, looked her in the eye and said, "I did it myself. I'm not a baby, you know."

  She raised a brow and smiled slightly. "Very well. Repairs are your job, then."

  ***

  Rhuun continued, "Two nights ago Mother ... was cross with me, and I found it, the place you showed me. I put it away. It's still there, I think. Um, can you teach me to sew a seam? And thread a needle?"

  The old woman looked a bit surprised. "Well done, and a fast mind. Sewing lessons, yes, I think we can do that as well." She reached out her hand and gently laid it on his shoulder. "I am sorry you will have so many opportunities to practice, shan." He knew she didn't mean sewing.

  Then she smiled again and pointed at the doorway. "You missed a spot."

  Chapter 9

  Eriis City

  8 years a
fter the War of the Door, Eriisai calendar

  40 years later, Mistran calendar

  The Quarter

  After sending Rhuun home after his first needle-threading lesson, Mother Jaa sat for a while with her favorite white mug. It was porcelain, and it came from the other place. Hellne had gone through her things in a frenzy after her baby was born, giving the young maid Diia many of the gifts and trinkets from her "special human friend." Diia had passed many of them to her family, and Jaa had gotten this thickly glazed white cup. She'd been told it was made of melted glass, and was almost unbreakable. Her hands told her it bore a network of fine shatter marks, but that made it unique and to her, far more beautiful than if it had been perfect.

  Jaa thought about the look on the boy’s face when she talked about his mother. She didn’t need eyes to see how he longed to know how he came to be... different. She recalled the day Hellne's travail began. One of her household guard found the young queen laying half in and half out of her dryroom, unable to even get to her bed. She had no women to assist her, she’d sent her few surviving maids and ladies back to their homes. Diia told her it was because Hellne didn’t like the eyes people cast at her ever growing belly, even though the story put about talked of the sacrifice Her Grace was making, allowing those women to work alongside their own families instead of serving hers.

  Even though she was growing old there was nothing wrong with her memory, thank Light and Wind. And Rain, she added to herself with a sour chuckle. Since the day in her own long-gone youth when she'd traded one sort of sight for another, she'd been expecting the call to come: the Queen needs her young maid after all. Diia, the girl with back-country folk must come at once; the Queen is in distress, you must come and bring the women who can help bring a child into the world. Bring those who can stand guard along the way and insure that the child—or the mother for that matter—do not wander off the path of life, into the Veil. Bring the one who knows how to deal with pain. That last one was Jaa herself, who held Hellne's head and helped her find a place to put her agony. The infant was among the largest they'd ever seen born alive, and Hellne was, typical of her race, a small woman. It was understood that the idea of her ever bearing another child was extremely unlikely, and so this one must survive. Once it was clear both mother and child were going to live, Hellne insisted they hold it up and show her—eyes, hands, feet, a cap of dark hair. Jaa wondered what Hellne hoped to see, and what she feared. In any event, the Queen found the baby's appearance satisfactory, and nodded, then lay back exhausted. They laid the child on her breast. Mother Jaa was correct in telling Rhuun that Hellne was happy to see her child—see it finally outside her body.