The Trackless Desert, Chapter 4: The Prince

Ailin looked up at the burning sun, high over their heads, as she pushed her damp bangs back from her face for the fiftieth time this morning. She was kneeling in the burnt, brown grass around the cottage with a hammer in one hand and a handful of nails in the other, carefully assembling trellis frames which would support the forest-pea plants. She had decided that this could not be put off any longer, and that one day without watering would be less harmful to the plants than to be allowed to languish in the dirt.

As she worked, she looked over at Auntie Nem. The old woman was carefully erecting the finished trellises over the rows of plants, gently twining the curled tips of the vines into the wooden structure, ensuring that they would grow and grip tightly. The pods, when they came in the fall, would be full and heavy, and the plants needed to hold their weight lest they be destroyed by the cold ground of the dark seasons. The young woman smiled to see her still so strong and deft, even with all of her years, and whispered a soft prayer that she, too, should be allowed such vitality and longevity in her days.

The woman's grandmotherly eye caught Ailin's then, and she blushed, quickly returning her eyes to her work. As she hammered, she chanted the words of the next part of the story she had been whiling away the long days of gardening with.

“Wingboy lead Arnd through the tunnels under the city, their walls stained with ancient water, now decades or even centuries dry...

As he led the hero past side tunnels converted into markets, large reservoir rooms turned into sleeping areas, and wide runoff channels become boulevards, he kept up his animated patter. He greeted those they passed – all of the poor, sick, or unwelcome who had been excluded from the shining city up above. He seemed well-liked and well-known there, and the inhabitants all stared at Arnd as he passed with expressions ranging from curiosity to jealousy to undisguised hate. He had been welcomed into the palace, and that fact had long since made its way down here, where word travels faster than anything else; it was as if the old city sewers had converted themselves to carrying rumor and secret instead, without losing any of their efficiency.

After a while, Wingboy stopped. They had reached the central cistern, a deep, dark pit over a hundred feet in diameter, with sunlight filtering down from above through sand-choked gratings. In the center, suspended on a web of hundreds of ropes, bridges, scaffolding, and other structures, was a makeshift reception hall, complete with throne and courtiers. Seated in the center was a young man, barely into adulthood, whose seat was carved from solid wood – here in the desert an expensive and extravagant luxury.

Wingboy leaped lightly across the bridges and dashed up to the front of the throne, bowing deeply and gesturing to Arnd. “Prince, this heroman Arnd, from outside the desert. Palace sent him but Wingboy think he smarter than they guards and they Lifetakers and he thinks his own thoughts. Heroman Arnd,” Wingboy turned to look at him. “Wantchoo to meet the Prince of Shadowmarket. He boss down in the under. You show respect.” He fell silent and moved to stand beside and slightly behind the throne, watching Arnd intently.

The Prince stood with a rattle of jewelry. Strange jewels, all of steel and iron but then, Arnd had been noticing that since he came here to the City, he had seen much gold and silver and little of the harder metals. Perhaps here, things were very different indeed. Stepping down off of the throne to stand before the Hero, the Prince looked up at him – though the Hero was not tall, the Prince was almost childlike before him. As he got nearer, there was a sudden pain in the hero's palm, the burning of the image of the talisman he had touched returning vividly as his hand ached and his muscles cramped. At the same time, there was a glow from the chains and bangles around the Prince's neck and the true Talisman lit up, burning like a small sun.

“Arnd. You have come for the Talisman, sent by the Lion-Goddess herself, I suspect. Only She can imbue its power into flesh the way she has with you.” He reached out and took the hero's hand with both of his, the Prince's dark skin a startling contrast against Arnd's paleness. He turned the man's hand over, opening his fist, and traced his fingers over the scar before looking back up to him. “Did She inform you of the consequences of bearing this mark, I wonder? Of course She did not. To bear this mark means death, hero.”

Arnd felt the pain in his hand increase the closer the Talisman got to him, and when the Prince's hands touched the scar, it was as if he were dragging burning coals across his skin. He had weathered many things, fought many battles, and suffered greatly in his adventures, but he had never felt pain such as this. He could not stop himself from sinking to his knees,  a gasp of pain slipping out between his clenched teeth. He heard the man's words but he could not respond, could not even consider them closely, while it persisted.

The Prince held his hand for a few moments longer, staring intently at him, and then nodded with a step back. As soon as he released the hero Arnd slumped forward, breathing in long, ragged gasps, sweat pouring from his flushed skin. The Prince resumed his seat upon the throne and took a jeweled steel goblet, sipping from it cool, clear water. He gestured and one of the courtiers moved to offer Arnd a similar goblet. “Now, hero, we should speak.”

Arnd slowly controlled his breathing and took the goblet, drinking thirstily from it before looking back up to the Prince. “You could have...” he panted, “warned me. Before.” He narrowed his eyes slightly, but was unable to summon much animosity for this man – clearly, he did not know the full story. In his place, he could not say he would have done differently.

“I could not. I needed to see your reactions, to judge your truthfulness and to understand if you are an agent of the Queen of the Sun or simply another unknowing tool, a victim like so many here.” He gestured around him, and as Arnd looked at the courtiers, he could see that many of those present who were disfigured were not marked by birth or by accident, but with clear signs of torture – eyes removed, ears hacked off, even whole limbs severed. “She is truly a Goddess, hero. She embodies the will and the ferocity of the lion and the desert sun, but too the cruelty, the savagery, the selfish need to survive and persist against the hostile environment. She does what She believes She needs to, without remorse or regret.”

Arnd nodded at this. It made sense to him, after what he had seen. There was no guile in the Sun, only the burning light and infinite power. “You say I am marked, fated to death? At whose hands, by what means? Why?”

“You have heard of the Lifetakers, I believe the streetboys call them? Would you like to know who they truly are, and what they have to do with this?” He raised the Talisman by its chain, and even that motion brought a sudden flare of pain to Arnd's palm. The hero nodded and the Prince continued. “They are a secret order of the Priesthood of the Sun, the servants of the Lion-Goddess Herself. It is their task to seek out the souls needed for Her work, and bring them and the Talisman to the Great Seal. The Seal must be fed, or at least that is Her word. The mark on your hand declares you a worthy sacrifice.”

Arnd looked at his palm and then back up to the Prince. “And you? What do you want from me? Why tell me this?” He was no fool; he knew that one did not freely speak such secrets without good reasons and though he was still weak from the pain, his mind was not dulled.

“I want you to stop Her. I hoped that in taking the Talisman from the Palace I would force Her off guard, and I was not wrong. She brought you from outside the desert to answer this challenge, an unknown, and clearly you are not easily deceived; too, you are moral, and you will listen. You must take this opportunity to discover the truth, and reveal it to all, Arnd. This place will always be a desert, now, but it need not be our grave.”

Arnd studied the Prince intently as he spoke and by his strong tone and the conviction in his eyes he could see that the man believed the truth of what he said. After a long contemplation, he nodded. “You are right. I believe that your people deserve this truth. I felt the Goddess's deception and evasion when I was before Her, and the way that She dominated her Priest made it clear to me that she thinks little of our lives. I will do as you ask. What must be done?”

The Prince smiled. “Patience, hero. You have been through a great ordeal today. We will have a bed prepared for you, tonight. In the morning, we will speak again, over breakfast. I shall explain what must be done, and give you all you need for your efforts. For now, simply rest. You will need it.” At his nod, Wingboy moved from the Prince's side and beckoned for Arnd to follow. He led him to one of the living areas, and took him to a small chamber created with ropes and blankets of silk.

“This your bed for tonight. You better rest, Heroman, cause Wingboy be going witchoo in the morning. Better not embarrass yourself like an old man.” The leader of the streetboys burst into musical laughter, finding his own joke too hilarious to resist, and the laughter followed him as he departed to wherever he spent his evenings. Arnd, left on his own, wasted no time in making himself comfortable. Here, though the bed was simple and stuffed with tough desert-grasses and constructed from rough stone and silk, he was far more at home than he had been in the opulent bed in the Palace.

The trellises were finished, and Ailin was helping Auntie Nem to erect the last one, gentle fingers coaxing the vine-tips into their places on the lattice as the story came to its end. The young woman looked up at the old one, and they shared a smile. Another day of work, sped on with one of the grandmotherly woman's seemingly endless tales. Sometimes Ailin wondered what sort of things she had lived through to have so many of them on the tip of her tongue – so many details were so clear, and not only the pleasant ones. She had seen scars on her, the weapons she always wore. But she never asked. She knew that if she wanted to tell her story, one day, she would.

Just as they finished, there was a crack and a rumble from above. They both looked up and Ailin began laughing with delight as the first fat drops of rain began to fall, the first rain of the summer. They had finished the trellises just in time, and it seemed that the plants would not suffer a day of thirst after all. Giggling, shielding themselves from the rain as best as they could with their skirts in a decidedly undignified manner, the two women dashed for the cottage, and shelter from the storm.