Stretching before Reynold, as far as the eye could see, lay death. Scorching, shimmering, gritty dunes dotted with black scratches of dense thorny brush. He took another step, not as hesitant as he knew he should be. The compulsion forcing him beyond reason to wade through the sand, away from the safety of the city, gnawed at him, consumed his thoughts until all but a tiny rational voice remained.
He hated this infernal kingdom, and it wasn’t even a kingdom, just a city surrounded by miles and miles of nothing. He hated the harsh foreign language, the rough-cloth robes, and the discordant music. Everything about this place scratched and burned.
But his mother wanted a treaty–wanted the rare spices more like it. He swore, when he was King, he’d never visit Kardesh again.
He shuffled a few more steps toward death.
His breath burned down his throat and into his lungs. Sweat dripped from his face, soaking into his robe. He would not go farther. Not let whatever insanity possessed him drive him into the desert.
His body shook, determined to resist his will. The muscles in his legs quivered. This cursed land would not take him.
He collapsed to his knees, panting. Maybe the local tales of sand demons were true. Of course, he wasn’t a nubile virgin, but the cold knot in his stomach screamed that it probably didn’t matter.
“I will not be your victim. I am stronger than a pile of sand.”
“Very few men are,” said a quiet voice at his shoulder.
Reynold gasped, the sudden movement shooting agony through him. Beside him knelt a slight man all in white. No, everything about him was white, not just his robe: his hair, his skin, his eyes. He was paler than even a northman, as if all the color had been leached out of him.
The man’s milky gaze bore into Reynold. “Are you truly stronger than the sand?”
“It’s just a desert.” But as Reynold said it, the heat of the day turned icy, drawing gooseflesh down his arms.
“Are you sure?”
“This is ridiculous. I don’t belong here.”
“That,” said the man, placing a bony hand on Reynold’s arm, “is true. But you are here for a reason.”
“Yes, my mother sent me.”
“No. Not your mother. I have need of you, Prince of Meriduin.”
“Everyone needs the heir apparent.” This was ridiculous. He didn’t have to be here. He shouldn’t be here.
Reynold stood, but his legs trembled and the man jerked him back to his knees. Fear knotted in his gut. This man–no this creature–had him. The compulsion to wander into the desert tore at him, burned where the man touched him, and a thousand insects buzzed in Reynold’s skull.
The man drew a delicate gold chain from his robes. At the end hung a clear crystal caged in twisted gold threads. It flashed, the sunlight catching in it, capturing Reynold’s gaze.
“I don’t need the heir apparent, I need you.”
Reynold struggled for breath. “You have the wrong person.”
The man barked three harsh words and the noise in Reynold’s head increased. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Ice poured through him, devouring his mind with bright flashes of sunlight, until all that remained was a silent screaming voice captured in crystal.
I miss your writing. For a treat I’d thought I’d come and read.
Good stuff.
Thanks, Brenda. Enjoy.