The Vanished Prince

“There weren’t always Dragons in the valley. When the High Wards lived in Omphalos nestled in the Bull’s Horns, dragons made their home in the Sawtooth Mountains far to the north.” Tirra read the first words aloud. “This one.”

Shellena nodded, and her sister brought the slim volume over. “It was perfect for Dragons almost impossible to pass for most other races. Kuhds sheltered in the hot spring valleys providing the perfect food to bring back to the dark labyrinths built throughout the mountains. Generations of Dragons created and cultivated those tunnel, and Dragons value beauty. The tunnels are airy and smooth, softly lit by star lilium, luminescent blooms growing from dark mosses clinging to ceilings, and warmed by the fires of the earth. In secret caverns known only to each family, treasures discovered while building the great labyrinths are kept safe.”

“But wait, how do plants grow without sun?”

Shellena didn’t look up. “Probably the same way as the newts in the tidal caves survive.”

Though isolated and secretive, Dragons are intelligent and curious creatures and they turned to the High Wards for knowledge of our Woken Lands. The Dragons found interest in the news. A bountiful crop of fruit far south with the Saxxum, or a group of pearls cultivated by Merrians could catch their fancy. These messages were brought to their labyrinths by the blind fish who sang in the underground streams and tiny translucent lizards who skittered along the ceilings. It was a time when peace was everywhere. The Dragons didn’t often leave the North but considered the foothills perfect for trade especially to sate their love for ripe juicy fruits and new foreign treasure.

During the rule of the High Wards, venturing into the Dragon’s domain was safe. Traders made the long trip knowing they had a sale upon arrival, and the Dragons could count quality merchandise. Disputes were aired publicly and decisions handed down by the High Wards.”

“What if they didn’t want to listen to the High Wards?” Tirra asked.

“You mean like you don’t want to listen to this history?”

Tirra sighed.

“While the most common travel was for trade. The occasional Dragon thirsted for more knowledge, and then they would traveled to the symposium at the Omphalos. This was a long journey, but there they would have access to the great Biblios.”

“Are you going to go there?” Tirra looked up.

“No. I would love to go, but the ways were already far too dangerous by Grandma’s time.”

“Oh, why are they dangerous?”

Shellena shrugged. “Ah, that’s not a bedtime story.”

Tirra looked carefully at her sister’s face, and Shellena knew her frustration still showed when her sister nodded. “Ok.”

“When Dragons traveled to Omphalos, they found welcome. The original library within the High Keep had long ago been moved to a larger building, known as the Biblios, leaving only regional documents and the Wards family lineages in the original. The Biblios grew quickly, and as the tradition of each supplicant bringing a book or capture from their home became a rule it soon attracted all races.

Omphalos had been originally built to scale for the Wards, but the High Wards quickly developed to accommodate a small contingent from any race. Even the Dragons had a pavilion and caves that suited them at the top of one of the Bull’s Horns. The Biblios did not make this mistake and was modeled with a central repository that fed structures built in four different scales. From these accommodations the Symposium developed with living areas spread down one isthmus of the Bull’s Horns, amphitheaters built to hold all the races down the other. The slender isles of the Bull’s Horns flat at the center rose to mountains at their tips and became the most colorful and populated of all the Woken Lands.”

Tirra yawned.

“We can read more of this later. It might be a little late for Dragon history.”

Tirra didn’t agree but stood up and headed to the ladder.

Shellena stood by the window listening to the music in the distance. The first time she’d read the dragon book had been with her grandmother in this very room listening to music similar to tonight.

“What about fire breathing?”

Her grandmother had eyed her over the book. “I thought you were going to try to fall asleep.”

Shellena quickly scooted back down into the covers, pulled them up to her chin. “I am.”

“Hmm, I’m not sure I believe you.”

Shellena opened her mouth wide in a pretend yawn that caught her unaware and became real. She turned on her side and snuggled in more comfortably. “Did they breath fire?”

Her grandmother huffed. “Not in polite company.”

“What about after?”

“After the Prince vanished?”

Smiling sleepily, Shellena nodded “Yes.”

“Everything changed then.”

Shellena sighed dreamily. “Tell me about him.”

Looking at her granddaughter’s face, she had to school herself from smiling. The girl was dreaming of finding the Prince and returning the lands to peace. Even she had dreamt that long ago. “Well,” she said pretending frustration. “I can tell you about the Prince or I can keep reading.”

Shellena remembered that as a difficult question. Nothing was better than stories of the Vanished Prince, but her grandmother had accepted and started the book of Dragons she had picked for bedtime reading, and it was one her parents wouldn’t let her read.

In the silence as she thought, music had floated in from the bay side windows. It had been the first night the tinnows ran. The full moon glinting on the water drew them toward the bay, but there were many ways they could lose their way. So, for three nights, music would play, and each family would bring dishes. Last year’s musk juice casks were tapped and set at the edge of the sands. All night, adults would take turns, untangling tinnows who tried to fight one another, turn those headed astray back toward the water, and unbury those whose temporary underfins were not strong enough to dig, or not quick enough to avoid their sibling’s sprays of sand. All healthy tinnows would be ushered to the sea.

She remembered feeling safe, knowing her parents were busy, but her grandmother was here. In her mind this choice was simply too difficult. “I just can’t choose. How am I supposed to choose?”

“You’ll find that a common problem as you grown older.”

Shellena’s face looked so horrified that Trellina took pity on her. “How about I read a bit more. I’ll be back again tomorrow night for the second running, and I’ll tell you about your prince.”

This seemed a fair compromise to Shellena. She wanted to hear more about Dragons; they hadn’t even gotten to the fire breathing yet. But she also wanted to know more about the Prince. Her parents wouldn’t tell her anything interesting like how he disappeared. “That sounds good.”

“Shelly? Hello?”

Shellena stood at the window listening to the music. Her little sister, Tirra, was pushing a book into her hand. “Read it again.”

Shellena shook off the past and flipped the book open, as her little sister pulled herself up into her hammock. The past threatened her again as she sat in the rocking chair with its slender central spine that widened into a headrest leaving the sides open to accommodate her grandmother’s wings. The music, the worn book, and reading of Dragons, had been so exciting. Now they felt like empty promises.

Tonight was the celebration of Moon Triad, and there was a restlessness in the air. She wanted to be out there racing the bay, dancing in the Maiden’s circle, eating the round, dark cakes with the fruit center.

It wasn’t Tirra’s fault their grandmother had been asked by a widower to join him on his boat. Tonight was usually more exciting for maidens than crones, but her grandmother deserved some happiness. She had yet to be called from the Maiden’s circle, and no one was likely to call her tonight. “The High Wards held the power stones of both Wards and spread messages through the living energy of our Woken Lands till we became one.”

Her sister sat up. “Shelly, tell me about the fish,” Shellena took a breath, but her sister wasn’t done. “Our fish, not the blind Dragon ones.”

Shell closed the book around her finger. “The fish in our streams carried messages from the High Wards to us through the Woken Lands. Anyone could put their hand into the water and the fish would deliver news from lands far away.”

“Do you think it tickled?” Tirra’s eyes were wide.

Opening the book, she felt a bit better about being here. “Probably.”

“The East and West Wards took turns marrying into the High Ward Family. Grand gatherings throughout the land invited all the races together.”

Swinging excitedly in the hammock Tirra interrupted again, “like tonight?”

“Yes, people would weep for the beauty of the dancing. The stout Saxxum of the North would dance together with the winged Voltus and the fleet footed Pernix would whirl with the Faire of the South.”

“That’s us!”

“That it is.” Shellena smiled

“This is boring, skip to the part about the Prince.”

Shellena turned to the most ragged pages of the book.

“The last heir of the High Wards studied at the Symposium, excelling in the arts, intuitive in the sciences, but strongest in the gift of his family. Considered handsome among the Wards, many wanted to be his bride, but the charter had set out who he was to marry long before his birth.”

“What do you think he looked like?”

Shellena kept reading, “The Prince could draw people to dance with his song and danced with such grace and beauty that bees paused to watch him.”

“But, what did he look like?”

“The High Wards are tall and more slender than the Faire, but they are also much stronger than we are.” There was a boy in Tirra’s canopy group that she had talked about. “I think I read somewhere that he had blond curls.”

“Really?” Tirra squeaked, throwing herself down and setting her hammock rocking again.

“His only solitary pleasure was a skiff he sailed on the Bull’s Mouth. The first day of his wedding festival he had woken at dawn to sail as he often did before starting his day. But he never returned to shore.”

Tirra shook her head. “Someone saw something.”

Shellena jumped ahead a bit. “When they Royal Family investigated, they could find nothing for sure. A group of Montiagus had been traveling down the West Isle the morning the Prince disappeared. They reported a great tunnel of light and water as they passed. That is a type of Amnerius magic. So, of course the Amnerius, the people of the East, were accused of kidnapping the Prince since they were in the area.”

“Then what happened?” Tirra looked up with bright eyes, the covers pulled to her chin.

“Each race returned to their lands; the Saxxum to their burrows, the Faire to their forests, the Pernix plains, and the Voltus to the savannah. The races split along the elements, siding either with East Ward of Amnerius or West Ward of Montiagus. The peace crumbled and thought the Omphalos still stand no one from either Ward will enter it, so it stands a tomb for the generations of High Wards while the Symposium crumbles and only the Biblios Repository survives.

Trade narrowed to water and land routes of each races land, until the ports and crossroads near the borders were places of danger instead of mingling.”

“Is it all true?”

Shellena sighed. “For the most part it’s true, I suppose.” She closed the book and set it down beside the bed, the pages worn and crumpled with use. She had fought for Tirra to choose her own bed time reading, and perhaps her little sister wouldn’t grow up believing she could reunite the lands.

“What do you think happened to the Prince?” She was looking more sleepy.

Shellena recognized her own curiosity and answered the best she could. “I don’t know, no one does. That’s part of the problem.” Shellena glanced out the window at the lights swaying in the treetops. Normally she didn’t mind staying in and watching Tirra. She enjoyed it, really. But she was disappointed and tired; she had helped cook all day for the festival and had counted on the excitement of the evening to keep her awake.

“What problem?”

Shellena closed her eyes, trying to figure out how to explain the problem to her sister. “Why do we fight with the Montiagus?”

“Cause they’re evil and they eat children.”

Shellena sat up startled. “Who told you that!”

“Widow Aster. She said if I kept acting up, she’d feed me to the Montiagus.” Her dark eyes blinked rapidly; they were such a deep violet that they looked almost black in the dim light.

“By the Bay, that is not true!” Shellena made mental note to talk to the widow Aster. “I think they were like us, frightened.”

Tirra propped her pillow up and leaned back against it. “Why were they frightened? Hadn’t they always known each other?”

“The High Wards were the only ones strong enough to spread news throughout the whole land. Many of us have powers, some help plants grow like Mum, or direct the fish into the nets, but the Royals of the Wards, those we call the High Wards could do all that and wake the land.” Shellena rocked gently in the chair, letting the motion sooth her. “Can you tell me what’s happens on the other side of the bay right now?”

“No, of course not.” Tirra looked at her suspiciously.

“The High Wards could. They could read the wind to see if a storm was coming, hear the songs the stars sang telling of the seasons. What they learned, they shared. No one was surprised by an early frost or a sudden drought.”

Tirra nodded, her eyes wide. “So, people were frightened of not knowing?”

“Yes, and that is a big fear.”

“I don’t know tons, and I’m not afraid.”

Shellena sat for a moment listening to the shuffling of leaves and soft music. “You remember when you spilled the ink on father’s maps?”

Tirra ducked her head. “Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you tell him?”

“I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Getting in trouble.”

“Did you get in trouble?”

Tirra pressed her lips together. “You know I did. I had to wash the study floor and eat alone for a week.”

“And was it so awful? Awful enough to lie about?”

“No.” Tirra shook her head. The washing had been the punishment for the ink but eating alone had been punishment for lying.

“So, why did you lie?”

“I didn’t know what he would do!” She spread her hands in exasperation.

“Exactly.”

Tirra rolled her eyes conceding the point. “But why fight each other?”

“Well, while the King and Queen lived, there was a delicate peace. But they weakened, and the queen was less able to speak with the Woken Lands, eventually it took too much from her.”

“I still don’t understand why we fight.” Tirra was wide awake now.

Shellena shook her head, her temples were starting to throb. “Lay down, you’re supposed to be going to sleep.”

Tirra laid back. “Tell me, please.”

Shellena rubbed at her forehead. “Each Ward took back its stone; Amnerius took the Stone of Wind and Water; Montiagus the Stone of Fire and Earth. It’s fear, not of eating children, but of their magic.”

“They could burn our forest.”

Shellena rubbed her eyes. “They don’t have any reason to burn the forest, and they are far, far away. But it’s a scary idea, and that’s why Widow Aster makes up silly scary stories.”

Tirra looked confused. Shellena reached for a better subject. “What do you think happened to the Prince?”

“Me?” Tirra relaxed and closed her eyes. “I think he flew away.”

“Really?” Shellena rocked absently. “Why do you think that?”

“I think he was in love.”

Shellena smiled and closed her own eyes. “In love?”

“Yeah, in love, and he had to fly away to meet her, like in the Starry-night tale, where the Faire and the Merrin want to be together?”

“Uh-huh”

“Well, like that. He had to go where she was, so he turned into something like the Faire grew gills and a tale to join his Merrin. The Prince didn’t know that everybody would get so mad and unhappy, or he wouldn’t have left. But he lived a happy life somewhere and never knew that everyone missed him. That would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

Shellena opened her eyes. “Yes, that would be nice.” She stood up and kissed Tirra on the forehead. “Salt dreams.”

“Salt dreams. Shell, do you think I’ll dream about the Prince.”

“Maybe.” She ran her hand over the light and it dimmed.

Tirra curled up on her side. “I hope so.”

Shell pulled the door closed. “Me too.”

Down the ladder, pots for the food her parents had brought to the feast still sat on the counter. Though she felt she should wash them, she was too tired. Instead, she piled them in the sink. Her workbooks and scrolls were scattered across the study table, but that was pretty much where they belonged. She straightened them into piles before climbing the ladder to her room.

Her globe brightened as she entered, she dimmed it then changed into a nightgown and braided her hair. Her bed swung softly, and the smell of jasmine floated in through the open window. Her eyes were tired, but she thought of the Biblios. It might still be possible to get there by boat. Overland would be too dangerous, but maybe…

She had read areas were off limits, sealed with multiple magic spells when fighting had broken out on the Steppes beyond the Bull’s plateau. Only Keepers lived in the Biblios now. Moving among the silent halls like ghosts, dusting and mopping, slowly loosing the fight against entropy. She shivered; what a morbid thought.

More pleasant by far to think like Tirra, about the Prince vanishing in search of his love. Was he fair like the Amnerius or was he darker like the Montiagus? The only Montiagus she had seen was when her father, and each town’s Speaker had traveled to the Center of the Fae’s Lands to meet with a Speaker for the Saxxum.

The Montiagus were creatures of Earth and Fire as the Amnerius were of Wind and Water. But both were children of the third kingdom, those who could wield magic, but were no longer of the magic, and who needed all of seven elements to thrive. Saxxum born to the dirt had adapted to fit their land in the same way the Faire had changed to suit their trees. The Saxxum bent to the dark and needed strength, while the Fae were attuned to the light and had to be sure footed.

It was the similarities she had noticed first. Saxxum had arms and legs, and stood like her own people, their skin was beautiful, darker like the rich earth. Their voices were soft and deep, and they spoke slowly and carefully. Short and solid they were to different to blend into the Faire. High foreheads made them look surprised and their short hair tight against their heads made them all seem similar. They squinted even in soft light, which made them seem frightened, but they themselves were frightening with the large claws that extended from the back of their hands. Shellena had liked to watch them, gaining enough comfort to wave at one, but the meeting was short. There had been a disagreement, some misunderstanding that might have been remedied, but those with families left quickly and the talks disintegrated.

She woke to her mother’s laughter and her father’s hushed plea for quiet. She could barely hear her mother’s footsteps; she wasn’t winged like grandmother but could have been. Her father had less pure Fae, and to Shellena’s great relief wings were recessive in non-full- blooded Fae. The best part of the Faire blood were the gifts, and they weren’t recessive. Shellena smiled, rolled over, and snuggled back into sleep. The water was waiting in her dreams. She slipped into it dark and light ripples with relief.

For a long time, she drifted there, until a flash of red on the horizon pulled at her. Then she was there in the boat both herself and a lost sailor, the familiar water grown frightening. Waves crashing into the boat, the rudder was not responding, and the mainsail tore away from the boom. Without rudder or sail there was no way to keep from heading into the wind, and the next wave caught the bow and then all was silent and black. She was there with him in the darkness struggling to the surface. Somewhere above was air, but which way was up?

She felt confused, the water was full of bubbles and her clothing pulled against her. Her lungs burned with the need to inhale, but there was nothing but water. Though the tiny bubbles were still around her, larger bubbles started to move in one direction, and followed. Breaching the surface, she found the sail, heavy and cumbersome, above her. Pushing vainly, she tried to escape but couldn’t get a purchase on the thick canvas.

Shellena sat up gasping. Rain was pelting the top of the window, streaming through the bottom, wind forming rain ripples across the glass. Her sheet and nightgown were soaked through. She struggled out of the wet sheet and half fell out of the hammock. “Father!” she called into the darkness her voice slightly hysterical. The sound of it startled her. She jumped down the ladder and moved quickly down the hallway. “Father!”

She heard him grunt as she climbed the ladder poking her head into her parent’s room. “A sailor is caught in the storm.”

He was sitting up and pulling on a shirt. “A sailor?”

“Out by the jetty.”

He waved at her. “Go on. I’ll catch up.”

She nodded and jumped off the ladder, landing lightly on the floor in the dark hallway. Without pausing to grab a coat, she rushed out into the storm. Around her, dark and nestled into the tree branches, the blank eyes of sleeping windows witnessed her passage. She didn’t pause to look, sliding down the nearest ladder with feet on the outside, only the inward pressure of her bare feet slowing her descent. Sensing the ground, she jumped off into a sprint. Without looking she navigated roots and the soft squish of wet leaves between her toes. The wind slowed her progress as she left the protection of the trunks and headed out onto the jetty.

The docks were rocking in the whipped water. The watch hut was dark. No-one was out in this weather, no one from their village anyway. Pulling against the wind, she pried open the door and rushed inside. It slammed behind her. The quiet of the shack pressed against her ears. She grabbed the rope in the corner and pulled. The low, loud ring was slow to answer, and it took great patience to continue pulling she until she had rung it 5 times. Then she pushed out of the quiet hut into the rushing wind which ripped the door from her hand slamming it shut. Still moving forward, she scanned the dark horizon. The moon had already set, but there was a churning luminance from the water, plankton shaken into light. Nothing, but she knew, she had seen. The docks were protected by a stretched land curling out into the larger bay. It was cold, the storm had brought air from the north.

Down the beach to where it turned to pebbles, she followed the jetty. She said a silent thanks to her grandmother for the Fae blood as she jumped from rock to rock, slick with wet algae, and pushed harder into the wind. Somewhere out there was the sailor, somewhere. If he had gotten out from under the sail, into the air, he was desperate. She had the gift, not as strong as some, but the closer she was to water, the stronger it became. Now she was covered with water, it was on both sides of her and running down her skin. Closing her eyes, she remembered the sails and tried to hold on to the feeling. The world shifted slightly, and she was split, both clinging to the boat and climbing the rocks.

She knew where he was. The water tossed about her, splashing her face, but she kept her eyes closed. He was moving in her direction. Getting closer, but too quickly. The wind was pushing the hull toward the jetty. It would smash against the rocks with him between. He couldn’t see the danger and was breathing too much water. He wouldn’t be able to stay awake much longer. Shellena couldn’t find him in the surges and valleys of water

The thin mental line holding part of her to the boat slipped, she tried to feel him again. He was alive she could feel him but couldn’t hold on to him. He slipped away each time she tried.

The current was running from east, the wind from the south. She tried to shift the current, but her energy boomeranged and she slipped. Foolish, far too strong for her. She followed the current, sliding into it a slender thought gliding until she found the hull then she pushed that. It didn’t stop, but it slowed, the current lost some of its grip.

He was still too far west, but she could see him. His head rolled against the hull, hair matted against his face. He’d tied his hands into the lines slung over the hull, and it had kept him out of the water after he fell unconscious.

Without thinking, she pushed from the rock and dove into the water. It felt warm compared to the cold wind. She swam and felt a surge from the docks. Her father had brought a water worker, and this time the current didn’t fight her. Reaching the hull, she grabbed for the lines, one on either side of the small keel. He had wrapped them haphazardly, and they were salt tightened. The sound of the water smashing against the rocks behind her warned of their approach. She lifted herself onto the slippery hull, fit her toes in the gunwale, which was underwater, and pulled at the lines. His hands were swollen and purple. His grunt carried over the hissing of the water and wind, but he did not move. She felt her nails give as she pried the final line apart. Without the line, his arms flopped to his sides, and he started to slip off the boat. She grabbed his arm and slid into the water with him. She put her hip under his back and wrapped her arm across his chest. Then she swam. She pushed at the water with her legs and pulled with her left arm.

It was close, even with the water worker’s help. Her own power helped her move forward in the water worker’s stillness, but she still struggled to hold the limp body above water. As she rounded the end of the jetty she heard the distinctive sound of wood crunching against rock. Once safely in the lee of the rocks, she stood, her footing slipped along the slimy round rocks she couldn’t see. Splashing forward toward the larger rocks, she pulled the sailor out of the water before sat and wedged herself against the nearest rock. His head above hers safe from the waves. Her eyes closed, and she could feel the salt spray landing on her eyelids. Time seemed to slow and stop, then hands lifted her and pulled the man gently from her grip. They wrapped her in warmed blankets and made a sling for him.

She leaned against her father, and carefully made her way back down the rocks on the lee side of the jetty. The wind still pushed, the rain still slapped, but it was pushing her to safety. Her father helped her all the way home and back up the ladder and into their kitchen. Once she was safe inside, he rushed back to his job. She sank to the floor next to the small stove, grateful her mother had lit it before heading out to help. It was nice to be alone in the silence. The kettle her mother had prepped was not boiling yet, so she leaned back against the cupboard and felt the quiet of the house. Her sister hadn’t woken, and the tree seemed to breath in time to her soft sleepy breaths.

When the water boiled, she poured it onto the herbs in the pot and left it to steep. Lowering herself slowly down the ladder to the shower room, she didn’t bother to pass her hand over the globe to light it. She let the spray warmth run down her before peeling off her nightgown. The sunny day that had warmed the water seemed like a distant memory. She stood, as the water sluiced away both salt and cold. Back up the ladder, she poured herself a cup of the bitter brew her mother had left. After forcing herself to finish, she contemplated the ladder to her room but remembered the soaking sheet. Gratefully she lay down in front of the stove and closed her eyes. She didn’t dream again.