Queen of Shifting Sands, page 1
Queen of Shifting Sands
Kaitlyn Carter Brown
Whimsical Publishing
Copyright © 2024 by Kaitlyn Carter Brown
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ISBN: 978-1-998195-06-0
Edited by Micheline Ryckman and Deborah O’Carroll
Cover art by Salome Totladze
Cover design by Micheline Ryckman
Map by Hunter Ryckman
To those who have known grief,
To those who have grown weary of life,
To those who want to see new sunrises,
Look to the stars.
Chapter 1
Elerek
The great gates of Instanolde’s palace rumbled back with a stone-shattering thud. The sound startled Prince Elerek, upsetting the open book in his lap, the tome tumbling beneath the wheels on his chair. He leaned down to retrieve it, his hand outstretched, when a tingling chill that had no place during high summer took hold of his fingers—a numbness that felt like death.
Something dreadful had happened, he knew it, and the deep, resounding blast of rams’ horns confirmed it. One long note strained across the palace’s stonework and up to the highest golden spire, announcing the arrival of royalty, of the king.
The king who ought not to be there.
Lifting his eyes, Elerek looked across the library, its gallery gilded in elegant arches, toward the window. Sunlight cast a pattern of equal parts light and darkness through the wood lattice. A second note, a third, and a fourth followed, their bellows ringing urgency.
A lump emerged in his throat, strangling his voice. “No, they can’t be back.”
Only four days, long and hot, had passed. Not nearly enough time to travel across the vast Sancen Desert with a company of soldiers.
Elerek had watched them leave in a clamor of chain mail and belts strapped with scimitars. Men in polished hauberks, with bright orange turbans encircling their sallet helmets. Formidable soldiers of Instanolde, the strength of a people bold enough to make a life here among the sands at the edge of the desert.
And none stood taller than King Cormek, fierce in his countenance and bold in his young rule.
“Alert the prince—now!” A guard’s cry echoed.
Elerek’s heartbeat droned in his ears, one pensive beat after another. He gripped the rims of his wheeled chair, avoiding the fallen tome and wheeling himself out of the library and into the corridors beyond. Many of the passages he took belonged to servants and soldiers, and he’d memorized the routes where the floors were smoother and his chair rolled freely.
Before the steps of the palace, beneath the relentless noonday sun, a handful of men assembled alongside three cardants. The sides of the great lizards heaved from exertion beneath their leather saddles and they lowered their heads, encircled with long horns, to the sun-scorched stones.
Three—out of the fifty cardants and their riders that had ridden with the king.
Elerek caught his breath, searching the Sancen-scorched faces of the men. Sand, grime, and blood streaked their clothes.
Cormek. “Wh-where is my brother?” His hands trembled.
Two of the soldiers turned to the cardant at the back of their company. With tentative, almost reverent motions, they lifted a wrapped bundle from the saddle, blood soaking through the fabric, and laid it on the mosaic stonework before Elerek’s feet.
Silence fell across the courtyard.
Elerek blinked, tears falling down his face. A cold, dark void consumed him. An echo rattled in his ears of raised voices and harsh words. What had now become their last words.
An assembly gathered, pouring down the steps of the palace. Guards in stern severity, wide-eyed servants, and robed advisers with stunned expressions. Whispers of an ambush, an attack, buzzed through the air like insects.
“Were there no other survivors?” someone asked, desperate sorrow in their voice.
“Only Torra Lystra. We escorted her to her family home.”
Lystra of House Arghan. Cormek’s betrothed, the future queen of Instanolde.
She survived. Elerek closed his eyes, releasing a long exhale.
She’d ridden with Cormek to the desert, her skill with the cardants and knowledge of the Sancen enough to rival any soldier’s. Elerek remembered seeing her on the glittering morning of their departure, watching as she flung herself into Cormek’s waiting arms, her long ebony hair flying behind her. The ring of Cormek’s laughter as he swept her off her feet filled the courtyard. When they kissed, the intensity of their passion rivaled the dawn.
And now, Cormek was dead.
The soldiers who had laid out the body dropped to their knees, heads bowed. One by one, the rest of the crowd mirrored their motions.
A shiver crept up Elerek’s spine, his head elevated above the entire assembly.
“Your Highness.” A soldier spoke. “Gem of the Gungole.”
“Fire of the Sancen.” Another took up the refrain.
“Fierce as the dawn.”
“Mighty as the constellations.”
Elerek couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
As one voice, the chant filled the air. “Long may you reign—king of Instanolde.”
I can’t.
Chapter 2
Lystra
Lystra wore orange. The color of kings, and of the flames that would soon light the funeral pyre. She moved a trembling hand to the wide belt of her kaftan, adorned with obsidian beads, and cinched it tighter to compensate for the emptiness consuming her.
Three days had passed since her return from the desert. The priests of the city temple ruled that they could wait no longer to burn the body. Cormek. Her betrothed.
She shuddered, sinking onto a cushioned stool behind her dressing screen. A sob caught in her throat as thoughts of the king—her king—regal and beautiful, overwhelmed her mind. Of his strong arms pulling her close, the glow of sunlight in his eyes, the taste of his lips on hers . . .
Lystra dug her nails into her palm, gritting her teeth, holding back her grief.
She could devote an endless number of sun-scorched days to mourning her beloved, but not this night. This night demanded duty, the honor that Cormek was owed. Not as the girl he fell in love with, but the queen he meant to crown. Now, she was neither.
The details surrounding the journey back hazed her mind like a sandstorm on the horizon. An Instan soldier had sat behind her, his body a shield as they rode for their lives. How many had taken arrows in the name of her protection? The battle, the ambush, screamed in her ears with the song of scimitars loosed from their sheaths, the cries of warriors, and the shrieks of cardants and their riders being hacked to death by enemy axes.
The thought of the cardants provoked fresh tears. The immense reptiles with their long, serpentine necks and proud, horned heads possessed no equal for magnificence in Lystra’s eyes. All mercilessly slaughtered.
The door to her chamber opened. “Lystra? Are you in here?”
Smearing away her tears, Lystra stepped around the dressing screen. At once, the arms of her cousin wrapped about her neck, filling Lystra’s nostrils with the smell of rosewater.
“Oh.” Corsha stepped back from their embrace and laid a hand on Lystra’s cheek, her jewelry jangling on her arms. Her eyes, the color of smooth-cut jade, glowed with sympathy. “Oh, vianni.” Precious one. A whisper of mothers to daughters.
Lystra closed her eyes, a dam against another onslaught of tears.
“Come, let me do your hair.” Corsha led her to an ornate vanity carved of dark wood.
Seating herself, Lystra stared into the mirror. Dark circles encased dull eyes that had done an abundance of weeping. Her skin, gaunt and dry from her time in the desert, looked as if it belonged to the wraiths said to haunt the gullies and canyons. Behind her, the warm tones of her gold-painted furniture, embroidered cushions, and the silken curtains enshrouding her balcony seemed far too bright, a cheerful sacrilege.
Corsha took a brush and combed Lystra’s hair, the motion soothing.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Her cousin offered a weak smile. “Will you stand at the pyre? In the circle?”
Lystra’s gaze dropped to her hands. “It is my place.”
Those who stood closest to a pyre were marked as most beloved, most intimate. Cormek’s charm had certainly captivated their kingdom, but this honor fell to her, his betrothed.
“Besides.” Lystra squared her shoulders, sitting poised before the vanity. “Grandmother would want nothing less.”
Corsha didn’t reply.
As if summoned, the chamber door opened again and in swept a figure shrouded in black silk. Dalmah, matriarch of House Arghan and proclaimed countess. Her cold eyes, as old as the desert itself, sent a prickling up Lystra’s spine.
“Stars, you’re not ready yet?”
That voice cut like a knife. Lystra watched her grandmot her in the mirror, marveling that someone could look both beautiful and ugly at the same time. Every movement summoned an aloof elegance, her clothes, silver-striped hair, and jewels bowing to her every whim. But Lystra saw only a woman who would do anything to get what she wanted.
“She’s nearly there,” Corsha purred. She clipped a string of beads into Lystra’s hair, the gems dangling over her forehead like a diadem.
Dalmah scowled. “I didn’t ask you, girl.”
Corsha cowered, blending into the room’s splendor.
“Lystra will walk at the head of the procession. Every eye will see her, their rightful queen.”
Not anymore. Lystra drew a hollow breath. No matter how fiercely the desire burned in her bosom—to rule and reign—that destiny would also burn to ash tonight alongside the body of the man she loved.
Standing, Lystra smoothed her gown. “Corsha was only trying to help, Grandmother.”
“Hmph.” Dalmah stepped closer and adjusted the beads across Lystra’s forehead, hanging them in a delicate swag pattern. “You will paint your face with mourning stripes.”
Behind her, Lystra’s maid appeared holding a tray of jars with paints of harsh blacks, burnt oranges, and red the deep hue of blood.
“Must we?” Lystra’s heart sank. “It’s an old tradition, Grandmother. I’m sure I’ll be the only one wearing stripes.”
A triumphant smirk twisted Dalmah’s ruby lips. “Precisely.” She took Lystra by the shoulders and sat her down before the mirror again.
Balancing the tray on the edge of the vanity, the maid removed the lid from the jar of black paint. She lifted Lystra’s chin, using a brush to paint thick strokes down her cheeks, masking her weariness and her grief.
No longer Lystra of House Arghan, the kingdom would now see an image, an icon to mark this tragedy. The queen that her grandmother had spent her life cultivating—and now would never be.
“Faster, girl. We haven’t all night.”
Lystra closed her eyes as the maid painted her eyelids with shaky fingers. Surely her maid, young in years, had never participated in such an ancient tradition. If her grandmother cared so much, she ought to have done it herself. But Dalmah would never get her hands dirty—not when someone else could do the work for her.
Crash!
Lystra opened her eyes. The tray lay overturned, the paints spilling across the patterned wood floor. The maid gave a yelp, scurrying to upturn the jars.
A string of curses flew from Dalmah’s lips. She took the maid by the arm and sent a swift slap across her cheek.
“Stop!” Lystra rose to her full height. “Grandmother, leave her alone.”
Perhaps some power of command had been retained from her grandmother’s lessons. Dalmah grew still, a pillar of black silk, and then stepped away from the maid. The girl sniffled and sank back to the floor to clean up the mess.
Lystra knelt beside her and took up a brush. She dragged it across a puddle of blood-red paint and handed it to her maid with a kind smile. “Please, continue.”
“Th-thank you, Torra.”
Lystra shifted her gown, assuming a more comfortable position on the floor. Torra, a noblewoman’s title, all that she would now ever be.
The maid worked quickly, blinking away her tears and focusing on the task with a newfound resolve. Alternating stripes of red and orange ran down Lystra’s cheeks and neck. Black edged the orange in harsh outlines, the color of death side by side with the color of royalty.
“There, Torra. I think you’re ready.”
Lystra reached out to touch the girl’s arm. “Thank you. You’ve done well.”
A smile flickered across the maid’s lips as she returned to the task of cleaning the spill.
The smallest of embers lit in Lystra’s soul, a candle in the endless night. She rose to her feet. “Shall we depart?”
Dalmah marched her gaze over the length of Lystra’s figure. No approval brightened her expression, but she gave a single nod.
Lystra’s eyes darted toward her cousin, visible relief softening Corsha’s posture. Unfortunately, they both knew, it wasn’t only the servants that suffered Dalmah’s wrath.
Next, the pyre waited. To burn Cormek, and bid goodbye to the beautiful life she had almost lived.
Chapter 3
Lystra
Lonely desert air dried the paint on Lystra’s face. She stepped through the gilded iron gates surrounding the estate of House Arghan. Before her, the kingdom of Instanolde lay smothered in darkness, veiled even from the starlight. Her kingdom.
On any other night, the streets would resound with the music of performers, the hawking of vendors selling their wares, and the callers announcing a dance. Their world—Cormek’s world—set aflame by the vibrant and brilliant life they’d cultivated from the desert sands.
Without him, Instanolde shared the emptiness that cleaved to Lystra’s soul.
Dalmah pushed a small oil lamp into her hand, its flame feeble against the weight of the starless expanse. The rest of Lystra’s family—House Arghan—followed suit. Lystra tried to meet the eyes of her father, Jethro, but his usual warmth had turned severe, admonishing Kimzi, Corsha’s elder brother, to stand up straight.
Lystra’s heart sank. Grandmother’s stringency would rule tonight.
“Lead the way, Lystra,” Dalmah commanded, as if in answer to her thoughts.
Swallowing, she lifted her head high and stepped into the streets. One by one, her family followed, but they were not alone in the darkness. Silent figures, veiled and robed, formed a long procession, moving like a slow, mournful river toward the temple. Toward the pyre.
Cormek’s people. Our people. Lystra lowered her eyelids, her gaze skimming the hem of her gown. Together, she and Cormek had wanted to give them so much more.
Before long, the silence gave way to whispers, slipping through the air like the soft ripples skirting across the sand dunes.
“She survived the desert, the attack.”
“The true fire of the Sancen.”
“Our queen comes to the pyre to rise from its ashes.”
I am not your queen. The king was dead and her wedding and coronation would never come to pass. Lystra sent a frantic expression to her grandmother, but the makings of a smile played on Dalmah’s lips. Only her grandmother could orchestrate even death to suit her whims.
When they reached the gates of the temple, they laid their lamps along the edge of the street, forming a line of flames that bled into the city in every direction. Lystra entered the courtyard, craning her neck to glimpse the apex of the temple tower. Each step up the seemingly endless staircase brought her closer to the heavens, for the dead were to be burned near to the stars.
Reaching the edge of the half-moon dais, Lystra’s lungs heaved, breathless from the climb. Unseen players were scattered upon the ramparts, strumming ouds, the twang of their strings drifting down from the skies. Their mournful song seemed too tame against the frantic clamor of her heart.
And there, the pyre lay. Priests, clad in yellow robes with deep crimson tassels, stood ready. Waiting for her.
Lystra stiffened, the image of Cormek filling her mind. Standing tall, rallying his men to fight with the signal of his silver scimitar curving a delicate arc up toward the sky. His white burnous draped from his shoulders, flying behind him like a cape.
Did that same man now lie here prepared and anointed to be consumed by flame?
Lystra’s head grew light and dizzy.
Her grandmother touched the small of her back, nudging her forward.
She didn’t dare look, thankful for the darkness. Each step filled her nostrils with the sharp scent of incense—and the rot of flesh. King’s flesh.
Blinking back tears, she looked to the nearest priest and gave a timid nod.
With a whoosh of oil, they set fire to the pyre. The flesh caught, for it seemed that kings burned as well as anyone, and a rush of heat bathed Lystra’s skin. The paint immediately began to streak from her face, down her shoulders, and onto her gown. It itched, but she didn’t dare move. Between the dancing tongues of flame, she could just make out Cormek’s outline, his features marred by time. Velvet lips that once danced with hers now cracked with ash.
