Chapter Two: The Sands of Shan-Sei

Chapter Two
The Sands of Shan-Shei

Al-Shamah was crowned seven days after his mother’s death. The city buzzed with excitement. Ceremonial feasts were held out in the squares of the city. Rook hid in his room throughout it all, feigning illness. He knew he wouldn’t be missed. Though his older brother cared for him, the whispers would only echo all the louder in the halls if he were present at such an event. That night, he crept back into the rear study to avoid sleep again. There was something therapeutic about writing, about reading the old words.

The temple was dark but for the three candles he lit, one for his soul, one for his brother who feared ruling Kaladia and one for his mother whose soul had so recently departed on the great journey. He lit incense in the chalices at the altar out of habit. The stagnant air became thick with the scent of lemon and smokewood.

The first book Rook had discovered was small and nearly lost in dust. It contained a chant of healing. Healing! Of all things this was the most devastating to him. Had he found it but days before, had he been brave enough to secret himself among the forgotten tomes, his mother may have lived. Perhaps he could have saved her. There was no way to truly know without testing the power.

He reached down into the dusty bookshelf and pulled out another precious tome. It was a dust-covered relic, written in Old-Kaladian, which none of the other priests could read. The old language was nearly dead, and hard to come by. That was how Ali-Majra had made her way to Kaladia. He’d hired her as a tutor soon after Bishop Raynier gave him the task of the Dynasty translations. Rook let his long, thin fingers slide over the fragile pages and his mind wandered back to the day he’d found her. He’d told the shepherds on the outskirts what he required. Not but a few days later, a shabby goatherd led the young priest to a crimson tent. There she sat the niece of a shepherd, dressed in fine red muslin, her long black hair hanging loose across her shoulders. The uncle explained that she had just returned from school in some far off city. Her parents had died when she was young and he had taken her in. The old man doted on her, giving her the finest he could provide with his modest income. Her uncle had sent her off to learn, to better herself and was eager enough to send her off with the priest. Rook promised fine payment for her tutelage as well as a position for her in the castle. The uncle then smiled a yellow-toothed grin and clapped the young priest on the back. “You won’t regret it,” he’d said.

Rook reached out for her hand to lead her back to the inner city. A smile spread across her small lips at that moment. Her eyes were spectacular. She was striking, her coloring not quite the same as the Kaladians. She held to his hand and stood up. The wind caught in the tent at that same moment tussling her hair.

“My name is Ali-Majra,” she breathed.

He swallowed hard. From that moment she’d made him nervous. He couldn’t place his finger on why. Her beauty was part of it. In fact, Rook had just missed Ali-Majra in the aft halls when he’d slipped from his temple chamber that fateful night. Lately, she was always looking for him, trying to seek out his company. He avoided her. She reminded him of his mother now. That was exactly why he had come to the books, to forget. His fingers swept along the words as he copied them to his journal.

The pages grew warm, reacting to his touch. Too busy deciphering; he hardly noticed the temperature change. By the time he reached the last chapter it was hard to read the ancient writing. Much of the tome was useless, but some parts held spells, chants, prayers of great power, things no longer listed in the modern books. The young priest set the words to memory, singing them under his breath in halted verses as he read. Memorizing was a game to him, something he’d practiced as long as he could remember, a game he’d mastered.

Rook chuckled, the sound echoing in the study. A certain spell had struck him with its implausibility. The Summoning of Sand Demons, it was titled. The ancient priests were rumored to be able to summon sand demons. The myth was told to small children. He recalled his mother’s first maid, Inell, telling the tale to him, her dark eyes wide with emotion. The Shan-Sei had saved the city when the raiders of Klem came. Ob’twuatha the Shan-Sei priest climbed the high tower and summoned the sand up to strike the forces down. He recalled too that his mother had walked in on that story and put an end to it much to the brothers’ disappointed cries.

The young priest memorized the incantation, in order to tell his brother about it later. Al-Shamah would laugh. They’d sat side by side on the bed that night as equals. It couldn’t have been long after that that their ways were parted.

Rook stood up and stretched his arms high. His back cracked from being still so long. He missed his brother. In that silent moment he was suddenly aware of how much he cared for him. ‘I’ll have to go to him tomorrow,’ he thought.

Camels thundered outside, their heavy voices grumbling against the hastened approach. Rook snuffed out the candles. He crept along the pews and hid in the portal beside the entrance. Low, garbled voices hung in the night air outside the temple’s doors. He caught a few words, but lost their meaning when his mind placed the language: Klemish. The tongue of Kaladia’s sworn enemies. What could they be doing here? How did they get past the guards on the outskirts?

Al-Shamah’s scream pierced the night and was stifled. The temple’s door was thrown open. A torch lit the cavity of the great hall with an eerie, orange glow. From his vantage, Rook could barely make out the silhouetted face of the spy. ‘They’re looking for me,’ he thought. Chills ran down his spine. The flames cast shadows along the empty temple, but the intruder found nothing. At last, he withdrew, tossing the torch inside. It fell just under the first pew. Flames lapped at the seat. The ancient wood, older than the oldest living priest, had been cared for with oil weekly. The fire drank at the residue and smoke rose in a black cloudy mass. Rook remained motionless for the spy was just outside the doorway watching for movement. Finally, with a frustrated groan, the arsonist slammed shut the door. The protesting camels were urged away.

The young priest reached for the basin of anointed water beside the door. He overturned it on the flames praying it would be enough. The fire sizzled and died sending a plume of acrid smoke into the air. This only added to Rook’s queasiness for he knew the scream had been his brother. He was sure of it. Panic rose in his chest and he found it hard to take in a breath. ‘This must be what it feels like to drown,’ he thought. Drawing his black robes tight he peered out the door, to be sure ‘they’ were gone. The crisp night air rid his breath of the harsh smoke and the lingering aroma of incense.

His dark eyes scanned the lamp-lit scene. Drops of blood glistened in the moonlit sand of the temple’s courtyard. As if confirming his fear, Al-Shamah’s amulet lay at the young priest’s feet. The king had known his brother was in the temple. He’d dropped the necklace in warning, for the amulet was only worn by one of noble birth, a descendant of the Galkwin line. Rook reached down and took it up in his palm. It was already cold. The clasp that held the chain together was broken. He felt helpless. This was the last relative he had, stolen from him as his mother had been. His eyes traced the sand, following the camel tracks. They led northeast, over the flat sand to the dunes beyond the city.

“I have to save him,” he said, voice riddled with pain. “Come on, think!” Panic rose higher but courage soon followed. Never having been trained to fight or track anyone he was hardly the best candidate to chase after the kidnappers. But he had to act. Rook sprinted to the temple stable, his brother’s scream echoing in his mind, haunting him for the few seconds he’d wasted just standing there. Guilt flooded his emotions. If he couldn’t get to Al-Shamah, then all would be lost. He rubbed his eyes, the dark circles there attesting to his lack of sleep in the past few nights. As Rook mounted a camel, footsteps crunched in the hay. Thinking it was his brother’s kidnappers; he drew in a fearful breath and turned the beast around.

"Rook, there you are. I was looking for you," said Ali-Majra. Her sweet perfume, rather like lavender, drifted up to the young priest. Her yellow-green eyes were strikingly cat-like. She drew her hand across her slight cheeks and down to her small chin. "I couldn’t sleep. I just keep thinking of your mother. It was so terrible, what happened.” She paused and looked at the camel. “Where are you going at this hour?" Her left brow arched as she waited for his reply.

"My brother was taken by Lochnar’s men. Alert the guards and send them northeast."

Her thin, black eyebrows tensed, then relaxed. A breeze drifted in through the open gate and lifted a few strands of her ebony hair from her shoulders. "Yes, of course. I'll send them in your wake. They can follow your tracks."

"Thank you, my friend." He smiled at her, thankful for all she had done for him, but most of all thankful she’d found him at that moment.

Ali-Majra ran into the night, her black hair flying behind her, skirts trailing up as well. Rook trusted her completely, fool that he was for her beautiful face. He spurred his mount and rode off into the dunes. The night swallowed him whole as he vanished from sight of the city. The tracks were plain as no one traveled northeast. Trades were made with the forest folk but never with the Klemish.

As Rook approached, the band of fleeing men turned one by one, their mounts kicking up dust. Armor glowed in the moonlight. Sleep had stolen his common sense. Rook’s fingers flicked over the hilt of his ceremonial dagger. It was then he realized he should have sent guards instead of coming alone. Never had he felt more helpless. Al-Shamah was king, and if something should happen to him, Rook was the only logical heir. No one would want that. The bastard son of the queen shunned and abandoned to the priesthood, a king? The whispers would only lengthen when he passed. They would blame him for this if he failed; he knew that. Yet, what could he do?

“Yatay!” screamed the four men as they drew their curved swords in challenge. Their armor declared their power. They were trained mercenaries, paid well by the look of their bejeweled swords which glittered, even in the dark of night. The fifth rider had Al-Shamah bound across his camel. The young king was kicking, screaming, struggling for freedom, all in vain.

Rook took a deep breath and tried to deepen his voice. "My guards will be upon you any moment! Surrender your prisoner now while you still can," he commanded. Luckily, his voice came out with more authority than he thought possible.

The mercenaries looked to their leader. Tales of his famous face sparked the young priest’s recognition. Runes were tattooed over his cheeks and forehead, the signature marks of the prince of Klem. It was Lochnar, the dark prince of Klem come to be sure the task he desired was done properly. His shaven head held one long lock of hair which whipped in a sudden wind. He was clothed in armor from neck to ankle and his sword lay resting in the scabbard at his belt.

A flurry of wind howled as it came from behind the riders. It scattered sand all around the group. Rook held his sleeve across his face to shield his eyes. When it settled, the priest’s stomach grew light. His tracks! His tracks had been erased! There would be no way for the guards to find him now. Panic gripped his heart, determined to crush him from within.

The young priest turned at the skittering sound of horse hoofs, praying it was the guards. Ali-Majra, her black hair flying around her feline face, rode unaccompanied on her swift bay mare. Rook had bought that mare for her from the forest traders. How her eyes had sparkled when she’d seen the creature. It was a rarity in the desert city to have a horse.

Lochnar's laugh echoed in the still air. "Where are your guards now, little prince?" he scoffed. As if on cue his men laughed as well.

"Ali-Majra?" Rook called.

She didn't look at him. Her horse sauntered past and stopped beside Lochnar, tossing its mane defiantly. The still air let the faintest hint of her lavender scent torture the priest.

"You've made it too easy for us, Rook," she said. "You were so willing to follow this band of invaders. I saw my chance. Now I can return home, to Klem where I belong.” She shot a knowing glance at Lochnar and pushed a stray strand of hair from her face. “The people will worship me for destroying your family and bringing Kaladia to its knees at last."

"But I trusted you," Rook said. Visions of his studies with her, of the things he’d confided in her plagued him at that moment. His stomach twisted at the sight of her betrayal. The guards were not coming. All was lost.

"You were by my side after my mother..." Rook stammered, still not comprehending what she was.

"Your mother drank the poison I gave her," she said, her voice cold as death. Her cat eyes remained still, glaring into his with a steely resolve, a calculated certainty.

Ali-Majra's revelation cut into Rook’s heart. All the whispers over him, his illegitimate birth, his strangeness seemed to gather, to bubble and seethe over. He had no chance as he screamed and spurred his camel toward her. The four men were upon him in an instant. Their heavy war camels slammed into his slight mount knocking it to the ground and flinging the priest through the air. His body hit the earth, sand biting into his arm and cheek. Rook’s turban was knocked off and his thick black hair, uncut since his seventh year, fell in wild curls around his head, blurring his vision.

"Foolish boy! How dare you challenge me?" Lochnar shouted as he jumped down from his mount. His footsteps shiffed in the sand as he came toward the fallen priest. He kicked Rook in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The priest struggled to breathe as his eyes met Lochnar’s. Fear was evident in Rook’s face, it outweighed the pain. Blood trickled down his cheek as he braced himself for the next blow.

"Rook is a priest of Shan-Sei. Don't challenge him!" Al-Shamah called out. The young king was still struggling to escape, his bonds cutting into his wrists and ankles.

Rook gasped. What had his brother suggested?

"He does wear their robes, my prince." said one of the mercenaries. The mercenary urged his mount back from the fallen priest, a flush overcoming his battle-worn face, though none could see it beneath his helmet. The Shan-Sei order were something of old tales, secret tales, dark things that no one wanted to get close to. They were cursed, the reason the cities of Kaladia and Klem had divided and the reason the forests no longer crossed into the reaches of the sand.

Lochnar stared at the clothing Rook wore, measuring the truth of the king’s words. His eyes went from Rook’s long hair, across the black velvet robes and stopped at the young man’s boots then traveled up again as if taking it all in. His eyes locked on Rook’s. He studied the darkness there as if waiting to see something more.

"You're no priest," he growled as he kicked him again. "The mythic priests of Shan-Sei summon demons from the very sands to do their bidding; they can bring forth fire from their fingertips, read minds, tell the future and all manner of such nonsense! Their magic has been dead here for three generations! I do not believe in you or the Shan-Sei myth, little prince." He spat the last word as though he too, knew Rook’s lineage was tainted.

Lochnar kicked Rook hard enough to flip him over. The young priest struggled to look back up at his attacker. “The Shan-Sei deserted your city ages ago. And those that survived their cowardly flight have been assassinated by my mercenaries.” He gazed into Rook’s eyes with vengeful malice. There, for an instant he saw a flicker of light within the priest’s dark pupils. Lochnar took in a drawn breath and waited for the light to fade. So it was true. Power still remained in the cursed temple.

"Tie him!" Lochnar commanded to his henchmen.

Rook turned. His brother was a plaintive blur. The young priest’s mind raced. Did his brother really want him to summon the dark power? He looked to stars for an answer. The triple moons glared back at him. Their blue glow cast in three un-matching shades added to his dizziness. Rook closed his eyes and let his mind drift from the pain.

He was seven again sitting with Rayneir and his mother within the confined temple circle room. Raynier told the boy that he was to be tested for the priesthood; something considered a formality for he was the queen’s child, and would be let in either way.

He followed Bishop Raynier’s instructions to move a silver ball with his mind, repeating the bishop’s words like a trained parrot. Perhaps Rook was the only one that had not expected the ball to obey. The dark power came to him. It came easily. There was no trick to it. The ball glided into the air and began to spin. Bishop Raynier’s face had fallen in disappointment. He sent the boy out of the room. A curious child, even then, Rook hovered by the door to eavesdrop. He tried to peek through the crack in the door but had to sate himself with voices alone.

“His powers exceed any known to me,” Raynier whispered. “Calling it forth is far too risky. You know what happened to his father.”

“Then train him, teach him, I demand that YOU do it,” the queen said.

“You knew this would happen,” Raynier replied, his voice thick with accusations. “You knew he would be just like his father. It’s why you sought the man out. You wanted this, a child that held the darkness.”

There was a drawn silence. Rook waited for the sound of their footsteps but they didn’t come. There was the soft hush of fabric as his mother adjusted her skirts. “I leave it in your hands to prevent that,” she offered. As she did everyone, the queen bent the bishop to her will. She feared no one. “If anyone can save him, it’s you.”

Immediately accepted into the priesthood Rook was forced to live in humble quarters away from his brother and mother. The loneliness was not unbearable; he was used to being shunned. But he’d been abandoned. Even at seven, he knew that much. Occasional nights, his brother would come down from the castle and visit. He shared his studies, so different from those of the priesthood with Rook. Al-Shamah was the young boy’s only reminder that there was life outside the temple, and that he was part of something larger than that which he’d been forced into.

His mother visited every seventh day. She was brief, short and often said nothing at all until it was time for her to take her leave. “Good will come of you,” she would say as she gathered her skirts. It was as though by saying those words aloud, they might actually prove true one day. Her eyes spoke in opposite though.

Rook was taught purity, peace, knowledge and fear of the dark power. The dark power was forbidden, especially to him. He soon realized that it was forbidden because no other priest possessed it. All of the Shan-Sei believed the dark magic had destroyed the kingdom, divided it and raped the land of its riches. Rook learned to fear it. He learned to hate that part of himself, to regard it as evil. Even so, he was curious.

He practiced it behind closed doors, in the depths of night when no one would discover his sins. He soon found he could move other things with his mind, usually small rocks. Sometime he moved bits of sand. When he concentrated hard enough, he could cause the water in a basin to dance.

Late one night he showed off for his brother sending a wave of pebbles into the air to spin about the prince’s head. “Can you do it?” Rook asked, hoping beyond hope that he wasn’t alone with the dark power. Al-Shamah too, was curious, fascinated even, for he was being trained to lead, to protect and saw the value such a gift might have if used to advantage. Rook explained how he did it, several times over, patient as ever. Yet each time Al-Shamah tried, nothing happened. None of the power lived within his blood.

Rook was startled from his memories by his brother’s scream. He shook his head and willed himself not to pass out again. If he was to die, he wanted to see his end, to look his murderer in the eye and hope that man’s spirit would forever be haunted.

"No," he mumbled in answer to his brother’s question.

"Yes!" Al-Shamah commanded, his voice echoing the authority their mother’s had always held. He knew the power was there; he believed in Rook. A bloody gash stood out on the king’s face. It went from his left eye to his chin, a scar he would bare forever. Anger welled inside Rook, building to a point of agony. They’d cut his brother, hurt him, he couldn’t let them kill him! Never before had he felt such wrath, such fury. In answer to it, the dark power gathered its strength and became a force over which the young priest’s control was wavering.

Rook shoved his right hand into the sand and began to chant the words he’d memorized from the ancient book only just that night. Sand rose from the earth around his hand. A whirlwind of stinging particles surrounded him, forcing the priest to close his eyes. Yet he continued to chant, his voice a heady rhythmic thing that bent the element to his will.

"I warned you, Lochnar! He has summoned the demons of the sand!" Al-Shamah called in triumph. There was even a hint of laughter in the young king’s voice as though he knew this moment would come.

The nauseating stench of sulfur rent the air. Rook opened his eyes to see a monster, a creature whose serpent-like body towered above Lochnar's height. It opened its gaping mouth and spit sand at the men. The particles rained down, cutting past crevices between armor plating, biting at the tunics and skin beneath. The mercenaries ran screaming, some falling and crawling toward their spooked mounts. Eventually they scattered, their camels braying in fear as they fled. The only man that did not run was Lochnar. He stood his ground, defiance raging in his dark eyes, curling his lip up on one side as he reached for his sword. His tattoo marred face was aghast. “Stupid magic tricks,” he muttered. “I do not fear you.”

Ali-Majra crouched behind him, still on her frantic horse. The sand-demon slithered toward them, a path of blackened sand following it. Lochnar drew his blade and struck the creature. He managed to slice a chunk from its body. The piece fell to the earth in a clump and then blackened. The serpent laughed a horrible breathless sound. Its wound healed over. Sand moved throughout its body, constantly shifting to replace whatever Lochnar hacked away. It was a futile battle, the incarnation had the advantage.

Rook pulled himself up, his body aching against the motion. He ran to free his brother the sand pulling at him. He stumbled, throwing his hands out to brace his body against the fall. Again the incarnation laughed its voice a sound from nightmares. The dark priest looked over his shoulder, eyes wide in shock. He still couldn’t believe it had worked. Half crawling, he managed to get up once more. At last he reached his brother. The heavy war camel was braying, backing up slow, the whites of its eyes shining in the darkness.

“Hold,” Rook cooed in Klemish. The beast’s head tossed. “Hold, hold, boy,” he said again, reaching for the reins. Once he had them, the camel steadied though still eyeing the demon that fought its master.

His Shan-Sei ceremonial dagger proved itself useful. Rook drew it and sliced through the leather straps that held the young king. He helped his brother right himself in the saddle and climbed up to join him. The camel leapt away in the direction its new riders urged. Fear gave the beast speed.

The brothers stopped a safe distance away from the sand-demon to see what had become of Lochnar. The camel was still edgy, pacing back and forth, braying nervously.

“Look what you’ve created!” Al-Shamah said. The awe in his voice was evident. The young king was squinting at the figure that battled the demon. He was enthralled by the power his younger brother possessed. With such gifts at its disposal, Kaladia would never be set upon by raiders again.

Rook’s gaze went from his brother’s blood crusted face to the horrible demon he had summoned. Fear filled him, replacing his vengeful anger. It was the fear ingrained by the priesthood, the fear that he’d used the land to create the creature and by doing so had taken the land’s energy, the land’s life. Guilt replaced Rook’s fear as his thoughts turned to Ali-Majra. He’d brought her close to his mother, allowed her access to the queen. Because of him, because of his greed to learn, to know secrets forbidden, his mother had died. His throat clicked as he swallowed back the pain that threatened to overcome him.

The sand demon’s connection to its maker was severed by that thought, that loss of concentration. The serpent's shape disintegrated. Unfortunately for Lochnar, the sand used to create the incarnation plummeted down upon its opponent’s body, burying him. The dark prince’s scream barely had time to echo before it was silenced.

Ali-Majra’s horse jumped clear in a skittish attempt to retreat. She pulled back on the reins, her eyes wide in horror. This should not have happened. Lochnar couldn’t be defeated. Impossible! She slid from the saddle, racing to where the dark prince’s body had been swallowed up. Kneeling, she tore at the sand with her hands desperate to free him. Rook’s stomach twisted. How he hated her. How could she? After all he’d done, after all the time they’d shared?

“Finish them,” Al-Shamah commanded. His voice had grown cold; so much like their mother’s that Rook gasped.

The strength of the dark power surged through the young priest. He could feel it hovering within his body, awaiting his call as never before. It tempted him to do more, seemed to want him to kill. He shivered, goose bumps breaking out over his skin with the urge. Conflicting voices spoke in whispers within his thoughts. Do it, kill them. They deserve to die, the murderers. What had he done? What had he created? How could he have trusted Ali-Majra? It was not his nature to harm others. That much he knew was true.

“I cannot!” Rook said. “The Shan-Sei are sworn to peace, I have already disobeyed the order with what I have done! It was wrong to use the dark power.”

“There was no other way, Rook. Finish them. They’ll only return another day if you don’t.”

Rook knew the dark power had saved them. Lochnar would have taken both hostages to Klem and sacrificed them, ending the Galkwin reign of Kaladia forever. He drew in an unsteady breath, unsure if he could do what his brother willed. At that moment the three moons drew apart, shrouding all in darkness. The chance was lost in the pitch black of the desert night. He could still hear Ali-Majra’s voice, frantic in the distance, calling for her fallen comrade. Rook hoped Lochnar was dead, hoped she’d find him, his eyes and mouth tainted with sand, his last breath long since choked out of him. He hoped she’d suffer when she realized he was gone. Suffer as he had every night since his mother’s death.

The young priest spurred their mount on, pulling its head too harshly in the direction of home. Already he regretted his inability to carry out his brother’s wishes.

“It was the dark power that destroyed the forests and divided Shan-Sei.” Rook mumbled. He wanted to justify his inaction.

“No,” said the young king. “You’re wrong. The priests have poisoned your mind. Shan-Sei was divided by its people. The people destroyed the forest in their war upon each other. The dark power is a gift. Mother said so. I am the son of the bishop and yet I possess none of the power. Am I right in believing that the bishop himself does not possess it?”

“Yes,” Rook replied clenching the reigns tighter. His mother said the power was a gift? How could that be?

“Lochnar spoke the truth that the Shan-Sei order has been powerless for generations. And yet, here you are. It’s a sign, Rook. The Creator has granted Kaladia the power to defeat Lochnar and his army. He will raid the city again. You know what I say is true.”

For a long time after that they rode in silence. The camel’s feet glided effortlessly over the slithering sand. Rook’s guilt consumed him. He began to question the Shan-Sei’s teachings even more than before. Fear was what drove them. ‘Do they fear me, the power I have?’ Rook wondered. There could be no other explanation for why he had been kept in the temple, the study of what he was forbidden to him.

“Al-Shamah,” he said I they reached the edge of their city, “I cannot go back now. The temple holds nothing for me. I have learned all I can from it.”

“What are you saying?” His brother gripped his shoulder possessively.

“I’m saying I must leave you now. It’s my fault Ali-Majra ever came to us. I hired her to tutor me. I let her into the castle from the front gateway. If I stay I’ll only be a danger to you. I have to get away.”

He slipped down from the camel and turned to face the black starlit dunes. How cold and forbidding they were and yet, something there seemed to beckon to him, to whisper his name. His shoulder grew cold where his brother’s hand had been. His brother was his only link to Kaladia, the only reason he shouldn’t go.

“Rook, stay, help me fight this new war. With my leadership and your power we’ll win. Klem will be ours and the Shan-Sei kingdom will be united once more. You had no way of knowing what Ali-Majra was. Even I,” he stammered, “trusted her.” The young king’s face flushed but Rook couldn’t see it in the dim starlight. He had trusted her far more than his younger brother knew.

“No, the kingdoms will not unite with more fighting. I cannot be a part of what you ask. Don’t you see? It’s not in me to destroy. I’m a priest of Shan-Sei, not a warrior, no matter if I chose that path or not. I must go. No one wants me here. I’m not the bishop’s son.” His last words came out with malice. For in all the year’s he’d been there, those were the words whispered behind his back, whispered as though he were a dirty thing, a vile bastard child that had no place in Kaladia.

Rook reached up to his brother and his brother knelt down to meet him. The young priest touched Al-Shamah’s bloodied cheek and whispered the healing words, not sure if what he was willing to occur would indeed happen. A pale light glowed around his hand, illuminating Al-Shamah’s dark face. The torn skin pulled together, obeying Rook’s wishes as though it was entirely natural to do so. The bleeding ceased. Though he would be scarred, the young king’s wound was healed. Al-Shamah’s brows furrowed at the tingle of his brother’s touch. His pain ebbed away.

‘I am a healer,’ Rook thought. His face at once became awe-stricken by what he’d done. He ran his hand over the scar, holding his breath, disbelieving his own power. Melancholy was quick to settle in again when he pulled his hand away. His fingers were warm, and the skin on their tips felt as though it were crawling. His mind was shadowed now with the thought that he really could have saved his mother.

“You will always be my brother no matter who your father was,” Al-Shamah said. He held out his hand urging his brother to return to the saddle. “Stay!”

Rook backed away, wanting to memorize his face, bloody though it was. He had to go into the desert. Some force was calling him there. He didn’t want to return to the temple, to the guilt, to the fear and the whispers to the gilt cage his mother had forced upon him.

“Come back,” his brother called. Rook had put quite a distance between the two of them by then. “Rook, will you come back when you’ve found what you’re searching for in the wastelands?”

The young priest held his hand to his heart and then his lips, their salute since childhood. Then he promised that yes, someday, he would return. He turned from his brother, from the great white castle high upon the black stones, the city and the temple that was his life. He was running away from all he had known. Not knowing why or where he was going, Rook walked into the sands that had once been called Shan-Sei. His brother watched as the young priest vanished, Al-Shamah’s heart grew cold for he feared he would never see his brother again. Too many Shan-Sei priests had gone into the desert only to disappear from record and time.