The gong struck once. Twice. Three times, its deep tones ringing through the walls of the city.
A fourth time, and Altair’s eyes snapped open.
He squinted, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. Fine curtains hung from each side of his bed, their near-transparency hinting at shadows in the room beyond. His hooves rested on his sheets, the thin, silk-woven quilt warm over his body.
There came a quiet sliding sound, and sunlight flooded into his bed.
“Gods be good.” Altair put a hoof in front of his eyes. “You could give at least some warning.”
The curtains were swept aside, revealing a tall, well-built stallion standing at the side of the bed. “Good morning, my prince,” he said with a bow. “I trust you slept well?”
Altair grunted. “Well enough.”
He sat up in bed, shifting his weight and folding his hind legs to the side so as to sit more comfortably. As he rested his head against the back of the headboard, he heard the distinct sounds of clinking glass. The curtain on the other side of his bed drew open, and he held out his hooves expectantly as a servantmare held out a tray toward him.
“So, Habiib,” Altair said, accepting a saucer and cup of tea. “What is expected of me today?”
The butler inclined his head. “You have a light schedule today, my prince. You should count yourself lucky; the Celebration of Flowers is approaching, and your sire expects you to make at least one appearance during the festivities.”
“Of course he does.” Altair took a sip of the tea, savoring the taste of mint as he swilled it around in his mouth. “Well? Go on, then.”
Habiib retrieved a scroll from a bag at his side. “I have here your list of activities for the day. In the afternoon, you will be meeting with the Council of Spice Merchants to discuss a recent tariff on cumin, and in the evening you will dine with the Zahar family.”
He held the parchment up to the light, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepening. “This morning, however, you have your pick of activities. Your sire left his suggestion that you survey the marketplace to ensure that proper preparations for the Celebration are underway; otherwise, you may visit with the Lord of Silks, or else provide your patronage to the Western Temple and the priestesses there.”
Altair didn’t answer at first. Instead, he took a final sip of his tea and set the saucer down on a bedside table, the cup still half-full. Habiib stepped aside as the prince turned to place his hooves on the floor, letting himself down to the ground with a small grunt.
An eager maid immediately stepped toward him, a hairbrush in her mouth, and he made no move to stop her as she began to brush his dark black mane. Once she had finished, he trotted toward a window, its sliding shade moved back into place and golden sunbeams streaming through. The glass-paned doors beside it swung open at his approach, and Altair trotted through.
The wind swept through his mane, the air warm and dry against his lips. It tasted like salt today, he decided, taking in a deep breath and exhaling slowly. The sun was warm on his deep blue coat, and a faint smile appeared on his face as he looked out over the city.
“You know,” he said, “I had a dream last night.”
“Oh? Do tell, my prince.”
The light glinted off of the tops of the great palaces dotted across the city, their spiraling towers stretching up toward the sky. They shone with silver and gold, and their walls were the color of bright ivory.
“It was of the desert.” Altair paused, trying to remember more. “But there was a spring there: an oasis.”
“Like in the city?”
Altair shook his head, his dark black mane swaying beside his neck. “No. It was alone in the desert, with no civilization for miles in any direction.”
He frowned, the image flickering in his mind. “But there was something in the middle of the oasis, where the sand and stone met water. There were no other trees or plants there, but I saw...”
Habiib’s voice was patient: interested, but quiet. “Yes?”
“A flower.” Altair licked his lips; they felt dry for some reason. “A rose. The first live one I’d ever seen.”
"An interesting dream, my prince. I hope the rest of your sleep was restful as well?”
His lip curled, and he looked back over the city. “Indeed it was.”
The streets, said by foreign travelers to be paved with marble, glided through the city. The sandstone houses on each side stood tall and strong, curving with the shift of the roads. Altair took another deep breath as a servantmare placed a small circlet on his head. His eyes drifted across the city. From the oasis springs of the Inner Palace; to the gleaming lakes of the southern city; to the silent temples in each corner of the capital; and to the great, towering walls that surrounded the city, all of it was his. Bridylon, the capital of Saddle Arabia: the jewel of the desert. The city of his sire, and his sire’s sire, and his sire’s sire’s sire before him.
His city.
His eyes finally came to rest on the scarlet tents of the bazaar, horses and foreigners alike roaming between its colored stalls. The phantom scent of cinnamon wafted through his nostrils, soon joined by those of pepper and cumin. He turned to face Habiib.
“Prepare a litter,” Altair barked. He lowered his head, allowing a servant to lace a jeweled bridle over his neck. “And get me properly dressed. I feel like going to the market today.”
Habiib nodded once more. “At once, my prince.”
“Hey! Move out of the way!”
Altair watched from behind the silk veils of his litter, his legs and long mane curled up beneath him. Four stallions of the Crescent Guard carried him, their strong backs laden with the bars that held the litter aloft. Before them, a royal crier cleared the streets, commanding merchants and citizens to step aside for the royal train.
“Are you comfortable, my prince?” Habiib murmured from his place beside the litter. As always, he had turned down the offer of his own seat, preferring instead to walk under his own power. “Do you require water? Tea?”
Altair snorted, blowing a strand of his mane out of his face. “I am fine. How long until we arrive?”
A gentle thump answered him; the guards carrying the litter had stopped in place, and the royal servants had lowered it to the ground. Through the shadows of the veil, Altair could make out a small smile on his butler’s face. “We are here, my prince.”
With a roll of his eyes, Altair got to his hooves. “Excellent.” He waited for a pair of servants to push aside the litter’s curtains before stepping off of the comfortable silken padding and onto the hot, sandy road. “The Master of Coin is in his quarters?”
“I would suppose.”
“Very good. Take me there.” Altair looked to each of his guards in turn. “Wait for me here until my return. Habiib and two of your number shall accompany me inside. The rest are forbidden from straying into the marketplace.”
“Yes, Prince Altair,” they said in unison, snapping off a series of smart salutes before returning to their positions around the litter. A half-dozen servants, mare and stallion both, accompanied the prince as he made his way up the winding path that led to the palace of the Master of Coin.
“Do you think Master Qahwa will have anything of interest for us?” Altair asked. The group trotted up forward, approaching a pair of towering, emerald-green doors.
“I do hope so, my prince.” Habiib looked up to the doors as they opened, the jewel-encrusted stone moving with a loud creak. “And here are his servants to welcome us. Wonderful.”
“Quite.”
“It’s an honor to have you here, my prince.” Qahwa bowed deeply, his nose nearly touching the carpet-smothered floor of his welcoming chambers. “May I offer you anything? Pastries, perhaps? Refreshments?”
Master Qahwa was a recent addition to the ruling class of Bridylon. His genius for finance and accounting during difficult times had proved worthy, in the High King’s eyes, of the gift of lordship and his own palace, as well as the title of Master of Coin. The stallion himself was squat for a horse, almost approaching the size of a pony. His mane hung below his knees, and he was plump from countless “taxes” paid to appease the customs officers.
“Whatever you can provide would be most appreciated,” Habiib said, Altair standing silently at his side. “Thank you, Master Qahwa.”
“Of course, of course.” The lord bowed at least seven more times as he left the room, backing away with his behind held ludicrously high in the air. “Anything for my lord prince.”
“I’m not hungry, you know,” Altair said out of the side of his mouth as the lord disappeared.
“I know.”
Habiib hummed quietly to himself, a melody that Altair recognized as a baudy merchant’s tune. “Stop that,” he said. “It’s unbecoming.”
“Of course, my prince.”
Master Qahwa returned within a few minutes. True to his word, he brought with him a veritable horde of servants and cooks, each bearing a mountain of breads, fruits, or fresh vegetables. Altair frowned as Habiib, with a light touch of his hoof, plucked a grape from a platter and chewed it thoughtfully.
“Come now, my prince,” Habiib said. “Enjoy yourself.”
Grudgingly, and without a word, Altair accepted a slice of melon from the platter of a particularly curvy young mare. His eyes traced down her sides, her tail curled around one back leg. He took a bite out of the melon.
“The latest batch, from beyond the rainforests,” Qahwa boasted. “The crop is near completion, so this is among the most ripe of all the season. Do you find it to your liking, my prince?”
Altair chewed slowly, his eyes moving down the side of the mare and onto the mane of another beside her. “It’s very good.” He swallowed. “Shall we move onto business, then?”
“Of course, my prince. Shall we move outside to the balcony? The view is lovely.”
Altair lifted a hoof to adjust his bridle. “That sounds like an excellent plan, Master Qahwa. Will you lead the way?”
“...And so I’ve arranged to have the Crystal Pavilion redone with the proper amenities, in order to open an additional selection of stalls in that sector of the market. It should allow us to add another group of merchants: an order of griffon traders who’ve been quite worried about securing a place in the Celebration.”
“Very good.” Altair adjusted his legs, his body resting on one of the crimson silk pads that Qahwa had had waiting for them on the balcony. Their seats were cool, shaded by the canopy of several potted trees. “Tell me, what are these called again?”
“Those?” Qahwa looked up along the branches. “They are banana trees, my prince. Very expensive, but they provide excellent shade.”
“I don’t see any bananas,” Altair murmured. He glanced down at his hoof, inspecting it for any dirt or sand.
“Oh, but you wouldn’t. It isn’t the proper season, you see. Come the wet season, however, and...”
He let Qahwa’s voice fade from his ears as the Master of Coin droned on, caught up in yet another of his infamous tangents. Instead, his eyes drifted down, squinting against the sunlight that filtered through the palm leaves, and finally came to rest on the bazaar and streets below.
At first, he tried to see how many foreigners he could pick out. For each natural-born horse, there was at least one griffon; drakes, the dim scales shifting in the light like their much larger cousins, traded jewels and shouted prices at the top of their lungs. Carts swept through the streets, their owners sometimes wearing wings, sometimes wearing claws, and sometimes only hooves. His eyes swept from side to side as Qahwa’s voice buzzed on in the back of his ears.
And then he saw her.
The first thing he noticed was the crimson: streaks of bloodied red that swept through her mane. They wove with strands of pale gold, each curl resting perfectly upon her shoulders.
Her coat was dusted with the colors of the sand outside the city walls, but still pale enough that it looked like thick cream. Her shoulders, perfectly formed, moved with grace as she strode through the marketplace, her mane swaying from side to side. Squinting, he could just barely make out a smudged image on her flank: a black spiral overlapping a golden circle.
“Who is that?” Altair murmured, leaning to the side of his pad.
Habiib lifted an ear, raising an eyebrow as Qahwa continued his monologue on specialty silks in the background. “Who, my prince?”
“That mare.” Altair lifted a hoof and pointed. “Do you see her? With the golden mane and the light brown coat?”
“And the mark on her side?” Habiib nodded. “She looks to be a member of the northern traders that we allowed in yesterday morning, judging by her build and sales.” He gestured to a shelf of glass and pottery beside her. “See? Equestrian goods.”
“Equestrian...” Altair mouthed the word. “She’s a pony.”
“You can tell it by the mark,” Habiib added. “All ponies of Equestria have them. They call them—”
“—Cutie marks. Yes, I know.” Altair rested his chin on his hoof, watching as she opened a crate to remove a long-necked ceramic vase. He stayed like that for a minute, sitting still as his eyes traced her hoofsteps.
“Are you well, my prince?”
He coughed. “What manner of idiot’s question is that, Habiib? Of course I am well.” His scowl faded as he turned to his side, the palm leaves rustling above them. “Do you—do you imagine that she will be here tomorrow?”
“She? The Equestrian mare?”
Altair nodded.
Habiib shrugged. “She is a trader, no? I would imagine so.” At Altair’s skeptical look, he tapped his hoof on the ground. “The masses come and go, but the caravans always come back. Time and again, the merchants build their stalls, sell their wares, and leave the city. But they always come back.”
“Always?”
The butler’s mouth quirked into a small smile.
“She will return.”
“More rice?”
Altair inclined his head and leaned over to allow the servantmare to spoon an additional serving of food onto his place. Another lifted a pitcher of wine and delicately refilled his bowl. The prince nodded again, and the two servants stepped back into their places beside the wall.
“So I have heard good things about your appearances in court.”
He looked up, turning to face the opposite head of the table. There sat Namus Zahan, head of his family and patron of the arts within the walls of Bridylon. He was a tall, distinguished stallion, his mane dark against his deep brown coat. He had been an ally of the High King since the latter’s ascension from heir to lord, and for that, at least, he held Altair’s respect.
“Oh?” he asked, taking a sip of wine. “What manner of good things?”
A smile crossed Zahan’s face. “Several, actually, most to do with your ability hear all sides of an argument before reaching a verdict. Such patience and clarity of thought is admirable in a future king.”
“I’m glad to hear so,” Altair said absently. His sire had disagreed, calling it “willful ignorance” and “useless silence.” He privately agreed; the inner workings of the royal court, as well as most day-to-day affairs, held little interest for him. Most things did.
Except...
The phantom image of a golden mane rippled across his vision, but his thoughts were rudely interrupted by another voice. “I’m sure you’re going to be a wonderful king, Prince Altair.”
He turned to face the side of the table and offered a small grin. Lilac Zahan was a beautiful mare, with a coat whose light purple color matched her name well. She was the jewel of her sire’s eye. As Altair watched, she gave him an even broader smile.
“I am sure that the prince is quite grateful to hear your thoughts,” Habiib said. He sat at Altair’s side, barely having touched his own food. “Yours especially, Lady Lilac.”
His leg kicked Altair’s under the table.
Altair jerked. “Ah—of course, my lady. Your words are nearly as beautiful as you are.”
Lilac put a hoof to her mouth, giggling quietly. “Thank you, my prince.”
Zahan’s deep voice was next to ring across the table. “You honor us, Prince Altair. I am happy to see that our houses continue to enjoy a privileged friendship.”
“Of course.”
The lord held a hoof over his mouth. “El'hem seramel,” he murmured: the words of his House, said in the spirit of promise and honor. The sands whisper.
“Ya lili, ah ya leel,” Altair replied, giving his own House’s words and echoing the motion.Oh night, oh night.
Zahan’s smile widened. “I would be happy to perhaps join our houses further in the future—to encourage this bountiful friendship.” At his side, Lilac offered a small wave.
Altair stared. He could see the Lady Lilac sitting there, but her form seemed to ripple; in her place he saw flashes of crimson and golden honey, as well as a coat the color of cream. Soon, it was not Lilac sitting there, but her, a thin veil covering eyes that held beauty and secrets. His mouth moved, but no words came out.
Perhaps sensing his master’s loss for words, Habiib jumped in. “A wonderful plan, my lord. I am sure that the High King and the prince will be most amenable to any sort of agreement to foster that bond.”
Zahan nodded. “I am most happy to hear it.” He clapped his hooves, and several servants stepped forward to remove their plates. “Now, it appears that we have finished the main course. Would anyone like some dessert?”
The next morning found Altair back in the bazaar, in a courtyard near to Qahwa’s household. His sire had asked him to check up on a delivery of marble slabs meant to be used in Palace construction; he’d given the excuse that “a prince must be educated in worldly matters.” Altair had happily accepted, not caring that the momentary enthusiasm of a usually unenthusiastic prince might raise his sire’s suspicion. So long as he got to see her again, he’d accept his task without complaint.
After spending an hour staring at nothing but stacks of rock, however, he was beginning to doubt even catching a fleeting glimpse.
“Look.”
Altair turned, Habiib’s hoof on his shoulder. “What?” he asked.
“Over there.” The butler smiled. “Isn’t that what you really came for?”
Altair’s head whirled around. Sure enough, there she stood, her small, sculpted frame moving across the street. His eyes widened. From here—this closer, stolen glimpse—she was even more beautiful than he had imagined, her tanned coat shimmering in the light. Her mane even moved like honey, melting around her face in a braid of deep gold.
“She is an earth pony,” Habiib murmured.
“What?”
“An Equestrian with neither wings nor horn. Barred from the skies and forbidden the use of magic.”
Altair felt a strange pang in his heart. “Is that so?”
“Indeed.” The butler nodded. “Not so different from our own people, you might say.”
Altair scowled. “Except our people have no need for flight or spellcraft. We built the glory of our civilization through our own hooves: not through the stolen gifts of alicorns.”
“My apologies, my prince.” Habiib bowed, his mane covering his face. “I overstep my bounds.”
His mouth drawn into a thin line, Altair found his eyes wandering along the strange mare’s path once again. “She is beautiful, though.” He coughed. “For an Equestrian.”
Habiib nodded.
“She moves like a flame,” the prince went on. “Each movement, flickering and curling like an ember.”
“Or perhaps like the sand caught in a storm,” Habiib suggested.
Altair nodded slowly, watching each touch of her hooves to the ground; each flicker of her eyes; each smooth curve of her hips and neck. Her every movement was like a dance, drawing him in and refusing to ever let him go.
“She’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen,” he murmured. “I’ve not seen her like in any wing of my sire’s palace.”
“She is indeed a most pleasing mare.” Habiib put a hoof on the prince’s shoulder. “Perhaps you should approach her? Introduce yourself?”
Altair started, his eyes flying wide open. His heart beating fast in his chest, he took a deep breath and gave Habiib a disbelieving look. “You speak folly! I am a prince, and she a traveling merchant—a vagabond! It would be unbecoming.” He shook his head, feeling his breath catch in his throat. “And I-I...”
Habiib waited patiently.
“...I will hear no more of it,” Altair finished. “We will return to the palace at once. I have other duties to attend to.”
He could almost feel Habiib’s aura beside him. Disappointment? Irritation? Impossible. The butler was never a stallion to allow such rebellious emotions into his heart. Apathy? Perhaps.
As they left the bazaar, the Crescent Guards holding the litter firmly in place on their backs, Altair dared one final glance, hoping to catch a glimpse of her before he left.
But she was gone.
When Habiib entered the prince’s chambers, the bed was empty, the curtains already swept aside. Instead, Altair stood in the corner of the room, before a tall, crystal-glass mirror. As the butler watched, he raised his head and inhaled, his chest inflating impressively beneath the shine of his decorated bridle. Seemingly ignorant of Habiib’s presence, he bent his head down and adjusted the silver horseshoe he’d slipped over his hoof. He followed this with a flick of his tail and began to rotate in a circle before the surface of the mirror.
Halfway through, however, he noticed the butler standing in silence by the door. “Habiib! You—you’re here earlier than I expected.” His cheeks flushed, and he quickly stood straight up, edging away from the mirror.
“My apologies if I am interrupting, my prince.” The butler gave a slight bow. “Would you prefer if I left?”
The prince’s cheeks colored an even redder shade. “I—no. Stay.” He paused. “Please.”
Habiib bowed again, his neck inclining at a precise angle to the floor. “Of course.”
He blinked. The prince’s chest rose and fell unsteadily, and deep bags rested beneath his eyes. The evening meal that had sat beside his bed lay untouched, the food left cold. “My prince?” he asked. “Are you well?”
“I...” Altair hesitated. “I could not sleep.”
“Or eat?”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “Evidently not.” He gritted his teeth and opened his eyes, glaring at his reflection. “Is it your job to inquire into these matters like a nurse or housemare?”
“Forgive me.” Habiib bowed low to the ground. “I only wished the best for you and your health. I meant no disrespect.”
Altair was quiet for a moment. “I...I could not sleep. I cannot sleep. I closed my eyes, and there she was: cream and honey, swirling in my mind, more beautiful than the moon.” He shook his head and scowled. “The food felt like ashes in my mouth—I cannot bear this. I-I must—”
Habiib was silent.
“Tell me,” Altair said. He turned back to the mirror and held a foreleg against his chest. He held the pose for a few moments more, his eyes tracing down his haunches and sides in the glass. “Am I...becoming?”
Habiib blinked.
“Masculine? Attractive?” Altair turned his head to get a better look. “Handsome, even?”
There was a slight choking sound.
He spun around, eyes wide. “Oh, gods above, Habiib. I did not mean it like that.” The butler coughed, his eyes squeezed shut. “Stop that—I command you. You know that I would never speak of something so foolish.” For the first time in the prince’s life, he thought he saw a rosy blush on his companion’s face.
“My—my apologies, my prince.” Habiib gave a final, muffled cough. “That was...most improper of me. Shall I withdraw?”
“For the second time, no,” Altair grunted. “You are not permitted to leave.”
There was a beat of silence as he watched himself in the mirror, his eyes glued to each shadow and curve of his lithe form. His mane, black like the darkest nights, lay against the deep blue of his coat. Each hair on his body had been buffed to a perfect shine, and the decorations he’d—clumsily—put on, inexperienced as he was with dressing himself, complimented his colors, from the silver bridle he wore to the diamonds set into the circlet upon his head.
“...You are indeed a handsome specimen,” Habiib finally said. “My prince, I have no doubt that any mare of the Empire would be overjoyed to have you, even without your status.”
“Of course they would.” Altair snorted. “Any mare of the Empire.”
They were both quiet for a moment.
“I had another dream last night.”
“Oh?”
Altair nodded. “Different from the other one.” He paused, putting a hoof on his chin. “This time, it was not of the desert, but the mountains.”
Habiib tilted his head. “Go on.”
“They were tall mountains,” Altair began, turning to look out the window, “not snow-capped like the ones we hear of in stories, but with sand at their peaks. It poured down their sides, each mount like an enormous pyramid.
“Beneath their roots, each held great stores of minerals and jewels. Yes I was drawn to the shortest peak, for I knew that within was the greatest treasure of all.” He closed his eyes. “I drew nearer, unsure of whether to go in: I knew not what this treasure was, but my soul urged me to go on.” He shook his head. “Still, I waited outside, watching as the sand poured down from the mountains until nothing was left.
“And then clouds rolled over the desert, and it was hidden from my sight.”
There was silence once again before Altair continued.
“You are a wise stallion, Habiib,” he said, giving his butler a sly look. “Tell me: what is it that my dream means?”
Habiib’s head was bowed to the floor. “My prince,” he said. “I am unsure if I am qualified to answer, but if it pleases you, I shall interpret your dream as best I can.
“In your future lies a great treasure,” he went on. “One that will please your soul and give you new life beyond the one you hold now. One that will bring you glory and power, as well as joy beyond your wildest dreams. But this treasure is impermanent. It lies beyond a choice you must make, and if you wait too long or deny its power, it will vanish into the sands forever and be lost to you.”
Altair looked him straight in the eye. “You are sure? That is what my dream meant?”
Habiib shrugged. “It is the best I can do. Forgive me, my prince. I am not of the Wise Stallions, nor do I share the hidden knowledge of the temple priestesses.”
“It is enough.” Altair stood up straighter and tapped a hoof on the floor. “Your words have pleased me.”
The butler bowed. “I am relieved to hear so, my prince.”
“Gather the Crescent Guard,” Altair began. “Actually, no—don’t. Gather only yourself and a mareservant. No one else.”
Habiib’s eyebrows rose up into his forehead. “And might I ask why?”
“We’re going to the marketplace.” Altair nodded firmly. He turned back to the mirror and looked his reflection in the eye. “We’re going to find a very special mare, and bring her back with us.”
“Yes, my prince.”
There she stood, her tail flicking against the flies that flew in the stale market air. True to his word, Habiib had brought only himself and one of his personal servants, doing his best not to attract attention to their group. As they watched, the mare flipped her mane out of her eyes, the hair soaring slowly through the air to curl around her neck.
Altair watched her from behind a shelf of pottery, his eyes wide and unmoving. “I must,” he murmured to himself, as if unaware that the others could hear. “I must have her.”
And then, with a single, long stride, he stepped from behind the shelf.
The first thing that he noticed was her height; she was tall—taller than he had expected. She barely compared to him, of course—as one of the tallest and strongest members of the royal court, his chest came to just above the top of her ears—but she was larger; stronger; better-built than others of her race. Up close, her every movement was even more tempting, the subtle sway of her legs and flank drawing his eyes ever closer.
Yet she paid no attention to him, instead adjusting the position of a ceramic vase on a shelf. He coughed loudly.
She seemed not to hear, her hooves moving toward a taller glass bowl.
He coughed again, two times more. Yet she made no move toward him.
His ears flickered back in annoyance, and he narrowed his eyes. With a final, hacking cough, he glared at the curve of her back, daring her to ignore him this time.
That got her attention. The mare spun, the mark on her side whirling as she turned to face him. “Yes?” she asked him, her accent holding deep, musical undertones. “Are you well?”
Altair stared.
She watched him expectantly, waiting for him to answer, but he could not. She wore a simple veil across the lower part of her face, its wisps curling in the warm breeze, but it was her other features that caught his eye. It was those eyes that now held him prisoner, their dark, amber depths drawing him in and refusing to let go. Specks of violet dotted her irises, and as she opened her mouth to speak again, her eyelashes fluttered in a delicate motion.
“—help you?”
He shook his head. “What?”
She raised an eyebrow, looking slightly annoyed. “I asked: may I help you?” She took a step forward. “Are you lost?”
He blinked several times before shaking his head even more violently. “I—no. No! I am not lost. What manner of question is that?”
“Oh?” Her eyes traced down his chest, ending at his hooves on the ground. She shrugged, her mouth a thin line. “Very well. A good day to you.” With that, she turned back to her pottery, her mane swinging over her shoulders.
“Wait!”
She stopped, her lip curling. “Yes?”
Altair coughed once more. “I—” He caught himself, berating his weak mind for stumbling. Fool. He was a prince; who was he to stumble over words before this common merchant, no matter how pretty? “I am Prince Altair, son of the High King Rigel. Your beauty has caught my eye, and I have determined that you will accompany me back to the royal palace.”
He waited for her to bow: to prostrate herself, bestowing gratitude and compliments for his kind words and princely stature.
But instead, she only threw back her head and laughed.
“What?” Altair narrowed his eyes, his cheeks reddening. It felt as though steam was building in his ears, his thoughts jumbling in the back of his head. “What are you doing? How dare you mock me!”
But she only laughed harder.
“Stop!” he shouted helplessly. “I command you!” For all his commanding words, she only laughed even harder, her chuckles shaking her ribs and tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “Cease your mockery in the name of the High King!”
Her guffaws gradually subsided until naught but the occasional chuckle escaped her. One hoof wiped across her eyes. “Forgive me,” she murmured, a small smirk on her face, “but I believe I heard you saying that you were the prince.”
“I am.”
“And that you were ‘commanding’ me to return to the castle with you.”
“I am,” he repeated.
This only brought on another round of uproarious laughter. Altair glanced around; passerby were beginning to stare, and Habiib was giving him a questioning look from his own hiding position.
“Stop!” he shouted.
Her laughter died down again. She gave him an even look.
“Listen, filly,” he growled, leaning down to glare directly into her eyes. He loomed over her, and the light glinted off of the many tassels that decorated his bridle and saddle. “I will not receive such insolence from one such as you. You should be honored!”
“Oh, yes,” she drawled. “I am indeed honored that a strange stallion such as yourself would think to walk up to me, compliment my ‘beauty,’ and then order me to do his bidding.” She pushed his head away.
Altair made no move to stop her, too shocked by the idea that anyone would even dare to touch his person. “I—how—”
“Listen to me, ‘prince’,” she murmured, holding her hoof beneath his chin. “I do not know who you are, nor do I much care. I have no wish to follow you to whatever hole in the sand you have awaiting me, and I will thank you to leave me be.” Even as anger and rage ran through his veins, the touch of her body against his made his coat prickle, adrenaline rushing through his body.
“Now begone.”
He jerked away. “You do not know what you have done,” he snarled.
She shot him a half-lidded stare. “Oh, I think that I know it very well.”
“You will not—”
“Go.” She raised a hoof and gestured for him to leave. “I have my bowls to attend, so unless you wish to purchase some, begone.”
He stared at her, his hooves rooted in place.
“Shoo!”
He left.
“She dares?”
The room was empty, save for the echoes of his hoofsteps.
“She dares refuse me?”
His breathing grew more erratic, laborious in the warm, stale air.
“The prince? The son of the High King?”
He growled deep in his throat.
“How dare she?”
The growl reverberated through the chamber, and his hoofsteps became faster.
“How dare she?”
There came a grunt, a clink, and then a low roar. Glass shattered.
“She will be mine!”
Altair stared at his reflection in the mirror, his dark form gazing back at him. His mane fell flat over his face, damp from where the water from the teapot had hit it. The glass was cracked, and the broken pieces of the teapot lay silently on the floor.
His chest rose and fell, and he closed his eyes. They were sore, the bags beneath them even blacker in the darkness of night.
“I must have her,” he whispered, bowing his head. “I must.”
The marketplace was bright in the early morning, the first golden rays of the sun filtering down between the tents. The cries of merchants rang through the great pavilion, only to be interrupted by the shouts and bellows that came from the gates of the Inner City.
“Make way! Clear the roads! Make way for your prince!”
In a quiet stall filled with glassware and pottery, a lone mare swept the ground, her honey-colored mane kept carefully out of her eyes. She gave no mind to the cries in the distance, focusing only on the dust and sand that dirtied the floor below her wares.
And then her tent was torn away, her stall ripped open, and two tall stallions—horses, the both of them—came in and took her.
She at first made no motion to escape. As they reached the tent flap, though, she moved into action, biting and kicking at her captors. Her mane flew about their eyes, and she squirmed faster than a rattlesnake in her efforts to free herself of their grip. Yet they held her firmly, their muscular bodies keeping her in place, and marched her out of the tent.
She hit the ground with a grunt and a snarl, the breath driven out of her chest. Shaking her head to get the sand out of her eyes, she pushed herself to her hooves and slowly looked up.
And froze.
“I told you I was the prince,” Altair said haughtily from his place upon the royal litter. He was flanked on either side by a half-dozen Crescent Guards, spears held between their forelegs. “Now, I ask again, my lady: will you accompany me back to the palace?”
Her eyes flashed, but she bowed her head, her mane falling over her eyes. When she looked back up, a thin, strained smile was barely visible beneath the veil upon her face. “If it pleases the prince.”
Altair clapped his hooves together. “Excellent! Guards, fetch her a litter. I expect you to take us to the Diamond Gardens. We will dine there.”
With a cry and a series of grunts, the litters were hefted back up, and the royal train began its march back through the market.
When it was gone, it left nothing behind save for a ripped tent, a shattered pot, and swirls of sand upon the ground.
“Is it not beautiful?” Altair asked, gesturing toward the gates of the Palace. “Wondrous beyond anything you’ve seen before?”
The mare was silent in her place upon the other litter. She had refused to answer him since they had left the market, her gaze planted stubbornly on the pad beneath her. A shadow crossed the prince’s face, and he cleared his throat.
“I said,” he said firmly, “is it not beautiful? Does your heart not soar with visions of such incredible architecture and artistry?”
She raised her head and looked about. For all his life, Altair had heard the stories that visiting nobles and merchants told: that the Palace of the High King was the jewel of the capital city, a brilliant star among the desert sands. Its high towers spiraled up into the cloudless skies, their roofs paved with gold and silver ores. Each gate was shaped from ivory and ebony wood, their sides carved with depictions of countless gods and kings, battles and myths alike swirling around their enormous pillars.
“It is...nice.” She sounded hesitant, quiet.
“More than that.” Altair snorted and tossed his head back. “These walls have stood for countless generations. What you see before you is the product of hundreds of years of power and wealth, the largest monument of Saddle Arabian civilization. The oldest work in all nations, and the biggest.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw her eyes flash beneath her veil, now drawn up to cover her entire face. “The desert is older,” she said quietly, her eyes downcast. “Vaster as well.” Her voice was deep, its musical undertones creating an accent as exotic as her eyes and form.
“As if the desert had anything to compare against the works of our people’s hooves,” he boasted.
The mare was quiet.
“Here—we have arrived.” He looked up at the gate as they passed beneath it. Onlookers—nobles, scribes, and other visitors to the palace—watched the litters eagerly as they turned off of the main path. “Look! The Diamond Gardens.”
He grinned, waiting for her jaw to drop in amazement at the sight. She had not reacted to the outside of the Palace? Very well. Let her try to ignore the inside, then.
Clusters of gemstones grew up from the floor, towering to heights of two, four, or even seven feet high. They glimmered with a strange, inner shine, the sunlight refracting through their depths. Each was a perfectly-shaped diamond, cut by expert hooves, and each beam of light that struck their surface shattered into a blinding array of color.
The litters touched the ground, and he watched the mare take an unsteady step back onto the dirt. She trotted toward one of the clusters and, delicately, reached out to lay her hoof on its surface.
Altair stood up from his litter. “Well?”
She turned to him, her eyes narrowed. “They are dead.”
“What?”
“Dead,” she repeated. “There are no living gemstones here.”
He sputtered, blinking rapidly. “Of—of course not! What are you, mad? Diamonds do not live; they do not grow.” He shook his head, a smile returning to his face. “Our finest artisans have carved them from the geodes brought from the mountainous lands. My lady, they are as genuine and as beautiful as any diamond can be, if not more so.”
“He speaks the truth, my lady.” Habiib stepped up beside him. “They are some of the finest work our artists have produced.”
She raised an eyebrow and stepped back, letting her hoof fall to the ground. “Oh, so it is ‘my lady’ now, is it?”
“Enough of this chat.” Altair raised his head and turned to face the guards standing by the gate. “I grow weary, and it is hot. I am sure you are hungry,” he said as an aside to the mare. “Fetch us something to eat.”
As a cluster of servants appeared from the kitchens bearing platters of food and fruit, others still brought out a blanket, woven with brown and black patterns. Altair settled onto its surface and beckoned for her to join him.
“Come—eat.” He reached up and plucked a cored apple from a tray. He held it up toward her, a smile on his face. “See? This is a foreign fruit, brought from distant lands by my people. Would you taste it for me?”
She frowned at him. “It is an apple,” she said, and shook her head. “You are a foolish prince.”
A shadow passed his face. “Foolish? I—” He cut himself off, not wanting to alienate or upset her. “What do you mean by that?” he asked instead.
“Cored apples. Statues of dead gemstones.” She closed her eyes. “You horses of royalty know naught of true value.”
“Then what is of true value?” Altair leaned forward. “See what I have to offer you?” He spread his hooves out over the line of waiting servants, the food perched upon their backs smelling like a perfect feast. “Can you not smell them? These delicacies? Representative of all four corners of the earth, and all seven seas?
“Here,” he said, beckoning one servant over. He plucked a small shellfish from the platter and held it out to her. She accepted it and held it to the light, eyeing it with a skeptical look. “This is called a shrimp. The seaponies of the Reinatic Sea send them to us in exchange for the many jewels that only we can find. Each one is worth its weight in bronze, but for you, no delicacy is too expensive.”
He nodded to her, his eyes glittering. “Try it. It is delicious.”
She watched the shrimp for a moment more, as though making sure that it would not come to life in her hoof, and then took a small bite. He watched eagerly as she chewed and swallowed.
“I am sure that you are unused to such foods, being from the northern hills and desert as your people are,” he went on. “But tell me—do you like it?”
She licked her lips and paused.
He leaned in closer. “Well?”
She opened her mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. “It tastes of mud,” she said.
His jaw dropped. “What?”
“Mud,” she repeated, and tossed the remaining shell aside. She glared at him, her veil flickering in the breeze. “If you insist on feeding me, I will have bread. Millet, if you have it.”
“Of course, my lady.” Altair turned toward a pair of servants. “You two! Fetch my lady a loaf of millet bread from the kitchens at once.”
“Yes, my prince!”
They returned within moments carrying twin platters of steaming, fresh bread in their mouths. The mare reached up and gingerly accepted one. She sniffed it and took a bite, chewing on it with—Altair noticed eagerly—a bit more gusto than she had for the shrimp.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
In response, she merely shredded off another piece and tossed it into her mouth.
“I am most pleased that you have enjoyed my gift,” he continued, going on as if she’d answered aloud. “All this and more can be yours in the Palace. Tell me—is there anything more that you desire?”
There was no response. Instead, only further chewing answered him.
He coughed into a foreleg. “My lady, I only desire your comfort and pleasure. If there is anything my servants can do, please—”
She looked up, glaring at him with such intensity that he felt frozen in place. Those amber eyes flickered, his soul captive in their depths.
“Will I be given accommodations here?” she finally said.
He blinked, freed from her spell. “Hm?”
“Here. In this...palace.” She waved a hoof around her head and looked up to the towers that stood above them. “Or am I permitted to leave?”
Habiib stepped forward once again, his rumbling voice deep and mellow. “We will be happy to provide my lady with every creature comfort during her stay. Your quarters are being prepared as we speak.”
“Wonderful!” Altair clapped his hooves. “Thank you, Habiib.”
The mare’s eyes narrowed.
Altair got to his hooves, a pair of servants rushing up to dust him off. “Show my lady to her quarters, Habiib,” he said. “I will be pleased to dine with her tonight. For now, I must report to my father.”
“As you say, my prince. It will be done.”
“And what of the griffons?”
“They would follow our command," Altair said. "They would have no choice.”
The High King Rigel raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what makes you say that?”
Altair hesitated. “They would have no choice,” he repeated. “Our military is superior to theirs—better trained, more numerous—and they are dependent upon our nation’s trade to survive.”
“A potential answer.” The High King looked into his son’s face, something dark in his black eyes. “But one stupider than I could have ever conceived.”
“My lord, I—”
“You do not think.” Rigel snarled, slamming his hoof on the table. A cup trembled on its surface, sending ripples through the cold tea within. “I test you, time and time again, but you do not learn. War with the griffons!” He snorted. “Could any common peasant be as arrogant as you, to imagine that the griffon nations would so easily give into a demand for tribute?”
“But our military—”
“The griffons are feared for a reason.” The High King’s face twisted. “Think, you stupid colt! Use your brain for once in your life!” He slammed one hoof into the other. “The griffons hold dominion over the skies, and can strike harder and faster than any other force known to our kind. What defense would you have against a maddened griffon Emperor—an invasion of his homeland? A strike into the depths of the Icy Mountains, where horses go to die and rot in the frozen wastes?”
Altair coughed. “I—I did not mean—”
“You did not mean anything.”
He fell silent.
With a scrape of his chair, the High King pushed himself away from the table and dropped to his hooves. Most of the time, Altair’s lessons—as any dutiful prince would have—were taught by scribes, special tutors, or even nobles, but Rigel himself would occasionally take over when he felt a personal session was needed. He took a step away from the table, moving toward the great window that looked out over the city.
“Prince Altair.” His voice was low and harsh, dry like the desert sands. “Come here.”
Reluctantly, Altair moved from his own seat behind the table, his hooves clopping on the stone floor. He trotted up behind his sire, the High King’s taller form towering over even him. Toned muscles rippled beneath Rigel’s, his coat a dark, chocolate brown.
“Look out the window.” It was a command, not a request. “Tell me what you see.”
Altair took a step forward and squinted. The glass was cloudy, fogged and etched by a hundred years of sand and wind. He could just barely make out the city beyond, its towers and buildings stretching all the way to the great walls. “I see the capital,” he said in a small voice. “Our city.”
“Go on.”
“Bridylon.” The name sounded so small, so inconsequential on his tongue, and he hated himself for it. “I see the top of the Northern Temple, where the Star Goddess keeps her bed. I see the hot springs. I see”—he faltered, a vision of honey and cream passing through his thoughts—“the marketplace, ready for the Celebration of Flowers.”
“What else do you see?”
Altair’s eyes narrowed, and he bit his lip. It was so hard to make out anything more than what he had already said; the glass was so blurry that he’d had difficulty knowing what he was looking at. “The Hall of Spices,” he said doubtfully, hoping that he’d correctly labelled the marble hall that he’d seen in the distance. “The commercial district. The city wall.”
Rigel’s voice was hard, with steel beneath his tone. “Nothing else?”
His eyes strained, but Altair could see nothing more. “That is all,” he finally admitted.
“Then you have seen nothing.”
His eyes widened. “What?”
The High King turned, his tail flicking dismissively through the air behind him. “You see nothing,” he repeated, his face set into a scowl. “You are blind. I have not raised you to be such a fool—how can you not have learned this lesson?”
“What lesson?” Altair pleaded, looking up desperately into his sire’s eyes. He dropped to his knees. “Please, my lord, how might I please you?”
“What lesson, he asks.” Rigel tossed his head back and snorted. “You truly see nothing else? Nothing at all?”
With wide, frantic eyes, Altair turned back to the window and pressed his nose against it. “The station of the Guard,” he suggested, names flying through his head. “The Silk Corridor.”
“No, and no.”
“The Shrine of the Virtuous Mare!”
“No!” the High King roared.
The two fell silent. Rigel’s sides heaved as he glared at his son.
Finally, he turned to go.
“This session is over,” he said in a low voice. “There is no more I will attempt to teach you today.”
“And the lesson?” Altair’s voice trembled, but Rigel only shook his head.
“The lesson is not over until you learn it,” he said. He trotted toward the door, his legs taking long strides along the sandstone floor. “You are dismissed.”
“My lady?”
The mare turned, looking halfway over her shoulder. The room was cool in the evening air, the windows shaded from the harsh glare of the sun. “Yes?”
Habiib bowed from his place in the doorway. “My prince awaits you in the dining room. Will you follow me?”
Her mouth twisted to the side. “If it pleases the prince,” she said, and stepped forward.
“My lady!” Altair clapped his hooves together as the mare entered. “Welcome to my personal dining room. I hope that your stay thus far has been enjoyable?”
She gave no answer.
He cleared his throat, the lack of conversation irritatingly reminiscent of earlier. “Please: take a seat.”
A servant pulled a chair out for her. Habiib leaned toward Altair as she sat down.
“Lord Zahan would like to know if you will be attending dinner with his family again, and if not, what may be the reason for delay.”
“Tell him that I regretfully have been given several important matters of state to attend to,” Altair said out of the corner of his mouth. His eyes never left the mare’s form as she took her seat, her mane falling across her shoulders and her legs fidgeting in the overly-large chair. “Give him my utmost apologies; he will understand.”
“At once.” Habiib hesitated. “And his daughter?”
“Tell her the same.”
He bowed. “As you wish.” With his head low to the floor, the butler withdrew from the dining room.
Altair looked up and smiled, a coltish grin upon his face. “Welcome again, my lady.” The candlelight cast flickering shadows upon her lithe frame, and he found himself entranced by the swirls of cream within her coat. “You are most beautiful tonight.”
“Thank you.”
He put a hoof to his chest. “It was most improper of me to make our first time together into such an...informal affair. Please, allow this meal to make up for any offense given.”
“None taken.” She looked almost...amused?
“I have for you gifts,” Altair went on. He held up a hoof. “Bring out the gifts for my lady!”
A train of servants emerged from a side corridor, each holding a box or velvet pad in their mouth.
“Here is a bridle woven by the finest artisans of the seapony nation,” he said as one servant held out a long, deep-green rope that shimmered with the reflected light of the gemstones set into its side. “Made of a certain type of seaweed that hardens after being cut, the sides are set with giant pearls found only in those parts of the ocean.”
She accepted the bridle with a small nod, barely giving it more than a glance before setting it on the table. Altair cleared his throat.
“Next: a crystal vase, born of the centuries-old work of the Crystal Ponies of the Arctic North.” Another servant approached the table, carrying on her back a vase whose depths seemed to ripple like water. “I have heard that their craftsmanship holds the same shine as winter snow—a thing that I, unfortunately, have not been able to see in my short lifetime.”
“Perhaps you will, one day,” the mare said. She sounded doubtful. With a nod to the servant, she accepted the vase and placed it onto the table, barely sparing it a second look.
“And finally: one of the finest wines of the southern hemisphere.” Altair raised his hooves and clapped twice. A trio of servants approached this time, bearing on their backs a great cask that stood taller than a small pony. “This blend of citrus and chocolates has sat in my house’s storerooms for over two hundred years, and I only thought it fitting to bring to our meal tonight—all for you, of course, should you wish to partake in it.”
She shrugged, which the servants evidently chose to take as a yes. The first three slowly poured a small portion of the wine into a bowl fetched from a nearby shelf. The aromatic scent wafted across the room, and Altair took a deep sniff. There was something...more to it, though. Something more than just chocolate and orange.
It was the smell of light perfume, blending the scent of lilies and rose blossoms with what he could only describe as the smell of dew on a desert morning. His lips parted, and he stared into the mare’s eyes as she looked over the bowl of wine. Without any doubt, he knew that it was her scent, and it drove him mad with desire.
Incredible.
“Now!” he said, his smile stretching from ear to ear. “This is a feast, is it not? So let us feast!”
Servants poured from every corner of the room, bearing platters heaped high with food, and the meal began in earnest.
“So tell me, my lady.” Altair chewed happily on a slice of bread piled high with hummus and curry. “Where are you from? The northern hill region, I take it? Judging by your race and appearance.”
She nibbled on her food, her fork prodding at a pile of rice. “I am...from no particular place,” she said at last.
“So you travel? Well, I should have known, of course.” Altair raised a hoof and a servant jumped forward, dabbing at his face with a napkin. “You were part of a merchant train, after all.”
He leaned in closer, steepling his forehooves. “But from where, originally? Come, now. There must be some place you can give me.”
She shook her head. “I haven’t settled down in a long time.” She paused. “I do not know if I remember where I was born. I have been traveling since long before you have been alive.”
He threw back his head and laughed, his hooves pounding on the table. “Oh, my lady can make a fine joke if she pleases. But very well: let us move onto another topic, if you wish to be vague.” He grinned again. “What is your name?”
She made no answer, her spoon swirling in a blend of mashed potato and alfalfa. A servant quickly stepped forward to refill her water glass.
“No—wait. Let me guess.” Altair held up his hooves and set his face into a picture of mock concentration. “I know you Equestrians enjoy naming yourselves silly, whimsical things. You are from somewhere in Equestria, I am sure,” he added, noticing her raised eyebrow. “Blossom, perhaps?”
She shook her head.
“Sunny? Amber?”
Her head shook back and forth, and Altair put a hoof to his chin, frowning.
“Hm...” He closed his eyes and then opened them with a wide grin. “Aha! Custard!”
She burst out laughing. He watched with a playful scowl as she wiped her eyes and pushed her plate away. “No, I take it?”
She shook her head, still smiling.
“Hmph.” Altair’s shoulder’s slumped, and he sat back in his chair. He shrugged. “Then I am out of ideas. Perhaps you could tell me, then?”
She shook her head again, refusing to say a word.
“No?”
No answer.
He sighed loudly. “Very well. Then I shall have to come up with a name for you myself.” His eyes traced over her face, taking note of the golden curls that threaded through her mane; of the cream that colored her coat, speckled with tans and browns reminiscent of the desert sands; of the amber of her eyes, tinted with violet like a sunset upon the dunes; of, finally, his eyes moving down her body, the dark swirl upon her flank, its curve looking almost like that of a...
...A flower.
A rose upon a desert oasis...
His eyes snapped open. “Desert Rose,” he said, and then repeated it, his voice sounding stronger and surer. “I’ll call you Desert Rose. I found you in the sands of the desert, and you will be my flower.”
Her eyes sparkled, and she raised a hoof to her mouth. He thought that he heard a stifled giggle.
“Well?” he asked, his eyebrows furrowing. “Do you like it?”
She leaned forward, her lips parting into a small, mysterious grin.
Desert Rose smiled.
“Yes,” she said slowly, as if savoring the word. “Desert Rose. I like it.”
Altair flushed. “G-good! I am pleased.”
For the rest of the meal, with each stolen glance, he thought he saw her smirking at him, as if laughing at a secret joke.
Finally, the meal was over, and the two departed to their separate quarters.
Altair stood in the midst of the desert.
The winds whirled around him, carrying sand to heights that not even the mightiest storm could reach. Thunder crackled amongst the clouds, and lightning rippled across the skies.
He shouted, but no words came from his throat. Instead, the sand flew at his eyes, scarring him, blinding him. He choked on the dust and dirt, his vision going dark. The winds tore at his coat and hide, his legs raw and burning.
And then he opened his eyes.
The winds had frozen in place, the sand hanging in midair. The eye of the storm was still. Hesitantly, Altair took a step forward, his hoof sinking into the sand.
His eyes widened as it sunk deeper and deeper. He squirmed in vain as his leg was taken, his chest following soon after; finally, the mouth of the desert swallowed him up, and he disappeared from the desert.
He landed with a loud thump. He groaned, but, strangely enough, his legs weren’t sore, nor was his body bruised from the impact. His eyes fluttered open, and he gasped.
He lay in a cave, dark shadows stretching for miles in all directions. The air was cool and moist like the sand of the desert after a rare rainfall. A lone beam of light fell from the top of the cavern and alighted on the floor.
His mouth went dry, and he licked his lips. Where the beam of light struck rested a lone rose, red like the dying sun. Its petals whispered in an imaginary breeze, and he stood up before taking a step closer.
You cannot cage the sands.
He looked around wildly, searching for the source of the voice. “Who said that?”
The desert is free, the voice whispered into his ear. The dunes rise and fall without care for the walls of horse or pony.
You cannot cage the sands, they repeated.
“Come out!” he ordered, his voice cracking. “I command you! I am your prince!”
There came the tinkling of soft, feminine laughter, and as he looked up, sand began to fall from the ceiling. It glimmered in the dim light, each mote like glitter as it fell through the air.
As it fell upon his body, his eyes flickered and began to close. “I...I am your prince,” he mumbled. “You cannot...”
His eyes drifted shut, and his world went black.
Altair’s eyes opened.
He lay in bed, the covers resting lightly over his hind legs. The wind whispered through the curtains over his bed, rustling them gently. He shifted onto his back, his chest rising and falling.
“Habiib,” he croaked.
The door opened, and light flooded in. In an instant, his butler was there, standing by the edge of his bed. “My prince.”
Altair looked him over. Habiib looked tired, bags under his eyes much as they sat beneath the prince’s own. “I...I had another dream,” he murmured, feeling foalish as the words came out of his mouth.
“Oh?” Habiib’s eyebrows climbed up higher into his forehead, and he gestured toward the bedspread. “May I?”
Altair nodded slowly.
Habiib took a seat and leaned in closer. “What troubles you, my prince? The night is cool, and the air is fresh. What ails your sleep?”
Altair closed his eyes and sat up in bed, leaning comfortably against his headboard. “It’s her,” he whispered. “Desert Rose. I see her in my mind; in my dreams; in my every waking moment. I have her in my possession, but every time I see her, it is as though the sands of the desert are running between my hooves.
He turned to Habiib, his eyes wide and confused. “How can I show her? How can I make her mine? Time and again, I look at her, and she is still free from me! I am the prince of all Saddle Arabia, yet I cannot hold her in my hooves. Why?” He shook his head. “Why?”
“My prince.” Habiib bowed his head. “I cannot answer these questions for you.”
“But you must!”
“I cannot.” His voice was crisp, his words curt. “These are questions that you must answer yourself; no other can show you the way.”
Altair’s mouth worked helplessly, his hooves clutching to the sheets of his bed.
“I will give you a single direction, though, my prince.” Habiib reached out and touched Altair’s chest with a hoof, right over his heart. “The answers do not lie in your vaults, or in your hooves, or in your throne.”
His voice was quiet, reverent. “They lie in here.”
“And if you look to the top of the tower, you can see the rune of the cloud.” Altair leaned in closer, pointing his hoof toward the Northern Temple. “It’s hard to see, but it’s there.”
The streets buzzed around them, the opening ceremonies of the Celebration of Flowers in full swing. The sun was setting on the first day of the festival, but the populace was no more quiet for it, with songs and dances still erupting all across the city. Altair idly twirled the necklace of flower petals that hung around his neck; he’d gotten two of them that morning, one for himself, and one for Desert Rose.
She stood at his side, gazing in the direction of his hoof. He’d wanted to show her the sights of the city—give her a tour to lift her spirits. Yet at each place they stopped, she gave only a short nod and moved on. It seemed as though any enthusiasm that had been present at the giving of her “name’ had vanished, to be replaced what only could be called impatience.
Sensing Desert Rose’s apparent irritation, Altair beckoned one of the guards of their escort and murmured something in his ear. As the guard left, the prince turned and smiled at the mare beside him.
“I have decided that we will go someplace quieter to finish the night,” he said. “The Pavilion of Lanterns is beautiful in the twilight, and I would be honored if you would accompany me there.” He held out a hoof.
Wordlessly, she took his hoof and followed him. The guards led them out of the marketplace and busy streets, leaving behind the celebrations and music of the day. There would be time enough for more of those tomorrow.
The Pavilion was one of the few truly green spots within the city, each blade of grass upon its lawns perfectly trimmed and shaped by a team of master gardeners. Small, amber candles flickered behind paper masks, the lanterns that held them glowing like fireflies as the sun set in the distance.
It was by a pool of clear, still water that the pair finally settled. There was a bench there; the Pavilion was stacked in layers and stairs, like a building itself, and so the pair had a clear view of the city below. Behind them, the Palace towered into the darkening sky, its hulking, shadowed form like an enormous cloud over the desert.
Altair cleared his throat. “My mother used to love coming here,” he said quietly.
“Did she?” Desert Rose looked around, her narrowed eyes scanning the perfectly hooficured lawns.
“She did,” Altair echoed. “She always said that she loved the way that she could see the city from here, even as she kept as close to nature as she could.” His hoof brushed across a blade of grass and came to rest on a tiger lily that grew by the side of the pool. With a single motion, he plucked it from its stem; Desert Rose offered no protest as he tucked it behind her ear.
“She never left the city, though,” he added. “She always wondered what it would be like to see a true, wild oasis, but she could never leave the walls. It was too dangerous for a highborn mare like her.”
They were quiet for a moment, the sun continuing to sink past the horizon.
“Tell me,” Desert Rose said. She waved her hoof in the direction of the city below. “When you look at that, what do you see?”
“I see the marketplace.” Altair’s eyes scanned across the streets below, his eyebrows furrowed. “I see each building, decorated for the Celebration of Flowers. I see the gate that leads to the Inner City and the guardhouse beside it.”
She grunted. “Is that all? Can you see nothing else?”
“The Northern Temple?”
Her silence betrayed her displeasure. Altair closed his eyes and shook his head, his mane falling across his shoulders. “That’s all, my lady.”
Her lip curled.
“My sire asked me the same thing, you know,” he said, staring into the pool. The first, twilight stars shimmered in the water, the moonlight beginning to ripple across its surface. “He didn’t like my answer either.”
He fell silent as dusk drifted over the city.
“Tell me.” Altair looked at her, one eyebrow raised. “When you look out at the city, what do you see?”
She smiled.
“There,” she said. She lifted his hoof and pointed it, holding the much larger foreleg delicately between her own. “What is that you see there?”
He frowned. “A house.”
“Oh?” She tossed her mane out of her face, the golden, crimson-stained strands waving behind her back. “I see something more.” Her voice lowered to a dull whisper. “Do you know what I see?”
He dumbly shook his head.
“I see a mare,” she said. “An elderly matron of sixty seasons, her children long since grown and gone. I see her sire, his ashes sitting upon the mantle as she watches the flames in the fireplace, awaiting the return of her husband.”
She fell silent again.
“And there?”
She pointed his hoof toward a taller building, its sides decorated with vines and blossoming lilies. “I see a young family, the sire and dam putting their foals to sleep. I see the colt, shifting in his swaddling clothes as he dreams of the desert.” Her voice lowered to a whisper, and her lips brushed against his ear. Altair shivered. “He will be a mighty warrior one day.”
“And there?”
Her eyes flickered across the roof of the Northern Temple, the runes that decorated its great spires nearly invisible against the darkening sky. “I see a lonely priestess,” she said quietly. “I see a stallion, praying at the feet of gods that he believes do not listen. I see walls that whisper the stories of the damned and of salvation: of the sand and dust that has been carried upon the hooves of generation of horses and ponies alike.”
Absently, Altair noticed that she was sitting directly beside him, her side brushing against his.
“Do you remember those gemstones you showed me?” she said.
He blinked. “You mean in the Garden of Diamonds?”
“Yes.” She held a hoof in the air, turning it over as the dimming light danced across its tip. “Do you know why I thought so little of those dead stones?”
“No.”
She gave him a small, tight smile. “Because deep in the desert, far beneath the dunes, there are caves and tunnels formed of sand and lime. They are darkened like the blackest night, but within their depths grow crystals and gemstones that live like any of your subjects.” She put a hoof beneath his chin and looked into his eyes. “They are free, you see, each with a mind and life of its own. They are not dead, like yours. Each gem’s uncut depths—sapphire, emerald, amethyst, or one of the hundreds of stones that have no name—hold a personality and soul that are not so unlike those of a pony, horse, griffon, or drake.”
Her voice was quiet. “All this, I see.”
“How do you see all this?”
“Your subjects, or the stones?”
“The first.”
A small smile curled on her face. “Because they are.” She paused. “Because they are life; because they take each breath with the struggle of each living creature, struggling against the sand that waits in their lungs.”
She bowed her head. “Because, with each grain of dust throughout all the many kingdoms, the desert sees all, Prince Altair.”
It was the first time that she’d said his name—and title—since he had met her.
He felt breathless, elated, paralyzed. “You are more than I ever imagined when I first saw you in the bazaar,” he said under his breath.
She chuckled. “Oh?”
“Everything and more.” He shook his head. “What secrets do you hold, Desert Rose? What more can I learn from you that I have missed for all my time on this earth?”
With a start, he noticed that her head had come to rest on his shoulder, her mane dropping over his back. Her cream-colored coat swirled against his own dark blue, and he could feel her heartbeat with each rise and fall of her chest.
“Everything,” she said at last. “And nothing.”
“But I—”
She held a hoof up to his mouth. “Hush, Prince Altair.” A small, knowing smile crossed her face, and she slowly drew away from him. She got to her hooves and dusted herself off. “I will return to my lodgings now, if it pleases you.”
He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
With a shrug of her shoulder, the flickering of the lanterns dancing along the curve of her body, she turned to go. “A good night to you.”
Altair smiled and closed his eyes.
When he opened them, she was gone.
The next morning, Desert Rose was awakened by a knock at her door. With her mane tied up behind her head, she trotted toward the door and opened it. The sunlight streamed into her room, splaying across the floor and furniture.
Altair was there, an uncertain smile on his face. “I was wondering if you might want to come with me to visit the city walls today,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean, I understand if you don’t want to come, but I—”
“I would be delighted.”
He froze, his tongue tying itself into a knot. “I—uh—what?”
She smiled at him, a soft, mysterious smirk. “I would be happy to accompany you,” she repeated, her deep, musical tones echoing in the hall. “
He blinked. “You will?” He bowed his head and grinned. “Then allow me to lead the way, my lady.”
“These walls are hundreds of years old,” Altair said as the two walked along the top of the city walls. The contingent of Crescent Guards that had accompanied them waited at a respectful distance, giving the couple some privacy. “My family was the first to rule this city, many centuries ago, and from it they grew an empire that stretched from the northern hills to the southern rainforests.”
She held up a hoof, stopping in place. He stopped with her and gave her an uncertain look. “What? Is something wrong?”
“Not hundreds of years.” She closed her eyes, taking a small breath. “Thousands.”
He blinked. “I—”
She turned toward the edge of the wall and stared out over the cityscape. Her golden mane blew in the wind, the air rustling against her coat. “The first to come here preceded even your people,” she said quietly as he trotted up beside her. “They built these walls—much smaller than they are now—and founded their own society.”
She turned to look him in the eye. “They were the first to tame these dunes into slabs of lime and marble, creating something where once there was naught but sand. Yet now their bones and riches lie beneath the stones of your city, forgotten by all who walk above.” She tilted her head, her lips slightly parted. “What will become of your people, of your city, in three thousand years?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she turned from the wall and began the walk to the other side of the thirty-foot-wide structure. Dumbstruck, Altair followed her.
“The storms have risen over these dunes for millions of years,” she murmured, looking out into the desert. “Yet only in the last few seconds, to them, has an army of gnats built their tiny walls to keep the sand out.”
“Tiny?” Altair exclaimed. “These walls are two hundred feet high!”
She turned to look him in the eye, her own amber eyes sparkling beneath the desert sun. “The sands are deep,” she said simply. “All works of stone and wood are but specks to them.”
She turned back to look out at the desert and fell silent.
Altair hesitated, unsure of what to say. After a moment, though, he leaned forward against the wall.
“I’ve always wanted to go beyond the wall, you know.” He sounded quiet; introspective. Almost mournful. “To see the oases and salt fields that my mother told me stories about. To see the caravans as they travel beneath the stars.”
He reared up on his hind legs and planted his forehooves on the stone ridge above the wall’s surface. “To visit new lands. To see the riches that they hold. To experience the culture that they have there.” He leaned forward even further, balancing his weight on the side of the wall, and gave her a sheepish grin. “To meet the other people there—horses, ponies, whomever—and to learn what they know.”
She returned the smile, and he chuckled.
He leaned forward even more, grains of sand rustling as they fell from the top of the wall. “I know it might sound silly, coming from one of my station, but I—”
“Prince Altair!”
His eyes widened. His hoof slipped, first by one inch, and then by three. Before either of them could react, he was slipping over the edge of the wall, his weight shifting past where it had precariously balanced, and falling over the edge. Desert Rose watched with horror as he fell, his eyes terrified and his legs flailing as the desert sands seemed to come up to swallow him whole.
“Oof!”
He landed back-first on the edge of a stone outcropping that stuck out from the wall. He groaned, spots flashing across his eyes. “What happened?”
“My prince!”
Stars swam across his vision, and before he could even register the sound, a loud cracking noise resounded through his ears.
The stone was breaking.
Frantically, he tried to escape—to move, to flee—but he had no time. The sandstone cracked beneath his weight, rock that had been weathered by the rage of a thousand sandstorms finally breaking into two. He flailed wildly as he slipped off the edge, trying to hold himself in place, trying to find a hoofhold—and finally found it.
Time froze.
Altair hung in the air, his hooves scratching against the jagged surface of the rock. Moisture glistened at the corner of his eyes as his legs scraped across the top, the friction too small to keep him on the ground. He dared not to look down, though he knew what lay below: a several-hundred foot drop to the sands below.
And then, in the blink of an eye, she was there.
He blinked, wondering if it was a mirage. But no—Desert Rose stood on the edge of the stone outcropping, her form larger than life. “Take my hoof!” she shouted, holding out one foreleg. “Now!”
He took it.
Groaning, and with what felt like an eternity of pain and terror, the pair managed to haul Altair’s dangling body off of the precipice and back onto what was left of the stone outcropping. As she pulled him over the side, he collapsed onto the ground, his sides heaving and his tongue hanging out of his mouth. His sides were dirty, matted with sand, dirt, and sweat.
“Somepony—someone—throw down a rope!” Desert Rose hollered back up the side of the wall. “A harness, a pulley—whatever you have! The prince is only safe once he’s at the top of the wall once again!”
There came a chorus of shouts from above, and the faces of the guards disappeared from the side of the wall.
“You...you saved me,” Altair panted.
She shot him a smug look. “It would seem that I did.”
“But...” He shook his head, not even caring about the sweat that clung to his formerly pristine mane. “Why?”
She snorted. “Because I chose to.” She put a hoof onto his forehead, and as he looked up into her eyes, she smiled. “Because the sands will not take you this day, Prince Altair. Not today.”
He stared into her face for a few moments more, seemingly unable to think of any words to say. Then, without any warning, a deep rumble welled up in his stomach. A few chuckles escaped his mouth, his sides shaking with mirth until he threw his head back and just laughed, joyous to be alive.
She laughed too, her mane flowing in the desert wind that blew against the walls. They laughed together until tears came from their eyes. They laughed when the harness came down to fetch them, and they were still laughing as they were brought to the top.
They laughed, and they laughed together.
When he awoke the next morning, Altair swung out of bed with the first rays of sunlight, not even waiting for Habiib to wake him up. The butler peeked into the room, his eyebrows climbing up into his forehead at the sight of the smile on the prince’s face. “My prince?”
“I’m feeling good today, Habiib,” Altair proclaimed. He looked his reflection up and down in the mirror, the smile only growing further until it stretched from ear to ear. “I’m thinking of bringing her to the Western Temple today and showing her the shrine there. Do you think she’ll like it?”
“My prince—”
“I can take her out to eat on the terrace!” He brightened. “She’s never tried melon before, has she? Oh, she’ll love it.” He shook his head. “She’s amazing, isn’t she? I talked to one of the guards that was up on the he said he’d never seen anyone move as fast as she did.”
“My prince—”
“And then tonight!” He sprung up on his back hooves, managing to get in only two steps before collapsing back on his bed. “I’ll show her the ending feast of the Celebration, and she’ll be given a parade through the streets as—
“My lord!”
Altair paused, momentarily frozen in shock at the intensity in his butler’s voice. “Habiib?” he asked, turning his head to face him. “What is it?”
Habiib’s eyes were dark and somber, his head bowed to the floor. “My prince, I am sorry,” he said hoarsely. His mane drooped to the ground, his bridle dirtied and disheveled. “But she—”
Altair’s breath caught in his throat. “Yes?”
“She—” Habiib licked his lips and shook his head. “She’s—”
He didn’t finish his sentence.
Altair’s pupils dilated, and he felt his heart stop in his chest. “No,” he whispered.
Habiib closed his eyes. “I am sorry,” he repeated.
“No.” Altair shook his head violently, throwing himself off of his bed. “No. No!”
His hoofsteps gradually faded as he galloped through the halls, leaving Habiib alone in the dark room.
The room was empty, the bedspread torn and thrown violently off to the side. His eyes darted from side to side, searching, but found nothing.
She wasn’t there.
Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes as he stepped into the room. The shadows fell against his dark blue coat, and he bowed his head as the sound of hoofsteps approached from the distance.
“Where is she, Habiib?” he murmured, his back to the door. Idly, he noticed something brightly colored sitting on the dresser and took a step toward it.
“I am sorry, my prince.” The butler sounded out of breath. “I tried to tell you—I tried to stop them—but it was no use.”
“Where. Is. She.” Each word was punctuated cleanly and exactly, like the slice of an axe through bone. As he drew closer, Altair realized that the brightly-colored object was a flower: a tiger lily, to be precise.
He swallowed. It was the same blossom that he had given her that night on the Pavilion. The same blossom that he had plucked from beside the pool as the moon watched overhead and the stars glimmered in the water.
“They took her in the night.” Habiib sounded frantic, his voice more tortured than the prince had ever heard before. “They believe that she threw you from the wall. And when your sire discovered her true identity and race, putting together your full intentions for her, he—”
“He what?”
“He threw her in the dungeons.”
There was a loud crunching noise. As Altair drew his hoof back, he could see that a part of the dresser had been crushed beneath the force of his leg, the flower crumpled like a torn rag.
“The High King?”
His voice was dark and dangerous.
“Yes, my prince.”
Altair bowed his head, staring into the crumbled petals of the tiger lily. “Then I will meet with him,” he murmured. “I will not allow this.”
“My prince, I—”
Altair cut him off. “I will not,” he said. He turned and looked Habiib in the eye.
“She will be freed.”
Altair’s hoofsteps echoed in the great corridors of the palace, Habiib following behind him. The prince paid no mind to the butler, though, his gaze planted firmly ahead.
Staring at the throne doors.
“Father!” he roared, and the doors crashed open.
Beyond, a group of noblehorses and visiting dignitaries were gathered below the throne. Seated upon it, the High King looked over the others, his hooves steepled and his forelegs resting upon the arms of his golden chair.
That is, until he noticed the prince.
“What is the meaning of this?” he barked, glaring at his son. “Why have you come here and interrupted my affairs?”
Altair growled. His body shook with rage, his ears hot against his head. “You know the reason,” he said. He turned to look around at the others that stood in the room; they watched him with shock, surprise, and even disgust. “Send them away.”
“I—”
“Send them away.”
The High King gritted his teeth. “You disrespect me, colt.”
“Now.”
His eyes snapped up to the rest of the court, the noblehorses watching him closely. “Begone!” the High King ordered, his deep voice ringing through the throne room. “Leave at once!”
As the doors shut behind the last of the nobles, the High King lowered himself from his throne and took a step toward Altair, who stood waiting on the floor below. He took another step. Another.
“You dare to show yourself in my presence?” Rigel snarled, his teeth bared. “After what you have done? You dare come into my affairs and command me? The High King, and your sire?”
“I do.” Altair glared defiantly up into his sire’s eyes. Though the High King stood on a taller step than he, the prince did his best to muster up his height, his shadow stretching across the marble floor. “I heard what you did to Desert Rose.”
“Who?”
“You know who.”
“No,” Rigel said between clenched teeth. “I cannot say that I do. And you will mind your tongue and think of what it is that you do before I bestow upon you some very regretful consequences.”
“She is the mare that you currently hold in the dungeons.” A shade of red bled through Altair’s eyes, and his knees shook beneath him. “The one that you seized—without right or justification—in the night, and—”
“Without right? Without justification?” The High King drew himself up, glaring down at his son. “I am the High King of Saddle Arabia! I need no right.” He lowered his head and stared into Altair’s eyes. “And she threw you off of a wall. I’d say that’s justification enough.”
“She did no such thing,” Altair snarled back. “I fell. She saved me.”
“Did she, now?”
“She did.” Altair pawed the ground, his muscles tensed and his hackles raised.
“And I love her.”
The High King threw back his head and laughed.
“You? Love her?”
“I do!” Altair exclaimed, his scowl deepening as laughter shook his sire’s body. “And you will release her to me at once!”
The laughter ceased, and Rigel turned back to look at his son with scorn and disgust in his face.
“I will do no such thing.” He shook his head, a shadow crossing his face. “Even if she is innocent of any direct wrongdoing, I will not have my son—the prince!—involved with one such as her.”
“You dare—”
“I dare.” Rigel’s eyes flashed dangerously, and he stomped a hoof on the floor. “She is a pony—an Equestrian, even! Look at her flank! Her side bears the symbol of their heresies. The symbol of the sun! The golden circle!”
“I don’t care!”
“You should!” Rigel’s face contorted into an ugly snarl. “I will not have my son marry a common, cutthroat, blasphemous pony!”
“I—”
“You will do nothing!” He shook his head. “It has become clear to me that your head is filled with cotton, your thoughts clouded and stale. Perhaps I have given you too much freedom; too much space. That will no longer be permitted. ”
“What would my dam say? My mother?” Altair’s sides heaved, and he glared up at the all the force that he could muster.
“She would be disappointed!” Rigel roared. “Disappointed in you for forgetting your heritage, your family, your honor!”
“No! She would be disappointed in you for your backwards, idiotic ways, and your inability to see what’s right in front of your damned eyes!”
They stood like that for a minute, sides heaving as they glared into the other’s eyes. Sweat poured down Altair’s face, and he wiped it away with a swipe of his hoof.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the High King spoke.
“What are our words?”
Altair inhaled slowly. “What?”
“What. Are. Our. Words?” Rigel’s voice was quiet and dangerous, like the calm before a storm.
“Ya lili ah ya leel,” Altair spat.
“Oh, the night; oh, the night,” Rigel echoed. His eyes narrowed. “They have been the words of our house for over a thousand years, before even this city was built! Before I was born, or my sire’s sire, or my sire’s sire’s sire, or fifty generations stretching back to the first dawn over this desert!” Spittle flew from his mouth.
“These ponies—this mare,” he spat, “They worship the sun! They have cursed the moon and banished it to the realm of horror and hate! They have no honor, nor do they hold respect!”
“She’s different!” Altair shouted, his voice echoing hoarsely off of the walls. “She’s not like the rest!”
“It matters not!”
“I love her!”
“You will not!”
Silence fell over the hall again.
Once more, the High King was the first to speak. His voice was quiet—almost tired—but it held steel in each word.
“I will not have her in my palace,” he growled. “Nor will I permit you to leave or to attempt some foalish attempt at self-sacrifice to keep her here.”
Altair opened his mouth, but Rigel held up his hoof.
“I will release her from the dungeons,” he said. “Being loved by a fool is no crime, though I have no doubts that the desert filly has picked enough saddlebags in her time.”
“I—”
“Will do nothing.” Rigel’s words echoed in the room, and his eyes were hard. “This is my verdict. She will leave the city at once, you will abandon any notions you had of romance”—his lip curled—“and that will be final.
“Now get out of my sight.”
Without a word, his glare never faltering, Altair turned away and fled the room.
The doors closed behind him with a final thud.
The two guards held up their spears as he approached, but Altair raised a hoof into the air and spoke.
“She is cleared of any wrongdoing. By my sire’s words, she is to be released.”
The pair nodded and lowered their weapons.
Two minutes later, the prince stood outside of Desert Rose’s former cell. The dungeons were quiet and dark, the only light a flickering candle perched upon the wall. Neither spoke for a long time.
“I’m sorry,” Altair finally said. He bowed his head. “My sire has given his verdict: you will be freed, but must leave the city at once as punishment for my actions.” He closed his eyes. “I am sorry for the trouble I have caused you.”
He felt a hoof under his cheek and, slowly, lifted his head until he was peering into her eyes.
“What is the problem?” Desert Rose asked.
He blinked. “I—I just said! You have to leave the city, or my sire will keep you here, or worse—have you killed!”
He blinked again as she made a strange noise. His eyes narrowed as he realized that she was laughing. “What are you doing? Stop that!”
She shook her head, raising a hoof to wipe her eyes. “I am sorry, Prince Altair. But this is no terrible fate.”
His eyes widened, and he took an unsteady step forward. “How can you say that?”
She smiled sweetly up at him, her hoof stroking beneath his chin. “I could never have stayed, my prince,” she murmured, caressing his mane. “I am a traveler of the desert sands.”
“You’re a merchant.” Altair frowned. “But I could have kept you here.”
“Not for long,” she said simply.
At his silence, she reached out and drew her hoof across his shoulders, massaging them gently. “Fear not, my prince,” she whispered into his ear. “You will find happiness; of that I have no doubt.
“But for now, I must go.”
Altair knelt before her, his knees collapsing to the ground. “I’ll return you to your caravan at once,” he blurted. “You’ll return to your friends with all of the gifts and riches that I can bestow upon you.”
He felt a hoof against his lips. “Hush, you silly colt.” He looked up, his eyes flickering up into her amber eyes. “You’ll do no such thing. I have no need for such treasures upon my journeys.” Her lips curled into a small smile. “But the thought alone is kind enough.”
She pursed her lips. “Now stand up, you silly prince. You look ridiculous. On your knees, you’re shorter than even me!” She shook her head. “That will not do.”
He allowed her to help him to his hooves, and as he licked his lips, staring off to the side, he asked, “Will I see you again?”
She smiled: a soft, secretive smile. “Perhaps. Who can tell what futures the desert holds?”
Altair let his shoulders fall and exhaled deeply. “I cannot. That I know for sure.” He looked up and grinned weakly. “But I can say that I am better off for having met you.”
That smile held more secrets than a desert veil, but it warmed her eyes and dimpled her cheeks all the same. “I should hope so,” she murmured. “Now, I must go.”
Her hoof swept across his mane a final time, and she turned to leave.
“Goodbye, my prince,” she said quietly, and vanished through the door.
The sound of the crowd was deafening as Prince Altair took the final steps up to the stage, flanked on either side by members of the Crescent Guard. When he arrived at the podium, he stopped in place and lifted one hoof to the skies. The masses did the same, the applause of hooves redoubling as their cries and cheers roared in his ears.
“Loyal subjects!” he bellowed. The crowds shouted his name in return, and he kept his hoof in the air until they quieted to a more manageable level. He cleared his throat before speaking again.
“I come before you today as your prince, and, ultimately, your future High King!” The crowd roared.
“I stand on this stage on the final morning of the Celebration of Flowers, one of the most important festivals of our year!” He lifted his head high and looked out over the square. “This week, we celebrate the fertility and growth of our people and our nation, as well as the incredible things that we have accomplished!
“But there is more to this week than the past!” He took a deep breath. “Today, we look to the future! Today, we look to our foals, born and unborn, and prepare them for the day when they, too, shall blossom as we have!
“Today,” he went on, his voice growing stronger and surer with each word he spoke. “Today, we recognize the importance of each and every citizen and subject of this great nation, and lift our spirits up to the gods above!”
He paused, licking his lips and allowing the crowd a moment to cheer before speaking again. “I was given a lesson by my sire recently, though I did not understand it at the time.” He shook his head, the crowd hanging on his every word. “I was younger, and more foalish than I am now, but a common mare taught it to me in full!”
His voice rang out over the square, each word falling like thunder among the crowds. “This city—no, this world—is like a desert! Each one of us no more than a grain of sand in a much wider dune!” His voice was ragged, but he spoke on.
“If we draw away too far, we see the desert only for the desolate, dead sand that it holds, but if we draw closer, we see that each grain is more than that! Each grain is a tiny, brilliant jewel: a beautiful flower, just like the ones that we celebrate during this week!
“Each of you is one of those grains of sand!” he roared. “Each of you a flower! There is more to this kingdom than the palaces of nobles; of the wants of princes, or the commands of kings. And I promise that when my reign comes, I will make a Celebration of Flowers that lasts a century—a hundred years of beauty and prosperity for each citizen of my kingdom! A golden age for my subjects, and for the whole world! And you will help me make that happen!”
The crowd went wild.
He flung his head back, gazing up at the blue, cloudless sky as their cheers and thunderous applause pounded against his eardrums.
An eddy of sand drifted across the sky, momentarily forming into the image of a dark spiral over the sun. His eyes widened, and the light flashed across his face once more.
When he finally lowered his head, the crowd was still cheering. He raised his hoof, and they screamed even louder.
“Thank you!” he cried, the soldiers coming up to escort him off stage. “May the gods bless you, each horse, pony, and creature of my kingdom!
“And enjoy the rest of the festival!”
Fifteen years later, Rigel, of House Akhir, died.
The High King passed quietly in his bed, surrounded by his loved ones. As he spoke his final words and gave his blessings, Altair watched him with wide, tear-filled eyes, his hooves shaking on the bedside.
It was the final day of the Celebration of Flowers.
He had searched for her every year since she had left. Year after year, festival after festival, he had searched the crowds, his eyes straining to catch a glimpse of a honey-gold mane, streaked with crimson; or perhaps the flash of a cream-white coat.
But he had never found her.
Now, he sat beside his sire’s bedside and struggled to hold in his tears as the High King Rigel laid down his head, took his final, rattling breath, and died.
On the day of the wedding, the new queen beamed out over the crowds, her belly heavy with child. The full Crescent Guard watched over them as a priestess of the High Gods chanted over their rings, laying blessings upon them before clamping them around the forehooves of the new couple.
As the crowds cheered in celebration, the High King’s eyes looked out over the masses below, searching and searching but never finding.
There was no honey-colored mane in the audience. No rose that lay beneath the desert sun.
It was in the thirtieth year of his reign, the longest of any sitting ruler, that the High King Altair finally died.
He lay alone in his bed, the other side empty and cold, as it had been since his wife had passed. He had commanded the others—the priests, his son, the guards—to leave, and the chamber was empty save for the light that drifted in through an uncovered window.
He had ruled for three decades, doing his best to keep the promise that he had made on that stage all those years ago. The Saddle Arabian empire had blossomed into a golden age of peace and prosperity; diplomatic ties to the neighboring Equestrian and Griffon nations couldn’t be tighter. His citizens were healthy, wealthy, and above all, happy.
He shifted on his side and sighed, turning over in an attempt to get into a more comfortable position. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of what stood on his desk: a desert rose, held in a glass case. It stood proud in its position, as pristine and as beautiful as the day he had found it in the market.
When they found him in his bed the next morning, dead beneath his sheets, the smile was still on his face.
The guard yawned, resting his spear against the wall as he raised a hoof to his mouth. “It’s late,” he mumbled. “Too late.”
“Shut up,” his companion grunted. The pair stood in an alcove just beside the great gate that opened up into the city of Bridylon. “We’re supposed to be keeping watch.”
“Mm.” The first guard nodded vacantly, his eyes drooping.
“Look!”
He blinked, shaking his head. “What?”
“There!” The second guard picked up his spear and jabbed it toward the road ahead. “See?”
A dark shape moved down the road, approaching the gatehouse. The second guard gritted his teeth and hefted his spear. “Who comes into the city in the dead of night like this?”
“He would, it seems,” his companion remarked.
“Halt!”
The figure stopped in its tracks as the two guards raised their spears threateningly, stepping outside of the door to the guardhouse. “Who goes there?”
“A traveler.”
One of the guards squinted, but could make out nothing; the figure wore a dark, heavy cloak. It was short, though: much smaller and squatter than either of the two horses. “What business have you here?”
“To enter the city.”
“At this time of night?”
The figure was silent for a moment. “Yes,” it finally said.
“Well, you can’t come in.”
“By whose order?”
One guard gave a bark of laughter. “By whose order? By that of the High King Janah, son of Altair, son of Rigel.” He snorted. “And who are you?”
The other guard frowned. “We can let you in,” he said gruffly. “Wouldn’t want to leave anyone out to die in the desert. But at least show us your face and give us a name.”
The figure stood in place, its head tilted to the side. Then, with a single, fluid motion, it drew one limb up and brought the hood of its cloak down.
“I am but a humble traveler,” the pony repeated. She stood tall upon the desert road, the moonlight filtering through her honey-colored mane and glinting off of the red streaks within. The starlight glistened on her coat, a creamy white that seemed to swirl with fragile browns.
Her eyes flickered, revealing deep, amber irises whose violet tint shone in the darkness. A smile curled on her face. “My name?” Her voice was low, accented with deep, musical tones.
“You may call me Desert Rose.”
