The Prince To Be

(Please note: This story contains some scenes of graphic violence that may be upsetting to some readers.)

“You do realise, that no matter what you say, I am almost certainly going to eat you.” The Beast’s voice was like rock becoming gravel.

“Yes, I consider that very likely,” agreed the girl. “But, I hope you will not think the worse of me for trying a few things on.”

“So often tedious though,” the Beast’s sigh was like an ancient and jaded curse. “Unless… unless you intend to start off with some begging? I do go in for begging.”

The girl looked pensive. “I don’t know that begging would help matters,” she noted.

“How proud you are! Tell me then of your importance to others. To your widowed mother. Or a crippled child? Maybe there’s a drunken husband? He beats you, but you still love him, because you know there is good in him.”

“Sorry. Not my style,” the girl said with a shrug.

“Indeed. But of course – I can see now how pointless it would be for anyone to have to depend on you,” the Beast intoned, “Well what about an appeal to a greater power then? You could call on the Gods for mercy. You could try a bit of righteous indignation. ‘If there is justice in this world, you will be made to pay for your evil ways!’”

The Beast yawned, its lips curling back over gleaming teeth. “And so on…” it added.

The girl smiled sweetly.

“I would like to tell you a story,” she said.

“How hungry I suddenly feel.” The Beast’s voice seemed to come from the floor of the cave.

The girl raised her chin. “I know many stories,” she announced. “I know stories known by many, and stories known by few. And tales that few dare to tell. And…” Here the girl paused for dramatic effect. The Beast stared at her impassively.

“And I know forbidden stories.”

“Do you now?” The Beast did not sound impressed.

“I know the tale of the Widow who married the Sea. I know the rhyme woven into the Tapestry of Forever. I know the song of the Child who was a Spider. I know tales of yearning, and of shame, of heroes, of loss and harmony. And…”

“And?”

“I know tales of beasts.”

“And so you may. But you do not know the tales of Beasts.”

The girl met the void of a cold gaze.

“I would tell you a story, Beast.”

The Beast scratched its chest casually with a filthy claw that clicked like a razor. Then it turned and padded softly to the shallow mound of sticks and moss that was its bed. It lay down and stretched, long and slow and afterwards it began to clean its forepaws with its tongue. After some time had passed, it looked up.

“I am going to sleep now,” it said. “As I believe is customary in these matters… I will decide in the morning.”

And it was morning when the girl was awakened by the tickle of a fly walking across her eyelid. She brushed at it with a lazy hand and it vanished in a mad swerve of flight. She heard its buzz receding slowly back into the low humm radiating from the thick cloud of its companions. She knew there was a heap there, cast at the back of the cavern, a rancid pile of remains where the flies sought cradles for their unborn. The girl was taken by the stench of it, the sick blossoming awareness of it. It drew her waking spirit further into the murk of the world around her. She moved a hand absently and gently rubbed at her ankle, at the sore from the manacle fastened around it. A silver chain ran from her foot to the rock of the cave wall. It glowed dull in the dim light that made its way into the emptiness of the cavern from the outside. As she gazed at the unreachable light, there was a subtle change at the entrance.

The Beast had arrived.

Soundless. Nothing but a kind of smokey presence.

Nothing but a movement like a mood.

In its jaws hung a body, limp. The Beast lowered his head and relaxed his grip and the body slid from its mouth to the cave floor. A young man, sixteen or maybe seventeen years old.

The Beast looked to the girl.

“You’re in luck,” it said.

It nudged the young man with the back of a claw and licked his neck and face, breathing out of its nostrils onto wet skin. The young man raised a narrow face and his eyes lifted slowly, bulging as they were struck by the horror of consciousness. His throat attempted to launch a whine, but failed and descended instead to a pitiful sob. With some residue of will, the young man began to try to claw a distance between himself and the Beast. The girl saw that one of his legs lay at a strange angle below the knee.

The Beast pinned the bottom of the young man’s breeches to the cave floor, but allowed the struggling continue for a few minutes. Then the Beast said: “Sit up now.”

The young man stopped moving, and after a short time and another shudder of sobbing he did as he was told.

“Tell me your name,” the Beast demanded coldly.

The young man stared vacantly at the Beast. He made a few attempts, but couldn’t form words.

“Your name,” repeated the Beast.

“L… Lu… Lyu. It’s Lûm. Lûm…”

“Can you stand Lûm?” asked the Beast.

“I don’t know… I… I think so.”

Lûm drew himself upright. He squinted, whitening the line of an old scar that ran beneath one eye. His left leg was torn and broken below the knee. His breeches there were shredded and missing and the bone of this shin pressed the skin out at the side of his calf. Above one hip, he carried a deep gash.

In a movement that seemed like a mere ripple, the Beast drew the young man towards it with one claw and gripped an arm with the other. It plucked the arm from its socket with an easy twist.

Then it turned to the girl.

“Let’s have that story,” it said, as it began to tear flesh from bone with its front teeth.

Lûm sank gently back onto the ground next to the Beast and looked drunkenly and confusedly at the socket of his shoulder. The girl pulled herself to her knees.

“Now?”

“Now.”

The girl could not ignore the pulsating jets of blood that issued from the shoulder of the young man’s quivering body. She paled and drew a breath and closed her eyes for a moment. She felt the press of silence and a radiating impatience. Then she fixed her resolve and she began without further hesitation in a clear, precise voice:

“Once upon a time, there will be a young prince.”

“Oh, how novel,” said the Beast. It reached out to draw Lûm’s crumpled form towards it again. There were a few moments required for the formation of a decision, as the Beast looked from one of the young man’s legs to the other. Having concluded the process of weighing aesthetics against appetite, it swiftly detached the good leg.

Lûm had lost a lot of blood and consciousness was beginning to move slowly but steadily beyond his grasp. He examined distantly what remained of his body and began to emit a dull, passionless, baritone scream.

“Well?” said the Beast to the girl.

She took another breath and went on, willing, praying definition into the mission of her words.

“The time of the prince’s birth will be one of great trouble and hardship in the land of Hish.”

The Beast raised an eyebrow. “Oh, Hish, is it?” it drawled.

The girl pressed on quickly: “Two winters will visit a cold beyond what has ever been known. The date trees and the olive trees will crack and fall. Camels will perish on the plains of Khadr. The constant palms will give up their fronds and lose them to the ground, where they will lie in their thousands, frozen and grey.”

Lûm’s screaming began to taper off into a hoarse simulacrum of noise.

The girl’s voice rang out, a fragile, bright shell held in the space of the cavern.

“These two winters I tell of will be followed each by two parched summers. The sun will burn in the sky. The rivers of the land will dry. The sand will fume. Our crops will wither and brown upon the earth.

“Our sheep and our goats and our camels will lie down in the streets to rot. Our lips will sear and crack like our trees and the crust of our land. Our harvests will be barren.”

The Beast tossed Lûm’s fibula, cleansed of flesh, to one side and picked at its teeth with a claw.

The girl closed her eyes and channeled the despair she felt into her words. “A third of us will fall to heat and starvation. A third will fall diseased. Our graveyards will become choked. Corpses will be heaped into pits, where there are souls left to carry them. Death will become a friend. A comfort to many in a world without hope.

“And all that will be left to the people will be their enduring.”

The Beast ran its tongue across the gore-matted fur of its jowls. It stared impassively at the girl. At the tender skin of her closed eyelids. It listened to the proud, feeble music of her voice. A voice that lifted now, every so slightly, with the heat of an accusation.

“The third winter will be the harshest. Our people will grow to believe that the Gods have cursed them. And they will look with fear to the sky as the summer approaches and as the merciless heat begins to build once again.”

The Beast slumped and rested its chin on its forepaws. The girl went on.

“And in these darkest of times, a day darker still will arrive. The summer sky will grow black. And in the city, driven by the heat, driven from the sewers in their thousands; the rats will come. They will flood the streets in the noon-dark, mad with thirst.”

The Beast belched and yawned.

“It is in this broken time; it is in this pit in the hope of the world that a prince will be born. A wild and desperate shout of life in the darkest of nights. And as the newborn’s first cry is heard in the weeping chambers of the palace, a mighty bolt of lightning will strike the tower where his mother lies exhausted. The roof will be rent and a thunder, deep and deafening will tear the air. The throat of the heavens will open and rain, cold and sweet and pure, will fall over the land of Hish; it will pour down upon the palace; and it will fall upon the infant prince, washing from him the faithful fluids of the womb.

“And as faces across the land lift to the skies,

“As mouths open to the cold, precious taste of summer rain,

“As the rain runs like tears from eyes too dry to weep,

“A white horse will ride forth from the palace.

“And the trumpet of glory will call out the arrival of the firstborn son of Sultan Mehl, fourth of his name, borne of his consort, the Sultana Sala.

“And the prince will be named for rain. And so he will be given the name Ma’tar.

“For ten days and ten nights, will it rain. And hope will be known again in the land of Hish.”

The Beast raised its eyebrows. “The end?” it suggested.

“Not quite,” said the girl with a petulant frown.

“Prince Ma’tar, Caller of Heaven, Jewel of Hish, will be loved by all who know him. When he laughs, the palace will laugh, the city of Khubbin will laugh, and the land will grow merry.

“Visitors and dignitaries from near and far will journey to pay their respects to Sultan Mehl and Sultana Sala. The walls of the palace will see the laying down of a rich bounty of gifts and of kindnesses and of prophesies.

“Entoh, Mother of Graves, the Blind Eye of the Night will announce that it will be Prince Ma’tar’s destiny to become a great warrior. In words like the beating of drums, she will announce to the ready ears of the court: ‘Let the stars call upon him to hunt. Let the heavenly fires tutor him in the wielding of sword and spear. Let the wind caution him in the ways of avoidance.’

“The Oracle of Budj will enter the city atop a throne of bone, borne on four black elephants. A great crowd will gather in the Plaza of Triangles where the Oracle will open her deep eye and she will give voice to the will of Budj, croaking in song. She will claim that the young Prince Ma’tar is destined to be a great scholar. She will prophesise that he will be seen to apply himself from an early age to the four noble disciples: Mathematics, Medicine, Poetry and Chess. He will grow to know the path of true judgement and he will know the names of all things.

“And still the visitors will arrive. Kneeling before the palace steps, Ramuddin, the Martyr of Sands will give that the gossip of snakes has revealed that the prince will grow into a great builder. That he will come to know of the working of metals and of the cutting of stone. That he will raise great pyramids with sides that blaze in the sun. That he will bridge the Chasm of Gulls. That he will dig channels to carry the waters of the Ladus. And that the land of Hish shall know drought no more.

“Many will be the visitors and many will be their gifts. The court of Sultan Mehl will receive all of these guests graciously and with the courtesies appropriate to men and women of their station. Long will be their attendance and reluctant will be their parting. Great multitudes of invitations will be placed at the feet of the Sultan and his consort and their child; beckonings to make visitation, should their travels ever take them near the distant lands of those who they were so kind to receive.”

The girl paused. Apart from the low hum of flies and the faint stutter of Lûm’s last breaths, there was a new kind of silence in the cave. The girl wrapped her arms around herself, clasping the nape of her neck with one hand. She held herself like this, as though she were wringing out her own spirit.

Then she continued.

“After the march of the heavens has marked the passage of half a year, the infant prince will repair with his nurses to the modest comforts of the Garden of Bells. The Garden, as the space in the inner heart of the palace grounds is known, being a complex of low buildings which surrounds the oasis of growth watered by Jedda’s Well. And it will be here, in the Garden of Bells on a lawn still fragile from the rack of drought, that Prince Ma’tar will take his first steps. It is here that the smiling prince will be heard to utter his first words.”

“Sounds delicious,” mused the Beast.

The girl smiled nervously.

“At the time he takes his first steps,” she went on, without allowing her eyes to rest too long on the unsettling intensity of the Beast’s gaze, “the grass, the palms, the dates and olive trees will be seen to show the fragile pledge of new growth. As he speaks his first words, the caravans will return from the west, marking the first crossing of the desert since the years of despair.

“Tutors the young boy will have, from the four points of the compass. And the claims of the wise that so generously bedecked the prince’s future with gifts will not be found to be hollow. From an early age, he will begin to show signs of great ability. In athletics, in running, leaping, in swimming and in wrestling he will raise pride in the hearts of those charged with his instruction.

“Letters and numbers shall sing before his eyes and his mind will spring with the giddy acrobatics of geometry. By his twelfth year, he will have proven the nine conjectures of Emogones and will have developed a technique for reckoning the weights of mountains.

“All who dwell in his presence cannot but see the merry gait with which he launches himself at the unknown. And they will share in his glee as he pursues the treasure of knowledge.

“But of all his lessons, there will be one that he will love above the rest. To hunt, for the prince, will be to live. And in concert with prophesy, when he lies in the nest of night, on the rough skein of a hillside, awaiting lion or stag, he will feel the skies lean down to him in their bright and solemn configuration. He will hear the ancient counsel of their voices and he will listen to their guidance as they speak of unfavourable paths. For many are the paths which must not be taken.

“Great will be Prince Ma’tar’s prizes. And his renown as a hunter will swell.

“All this is known. All this will follow from prophesy.

“And yet…

“It may be the glory of his brilliance. It may be the weakness of human memory. But despite every promise, despite every oath and vow taken in the happy year of Prince Ma’tar’s birth… despite the hope ferried into the world with his being… discontent is ever the flower of man. By the time the prince will come within reach of the borders of manhood, his successes will have found their balance in the whispers and sneers of those awaiting his failure. He has been raised too high, they will claim. He burns too bright. He is courting the displeasure of the gods. He will draw their wrath upon us all.

“And there will be those, crouched in the shadow of the palace, who will be heard to say in hushed tones that the true destiny of the prince was to raise his flag upon the pain of the common man.

“These sentiments will not long go unnoticed by the court. And harried by his own concern, the Sultan will order new protections to be cast in place. In his wisdom, he will be wary of supporting the poisonous ends of poisonous tongues. And he will be wary of drawing a blind over his son. And so he will entrust his orders to those who are accustomed to the encumbrance of discretion. The changes that follow the soft footsteps of his orders will be given the time and care they need to remain hidden from the people of the streets. The new guards whose duty it is to watch over the prince will take up service in the guise of servants within the Garden of Bells. The old gardeners and the cooks and grooms that Prince Ma’tar grew to know and love since his infancy will bow before him with sadness in their hearts; they will make their excuses, and one by one, they will drift away. Thickening in their place, the prince will grow to know more formidable and a sterner lot.

“Prince Ma’tar will understand these changes as a weight in his chest. A weight exerted through the loss of those small moments and memories we share with those we love – not for who they are to us, but for who they are in themselves.”

The Beast licked his lips and stared dourly at the girl. She hurried on.

“Prince Ma’tar will sense the cold distant breath of unease, as one might hear a shadow. He will seek for a cause. For answers. To begin, he will seek within – in his studies and in his keen awareness of life and people and the flow of time through the Garden of Bells. He will try to trick answers from his teachers and he will set snares for those who serve him. But the prince will find his world surrounding him as a labyrinth of unseen layers. He will brood upon what he cannot change or uproot. He will brood upon this for a year.

“And then he will start to seek without.

“Now, every year, as you may know, a great race is run to the Impossible Tree in the Mountains of Shaal. These being the Mountains that cradle the Painted Hills, which in turn cradle the city of Khubbin.”

The Beast squinted and blew at a whisker.

“The race is long and arduous. Some fall crossing the plains and some fall in the Striped Hills and many fall in the mountains themselves. Few are those who finish, but great is the glory. Every year, the winner of the race to the Impossible Tree is carried high upon a litter through the streets of Khubbin. In the Plaza of Triangles, where the four main ways of the city meet, a mighty feast is held. It is a time for music and chanting and jest and for the taking of sweetmeats and wine. The winner’s name is carved upon the Broken Wall – where it can be read alongside the names of winners since the time of the first race, held in the age of Khebbet al Malm, he who was known as the Pale Man.

“In his fourteenth year, Prince Ma’tar will announce, with bright eyes, his intention to join this great race to the Impossible Tree. And the next morning, he will ride out upon his horse and follow the path and learn what he can of the branchings in the Painted Hills. Upon returning to the city, he will visit the gymnasiums and seek those who train their bodies in preparation for the trial of the race. And it is in one of these gymnasiums, in the Hall of Yellum, that he will meet Daud and Nura.

“Daud and Nura, two youths of high birth, fair of face and limb will speak to the prince of the race and of its cruelties. The young man and young woman will tell how they each have gained the Impossible Tree, but how neither have known victory. They will caution the prince – on the cost in hardships of the run and of the climb. They will tell him of the dry hours on the desert plains, of the deceptive labyrinth of the Painted Hills and of the rare air and the sheer falls and of the beasts of the Mountains of Shaal.

“The prince will hear them to say: ‘You must not run this race, your grace. For it is too dangerous. It is too taxing of the limbs and the spirit. You must consider your people and their love for you. And of the great sadness that would fall upon the land should you be hurt, or should you be lost.’

“The prince will laugh and say: ‘And what then of the rejoicing, should I be found?’

“Prince Ma’tar will listen to Daud and Nura and to the trainers and veterans of the race. And he will learn. He will ready his body and mind for the trial. And he will grow in confidence and in contentment.

“But in the palace, a new cloud is to fall upon the Prince’s father. His ancient servant and trusted adviser, Kamer Hass, will feel moved to words under the compulsion of his loyalty to the Sultan. And so the old sorcerer will come to share his foreboding with his sire. ‘The race was not prophesied,’ he will warn. ‘For one granted such a future in gifts as our ever-blessed Prince, the gods may look upon this zeal, upon this seeking of yet more, as an act ungracious. The tracks of the wise move at the pace of a slow river; a river which builds as it flows to the thick flood and the kiss of the ocean.’

“The Sultan will listen with reluctant ears and worry in his breast. He will go to the prince’s mother, the Sultana Sala, and he will apply to her for her counsel. ‘We must stop him,’ he will say. ‘We must beseech him to forsake it.’ The Sultana will smile sadly. She will remind the Sultan Mehl of his own passion when he was on the doorstep of manhood. She will remind him of the strength of the boy’s will; and of his progress in his other studies and training. ‘If you deny him this,’ she will caution, ‘you will take some of the joy from his life. You will take choice from him. Choice is the engine of his heart and he has always chosen true. If you sow compulsion in its place, all that will grow will come to stifle him.’

“The Sultan will listen and he will hear the truth of Sultana Sala’s words. But as he leaves her chambers, he will feel a darkness, as of ten thousand leaves falling across the window of his soul.

“On the morning of the race, the sun will ride its steady course into the blue shell of the heavens. A faint breeze will carry the sigh of dust across the open plains between the city of Khubbin and the Painted Hills. The marshals of the city are to be busying themselves with the arrangements for the evening feast. Atop the walls of the city, the spyglasses have been installed. And those fortunate enough to have earned the favour of the court will climb the narrow stairs and be shown to their viewing places. Through the glasses, the Impossible Tree can be seen reaching, as though in defiance of its own nature, from the bare rock of the mountain peaks.

“In ones and twos the competitors come to gather at the Gate of Bones. Their hearts will fill with morning air and with joy and with trepidation as they jest together, in brags and teasing and gentle honesty.

“And when the waiting is over, when the Sultana Sala opens the cage of doves and as the throb of their wings marks the air, the race will begin.

“The traditions tell us that the span of the race between the first and second stations is fastest run. And it will be so in this year. The pace will be set by Shem the Quiet, his long, fluid limbs propelling him across the baked sand, closing the distance to the other side in loose, gulping strides. The runners will stream out from the Gate of Bones and onto the patient, nameless sand of the desert. And after twenty, after sixty cords have been run, the pack will begin to stretch, each runner judging and fighting the demands of their own limits; each searching for that place within themselves that could be something more. Soon the pack is a chain; a script of writhing letters, dancing across the vast page of the desert. It has been often so. And will be so again.

“Each runner feels the hot point of the sun above them. Each feels the packed sand and the yellow clay of the plains beneath them. Down the sun bears. Down on the line of runners, where mouths and tongues grow sticky and dry for want of the touch of water.

“The first station, is midway in the crossing to the Painted Hills. And here at the first station, the runners are to be allowed one cup: a single cup of water. It is the last water they are to receive, before either the finish is gained, or their retirement might be announced.

“On across the desert they run. On they push upon each other to hold sight of the front runners. And as they meet the punishment of distance, the prince and his friends must reach down into the well of their strength. They clench to their will and feed it to their bodies as they try to remember the world beyond them. The world through their pain. As they prove to remind themselves that this pain or one alike is what those before them and behind them must also feel.

“Thirst will await them as they come within sight of the second station, folded into the toes of the Painted Hills and known as the Kneeling. Thirst will cry to them, confused and abandoned. For four hours now, they have been running. And the single cup of water has long been returned to the world through the sweat of their bodies. Why? Thirst will demand. Why this?

“But on they must go if they are to be gathered beneath the wing of history. On into the gullies and branchings of the Painted Hills the runners must pass. There, the sweet curtain of shade from the overhanging rocks drapes itself over labouring limbs. It is a fleeting relief before the confusion of paths that greets the runners makes yet further demands of the now guttering flame of their attention. For the ways of the Painted Hills open and shut in the march of shadows. A red rock is yellow now. An opening is now a wall of stone. It is whispered amongst those who claim to know, that the better paths will close their mouths to all but those of spirit true.

“An hour of labour is demanded by the Painted Hills. An hour where the serpents of the hills wait beneath chirping rocks and taste the air with milky tongues. It is an hour too much for some. The dry beds of the streams and gullies, through which torrents flow in the time of rains, will bare teeth of schist and granite that tear at the bare flesh of feet. For every two that enter the Hills, only one finds the fortitude and fortune to leave as a runner.

“In the Painted Hills a runner cannot choose a path the day before, nor the hour before. And so it is within the labyrinth of forking ways that the three friends are to separate. Daud is to choose his way sure and slow, while Nura turns onto the path of the Crooked Hand, steep, quick and dear. The prince will not have the luxury of time to reflect. And on this three hundred and tenth day of his fourteenth year, a young man’s ambition will claim rule over his caution. He will turn with Nura to the itching promise of the Crooked Hand.

“Short is the way of the Crooked Hand, but hard and thick with traps for the unwary. Loose shards of stone ride over a bedrock that hooks and swallows. The jaded senses of the runners become mesmerised by the seething ground. Every pace is a gamble, every footfall an act of faith. By the time that Nura and Prince Ma’tar gain the mountain face, they are to be led only by Shem the Quiet. But the path will have drawn its cost in sinew and in fight. Not even the breath for words remains as the touch of the coarse rock of the mountainside is first felt.

“Few runners are those who come before this last stage of the race. Not more than a dozen will have won their way to the mountain, by luck, or by guile, or by might. The treacherous wall of Mount A’ell will rise before Nura and Prince Ma’tar. The cry of the prince’s body will shout loud in the ears of his soul. It screams, it begs that its ordeal be over.

“But above, still far above, the prince knows there waits the proud writhing of the Impossible Tree. In the eye of his mind he sees its branches black and vivid against the light; like a claw clasped to the deep blue of the midday sky.

“Up. And up.

“Upon the face of Mount A’ell, the runners become climbers. Now stooping, now crawling, now drawing bodies onward with hands and torn fingers and the faith of muscles. Those who know the race, will know to rest. Those who are towed by the call of victory will know they cannot rest for long.

“Ahead of Nura and the prince, a mere five cords, climbs Shem, the Quiet, within sight of the Spider’s Edge and stalking his second victory. But alas, it is here that Shem is to miss his grip. In a moment he is before them, and in a moment he is not. His fall is as silent as his name.

“Over and above the Spider’s Edge, the last span of sheer, Prince Ma’tar and Nura will arrive upon their knees. Their bodies collapsing onto the warm, smooth plateau of the summit.

“There they will lie. There, for a time out of time, they will know nothing but stillness and the throb of pulse and breath.

“And it is while the prince lies pinned to the ground by exhaustion, that he hears the voice. He will hear it as a whisper, as an urgent hush. It is not known if it is the sky, or the mountain, or another thing. Calling to him. The call of an ancient fight, that became a vision; and must become a fight again.

“‘Up’, he hears the whisper, ‘Up.’

“Drawing himself to his feet, Prince Ma’tar will turn again into the bright song of the Tree, hymn to the fierce cost of life. And alongside this tone and tune, as though arriving from a world he believed left behind forever, the scrape and sigh of rock near the Spider’s Edge. He knows it is not Nura, though he knows Nura too, is on her feet. Another climber has approached the lip. And knowledge will bark in the prince: It is Daud.

“And the prince will understand relief. And he will understand rivalry.

“Prince Ma’tar will feel the hot breath of defeat closing upon him. He knows he must drive forward. And yet the obedience of his legs has become uncertain. He pulls himself towards the tree. Step after agonising step. Three paces, he will take. He will take ten and twenty paces.

“And then he will hear the scream.”

The Beast raised its head, and the girl flattered herself that she saw something like hope in its eye.

“Prince Ma’tar will turn to see a yellow hide and striking paws upon Nura. His eyes will clot as jaws sink into the flesh of her shoulder. As Nura drops to her knees under the weight of the animal the prince will see the naked red of Nura’s blood free on the rock of A’ell.

“It is said the soul is a mystery. And if so, can the human body be any less of one? How is it that the pull of love can be greater than the pull of ambition? See as the Prince dashes to the yawning edge where Nura’s arms flail against the lion’s grip. See as he throws himself with a leap onto the creature’s back. His ragged fingernails will be to him as claws as he seeks the beast’s eyes.

“Out. Out to the brink of the Spider’s Edge, the prince and the lion will roll. But the cat’s strength is to be more than the prince’s aching limbs can hold or withstand. Above him the dark, golden body rises. He is to see a face crowned in the glory of the sun as a thick paw lifts and as flashing claws gleam.

“And it is then that Prince Ma’tar will hear the fall and scrape of a step from somewhere inside the giddy prance of time. The prince does not understand that Daud has stumbled then. He only understands that the lion is no longer upon him.

“He will look up and out.

“And he will feel the cold, irreversible desolation of fate as he sees Daud carry the lion across the lip of the Spider’s Edge.

“Down. Down like dolls they will fall.

“Down to where rock makes no bargains.”

The girl paused and looked about the cavern. The Beast seemed confused for a moment. “Are you finished now?” it asked.

The girl met those dark eyes that spoke a language unknown to the heart. “Perhaps you wish I were?” she suggested. “Or perhaps you do not.” The Beast’s face remained still and expressionless.

“It is not long now,” said the girl.

“On their return, the flooded river of palace life will make for Prince Ma’tar and Nura an island in its midst. Numb with their wounding, they will be sequestered in the Garden of Bells. In the morning and evening of every day, Kamer Hass will make visitation. He will tug his beard and rub the lines of his eyes and opening his satchel he will attend to the two injured friends, applying salves and tinctures to their wounds and making sure of their bindings. Soon after this, family and friends will begin to pass and gather in the prince’s chambers and the silent days will be filled with the words of kindness. And yet it will be observed that a melancholy has taken its lodging behind the eyes of the prince, a distance from a world he once loved.

“It is the work of our lives to make time golden. Even this can be forgotten.

“Days will pass. And months. And a year will pass.

“It is after this year, after the wounds of Prince Ma’tar and Nura’s bodies have retired to scars, that Kamer Hass will come to impart the good news that his daily attentions will no longer be necessary. And yet, despite all outward improvement, a deeper hurt will have sown itself in the prince’s breast. It will manifest in the care he pays to his lessons and in the evasion he shows in his dealings with those dear to him. Riding out onto desert sands he will spend long nights alone beneath the cold muttering of the stars. The taste of all he must be will become sour to him. Though he makes himself available to ceremony and to his public duties, his spirit roams elsewhere.

“And so another year falls from the great tree of time.

“It is towards the end of this empty year that, one evening, the sound of distant drumming will reach the Garden of Bells. As it grows in loudness this drumming will be joined with the tinkling of chimes and the twang of oud and lute and word will arrive to the Prince Ma’tar and Nura that the Merry Mice have reached the city. Before the two friends can say what this means, the courtyard is to flood with sound and with colour. The strongman will be the first to enter, carrying upon his shoulders a donkey. Jugglers and tumblers and the spring and dance of minstrels will spill out their glee in mockery of the dying day. Conjurers will draw dreams from the air. Ostrich riders and stewards of snakes and makers of music will circle the square. And bowing before the prince, in the stately robes of high office, the director of jollities, one Janus Cantalabulanda will make his introduction.

“The court of Sultan Mehl will flock to the Garden of Bells and take seats upon the ground and laugh in confusion and wonder. The Merry Mice will begin with tales, tales melting into lay, and lay flowering into song, song that calls upon the stars as jugglers throw fire at the night sky.

“For the full span of the moon’s emptying will the Mice enliven the nights of all who are their audience. And when the epic of Castor and Mai’a has been recited in full; when the Ballad of the Men of Winter has been sung; when at last, the tale of the Widow who married the Sea has been related, the morning will dawn where silence is known again in the Garden of Bells. To where the Merry Mice have journeyed, and to when they might again visit the city of Khubbin, no one will know to say. But tales and song and joy leave their seeds. Though some lie long beneath the soil.

“And it is in that turn of the year when autumn draws fruit from the branch, that Nura will bring news to Prince Ma’tar of a lion. Sighted by shepards, upon the mountain, high on the back of Mount A’ell. A creature. Some say a mother. Some say a child of the beast that assailed them on the day of the race. Some say it is the same cat, survived its fall and hungry still for human flesh.

“Prince Ma’tar and Nura are to make fast preparation. The prince straps his bow to his back. He takes his hunting spear, Tusk, and he will walk slowly to the house of his father. He will make obeisance before the Sultan that his plea be heard:

“‘Honoured father, I request your blessing to seek retribution for the loss of my friend.’

“The Sultan will crease his brow, for he will feel the trouble and hurt his son has endured as his own trouble and hurt.

“His words will be soft: ‘My son, if you do this thing, will it bring you solace?’

“And the prince shall answer: ‘It will, father.’

“The Sultan will remind his son: ‘It is known that when we follow rage and pain to bring an end to rage and pain, we often double our store.’

“And the prince shall bow deep and say: ‘I will remember, father. But neither can I forget the honour and courage of my friend, who gave his life for mine. It is for him now that I do this thing.’

“The Sultan will place his hand on his son’s head. ‘Go, my son,’ he will say, ‘Go. It is my wish for you to learn that it is only the strongest of men that can build a space for peace in the heart of their rage.’

“And so Prince Ma’tar and Nura will ride forth for the Mountains of Shaal and so they will commence a new climb into the treacherous folds of Mount A’ell.

“For three days they will stalk the creature. On the third day, Nura’s arrow, sleek and true is to find the lion’s haunch. Limping and confused, their quarry will draw itself to higher ground and into the peaks of the mountain. And on the eve of the fourth day of the hunt, Prince Ma’tar will corner the beast against a wall of rock. With a fierce roar the lion pounces. The prince raises Tusk to the descending breast. And he weeps at the creature’s last shudder and at the stream of blood that flows along the haft of his spear to soak his trembling hands.”

In the cavern the girl sensed the Beast’s breathing had become quiet. Its entire presence seemed to have wrapped itself in silence. She grew aware of it as a sincerity of absence, cold and lonely. She listened to the persistent sweat of the cavern. The tinkle and dribble of moisture, ever gathering, ever pooling, ever falling, drop after slow drop from the dark walls of rock.

The girl found her words again, soft, almost hushed alongside the shy music of the water.

“Prince Ma’tar and Nura will return to the city of Khubbin and to great rejoicing. The lion’s skin will be dried and stretched. And prayers will be sung to the memory of Daud as the beast’s pelt is mounted on the walls of the council chamber in the Garden of Bells.

“And yet. The peace that Prince Ma’tar longs for in his heart remains absent to him.

“By the turn of the next moon, he is to appear again before his father. And he makes his new report. Another lion has been sighted, further north along the line of the mountains. Again he will request his father’s permission to hunt the creature. And again, his father will speak of his reluctance. ‘You are a man now and your passion is strong. And this is good. You are a man and your heart is strong. And this is good. For the heart is the greatest forest – many are its paths and deep are its mysteries. I urge you to listen to the counsel of your heart. I urge you to consider whether or not the path you choose now is the better one followed.’

“The prince will bow low to his father’s wisdom and he will speak these words:

“‘Father, I have looked into my heart and I have found darkness there. I give it the names Fear and Loss. I sense that darkness dwells in the hearts of all people. But it is only when I look through my own heart that I can truly see those of others. And so it is I believe, that the more we pretend it nothing, the quicker the darkness becomes. I do this thing today, that I would face my self. That I would step outside the fear of my fear.’

“And held in the vice of love and pride, the Sultan will concede to his son’s wishes.

“Into the mountains to the north, Prince Ma’tar and Nura will ride. When the way becomes steep, they will walk. And when the mountain demands it, they will tie their mounts and climb. Upon a thick table of rock they come to face the creature they seek. The lion does not run. For it knows not the dangers of man. It walks to them, as though to a wounded animal. It opens its mouth in a roar. And two arrows will find its throat.

“The third lion is to be a white lion; white as the snow that dresses the crowns of the highest peaks.

“The fourth will wear a golden mane. Its last cry will fill the sky with tears.

“And it is after another year has passed, that Prince Ma’tar and Nura will hear of the Beast.”

The Beast twitched an eyebrow and allowed it to hover between interest and a frown. The girl drew a breath and let her voice rise.

“The Great Curse, Mansbane, a creature known only through the whispers of its cruelty and its cunning. In the depths of the Fell Cauldron, it is said to dwell. But none live who can claim to truly know. For it is a thing never to have been sighted by human eyes. It is known: men that tread too near the rim of the Fell Cauldron will vanish. Yea, and women too. It is known: the corpses of animals, strayed and butchered, speak of a strength and malice beyond the sight of lion or bear or of serpent.

“The Prince will not go before his father. He does not speak of his intent to any other than Nura. And on the Eve of Sorrows, when the people break their fasting and when feasting is thick about the city of Khubbin, the prince and Nura will ride out into the dark. North they ride and east along the Mountains of Shaal. They push through the hours of night. And they will make their camp each morning in the oasis of its first light.

“Thirteen nights in this way will they travel. They will enter no town. They ride wide, cloaking themselves in the gloom, to circle the small watch fires of the caravans they pass.

“The morning of the thirteenth day will take them to the village of Rezech, high and white-walled on the slopes of the mountains. And in the village of Rezech they will ride to the market place where its people move in the easy bustle of morning. And the prince will cast out his voice: ‘Who among you is brave enough to guide two travellers to the Fell Cauldron?’

“The people of the village will look up and they will laugh. A man with hair red like the setting sun will stand forth and speak for the multitude. ‘It is not a brave man, but a fool you seek.’

“Prince Ma’tar will shake his head. ‘No,’ he will say, ‘I seek a man, who will name his price.’ And with this, he drops a heavy purse of coins onto the worn flagstones of the market. The open gleam of the gold shouts of riches that the town of Rezech has only heard tell of in the stories told to children. And still the people will stand away. And they will lower their heads with the weight of all they cannot tell.

“The prince and Nura will sit astride their horses and look upon the muted crowd. And when the time has almost passed for hoping they are to see a sharp head move from behind a fig tree. A young and narrow man approaches the purse. ‘It is lucky for you noble sir,’ he will say with a grin, ‘that a fool is never very far away.’ The narrow young man will bend and lift a gold piece. He will turn it under his scar-lined eye and give it to the taste of his mouth. And when he is satisfied, he will say: ‘You have found just a one. I will guide you to the rim of the Fell Cauldron. But mark, I will not stray within.’ A ripple of a thing like horror and disgust is to flow through the village. Yea, and anger too.

“Prince Ma’tar will smile and he will ask: ‘And who are you, who is to act as our guide?’

“As the young man of the village lifts the purse, he will say, ‘My name is Lûm,’ and he will accompany his words with a bow. ‘It is an honour to make your acquaintance.’

“And so Lûm, lithe and steady, will lead Prince Ma’tar and Nura into the mountains. The peaks lift and the valleys grow deep and dark and the warmth of the sun’s eye takes to hiding from the three explorers. On and further, Lûm will lead them, following paths through winding gullies and climbing stairs of rock. He speaks to them stories of animals and rivers and of the small victories he has won over them. And at last it is with a hushed voice, as they draw nearer the Cauldron, that he paints its clouded picture for Nura and the prince. He tells them of an unknown land in the heart of the mountains where no peaks are seen to rise. Of the surrounding crags that mark its boundaries. Of how some have attempted to breach those boundaries. And how none have returned. And as the shadows draw around them, cold and certain, his silence will teach them what his words cannot.

“Five days they are to travel from the village of Rezech into the mountains. And it is at the foot of a curtain wall where a cliff slants over their heads as it climbs – it is there, under the shade of the rim of the Fell Cauldron that Lûm confides with lowered eyes that he can proceed no further.

“‘We must make camp before the dark grows fat,’ he urges. ‘I turn back when we awaken.’ He shakes his head solemnly and confesses: ‘I would that you do the same.’

“Prince Ma’tar looks to Nura. And together they will look towards the towering wave of rock before them, rising like a terrible warning. And beyond it, what? A wasteland of stone? They feel the uncaring majesty of that cold and forbidden land. And beating outward, unseen, but as real as a seed is to a fruit, they feel the dread will at its centre. Prince Ma’tar will smile an empty smile. And he will know another loss. This time it is the loss of choice. For he knows only that he must go on.

“It is after they have worked the poles of their tents into what clefts and cracks they can find in a floor of stone. It is after they have cast the skins over the arcing frames of bamboo. It is in the last cough of the sun, that it begins. And it will begin with the scream of horses. Those low and sturdy animals will raise their throats to the sky. Fear and panic will be their goad. They tear at their tethers and they roll their eyes, bulging and bloodshot. Lost to the gift of terror; that gift granted to them aeons ago by the firmest hand of nature.

“The prince and Nura will turn about them in confusion. They look to the heights. They look to the depths of the shadows. They turn to Lûm and there they see the flesh of their guide’s face bleed white. They see his frozen eyes stare at a sight through them and beyond them.

“As has been the way since life knew power, it is in the confusion of a moment that the strong gather the harvest of the weak. A flurry of motion, a thick coat matted and reeking and the glint that speaks the language of blades: here teeth and now claws and now the edge of a ravenous eye.

“For Prince Ma’tar, it is to be a quick blow to the side of the head. The sickening crack of his skull will not have even the time to reach his own ears. As Lûm turns to run, a blur of motion buckles one of his legs. Collapsing, he tumbles, down along the sloping sheet of rock, where the bright tents lie empty. Nura will look up. And she will see a gap where the world should be. And within the gap, she sees eyes of fire. She sees jaws open, a pit within a pit. She understands that neither pain, nor death are the final punishments of existence. And when the nothing without her calls to a nothing within her, she will relinquish the reins of consciousness. Her last thought is to be cushioned in a strange grace, the glad realisation that she will no longer feel a thing.”

The Beast stared at the girl from where it lay. Its head was tilted to the side. “I fear you have weaved yourself a noose my dear,” it said. Its voice was low and throaty.

“The story is not over,” said the girl.

“Oh no? Somehow I feel I know how it ends…”

The girl observed a subtle change in the texture of the light around the tunnel that led out of the cavern. It was barely a wisp, not even a wave. “Are you so confident you haven’t something forgotten?” The girl met the Beast’s eyes.

“Be quite certain, little one. I never forget,” the Beast growled. “But, seeing as we have come all this way, let’s have your… rendition…”

The girl bowed.

“The girl, Nura, will awake in the cave of the Beast. She will awake to find herself alone and bound. Her mind clasps at the walls of her predicament. She knows not what has become of her companions…”

“Do you want to?” prodded the Beast.

The girl hurried on, her breath becoming short, “She will know that all she can do is to try to win time. And even as she sees the body of her guide torn apart she tells the Beast her tale. The tale of a prince and a race and a quest for retribution that became poisoned by a quest for vengeance.”

The girl paused and looked up. There was a faint brush of air and again she saw the merest shift in the light towards the mouth of the cave. She looked to the Beast and could feel the sheer peaks of its understanding, as though they were the mountains themselves.

“And it is after the girl’s tale winds its way to its end…”

A figure stepped inside the neck of the cavern entrance. A boy that was almost a man. His hair was black and loose at his shoulders. His skin was the colour of wet sand and he carried a spear in one hand.

The girl continued. “As the Beast’s hunger grows, and as hope fades like wax before a flame, Prince Ma’tar will step into its lair.”

The boy that was almost a man stood still and silent.

“The prince will place his spear in front of him.”

The boy that was almost a man held his spear in both hands and laid it on the floor of the cave.

“Then he will take his bow of bone from his back…”

The boy that was almost a man unhitched his bow from where it hung.

“And he will break it in two.”

The boy paused and gazed in doubt at his bow. The man that he was soon to be brought the bow in front of him. He raised his knee. In one smooth motion, he snapped the bow over it.

The girl’s voice was hushed in the quiet that followed. “And the prince will kneel in submission upon the ground.”

The man drew a breath. He lowered himself to his knees and leant forward until his forehead touched the stone beneath him.

The girl looked at the Beast and saw a sour delight gathering upon its face.

“And what will happen then?”

“The Beast will wait no longer. For it will have tired of games and tales. It will start with her eyes.”

The girl’s voice grew stronger.

“Then the heart. It will rip open her ribcage like the strings of a corset. Then the liver, then the lungs, and the kidneys. The flesh of her rump, her thighs and her loins. Then her breasts and arms and her shoulders. And then her delicious… wet… brain.”

The Beast stared at the girl. She looked into its eyes and went on.

“For last, it will leave the tongue. That sweet tongue that can weave and has weaved such melodious lies.

The Beast let out a long, slow breath.

“And then it will be over,” said Nura.

It gazed in soft puzzlement at her. At her eyes, now closed and at her throat, bare. At the unbidden shiver of her skin. An odd stroke of contentment fought its way into the wastes of its soul – a sense of curiosity it remembered from a time long ago, a time before experience and hunger had fixed the answers to every question.

A sound like the world was fizzing rose gently in the space of the cavern. For outside, it had begun to rain.

And while breath came and went in the Beast’s lungs, this sound was all it knew.

For a time that was unreckonable, the Beast awaited the return of the malice that it cherished and survived by. It remembered lessons once, when daring and desire were its teachers, so long now, so very long ago. It remembered how it learned of the stupidity of the world around it and of its leeching brutes. And the anger. The anger it felt towards so many lessers, so many weak, so weak. The Beast remembered the power that had run through it as it came to know its own nature. How it grew in strength until nothing dwelled above it, and nothing below. How many ages had passed since it had been sole ruler of these mountains and caverns? How long was it ago when it had first understood that the only art it respected was its own? How long was it ago, since it had been given pause by the doubt of something new? Could the same forces that had forged it, forge another to a different shape? To a different nature?

The Beast looked down upon the crown of the girl kneeling before it. It suspected, with not a small measure of dismay, that it was experiencing the itch of sympathy. It was not a comfortable feeling.

It tried to remember when last it had surprised itself. And found it could not. It waited and it listened to the beat of its own pulse and to the tide of its breath.

Then the Beast reached forward with a claw and touched, gently, the cuff that bound the girl. The manacle clicked softly open.

The animal turned and walked a number of paces from her.

“Go quickly.”

The girl’s eyes opened wide. With careful hands she lifted herself to her feet. She turned and walked to the young man and she took his hands and drew him to standing. Together they walked from the cavern. Together they walked down the winding tunnel to the cave entrance. Together they passed out through its mouth.

They did not hesitate.

They walked out into the rain and into the light.

They looked before them. To the untold story of their future.

 

 

The Prince To Be © 2026 Fergus Deffely