Empire of Sand

Tristan sprawled through the valley like flowers in a glen. The sun coated it in a golden glow, winking from the towers of the Emperor’s palace to the north of the city. From our distant place on the hill, we could see tiny people moving through the streets like ants in their tunnels. Ships anchored along the coastline, their sails pulled tight. Dock workers bustled along the docks, loading and unloading new shipments. The smell of the salt water drifted with the wind and the sand, and I drew it in, filling my lungs with it. Despite the peril, I envied those who lived near the coast. The city itself was life, loud and busy, teaming with activity on every corner.

William studied the city with a sort of grim resignation.

“Have you ever been to Tristan?” I asked him.

“I have,” he said.

He sounded so morose, I almost pitied him. Had he considered the awful possibility that the pirates had captured his cousin? This close to the coast, pirates and other foreign traders captured stray locals for indentured service or ransom. But the way William had described his cousin, it sounded like he’d run away.

From what? I wondered.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” I said with a smile, and we coaxed our horses toward the glowing city and our respective futures.

_#_

The training grounds were an enormous collection of converted equestrian stalls in the center of town. To the right of the fenced stalls, a trio of armored guardsman greeted those who wished to contend in the Emperor’s Trials. The line was long already, despite the early hour. Dozens of bedraggled strangers stood, peering over the heads of those preceding them, their faces gaunt and clothes soiled from travel. The wealthier locals filtered through the city streets, attending the market stalls nearby. Many of them wore fine clothing and had escorts in their company. They turned up their noses at us and muttered distasteful words when they passed.

“Look at all the filth this tournament has brought into our lovely city,” one woman told her escort. He glanced at us and averted his gaze. Did she know her escort was also from a poor family, or was she simply insensitive to her own company?

“Careful, red,” one voice called out.

The woman stopped, her attendant halting just behind her. The wealthy woman had long, red hair, curly and shining in the sun. Her gown was ivory-colored silk and voluminous at the bottom. Her attendant carried a ridiculous parasol to shade her from the sun’s rays.

“Excuse me, rat, were you speaking to me?” she replied in a lilting voice.

A young woman my age stepped out of line, three places ahead of where I waited. If we weren’t careful, the guard could dismiss us all.

“I said, be careful. I’d hate for your pretty skirts to get burned,” the young woman growled.

I peered over at her. She was thin like me, with raven hair that had been sheared with a dull blade. Her clothes were dark, too, and riddled with tiny moth holes. Her skin was a lovely almond color, and her angry eyes were a deep brown. Despite her garb and her unfortunate haircut, she was strikingly beautiful.

The red-haired woman drifted toward us, her scented oil perfuming the surrounding air. The attendant shuffled behind in silence, his hand trembling slightly.

“You dare speak to me that way?” the red-haired woman challenged.

The darker one stepped forward until their noses were almost touching with their proximity.

“I dare,” she said.

Then the woman shrieked and leaped back, as her skirts smoked. Those of us waiting in line to register for the tournament laughed as the red head flailed and shrieked, drawing the attention of the nearest patrons. The attendant stumbled back and fell onto his backside, bending the parasol he’d held. The skirts erupted into a brilliant flame, consuming her fine gown like a starving animal. The guard’s attention was drawn, and they began moving in our direction, hands poised on their swords.

“Psst! I hissed.

The raven-haired woman turned her dark eyes on me, glowering.

“Guards!” I said, jerking my head in their direction.

Her eyes widened a fraction, and with a wave of her fingers the flames were extinguished, leaving the woman’s gown burnt and tattered near the hem.

“What’s going on!?” the largest guard demanded.

I stepped forward, abandoning all good sense.

“This fine lady must have caught her dress on the torch over there,” I told him in a trembling voice. I pointed at the low torches flanking the tent behind her. One of them had tipped over in the commotion.

The red head stood, making a fuss about shaking the smoke out of her skirts and smoothing the silk layers. Her attendant righted himself and worked to repair the parasol he’d bent in the fall. The redhead narrowed her gaze at me, and the dark-haired woman kept silent.

“Is that what happened?” the guard asked the red head.

She sniffed and turned up her nose. I suspected she would not allow her to impugn her pride by admitting that one of the “rats” had bested her.

“It is. This clumsy idiot tripped me,” she said, gesturing toward her attendant. “I shall whip him for that!” she shrieked.

The attendant hung his head, and I opened my mouth to defend him.

“My apologies, madam,” a familiar voice called.

William drifted closer, a charming grin on his face. The woman’s tension melted away as she took in his handsome features, and she fluttered her eyelashes, remembering to be coy.

“I’m afraid I’ve caused the unfortunate event,” he continued.

The attendant blinked and waited, confusion etched on his features.

“I was browsing the pelts, and I tripped myself,” he said, and chuckled. “I fear I displaced the torch. Allow me to treat you to a new gown. A flower as lovely as you shouldn’t be seen in anything less,” he said with a bow.

I wanted to be sick. The woman responded in kind, agreeing that the entire display was an unfortunate mistake. The attendant stared at me as he followed his lady and William toward the silk trades, and William paid me a brief glance before escorting the red-haired woman away.

“Thanks,” the dark-haired woman said.

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m Tessie.”

She held out her tiny hand, and I accepted it.

“Ash.”

“Ash. I like that. I should have been called Ash,” she told me, and we both chuckled.

“Where are you from?”

The line shuffled forward, and we shuffled along with it. Those standing nearby shot curious glances our way and whispered amongst each other.

“Two day’s ride from Tristan,” I replied.

She nodded.

“I’m from Cypress. I just earned my way out of the Forgery.”

She pointed to one of the smaller whalers.

“We arrived last night.”

Cypress was an island off the coast, though I wasn’t sure of its proximity to Tristan. The Forgery was another word for indentured servitude. My new friend was a slave.

“Welcome to Tristan,” I told her—though we were both outcasts.