A/N: Please don't kill me! I know it's been an age and a half since my last update… after school finally slowed down, I got mono. I still have it but I feel better now and I wanted to finish this.
In this chapter I stole lots of lines from TSoT. Hooray for thievery!
"Sandhya" is an Indian name meaning "twilight." I read in one place that it's pronounced "San-thee-a," but I don't know if that's correct.
UPDATE: I think I fixed the problem of the Prince mysteriously not recognizing Farah. He now has reasons not to, which I will restate after this chapter if you don't catch them.
Captive
"Something in the sand, sir!""A body… a girl!"
I peered through the lines of soldiers and servants, guiding my horse forward to investigate the commotion. There in the swirling sand lay two corpses – a horse and a young girl. But as I watched, the girl seemed to move her head. I pushed through the curious onlookers and shouted, "She's alive! Someone help her!"
Rather than stop the entire caravan, a few servants rode out to bring her back. They lay her on a wooden platform used to carry large goods. I fell back alongside it and finally got a good look at the girl. She was a little younger than me, and her skin was the burnt gold of an Indian. Red cloth was curiously wrapped around her body to form a sort of dress, almost indecently short but acceptable because of the heat. She was covered with sand – it filled her hair and clothes and had scratched red wounds on her body.
One of my father's men spoke up anxiously. "Sir, are you sure this is wise? What with the unsettled business, if the Maharajah discovered we had taken an Indian prisoner—"
Sharaman laughed. "One little girl in all the bustle of India will not be missed."
Yet despite my father's words, something about the foreign girl made me uneasy. Perhaps it was the faded gold lining her red skirts, or the smoky powder layered on her closed eyes, but she did not seem to me like just any "little girl."
For many minutes, she barely stirred. When she did awaken, it was only to utter nonsensical phrases and stare wildly at objects no one else could see. I knew that if my father learned she was unfit for servitude, he would leave her in the desert just as he had found her. I approached a nearby soldier. "The sun has maddened her," I told him. "Bring her water, and she may recover." He laughed most disrespectfully at me, then laughed louder at the indignation that inevitably crossed my face. "Waste our water on a little Indian rat?" He snorted. "If the sun has muddled anyone's pretty little head, highness—"
I scowled. "Finish that sentence and you'll find your own rations going to better use." I glanced at the girl, then back at him. He understood and soon returned with a small skin of water. I held it to the girl's dark lips, encouraging her to drink.
"Where is that rascal son of mine?" I looked up, startled, as a strong voice barked from up ahead. Some water spilled from the bag, and the soldier who had fetched it looked ready to strike me for my clumsiness. I hastily instructed two servants to administer it to the girl, and rode forward to answer my father's call.
Over the next few days, I saw little of the strange girl. My father wanted to discuss hypothetical battle scenarios with my brothers and me, to keep us sharp and prepared. I wondered if it had something to do with India – the withdrawn attack, the disappointing negotiations, or the captured girl. The latter fascinated me; I was sure I could feel her night-black eyes upon me as we rode. Once she had regained consciousness and coherence, they had loosely tied her to a pole – more as a symbol of her captivity than an actual means of preventing escape, since she had no chance of survival on her own. She was given a scarf for her head and face to keep off the harsh sun. Beneath it and her ragged appearance, she carried a sense of pride, importance even, and a kind of battered beauty that might once have been grand to behold. She held me hot under her gaze, sometimes so forcefully that it was difficult to tell who was the true captor.
We arrived at the palace of Azad in early June. It had been my father's intention to rest there for a while before returning to Persepolis. Even though the less direct route would take longer, the months were growing too hot for an uninterrupted journey home from Jaipur. I tried not to shudder as we retraced our steps – my family, of course, was unaware that all this had already happened in another time. Even though I knew perfectly well that the Sands were safe in India, I didn't welcome the thought of returning to that cursed place.
That night, I looked around my guest suite with an odd feeling of relief. Everything was intact and in place, with no eerie yellow clouds lurking in the corners or dreadful monsters tearing through the stillness. I had grown familiar to the half-destroyed appearance of the truly magnificent palace. Now, in a room as handsome as this, it was easy to let my anxieties dissolve into the sumptuous curtained bed. I slept soundly through the night.
The next day, I visited the sultan's famous menagerie. It was a wonder I had longed to see as a child. The exotic creatures were a terrific sight, pushing out memories of the nasty sand-possessed beasts.
"Tigers from India," a proud voice behind me stated. An Azad native was giving some of my family's entourage a tour of the zoo. I was surprised to see among them the girl from the desert. They were being generous to her – perhaps because of the state of our relations with her country. She looked sullen behind her dark veil, but her face smoothed into a more placid expression as she reached out and stroked the bars of the tiger's cage.
The Azad man moved outside toward the aviary. The heat was stifling, but I followed the group. The menagerie of Azad was a wonder famous throughout the world, and as a child I had dreamed of it and longed to see it with my own eyes.
A shriek cut the thick air. The Indian girl was glaring high up at one of the caged birds and yelling for her bow and arrow. I recalled that we had confiscated those weapons from her when we had first found her, while she was unconscious. The servants and guards attempted to calm her, but she only demanded that her weapons be returned. The creature was dangerous, she insisted, and must be destroyed. Bewildered, the servants called to me for help. When I reached the girl, she stopped struggling and looked at me intently. "You," she said, her voice quieter, but with the same urgent, commanding tone. "You remember."
"Remember what?" I gazed up at the bird, a splendid animal with dark grey-blue plumage and a wingspan of at least eight feet. The girl kept staring at me, but said nothing. She must have been more than a little dazed by the sun after all. Bemused, I asked her name.
A dark look crossed her features. She murmured, "Sandhya."
"Well, Sandhya, that bird is in a very large cage," I explained patiently. "It's not going to attack anyone."
"I'm not stupid, Prince," she spat. "I can see it's in a cage." A guard grabbed her wrist, ordering, "You will address his highness with the respect he deserves!" She sighed, suddenly looking tired. "You're right, highness. Of course it's quite safe. I don't know what I was thinking."
I told the servants that I would take her. They gladly assented. I led her away from the aviary to a small lily pond. "Sandhya, that's a pretty name," I commented. She had a pretty face to match it, although at the moment it was darkened by a scowl.
"You needn't be so patronizing," she muttered.
I was taken aback. "I was only trying to be friendly."
"I'm not crazy," she said, defensive now. If not, she was certainly moody. It was impossible to predict what she would do next. I suppose it was her prerogative as a woman, but it was becoming frustrating. "I was only dehydrated in the desert, that's all. I'm just as sane as you."
Ksathra would have gotten a laugh out of that last one. "I know you're not crazy," I assured her. It was true, more or less. She seemed lucid now, at least. After a few moments of silence, my curiosity got the better of me and I asked, "Why were you afraid of that bird?"
She gave me an odd look, as if searching for something, as if expecting me to know the answer. It soon changed to one of slight embarrassment as she explained: "In my land, there is a legend of a catastrophe which could turn all living creatures into terrible monsters. I – I saw a picture once of a mythical bird that looked just like that one."
She couldn't possibly be talking about the Sands of Time – the coincidence would be laughable. Yet the first image in my mind was of one of the vicious sand-birds I had fought in this same menagerie. I shivered, but smiled pleasantly at Sandhya. "I'm sure it's a very entertaining myth."
"Oh, it is," she agreed, smiling for the first time. "A fantastic story."
A fantastic story. I looked away, waiting for the painful memories to subside.
"Are you alright?" Sandhya touched my arm gently. I forced another smile. "I'm fine. But this sun is enough to drive a man mad! Er, no offense."
She laughed, a pleasing sound. "Shall we find somewhere a little cooler?"
My stay at Azad was unexpectedly made that much more enjoyable by the Indian girl's company. We traversed the palace together. I remembered a little of its design from my adventures with the Sands, but seeing the wonders of Azad in all their glory was nearly as impressive for me as it was for Sandhya. The week passed too quickly, and we were soon on our way to Persepolis. Rather than leave her ungraciously tied to a pole again, I made arrangements for Sandhya to walk by my side as we rode. She and I exchanged stories and traditions from our native lands. This was the first time she had ever left India – as an only daughter, her parents had sheltered her all her life.
She was quite a spirited woman, her strong will kept in check only by her captivity. I couldn't help but notice that she was also rather beautiful – though why this should elicit a twinge of guilt was beyond my knowledge. Farah was long gone and I ought to forget her. But sometimes when Sandhya's smooth ebony hair blew gently behind her, I saw for an instant Farah's regal countenance in place of hers. I feared I would be doomed to torment myself with the princess' memory forever.
A/N: I guess I wasn't clear enough... the Prince doesn't recognize Farah because: at first she is covered in sand, cuts and bruises, and after (we assume) she gets cleaned up, she has a scarf covering most of her face. Also, she gives him a false name. I'm sorry I couldn't come up with anything better. Realistically, he's only seen this girl a few times, so it's not as if her face is actually ingrained in his memory (even if he may think so; he's only human). If you're wondering why she's concealing her identity, that will be explained in the next chapter. Sorry for the confusion and delays!