We walked for two days straight— we had horses, at first— but being the dunderhead he is, my idiot kidnapper failed to tie them up properly, and they ran away.
Of course, he had made sure I was well and stuck before nightfall. I suggested that he use the vines to capture the horses (obviously), but he simply stared.
"You do not use the vines on such sacred animals as the horse," he had said with impatience. Hmph. Horses were sacred, but tying me up is perfectly fine? "They carry supplies to our village. If they need to leave us and move faster, their knowledge is to be trusted."
While his incompetence annoyed me (and murdered my poor feet), losing the horses did further the thought burgeoning in my brain, however— the thought that he might have been the most terrible kidnapper I'd ever seen. He varied from stoic, to apologetic, to downright cruel. He overshared my location. He would jump back from any accidental touch as if burned. He made sure my bonds were tight, to be sure… but other than that, something always seemed to be missing. It unsettled me, even as it gave me comfort— after all, any doubts at all made it more likely that the guilt would overcome him and I could convince him to let me go.
"We make camp here tonight. It's the last shelter we'll find until the village, and we can make it by morning from here." He took off his pack, and my panic set in. A village meant more people. More people to guard me from rescuers, more people to take my freedom. Crueler people. I became desperately afraid for the first time.
"You don't have to do this, you know. You could just let me go right now. No harm done. I would return to the castle, pretend I just ran away, swallow my punishment like none of this happened. You would have all of this off of your conscience. No more dealing with me and my whining and slow feet, and certainly no dealing with whatever repercussions will follow when my father and brother find out you did this. Wouldn't you like that?" I tried not to let my panic show, keeping my voice soothing, like Nix with a kicking horse.
"Yes," he said, "I would like that very much."
"So you'll let me go." I could barely squeak the words out, hope sticky in my throat, my mind racing. The trek home would be hard, sure, but I would survive it-maybe there was a village, there had to be, and there are always inns in villages... stay there, send for Father and Yuil and Nix,
"No."
I stopped, mid-thought.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said no."
"You said—"
"What I said was that I would like that, yes. I would not be lying to say that I would rather this whole ordeal not be happening. However, I would also like my people to live healthy, happy lives, and most unfortunately for you, Princess, those two things are mutually exclusive. Apologies." My heart sank into my stomach as he turned away. My eyes filled with tears even as I willed them to go away. I did not want to give the monster the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
"Nightfall comes swifter, here. We need to make camp before it does." I saw a quick movement through my blurred vision, and the now-familiar leafy cage sprung from its usual nowhere. I saw his hands come through the bars, and I stiffened, tears forgotten, fear in my chest as I thought of the Overwater Horror stories, female prisoners touched by men against their will. Was this why he would not let me go? His people would not care if I was…damaged. I took no measures to hide my wild terror as I met his eyes, and he sprung back, as if burned.
"I did not mean— apologies, Princess, a thousand apologies, I only meant to—I would never— I could never…" he trailed off, running his hands through his hair. I let out the breath I had been holding in. I had misread his signals. That's all. Just a misunderstanding. He sighed, setting his jaw. "I must leave. I have a few things to accomplish before we enter my lands tomorrow." I ignored him, and he sighed again. "I truly am sorry, Princess. If there were another way, I would—"
"There is!" It burst out of me before I had thought it, a half-sob escaping, and he shook his head.
"There is not. Good night, Princess," he said, and as he vanished into the darkness, I laid against the taut vines that enclosed me and wept for the first time.
The humming from the small grove was deafening. Water dripped from every pore of every leaf, the soft breathing of the forest evident in every corner, the slumber of an ancient animal.
Wendell felt every atom of it, life seeping through his skin, and for the first time since he had left for Cabot, he felt at peace. He felt a tickle at his legs, and a giggle escaped him as the vines encircled his frame in a leafy embrace.
"Yes," he said fondly, "You as well. I cannot stay long, though. I must talk to The Mother. It is of great importance." The grove shook a little, and he barely kept from rolling his eyes. "I am being serious. This is not a subject that begets laughter, great ones." The foliage once again bristled at him, but parted this time. He stepped through the archway with a brisk touch of his forehead to the capstone, picking his way through the emerald haze until he reached his destination. He felt her golden light around him and nearly sobbed with relief. He sat and said his rites with mechanical ferocity, eager to speak. He felt his body shut down as his inner eyes opened, and his heart skipped. It had been more than five years since his last visit; too long, as obvious now. He looked up at her, and The Mother smiled at him.
"You journey has been unexpectedly eventful, my son. You look lost." Her voice wrenched his stomach. She knew, of course, she did— The Mother knew all things, great and small— but she was unhappy with him. Well, he was unhappy with himself.
"That is because I am, Mother. I do not know…" The words turned to ash in his mouth, and he felt his body returning. He dampened the urge to return with a vengeance as he regained the courage to speak truth. "I believe I have lost my light, and I fear my wrong doing is too great to regain it."
"All things are made clear when time awakens. The Sandmasters know both beginning and end, my child. But let us speak of the now, for what little we have. You worry of the girl."
"Princess Razia, yes. I… I fear capturing her was a mistake."
"And why is that?"
"It is against everything I stand for, Mother!" Wendell could not remember ever raising his voice to her, and he heard her surprise in the air. He quickly calmed himself, choosing his words carefully. He could not afford to offend, and so he closed his inner eyes in apology for a moment before continuing. "I did not intend to take her against her will. I was desperate. The king no longer cares for us. The land no longer serves us as it used to, and our laws bind us. I was trapped among knives, and I am afraid my desolation sent me down the wrong path, that I did something I should not have. Please guide me. Tell me my path, Mother."
Notes of sympathy drifted to his ears, but that was all. Wendell sat among them for some time before The Mother spoke again.
"My son, you know it is not my place to give orders. We gave that power to the Great Ones before you even fruited." She turned from him, and his anger that had threatened to strike unleashed itself.
"Damn the Great Ones! What have they done for us? They offer no help, no guidance that I can see! They look down from their mastered perfection with deafening silence— they do not stop the rain. They do not stop the famine. They do not answer our calls. My people are passing into the earth quicker than ever before and all I hear is Silence!"
"Everything has a place and time. You know this." Her voice stayed at the same musically complacent tone, but Wendell felt her rebuke vibrate around his ears. He wanted to cry. Anger had not been his intention when he arrived, but it was his greatest weakness.
"I apologize. I did not mean to lose my temper— I understand my place. I know the Great Ones see what I cannot. But I despair, Mother. I despair that my race will soon be no more, that the rain will never cease to fall. Please show me the way, Mother. I must know the way."
She stayed silent for several minutes, and Wendell willed himself to stillness. He took the time to feel her pulse, the constant heartbeat of life pounding through his brain. He felt again the connectedness of the Everything; the relationship between The Mother before him and the grass beneath him, between the Princess in her cage and the leaves outside his village, being stepped on by the hunters searching in vain. He felt, rather than saw, the pathways laid out before him, multitudinous and frightening in their variety, and as his gaze soared over them, he felt the tug that had first given him his mission as Prince, so many years ago.
When The Mother finally spoke, it was with conviction that Wendell rarely heard.
"I see your path has cleared now, my son." She sounded pleased, and Wendell was glad.
"I know my truth now, Mother."
"And the girl?"
"While I would not choose this path of my own making, I see that it has crossed hers for this purpose. The sands have shown their colors. I will not harm the Princess, but I must save my people. They are always first." He allowed himself a special grin. "After all, did you not witness my oath at this very spot, when I was just a boy?"
They thought through the memory together, and Wendell ached for that simpler time.
"I wish you luck my son. You shall take your night's rest here, though— I will watch the woman."
Wendell hesitated. He had so many responsibilities, so many worries. To rest here while so much around him was on the verge of disintegration—
"Rest." There was no mistaking the strength in her voice, and Wendell acquiesced. Both selves shuttered down within seconds, and The Mother turned her gaze towards the Princess as she sent her message to the trees around her— do not harm the girl.
Meanwhile, in a village on the verge of collapse, and old woman opened her eyes, running to the door and sliding it open wildly, hurtling a rock to land inside the house across.
"Ready the cabins." she yelled across the thunder to the sleep-mussed head that peered out. "Tomorrow he returns." She shut the door, grinning to herself. "And with a woman."