The dawning of the fourth day brought light upon a time of rest among the princesses, for they were weary and thoughtful of the prior day’s labors, with only Edhsél displaying any desire whatsoever for activity. So she passed the day by riding all about the lands surrounding the mountain until it was that a mounted scout of the king’s guard met her, ordering her to return for the men along the wasteland marches reported a number of vampyric raiders and the king feared for her safety.

Thus while all were breaking fast on the fifth day Edhsél, being somewhat anxious for vigorous activity, proposed that they each of them seek to demonstrate some talent to the king on their own terms, by way of a kind of tournament. Standing proudly at her place she detailed how it would be executed, should the king permit the event. Each princess would make known to the group what she considers one of her finest talents and thus challenge the other four to a contest. All would be held in the great arena, and too would there be votes cast: a master of ceremonies would determine the pleasure of the crowd and the king would afterward make his own pleasure known, with the princess garnering the most votes being declared the victor and winning a seat at the king’s right hand for the remainder of the day.

 All were delighted at the idea and the king sent a servant to make ready the arena and to gather the people of the mountain there after the midday meal. Bells were rung and announcements made all morning long while the five young women rehearsed and stretched and made all manner of ready for their contest, considering all things they may be challenged in. Only Edhsél, so proud and nigh on indomitable, drew comfort in knowing she would be the victor in at least one contest.

The hours of the morning bled quickly into midday, and soon enough the princesses each found themselves in the great arena where a veritable host of people had already gathered. Vendors carted fresh baked bread and other goods all about the tiered seating, and such a roar echoed all about the great space that a passersby at the base of the mountain might think for a moment that a terrific storm had sprung forth from the sky and threatened to sweep him away. And what a grand sight was that arena, carved out of the very side of the living mountain on the southern slope such that the sun always shone upon it!

Trumpets tore through the roar like steel arrows, and a man with a grand voice announced to all present the names, parentage, and kingdoms of the participants, as well as the rules of the impromptu tournament. The five participants saluted the king in the manner of their homeland, and thus did the master of ceremonies give leave for Edhsél to make known the first challenge, she being first by the king’s pleasure, for it was in the end her thought that brought the tournament about.

“I am Lady Edhsél, firstborn of Bhelegérn, and I do challenge my sisters to a contest of archery!” At this there was an outpouring of excitement, though already it was that Princess Dauabré bowed out of the contest, saying to the master that she had never fired a bow in all her life. The competition was held in the following manner: the four princesses stood a few paces apart along a firing line and at the king’s command fired a volley toward targets fifty, one hundred and two hundred paces away. Then there was a trial by horseback in which each were required to fire a shot while riding toward and then past a target. Finally in a final display each attempted to shoot and arrow through a small hoop tossed in the air. When all was finished the crowd showed their pleasure toward Edhsél, as did the king, for her skill with bow and arrow was great indeed, and thus did she garner two votes.

Next did Lílabhél announce a contest of dancing, and all five competitors were granted leave to change into costume and to consult with musicians from their respective lands. In the meanwhile the crowd burst into folksongs of the mountain, singing heartily for their joy was great and long had it been since such merriment was had. They sang, beginning with a long, exaggerated ho:

Ho…!

té mirnestoníc bhas

aden té sal bhéal

aden té ston nil fet

aden té fol nil dhara

aden ilaé

 nobhaé

 nil obtith dun…

ta nil déma…

 bhard drekne!

 

Which in the modern tongue translates as:

 

Oh the mountain’s rise

And the sun’s fall

And the stone’s wet

And the well’s dry

And all

Things

Are upside down…

‘tis time…

For drinking!

 

This was a song that went on for some great length and had many verses, this being but the refrain, and once the master of ceremonies announced the beginning of the first dance the crowd sang the refrain one last time and ended with a thunderous peal of laughter.

            Lílabhél it was that performed first with Dauabré performing last. It was that all were delighted to hear music and to see dancing from such distant and exotic places, and to behold the costumes and grace of five beautiful women. There was much amazement at the gracefulness of Edhsél, whom many thought would have trouble with the subtleties required of dancing, but again she proved to be exceptional at yet another task. In the end, however, it was Dauabré who was the victor. Though she could find no musicians within the mountain that could play music from her land, she showed her skill by asking the audience to choose the music of one of the lands already heard, and thus did she perform her own dance to a tune from Celereshél’s land, a hearty but somewhat bittersweet tune played on a rich fiddle with a simple drum and flute accompanying. She wore yet her black veil but had dressed herself in a flowing white skirt with a red tunic that showed her bare arms, and even Edhsél was impressed by her skill. Both the pleasure of the crowd and the king was with Dauabré, and thus was she in a tie with the dark-skinned huntress.

            Bhéalmal it was that next spoke, surprising all with a challenge of story-weaving, and each told a story from their lands. The pleasure of the crowd went with Edhsél who told a captivating tale involving a dragon and an enchanted spear, while the pleasure of the king went with Celereshél who broke his heart with a beautiful story about a hunter who fell in love with a princess, only to be frozen forever by a spell. Celereshél went on to propose a challenge of singing, going on to break the hearts of the whole of the crowd and thus win their solemn pleasure by singing the following song, here made plain to modern eyes in modern words:

 

The fire crackles on

And flickers like the dawn

The dawn of the day

You left me.

 

You kissed me so gentle

And whispered a little,

A promise to return,

Then left me.

 

And oh how white the snows of our land,

How black the trees that o’er me stand,

How cold I’m now, I’m all undone,

No fire gives warmth since you are gone.

 

The clashing of swords,

The crying of hordes,

For honor and glory

You left me.

 

Now the tomb is your home

And our home’s a tomb,

Both dark and both cold

Since you left me.

 

And oh how white the snows of our land,

How black the trees that o’er me stand,

How cold I’m now, I’m all undone,

No fire gives warmth since you are gone.

 

Ne’er again will I love

Sing sweet in the grove

Where first you did

Come to me.

 

I pray soon to die

And again by thee lie

Forever and ever

Be with thee.

 

And oh how white the snows of our land,

How black the trees that o’er me stand,

How cold I’m now, I’m all undone,

No fire gives warmth since you are gone.

 

Lament, for I’m young,

My life no near done,

I’ve many a lone year…

Wait for me…

 

Though the crowd, weeping and quiet, gave the songstress their pleasure, the king’s went to Dauabré who, unaccompanied by any lute or lyre, sang a wordless rhapsody that nigh on cast a spell upon him, and it seemed as though it struck a chord of familiarity within that coursed through his blood like a hound on the chase. Edhsél was alarmed at this, for again her nemesis was sharing her lead.

            It was her nemesis that issued a final challenge, one that surprised the all of them. She called out simply, “All to their horses,” and thus were the horses of all brought out, with Dauabré being lent the king’s own great steed. Médash watched in amazement as the horse took immediately to her, his head low in friendly greeting as though he were already acquainted. Mounting in a single, graceful motion the mysterious princess conferred with the master of ceremonies who then announced the details of the contest to all present. The crowd then went mad in anticipation of such a grand event: first there would be a contest in which each royal lady would guide their mount at full speed around a series of posts, then would be a display of skill at throwing a spear at and through various targets. Next would be a chance for each to display some feat of their own skill (many hoped to see one of them attempt to leap over their charging horse or some other impossible deed) before a final race around the arena. This final event, Dauabré proposed, would grant to the victor an automatic point for finishing first, which would give Lílabhél and Bhéalmal, should they win the race as well as the pleasure of all in attendance, a chance at tying for first, after which the king would chose a final test and cast his vote alone. All was agreed upon, and thus did all make ready.

            The display of horsemanship on that field was as none ever seen in the Age of Man; not since the height of fallen Elvendom had horse and rider impressed the sight and stirred the awe of any person. However the demands upon the strength and stamina of the princesses was great, and it was that poor Celereshél, during the final race, began to fall from off her horse and would have done so had not Dauabré swerved to her side to catch her. The cry of alarm that rose from the arena in those fearful moments could have split stone, but the cheer at seeing the young maiden’s rescue would have reduced such stone to sand were the great mountain made of lesser matter. Lo it was that this act of charity cost Dauabré the victory, granting her the final place among her sister’s with Edhsél, as was expected, taking the highest. Thus had the dark lady taken four marks for the day, leaving Lílabhél and Bhéalmal with none, poor Celereshél with two, and Dauabré with three. Too did the crowd give their pleasure to Edhsél, for though Dauabré proved a champion horsewoman, the former’s skill was surpassing. The king, however, granted his pleasure to Dauabré for her valor and though this was yet one mark short of winning the day, it was of her deed that the people spoke of until late in the evening, forgetting utterly the victory Edhsél had been granted by count.

            Though Edhsél enjoyed her place at the king’s right hand for the remainder of the day, already a seed of envy had been planted in her heart regarding her veiled opponent, but in the hot of that afternoon and the blaze of praise flickering all about Dauabré, that seed cracked open as do some seeds in a wildfire, and thus it took root in her heart and began to grow and twist, strangling what charity remained. 

 

“Wise lady,” began the elderly man, “we charge this prisoner with the crime of murder, for six days ago he did slay our only son cruelly in the desert.” A gasp rushed forth from the crowd like a gust of wind through a grove of trees, and the king’s heart nearly ceased to beat, for murder was punishable by death and he had only sat in judgment over a charge of murder once in the whole of his kingship. This revelation, he noticed, did not seem to startle Lady Dauabré in the leastwise way, for she merely held up her hand bearing the keys and all were again silenced. She then bid the man to continue, demanding that he support his high claim.

            “Lady, it was that our son did frequent the desert lands in search of cacti fruits and other goods to be found if one is wise and their craft is good. But on the day of his death this brigand ambushed him, murdering him and taking his horse and clothing. It was that two days passed before one of the king’s own desert scouts descried from afar off the vultures that circled our son’s body, and upon discovering the body followed tracks unto a cave a half-mile hence wherein lay the murderer asleep in the raiment once worn by the slain. This scout is present here and is willing to offer testimony.”

            Dauabré nodded and a young, lean man stood and came forward. He was dressed in the white robes of the king’s desert scouts with the Golden Hand of Médash embroidered upon his breast, and he bore at his side a scimitar. His voice was clear and strong as he testified, saying, “I am new-named Furkirérn, having forsaken the name of my birth when I swore my life to Médash, whom I hail as my king. All is as the man has spoken: I was scouting in the desert, for the vampyre hordes are known to frequent the region, and I saw afar off a circlet of vultures. Thus did I ride for them, thinking perhaps I would find a sign of my quarry’s passing, when I did discover the sad sight of the boy, his body naked and head caved in by the weapon that smote him. I knew it was no vampyre that did the deed, for there was a great deal of blood upon him and his neck was molested not. Spying the remains of tracks in the sand I rode all their length unto a cave where I found the murderer sleeping. I knew it to be him by the blood on the clothes as well as by the very fine horse tethered nearby. It was a simple matter to bind him and bring him here for the king’s justice, and I pray I shall never see such a thing again in all my life.”

            The elderly woman began to weep and her husband embraced her so as to comfort her. Dauabré brought her gaze to bear upon the prisoner and said, “Look upon me, prisoner, and tell me if all that has been spoken is truth or no.” The prisoner simply nodded his head but would not meet her gaze. Thus did her eyes narrow, and of a sudden she leapt down from the Golden Throne and strode quickly over to the prisoner, much to the enstartlement of all present. Taking hold of the lad’s jaw behind his great beard she bore up his face and looked into the very depths of him, “Boy!” she said aloud, “I have bid you look upon me, I who am your judge! If you did not know that I hold your life in my hands, know it now as I grasp your head!”

            And the lad was terrified and shook all over.

            “Tell me: are the claims afore now truth or no?”

            He said, “They are true.”

            “Then it is that you slew their son?”

            “Yes, I did slay him.”

            “Then you are guilty?”

            “Yes, I am guilty of the lad’s blood.”

            Dauabré let go his jaw and the lad fell into his seat as though he had no legs. Half way to the throne she halted, saying over her shoulder without turning around fully, “Boy, what is your name?”

            King Médash, whose heart had nearly burst with sorrow at the lad’s confession, stood up as a small hope reinvigorated him. The lad said, “Nenoma, for I am alone.” At this she turned fully and continued, “No-Name, why is it that you killed the son of those who charge you with his murder?” The elderly couple started, for they had thought the trial to be ended, and now they feared that their justice might be taken from them. Nenoma began to cry bitterly, and his body shook such that the rattling of his chains could be heard by all.

            “I was trying to catch a locust that I might eat it,” he began, “when there rode a young man in fine clothes atop a great horse as I had never seen. He did not at first spy me there in the rocks, but when he began to drink from his waterskin he took note of me and laughed. He called me a tumbleweed and a desert rat, though these names did me no ill for I cared not. But a great thirst had settled upon my tongue for the length of a day and more and I had no water of my own. I begged him for but a drop of his supply and he refused.”

            Furkirérn it was that Dauabré then called, asking of him, “Loyal scout, was it that the prisoner bore anything else besides the raiment of the dead? Was there upon his person any jewelry, perhaps?” The scout thought for a moment, saying, “Yes, my lady; there was a signet ring of course, with the seal of his household upon it. It was that in my sorrow I returned the ring to the boy’s father when I delivered news of his death.” The father reached into his robe and retrieved the very ring, “Here is the ring of which you speak, though I do not see why we now do speak of theft when murder is the greater sin.” Dauabré’s gaze leapt upon the man as though it were a lion pouncing and she said sternly, “True, citizen, but there are sins greater even than theft and murder here. Now give the ring to the scout that he might attest to its legitimacy.” Such was done before she continued, “Loyal scout, do this court the favor of telling us why you did violence to the prisoner’s face when capturing him.”

            Furkirérn looked at her as though she had asked a riddle of him, and after a time he said, “My lady, I am confounded, for as I have testified he was asleep when I came upon him, and thus there was hardly a struggle at all. Why, then, do you accuse me of violence?”

            “Because otherwise I cannot discern how it is that the mark upon the prisoner’s right cheek came to be. Would you do this court the favor, then, of examining the mark and describing it aloud?”

            The good scout bowed in affirmation and proceeded to carry out the lady’s will. He testified, saying, “May it please the court to know that there is indeed a mark of some violence upon the left cheek of the prisoner. It is in the shape of a lozenge, nearly the size of a child’s thumb, and within the lozenge are the faint tracings of some design.” His words trailed off into silence for a moment, and in a heartbeat he glanced down upon the ring he yet held, glanced anew at the mark, and cried out, “By heaven, the mark is the mirror-image of the very ring I bear!”

            Voices all throughout the throne room rose up in a din like unto that of a great cataract of water, but Dauabré did nothing to silence it, for it seemed as though a great relief had come upon her and she sank into the throne for a time until the din had settled before speaking again. “Nenoma, tell us how it is that you came to bear this mark.”

            “My lady, it was that the man who refused me water did strike me with the back of his hand. I had grasped at his leg in my begging, and he struck me with great cruelty.” A new din threatened to burst but Dauabré stood and quelled it, and it seemed as though the crowd were a woman in the beginning of her labor who was forced to restrain all within herself, and the very air groaned silently with the strain if it. She said, “What did he then do?” Nenoma began to weep, and though his words were broken there was no difficulty in understanding him, “Then he laughed anew at my misfortune and spat in the sand, saying to me ‘There is your drop!’ before he began to trot away, laughing all the while. In a fit of rage I cast a stone toward him but I never meant to strike him. Yet my aim was true and the stone caved in his head, and the man fell to the sand in an instant. I was terribly afraid so I ran to my cave to hide. Night soon came, and my lady knows that the winter nears and the nights are now especially cold. To my greater shame I returned to his body and took all his clothing and all his possessions in the hope that I might survive against the cold a few days longer, and I took his horse that should my cave fail to prolong my survival any longer I might ride afar off and find shelter elsewhere. Thus did I live for five days more when I awoke bound by the scout who found me, and I did not resist him for I knew I deserved to die.”

            A change came over the faces of the elderly couple as though the ice of their hatred for the prisoner had melted to pity, and the great suppressed din was birthed in a great sigh. King Médash seated himself as though a heavy peace had pressed him back into his seat, and he began to praise God quietly in his heart. Dauabré then looked upon Furkirérn and said, “Scout, your craft is keen in the ways of discerning wounds and their causes; would you judge that a stone could have dealt the blow you saw upon the slain?” The scout bowed, needing not to say another word. Only then did Dauabré stand, raising in her hand the two keys, and her voice rang throughout the chamber as though a rich thunder, and carried upon it were these words:

            “Thus do I, Dauabré, in the name of King Médash, pronounce my judgment! You, Nenoma, I do find guilty of murder, and thus shall I sentence you. Yet also do I find the slain guilty of attempting the same crime for which the lad before us stands condemned, for by his own selfishness he had condemned him to slowly die in the desert. Since he is dead I hold the parents guilty for his crime, for it is that he should have learned charity in their home.”

            The couple looked on completely stupefied, and the crowd roared in dismay, though not long before they were silenced again, “Therefore, Nenoma, I sentence you to seven year’s servitude beneath those whose son you murdered, for they are of advanced age and it was the son’s part to care for them. Now it is that his office shall fall to you, and you must serve them with all honor and diligence.” Looking at the elderly man and his wife she continued, “For the cruelty of your son I command you to take Nenoma as your slave, but you must treat him as you would a son. You must provide for his every need, and you shall give him a proper name. At the end of seven year’s time you shall grant him his freedom, as well as whatever sum of money you deem charitable that he might start a life elsewhere.” There was then such a cacophony of confusion that nothing could be done to silence it, and so it was endured for the better part of a quarter hour before silence could be gotten. It was henceforth known as the Spéstrémne, the Speech-Storm, and those who were present at its raging told tales of it later.

            “Thus have I spoken!” Dauabré cried aloud as the last voices died away, “Thus you shall die, Nenoma, for you will cease to be No-Name and alone in the desert. Thus shall the two of you have justice for your son also, for it will be Nenoma’s burden to bear the hardship your son’s absence would have caused you. Now go and dwell in peace.” The Spéstrémne stirred anew and having exhausted herself Dauabré retreated to her chambers and there wept long into the night until she passed into a deep sleep from which she did not wake until late into the next morning. Médash permitted her slumber, for he was so impressed and so pleased with her judgment that he spent the morning himself alone in deep contemplation.

Those who bore witness to all that occurred that day are wont to relate to others that after the passage of one year’s time the elderly couple, having become so fond of their new-named Sereférn, came again to the very same court to ask the king’s permission to adopt the boy as their son. When seven years time had come to pass since the trial that bound them to one another they bequeathed to him the fullness of their dead son’s inheritance, and Sereférn became prosperous and wealthy and a friend of the king.

 

A quarter of an hour passed by when it came to pass that a man and a woman entered, both dressed in plain clothes and both with distraught looks upon their faces. The man walked with a limp and bore his left arm in a sling, and his face was bruised and pained in expression. Once they had taken their seats an older man was escorted in, his face hardened by hard living, his skin tan and rough, his hair iron-gray and a great mustache giving him all the more severe a countenance. The wife of the injured man spoke, saying, “We wish the lady to judge whether the man to our side ought to compensate us for the injuries his beast caused to my husband. His condition is such that he cannot work, and thus have I been forced to sell many of our possessions so as to have money by which to eat.” The collective heart of all present was moved with compassion for the poor couple, and the appearance of the accused seemed all the harder and easier to despise. When asked of his reply to the charge the man said, “I am called Gréston, and I am a stonemason by trade. This couple asked that I lend them a draught horse of mine and so I did, and it is not my fault if the man has no gifts in mastering such a creature. It is his own foolishness that caused his injuries; not mine.”

            The injured man cried out, saying, “Am I Adama, that I can command a creature to do my will? I had relied upon your training of the horse that my will would be easily known by it, and you promised it would obey me well. I set my life upon your word and I nearly did lose it!”

            The accused laughed with half a heart and said nothing further. Bhéalmal stood of a sudden and said aloud, “Enough; I have made my judgment this very moment, for it is plain to see what must be done. You called Gréston are free of guilt, for it is not as though you trained your horse to do your neighbor harm. However, because it did harm unto a child of God the horse will be given into the possession of your accuser, and when comes the time that he is capable of the deed he has every right to either sell the horse or to slay it for the ill it has done him. As for the livelihood of the injured, until such time that you are healed sufficiently to seek work you shall be granted leave to receive your daily bread from the royal kitchen, that you might not feel so poignantly the sting of your poverty. Thus have I spoken; see to it that the will of this court is carried out to the letter.”

            All were amazed at the quickness of her judgment, and from that day on and for many to come there were those that called it the Court of Lightning, for it seemed that judgment struck quickly and was pronounced like thunder. Its like was never seen again for it was not the custom of King Médash to judge hastily even when the circumstances seemed simple. It grieved him, too, to see such brevity, though he presumed it was the eagerness of Bhéalmal to please him that drove her in haste to judge and overlook any other outcome than that which was most plain. Thus it was a surprise to her when she came to him smiling and showing him all courtesy, and yet he said to her, “Good lady, my heart grieves your judgment,” and he could say no more. Distressed, she departed for her chambers. Dauabré yet remained, and too did Edhsél, though it was that the former only spoke to him, asking, “What, my king, ought have been done that justice might be fully served? For her judgment seemed sound enough.”

            “Yes, it was indeed just, but when justice is without mercy even greater injustices are sown. In this case it is that a hard and uncharitable heart was given leave to depart unchallenged, for though all fault truly lies with the mindless beast, still it was Gréston’s duty to care for the needs of his neighbor until such a time came that the neighbor needed nothing further. Now he will harbor a bitterness toward his neighbor because of the loss of a fine horse, and the neighbor will harbor bitterness toward him because he received not even an apology, and a rift will build between them. Such things sadden my heart, Lady Dauabré, and I grieve this day’s events greatly. I foresee that I will again hear these cases and see once more the faces of these people at a future trial, whether it is theirs within my kingdom or mine in that to come.”

            Beholding the somber look upon his face, Dauabré asked of him, “My lord, would you desire that I retire to my chamber, that you might sit in judgment for the final case for the day? For I do not desire to burden further your weary heart with my own failures.” He smiled somewhat and said to her, “No, my lady, I must offer you the same opportunity that I offered the other four. Take these keys, and do what you will.”

            The Lady Dauabré then took her seat upon the Golden Throne and, calling for the next case to begin, she watched as the guards escorted in a man and a woman clothed in like raiment, and it was that they appeared to be in the end of their middle years. The woman wore a thin, black veil over her head and the man wore a black sash from his shoulder to his waist, and thus all present knew them to be in mourning. As they took their seats the guards brought in shackles a young man whose appearance startled everyone. His hair was long, dark, and unkempt and he bore too a beard that looked as though it had never been cut. To clothe himself he wore naught but a camel skin and his color was made greatly dark by a lifetime in the harsh sun of the desert. He looked all about with frightened eyes and though he appeared from without to be a wild animal his eyes betrayed a human soul.

            Surveying all of this Dauabré spoke, “I am the Lady Dauabré, eldest daughter of the Lord Hornston of the Wastes, the Unknown King and Watcher of the Night. It is that I bear the keys of judgment and sit upon the Golden Throne, all by the grace of God through King Médash, and it is his desire that I sit in judgment over you. Thus you shall heed my words as you would his own, and thus we trust that the will of God shall not be frustrated by my vicarage. Tell me what charge you bring against this man.”

            “Wise lady,” began the elderly man, “we charge this prisoner with the crime of murder…”

 

“Oh my king, if you would permit, I would bear the keys of justice hence,” said Celereshél, her face bright and her heart eager to please him. Thus did he permit it, and so the lovely young princess sat upon the Golden Hand and watched as the next case was brought forward. Two men, both in the afternoon of their lives, were escorted in and seated apart one from one the other. One bore a head of dusty brown hair and the other shining black, yet both bore a resemblance and indeed as they made known their names to the court they admitted readily to their kinship as brothers. The brown-haired man spoke first.

            “Honored Lady, my brother has committed me a grave offense, for it was that he promised me three hundred gold pieces in payment for two-hundred which I gave him this season past, and the day of repayment has long since gone. Yet when I came to him and demanded repayment he denied my ever making the loan.”

            Celereshél asked innocently, “What is it, then, that you ask of me?”

            “My lady,” the man replied courteously, “I ask that my brother be ordered to pay what he promised, plus one hundred more for the trouble his lie has caused me.”

            She spoke to the other man and asked, “Is there truth in what your brother speaks?”

            “No, my lady; it is all of it a lie. At the time which my brother has said he lent me money, he came to me asking for a loan of four-hundred gold pieces with which he sought to pay off another debt. I had lent him sums of money in the past of lesser amount and he had never paid back to me a single penny, so it was that I refused to loan him anything further until he grew wiser in the ways of thrift.”

            The Lady Celereshél was quite puzzled, for she knew one of the men must be lying, yet she knew not which. Unable to think of another question to ask, she put to the first brother, “Do you have any proof that you have made this loan?”

            “No, my lady; because he is my brother I took him at his word. I gave too my hand and he gave his, and thus did we seal our word with bonded grip.” When put to the same question the other brother replied, “This, too, is a lie; I could summon forth ten men who will swear to the debt he owes them.” To this the first brother said, “Yes, witnesses you have paid to testify against me!” And a great quarrel of words broke forth, and Celereshél knew not what to do. Her eyes brimming with tears she looked to Médash for strength but, since this all was a test, he could do naught but look back with sympathetic glances upon her plight. Finally it was that she stood and rapped the keys upon the Golden Hand, calling for silence.

            “It distressed me to see such disorder in this hall, and further am I distressed to be assailed with such serpentine talk that the truth is utterly obscured. Beyond me is any hint as to which of you is the liar, and which is true, or perhaps you both are liars. Therefore, for the dishonesty of at least one of you and the great insult you pay to your king, I refuse to hear your case and leave you both to your quarreling.” At this both men wore grave faces and departed without a word, and Celereshél herself it was left the hall in shame, for she desired greatly to please Médash and she felt a failure. The king’s heart broke for her, for he saw within her a desire for great mercy and compassion, yet her young mind was too gentle for the rigors of panning the truth from amidst lies.

            Seeing an opportunity to shine from within the dim left by Celereshél’s failing, Lílabhél gently took the keys from the king’s hand and walked confidently to the Golden Throne, calling forth the next case. In walked a man dressed in fine robes; a wealthy merchant of some kind. His hair shone with scented oils and his beard was well trimmed. Three servants tended to him, and each finger on his hands bore rings of various kinds. Next was brought in a woman whose beauty turned the head of each person present, though sadly it was that she wore naught but the gray tunic and skirt of a prisoner and her hair was bound simply in a long braid. All who beheld her wondered within their minds her splendor if it was that she was arrayed differently and the sad look upon her face was brightened with prosperity. But the sunlight of her beauty was diminished by the cloud of her current misfortune, the all of her veiled in shadow.

            The merchant then began to speak in a thunderous voice, “I am called Delagrin from my birth, and I am well known in this mountain to be a good citizen and a prosperous merchant, and it is too that my wife is equally well known because of my reputation. Yet in spite of all I have done for her benefit, I have discovered infidelity in her, and thus do I seek justice for the wrong she has done to me.”

            The woman stood silent while all in attendance gasped, for infidelity was a crime punishable by exile to the wastes. Lílabhél, knowing then the gravity of the situation over which she found herself presiding, looked to King Médash to see if perhaps he would bid her come off the throne in order to preside himself. But he merely nodded for her to continue. When she had regained her confidence she asked of the woman, “How do you answer this charge?”

            Without pause she answered, “Innocent, my lady.”

            The merchant began to sling all manner of charges at his wife, to which she simply stood stalwart, saying nothing. Lílabhél then held up her hand to silence him, bidding the woman explain herself.

            “My lady, you see that my husband is a man of great renown and high reputation, an eloquent speaker and a client of the king himself. I am but a wife, and all that is well in my life is dependent upon my husband’s fortune. Even should I proclaim the truth in the voice of an angel it should not topple my husband’s charge. Therefore I stand here and say only that I am innocent and pray that God grants me justice.”
            “Very well,” said Lílabhél, “then I will ask nothing further of you. Man, what evidence to you offer in support of your charge? For if she is truly guilty, her life will be forfeit.”

            “My lady, truly you are as wise as you are beautiful and graceful, and I know that God will grant me His justice through your judgment. It is common knowledge that a merchant like myself must be away in distant regions for sometimes a fortnight, sometimes a season, in order to do trade and to acquire the goods for which I am known and by which I provide for my wife and myself. It is that I have no son nor even a daughter, and so all my wealth is at the disposal of my wife and she alone, though I give generously to the poor and to the Royal Treasury. Yet when I returned five weeks before this day from a journey to Nubia afar off, I discovered a note in my own bedchamber, writ in a hand unfamiliar to me, and it was unsigned. The note was written to my wife, and I offer it to you for judgment.”

            A guard brought a small square of parchment forward to the throne, and thus did Lílabhél read the following aloud:

            “My dearest Meroldél, greetings from your dusk-love, the one who comes to you like night overtakes the day and brings peace to your troubled heart! Ah how I long to stop playing fox-and-hound with your husband; how I wish I were a wolf! But I fear him, for he is great in this city and I would not confront him. Would that I could teach you the secret desert way to my home, where he could not discover us! Then we need wait no longer for his cruel absences to see one another; how could a man part from such a jewel as you? I could not bear it long, and I hardly have the strength to bear it those times when I must! Until we hold each other again, my love, remain steadfast and know that soon enough we will lie together again, and you will have peace.”

            A thick silence filled the throne room. Tears began to roll down the face of the woman Meroldél, and the merchant’s face remained stern. Lílabhél said to him, “Have you any other evidence than this unsigned note found within your home? I should require much more if I am to exile a daughter of Médash to the wastes.”

            “Of course, highborn lady, for I have an article of clothing that too is strange to me and my household.” Thus did he present to the guard an amulet which was brought to the throne. “And too this signet ring of a house of which I am unfamiliar, found beneath my bed.” This also was brought to the throne by the guard, and the accused woman’s case seemed to have been dealt a death blow. Indeed the heart of Lílabhél was blown thither by the strength of the evidence, and so it was with sorrow that she asked her final question.

            “Woman, called Meroldél beneath this mountain, what have you to say against this evidence?” A single tear rolled down her cheek, and when a short duration of silence had passed she spoke, saying, “My lady, I have only this to say: that I am innocent, that this letter and these articles of attire are as strange to me as they are to my husband, and if it is the contents of a strange note and the silent testimony of two pieces of jewelry that could damn a woman of this kingdom to the wastes, then I would rather suffer such a fate than take another breath of this realm’s air into my lungs.”

            All present gasped and it seemed like a great weight sank into the gut of Médash, and he feared what was to come, for never before had he cause to exile any of his subjects. He prayed for wisdom upon Lílabhél, as well as the resolve he himself needed to uphold whatever judgment she handed down. Truly it was that the lady sat with great unease within her, for she saw that there was more to what lay before her than what she could see and what was presented, yet she could not determine what next the most wise course of action would be. She was, to her great dismay, utterly confounded, yet she wanted even moreso not to fail in the eyes of her king, and so it was that she felt compelled to hand down some sort of judgment, and pray that it was the just one.

            “Man, it is that I have a great unease regarding your testimony, but I see no deception in your evidence. Seeing that the accused raises no testimony and presents no evidence in return, I cannot but judge favorably on your behalf.” The man clenched his fist and glared triumphantly toward the woman, who merely stood stalwart and silent, staring straight ahead. Lílabhél continued, “However, the testimony and evidence here presented is not sufficient for me to hand down the fullest punishment suitable for the crime of which your wife is accused. Therefore do I indeed banish her from the mountain, but not unto the wastes; rather do I command you, her husband, to bring her to a neighboring kingdom by the time of the next full moon, leaving with her one tenth of your wealth that she may live without fear. Until this comes to pass and the king of that land signs in testimony that the will of this court has been accomplished, you no longer have leave to do business here under the mountain.” Raising the keys before them all she said solemnly, “Thus have I spoken.”

            The accused woman wept profusely, and such was her lamentation that a strong guard was called upon to carry her gently away. The merchant stormed out of the room with anger in his face like a fire, and a great murmuring arose all throughout the mountain regarding the unusual ruling. Lílabhél was so unsure of her final judgment that she could not bear to ask Médash for his thoughts regarding it and instead departed to her chambers, leaving the keys in the hands of Bhéalmal who, though with reluctance in her heart, strode with feigned confidence to the throne and sat to await the next case.

            In the meantime Dauabré turned her head so as to speak in a hushed manner with the king, and she asked of him his thoughts regarding the judgment just handed down. With a worried look upon his countenance he said in equally hushed tones, “Lady, my heart burns to undo what just was done, for it seems to me that the airs of deception swirled around the accuser. I would have looked more closely upon the letter, and I would have compared it to the merchant’s own writing. I would have suspended the case until the signet ring and amulet could be matched to a house or to a kingdom. I would have done all I could to apprehend the man she was accused to have lain with in adultery. Yes, I would have done all these things and more, for though he brought to bear testimony and evidence against her it seemed in my mind that her unshakeable claim to innocence and her silent defense of that claim was greater than all her husband offered us. But, alas, my word was given, and it was that the word of whoever bore the keys and sat in my throne spoke my own words with their voice.” Dauabré nodded gravely and took all his words into her heart, pondering them carefully.

 

            On the third day, which was the sixth of the week, King Médash summoned the princesses all to the Throne Room where it was his custom to sit in judgment over cases of injustice among his people. When it was that the women entered the room they beheld his grand, golden throne all carved in the manner of a great hand, upon the palm of which sat the king. The tip of the middle finger, which rose above the others, bore upon it a crescent moon which symbolized wisdom, and in the king’s hand he bore two large, golden keys that symbolized his power to imprison and set free, to loose and to bind. Already he was hearing a case and the women marveled at his wisdom and attentiveness that he showed to his subjects. When came time to pass judgment he held the keys out before him in his fist and declared it openly in a mighty voice, and no one questioned or doubted.

            While the people went off to see that the king’s judgment was carried out he descended from his throne and came to the women, saying, “God’s blessings to you each this morning, and may His wisdom tend to you! It is my desire to have each of you sit in judgment over my people, to see if you have the discerning heart of a ruler. You will bear hence these keys and thus bear too for a time my office, and whatever you declare from that seat shall be law, binding those you chose to bind and setting free those you free. Know that you are not the law itself, but rather its servant; you give voice to the silent law God has written in our hearts. Now, who first will judge?”

            Edhsél it was that took into her hands the golden keys and sat upon the throne. Her posture was regal and her visage indomitable; those who beheld her felt already condemned merely for being a lesser being. Thus was the next case brought forward, the sight of all falling upon a man who was in his middle years, with seeming more to come. Upon a stone seat did he sit, and soon after he had done so the guards brought in another man, young and all shackled in chains. He wore the simple gray tunic of a prisoner and his hair was shaggy like that of the northern cattle, his skin pale and wan. The older man, seeing an unfamiliar face upon the throne, cried out saying, “I have waited long to hear the king’s judgment; who is this that sits upon the Golden Hand?”

            Médash, sitting off to the side with the other four princess’s, stood and spoke in a booming voice, “Your king shall witness all that occurs here, yet it is his will that this highborn lady sit in judgment for this case, that he may see if she is fit to do so in the future. Let it be known that she bears the keys of office and she speaks in my stead; what is her ruling is mine also.”

            Thus did the man speak aloud, pleading his case, “Highborn Lady, who sits in judgment, may God grant you wisdom to see the truth. I was called by my parents Huendlucérn at my birth, and it is by this name I am known as a merchant here within the mountain; I sell fine woods with which craftsmen make their goods and I sell too more plain woods for burning. Twenty-three days ago it was that I was in the marketplace having discourse with a friend when I felt someone walk into me. Upon turning to pardon them I saw but a bustling crowd and thought nothing more, but when I moved to pay my friend a coin in thanks for a favor done me I found my purse missing. For six days I was without it and it was a great soreness to me. Then upon the sixth day a guard informed me that a young man had been caught trying to purchase goods using my purse, and thus was it returned to me and the young man to my left imprisoned.”

            Edhsél remained quiet a moment before asking of the man, “How was it known that it was your purse? Though I am a foreigner here I must say that in my country, there are many coinpurses that are alike in appearance.”

            “Highborn Lady, I am happy to share with you the wisdom and foresight of our king. You see each true citizen of this mountain is given a special coin, called a signet, and upon this coin appears the name of the citizen and the seal of their household. That coin, though it is solid gold forsooth, has no monetary value, but should it be found upon the person of one other than the proper owner, it and all goods it was discovered with are considered stolen. Thus is it my custom and the custom of many to keep within my purse this special coin in the hope that should the purse go missing or, as in this case is stolen, a watchful and honest merchant might spy my coin and see to the purse’s return.”

            “I see,” said Edhsél with great approval, “This is a custom I must promote in my own country, for it is indeed wise. I wonder, however, and I mean no dishonor to your king, but is thievery common here under the mountain, that such a custom must be practiced?”

            The merchant looked at her as though he were the one dishonored and said, “Good Lady, it is as uncommon as the sight of a comet! In fact this is the only second case of theft I have known of in my lifetime, and I am nearly come two centuries of age.”

            Edhsél seemed to weigh these things in her mind for a time, and all the while she bore her eyes into the face of the thief. To her surprise he opposed her with his own gaze, and she was compelled to ask but one question of him, “Did you steal this man’s purse, boy?”

            “Yes, Lady.”

            “Then I have no further need of thought. Thief, you are found guilty of theft. You shall work off a debt equal to that of the purse’s worth plus six times, once for each day the owner was without it.” Stretching forth the hand within which she bore the keys she pronounced solemnly, “I have spoken.” The guards then took the thief away and the merchant bowed gracefully before departing. Médash, his heart heavy, came forward to the throne to speak alone with Edhsél.

            “My king,” she said, “Are you pleased with my judgment?”

            “Indeed, Lady Edhsél, you are a capable judge, but you are a harsh one.”

            She said nothing aloud, but her tense posture and incredulous visage spoke on her behalf.

            “Why did not you ask what it was that the thief was attempting to purchase? Would that not have had an effect upon your judgment?” the king asked of her, gazing toward the entrance to the court as the prisoner vanished through its yawning portals.

            “My Lord, no, it would not. I asked if the boy had stolen the purse and he admitted it before all. Thus was guilt established and thus was the crime punished.”

            Médash smiled as though recalling to mind a distant memory, and indeed he did so for Edhsél’s words brought to mind the kingship he exercised in his first days, “Indeed guilt was established, but justice was not done to its fullest measure. For you see, my lady, the boy was attempting to purchase bread; he stole the purse in order to feed himself, or perhaps others. Knowing this now, how would you have judged differently?”

            “It would have changed nothing; the lad took what was not his own.”

            “I agree, Lady; this has been clearly established. But would not it have been more just to simply let the merchant go with his gold and perhaps give from the royal kitchens the gold’s worth in bread to the boy? Thus would the theft be undone by the merchant having not only his gold and his case heard and the humiliation of the boy admitting theft, but too the boy would thieve not again for his needs, by the giving of bread, would be met. For under this mountain I would rather see every merchant penniless than a single boy go hungry. Now come, join me as we observe the next case. Who shall go?”

 

           

            Two days he waited beneath the trees, and all his thought dwelt upon the woman he called Sulbhél. Still he could recall the touch of her hand upon him, unafraid and sure, with no forced form or courtesy because of his office, but mercy and a desire to help him, stranger though he was. Could the gold of Médash purchase such a prize? No; for in the face of such worth he feared his riches would fail.

            Just as despair began to wend its way into his heart, the hawk uttered its shrill cry above him once more and perched within a tree top, and by sunset the caravan arrove, a tent being pitched against the black night. Edhsél had led them and it was she who tended him in the stead of his usual servants.

            “Oh King, you are so badly burnt! Tell me how you survived, and how you came to be in the desert, and how it was that you came by this strange raiment and these provisions?”

            “Princess, by God’s hand alone have I been saved, for here in the desert sands did I encounter an angel; forever will I sing the praise of God for this boon. I have spoken, and will say no more.” And she did not press him.

 

             When King Médash returned to the mountain that was his home, to the White Towers of Acton, after days of slow travel in the wastes, there was much rejoicing. For when all awoke days ago to find their king vanished, many feared he had been kidnapped by the father of one of the princesses, so the four of them were locked away until seven days had passed without word of his fate. All were released on that day and hawks were sent forth to discover such word of him as may be found, or perhaps his remains for burial. There was indeed much celebrating, and all four princesses dressed in their most splendid attire, and no such festival had been witnessed upon the Earth since Eve first bore forth Cain.

            The revelry continued for twelve days, the same number of days the king had been feared dead. On the tenth day at the noon hour, when all were feasting and making merry, a handservant came to the king and whispered in his ear that a peasant maid wished to speak with him.

            “Good servant,” Médash said, “can you not see that I am celebrating my return from the dead? Send her away with a gold coin for her trouble, and recommend she take up the matter with her magistrate.”

            On the eleventh day at the supper hour another handservant approached him, saying that a peasant maid wished his ear for but a moment and promised to then continue on her way. “Another? Were I to lend my ear to every peasant maid who called, I would exhaust myself! Send her away with two gold coins for her trouble, and see that she takes up the matter with her magistrate as well.

            On the twelth day at the hour of washing, when the king sat in a golden tub filled with hot mineral water from a spring deep in the mountain, and many lovely maidens were attending him, the handservant again came and said, “Majesty, please forgive, but a peasant maiden wishes your ear.”

            “At this hour? Does she not know that I have no audience after supper with anyone whom I do not call myself? See that she is given lodgings for the night, and send her away in the morning with ten gold pieces; I’m sure she has traveled far.”

 

            The next morning, while the king stood gazing afar out his window, again contemplating the difficulty of selecting a wife and, having been so distracted by the many celebrations so as to forget about the woman in the desert, a handservant came again and said, “There is a woman finely attired that wishes to speak with you; it seems to be an urgent matter.”

            “Very well!” the king said, “I will see this woman and discover what is her business.”

            His servant led Médash to a private audience room where a woman clothed all in black, with a veil over her face, sat upon a wooden chair. She lowered her head to him in homage.

            “Majesty,” she said in a sure voice, “I am Dauabré, and I am sent to you by my father who wishes to offer me as a bride fitting for this Kingdom.”

            Médash was perplexed, for all others had come in great splendor, yet she it was who arrove in obscurity, veiled and wearing a gown as if a shadow. The mystery of her entranced him, and though he saw naught ahead he went onward.

            “My Lady Dauabré, who is your father?”

            She rose up proudly to announce him, “The Lord Hornston of the Wastes, the Unknown King and Watcher of the Night. The people of this kingdom are in unknown debt to him who only now makes himself known, that in these days all kings might be known and their myriad daughters besides.” Returning to her seat the princess looked upon him with eyes that sparkled beneath the veil and pierced as sure as arrows, and he felt his mind was somehow laid out before her. If so, she would then sense his awe at such a mysterious claim. However in that moment he retained his calm and answered in a cool voice.

            “These are strange tidings, and skilled indeed is any man who so serves the people of my kingdom without anyone knowing of it. Still, I cannot dismiss this claim until the truth is known; therefore until that time comes you shall be a guest of these halls, with every pleasure at your disposal.”

            Rising again the visitor strode boldly forward, speaking to his very face, “Majesty, there is yet another tiding, one of great import. My father has given me only seven days more to remain here before I must depart, and so it is that you must either choose me or dismiss me within that time. However, he desires that I be chosen not for my beauty or my skill, for these things shall fade in time. Rather he will wed me only to a man who longs for what shall not fade but shall be everfresh, an oasis beyond the scorch of drought. Therefore, King, it is not I who am put to the test these dozen-and-one days, but rather Your Majesty. I shall pray that God grants you the wisdom to see the hearts of those king-born in your halls, that you may choose not another treasure, but a light by which to see all else you possess.”

            His servants escorted her away to her lodgings, and all his sight rested upon the swirl of black cloth that billowed behind her, the words she spoke echoing through the chambers of his heart. Striking him in that silence was the thought that often he did spend his long days weighing treasures and taking account of all his vaults, yet it was that never had he weighed himself, and he feared that were he to do so, he might be found lacking.

 

            That evening at dinner the king permitted only the five princesses to sit at table, and they had discussion. Edhsél spoke first, asking the king if he was fond of hunting, to which he replied, “Every autumn it is my custom to hunt the deer of the forest, and I hunt alone and lightly provisioned. I do not always find my arrows in the flanks of quarry, but I always return lighter in heart and refreshed in spirit. And yourself, Lady Edhsél?”

            Eyes wide in delight she spoke for nigh on an hour about some of her great escapades, the titanic beasts she had slain in the land where they yet dwelt—as though only the greatest and fiercest beasts were hunted, with all things less than a rhinoceros ignored entirely—and the manner in which she harvested trophies from each. Coming at last to her conclusion, she happened to turn to the new arrival, still shrouded in her dark dress and veil, then asking of her, “Pray tell, Newcomer; does it happen that you hunt also?”

            Princess Dauabré glanced at her and then to the king and said, “Where I come from, honored sister, we hunt not so much for beasts and trophies but for water. Sometimes, when the season is harsh, one must travel a day with no rest or shade to find it. I have gone down to the water’s edge and filled gourds and bladders while at my side was a lion lapping, or a serpent cooling itself in the mud. Yet because we all of us thirst, none of us are hungry, and there is a peace so long as our tongues are dry; I do not tarry to contest them once they are quenched.”

            Edhsél scoffed and said, “But, newcome sister, you could bring great honor to your house by killing that lion and wearing its teeth and claws!” Dauabré answered, “More honor is found in my land by taking only what is needed for one’s people, and leaving to God’s wild what belongs to Him. Were it that my people needed food and it was the lion that I found, then my dagger would pour its blood onto the sand and my people would eat.”

            There was a quiet after this, as though Dauabré had spoken some final word, and after a time Lílabhél spoke, asking, “Majesty, have you always lived within this mountain?” The tension within the air broke like falling ice on stone, and the King quickly responded by telling the tale of how he and one-hundred of his people journeyed from afar across the desert to escape the vampyre hordes that roamed its borders. They had become lost after a journey of seven days, but on the eve of that last day they spied the very mountain that would become their home, for in the dying light of the setting sun an exposed vein of gold blazed like fire, beckoning them to their destiny. The princesses listened attentively, but it was that the eyes of Edhsél were fixated upon Dauabré, studying her as though she were prey.

            At the rising of the following day’s sun King Médash summoned forth six litter-bearers, and it was that these litters bore hence himself and the five princesses all about the mountain city. Within the marketplace vast the four princesses that came from known lands went about having discourse with those of their countrymen they met, while Dauabré simply spoke with whomever she desired, for no one seemed to know of her. The King watched her with great interest, however, for while no person’s face was alight with recognition upon seeing her, yet the joy in their face after having spoken to her was greater than that of any other who spoke with one of the four. He took note, too, how it was that each princess returned to him with some goods from their countrymen; tribute and gift, they said, from the merchants doing trade within his kingdom. Yet Dauabré brought him naught but words of thanksgiving and praise from those she spoke with, and Médash found these delighted him more than all the goods offered him that day.

 

If it was that he was dead, then Heaven seemed to him to be a wicker hut, and though this dismayed him the shade was cool and soothing. The angel by far was most pleasing, for she tended his wounded spirit with care, dampening his forehead and pouring water into his mouth. Heaven was a great deal of rest, and naught much more elsewise.

 

He awoke in the night, or rather a night, for he knew not which night it was, and the moon cast tiger stripes of silver upon his sunburnt skin. Each movement stung and as he came upright his head swam. A hand then shot up from the floor like a striking viper, pressing upon his chest and insisting that he lie down.

“You mustn’t move, horse-thief, or your skin will crack. Tomorrow when the blisters are healed I will put salve upon them, but until the sun rises you must rest.”

He could not see the speaker in the dark, but it was for certain a young woman, and her voice was strong. Trusting that no harm would come to him in the night he lay down and stared at the moon through the wicker roof until his mind sank into sleep as if it were quicksand and it drowned all thought.

 

The sun rose, bringing with it a warm breeze blew that blew over him like a divine breath. In the doorway he beheld a young woman with sun-darkened skin, clad in a brown tunic powdered with dust, a flowing skirt of coarse muslin billowing in the wind. Long, dark wavy hair was drawn back with string, bright streaks shot through as though the sun had combed its fingers gently through it all. Her eyes were copper-green and gazed upon him with the sharp ferocity of a hawk.

“The horse thief awakens. Remain at rest, and I will fetch something for you to eat.”

He lay silently and listened to the woman working busily nearby. He could hear the hollow tearing of bread, he could nearly taste and the very sound of it upon his starving tongue. Water was drawn, a pomegranate was peeled to expose the many red arils, and soon all was put upon a wooden plate and brought to him.

“You may sit up, slowly, to eat. Consume this all very patiently; you have had nothing but milk and water for three days and have been nearly a corpse all that time.”

“Three days? I must return…”

“To where?” she cut, “Your camp or caravan or band has long left you for dead, and surely the man from whom you stole your horse has long given up on ever seeing the beautiful creature again.”

“Good lady,” he replied, “that horse is my own; I am Médash, King of the Mountain.”

The laughter that came of her was like a spring rain upon a river, and her dark brows arched as the backs of leaping harts! “A king!” she said in disbelief, “Oh Majesty, I should have put you on a feather-filled couch!”

He smiled and, for once, felt no need to defend his claim, for he realized he had no gold, nor his signet ring, and was clad only in the blanket she had given him. Médash King of the Mountain was indeed a beggar, indebted to this desert girl.

“Tell me, gracious hostess, to whom do I owe my life?”

“You speak like one highborn, horse-thief, so I will play this game with you; I may be called the Lady Sulbhél by the Golden King.”

“Very well,” he laughed, “I will indeed call you Silver, and you may call me whatever you wish.”

“Then you shall be called Tirérn when I am feeling patient, or Tira when I am not, for you were but dust when I found you. I suppose now that you are fed and watered, you are nothing but mud. So eat, rest, and I will go and make a salve for your burns.”

Médash ate slowly, feeling his strength returning to him, and when Sulbhél returned with a bowl of salve he had eaten everything. She drew the blanket down to his waist, and then up from his feet, until only his modesty was yet left to him, and at this she tucked the blanket beneath him.

“This will burn at first and then numb, and by nightfall you will feel pain from the burns no longer. In two days you will be free to leave.”

Lying in silence as she applied the buttery salve upon him, Médash breathed deeply as a cool burning pierced him, and sighed as it dissipated into his flesh with a warm rush. His mysterious benefactress focused upon her task while he watched her intently, and he felt something break within him. The mighty king, valiant in the hunt and strong in labor, lay back his head and allowed tears to silently fall, for so humbled was he by her service that he knew no gold could repay the kindness of this desert blossom.

 

            Two days passed and though his skin was yet a deep red, it pained him no further. His horse had been fed and cared for, and his blanket had been cut up for a loincloth and cloak. Sulbhél provided him with bread and water, a pomegranate and some hard cheese.

            “Where will you go now, Thief-King? You have tarried nigh on a week, and all will think you dead.”

            “I will go in the direction of the rising sun and hope that God will bring me either to my halls, or His own ere long. Have you no one to look after you here in the wastes?”

            She looked at him as though he spoke madness. “Wastes? Oh Highborn-Beggar, were it truly a waste, would I live here? I have fed and watered you for days not with sand but with bread and water, with milk and sweet fruits. God may shower blessing upon kings and their people, but even upon the poor comes a stray drop, and from such a shower as His a drop is more abundant than any would dare covet.”

            “But when I depart, will you be alone? You may ride with me if you wish.”

            “Oh, my father would be quite wroth were I to ride with a horse-thief, especially one so sun-touched of mind that he thinks himself a king! He returns on the morrow from the Mountain afar off, where the true King of Gold resides, and perhaps he will return with news that the very same had become lost in the desert, and I can say it was he that ate all of our pomegranates! Go, and may you find a herd of wild horses, that you need not steal another!”

            Mounting his great steed he looked down upon her, saying, “Lady, do you truly not believe me to be a king?”

            Her hawk-eyes pounced upon his wounded pride and broke its neck, and she said to him, “I see only a man who came to me with naught but a kingly horse and fine speech. But words and horses make not a king. Now go along and ride where you may; this game of fine words wearies my tongue, for it is used to plainer speech.”

            Médash departed with a heavy heart.

 

            For the whole of the day he rode through the flowing dusts, the very air leeching the water from his mouth and his mind rife with thoughts of his saving angel and her words. Deeply did he ponder his own sense of kingship, and within many aspects of his character he began to see cracks from the hammer-blows of her honesty where before were pristine and nigh on invulnerable edifices of confidence. Often he wondered if he should return at all, but just as the choice began to gnaw at his heart he heard a piercing cry. Swooping down from above was a hawk, one of his own, and it perched upon his shoulder. Its leg bore a small scroll in which was a message telling him to find shelter and send the hawk away. By sun’s set the creature would then return to lead a caravan to his rescue.

            The hawk remained upon his shoulder until Médash discovered a small oasis in the cleft of a dune valley. A spring bubbled up, and three trees grew around it. Shade there was aplenty and water, and there was rest to be had so he chose a sharp stone from the ground and, severing a lock of his hair, bound it about the hawk’s leg and dispatched it with his blessing.