The desert here was crumbling; it was the odd edge of the dunes, where the sea of sand went into the jagged edges of rock, where the canyons were swept under by the wind. Moel had to slow down, pick her way through the jigsaw of cracks and ruffles where the wind had carved the striped stone into intricate shapes. This was one of the more beautiful areas of the desert, she thought; the arches rose above her, falling down towards the dunes, waves of frozen sand in the early dawn light.
I smile. “Come out, come out, wherever you are…”
And the monsters come from the shadows.
You know how writers are able to write the most exciting things, yet treat it as monotony? Horror is an everyday pursuit to them; romance holds no thrills, daredevil stunts are simply mundane.
…stories of Orei; the sand, the heat, the mirages and nightmares dunes that shifted overnight; the desert tribes, night folk with their pale skin and large eyes, who lived underground and travelled in the darkness, and the day folk with sun-blackened skin and colourful clothes, the usual traders for Ziricon’s merchants to deal with. Orei had Belmont, the city of fire, built with the rock that soaked up the sun and let it back out at night, creating a frozen fire in the darkness. Orei had the singers and the players, the musicians who could produce haunting tunes from their many-stringed instruments and who could weave words as effortlessly as a loom made the intricate fabrics they wore. Orei had culture, and beauty, and the desert’s fire and ice.
The melting look in his eyes tells me exactly what he’s trying to convey, and he gets a smirk back. “I didn’t think wizards were allowed to fraternise with the troublemakers.”
“We’re more than able to make our own trouble, ma’am. I like a little help occasionally.”
Despite what you think, the end wasn’t one blow. It was a thousand small cuts, none of which ever quite healed.
“So where are we going?”
He glanced at her. “The Archivist’s Centre. I’m going to introduce you to Maryam and get you registered.”
He stopped. “Freja, you don’t have any other plans. It’s not something you have to commit to – if you don’t get a job at the Relay Centre, then you can always do something else. But I want Maryam to see your work.”
“But…” She’d have to show her work. Officially. “Tur, I’m not good enough!”
“Yes, you are.”