The Dreaming Mark and the Vessel of Fools

Prologue

The horizon, to Lynia, was a reminder of how far she'd come, for no matter which direction she looked, she could see nothing of her kingdom. Out here, amid the haze and the dunes, there was no certainty which direction she was facing. Lynia sat upon the sand, hot as it was from the constant sun, and peered at the sky. The sun would be much better to navigate by if it would just stop spinning in circles. She tried to stand again, supporting herself on the heirloom quarterstaff, "Cloudbreaker," but merely tripped and fell on her face. Then I shall crawl, she declared, but hardly managed a few feet up the dune before collapsing again. Lynia inhaled a sharp, ragged breath, only managing to remind herself how badly she was in need of water.

Everything about this excursion was badly planned. Lynia, not having ever left the protective confines of Upper Caynea save for a few trips, simply had not thought about the perils that lay outside the city wall. Neither ferocious beasts nor angry brigands had appeared, only sunlight, its presence unending and relentless. None of Lynia's possessions could help her now; her water flask had been empty since long before she'd made it this far, her pack of rations would only dry her out more, and Cloudbreaker - purportedly a heroic weapon from hundreds of years ago, to be her inheritance at some unspecified future date if she hadn't stolen it before that could happen - was little more than a walking stick to her now. Lynia rolled on her back, looking back at the sky again, and wondering why she thought running away would accomplish anything. I sought to warn Riga of Caynea's impending march... but now that I'm out here... I may not meet a single soul to warn.

Lynia felt a sleep-like urge come over her. Tired, she was, but sleep meant nothing. As her body grew heavy, she no longer felt a need to stand and walk. This is it, I suppose, she thought to herself, shortly before losing consciousness.

But the feeling did not last long - or at least, Lynia was not aware of it lasting. It felt like only a short time had passed, but soon, she once again became aware of the heat on her body, and a stinging sensation on her face. Though she made a valiant effort to open her eyes, the blinding light from above made this quite difficult, so she held them shut instead. The stinging sensation returned, but now she felt more aware of it making a sound, sort of the same sound she remembered hearing at royal court, as her father had slapped the petitioning merchant.

The slapping sound came again, with another sting on her face. "Ow," she declared through a mouthful of sand.

"Hey, welcome back." It was a man's voice from just above her. "You were moaning in your sleep, calling out for your father. Suppose that part's none of my business, but you've been out in the sun so long that I'm amazed you aren't worse off than you are." He didn't look or sound particularly young, but he couldn't have been much older than Lynia either; his skin was only slightly darker than Lynia's, and his hair was largely contained by a bandana of many colors, on top of the set of ventilated riding leathers he wore, that indicated he was much more at-home out here than she was. The both of them were no longer out in the desert, by the look of it; Lynia was lying in a futon on a hard floor, inside of what must have been a tent or canvas hut, shielded from the light by a layer of dense cloth draped over the immediate area.

"Th...tha..." Lynia could not even finish her first word without entering into a coughing fit. Grains of sand sprayed from her mouth, into a feebly raised hand. The man, perhaps anticipating it, stood off to the side, holding a small canteen that he offered as soon as Lynia had finished coughing. She greedily snatched it from his hand and quaffed the water fast enough that she nearly choked on that as well, but the drink was enough to clear her throat. "I'm sorry," she finally said with some difficulty.

"Was about to warn you not to drink it too fast," he said, as he felt Lynia's forehead with the back of his hand; she jumped slightly, unused to the touch. "The temperature's gone down, at least, so you haven't caught anything...you're just dehydrated and exhausted. I'll probably ask you later why you were trying to cross the Caynean desert on foot, but for now, let's start with something easier." He stood as straight as he could, then bowed elaborately. "My name is Bren. My people call me Wagonmaster."

"L-Lyssie. My name...is Lyssie." As clouded as her mind was, Lynia was still wary that this man could have been one of her father's agents. If she were to reach Riga to warn them, the false name was necessary.

"Lyssie?" A puzzled Bren took his seat on the stool again. "That's an unusual name for someone like you." He crossed one leg over the other. "But you know, the desert is an unkind mistress to those who aren't prepared. Is there some reason why you were out there on your own?"

"I..."

"You don't need to tell me what it is. I just want to know if you had something in mind."

"The oasis," she replied at last, deeming her ultimate destination too risky to mention. "Had to get...to the oasis." She coughed some more, reminding her to take another drink from the quickly-depleting canteen.

"Bad choice, this time of year. I hear those Rigan barbarians attacked it again recently. My wagons tend to avoid the area if they can help it."

"Rigans? That's not what I heard from..." She stopped herself short. "Er...where are you headed next?"

"I'm not sure we're going your way, milady. We're headed south to Lower Caynea; festival time is soon, and our dancing troupe tends to make the most money then."

"Back to...Caynea? I can't go back to Caynea!" She tried to sit up in the cot, accidentally falling back down and almost dropping the canteen. "I need to leave!"

"If you've got some kind of bounty on you, I can assure you my caravan will not turn you in. But I'm not in the business of aiding and abetting either."

"Well, I..." She thought how best to respond. "No, there shouldn't be a bounty. But I need to get to Riga. I must spread word of what's to come."

"To Riga? Thought you said the oasis." Bren leaned forward in the stool. "Must say, you're sounding shiftier by the moment, Lyssie."

The color in Lynia's face - at least, any color that was not from sunburn - drained in seconds. "Is there something wrong with my name?" she asked, trying to sound innocent, and not particularly succeeding.

"Well, that's an easy one: it isn't yours." He tapped his head with a finger. "You're far from the first straggler I've picked up from the middle of the desert, but you are the first one to struggle with her own name. As much as I'm tolerant of people who've need of secrecy, your cover is about the flimsiest I've seen yet."

Lynia shuddered a bit in the bed as she realized she might not have been nearly as careful as she ought to have been. "That's as may be, but my mission is vital, and your caravan may be my only chance to get where I need to go. If we go back south to Caynea, instead of north to Riga, then I may be too late."

"I'm flattered that you'd choose to stay with us, but we have our own schedule and our own destinations in mind. You'd need to be someone very important indeed if you wanted to influence that." He tapped on his forehead again, in that way that indicated that he knew more than he was letting on. "I mean, let's be honest with ourselves. You likely have your reasons not to return, and I can't possibly live with myself if I just throw you back to the desert." Bren's face was now not far from hers at all as he lowered his voice.

"Then...you must..."

"I do. I know who you are, Princess Lynia of the Kingdom of Caynea."

"Then you must help," she finished. "The King of Caynea plans to march an army north towards the Rigan Plains. The people of Riga may not be able to withstand the siege. I must reach them before the army does, and warn them."

"I suspect I wasn't clear enough. The caravan has its own schedule, and its own destinations. And above all else...we're not beholden to one ruler over another. Suppose I did go where you wanted. Caynea still expects us to make an appearance at the harvest festival, and even if you are the crown Princess, no order to divert course from it is going to be received very well. Merchants will miss their shipments, and believe me, there will be queries. Your cover identity will not last long if you don't play along." Bren stood up from the stool, and stepped toward the canvas door-flap. "I suppose I don't need to tell you not to move. I'll be back shortly to hear your decision." With this, he stepped out - and down? - through the doorway.

Lynia's heart sank. She already knew, when she ran away, that she held no authority over anybody but her aides for as long as her father held the throne. But it felt as if Bren were accusing her of trying to override his authority as Wagonmaster. And he'd called them barbarians, the Rigans... was the late general wrong about the Rigan King ordering mass disarmament? If anybody would know, it'd be a caravanner. And yet, Lynia was not so sure that this caravanner wasn't feigning ignorance about the whole thing. And to what end...