The Lost Prince--A Ponygirl Epic

CHAPTER ONE

Daka grunted, digging his fingers into the dusty soil to get a better grip on the stubborn root. In this dry land the only plants that survived were those with deep reaching tap roots. This one's leaves spread out less than the width of his hand, but he knew its root system dove down at least two feet.

He jerked and felt the root snap somewhere below. He pulled the weed away from the young spinach plant, noting the root had snapped off a foot down. It would return, of that he had no doubt.

His calloused fingers barely felt the sharp spines that covered the weed. Stickweed, it was called. Totally inedible, otherwise it would head straight into the boiling pot. Vegetables were too scarce to waste, but no one could eat stickweed. Well, no human.

Daka scooted down the row and knelt at the next cluster of weeds. His hands were a deep brown where they emerged from his baggy rove. The harsh sun had turned him the color of the ground he knelt on, bleached his hair until it was a shaggy mop of russet. The roots next to his scalp were black, but the sun baked the color out of his hair with the same ferocity that it baked it into his skin.

The constant wind whistled and moaned through the rusting oil derricks behind the garden. They were like a garden themselves, planted in rows stretching for over a mile both east and west, and to the south further than the eye could see. A dead garden – none of the derricks had worked in living memory, and now sat shrouded in rust as thick as frosting on a cake. They collapsed occasionally, usually in the frequent windstorms that swept across the mesa. He'd hear a protesting screech of metal, usually followed by a heavy thump, but sometimes there was no sound at all. Daka would simply notice the skyline had changed, see a pile of twisted brown steel that the day before had been thrusting skyward.

He wasn't so old that he didn't go exploring the derrick fields occasionally, but the Poisoned Soil reportedly began just south of the field and Daka got nervous if he went too far in that direction. They said the poison was receding, that the wastelands were shrinking every year, but he didn't want to take any chances. Nomads passed through every month or two, and Daka had seen the twisted bodies of their children. Features warped, missing arms or legs – or both – at birth. The adults weren't safe from the poisons either, if their usually bizarre behavior was any indication. It was because they spent too much time scavenging through the lost cities in the wastelands, walking for days and weeks on poisoned soil. Orr would never let wasteland nomads stay for more than one night. He said it was because he found their behavior too erratic and their hygiene nonexistent. The truth was he afraid the invisible poisons would seep from them and their clothes into the ground. He made a point of quickly bartering away whatever they'd traded for their water, sometimes even taking a loss just to be rid of the tainted salvage quickly.

Daka finished the row and glanced up. The sun was an unrelenting pressure on his head, and under the robe the trickles of sweat ran down his body. Getting close to midday, when only fools and crazies worked out in the sun. There was a dial on the back of the stable, facing the garden, that Orr had told him measured how hot it was, but Daka couldn't see the sense in such a thing. Made no difference in how hot it was, and Daka could tell just by stepping outside in the morning whether it was going to be a scorcher or not. After a lifetime of it he was used to the heat, and today wasn't too bad. The needle pointed to just above 110 on the dial, which meant that by midday it'd be near 120. Only when it hovered near 130 did the heat begin to bother him. In a few months the cold season would begin, and he'd have to start wearing extra layers to keep warm as the needle dropped all the way to 80 some nights.

He stood up and dusted off his robe, waving his hands for air as he found himself enveloped in a grainy cloud, and collected the buckets. The well was off a corner of the stable, the pump an ancient cast-iron manual. As open and unprotected as it was, they'd never had a problem with water thieves. Every visitor always paid or traded for their water, and although there was some occasional grumbling, no one had ever tried to cheat or steal from them.

Orr operated the water depot under the authority of the appointed Governor of the Territory, selling water at the low fixed price set by the Imperial treasurer. As the watermaster of Imperial water depot, even one so far removed from the palace, Orr would have to report any thievery. As there wasn't a person alive in the West who didn't know the penalty for water theft was death, with such penalty being rigorously enforced, theft (of water at least) was unheard of.

Daka filled the two big knee-high buckets and then carried them back towards the garden. The desert heat kept him lean as a snake, but years of grueling labor had given him a surprising strength. He set one bucket down and began carefully watering the rows, taking care to waste no water, tipping the bucket and giving each plant its due as he did once every morning and evening.

When both buckets were empty he carried them back to the pump to refill. The garden, as small as it was this year, still needed eight buckets of water every morning and evening to stay healthy. Eighty gallons of water, each and every day. It made him appreciate just how valuable the well was.

The water that kept the garden alive was, technically, the Queen's, but as the watermaster Orr was allowed to grow whatever food he felt necessary to stay healthy and operate the depot. If there just happened to be a little extra produce that they could sell on the side for a tidy profit to the nutrient-starved nomads, well, they just kept quiet about it.

Daka was at the pump, refilling the buckets for the last time, when he straightened up suddenly and turned around. He looked past the corner of the stable, to the east, where the road that connected them with the world ran along the flat plain for nearly a mile. It climbed a slight rise before disappearing down the back side of the hill into more desolate scrubland.

In the raging midday heat nothing was moving; no rabbits hopping from the shade of one scraggly bush to another, no rock lizards flitting to and fro too quick for the eye to follow, no buzzards circling, waiting for their next meal to expire. Even the clicking dung beetles were silent.

JoTown was out there, twenty-nine miles to the east across the barren scrubland called the Wash, a handful of rickety buildings thrown together around a natural spring and a small mine. Two hundred or so souls, more when the diggers hit a good vein, it was the closest permanent settlement to them on the Southwest Trail.

Daka stared at the horizon where the road disappeared into the shimmering heat mirage, seeing nothing. No movement, no signs of life, nothing. Hurriedly he filled the buckets and carried them back to the garden. With an enviable economy of motion earned through thousands of repetitions he finished watering the rows a plant at a time, without a single drop splashing awry.

He stacked the buckets against the rear wall and moved back toward the pump. Now when he stared into the east he could see a faint smudge against the mirage. It was on the far side of the rise, above the road, growing larger.

The air inside the building was noticeably cooler. Daka felt the sweat cooling and drying on his body as he paused just inside the door and waited for his eyes to adjust. He found Orr in the front room, mending robes.

"Garden weeded and watered, boy?" Orr said in his slow drawl, not looking up from his work.

"Yes sir."

The old man was as thin as a stick and had more wrinkles from decades in the sun than most travelers could believe. His leathery skin was permanently tanned a deep rich mahogany, even though he spent fewer and fewer hours in the sun each day. The stubble on his head matched the grey robe he wore, as thin and creased with age as he was. He had four robes, all identical, so much so that Daka couldn't tell them apart. He'd been wearing them, and looking the same as he did now, for as long as Daka could remember.

"There's a carriage coming," Daka blurted. He watched the old man's gnarled hands as they wove the big needle in and out of the robe's folds expertly.

"Really. This early? From what direction?"

"JoTown," Daka told him.

"That's a place, not a direction," Orr admonished him. "East is a direction. West is a direction. North is a—"

"East."

"East," Orr repeated, nodding his head. "What is it?"

"Single or a double, from the size of the dust cloud. Small, moving pretty fast."

"Would have to be, if they left JoTown at sunup and are here already. Pretty fast indeed." Orr pursed his lips, thinking. They both knew no one traveled the Wash at night. As barren as it was, there were still too many nomads crazy from the poisoned soil and wandering bands of thieves to chance journeying at night. Even male-heavy caravans got attacked at night in the Wash.

"Tanks filled, boy? Stable swept and clean? They come from JoTown this quickly, those ponies are going to need some water."

"Yes sir."

Orr scratched his right eyebrow, then tied his threadwork off with a knot, bit the thread and would the remainder back around the spool. With a grunt he stood up and looked around the room. Nothing was out of place. Water Depot 37 was ready for its next visitors.

"Well boy, let's head outside and greet our guests," Orr said, slipping the spool into his pocket. He was half a head shorter than Daka, and followed in his shadow out the front door onto the concrete pad that ran along the front of the small building.

They peered east along the road, a dirty brown line bisecting a dirty brown world. Orr's eyes weren't what they used to be, and he had to squint hard to see the black dot of the carriage through the mirage. A modest cloud of dust trailed behind it, dissipating slowly in the faint westerly breeze.

Daka's eyes were quite a bit sharper than he old man's. He could make out the two mounts trotting steadily toward the water depot. The carriage behind them was of an unusual shape, and his heart began beating faster with excitement.

Daka had been the stable hand at Water Depot 37 since he'd been tall enough to unhitch the ponies, and before that he'd helped Orr do it. Daka had very little with which to compare it, but Orr's handling and knowledge of ponies seemed expert, and the old man had tried – with some success – to pass those skills on to Daka. Most weeks close to twenty teams crossed his path, pulling wagons (open and covered), carriages, even the occasional stagecoach running from Emerson to Stanleyville. Singles, doubles, teams of four, six, eight, once even a team of twelve heading east from the coast pulling a load of silver nuggets he wasn't supposed to see, destined for the palace he was sure. The fact that the lines of the approaching carriage were alien to him was hard to believe – and very exciting. If he'd been a few years older he might've had the sense to be a little scared, too.

Gradually the carriage drew closer, down the gentle slope and into the plain, through the mirage until even Orr was able to discern its details. The team moved easily through the heat, still in step even after what was perhaps the quickest run from JoTown Daka had ever witnessed. Most ponies working the Wash would be hard-pressed to do twenty-nine miles before late afternoon.

Two hundred yards out the driver reined the ponies back to a fast walk and let them take the lead the rest of the way to the depot building. The dust cloud caught up to the carriage and enveloped it, then gradually faded away. The approaching clip-clopping echoed across the flat landscape.

Orr squinted once again as he stared at the black carriage. Unusual styling, yes, especially for the Wash, but not a style that he hadn't seen before. It had been years, decades in fact, but he recognized it, oh yes he did.

"Stay on your toes, boy," he growled to Daka. "Watch your language, and your eyes. We've got us a Royal."

Heart beating wildly, Daka nodded. He'd suspected as much. His keen eyes had roamed over the carriage's graceful styling, the conditioning of the ponies, and came to the same conclusion. Try as he might, though, he couldn't force his eyes down as the carriage pulled up in front of them and stopped.

The mounts huffed and puffed from the journey. They were covered in dust, as was the carriage, and sweating freely. The sweat made dark-edged trails through the road dust on their muscular haunches, which tensed and relaxed as they shifted their weight back and forth. Absently Daka noticed how well they were trained, not once turning their heads to look past their blinders at him. Three-year-olds, his young but experienced eyes told him. They both had thick blonde manes which would have been spectacular if they hadn't been so dirty from twenty-nine miles of rough unpaved road.

The carriage was small, just wide enough for two people to sit side by side without crowding, but deep enough so that the lone occupant was totally lost in shadow.

As the ponies shuffled restlessly, their harnesses creaking, the driver leaned forward into the bright sunlight and pulled back the dusty hood of her robe. She regarded the two of them with an even, expressionless gaze for several seconds, running her eyes over their plain garb and the aged building before speaking.

"This is the water station I was told of in JoTown?" she asked in a throaty, melodic voice. "The one halfway to Emerson?"

"Water Depot 37 is at your service, milady," Orr said deferentially, bowing his head slightly. "However, I believe someone may have misinformed you. We are twenty-nine miles journey from JoTown; however, it is another fifty-seven to Emerson."

Their visitor frowned slightly and did a few mental calculations.

"Fifty-seven? How is the road?"

"As good as from JoTown to here or better, milady, but the last twenty miles is quite hilly."

There was close to a minute of silence from her as she stared at the two of them, thinking. Daka stared back unabashedly. She was beautiful, with straight jet black hair falling to her shoulders and slightly asian features. Her lips were full, her eyes a vibrant, flashing green. She wore a simple but elegant robe of black, grey, and white that made theirs look like rags.

The carriage was glossy black with a shiny, rounded roof and four large, spindly looking wheels. It seemed quite delicate, but was none the worse for wear after the morning's travel. It had probably traveled a lot farther than that – the Lady was no local.

"Quite hilly, you say," she said finally. "Well, I was just going to stop for water and press on, but my team could for truth use a rest. You have a stable, water?"

"Yes milady," Orr said, nodding and smiling. "Fully equipped. And the boy here is as competent a stablehand as you're going to find anywhere in the territory."

"As you say." She left the reins laying inside the carriage and climbed down. Daka was surprised to see she was as tall as he. When she turned her piercing gaze on him he found himself staring at his feet and blushing without knowing why.

"My team is dry-mouthed and dusty," she told him. "Water them, wash them off, give them something to eat – you do have feed?"

"Yes milady," Daka mumbled. They'd just gotten a fresh supply of PonyMix the day before. Although locally produced, the kibble was as good as any to be had this side of Big River, a high protein, high fat, vitamin enriched, steroid fortified and hormone injected dry food especially formulated for working mounts, the basic recipe unchanged now for close to a hundred years.

"Good. Don't give them too much, I plan to be on the road again in two hours." She eyed the young man, just out of boyhood, skinny as a piece of jerky and about the same color after too many hours baking in the sun. She looked to the old man. He averted his eyes too, as was proper, but she could see the spark of intelligence behind them. He was obviously curious about her, and sharp enough to know her presence here in this remote part of the kingdom, this desolate dustbowl, was of some import, but he kept his questions to himself. So much the better.

"Do you have anything to eat?" she asked the top of Orr's stubbly head.

"Yes milady. We have a complete garden, with everything that'll grow in this heat, and a small chicken coop. The boy here trapped a rabbit yesterday, if you'd prefer that. The meat's a little tough, but much tastier than the chicken. I can cook him up for you. I can also get the dust out of your clothes if you'd like."

"That would be fine," she said, and with a swirl of expensive fabric strode between he and Daka and disappeared into the building.

Orr turned to follow her and saw Daka was staring stupidly after the woman. He smacked the boy hard on the back of his head.

"Mind your work boy," he whispered. "This isn't some ragtag bunch of nomads passing through that doesn't know the difference between piss and PonyMix."

"Yes sir."