DESERTED

“...with arid waves the deserts stall

his urgent flight to hallowed hall...”

Nanyni Kodyehwi Rovikya

3:2:4:5/5, III:IX

“Varyan?” The white sands shifted, mighty dunes snaking in every direction. Kingard listened but heard no one. Perhaps his greatson was no longer asleep.

“Varyan!” Just in case.

He gave it up after a while, and he basked tensely in the nice white glow of this desert world. He was sure it was better than his waking state. Kingard tried not to think about that.

It was bad, he knew, what with the stuckness all through his body. Beyond that notion, Kingard could only guess at what it was like. Sometimes, some trickle of recollection would come to him, about the nature of his real life. Each time, the insight roused him from his dream and the truth of it was lost on him.

He thought about Varyan. And he thought about Sharis. He thought about Fal’on and Grishem and Kigal, his men on the field, and Tirrok beneath the waves. He thought of Larin, and he thought of Jorn.

He wondered what had happened to them all, and he resolved to ask Varyan what he remembered, the next time they saw each other. Long moments petered into oblivion, and the endless white dunes shifted. But the silence never wavered and his greatson never came.