The Shimmering Queen and The River Gleam

The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. That was almost one hundred years ago. Few people are still alive to remember. The wealthy and royals, who have access to the lifespan lengthening potions and spells, of course. What is remembered by the masses is what happened because of it. When the river started to run backward, all the people whose lives depended on the water the river brought to the land were the ones who suffered. The river used to run the length of the continent, carrying water from snowcapped mountains in the north, washing down nutrients that fed crops, and then emptying into the Sea of Shimmers. Over the course of nearly a century, the south lost its luster, the Sea of Shimmers grew dark and crops that fed thousands struggled and eventually died. Animals too.

The only ones who did not struggle were the wealthy, the royals. They were able to use their significant wealth to migrate, following the flow of the river to the north. The royals left the massive fortress for the mountain caverns. There they could be safe, protected, and fed.

Those who were not able to migrate, the poor, had to learn to survive in what became known as the Desolate. When the river left the south, plants died, trees fell. There was nothing to protect the warmer south from the heat and winds. The change in the river’s direction pulled water from Shining Bay, creating a deep canyon over the decades, splitting the continent in half.

Groups of people began to move into cliffside caves, revealed by the cutting of the river over the years. They carved stairs and ladders into the rocky walls of the Cut, they climb down and collect rations of water, and climb back up, hiding themselves in their cool caves.

Rumors about what happened to the Queen grew and spread, becoming twisted and convoluted over the years. If you ask some, she was kidnapped by the long lost dark fae king, taken across the vast ocean as a prisoner bride, forced to rebuild the evil fae population from her own womb.

Other’s say she simply died of a broken heart when her beloved king died.

Most agree that the royals must know, and refuse to tell the tale, she was not a favorite among them, they say.

The real question is: why did her disappearance change the route of the mighty River Gleam?

I climbed the steps to the old Castle of Stars, now in ruins. Mounds of dull tan sand sweeping up its stony sides, blown there by the strong southern winds. I adjusted my patched canvas bag, slung heavily across my chest, and shove open the creaking wooden door. I’d been warned about exploring the ruins many times over the years. “They’re haunted,” some say. “Wild animals use it for shelter,” others warn.

I’ve yet to see a soul, transparent or animal in nature. And I’ve been adventuring here for over a decade now. I grew up in the Cut, in the cool, winding caverns dug deep into its walls. Quarters were close, and there was little privacy to be had, and I hated it. I’d rather burry myself in sand like the Desolate spiders, that dig burrows deep in the dirt, creating traps to catch the bugs and small lizards they live feed on. Desolate spiders could get as large as your hand. But they rarely attack people. Unless you piss them off. I’m best at pissing off people.

I climb the crumbling central stairs of the castle, avoiding loose stones I know the location of, skipping over gaping holes in the floor. The castle itself had been impeccably built, gods knew how long ago. It was fascinating to me how much of it still stood.

I piece my way through the western corridor, sights set on a particular room, glancing briefly though doors as I pass. You can never be too careful, no matter who wrong the rumors are.

I reach the room I’m heading for and lean all my weight into the double wooden doors that bar my entry. They swing open with a creek that I can almost feel in my soul. I slip through the gap, and make my way across the large room.

At the far end of the room is a balcony, its overhand long since dry rotted away in the sweltering heat. I step over and around pieces of graying wood to the edge, just close enough to touch the balustrade but not enough to look over.

This balcony looks over the whole of what used to be the capital city. Stories told around campfires for as long as most can remember tell of a glistening city, as bright as Shining Bay. Now it was simply sand covered stony mounds that used to be homes of the wealthy.

If I squint hard enough, I can just make out the Bay, the masts of ships dry docked on sand, teetering at the edge of a cliff that used to be underwater.

I back away from the edge, careful not to trip. The castle was built from stone, but age and height are a deadly combination. I prefer to live to explore another day. Perhaps from not so high up. But I’ll check this particular part of the castle off my list.

As I make my way back down the stairs and out of the castle, I wonder about the past. What connection could a Queen have to a river, to cause it to change its course? And where did she go?