Seven Princes (37 page)

Andoses stepped forward. “Cousin, calm yourself. Prince D’zan
sought sanctuary in Uurz and it was granted. He has the protection of Emperor Dairon and the King of Shar Dni.”

“Is this true, Tyro?” the Queen asked. “Does Dairon send you on behalf of this boy?”

“No,” said Tyro. “I came of my own free will, as did my brother. But Uurz supports D’zan’s right to claim his throne. If Udurum will stand with us…”

The Queen fell silent. Vireon looked from D’zan to Tyro to Andoses. Lyrilan stood awkwardly in the middle of them all, blinking uncomfortably.

“Sister of my father,” Andoses said to the Queen, “we stand on the verge of a Great Alliance. Udurum, Shar Dni, Uurz, and now Yaskatha, whose people cry for the return of their rightful lord. This was the dream of Brave Tadarus. If there is to be war—”

“Enough!” said the Queen. “I will not speak of war while my dead son lies unburied at my feet.” She wept again, and caught her breath.

A silence fell upon the chamber.

“Prince D’zan,” said the Queen, “you are welcome here. I do not believe you bring madness and death in your wake. The evil that killed my son is well known to me. It was born of my own mistake, long ago.”

Vireon drew in his breath, but the Queen silenced him with a wave of her hand. She turned to Tyro and Lyrilan.

“Princes of Uurz, you are always welcome in our home. Stay and be comforted.”

Lastly, to Andoses: “Son of my brother,” she said, placing a hand on his cheek, “we will speak of these weighty matters after the funeral. Tomorrow we honor Tadarus.”

“What about Fangodrel?” asked Vireon, still seething in the thrall of his anger.

The Queen walked back to her throne. “Forget him,” she said. “He is lost to us.”

Vireon stalked up the steps. “No,” he said. “I will
never
forget what he has done. He will die by my hand for this. I swear on Tadarus’ bones—”

The Queen slapped his face.

Vireon stood stunned for a moment, all eyes avoiding him. Then he turned away, took the hand of his pretty consort, and walked into the shadows.

The Queen gathered herself, then gave out a litany of commands. Stewards and servants rushed to do her bidding. “Let the guests be housed and the returning Sons of Udurum be given all they need. Open the royal barracks and prepare a banquet for all those who crossed the mountains. Send heralds into the streets to announce the funeral pageant of Tadarus. Tomorrow at the zenith of the sun, Udurum will mourn its fallen Prince.” And then, in a softer, hoarser voice: “Prepare the Royal Mausoleum.”

A gracious steward led the Princes to their respective chambers. D’zan would have hot water in which to bathe, warm food to eat, and many things to occupy his mind. And tomorrow would bring the death march of the Son of Vod.

In the haze of torchlight that filled the palace corridor, Vireon walked alone. Alua slept safely in his bedchamber, guarded by a trusted Uduru. His mind churned with memories of Tadarus. Visions of childhood, fleeting glimpses of hunts and fights and the reckless laughter of youth. He had known, weeks ago in the Palace of Blue Flame… he had sensed the death of his brother. So why did he grieve so deeply now? Having foreknowledge of the loss did nothing to soften its blow.

At the door of the Queen’s Chamber he nodded to the guard and knocked gently. A servant answered, admitting him quietly.
He knew his mother would not sleep this night. Neither would he.

“Go to her,” Alua had said, stroking his chest with her pale fingers. “She needs you.”

“But she is angry with me,” said Vireon.

“No, you are angry with her,” said Alua.

She was right. The last thing his mother needed right now was his storming temper. He had only been returned nine days, and since then had spent more time with Alua than Shaira. He must make time for his mother now that she truly needed him. Now that Tadarus was gone.

Shaira sat before a great table laid out with swords, daggers, tunics, and other items of clothing and jewelry. These were meant for Tadarus, he knew instantly, and it made him want to weep. She was choosing his death garb, and the treasures that would go with him into the tomb. She did not notice his presence, so intent was she on these objects of finality.

“Mother?” he whispered.

She turned to him with an exhausted smile. “Son,” she said, and there was power and solace in the word. It gave her strength just to say it. He embraced her.

“This color will best suit him, don’t you think?” she asked, running her hand along a violet shirt with silver trim. Vireon nodded, having no real idea how to dress a dead man.

“I am sorry,” he said. She looked at him with her weary eyes.

“For what?” she said.

“For the oath I made… for my anger. I behaved foolishly.”

She rose from her chair and kissed his cheek, standing on her toes to reach it.

“You only miss your brother, as I do,” she said. She sat back in her chair and continued arranging the items. In the corners, patient servants waited for her choices. Down somewhere in the
palace’s lower chambers, priests were preparing the body of Tadarus for burial. Vireon chose not to think about that. Better to do as his mother did, fiddle with precious, comely things that would turn their mourning into a glorious and beautiful thing.

“What did you mean earlier,” he asked, “about a mistake you had made? Something to do with…” He could not say the Kinslayer’s name. He might never be able to say it again. It was a poison shame in his mouth, in his thoughts. It made him want to lash out and spread death, spill blood. It was the lust for vengeance growing like a poison blossom in his heart.

Shaira sighed and leaned back in her chair. Her shoulders slumped as if carrying a great weight. Or had decided to set one down.

“Fangodrel was not the son of Vod,” she said.

Vireon did not understand at first.

“He did not carry the blood of Vod in his veins,” she said. “His father was another man… a cruel beast… a monster.”

Now the words took root in Vireon’s mind. Of course. This too he had always known somewhere deep inside. Always known and refused to admit it.

“How?” he asked.

“When I was nineteen my father sent me across the Golden Sea to Khyrei. I was to marry Prince Gammir, son of the Khyrein Emperor and the Sorceress Ianthe.” She looked into the shadows, never meeting his eyes as she told the story. He knew these memories pained her, and she had never spoken of them until now. He did not need to ask why.

“Gammir hated me,” she said. “He locked me in his dungeon. He raped me. I suffered more than I have ever suffered in those months that seemed like years. I thought I would die… but time after time I lived through his brutality. His mother made horrible potions that dimmed my mind. I became like an animal, a
thing he used for his disgusting pleasures. I knew he would eventually kill me. I came to look forward to it.”

She grew silent then, and he was amazed that she did not cry.

“What happened?”

“Vod came across the sea with thunder and lightning at his back. He faced the sorcery of the Emperor and Empress. His rage shattered their palace. Everyone there died but us two… or so we believed.

“He took me back to the land of my father, nursed me back to health. Something magical he fed me, I never knew what it was. A strange fruit. But it restored my mind and memory. After that we were married, and we came north to rebuild Udurum. When my belly began to swell, we both thought it was Vod’s child. But when he was born, pale of skin and dark of eye, we knew the truth. Vod decided to raise the child as his own, and even named him after his own father. Yet Fangodrel was truly the son of Gammir… a bastard. We tried to give him our love the best we could. Then Tadarus came, and you, and Sharadza. It may be that we forgot Fangodrel then. We never told him why he was different. Yet I saw it tormented him. Now he
must
know… he must have been told. This is why he murdered Tadarus. Out of spite.”

“How can you know this?” asked Vireon.

Her green eyes bored into his. “Because word reached me years ago,” she said, “that the Empress of Khyrei did not die in the destruction of her palace. Ianthe the Claw survived through her sorcery. Now this sorcerer Elhathym conquers Yaskatha. How could these two not be twined together in some conspiracy?”

Vireon considered everything he had heard. “Do you believe… that Gammir’s son inherited the sorcery of Khyrei?”

“Did you not inherit the strength of your own father? The iron of his skin? The force of his will? Perhaps it was only a matter of time.”

“How could this sorceress reach across the world to corrupt…” He could not say the name. It would spill from his mouth like burning magma, set his world on fire.

Shaira leaned her head back to rest a moment. “How could a Giant shrink to the size of Man and grow back into a Giant when he pleased? How did Vod slay the Lord of Serpents? There is more sorcery in this world than you can guess, Vireon.”

He thought of Alua’s white flame, dancing in her palm. Of her naked fox-form running across the snow. Could she be? She must be.

Sorcery
.

The word tumbled through his mind, splashing into the waters of his imagination, making ripples of thought.
What is sorcery?
It had killed his brother. Yet it had saved him. It had built this city. It had flowed in the blood of his own father.
Is it in my blood too?

“Get some sleep,” said Shaira. “I am sorry I never told you these things before now. Please understand… I could not.”

“I understand,” he said. He kissed her cheek and walked toward the door.

“Vireon?” she called after him. He turned.

“Your friend Alua.” Shaira smiled. “She loves you.”

He nodded, returned her smile, and exited. As he walked the dim hallway, those ripples of thought pressed against the walls of his skull.

Sorcery. Love
.

Love and sorcery
.

Does any living Man truly understand such things?

T
adarus lay upon a bier of silk, gold, and snowflowers. A shirt of silver mail hung over his fine robe of purple and sable. His gauntlets gripped the hilt of a jeweled sword upon his breast, and his face was obscured by the winged helm of an Udurum soldier. Tyro watched Vireon, dressed in armor of blackened bronze scales, place a Giant’s hammer at the side of his dead brother.

“It was the last gift I ever gave him,” Vireon said.

Tyro had no words for the grieving Prince. He looked instead at his own brother. Lyrilan was the only Prince who did not wear mail or plate this day. Lyrilan’s robes were cloth-of-gold trimmed in green, the colors of Uurz. His black curls were oiled and held from his brow by a golden band set with emeralds. The persistent stubble that never quite became a beard was gone. Lyrilan’s chin was shaved to the cleanness of boyhood, which almost made Tyro laugh. Lyrilan was his other half, the thought to his action. Each twin had mastered the skills his counterpart lacked. Together, they were body and mind. To lose Lyrilan would be to lose himself. Such thoughts kept Tyro from meeting the sad eyes of Vireon. Alua, dressed in a black gown of mourning, remained at Vireon’s side, a steady presence to guide him through the
service. For the first time Tyro realized how beautiful this strange girl was, despite her lack of finery and jewels. Or perhaps because of it? Her eyes gleamed, yet they were darker than her funereal silks.

Andoses stood tall in gilded mail and turban-helm, scimitar gleaming at his waist. D’zan, poorest of the Princes, had been given a shirt of bronze links and a black tabard by his Udurum hosts, and the great sword hung on his back as always. Tyro had supplied him with a new pair of spotless boots for the occasion – since he claimed the throne of Yaskatha, D’zan must look the part of a King. His cloak of fine brown fur was washed and groomed, and a circlet of fine silver held back his thick blonde mane. He looked presentable enough, if somewhat out of place this far from home.

Fangodrim and fifty Uduru sentinels in full armor formed the heart of the procession, and Queen Shaira arrived last of all. Servants had draped her in black: a flowing dress, shawl, and a cloak pinned by a silver brooch in the shape of the Udurum hammer. An elaborate headdress replaced her usual crown of slim silver. Twelve rays of a platinum sun spread outward from her brow, radiating from a faceted amethyst at the center of her forehead. Her green eyes glimmered through the delicate lace of a veil. Her feet were bare in the traditional Sharrian mode of mourning. The day was cold, so this was a bold choice. Perhaps the chill could be no worse than the pain of losing her son.

A quartet of Uduru lifted her chair onto a broad palanquin hung with black silks. Another four Giants lifted the bier of Tadarus. At noon four priests representing Earth, Sea, Sun, and Sky filed from the palace gates swinging censers full of incense. The Dead Prince came next, followed by the Living Queen, both held high on the shoulders of the solemn Giants. Next came the five Living Princes, Vireon and Alua at their head. Fangodrim and
his fifty Uduru marched at Vireon’s heels, then a hundred spearmen in silver helms, purple cloaks, and black mail. At the rear of the procession rode a captain on a black stallion, holding high the banner of New Udurum.