Seven Princes (50 page)

The smile fell from Dyartha’s face as he took a tube of white bone from his belt. He withdrew a curled scroll from within and handed it to Andoses. The King’s Hall grew quiet as Andoses read the message on the parchment. His knees grew weak, and his legs abandoned him. Dyartha caught him as he fell, and helped him to a cushioned divan between pillars. A murmur of concern rushed like a momentary wind through the hall.

“What is it, Cousin?” asked Vireon, leaning over him. Andoses slumped on the couch, his fingers numb, his heart shattered like a glass globe. His stomach churned, and he gasped for air. Someone handed him a cup of Mumbazan wine… the wine he had so anticipated. He quaffed it to the dregs but tasted none of it.

“Speak, Andoses,” said Tyro. “What is the message?”

“My father is dead,” he said. The words sounded distant, faraway syllables spoken by someone else. “I am to come home at once… and be crowned King.”

“What happened?” asked Lyrilan. “What else does the scroll say?”

Andoses handed it to Lyrilan. The world spun about him, and he held his head in his hands. His father could not be dead… not Ammon the Strong… he was still hearty and full of life. Tears welled, but Andoses wiped them. He would
not
blubber in the hall of the Boy-King. It was bad enough that the five Princes gathered about him now like a group of maids about a vexed housewife. He forced himself to stand.

“According to this,” said Lyrilan, as the Princes’ eyes fell upon him, “it was Fangodrel. He came into the palace and unleashed some kind of sorcery, killing everyone in the royal hall. Ammon, his seven sisters, and a Duke named Dutho, Son of Omirus…”

“My father’s brother,” said Andoses, regaining his composure. There would be time for grieving later. Not now. “My Uncle Omirus holds the throne as Regent until I return.”

“You are King of Shar Dni,” said D’zan.

“Not until the Sky Priests have performed the Rites of Coronation.”

“I am sorry for the loss of your father,” said Tyro, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Not here,” said Andoses in a low voice. “Remember our goal.”

Vireon simmered silently. Alua whispered something in his ear, but the Prince of Udurum held murder in his eyes. Ammon had been the brother of Vireon’s mother. Another victim of his mad half-brother.

Andoses swallowed his pain.

Use it, use it all. Hide the sorrow, the tears, the hate
.

Use it to guide you. It is a dark power… See it burning in Vireon’s eyes
.

The Princes returned to their formation before the Boy-King.

“The tragedy of your loss is felt in our hearts also,” said Queen Umbrala. “Please accept our condolences. Tonight we will feast in honor of King Ammon’s memory, and you will know the comforts of our palace.”

“I thank you, kind Queen… great King,” said Andoses, bowing.

This, too, can work in your favor
.

It must. Otherwise it could destroy you
.

“We accept your gracious offer. There is much to discuss before I depart to claim the Sharrian throne.”

The Queen Mother clapped her hands, and robed servants came to attend the Princes. The hall became a bustling scene of activity, and the guests were led to their individual chambers to prepare for the feast.

Andoses was given a vast room of hanging silks and jasper murals. A tall window overlooked the brilliant sea. When the servants left, he ordered his personal guard to stand outside the door. Then, alone at the window, caressed by a cool sea breeze, he wept.

None heard the sound of his sorrow carried away on the fragrant winds.

A
t Iardu’s touch the gnarled tree became a four-wheeled wagon with a canopy of woven grass. He called two white goats from the pen and changed them into strong horses to pull the carriage. In the misty gold of morning Khama loaded his three sons, his daughter, and his wife into the wagon. He set the rest of his sheep and goats free to find their own grazing grounds, then joined his family on the conveyance. Food and clothing were bundled into burlap sacks, and five clay jars of fresh water completed the family’s provisions. Iardu and Sharadza sat on the driver’s bench as the horses trotted westward across the steppe. Khama wore a cloak of feathers, its colors fading from red along the shoulders to green at its middle, then blue around his ankles. Squatting at the back of the wagon, he watched his tiny farm diminish until the tall, windblown grass swallowed it.

They came to an unpaved road leading west toward the capital, and here the white horses picked up speed. Sharadza watched the villages of Mumbaza pass by, all of them similar to Khama’s own. The ripe crops of farms were being harvested, and herds of livestock were tended by brawny black youths. The road crossed a bridge of arching stone above a lazy river. Mumbazans lined the
riverbanks, filling ewers and jars for nearby villages. Groups of shouting children jumped into the brown water, and riverboats glided gracefully into the west. Commerce in this land ran always toward the city and its ancient wealth. The river wound like a great glistening ribbon, and from the middle of the bridge Sharadza saw a dozen villages hugging its course. Soldiers in white-plumed helmets manned a garrison at the bridge’s far end, but a wave from Khama’s hand brought easy passage. She did not think he worked a spell; the soldiers knew his face. Probably he passed this way several times a year going to the Great Market.

After a time the pearly spires of the capital came into view above a forest of yellow grass. Traffic on the road grew thicker now. A cadre of noblemen rode jewelled stallions, returning from a hunt with the carcasses of long-necked birds tied to their saddlehorns. Merchant carts drawn by sluggish camels blocked the road at times, but Iardu’s ensorcelled goat-horses pulled the carriage effortlessly around them, veering through the high grass and back onto the thoroughfare. Ebony women carried baskets and bundles upon their heads, and a troop of white-cloaked soldiers marched eastward, helmets gleaming like the heads of golden birds.

The city walls and domes rose high above the road now. Sea winds caressed Sharadza’s skin and danced in her black curls. Beyond the spires hung a great blue gulf of sky; flocks of seabirds flew between the bright towers. The road brought them through the Western Gate, iron portals graven with the coils of the Feathered Serpent. The gate stood wide open in the hour of late afternoon, and Khama hailed the guards as the wagon rolled near. Directly ahead lay the shimmering heights of the Boy-King’s palace, an intricate structure that seemed carved of a single great opal, so great was its glow in the joyful heat of the sun.

In many ways the city was like Uurz. The people and their
dress were different, but the atmosphere of close-knit livelihood, the winding streets brimming with secrets, the verdant balconies and terraced gardens thick with fruiting blossoms… all these reminded her of Dairon’s city. Yet here the sun ruled the sky, and the storms of Uurz were only rumors. The city was not so hot as the steppe had been; the ocean winds sighed through its avenues and glided over its walls like benevolent spirits.

At the palace gate Khama, who carried his herdsman’s staff as if it were a soldier’s spear, exchanged words with the guards. They granted him entry with a series of bows. He led his family along a marble path between terraced orchards while Iardu and Sharadza followed at their heels. The children of Khama walked in quiet awe. The city streets were familiar to them, but the palace grounds were another world entirely. Khama must have been here often, but his family had never crossed the royal threshold before today. Emi held her husband’s hand as they walked an avenue of bronze statues, warriors recreated from the pages of history.

Khama brought them into a vaulted hall of twisting pillars, and at last they stood before the thrones of the Boy-King and his royal mother. Stern-faced spearmen in livery of pearl and gold lined the walls, but it was the six figures standing politely near the royal dais that drew Sharadza’s attention.

Vireon… Andoses… and those must be the Twin Princes Tyro and Lyrilan of Uurz
. The handsome fair-haired lad of her own age could only be D’zan, Scion of Yaskatha. A gorgeous blonde woman in milky robes stood at Vireon’s elbow, the mysterious Alua. Sharadza’s gaze fell upon her brother. It had been months since his blue eyes smiled back at her.

Khama bowed low before the seated Boy-King, and his family followed suit. Iardu and Sharadza sank to one knee in the manner of visiting officials. In such situations, the King or his representative must speak first.

“Wise Khama,” said the Boy-King, sitting up straighter in his regal chair, “our hearts soar at your presence.” Queen Umbrala stared approvingly at Khama. An old passion simmered in her dark eyes.

Khama’s face rose to regard the King. “Your Majesty grows tall and mighty,” he said. “Soon he will tower above the spires of his own palace.”

The Boy-King laughed and turned to share his mirth with Umbrala.

Khama addressed the Queen now, his eyes still on her son. “Queen Umbrala, it has been too long since I stood in the light of your smile. Please forgive my long absence. This is my family.” He introduced them by name, as well as Iardu and Sharadza.

Vireon strode forward, his white teeth gleaming, huge arms spread wide. Sharadza beamed and rushed to embrace him. “Little sister,” he whispered.

“Brother…” she breathed at his ear.

They pulled apart, speaking in low voices.

“Where have you been, Little One?” he asked.

She took his face in her hands. “I have much to tell you. Later…”

Vireon explained to Undutu that his long-lost sister had arrived in the company of the esteemed Khama. Boy-King and Queen Mother were pleased.

“Family is the First Gift of the Gods,” said Undutu. “Last night we mourned the death of a great King. Tonight we will celebrate the reuniting of family and friends.”

Khama spoke loudly: “Great Majesty, before we sit at the feasting table, we must sit at the Council table. A dire threat grows in the south. I ask sanctuary for my family here within your impervious walls.”

“You shall have it,” said the Boy-King. He glanced at his
mother, who nodded. “These five Princes have come to speak of this same threat. Let us enter Council together.”

Servants came to conduct Khama’s family to their quarters. The herdsman hugged each of them desperately and kissed his wife. He promised her she would see him again before he went south. Then the King, Queen Mother, and the nine visitors walked a carpeted hallway leading to the airy dome of the Council Chamber. There a great oval table of polished obsidian was headed by two lesser thrones for Undutu and Umbrala.

As the guests filed into the room and seated themselves about the table, Sharadza approached Andoses, whose face was pale. She embraced her cousin, and he returned her affection with his own strong arms. Normally he would have shouted a greeting and been smiling at her by now. Something was wrong.

“Are you ill, Cousin?” she asked.

He told her of Ammon’s death, and the others. She could not prevent the tears from escaping her eyes.

First Tadarus, now Ammon, my seven aunts… sweet Dara, silver-voiced Thoria… even kind Dutho
. How many more would die at the hands of Fangodrel? Things were moving too fast. The storm of death had already begun. Perhaps Iardu was right… perhaps there was no stopping this slaughter. She hugged stiff Andoses again and consoled him as best she could, but then it was time to sit and engage the Boy-King. Servants loaded the table with cups and carafes of wine, and bowls piled high with grapes, olives, and mangos.

“The five Princes came to us only yesterday,” said Queen Umbrala, her almond eyes focused on Khama. “They speak of Yaskatha and Khyrei, whose rulers are both sorcerers. They ask us to join their Alliance of Nations and oppose our fellow southern realms. Yet as the King and I have explained to them this very morning, we have a long-standing treaty of peace with Yaskatha.
When Trimesqua fell, Prince D’zan came to us seeking sanctuary, and this we could not grant by virtue of that same treaty.

“This Elhathym is called a tyrant, but he has yet honored this treaty. The Yaskathan ships of trade still flourish at our docks. We hear from traders and refugees the stories of his cruelty, but our borders are secure. If we take up arms against Yaskatha, we end the treaty and forfeit our national honor… and if we ally with those who strike against Yaskatha, the same will be true.”

“Majesty,” spoke Andoses, blinking bloodshot eyes, “we all know the King is an honorable and righteous leader, as were his fathers before him. We value treaties and diplomacy as highly as any kingdom. Yet when Elhathym murdered the father of Prince D’zan and claimed the throne through blood and terror, he invalidated any treaties made by the rightful king of Yaskatha. In order to restore that treaty which has kept your nation free and powerful for so long, you
must
act against this usurper and restore Trimesqua’s rightful heir to his throne.”

Sharadza listened. Andoses, the eternal diplomat, had spoken well.

“But the treaty remains in effect,” said Queen Umbrala, “as long as the usurper has not violated our borders or otherwise disrupted our peace.”

“How long will that be, Majesty?” asked Tyro. Sunlight streamed through a high casement and flashed upon his green-and-gold mail shirt. “Even now he plots against you with the Bitch of Khyrei at his elbow. Their sorcery is foul, and it grows in silence like a plague. I implore you not to wait for the strike that is destined to come, for it may be a fatal blow.”