Seven Princes

24

They rose from Udurum as twin hawks, he crested in black feathers and she in white. Soaring above the continent of clouds, they reached Uurz at sunset. Drawing as little attention to themselves as possible, they lodged in separate rooms at a modest inn called the Raven’s Perch. From her window Sharadza watched the towers of Dairon’s Palace fade from gold to dark silver as night fell across the city. The songs of minstrels floated from roof gardens as she lay upon the soft bed, her mind racing with thoughts of Vireon, Fangodrel, and her cousin Andoses. Nightmares came, distorted visions of the horrors she had seen in Iardu’s spilled wine. She woke to the sound of bellowing merchants and rolling thunder outside her window. She and Iardu breakfasted on dates and honeyed bread; he drank wine while she sipped water drawn from the Sacred River. In a dark alley they became hawks again and flew into the Stormlands sky, leaving Uurz to bask in its sudden showers, ephemeral rainbows, and ripe orchards.

They flew across the southern reaches of Dairon’s realm, an emerald plain scattered with villages and burgeoning farmlands. When they broke through the cloud layer into a crystal blue sky, the Great Earth-Wall lay far below, running in a crooked line from east to west, dividing the continent into Low and High Realms. Sharadza’s hawk-eyes studied the green roof of a vast forest beginning at the top of the mighty cliff and rolling into the southern horizon.

The colors of fall never came to the forests of tomewien rhe High Realms. Here the trees grew thicker than in the northern forests and were never troubled by the kiss of winter. The High Realms were a green wilderness where cities, roads, and walls did not exist. The lower world of the Stormlands lay hidden beneath a sea of rolling clouds to the north. Sharadza flew beside the black hawk, humbled by the sheer immensity of the High Forests, while Iardu’s beaked head focused only on the horizon. He had flown over these lands many times, and probably knew what every part of the continent looked like from the vantage of the sky. Strange tales were told of the beings who dwelled deep in those woodlands, and she wondered how many of their secrets Iardu knew. Perhaps she would ask him, when they became man and woman again, exactly how long he had roamed the world. Since seeing his true form for the first time, she found herself increasingly curious about him.

Their wings carried them west now, as well as south, and the forests sank into deep valleys and rose across furrowed ridges. The land gradually fell back to sea level as the mass of trees grew thinner. By late afternoon they soared over the windy brown steppes of Mumbaza. Somewhere ahead, perhaps closer than she imagined, lay the capital city atop its pearly cliffs, overlooking the blue sea as it had for centuries. Mumbaza was among the world’s most ancient kingdoms; despite the dangers ahead, she thrilled at the prospect of walking its ancient streets.

Iardu changed his course, and she was bound to follow. He dove toward the flat heat-browned grassland. A village of domed huts passed below, and herds of horned cattle. Dark-skinned Mumbazans walked trails among the grass with tufted spears, talismans of gold and copper gleaming on their chests. Another village nestled on the edge of a lake that glistened like a dark jewel. The swarthy villagers gathered here, some in crimson cloaks and hats of woven feathers. Dusky children gamboled between white sheep and black goats.

Eventually the Iardu-hawk alighted on the leafless branch of a twisted old tree near a cluster of round huts. Sharadza perched herself there beside him, blinking her avian eyes at the scene below. Here was the smallest of the villages yet. A single herd of goats gnawed the grass on a nearby hill. The golden steppe stretched out in all directions.

The two hawks sat on their branch and watched a few children run among the hide-walled huts, where the smoke of cookfires rose from clay chimneys. Sharadza sat patiently next to Iardu, although she longed to ask him what they were waiting for in this unlikely place. Where was the one they came to seek? This looked like no place a great sorcerer would live, but then what did the lair of a sorcerer look like? She rustled her feathers, trusting in the Shaper’s guidance. The sun sank toward the flat horizon, an orange ball of flame singing the steppe.

The goats moved off the hill and came slowly toward the cluster of huts. A man walked behind them with a crooked staff, the legendary tool of the herdsman. As he drew near, he looked right at the two hawks with his keen dark eyes. His skin was ebony, shining with sweat, and his thick hair tied into a mass of braids reaching the middle of his back. A loincloth and moccasins were his only garb, apart from the golden armbands, the copper amulets about his neck, and the jade bangles hanging from his pierced ears. His forehead was tall, his muscles lean and tight under smooth skin. His nose was broad and flat above ample lips, and the marks of ritual scarring formed zig-zag patterns on his chest and shoulders.

He led ze= width="2the goats into a pen, his eyes ever returning to the tree. When he closed the pen’s gate, he came to stand before the tree and spoke to the hawks in the language common to all Men, accented in the lilting dialect of Mumbaza.

“Go away, hawks,” he said. “Your kind bring only trouble.”

Iardu melted from the branch and stood now as himself before the Mumbazan. Sharadza did the same, standing beside him in a traveling robe of green and black.

“Khama,” said Iardu. “How are you, old friend?”

Khama did not return Iardu’s smile. His eyes glittered like black pearls.

“Why do you come here, Shaper?” he said. “You are not welcome.”

“I come only because I have to,” said Iardu. “We must speak. This is Sharadza, Princess of Udurum.”

Khama turned away. “I cannot welcome you here, knowing what you are. You should have stayed in your northern kingdom.” He walked away toward the cluster of huts, where three curious children stared at the strangers. Iardu walked after him, and Sharadza followed.

“This is no way to greet a friend,” said the Shaper. “Surely you remember the things we’ve shared.”

Khama stopped and turned to face him. “I choose not to remember,” he said, voice low so the children could not hear his words. “I am only a man now, Iardu. These are my children, my goats, my land. I have found peace here. Why must you disturb it?”

“All of these things are beautiful,” said Iardu. He waved at the children, who responded with white grins. They shuffled shyly among the huts.

A voice called from one of the structures, and a lean Mumbazan woman looked out from its doorway. “My wife calls,” said Khama. “You must go. Please. Leave me to this simple life I have chosen.”

“You are a man of peace,” said Iardu. “I respect that. We do not bring you trouble, Khama. We bring a warning. War brews in the south. All that you love is in danger. Mumbaza is the fulcrum in a struggle for power. Elhathym has returned.”

Khama slammed the butt of his herding staff into the ground, raising a cloud of dust. “I do not know this name.” He stared at Iardu as if he might strike him.

“You do,” said Iardu. “ Remember…”

A cloud fell across the glow of Khama’s eyes, and he looked into the blue sky. He sighed, a long exhalation of regret, remorse, or perhaps weariness. The goats in their pen made helpless bleating noises. The children giggled and rubbed round stones across their palms.

Khama turned his eyes to Sharadza for the first time. His wife still stared from the doorway of their home. “Come and share food with us,” he said, and walked toward his family.

Sharadza shared a quiet glance with Iardu. His face said, Trust me . She decided s Sh›

“My oldest son Kuchka is out with our second herd,” said Khama. “We have forty-seven good sheep. Wool brings a high price at the capital.”

They served generous portions to the visitors, and Sharadza was famished. Flying all day took as much energy as walking all day. She ate well, but not enough to embarrass herself. Iardu did the same, and she knew he would rather be drinking wine than milk. Khama’s family spoke only Mumbazan, so they understood nothing of what Iardu told his old friend.

He told the herdsman of the recent events in Yaskatha, the usurping of the throne by the tyrant sorcerer, the murder of the Udurum Prince, the alliance of Ianthe and Khyrei with Elhathym and his new throne, and the war that was coming. As they spoke the sun began to set, and Kuchka returned with the sheep, herding them into a second pen near the goats. He came into the hut and ate the rest of the meal, his eyes darting back to Sharadza every few moments. A handsome lad, strong and well built like his father. If Khama was a sorcerer, then Kuchka would be too. But did he know anything about the ancient legacy of his father? She guessed not, since Khama lived here in the bosom of domestic bliss.

This man had found the happiness that Iardu never was able to grasp. Emi was a beautiful woman, a perfect wife and mother. Sharadza felt a pang of guilt for bringing Iardu back into Khama’s life. Yet what else could they do but seek aid wherever it could be found? What history did Khama and Iardu share? There was no doubt he came of the Old Breed, yet was trying to forget it. Like the Sea Queen, who had forgotten and carved her own paradise beneath the waves. Perhaps in a few more years Khama would have forgotten his true nature as well and truly become the simple man he so wanted to be. But Iardu had done something, looked into his eyes with a certain intensity, and it had all come rushing back to him.

Khama remembered… but would he help?

A sliver of moon stood over the prairie and stars blazed in the black sky. They walked with Khama to stand near the old tree. Talismans of bone and wire hung from its branches. A gentle wind blew across the steppe, dispelling the heat of the day.

“If we can remove Elhathym from his Yaskathan throne,” said Iardu, “there will be no chance of war with Mumbaza. Khyrei is far away. Fire and blood will not spill here.”

Khama crossed his arms and leaned against the peeling bark. “Mumbaza has known peace for a hundred years,” he said. “The grandfather of our current King forged a peace treaty with Yaskatha at my urging. How do you know Elhathym intends to break the treaty?”

Iardu frowned. “Do you remember Takairo the Great? Before Elhathym left the world he shattered its opal towers and murdered or enslaved every living thing within its walls. Takairo, whose people had never known war. He is a predator, Khama, and worse now that he has endured the strangeness of the Oenenevuter Worlds. He raises the dead to conquer the living. He takes what he wants. It will not be long before he decides to take Mumbaza.”

Khama watched the stars, keeping his thoughts to himself.

Sharadza could stay quiet no longer. “Even now a delegation of Princes from the northlands seeks alliance with your Boy-King. A choice must be made. Mumbaza will be forced to side with Yaskatha and Khyrei, or with those who oppose them. Like you I fear the coming of war. This is why I have convinced Iardu to help me prevent it. He says you can help us. If you do not, you will face the coming destruction knowing that you could have done something about it.”

“I have enjoyed living as other men do these past decades,” Khama said. “Yet the Great Wheel turns always, and now you remind me that men face war in their time. It has always been so. So if I am to be a man, I must face it too. Though my heart screams to run from here, to take my children where they can be safe, I know that safety is an illusion. Still… to leave them now, I am unwilling.”

“Open your Inner Eye,” said Iardu. “Look to the south. Feel the currents of shadow smothering Yaskatha.”

Khama’s eyes closed. A night-bird cawed somewhere over the plain. The cool wind blew, and the grasses whispered earthy secrets.

After a moment the herdsman opened his eyes. He shivered. “The Dwellers in Shadow,” he whispered. “They answer his call. A great many of them… legions of hungry darkness…”

Iardu nodded. “You feel what I have felt. His power will only grow stronger until he strikes. And it may be well before the northern armies can assemble.”

“Oh, it will be,” said Khama, his face haunted. “Such hunger cannot be held in check for long. It could consume the world.”

“Stand with us now,” said Iardu. “We’ll take him before he ever knows of our coming. Surprise will be a dagger that kills in our hand, Khama.”

Khama shook his head, ran a hand through his braided locks. “Emi, the children… I must take them to the city… hide them behind the walls of the palace.” Tears welled in his eyes but did not fall. “Understand. If I join you in striking at Elhathym, I break the treaty of my King. I must speak with him first. Only with his blessing can I do this thing.”

Iardu looked at Sharadza. His eyes glowed, twin prisms brighter than the moonlight. The blue flame danced on his chest. She had grown used to this wonder and hardly noticed it now. She wondered what Khama’s family saw when they looked at Iardu.

“We will accompany you to the city tomorrow,” said Iardu. “Once your family is safe there, and you have spoken with the Boy-King, we will fly south together… to douse the fire of war before it burns across the steppes.”

Khama nodded. “I must speak with my wife.”

“We will sleep in the grass,” said Iardu.

Khama stopped halfway to his hut and turned to look at them. Hisk aiv›

“Hawks always bring trouble,” he said, and went inside to seek his wife.

Mumbaza sat like the King of Cities on its precipice above the turquoise sea. Its docks were vast marble quays lined with ships from every nation, a forest of multicolored sails and vessels of every size, from lean coast-huggers to round-hulled behemoths. The city kept a standing navy as well, a fleet of two hundred war galleons patrolling the coast for leagues, each flying the sign of the Feathered Serpent. Carved into the surface of the pale cliffs, the Upward Way climbed from the docks directly to the Seaward Gate in a series of terraced switchbacks. The city was unassailable from the sea thanks to its lofty position, and no nation had ever been foolish enough to assault the Upward Way.

Andoses watched from the forecastle of the Sharkstooth as the glittering bluffs grew larger. The pearly domes of the city could no longer be seen this near to the seawall, though from farther out Mumbaza had shone brilliant as the sun itself. Soon the eager crew would bring their ship to anchor, and the Cloud sailed close behind. Fifteen days from Murala to this proud capital. Of course, a day had been lost in salvaging men and provisions from Dairon’s Spear, but the weather had favored the voyage. Andoses longed to feel solid ground beneath his feet. He had sailed the Golden Sea many times, but always for pleasure trips of a day or two. Two weeks of crowded decks, cramped quarters, and sea rations was more than enough. In the palace of the Boy-King there would be splendor and luxuries to enjoy.

After seeing the terrible thing from the depths that destroyed the Spear, Andoses no longer trusted the sea. What other ancient horrors slumbered down there? He thanked the Gods of Cloud and Sky when the port of Mumbaza finally came in view. He might never look upon the calm waters of the sea again without thinking of the leviathan and the splintering galleon. The men who wailed and died like helpless insects. The rotten reek of the beast on the wind. He still smelled it at times, or imagined he did.

So many deaths. But Vireon had emerged more the hero. The men worshipped him now. All to the good of Shar Dni. With Vireon at the head of the Four Nations, men would rush into battle as if the Gods themselves rode at their backs. All Andoses needed to complete this masterpiece of a plan was the allegiance of the Boy-King. Undutu and his royal mother Umbrala must join the cause. How could they refuse? Five Princes came now to their doorstep, and Vireon the Great among them. The Killer of Serpents… the Son of Vod. Yes, the Mumbazans turned Prince D’zan away when he sought refuge here months ago… but he was no longer a lone, scared boy running for his life; he was a key member of the Alliance of Nations. This was history, gathering like stormclouds about Mumbaza’s wharves, brewing up a storm of glory.

Andoses left captain and crew to their duties and went to prepare himself. Soldiers lined the decks, peering upward at the cliff road. They, too, were anxious to tread the land again. Inside his cabin he donned a shirt of golden mail over a blue tunic with white trim. His leggings were white leather, and his boots black as coal. The sapphire at the forehead of his turban-helm was polished; it gleamed brightly in the small mirror he used to oil his beard and mustache. A cloak of sea-blue silk bearing the White Bull of Shar Dni completed his wardrobe, along with the jeweled scimitar on his broad belt. He marched on deck, ready to fak, in ce Boy-King and the Queen Mother.

The Cloud moored itself alongside the Sharkstooth, and he saw in its forecastle the other Princes arrayed in their finery: Vireon in snow-tiger cloak and silver mail shirt over a black tunic, the sword of a Giant on his back; Tyro in the green-gold mail of Uurz, the sun emblem at his breast, a helm of gilded bronze hiding his dark curls; Lyrilan in his scholar’s robes of jade silk, golden belt and bracers, and even a longblade hitched on his side; D’zan in jet with silver trim, purple-cloaked and with the golden sword and tree emblem of Yaskatha on his breast, the bright hilt of his greatsword rising above the left shoulder; and Vireon’s woman, Alua the Sorceress, looking every bit a northern queen in a gown of white and gossamer, gold hoops glimmering on her neck and fingers, bright as her hair… a vision of frosted beauty with midnight eyes.

Tyro hailed him across the narrow interval of water, and Andoses waved. Then the gangplank was lowered and he walked onto the quay, an escort of ten hand-picked guards behind him in the silver-and-blue mail of Shar Dni. Each of the Princes would have ten such guards, representing all the colors of the Alliance. A small but effective show of unity; entering the city with any more soldiers might be considered a hostile act. So Tyro had settled on this number, and Andoses thought it good. As his boots clicked across the marble wharf, mingling with the caws of seabirds, he thought suddenly of wine – the rich dark wines of Mumbaza were highly prized in every realm. Soon he would taste of that fine vintage and feel like a Prince once again. As soon as they climbed that army of stairs. He breathed deep of the clean sea air, steeling himself for the long vertical walk.

A company of Mumbazan soldiers led by an officer in a cape of crimson feathers greeted the five Princes. There was no advance word of their coming, so messengers must be huffing up the steps even now carrying word to the palace. The officer gave a short bow, his hand resting on the hilt of his curved sword. His powerful body appeared carved from obsidian, and he went bare-chested like all the Men of Mumbaza, though his leggings were loose pantaloons tucked into tall boots. A circlet of gold, the sign of his rank, held back the mass of braids and beads that was his hair. This was the common fashion of Mumbazan men.

“I greet you, Princes, in the name of Undutu, King of Mumbaza, Lord of the Feathered Serpent, Master of the Pearl Coast. I am Antuu, Marshall of the Port.” His voice was almost musical, steeped as it was in his exotic accent.

Andoses had arranged to speak for the five. The game now began.

“Evenbliss to the King and Queen Mother,” said Andoses, removing his turban and tucking it under his arm. “Greetings to you, Marshall Antuu. We are five Princes from the north, come to see the King on a matter of utmost urgency. We bring tributes of gold, jewels, and fine silk for His Majesty.” He introduced each of the Princes by his respective name and nation. The Marshall bowed to each one in turn, and lastly to Alua. He kissed her hand in the manner of a suitor. Some things remain the same, no matter where you travel, thought Andoses. Alua smiled like a young girl, something she did quite often. Andoses had never known a sorceress before, but in all his visions and readings, he had never imagined one with such an aura of innocence. The woman was almost annoying in her girlishness.

Then the long climb be lth segan. The heat of the day was great, but strong cool winds blew off the sea. This made the great stair more dangerous, yet the heat more bearable. Andoses led the train of Princes, and each of his ten guards carried a chest of wealth for the Boy-King. Marshall Antuu and twenty of his white-cloaked spearmen led the way, and twenty more Mumbazan soldiers brought up the rear. They were both formal and careful, these Mumbazans.

Andoses looked out across the sea as the great ships grew smaller. At this pace, the embassy should reach the palace by the afternoon. The rest of the cohort, and the crews of the two galleons, would come up later to enter the city. Every man among them would enjoy the pleasures of Mumbaza. The stay here would be some recompense for the terror they had endured on the voyage.

He focused on the tall granite steps, taking them one after the other. Vireon soon overtook him, walking without a trace of effort. If he had not been with Alua, he might have ran up the great cliff-stair and waited for the entire procession. The man was truly touched by the Gods… or the Uduru, if truth be spoken. The blood of Vod not only flowed in his cousin’s veins, but also the strength and vitality of a Giant. Perhaps even more than one. Andoses envied his stamina and power – what it must be like to be Vireon – yet he must settle for being Vireon’s cousin and friend. If he lived to be a hundred years old, he would still be telling the story of Vireon and the Sea-Serpent, and there would still be wonder dancing in his eyes.

After an interminable period of mindless legwork, the company gained the top of the cliff and gathered before the massive gates of the city wall. They stood open as if to honor the new arrivals. The Feathered Serpent motif wound across the surfaces of the mighty doors, a masterwork of raised gold. How many thieves had tried to chip some of that gold away for their own pockets? How many had died trying it? The city wall was built of white stone that gleamed like mother-of-pearl. Looking over his shoulder, Andoses saw the tiny ships far below, and he turned away lest vertigo overtake him.

Now the pearly city lay before them, domed temples with roofs of milk-white chalcedony and terraces of bright malachite; slim towers of marble crowned with beryl and amethyst; hanging gardens ripe with fruit vivid as jewels; winding streets of pale stone where fresh-water fountains danced and laughed at the sea. The people in the streets were icons of dark beauty, their lean bodies glistening like statues of ebony. Women carried woven baskets on their heads, full of round fruit luscious as their ample breasts. The Mumbazans wore gold, copper, and bronze about their long necks, arms, and wrists… even their ankles. They laughed and sang and danced along flowery lanes as the five Princes and their retinue marched toward the palace. Children gathered on street corners in loincloths or white smocks, watching them with wide ivory eyes. Dromedaries draped in myriad colors and strings of bells carried riders and baskets of green produce. A few noblemen rode purebreed horses of brilliant black or creamy white, caparisoned in strings of gold and gems. The buildings gleamed, dazzling as white sand.

Andoses breathed in the drifting smells of the city. The fragrance of a dozen blossoms borne on the sea wind, the scents of roasting meats and simmering garlic. At times a whiff of camelmusk distracted him from these goodly smells, but always the sweet odors returned. They mingled and merged into a delicious scent, the perfume of Mumbaza. His mouth watered, and he craved wine. After that climb it would be sweeter than water on his tongur o gardene.

The palace was a white eminence of terraced gardens, opalescent arches, sculpted cupolas, and towers of white marble glazed with beryl and topaz. Marshall Antuu gave orders in the local tongue, and the five Princes entered a vaulted corridor. Jade pillars here were carved into twisting Feathered Serpents, their heads supporting the arches of the roof. At the end of the wide hall rose the dais of the Opal Throne. A brace of soldiers lined each wall, white plumes rising from golden helms, spears hung with horsetails. The sun blazed through high windows, and the Boy-King of Mumbaza looked upon his guests.

Undutu was twelve years old, yet he sat with all the grace of a full-grown King on the throne that dwarfed him. Andoses noticed first the brown bottoms of his bare feet, which hung over the lip of the great chair. A single massive opal gleamed behind and above his tiny head, and a crown of diamond and ruby – sized perfectly – sat upon his small brow. A crimson cloak hung from his shoulders, and although his chest was bare, his kilt was cloth-of-gold. A sleepy lion yawned on either side of the Boy-King’s throne, collared by gilded bronze.

At Undutu’s side, in a lesser throne of silk-lined gold, sat his mother Umbrala, a woman of middle years and considerable beauty. She wore no crown, but needed none. The power of her position radiated from her sharp eyes. Her hair rose tall and sculpted behind a conical headdress of wire and jewels. Her dress was a one-shouldered affair similar to others Andoses had seen in the city, but made of costlier fabric. Jewels sparkled along her brown fingers and toes. She smiled toward the procession as it drew near, while the Boy-King stared in his best imitation of the marble statues lining his hall.

Marshall Antuu announced the Princes one by one. Andoses’ men carried their ten chests to the foot of the dais, unlocking and flinging back the lids. The splendor of their jeweled contents cast brilliant hues across the hall. The queen seemed impressed, but the Boy-King held his stone face. No doubt he had been well coached and had plenty of chances to practice.

“Great King,” said Andoses, speaking to the boy but addressing the mother, “we come with this tribute of wealth to show our high regard for you and your kingdom. We represent four nations allied in the cause of justice. We would speak with you of adding Mumbaza’s might to our alliance.”

The Boy-King nodded. “I accept your tribute,” he said. His reedy voice was that of a typical boy, yet weighted with the iron of responsibility. “We hold all your nations in high esteem. We will speak of this alliance as we eat and drink together in this hall. You shall enjoy the hospitality of my roof as long as you like. Your retinues are likewise welcome here. But before we speak of alliances, there is a messenger for you, Prince Andoses.”

The Queen Mother turned to a robed functionary. “Send for the Sharrian,” she said, her voice smooth and deep. Andoses thought her twice his age, but still he marveled at the smoothness of her thighs, the deep color of her cheeks, and the fullness of her hips. These Mumbazan women had splendid hips. It took a moment for him to realize what she had said.

“A Sharrian?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Queen Umbrala. “A herald from your homeland arrived thirteen days past. Thus we knew of your conew/p›ming. He bears a personal message from your father’s court.”

The Sharrian messenger entered through a far door and approached down the corridor. The Boy-King ordered wine brought for his guests. Andoses had forgotten his thirst. He recognized the man in the blue-and-white livery of Shar Dni.

“Prince Andoses!” called the Sharrian, rushing to bow before him.

“Dyartha the Swift,” Andoses said. “I did not expect to see you so far from home.”

Dyartha was chief herald in service to the throne of Shar Dni. He carried messages to Uurz and Udurum, but Andoses had no idea he traveled this far. He must have ridden south to Allundra at the eastern end of the Earth-Wall, then west along its fringe all the way to the steppes. Hard riding for weeks, leaving behind a string of spent horses. Only a single rider with a good supply of strong mounts could travel so fast. Only a skilled warrior could survive the dangers of such a journey.

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. Anot her 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.