Seven Princes

30

True to his word, he placed her in his throne room between two fluted pillars. She was a statue of white granite flecked with gray, and even a discerning eye would see her as no more than a finely crafted sculpture. Yet the only eyes in the great hall were Elhathym’s, and he knew she was a slave of living stone. He had restored her to human height and would keep her in this petrified state until it pleased him to do otherwise. Or he might simply forget about her, until her thoughts grew thick and dull as the granite of her body. For now she lingered fully conscious inside her stone form, imprisoned but aware of everything that passed in the royal chamber.

What had once been a sun-bright dome where the Yaskathan Kings held feasts, rituals, and entertainments was now an austere vault of gloom. Tapestries of black wool obscured the soaring window casements so that no sunlight could intrude on the usurper’s court. Statues of former Kings and Queens had fallen to mounds of dust in their niches. Three great braziers burned with eldritch fires that never waned and required no oil or tender. The rich carpets and wall hangings depicting the histories of Yaskatha were gone, replaced by drapes of crimson fabric stitched with the hair of corpses. A pile of bleached skulls sat where the Vizier’s podium used to stand.

The Great Hall of Trimesqua was now more tomb than throne room. About the royal dais concentric rings of sigils, wards, and runes were carved into the marble floor. Elhathym sat and brooded in the jeweled throne at their center. Near his chair stood a tall mirror of murky obsidian, its frame embroidered with tiny carved demons. Often he stared into the volcanic glass, and Sharadza saw and heard the things that he saw and heard there.

At times he trailed a finger along her chin or breast, anticipating a delicacy he would devour later. His touch brought a rush of fear into her stone heart. But always he wandered into the shadows, or back to his throne to mumble incantations and stare into the enchanted glass. Terrified servants or cautious generals entered through the chamber’s high doors. Elhathym spoke with them in tones of menacing calm, or raged and brutalized them, giving orders that were followed to the letter. Once he killed a trembling cup-bearer with a touch of his finger. The man had spilled drink at his feet. Other servants hauled his corpse from the chamber, and there were no more clumsy servitors. Mostly the tyrant sat in his mausoleum throne room alone, but for the mute presence of the stone girl between the pillars.

After several days of captivity she became aware of the dark jade nestled at the center of her granite being. It was the amulet given to her by Indreyah the Mer-Queen. She had forgotten it, but had worn it when Elhathym’s sorcery overcame her own. The words of Indreyah echoed in the chambers of her stone brain.

And if you wear it while you sleep, we may speak together in dreams.

As an entity of living rock, she could not truly sleep, but neither was she fully awake. She lingered somewhere along the line between Life and Death, near the drowsy kingdom of Sleep. She pulled her attention away from the tyrant’s bleak hall toward the crossroads of Dream and Death. The shard of jade thrummed inside the granite effigy. Elhathym’s attention was elsewhere, so she hoped he could not hearould not it.

She swam through the dark emerald waters of dream, across aqueous gardens thick with anemone and iridescent schools of fish. The coral palace opened before her, and she saw the Sea Queen on her oyster-shell throne. Her silvery scales were phosphorescent, and she turned the amber slits of her eyes toward her visitor. Here Sharadza was no longer stone, but neither was she flesh and blood. This was her dream-self, an extension of her bodiless consciousness. And this was not truly the Mer-Queen’s hall, but a dream place created by their thoughts.

“Princess,” Indreyah greeted her with a pearly smile. “It pleases me to see you again. You have learned to use the trinket I gave you.”

“I have,” said Sharadza. “There is little else I could do in my present state. I seek your aid.”

“Let us walk in the gardens as we did before,” said the Queen. Now they stood among the waving sea-plants and gliding manta rays of her aquatic courtyards. Sharadza told her of Iardu and Khama. She spoke of the confrontation with Elhathym that had killed them both and left her a prisoner of stone in the conquered palace of Yaskatha. Indreyah listened intently, strands of green-black hair swirling in a halo above her heart-shaped face.

The orbs of the Queen’s eyes grew wide when she heard Iardu’s fate. “You say the Shaper… Iardu… is dead?”

Sharadza bowed her head. Dream tears floated like diamonds from her eyes, rising like bubbles of air. Iardu had loved Indreyah, and perhaps she had once loved him. Sharadza hated to be the bringer of bad news. Yet what other news was there in these times?

“No,” said Indreyah. She looked toward the distant surface of the sea as a land woman might stare into the sky. Perhaps her senses extended far beyond the roof of her sunken kingdom. She seemed to observe some distant vista or scene before turning back to Sharadza. “No. Iardu cannot be dead. If he were, I would feel it. We once shared a bond… that I cannot explain. We are linked in subtle ways that have more to do with spirit than flesh. He might eventually perish in some distant eon, but he lives now. This I can tell you without doubt.”

Sharadza told her about the black void spewing from Elhathym’s mouth, and Iardu’s plunge into that vortex of darkness. It had utterly consumed him. She saw it herself. Unless…

“Iardu lingers somewhere,” said the Mer-Queen. “Perhaps he is imprisoned as you are. You must find him if you can. Tell me more of this Elhathym.”

She told Indreyah about the enchanted mirror. “He keeps it near his throne and peers into it every day. It brings him visions. I could not understand most of these, but I did see the Empress of Khyrei reflected there, and I heard her speak to him. There were flames, and bloody shadows swirled about her… the Spirits of Vakai.”

“Did you hear their words, child?”

“He demanded she return something to him… some things he had given her. She refused, saying she needed them for her own plans, and he grew angry. Next I saw him conjure an image of Uurz in the glass. Emperor Dairon assembled his legions there, preparing fo preparir war.”

“You are clever,” said the Mer-Queen. “Here is what you must do. When Elhathym next leaves his chamber, you must take command of this mirror. It is a Glass of Eternity. Only two are said to exist in this world. Concentrate your will upon it, and it will show what you wish to see. Use its power to find Iardu.”

Sharadza stepped over the coils of a lazy octopus crossing the garden. “But I am caught in a cage of granite,” she said. “How can I-”

“Give me your hand,” said Indreyah. “Sorcery is driven by willpower. Elhathym’s is far greater than yours, so he keeps you locked in this granite form. That is his will. Yours must only be greater than his and the spell will break.” She held Sharadza’s dream-hands and put her scaled forehead against the girl’s own. “My will added to yours, child… through the power of our dreaming minds… together we may bend the elements to our will.”

The dream garden fell away and she was again inside her granite body. She looked not at the throne room but inward, harnessing the consciousness of her intent, focusing her will as the sculptor focuses on his marble block, or the painter his canvas. Gradually the cold stone grew warm and soft, pink replacing granite, black curls falling across her shoulders. The musty grave-scent of the chamber entered her nostrils, and she felt some invisible presence remove itself from her. The dreaming connection with the Mer-Queen was broken, but she was flesh and blood again.

Upon his high seat Elhathym stirred and turned his head from the black mirror. She caught a glimpse of glinting metal in the glass, a sea of spears that could only be an advancing army – legions in war formation. In a blink she turned herself to stone again before his dark eyes fell upon her. He came down the dais then and his dark robes shifted, hardened into the plates of a dark armor. He spread his hands and pulled strands of shadow into the shape of a great black sword. He walked near enough to impale her with the black blade, but he only caressed her stone cheek. Stone by her will now, not his.

“I must ride among my legions to finally kill the Son of Trimesqua,” he whispered. “When I return from the field of battle, I will grant you fleshly form, and we will celebrate my victory. If you please me, I will keep you as my Queen… not that faithless whore of Khyrei.”

He kissed her stone lips, took up a helm of silvered metal, and walked through the chamber doors. They slammed shut behind him.

She willed herself to flesh again the moment he was gone, wiping a hand across her lips. She crept across the floor, stepping between the concentric runes and sigils, up onto the dais, and stood before the Glass of Eternity. Miniscule gargoyles peered at her from the intricate frame of blackened wood. She brought an image of Iardu into her mind, and closed her eyes, concentrating. When she opened them again, the surface of the mirror swirled with darkness. It was like Elhathym’s vortex-mouth, the void into which Iardu had fallen. The mirror grew darker, all light fading from its slick surface, and now it was an oval of dull black.

There… in the center of the darkness… a blot of pale orange, growing larger as she looked upon it. It took the shape of a red-garbed figure, careening toward her as if falling sideways toward the mirror. A blumirror. e flame danced on his chest, illuminating the face of Iardu. His eyes opened wide and he seemed to see her through the glass. He slowed and floated nearer, as if swimming through a sea of black ink that did not stain or drown him. He spoke, but she heard no sound from the glass.

“Iardu…” she whispered. He floated now on the other side of the mirror, as large as if he were in the room with her. He shouted soundlessly. His hand reached forward, but could not break the invisible plane between them. “Iardu!” she shouted. If Elhathym lingered nearby, he might hear her. But she must reach Iardu. And if not now, then when?

He mouthed something, again and again. She tried to read his lips.

Pull… me…

True?

Pull… me…

Through.

Pull… me… through.

Her fingers trembled as she raised them to the surface of the glass. It was like a window, and he floated just outside it. She touched it with the tip of a single finger, and it rippled like ebony water. Iardu hovered behind the ripples.

Pull me through, he mouthed.

She took a deep breath and pushed her hand into the mirror’s liquid surface. Cold… terribly cold. The mirror tugged at her. She set her feet firmly on the marble. Now her entire arm was inside that dark void. Something grabbed it and she almost screamed. But it was only Iardu, his fingers locking about her wrist. She stuck her other arm through, and he took her other hand.

She pulled, straining against the gravity of the mirror and the void beyond. It was like lifting someone out of hole in the ground, but Iardu’s weight fell horizontally instead of vertically. She leaned back on her heels and pulled his arms through into the Living World. His head came next.

“Good!” he panted. “Keep pulling, girl! Almost there!” She saw now the lacerations along his body, the dried blood. His iridescent robe was ripped in a dozen places. The marks of the death-vines lay across his flesh like black tattoos, or bruises. She pulled, and finally he fell through. They tumbled across the dais together, catching their breath. Then he stood and waved a hand before the mirror. The dark universe faded, and the opaque shimmer of obsidian replaced it once more.

She sprang up and wrapped her arms about him. “You’re alive!” she said stupidly. Her eyes welled with tears. “Thank the Gods…”

He hugged her fiercely. “Of course,” he said. He patted her back and pulled away. “He only hurled me into the Void of Vakai. Still, he might have kept me there forever if not for your assistance. He has some elemental connection to the place. I believe he has spent ages there, perhaps trapped as I was. This explains his mastery of the Vakai and his skill at drawing them into our world – to the extent that none at all are left in the void. It stands empty.”

She wiped her eyes. “Khama burned them away beforem away b he died. Yet there are more… I believe they are in Khyrei, serving Ianthe.”

As if waking from a dream, Iardu started and looked around curiously. “Where are we?” he asked.

“Elhathym’s throne room. The one he stole from Trimesqua.”

“Where is he?”

“Gone to slay D’zan,” she said. “He will return soon.”

“Does he know you are here?”

“He thinks me a helpless statue… keeps me as a toy.”

Iardu smiled. “Amazing! Thanks to you, Sharadza, we have regained the element of surprise.” His eyes darted across the carved runes circling the dais.

“What can we do?” she asked.

“Look… See these markings about the throne. This is Elhathym’s seat of power. His physical form is only a construct, a frame of congealed shadow to house his immortal essence. Here that essence must return to restore itself. This is why he can never be slain by physical means. He simply constructs a new body to wear like a suit of clothing.”

Iardu stared at the great throne now, peering at its golden arms, velvet-lined back, the jewels set along its surface. He reached a hand to pluck a single jewel from the burnished metal, like picking an olive. Then another stone, and a third. In his palm now lay three blue opals.

He breathed on the jewels and waved his free hand above them, and he sang in a low, tremulous voice. Two of the gems expanded, flowed like glistening water, and grew tall in his palm, until an opal decanter the size of a wine bottle stood there. He picked up the third opal and used it to cap the crystal flask. Now it was a sealed vessel and fine enough to carry the wine of a King.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A trap.”

He removed the opal cork and set the decanter beneath the throne, centered between its four golden legs.

Two quiet hours passed in the tomb-throne room, and Sharadza stood in her granite statue guise at the exact spot where Elhathym had left her. On her shoulder crawled a black ant that was Iardu, and he muttered precise instructions in her ear.

She felt Elhathym’s presence before she saw him. He did not enter the hall through the great doors, but manifested as an invisible presence on the velvet cushions of the throne. At first he was glimmer of emptiness in the gloom, then a man-shaped phantasm, translucent as a ghost. Over the course of several long seconds the substance of his body grew darker and more substantial. His ethereal face was an expression of bitter anger as it solidified. When his form reached the consistency of a dense smoke, it began to sink toward the floor, wafting between the legs of the throne toward the mouth of the opal decanter.

At first he did not notice this, so consuming was his rage. But then his half-solid hands grasped the arms of his seat as his legs became legs becolumns of black vapor streaming into the decanter.

Iardu leaped from her shoulder, and she took fleshly form again. As they raced toward the dais, Iardu waved a hand and the throne became a pebble of gold. It fell through the black vapor into the bottle with a tinkling sound. Now there was only Elhathym, his lower half streaming into the opal container. His arms flailed, his clawed hands grasped at the air, and he belched a deep moan like the grinding of monoliths.

Sharadza did as Iardu had told her. Standing on the right side of the dais, she stared between her fingers at Elhathym. Opposite her, on the left side of the throne, Iardu did the same. She poured every ounce of her willpower along her arms, into her fingers, and thrust it against the phantasmal sorcerer. Iardu’s will joined with her own as the Mer-Queen’s had earlier. It was like pushing against a wall of heavy stone that threatened to fall back and crush her beneath its inevitable weight.

Elhathym writhed and howled and struggled against the gravity of the opal decanter-prison that drew him inward. The lower half of his body was already trapped, nothing but black mist inside the bottle, but from waist to head he floated nearly solid. His arms reached now for his assailants. He roared and pounced like a tiger as his left claw wrapped around her throat, his right around Idaru’s. She almost fainted, so deadly cold was his touch… colder even than that void from which she had pulled Iardu.

She shivered and whimpered, but refused to lose her concentration. A trickle of blood ran from her nostril and crawled across her lips.

Iardu’s teeth were gritted above the strangling claw. “Ignore the pain,” he shouted. “Force him in! He is sorely weakened! We’ll not get another chance – force him in!”

Elhathym’s responded in the guttural howls of a beast. He slavered and ravenous sounds arose from his gaseous throat. His claws squeezed tighter about their necks. Sharadza could not breathe. A red haze clouded her vision… His talons sank into her flesh… She bled across his iron-hard fingers as the shadow-smoke of his torso swirled and drew toward the decanter mouth. The bottle shivered and rocked beneath him, drawing him into its tiny, self-contained void.

Now Elhathym laughed, and his substance reversed itself.

He began flowing out of the bottle-prison.

Sharadza wept, knowing Iardu’s ingenious trap was a failure.

Elhathym grew larger and more solid, and she felt her neck about to snap in his grip.

The chamber doors crashed open. A contingent of Yaskathan warriors marched into the dim hall, crimson cloaks billowing from their shoulders. The silver of their armor was tarnished with dried blood. At their head strode a fair-haired youth without a helmet. His black mail was purple with gore from chest to knees, and he hefted a greatsword in both hands. His skin was milk-pale and bloodless, his eyes rimmed in darkness, his mouth set with determination. The sigil of Yaskatha on his chest had been cloven in a recent battle.

He vaulted to the top of the dais and a gleam of sunlight burst from a mark on his forehead. A goldenead. A g flash rippled along his blade as he thrust it deep into Elhathym’s nearly solid breast. The sorcerer howled with fresh agony. Sharadza saw now that it was Prince D’zan who wielded the bright blade. Elhathym’s claw fell away from her throat. She sucked in stale air, coughing.

Elhathym flowed once more into the decanter now, his corporeal form lost completely. He was no more than a writhing black vapor… a fog of hate being drained from the world.

She breathed in deep gulps as she forced him down, down. Iardu laughed and squeezed his hands into fists. Elhathym gave a final screech of defiance, his hands grasping at the mouth of the bottle until they faded and were drawn inside. His shoulders and head flowed downward into the crystal prison, dripping like black blood from the blade that impaled him. D’zan raised his blade, staring at the decanter with unblinking eyes.

Iardu moved quickly, stuffing the opal cork into the top of the bottle.

“Sharadza!” he called.

Already she stood before the Glass of Eternity. She focused her will on it, ignoring the gashes on her throat, the chill of pain. The glass became a pool of utter darkness, as it had before. Iardu stepped up and hurled the sealed decanter toward the mirror. With a soundless ripple it passed into the empty dimension beyond. She watched it spinning there like a meteor of blue crystal. It grew smaller and smaller as it tumbled into that sea of ultimate dark, and then she could no longer even see it. Iardu waved a hand, and the mirror faded to dull obsidian.

“Your Majesty.” Iardu bowed to D’zan. The Prince had watched their actions with no trace of emotion on his pallid face. He did not look well at all. His blood loss must be severe.

Suddenly she feared for him.

“Would you be so kind,” said Iardu, “as to destroy this looking glass?”

D’zan stepped atop the dais. He brought his blade down upon the mirror with both hands, shattering it to bits. The noise of its breaking filled the throne room and deafened Sharadza momentarily. As if a whole world of mirrors had died instead of one.

Thousands of gleaming shards lay scattered in the gloom.

D’zan pointed his blade at the marble floor. He stood wordless and still on the throneless dais. The warriors who had entered after him tore the black shrouds from the windows. The golden light of early evening fell into the chamber, chasing shadows from the door.

Iardu worked a spell above the barren dais. The white marble flowed upward to take the form of a high-backed chair engraved with the sword and tree of Yaskatha.

D’zan gave the Shaper a silent glance, then sat heavily upon his new throne.

The Men of Yaskatha fell to their knees, bowing at last to their rightful King. Now their voices raised in salute: “Long live D’zan! Long live the King!”

The sound of metal boots filled the outer corridors, and more Yaskathans came rushing in to hail their mohail thenarch.

“Long live D’zan! Long live the King!”

Sharadza watched the young King’s pale face. His eyes were sunken in pools of shadow, and there was no joy in his gaze. He did not smile, or weep, or look upon his people with cheer.

She saw then the gaping wound in his chest… the hole where his living heart had beaten.

King D’zan sat with sword across his knees, tranquil as a sculpted icon.

“Long live D’zan! Long live the King!”