Seven Princes

3

Murala was a tiny city, a collection of gray stone dwellings without a single tower or rampart to protect its inland borders. For less than a league it stretched along the western coast, a town built upon the convenience of its busy wharves. There were no other ports north of this place, so Murala was gateway to the Stormlands for the southern kingdoms. It was a passing place, a weigh station on trade routes that ran to Uurz and New Udurum, the metropolises of the north. Dozens of galleons were moored here in various stages of loading and unloading. The sky was full of rolling thunderheads. The sun rarely broke through that eternal layer of cloud, and a day without rain here was as rare as an eastern jewel.

D’zan was glad to put the ocean behind him with its endlessly rolling face and unpredictable temper. For thirty-three days he had endured the lurching decks and sodden quarters of one trading vessel after another, on a diet of dried fish, hardtack, and stale keg-water. He would never take ship again if he could avoid it. The weeks were spent in nausea and misery, nights in silent despair or nightmares. The Stone hardly left his side, and D’zan would not weep in sight of the big man. So he let his tears flow only in the dark of night, among the moldy blankets of whatever cabin they had secured. The Stone slept lightly, and sometimes not at all. For a time D’zan wondered if his guardian was human, but eventually he saw the man give in to weariness, and his snores were undeniably mortal. The one thing all their cabins and berths had in common was the ever-present odor of fishy brine. It was a reek D’zan was glad to escape along with the pitching decks and foul-mouthed sailors.

Nine days out from Yaskatha they had approached the white cliffs of Mumbaza on the merchant vessel Lion’s Heart. The capital city stood proudly atop the precipice, a cluster of pearly domes and spires glaring down at the sea with arrogant beauty. D’zan marveled at the Upward Way, the staircase road cut into the bare rock leading up to the city’s towering sea gate. The trip had been a torture, and his inability to sleep made it worse. The Stone said they would find sanctuary in Mumbaza with the Boy-King Undutu. But it was not to be.

When the Lion’s Heart drew into port, an inspector boarded the vessel. He wore a cloak of sable feathers and a helm of beaten gold. His skin was as dark as his cloak, and his eyes were nuggets of onyx, cold and hard and without mercy. He spoke to the Stone in a tone that no man of Yaskatha would ever dare to use, and D’zan thought the two would draw their blades and settle the matter right there on the foredeck. Yet the Stone only walked away, his great hands balled into fists, and came to stand near D’zan as the official continued his inspection.

“Will the Boy-King let us stay?” D’zan asked his guardian.

“No,” said the Stone, his eyes still focused on the strutting inspector. “This man serves the King’s mother, Umbrala. She is the power behind the throne of Mumbaza, and she refuses to give us sanctuary.”

“But how can she overr si ule the King?” D’zan asked. Even here, with the ship tied to the stone quay, his stomach churned. He wanted to sleep, but feared what sleep would bring.

“The King is only eleven,” said the Stone.

“Oh,” said D’zan. “But why does she refuse us? We have a treaty with Mumbaza.”

“She fears Elhathym… and she is fool enough to think she can maintain neutrality in what is to come.”

D’zan closed his eyes. He had almost forgotten – his father was dead. A new power set on the throne that should be his own.

“What… what is to come, Olthacus?” D’zan asked.

“War,” said the Stone.

The Mumbazans would not grant sanctuary, but they would not hinder the Prince of Yaskatha either. Therefore, Olthacus booked passage on a series of northbound galleons. They stopped at various dismal trading ports along the coast every few days. D’zan’s nightmares eventually subsided under the weight of sheer exhaustion, but his nausea never entirely faded. He dreamed of speaking with his father often, but he could not hear the words of the dead King. Visions of the walking dead still came to him, but infrequently. Sometimes he dreamed of dead men marching along the deep sea bed, staring up at the keel of the vessel in which he slept. Could there be an army of drowned sailors following him at the command of black-hearted Elhathym? He tried not to think about such things, and a cup of strong wine before bed each evening reduced his morbid night fevers. He still wept in the dark, hoping Olthacus did not hear.

The Stone’s pouchful of precious jewels served them well for passage and foodstuffs, but there was little to no luxury to be had on these austere vessels. D’zan used to stare at the ocean dreaming of adventures among the waves, discovering fabulous islands full of monsters and recovering lost treasures. But now he hated the gray-green expanse of roiling, capricious chaos. The farther north they sailed, the more storms they encountered. The skies grew black and the rain nearly drowned them, not to mention the great waves that swamped the deck. D’zan learned to stay below during the squalls.

One evening he stared at a dagger, the one his father had given him for his sixteenth birthday, and contemplated opening his throat while the waves tossed the ship to and fro. He studied the tiny jewels set into the hilt, the traceries of silver and gold in the burnished bronze. The pommel was a griffin’s head, its eyes miniscule emeralds. The blade was nearly as long as his forearm, and sharp enough to shave a man’s beard. He could draw it across his throat in one fluid motion, using all his strength, and in a few short moments his life would be over. Blood would flow out his neck, seep through the cracks in the cabin floor, and join the brackish bilge water down below. If he killed himself now, his blood would ultimately rejoin the sea, the place where all men came from, if legends were true. The sailors would likely throw his body overboard, completing his journey back to the source. He would join those armies of drowned dead who crawled along the sea bottom like brainless crabs.

It was that last thought that made him sheathe the dagger. Could he even escape Elhathym by dying? If he killed himself, might that be giving the usurper complete contrus mplete ol over him? The thought of this deathly surrender made him set his jaw. He must stay alive, no matter what. This was the only way to defy the necromancer. The only hope of freeing Yaskatha from a tyrant who used the dead to dominate the living.

“We’ll go to Uurz,” the Stone told him. “The Emperor there is kindly and wise. He was once a soldier, a friend of your father’s.”

“Will he grant us the asylum that Mumbaza denied?” D’zan asked.

“If the Gods will it be so.”

“What then?” D’zan asked. “What can we do against someone like Elhathym?”

The Stone stared at him. His rough face was craggy, unshaven, his eyes twin diadems of blue ice. “We make alliances. We build an army. We prepare you for the role you must play.”

“What role is that, Olthacus?”

“You already know,” said the Stone. “Avenging son. Liberator. You must take back Yaskatha.”

D’zan thought on those words often during the voyage. Of course he must do these things. Of course he must slay the monster who had slain his father, and take the kingdom that was rightfully his. But how?

A few days after their conversation, he posed the question to Olthacus: “How can a mere boy hope to gather an army and oppose a sorcerer with such terrible power?”

Olthacus did something then that D’zan had never seen before, though he had known the big man since infancy. The Stone smiled. “There are other sorcerers in this world, Prince,” he said. “And there are many men hungry for glory. Men who are willing to die for a cause they know is just.”

D’zan contemplated this. “And all of this… begins at Uurz?”

“At Uurz,” said the Stone, looking across the leaden sea where stormclouds flared and rumbled. “And at New Udurum. And at Shar Dni. These are the cities of the north. The Stormlands. It is a land of Giants and legends. It is where the Gods drive us. We must trust in Their wisdom.”

D’zan could say little more about this. The Stone knew what must be done, and where they must go. Was Olthacus now his father? This common soldier, this man without a drop of royal blood in his veins? He would sacrifice his entire life to ensure D’zan’s return to the throne. There was no denying it.

A glimmer of hope showed through the churning clouds at that moment, and D’zan breathed deeply of the salt air. For a slight moment, his future seemed secure, as if predetermined. I will do this , he told himself, and his dead father.

Late that night a hail of flaming arrows set the sails alight. Under cover of a raging storm, a reaver ship drove alongside the Lion’s Heart and men boarded the galleon. From his doorway D’zan watched Olthacus draw his great sword and cleave the skull of a howling boarder. The Stone led a party of sailors against the ragged pirates, who had not expected to find a true warrior among the seamen.

D’zan locked himself in the cabin and listened to the sounds of battle, his dagger drawn in case some pirate came crashing through the door in search of plunder. He heard men die, squealing like animals, and watched blood leaking through the planks above (as he had imagined his own blood doing before). The reek of burning wood and rigging choked him. Sooner than he expected, it was over. The Stone came into the cabin, gore smeared across his silver breastplate, a smattering of brains clinging to the blade of his sword, and gulped down a bottle of yellow wine. The reavers had been a desperate bunch, he told D’zan, not a worthy swordsman among them. Still they had killed nearly half the crew. The captain survived with a wounded arm, and his men had succeeded in putting out the fires. The ship would hold together long enough to reach Murala… assuming no more pirates appeared. D’zan stayed below as the survivors scrubbed blood and offal from the deck with buckets of seawater.

Olthacus and three volunteers stove in the reavers’ ship and left it a sinking, empty hulk for the angry waves. He tossed five captured reavers overboard, each chained to the corpses of their slain brothers. They sank like boulders, screaming as their lungs filled with brine. D’zan imagined them joining that undersea army of tireless marching dead, but he kept such thoughts to himself.

A few days later they saw the green coast again, and there stood Murala, as unimpressive as a city could be. Yet she represented dry land, an end to the terrors of the sea, and D’zan had never been more elated to reach any destination. Beyond this humble township lay the Stormlands with all their mystery and promise.

The streets were cobbled and muddy, and the air stank of horseflesh, manure, and woodsmoke. Walking on solid ground felt strange, and D’zan stumbled. Olthacus’ strong hand was always there to grab his shoulder and get him upright before any of the scattered commoners noticed. They both wore black cloaks which hid their southern clothing, and the Stone impressed on him how important it was to stay unnoticed until they reached Uurz. But the busy folk of Murala hardly seemed to see them; foreign sailors and merchant crews were common here, and when they entered the central bazaar the noise and spectacle of commerce made them entirely indistinguishable among the masses.

Now D’zan’s stomach growled and his mouth watered at the smell of baking bread, roasted beef, braised pork, and a heady blend of raw spices. He wanted to stop at the first meat vendor’s table, but the Stone drew him onward, ignoring the booths of brightly colored silks, the wine shops, the armories, the spice barrels, the sweetmeats laid out like delicious jewelry. Goats and sheep bleated on the auction block, and somewhere a band of musicians played a strange northern song with drums, flute, and lyre. Dancing girls swirled in masses of diaphanous silk, smacking tambourines as eager sailors tossed them coins.

Olthacus ignored all of these temptations and many more besides. He drew D’zan into a narrow street where the signs of a half-dozen lodging houses hung from poles over wooden doors reinforced with strips of greenish bronze. Beyond each door rang the sounds of revelry, drunken sailing songs, and female voices raised to enchanting pitch, or simply the jovial bellowing of drunkards. The Stone chose a house carved with the unlikely sign of a golden skull with imitation sapphires in its eye sockets. Inside the smoky den a profusion of tables and commoners ignored their entry, and the smell of cooked food was overwhelming. ab.

D’zan hardly remembered the Stone paying for their stay, or his long conversation with the southern-born innkeeper. He dove into a steaming bowl of pork stew with potatoes, carrots, and other northern vegetables, served with slabs of warm bread. It was the finest meal he had ever tasted. He drank too much of the wine that accompanied the meal, and soon found himself in the comfort of a warm bed, in a room whose decor he didn’t bother to inspect. The Stone laid himself down on a rug near the roaring fireplace, and that was the last thing D’zan remembered. He slept without dreams, warm and dry for the first time in what seemed like forever.

A serving girl woke him the next day well past mid-morning, and the Stone was gone. At first D’zan knew panic, then he realized the girl had run a hot bath for him. She did not speak the southern dialects, but his father had insisted he learn all the major languages of the realms, so he thanked her in her own language. This made her laugh greatly, and she left him a plate of fruit and cheese for breakfast.

He bathed before the water grew cold, then dressed in his laundered clothing and broke his fast. The girl did not return. Too bad, he thought, she was quite beautiful. A simple beauty, dark of skin and hair. These northerners were dusky-skinned like his own people, but their hair was almost always black or heavy brown. The folk of Yaskatha were fair-haired. He thought of the many palace girls whose attentions he’d enjoyed before… before Elhathym destroyed his world. How many of those golden lasses had perished in the takeover? How many had risen again as-

No. He must put such thoughts out of his head.

There are other sorcerers in this world, the Stone had said. Elhathym’s magic could be countered with another, stronger magic. But how would a deposed Prince gather such great powers to his cause? Olthacus would know.

As if summoned by D’zan’s thoughts, Olthacus the Stone opened the door and stepped into the room. His breastplate and helm were polished to a silvery sheen, the embossed standard of the sword and tree bright upon his chest. His beard was still unshaven, but clean now, and he appeared much refreshed. Yet he still seethed with that same air of urgency that had driven him since the fall of Yaskatha.

“Majesty, I’ve found us horses,” he announced.

D’zan nodded, drinking a cup of honeyed milk. “When must we leave?” he asked.

“Now.”

D’zan pulled on his boots. “Can we not stay here a bit longer? It is… comfortable.”

“No, Prince,” said the Stone. “It is not safe. Nor will it be safe for us anywhere until we find sanctuary. We are for Uurz, and right away. You always liked riding, eh?”

D’zan nodded. He was a good horseman. When he turned twelve his father had given him White Flame, a highbred steed. For the first time, he missed the horse. He wondered if the royal stables had burned when the palace caught fire. Don’t think of that; think of the road ahead.

The horses were pale imitations of the champion seree champtallions bred by Yaskathan horselords, but they were strong and swift. In the inn’s muddy courtyard Olthacus loaded both animals with packs of hastily prepared food and gourds of water. D’zan climbed into the stirrups and introduced himself to his steed.

“Does it have a name?” he asked, petting the horse’s mottled neck.

“I didn’t ask the seller,” said the Stone, pulling himself up into his own saddle.

The horse neighed and stamped the mud lightly beneath D’zan, and he decided the beast was good-tempered enough.

“I’ll name him then,” said D’zan. The Stone was silent, adjusting the sword belt over his shoulder. A brand-new crossbow hung from his saddle, and a quiver of bronze-tipped bolts. Was Olthacus expecting trouble on the road to Uurz?

“You are Northwind,” D’zan told the horse, rubbing its neck.

“And mine?” asked the Stone. Every now and then he indulged the Prince in a boyish whim or two.

“Yours is Stormcloud,” said D’zan.

“Very good,” said the Stone, looking at the steed below him as if truly seeing it for the first time. “Then may Northwind and Stormcloud speed us to the City of the Sacred Waters.”

Olthacus steered his trotting horse through the courtyard gate, D’zan and Northwind following close behind.

Thunder split the air, and a soft rain began to fall. The horses carried them slowly through the crowded streets until they reached the eastern edge of Murala, and the green plain stretched away toward a gray horizon where lightning danced between heaven and earth. The wide unpaved road cut across the plain with hardly any curves. There were no hills here to speak of, hardly any trees… just wide-open flatland and tall green grasses waving in the winds. D’zan smelled fresh rain on the air. He spurred his horse and galloped away from Murala with Olthacus riding alongside him. A grassy wind caught up his hair, and he found himself smiling for the first time since leaving home.

He glanced back at the gray-green ocean and the black roofs of smoky Murala one last time. He would not miss the ocean.

But he might miss that girl in the Inn of the Skull and Sapphires.

Each day on the road, it rained. Sometimes the rain came in gentle sheets, other times in driving squalls, when thunder and lightning split the sky. They rode between blue lakes surrounded by groves of slim green trees. Often farmhouses sat near the lakes, and on the second day the road ran through a tiny village. Olthacus and D’zan did not stop to ask the hamlet’s name, or to see if there might be a dry public house in which to sleep. They slept instead well off the road, nestled among the tall grasses. The thrill of traveling on solid ground soon disappeared for D’zan. His cloak and garments were soaked through with rainwater, and at night he sat shivering by the campfire, drinking brandy. It warmed his bones, but the damp was an ever-present nuisance.

Along the road itself they met scattered traffic. Small groups of riders ohe of ridr single horsemen, the occasional ox-drawn caravan bound for trading in Murala. Most wagons bore the green-and-gold sun banner of Uurz. Once a merchant rode by in a chariot pulled by three white stallions, his servants riding behind on a covered wagon filled with kegs of Uurzian wine. Behind the wine wagon came a cloistered carriage where the merchant’s wife and daughters rode, a guard of five armed horsemen surrounding them. The merchants of Uurz were among the wealthiest folk in the northlands. D’zan caught only a glimpse of the merchant’s daughters, dark eyes above gossamer veils as they peered at him from narrow windows, and then they were gone.

On the evening of the fourth night Olthacus killed a hare with his crossbow and roasted it over a small fire. D’zan sipped his brandy and tried to get the Stone talking. If left unprompted, Olthacus would remain silent for days at a time. Tonight the rain had died to a warm drizzle, and D’zan was tired of silence.

“Is it true what they say?” he asked the Stone. “This place used to be a desert?”

The Stone nodded, turning the hare on its spit. Its flesh crackled and smoked, emitting a pleasant aroma. “When last I was here, it was nothing but sand and rocks for hundreds of leagues,” he said.

“You were here?” D’zan asked. “In the Stormlands… When?”

“Before you were born, Majesty,” said Olthacus. “I accompanied your father to visit the Emperor. The old one… Iryllah. They say he was killed by Giants. Some say his death caused the rebirth of the land.”

“Is it true?”

Olthacus shrugged. “Others say it was Vod the Giant-King, Bringer of Storms, Child of Thunder.”

“I know that story,” said D’zan. “Eikus, my history tutor, made me read about it in the Book of Northern Histories. Good old Eikus… he’s probably dead now.”

Olthacus ignored this last comment. “The way I hear it, the Serpent-Father burned this land to ash a thousand years ago, turned it to desert. Used to be some fairly big lizards here as I remember. Tasted terrible.” He licked some grease off his finger and adjusted the cooking hare once again. “Vod was raised by humans, or so they say. When he found out that his true father was devoured by the Lord of Serpents, he took up his sire’s axe and marched north beyond the Grim Mountains. There the Serpent had conquered the City of Giants, killing most and driving away the rest. Vod used his father’s axe to slay the Serpent, and when the beast died the rains returned to the desert, the grasses began to grow. The land came to life again. It used to be called the Desert of Many Thunders. Now they call it Stormlands. With all this rain, it’s no wonder.”

“In the book,” said D’zan, “Vod was a sorcerer. He grew to the size of a mountain, strangled the Serpent-Father, and drank his flaming blood. Then he marched southward, and his footsteps cracked open the earth. Rivers poured from the underworld and an ancient curse was lifted. In a single year the desert blossomed into a green paradise. That’s what the book said… but I never truly believed it.”

“Do you believe it now, Prince?”

A peal of distant thunder moaned across the sky. “Yes,” said D’zan. After witnessing the terrible power of Elhathym, he would never again doubt the tales of sorcerers.

“Olthacus,” D’zan said as they devoured the crisp hare-flesh. “Can we not go to this Giant-King and make him our ally? Surely he has power to rival Elhathym.”

“Aye, and an army of Giants to boot,” said the Stone, smacking his lips.

“Then why go to Uurz?” said D’zan. “Eikus told me King Vod rebuilt the City of Giants and invited men to live there. Why not go to him instead?”

Olthacus frowned and guzzled a cup of brandy. “New Udurum is much farther than Uurz, Prince,” he said. “The Grim Mountains lie between us and Vod’s city. And they say those mountains are haunted by the ghosts of all the Serpents slain by Giants… and even worse things.”

D’zan sat quiet. He knew precious little about the Emperor of Uurz. Only that he came to power twenty-some years ago, at the time of the land’s rebirth. Would Dairon give him sanctuary, pledge to aid him? For that matter, would the Giant-King be any easier to sway?

“Perhaps we will go to Vod’s city eventually,” said the Stone. “But Uurz is on our way. The Emperor Dairon rules there, and the Giant-King is his fast ally. If we gain the support of Uurz, we will gain the support of New Udurum and the giants. Be sure of that, Prince.”

“And why would either of these monarchs aid us?”

The Stone shrugged. “Perhaps they won’t. Perhaps they will. This is for the Gods to decide.” The big man laid himself down on a sodden blanket, his greatsword unsheathed and lying across his chest. “Sleep now, Majesty. Tomorrow we ride until we see the gates of Uurz.”

D’zan finished his wine and lay down. Moonlight found its way through the cloud cover, sparkling on a million drops of rain along the edges of tall grass blades.

If each of these green blades was a sword, I would have my army. Though perhaps it would be better to have a single sorcerer at my side .

At dawn they awoke and remounted. Storms gathered quietly in the pink and purple sky as they galloped the final leagues toward Uurz. Near midday, in the midst of a steady rain, they came within sight of the city’s outer wall. It rose upon the horizon and gleamed like wet gold. Above it a hundred gilded towers shone against the clouds, and the sun struck brilliant sparks against those spires.

Here the road was paved, and the first of many great estates lined the way. Orchards, grazing pastures, and croplands stretched across the plains as far as the eye could see. Giant palm trees sat alongside the road at regular intervals, and side avenues were numerous. These were the agricultural plantations that gave sustenance to the gleaming city and grew the grapes that made the famous Uurzian wines. The workers on these farms wore loose-fitting pantaloons and leather vests, though most went barefoot through the muddy fields. Their children ran free and laughing in the gentle rain.

They seemcidem›They happy, D’zan thought, watching the adults at work and the children at play. How long has it been since I knew such happiness? Will I ever know it again?

Now was not the time for such thoughts, so he locked them away.

Six days on the road had brought them to the Great Gate of Uurz, and now they approached its massive open slabs. A perpetual crowd of commoners and noble folk came in and out of the wall’s single portal. The two southern riders joined the crowds seeking entry at this hour and found themselves in a great line of mounted travelers, horse-drawn carriages, and wagons pulled by oxen or wetland camels. As they waited for ingress, D’zan studied the brown faces of the guards. Their bronze armor shone like gold, and their spears stood twice as tall as the men themselves. Their swords were straight-forged in the northern manner, and they wore cloaks of green stitched with golden suns. That same emblem decorated their round shields. Along the top of the wall, guard towers watched over the surrounding lands for many leagues. The wall was taller than any D’zan had seen, and he recalled the legend of its impenetrability. Even the Giants, long ago, had tried to tear down this wall, and failed.

He saw no Giants outside the gates today, and felt a bit disappointed.

Just before sunset D’zan and Olthacus crossed the threshold of the Great Gate and entered the city proper. The first thing D’zan noticed here was the sound of music. It seemed a dozen minstrels were playing on every corner, strains high and lilting, or low and throbbing. The stone buildings were on top of each other, often literally, and roof gardens rang with merriment, dripping with vines and living blossoms. The streets were paved with flat cobbles, black stones that rang beneath the hooves of a thousand thousand horses, and the gutters ran heavy with foaming rainwater.

Gigantic palms stood sentinel over taverns, manors, and common houses. The smells of blooming orchids, spiced pastries, and perfumed ladies nearly overpowered the more pedestrian odors of animal dung and hearth smoke. Not even in Yaskatha had D’zan smelled such clean streets. Uurz might indeed be a paradise. Or as close to it as any earthly place could be.

Everywhere Uurzians walked and laughed and danced and haggled and shouted. D’zan spied a trio of girls atop a lush roof garden as he rode past, and each of them seemed to be winking at him. Olthacus ignored the women of Uurz as he ignored all the city’s wonders. His eyes were fixed upon the golden towers at the city’s hub, and D’zan knew they would find the Emperor’s palace there, at the very center of this great hive of green and gold.

Night fell softly upon Uurz, and the lights of the city came alive. A hundred thousand lanterns cast their warmth across the damp streets, and cheerful groups of youths gallivanted along the lanes. Olthacus, who had been here when the land was dry and parched, had no trouble finding the gates of the royal grounds. The palace stood taller and wider than Yaskatha’s own. Its hundreds of windows gleamed in all the colors of the rainbow, some trick of the painted glass. A half-moon rose above the soaring spires, taking on the golden hue of the edifice. Even the moon was jealous of this place and tried to imitate its beauty. The courtyards about the palace proper were thick with trees, a miniature forest rising above the spiked walls. Guards walked the ramparts in pairs, and such a pair on the street hailed Olthacus as he rode toward the baer. oward trred entry.

“No sightseeing after dark,” said the guard, a phrase he was evidently accustomed to repeating. “Come back tomorrow.”

The Stone brought his horse to a halt, and D’zan followed his example.

“Olthacus, General of Yaskatha, Right Hand of King Trimesqua, seeks audience with His Majesty Emperor Dairon.”

Both guards perked up, eyeing Olthacus from beneath the rims of their helmets, then scanning over D’zan. “You carry the seal of Trimesqua?”

Olthacus showed the man his ring. The guards bowed, then opened the gate. An attendant came forth to guide them through the splendid courtyard. The scents here were overpowering, ripe fruit and flowery nectar, all the finest shrubs, hedges, and trees meticulously arranged for maximum aesthetic value. D’zan wished it were daylight so he might better appreciate the renowned gardens. Perhaps there would be time for that, if he found the sanctuary he sought in this place.

The horses were led off to the stables, and the attendant conducted them through a columned portico into an outer hall of the palace. Statues of marble and granite lined the walls, and servants brought them wine in jeweled cups. The vintage was of the finest quality, and a deep drink made D’zan’s head spin. Olthacus quaffed it like water. Eventually they were shown to a smallish chamber furnished with velvet couches, beaded tapestries, and a table of polished black wood. At the head of the table stood a young man dressed in the gold and green of the royal family, a necklace of opals on his chest, a coronet of silver and ruby about his forehead. His thick hair was black and curly, falling to his shoulders, and his face clean-shaven. His arms were brawny, and he radiated the demeanor of a soldier. A short-bladed sword hung from his wide belt in a scabbard crusted with gems.

“Olthacus of Yaskatha?” asked the soldier.

The Stone nodded and dropped to one knee. D’zan was unsure of what to do, so he stood quietly and observed. Surely this youth was not the Emperor of Uurz.

“I am Prince Tyro, son of Emperor Dairon. My father regrets that he cannot greet you in person.”

“When last I saw you, Majesty,” said the Stone, “you were a babe in your mother’s arms.”

“So they tell me,” said Tyro, smiling. His sharp eyes turned to D’zan, who felt suddenly dirty and disheveled. He hardly looked the part of a Prince today, caked with mud and sweat, smelling of horseflesh.

The Stone introduced him. “May I present to you Prince D’zan, Son of Trimesqua. Heir of Yaskatha.”

Tyro’s eyes narrowed. He bowed to D’zan, who returned the courtesy. “I am honored to welcome you to Uurz. Please sit. There is food and drink.”

Servants appeared from behind the tapestries and laid out a feast. D’zan found himself entirely without appetite. He had many questions, but he did not know what to say. So his eyes turned to Olthacus.

“We thank adi“We tyou for your hospitality, Majesty,” said the Stone. “Too long it has been since I’ve tasted the fare of your house.”

Tyro waved the servants away. He seemed uninterested in food or drink.

“Traders brought news of Trimesqua’s fall only days ago,” said Tyro, addressing D’zan now. “The Emperor mourns your loss.”

“I… thank you, Prince,” said D’zan.

“You have traveled far and your journey must have been taxing. You will find safety and comfort within these walls. These are the Emperor’s own words.”

D’zan thanked him again, somewhat awkwardly.

“Please… eat, drink,” said Tyro. “There will be plenty of time to talk when you have bathed and rested. My father will see you on the morrow. Tonight he is otherwise engaged.”

Olthacus attacked the delicious fare, and D’zan found his own appetite. Tyro ate little, and was polite enough not to stare as the two hungry riders sated their appetites. A second princely figure glided into the room. His broad face resembled Tyro’s, but he was skinny, his nose a tad longer, and a coronet supported a trio of emeralds above his eyes. He carried in his arms a great book bound in worn leather.

“Ah, my brother Lyrilan joins us,” said Tyro, “having found his way out of the musty depths of the library. A rare occurrence, Prince D’zan. You are met with interest.”

The thin Prince smiled at D’zan and stood at the end of the table.

“He is a scholar, you see,” explained Tyro with the faintest trace of scorn.

D’zan caught the hidden meaning of those few words: But he ought to be a soldier.

“Greetings to you, Prince Lyrilan,” said Olthacus, wiping his mouth with a silken napkin. “May I present Prince D’zan of Yaskatha…”

Lyrilan smiled at D’zan, offering the briefest of bows. “Forgive my curiosity,” he said. “Tyro usually handles matters of state. News of your arrival only just reached me, and I wanted to pay my respects. I’ve been reading, you see…”

Prince Tyro laughed. “When are you not reading?”

Prince Lyrilan ignored the question. He laid the great book on the end of the table, well away from the nearest dish. “Your father, King Trimesqua, was a great man,” he said. His fingers absently traced the engraved patterns on the book’s cover. “A great warrior. A hero in thought and deed. It is an honor to have you here. I have many questions about Trimesqua’s life.”

“Brother!” interrupted Tyro. “Our guests have only just arrived.”

“No, it’s all right,” said D’zan. The potent wine made him feel at ease, and there was something about this skinny Prince he liked immediately. Perhaps it was simply nice to hear someone speak so highly of his father. “What is that book

Lyrilan lifted the volume to display the embossed cover, its title written in the northern dialect. “ Odysseys of the Southern Kings,” he said. “It lists the entirety of your family history going back three hundred years. Did you know your father slew a sea monster that devoured a thousand ships? The Beast of Barragur, they called it. He freed the shipping lanes for a generation of trade.”

D’zan smiled. Of course he knew that story. “My father told me that one several times.”

Lyrilan’s eyes lit up like twin candles. “Fascinating! This is why I had to meet you. There is only so much you can learn from a book. I’ll bet you have hundreds of stories to tell.”

“If you want to know the best stories, ask the Stone.” D’zan indicated Olthacus, who was chewing on a leg of fowl. “He and my father travelled the world together… long before I was born.”

Olthacus nodded, his mouth full of meat.

“Plenty of time for that,” said Prince Tyro, rising from his chair. “Lyrilan, don’t tire our guests any further.”

The Uurzian Princes said goodnight, and robed attendants led the guests through a maze of sumptuous corridors to their sleeping quarters. Olthacus insisted on sharing the same room as D’zan, and the servants finally relented. They had prepared a separate room for the big warrior, but there was no changing his mind.

D’zan stripped off his soiled road-clothes and climbed into the chamber’s great soft bed while Olthacus lay down on the cushions of a broad couch. The moon gleamed through a leaf-shaped window, casting its beams among miniature trees growing around the chamber. Sleep took D’zan before he could even say good night.

It must have been the whisper of a naked foot on the marble floor that woke him. Something dark loomed over his bed, and a cold ray of moonlight gleamed above it. The knife came flashing downward, aimed at his throat, but never reached it. Instead, a shower of warm blood splashed his face and sheets. A severed hand fell on the pillow.

A scream rose in the bleeding man’s throat, but Olthacus’ next sword-blow took off his head. D’zan lay paralyzed and bloody, barely conscious of what was happening.

Then the Stone’s voice filled the chamber, shocking him into alertness. “Up, D’zan! Run for the hall! Call the guards!”

D’zan rolled out of bed, nearly vomiting. He landed atop the headless, leaking carcass. The clash of metal met his ears from the other side of the bed, and he glanced up to see Olthacus kill another man. Like the headless one, he wore tight-fitting garments of black silk, his face obscured by a smooth mask of ebony.

The dead man’s knife lay on the floor, and D’zan grabbed it. From hilt to point it was carved of a single jade piece. The blade was smeared with purple flakes, some kind of venom. He ran for the door as Olthacus screamed.

Two spearmen rushed in to protect the bloodstained Prince. Their corselets gleamed silver-gray in the moa lay in tonlight.

The Stone sank his great sword point first into the belly of a third assassin, and the man died without a sound. Three dead men lay across the chamber, and Olthacus stood near the open window, his hands now empty and dripping red.

More guards rushed through the door, but there were no more assailants. The Stone had killed them all. Someone pulled D’zan out of the room, but he pushed his way back inside. Olthacus sat on the couch where he had been sleeping. The green hilt of an assassin’s knife protruded from the big man’s chest just above his heart. His sword lay across the chamber, still embedded in the body of his last opponent. The Stone’s mouth was open, and he gasped for air like a landed fish.

D’zan shoved his way through the guards. The Stone’s eyes focused on the ceiling, ignoring the poisoned blade protruding from his chest.

“Olthacus!” D’zan cried, but the Stone remained silent. His eyes fixed on the patterns of the ceiling, swirling traceries in the shape of grape vines spreading from wall to wall. D’zan grabbed the jade hilt and pulled the dagger free. Someone announced that the royal physician was on his way.

D’zan shook the Stone by his shoulders. The veins in the warrior’s neck and face stood out starkly purple. His eyes were orbs of cloudy glass.

D’zan shouted his name again, but the Stone never moved. He sat as still as his namesake on the blood-spattered couch in the blood-drenched chamber.

Even when the physician arrived with bandage, elixir, and stitching, the Stone’s wide eyes remained fixed on the golden grape-leaf ceiling.

They stayed that way until the physician’s gentle fingertips pulled them shut.