She ran north while the camp was asleep, and entered the deep forest of the Giantlands well before sunrise. For weeks now she had wandered these wilds alone, regaining the calm that her spirit had lost, and trying to put Vireon’s judgment from her mind. She had spared him from a painful decision, and spared herself from humiliation and heartbreak. Yet she had rediscovered the ancient ways of her people, the sweetness of northern rains, the freedom of the untamed woodlands, the scents of bark and leaf and Narill blossoms alive with honey.
The Uygas rising tall in every direction made her feel small as a child again. The walls of moss on their trunks faded from bright green to blue and orange as the summer waned. Beneath their endless canopy of leaves she forgot the bloody slaughters of Khyrein swamp and Sharrian valley.
When winter came full upon the forest, she would find some deeper cave in which to shelter. There would be bears, wolves, and great cats to hunt in the highlands for their thick furs. For now she wore a simple tunic of Uurzian fabric, green as the Stormland grasses, cinched at the waist by a belt of black leather. Her feet were bare against the tufted earth, and she enjoyed the touch of moss and leaf as she walked. Her axe lay forgotten in the shadows of her modest cave, and she carried her longspear when she hunted. There were no enemies to vex her in the forest of Uduria. This, too, she enjoyed.
She was at peace, and completely unprepared, on the day that Vireon found her. She was bathing in the falls when he emerged from between the twisted Uyga roots, his long black hair tangled with leaf and thistle. He wore no crown, but he carried a hunting spear in his fist and a greatsword across his back. He wore his Giant aspect that day, and at first she thought him some lone Uduru huntsman wandered south from the Icelands. She walked from the misty torrent, one arm covering her exposed breasts, the other wringing water from her hair, and saw his face clearly.
“Forgive me,” said the Giant-King. He turned away from her like a shy boy who had stumbled upon his first naked girl. “I will wait for you to dress.”
Dahrima waded to the lip of her cave and pulled on her tunic and belt. She walked about the rim of the lake to where Vireon sat perched atop a mossy slab. He stared into the evening gloom of the woods. She wondered if he was alone. There was no sign of other Men or Giants. No sign of his fiery Queen either.
Did he track me to this place, or discover it by chance during one of his hunts?
The latter seemed unlikely.
She sank to one knee before him as he turned to face her. He pulled a leather bottle from his belt. “How long has it been since you’ve had good Uduru ale?” he asked. He offered her the flask. She stood up and drank from it long and deep. It was cold and refreshing, bright on the tongue. She sat on the boulder next to him.
“I am sorry, my lord,” she said, her eyes on the purple moss at her feet.
“For what?” asked Vireon. “Drink as much as you want.”
“No,” she said. “For leaving you. For not returning to Udurum with my sisters. I only wished to… spare you a difficult decision. Yet I know that I must answer for my crime.”
Vireon sighed. He shed his purple cloak and unlaced the front of his black tunic. “I need a swim,” he said. His bare chest and shoulders were unscarred, solid as sculpted bronze. He kept his leggings on but kicked off his boots, then dove into the lake.
Dahrima nursed the ale, finishing half the flask while Vireon swam to the falls and let its chill wash over him. The dirt and bits of foliage were gone from his wet mane when he returned. His hair glittered black as onyx in the sunlight, his eyes blue as midday. He rejoined her on the rock and finished the rest of the ale in a single gulp.
“I love this place,” he told her. “I used to stop here on the Long Hunt with my uncle Fangodrim. The sunfish in this lake are fat and tasty.”
“I came here with Chygara,” she said. “Long, long ago.”
She made the sign that honors the remembered dead, and Vireon did the same.
“There are many places like this in the forest,” he said. “I’ll wager you know more of them than I do, since you hunted here well before I was born. Perhaps you’ll show me a few?”
Dahrima forced herself to meet his gaze. “Where is your reborn Queen?” she asked.
Vireon looked toward the falls. Fragments of rainbow glittered there as sunbeams intersected the white flow. “Alua has gone north,” he said. “Beyond the Icelands, into the Frozen North. That cold land is her true love.”
Dahrima blinked. “But I thought…”
“You thought that what I had lost was returned to me,” said Vireon. “Or at least part of it. So I thought, too, at first. Yet it was not so.”
Dahrima did not quite understand. “You love her. She loves you.”
“At one time, yes,” said Vireon. “That was true. But our love died with Maelthyn. Or, like our daughter, it was never real. I am no longer certain. Yet together we brought the Claw and the Kinslayer to justice. They will trouble us no more.”
“I am sad to hear that you are… alone,” said Dahrima.
Vireon looked directly at her face. “Do not be,” he said. “Alua died and was reborn. I also experienced death of a sort and returned from it. Yet neither of us is the same.”
They sat for a while listening to the steady voice of the falls. A fish leaped from the silver lake and splashed back into its depths.
“What of the Udvorg?” Dahrima asked. “Do they demand justice for Varda?”
Vireon shook his head. “Varda should have known better than to take up a sword against a spearmaiden of the Uduri. The Udvorg have mostly returned to their high plateau. All but a hundred or so, who chose to remain in Udurum. I have welcomed them, as I welcome all Men and Giants into the city.”
“Why have you followed me here?” Dahrima asked. She held her breath a moment.
Vireon laughed a little and stood up to face her. “You have awaited my judgment for a long time now, Dahrima the Axe. So I have followed you all the way to the Falls of Torrung to deliver it. Are you prepared at last to hear it?”
Dahrima swallowed. She rose to her feet and squared her shoulders. “I will abide by your decision, whatever it may be.”
He will pardon me, but I can no longer serve him.
My vow was broken on the coast of the High Realms.
“Then here is my judgment upon you,” said Vireon. His eyes locked hers in a steel-bright grip. “I judge that you are loyal and fearless and valiant. A great warrior, a keen hunter, and a born leader of Giants. My fiercest ally, and my best friend. And the most beautiful of all the Uduri.”
Dahrima could find no words. The waterfall’s roar filled her ears, and the sun’s heat filled her face in the dim cool of evening.
Vireon took her hands into his own.
“I grant you pardon for the price of a kiss,” he said. “If you will allow it.”
She could not move, but her limbs trembled. A flurry of red and golden leaves fell about them as the wind caressed the high branches. At last she nodded.
The beating of her heart drowned the waterfall’s song, and his kiss was gentle. She opened her eyes, and his face was still so very close to hers. Uduri were known for choosing their mates with violent passion, yet this tenderness was a new discovery. Now she was the one being chosen. This was not the way of Giants, but of course Vireon was half human. Therein lay his greatness, and his worthiness to rule both races.
“The King of Men and Giants needs a Queen,” said Vireon. “I would have you, Dahrima.”
She pulled away from him, wrapping her arms about herself. Once again she felt naked before him, although still fully clothed.
“It cannot be,” she said. “I bear the Curse of Omagh. Do you forget this? A King must have heirs, and I can give you none.”
Vireon walked around to find her face again. “I do not care about that,” he said. “I never asked to be King of Udurum. It was my duty when Tadarus died and my mother abdicated. Then again, when Angrid died, another kingship was fo
rced upon me. When the Long-Arm’s son has grown of age, I will give him the Udvorg crown. As for Udurum, I am bound by no laws but my own, and I will have no other wife. I will rule alone, and still childless, should you refuse me. You have followed me across a continent. Do not abandon me now to loneliness.”
Dahrima looked into the blue of his eyes and saw truth glistening there.
She fell into his arms as he fell into hers.
Together they made a new song to rival the harmony of falling waters.
The marriage ceremony was held in the great hall of Vod’s palace, where Men and Giants gathered to see Dahrima replace her old vow with a new one.
Lyrilan came from Uurz with a coterie of green-cloaked noblemen; Vaazhia the Lizardess came with him, arm in arm, a splendor of jewels and gold upon her limbs. Khama the Feathered Serpent arrived alone in his cloak and headdress of crimson plumage.
Vireon’s sister brought their mother Shaira home by ship and carriage all the way from Yaskatha. Shaira declared her joy at Vireon’s choice. Alua had been a stranger to Shaira, but Dahrima was a long-trusted friend and guardian. The wife of Vod had lost none of her wits as she had grown older. At the banquet it was Shaira who professed the irony of Vireon’s path: Vod was born a Giant but took the form of a Man to win Shaira; Vireon was born in the shape of a Man but took the form of a Giant to win Dahrima. There was much laughter as this observation made the rounds between heavy-laden tables and found its way into the crowded streets.
Two weeks of festivities marked the joining of Vireon and Dahrima. When it was done the visiting dignitaries returned south to resume the business of their own kingdoms. The repelled Armada of Zyung had left a great, unfinished temple-palace in the Sharrian valley. Vireon dispatched a company of Uduru and Udvorg to demolish the abandoned edifice. They hauled blocks of its pale stone back to Udurum for use in public works. From that stone the city’s best sculptors crafted effigies of Iardu, Tyro, and Undutu to stand along the Avenue of Idols beside those of Vod and Tadarus.
A contingent of Udvorg brought the son of Angrid south to meet with Vireon. The boy’s name was Olgrid, and he was eleven years old. He stood tall as a Man already, but still a third the height of a full-grown Giant. Some of the Udvorg had taken to calling him “Olgrid the Arrow” in honor of his great skill with a hunting bow. Vireon spoke with Olgrid regarding Angrid’s bravery and wisdom; the two went on many Long Hunts together. Dahrima saw Vireon begin to think of the blue-skin lad as his own son, and she did as well.
Dahrima found happiness in Vireon’s house and in his arms. Yet often she woke late in the night, lying next to him in their great bed, and caressed her flat stomach. She had heard the whispers of palace attendants and advisors; they all spoke of Vireon’s lack of an heir. Surely Olgrid, Son of Angrid, would return north when he came of age to wear the Udvorg crown. Udurum would need a new King on that far distant day when Vireon were to pass from the living world. The people of Udurum did not understand that sorcerers were immortal and could not truly die. Yet this misunderstanding did not comfort Dahrima. She thought of her barren womb as an abiding lack within herself. Vireon might be immortal, but she was not. So she dreamed of a child born from their honest love.
Dahrima never spoke to Vireon of this matter. Like any Uduri, she bore her sadness in silence. In all other things, she was joyful. In her darkest hours she reminded herself that she was a warrior and a hunter. She did not need to spawn offspring to be whole. Yet the laughter of children running in the courtyards of Udurum was never far from her ears or her heart.
At the end of her first year of marriage she dreamed of the white flame. Inside the dream she lay in the pillared bedchamber next to Vireon, as she did in the waking world. Yet in the dream white flame poured like water from the window casements, spilling across the marble floors and gliding up the columns and walls. Her dreaming eyes opened while her true eyes remained closed. A woman’s figure glided through the window like a pale ghost.
The bed now floated upon a sea of white flame, yet there was no heat or smoke. The ghost-woman hung above Dahrima, who could neither move nor speak.
Alua.
Even asleep Dahrima recognized the Mistress of the White Flame whose long blonde tresses flowed and burned upon the silk of the bed. Alua’s dark eyes scanned the sleeping face of Vireon, then turned upon Dahrima with a smile both warm and gentle. There was no fear in this dream, only strangeness.
Alua’s hands touched Dahrima’s cheeks, and the white flame coursed through Dahrima’s body like a cool and pleasant wind. It gathered in the space between her hips, churning and burning there with sudden heat. Yet there was no pain.
Dahrima awoke sweating in the dark silence of the bed-chamber. There was no trace of flame or sorceress. Vireon’s slumber had remained undisturbed. Dahrima laid her face upon his shoulder and returned to sleep. No more dreams came to her that night.
She forgot the dream of white flame until many weeks later, when she discovered her stomach had swollen into a soft yet firm mound. The palace physician, well schooled in the medicine of the Uduru, examined her and confirmed what she already knew.
A child grew in her belly. Nor would it be her last.
There was much rejoicing in the City of Men and Giants.
21
Vengeance
For thirteen days Mendices languished in a dank cell beneath the Uurzian palace. His titles had been stripped, his estate emptied, and his children had fled for the southern cities. There was no way to predict how deep the Scholar King’s wrath would run, so in the days before his arrest Mendices had made certain that his progeny were far away. Yet he refused to run from the city he had once helped Tyro rule. He had served his rightful King faithfully, and his reward was a set of rusted chains upon his limbs.
On the third morning after the siege Lord Undroth had arrived from Yaskatha and officially replaced Mendices as Warlord of Uurz. That same day Lyrilan sent a squad of spearmen to take Mendices into custody. A nameless official informed Mendices that he must await Lyrilan’s judgment in the dungeon. Mendices neither protested nor begged for mercy. He would not give Lyrilan the satisfaction. So the scholar had learned a few magic tricks from some ancient text of sorcery. That did not make him a suitable Emperor of the Stormlands. Yet with Tyro dead, there was no other choice.
The guards fed Mendices well during his incarceration. The ale was bitter and the bread was stale, but the red meat was well cooked, and there were fruits and cheeses to accompany it. The groans and pleas of other prisoners along the row of iron-barred cells had ceased to bother him after the first three days. Later he realized that this was because Lyrilan had ordered them all released. Most were political prisoners who had spoken out against Tyro’s reign. Now they would fawn over the Scholar King and return to life in the city above. Mendices wondered if he would ever get that same mercy. Yet he thought it more likely that Lyrilan would take his head in payment for the death of Ramiyah.
Tyro and Talondra were gone, so there was no one left for Lyrilan to take revenge upon but Mendices. Surely the Scholar King did not know how integral Mendices had been to the plot that had murdered his wife and seen him banished as a madman from his own father’s palace. Yet Mendices had always stood high in Tyro’s favor; when the Twin Kings had divided the city into factions, Mendices had led the Gold Legions in Tyro’s name. That alone was enough to damn him in Lyrilan’s eyes.
If the Scholar King was going to sentence him to death, Mendices wished it would come sooner rather than later. Yet Lyrilan obviously wanted to break his spirit, to weary him with imprisonment and humiliation. Perhaps they would soon turn to starving him as well. Anything to make him grovel for a pardon, something Mendices would never do.
When the door of the cell swung open on the thirteenth night, Mendices expected to see that the headsman had come for him at last. He blinked against the torchlight flooding into the black cubicle. A figure in dark robes stood in the open doorway with torch and keys in hand.
Mendices staggered to his feet. His legs were weak from lack of exercise; the cell’s ceiling was too low to allow for more than a standing crouch. He did not recognize the visitor at all, but it did not matter if he was executioner or liberator. Any chance to leave the cubicle, even if it meant walking to his death, was preferable to lingering a moment longer among the filthy straw and rat droppings. The stranger dropped the keys into a pouch at his belt. He offered Mendices an arm to steady himself.
“Who are you?” Mendices asked. He became suddenly aware that his beard and hair were matted and overlong, his nobleman’s robes reeking and stained.
“Consider me a friend of the late Sword King,” said the stranger. “One who was as dedicated to his cause as yourself. I come with a message from Lord Aeldryn, who fled the city upon your arrest. You may call me Thaxus.”
Aeldryn? If that one had fled the city, then Mendices knew the lords Rolfus and Dorocles must have absconded as well. Along with Mendices they had been the chief captains of Tyro’s Gold Legions. Now they were scattered, flying far from Lyrilan’s vengeance.
Thaxus helped Mendices walk the corridor of raw stone past the rows of empty cells on either side. “Lord Aeldryn’s message is this,” said Thaxus, clearing his throat. “ ‘Hail, Mendices, my Brother of the Gold. I cannot aid you directly. Yet the wizard Thaxus is beholden to me and will serve you well. The future of our noble cause will soon lie in your hand. Follow Thaxus now and trust in my word.’ That is all.”
Seven Sorcerers: Book Three of the Books of the Shaper Page 35