Seven Princes

by John R. Fultz

  The second day of running brought him deep into the snowbound clime of northern Uduria. The ground was lost beneath ankle-deep snow, icicles hung from the branches of trees, and he leaped across frozen streams. Ice crystals hung in his hair and on the fringes of his boot-tops. The cold was a constant companion. He felt no pain, only a distant sense of discomfort. What would have frozen a human man to death in hours was harmless as a toothache to the son of Vod and Shaira. He would not let small things like ice and snow keep him from the white fox.

  It was no animal, he knew that now. He no longer wanted to skin it. He did not know what he would do with it, but he would capture it. Time later to decide its fate.

  The white forest turned to scarlet as the sun sank into the western hills. Once again he saw the pale girl, closer this time. She squatted on a low crag of icy granite, her blonde tresses mingling with the icicles along its summit. Again he stopped, a steaming icon among the wintery landscape. Her feet were bare upon the ice, and her black eyes met his own. Her lips were soft pink, the color of the fox’s tongue. She watched him watching her, and she smiled. He walked closer, snow crackling beneath his boots. She raised a lithe, colorless arm and pointed southward, the way he had come.

  Her eyes said, Go back.

  Vireon shook his head, shedding bits of frost from his hair. His heavy breaths filled the space between them like a warm mist.

  Without warning he bounded toward the crag, but she was gone. He climbed its face and saw the white fox leaping through the snow.

  North… always north. Who is she?

  He looked southward for an instant. Hunger gnawed inside his belly. The cold wrapped his skin like a rough fabric. She was the most stunning girl he had ever seen. If he turned back now, as she seemed to want him to, he may never see her again.

  He scanned the white hills ahead; they stretched like a pallid blanket across the northern world. Who knew what lay among that white waste? What secrets did the frozen north keep to itself?

  He had seen one of them.

  Jumping from the crag into a snowdrift, he ran toward the fox-woman’s delicious scent. Now that snow and ice muted the forest, her fragrance was easier to follow than ever. He sped through the winterland like a wild buck fleeing invisible predators. But he was the predator. He would catch this gorgeous treasure and hold her in his arms and… at least he would know her name. He would caress her marble flesh, swim the intimate depth of her eyes… taste those ripe lips.

  All that day and into a frozen night he ran. Snow fell again, and he ignored it. He delved deep into the winterlands, far from any recognizable landmarks save the frosted Uyga trees, which grew sporadically from the snowy ground. A range of white-capped mountains stood on the horizon, rising over walls of eternal fog. He had no name for those peaks, nor had any Uduru every spoken of them. The snow was knee-deep here, and far deeper in places. Several times he fell into fissures and had to claw his way out with knife and bare fingers. When he emerged from these white caverns the fox stood nearby as if waiting… but it fled again at first sight of him.

  On the third day a pack of wolves ran beside him, snarling with hunger. He ran faster, hoping to outdistance them, but they matched his speed. The reek of their carnivore breath and matted pelts obscured the fox’s scent, and this irritated him. He turned on the pack’s frothing leader, grabbing it around the neck. Locked together they rolled down a frozen slope, the other wolves loping behind, eager for a kill.

  Vireon’s knife slit the big wolf’s throat as they tumbled, and at the bottom of the slope he left it bleeding into the whiteness. The wolves had their feast. The sound of their gnashing and chewing receded as he raced northward. The scent of the fox-woman was faint, but he caught it on the frigid wind and ran faster, the knife clutched in his fist and smoking with wolf’s blood. It finally went cold and red crystals froze along the blade.

  On the fourth day the icy mountains loomed closer, and Vireon’s weariness caught up with him. He stopped in a deep ravine, standing up to his waist in snow, and sniffed the air for the fox-woman’s scent. She was near, but he could not pinpoint her direction anymore. His vision blurred. He was tired, at last, after days of running. His limbs ached with cold, or fatigue, he could not tell. He was beginning to know his limits, something entirely new to him. But still he would not give up.

  The world turned to shades of gray about him as he followed his nose and trudged up the ravine. On either side the walls rose thousands of feet, and Uyga trees topped them like snow-crowned sentinels. He stared up at the trees, seeing for a moment the image of his Uduru cousins garbed in white, looking down as if to cheer him on. Or warning him to go back. Go. Return to the land of sun and warmth, they whispered.

  No, he breathed. His face had begun to sprout a shallow beard, frosted to the color of snow.

  Then he smelled the sour stench of unwashed Uduru, and thought somehow his cousins had actually followed him. The walls of the ravine shook about him, shards of ice and shale sliding into the gorge. Six great figures rose before him, blue-skinned giants draped in reeking pelts of bear and mountain tiger. He stopped, blinking exhausted eyes. His cousins could not be here… This was a trick of the mind. Was the fox-woman a sorceress, and this some final trick to elude pursuit?

  Vireon squinted, looking up into the face of the nearest blue-skin. A necklace of bones, fangs, and claws hung about the great neck. The face above it was heavy-browed, flat-nosed, with a jutting chin and a beard entirely frozen into jagged icicles. The wild mane of hair was snow-pale. The eyes, however, were crimson. Pupils as red as fresh-flowing blood, a marked contrast to the indigo skin. A ring of bronze hung from the broad nostrils, two more from the big flat earlobes. Vireon’s head spun.

  Are they ghosts? he wondered. Spirits of frozen Uduru who wandered too far north in some ancient age?

  They barked at him, a few guttural syllables in tones of primordial contempt.

  Surrounded by the stink of their moldy furs and sweat-caked bodies, he had lost the scent of the fox-woman entirely. He moaned.

  The blue-skin before him raised a tree above its shaggy head. Not a tree, a mace of black iron. He realized this too late as the blue-skin brought the weapon crashing against his bare skull.

  Thunder and sparks.

  The snow rose up to greet him like a feather bed, and at last Vireon slept.

  A ribbon of crimson flowed from his scalp, melting a tiny rivulet into the snow.

  6

  In the Palace of Sacred Waters

  The Royal Gardens of Uurz encircled the soaring walls of the palace proper like a swathe of preserved wilderness. In the works of sages and poets they stood alongside such wonders as the Forest of Jewels in Mumbaza, the Great Earth Wall that divided the continent into Low and High Realms, and the Giant-City of New Udurum. Every known species of plant, tree, and fruit grew in Emperor Dairon’s circular courtyard, a treasury of botanical imports from across the world. Rare birds from Khyrei, Yaskatha and the Southern Isles filled the green canopies with melodious warbling; blue-furred monkeys built tiny huts in the tops of the trees; feline predators, great cats in shades of gold, alabaster, and amber, walked between the walls of sunken enclosures. A popular saying held that there were more blossoms in the Emperor’s Garden than living souls in the six kingdoms.

  To walk the winding ways of the Royal Gardens was to visit aspects of every forest and glade, every lush jungle and valley, inhaling the redolence of the entire world’s foliage with every breath. The intoxicating air made women swoon and filled men’s heads with fancies, dreams, and holy visions. Yet to Prince D’zan, sitting by himself on a stone bench beneath a Yaskathan fig tree, the garden’s delights were only shadows… dim, powerless shades existing at the edge of his dulled senses.

  He did not touch the plate of fruit and cheese brought by servants for his morning meal, or the cup of spiced wine from his homeland. He stared into the green depths of the garden but saw none of its gaudy birds, hanging vines, or blooming colors
. The birdsong and the distant songs of minstrels were sluggish winds in his ears. He wrapped himself in his own arms. In the humid heat of this man-made paradise he sat shivering and chewing on his lip. Beside him on the bench lay the jade dagger that had taken the Stone’s life instead of his own.

  The Emperor had been kind to him on the morning after the assassins struck.

  “I regret that we must meet under a cloud of sorrow,” said Emperor Dairon, looking upon D’zan from his throne of opal and sandstone at the very heart of the Palace of Sacred Waters. The citadel’s name came from the underground river beneath its walls. Legends said the river was a gift from the God of Waters, the foundation on which the desert capital was built. A quarter-century ago Vod’s sorcery had turned the Old Desert into the Stormlands, but the Sacred River still flowed beneath Uurz, unchanged and eternal.

  Emperor Dairon’s hands were gnarled with the calluses of a warrior but disguised by a host of sparkling rings. They lay upon the heads of eagles carved into the arms of his chair. The Princes Tyro and Lyrilan stood on either side of the throne, one a detached image of strength, the other wearing an expression of honest grief. A crowd of courtiers, advisors, and chancellors stood about the royal dais, strutting peacocks in green and yellow satin.

  D’zan bowed before the ruler of Uurz. “Thank you for granting me refuge here, Lord of Waters.” He wore a tunic of green and gold, the colors of Uurz, since his Yaskathan garments were stained with blood.

  Dairon grunted. “You are unnecessarily polite under the circumstances, Prince D’zan. Olthacus the Stone was a friend to this court – a friend to me – as was your father. I mourn them both deeply.”

  D’zan could say nothing, so he swallowed the lump in his throat and held back tears.

  “The security of this palace has not been compromised in twenty-five years,” said the Emperor, his kohl-rimmed eyes still set on D’zan. “Not since the Uduru conquered this city and put the Old Emperor to death. This is a shameful day for all of us. Know that my ministers will soon discover who aided these Khyreins. I can never repay the loss of your guardian. But I swear to you I will bring justice upon the heads of any who are implicated in his murder. I only wish I knew why the Khyreins wish you harm.”

  “Khyrei is the enemy of my ancestors,” said D’zan. “I believe the assassins were sent by its Empress, who aligns herself with the usurper Elhathym. Now I have no choice but to ask your royal protection while I gather an army to reclaim my kingdom.”

  Dairon frowned. “You have the protection of my house as long as you wish it. However, I cannot allow you to recruit my soldiers and citizenry for your campaign. You may contract any number of mercenaries who roam the Stormlands. They are hearty warriors who sell their sword arms to the highest bidder.”

  D’zan stared at the lowest step of the dais. He fought back the anger growing in his chest, mixing with the bile of his grief.

  “Thank you, Lord of Waters,” he said with forced calm.

  He could not tell the Emperor that he had no money to hire an army. He could not beg for assistance in front of the entire Uurzian court. He could not speak the eloquent words that would bend Dairon’s armies to his cause. The Stone was supposed to help him win the support of Uurz. How could he do it himself? How could he possibly do it alone?

  “If what you say is true,” said the Emperor, after some thought, “and Khyrei now stands allied with this sorcerer Elhathym… then the south may become a fearsome power. I will send agents to both realms to gather news. But we cannot take action against the usurper until we know the true state of southern politics, and also where Mumbaza’s loyalties lie. Do you understand, Prince D’zan?”

  D’zan nodded, then looked up and met the Emperor’s eyes with his own. The glare of sunlight from Dairon’s tall crown almost blinded him. “What of the Giant-King?” he asked.

  “You speak of Vod, Lord of Udurum. What of him?”

  “I have heard that he once feuded with the Empress of Khyrei, that he cast down her palace before he went north to rebuild Udurum.”

  Dairon smiled. “You know your history well. This is all true.”

  “Then perhaps he will support my claim. Will Your Majesty grant me an escort beyond the mountains to the City of Men and Giants?”

  Dairon stroked his braided beard. His eyes turned to those of his warrior-son, Tyro. The young man leaned in close to his father, and the two spoke in whispers. Then the Empreror turned to his other son, scholarly Lyrilan, and those two exchanged words.

  The Emperor turned back to D’zan. “You are truly the son of Great Trimesqua to ask such a favor. I salute your courage. You will have a cohort of my finest warriors as escort to Udurum. But there is something you should know…”

  D’zan stood a bit taller. There was some glimmer of hope here. “Your Majesty?”

  “We have received word recently that King Vod has abdicated his throne and gone off to the Cryptic Sea. Men say he spoke of answering a curse. His wife, Queen Shaira, rules Udurum in his stead.”

  D’zan blinked. “Will the Giant-King return?”

  Dairon looked grim. “None can say but Vod,” he replied. “And he speaks to no one.”

  D’zan felt his glimmer of hope fade and grow cold, like the dying embers of a fire. Suddenly he thought of nights on the Stormland plain, sleeping about the embers with the Stone snoring nearby, his big sword laid across his chest. His eyes welled.

  “Then I will appeal to Queen Shaira,” he said.

  He no longer cared that his tears flowed freely. Let the nobles of Uurz see his pain. Let it flow like their Sacred River, down his cheeks and onto the smooth marble of their palace floor.

  Let them see the cruelty of the world on his face.

  Dairon’s head seemed to bow under the weight of his jeweled crown. “Shaira is a great woman, Prince. She will hear your plea. And know this: if Udurum stands behind your claim, then so shall Uurz, with all its power.”

  A collective gasp sounded among the crowd of courtiers and spectators. The Emperor must have been moved by D’zan’s tears. D’zan faced him, eyes gleaming with pride and shame.

  “Your kindness honors the memory of my father,” said D’zan, “and my uncle.”

  They gave a banquet in his honor that night, dancing girls and musicians filling the Hall of Waters, and great tables heaped with roasted fowl, barbecued pork, and braised fish. The wine flowed heavily among the revelers, but D’zan ate very little. Prince Lyrilan sat beside him and asked for tales of Trimesqua’s adventures, but D’zan was too wrapped up in thoughts of the future to dwell on the past. He excused himself early and went to sleep in the new and heavily guarded chamber assigned to him. Sleep came in fits and starts. He tossed and turned and battled nightmares wrapped in black silk.

  The next morning he walked into the palace grounds and lost himself in the depths of the Royal Gardens. Tomorrow would be the funeral of Olthacus, followed by another banquet to honor his memory. But today D’zan sat among the splendor of foliage wrestling with his own self-doubt.

  Who was he to defy the necromancer Elhathym? A man who could call the dead up from their graves to obey his will. What other terrible powers did he possess?

  D’zan was only sixteen, little more than a boy. His father had not prepared him to rule Yaskatha, let alone to assemble an army and lead it to reclaim the throne. Olthacus was the hero, the man of wisdom whose worldly influence would guide the Prince back to his people. D’zan was nothing, merely a name, and the last living specimen of a bloodline being forced into extinction. Would the Queen of Udurum help him? Would it even matter?

  He considered death and weighed it against his continued living. He knew what his father would say: “If you find a thing difficult, then all the more reason to do it!” Sometimes his father’s love had been disguised as cruelty. For two years Olthacus had taught him the discipline of swordplay, but he was nowhere near ready for a real fight. He had neither the strength nor the speed a true warrior needed. He had b
een pampered and made weak by a life spent under the royal roof. What could he know about being a man… being a King?

  He contemplated the Khyrein dagger lying next to him. There would be more of these killers stalking him. Elhathym was not the type of man to let a single threat to his rule go on living. At any moment D’zan expected a troop of walking corpses to shamble upon him, eager to tear out his life with bony claws. Death hung in the sky above him like a circling hawk, waiting for the right moment to swoop and strike. And the Stone was no longer here to shield him.

  D’zan wrapped his arms about his knees and rocked himself back and forth on the stone seat. The lush vegetation was a scintillating jungle where deadly things stalked unseen. Yet instead of some deadly predator it was only Prince Lyrilan who emerged from the green shadows. The scholar wore a yellow tunic, his thin waist supporting a belt of golden leaves studded with emeralds. Green hose covered his skinny legs, and his boots of dark leather seemed a tad too large for his feet. He sat on the bench near D’zan, brushing a swathe of black curls from his eyes and crossing his legs. By his very manner, D’zan could tell the Prince was several years older than himself, though his aspect was that of a young man. Lyrilan had all the height of his brother Tyro, but none of the brawn. D’zan realized for the first time exactly how similar their faces were. They must be twins.

  “Do you miss Yaskatha?” asked Lyrilan.

  “Is it so obvious?”

  Lyrilan looked up at the branches of the fig tree. “You choose a tree from your homeland as shade.”

  D’zan shrugged.

  “Do you wish to talk?” Lyrilan asked.

  “What good will talking do?” said D’zan. “I have a kingdom to win back. I have no army. No sorcery. No gold. Talking will not change these things.”

  Lyrilan smiled. “Oh, will it not? The trick is to talk with the right person.”

  D’zan turned to meet his dark, mischievous eyes. “Can you give me these things then, Prince Lyrilan?”