Fangodrim grunted. “She awaits you in the Great Hall with Vireon.”
At the palace gates grooms took their tired horses toward the stables. A squad of men came forth to assign lodging and barracks to the warriors of Shar Dni and Uurz, while the returning Men of Udurum were greeted with smiles and handshakes. None of them spoke yet of the sad news they too carried.
Rockjaw himself took the body of Tadarus from the wagon, carrying it through the arch of the palace gate. Trailing behind the Lord of Steephold, his face dour, Fangodrim escorted the Princes through the snowy courtyard, up the marble steps, and into the massive hall. It seemed a curtain of heat hung there above the steps, and D’zan almost fainted when he entered it. He had lived with the cold for weeks now; this haven of crackling flames was like a paradise. Fires roared in huge braziers hung from iron chains. Pillars of jet streaked with gold and silver supported the enormous vault of the roof, and tapestries stitched with untold wealth sparkled along the walls.
Six armored Uduru stood on either side of the royal dais, and twelve human guards lined north and south walls. A Giant’s throne sat empty in the shadows at the rear of the dais, and before it sat two normal-sized chairs, carved and jeweled to rival the glory of the Great Throne. In one of these seats reclined the Queen of Udurum, a small yet beautiful woman with long flowing hair the color of night. Jewels and gold glimmered on her fingers and at her neck; even from a distance D’zan could see the emerald green of her eyes. In the chair beside her sat not her husband, but a young man of powerful build, a narrow-faced Tadarus dressed in a tunic of purple silk and cloak of white fur. This must be Prince Vireon, brother of the dead man. At his feet on the highest step of the dais sat a gorgeous girl with flowing blonde hair, dressed in a rather simple gown the color of fresh snow.
Rockjaw walked in solemn grace, sinking to one knee before the dais and placing the enshrouded body on the marble floor. Tyro, Lyrilan, and Andoses went also to their knees, heads bowed, and D’zan knew enough court etiquette to follow their lead. He stared at the floor and did not watch Vireon come down the steps and pull back the shroud. Nor did he see the Queen rise from her throne and rush down the steps. But he heard too well her awful scream as she saw the face of her dead son. It rang through the Great Hall, a demon-struck bell reverberating among the splendor and flames.
Her scream faded to fierce sobbing. The Princes kept their eyes on the polished floor, but D’zan dared a peek in the Queen’s direction. Vireon held her now, and her body writhed in the storm of her grief. Diamond tears welled in Vireon’s eyes, and D’zan knew this was a man who had loved his brother greatly. He saw tears also in the eyes of the great Rockjaw, and the Giant sentinels wiped at their eyes with the hems of their cloaks. He could not see if the human soldiers along the walls cried too. He returned his gaze to the floor.
“You knew,” the Queen said to Vireon, accusing him of prescience with her streaming eyes. “Somehow you knew, didn’t you?”
Vireon nodded, holding her hands. He looked at the withered flesh that had been Tadarus. “I only felt it… in my bones,” he said.
Fangodrim spoke gently. “The bond between brothers is a powerful thing. This is a terrible day for Uduru and men alike. Our recent bliss now turns to sorrow. Tadarus was the noblest of men.”
Rockjaw spoke next. “A young King he was. All who saw him knew he would rule with honor and strength.” He turned his reddened eyes to Vireon. “My Prince… my Queen… his death falls upon me. He died at Steephold, even as our walls fell about us…”
Vireon raised a hand. “Let my mother rest and reclaim herself,” he said, “and we will hear all that is to be said.”
“No!” said the Queen, breaking away from him. She knelt and put the shroud back over Tadarus’ dead face. “Tell me now. Tell me everything. Where is… where is Fangodrel?”
D’zan could not tell if she spoke in fear, anger, or sorrow. Perhaps a mix of all three. She looked not at Rockjaw, but at Prince Andoses, whose eyes were downcast.
“Andoses!” she demanded. She rose and stepped toward him. “Where is my other son?”
Andoses looked up. D’zan could not see if he wept. He spoke as if the words caused him pain. Likely, they did.
“Gone,” said Andoses. He pointed at the corpse. “The Pale Prince slew his own brother… and escaped into the night.”
The Queen gasped. Vireon’s fists clenched.
“He killed many more besides,” said Andoses. “And nearly myself.” He threw back his cloak and opened his shirt, showing the fresh scars and bandages retained from the night of terror. “Steephold fell under his will alone. His… and that which he commanded.”
“What did he command?” asked Vireon. His eyes simmered, pools of blue fire.
“Sorcery,” said Andoses. “A host of shadows… demons… ghosts. Things that crawled out of the night to kill Men and Giants. They brought the walls of Steephold crumbling on our heads!” Now the Sharrian wept openly, and D’zan felt pity for him.
“Why?” asked the Queen, ignoring the fresh tears on her cheeks. “Why would he do this?”
Andoses shook his head and wiped at his eyes.
The Queen turned to Rockjaw. The Giant had no answer either.
Finally she embraced Tyro, then Lyrilan. “Sons of my dear friend, would that we met under less tragic circumstances. What do you know of this?”
“Nothing at all, Majesty,” answered Tyro. “We arrived to find the castle broken. Rockjaw and his sentinels met us there, and we learned the fate of poor Tadarus.”
“There was a Serpent,” said Lyrilan. The Queen turned her face to him. “An Old Wyrm crawled up from beneath the ruins.”
Rockjaw grunted. “An aged beast, stirred by the commotion. We slew it easily enough.”
Tyro bristled. Only one Giant had died battling the Wyrm, but nearly fifty Men.
“Great Queen,” said D’zan, “I might know something of this evil that plagues both our houses.”
“May I present Prince D’zan,” said Tyro. “Scion of Yaskatha. He has come a very long way to seek audience with Your Majesty.”
“Prince D’zan,” said the Queen, turning her green eyes on him. Their heat seemed more dangerous than the flames leaping from the braziers. “Of what evil do you speak?”
“The Sorcerer Elhathym, who slew my father, desecrated the bones of my family, and stole my ancestral throne for himself. His power is terrible, and his reach is long. Already he has allied himself with the Empress of Khyrei and sent assassins to murder me. He fears I will return to claim my throne.”
The Queen thought for a moment. “What has this usurper to do with Fangodrel?”
“I know not, Majesty,” said D’zan. “Yet when one speaks of sorcery, all things must be considered.”
Vireon spoke up. “Could this Elhathym be responsible for Fangodrel’s betrayal? Tadarus’ death? Is that what you’re saying?”
D’zan stared up at the half-Giant Prince who was a full head taller than him. “I-I cannot say,” he stammered. “Perhaps the death… the demons… were meant for me. As was the Serpent.”
“Then why are you not dead?” asked Vireon.
“I carry a ward against evil,” said D’zan.
“So you bring a plague of sorcery into our land…” said Vireon, his voice rising. D’zan feared the man might strike him. I must maintain courtesy and grace, or be disgraced in this court.
Andoses stepped forward. “Cousin, calm yourself. Prince D’zan sought sanctuary in Uurz and it was granted. He has the protection of Emperor Dairon and the King of Shar Dni.”
“Is this true, Tyro?” the Queen asked. “Does Dairon send you on behalf of this boy?”
“No,” said Tyro. “I came of my own free will, as did my brother. But Uurz supports D’zan’s right to claim his throne. If Udurum will stand with us…”
The Queen fell silent. Vireon looked from D’zan to Tyro to Andoses. Lyrilan stood awkwardly in the middle of them all, blinking uncomfortably
.
“Sister of my father,” Andoses said to the Queen, “we stand on the verge of a Great Alliance. Udurum, Shar Dni, Uurz, and now Yaskatha, whose people cry for the return of their rightful lord. This was the dream of Brave Tadarus. If there is to be war—”
“Enough!” said the Queen. “I will not speak of war while my dead son lies unburied at my feet.” She wept again, and caught her breath.
A silence fell upon the chamber.
“Prince D’zan,” said the Queen, “you are welcome here. I do not believe you bring madness and death in your wake. The evil that killed my son is well known to me. It was born of my own mistake, long ago.”
Vireon drew in his breath, but the Queen silenced him with a wave of her hand. She turned to Tyro and Lyrilan.
“Princes of Uurz, you are always welcome in our home. Stay and be comforted.”
Lastly, to Andoses: “Son of my brother,” she said, placing a hand on his cheek, “we will speak of these weighty matters after the funeral. Tomorrow we honor Tadarus.”
“What about Fangodrel?” asked Vireon, still seething in the thrall of his anger.
The Queen walked back to her throne. “Forget him,” she said. “He is lost to us.”
Vireon stalked up the steps. “No,” he said. “I will never forget what he has done. He will die by my hand for this. I swear on Tadarus’ bones—”
The Queen slapped his face.
Vireon stood stunned for a moment, all eyes avoiding him. Then he turned away, took the hand of his pretty consort, and walked into the shadows.
The Queen gathered herself, then gave out a litany of commands. Stewards and servants rushed to do her bidding. “Let the guests be housed and the returning Sons of Udurum be given all they need. Open the royal barracks and prepare a banquet for all those who crossed the mountains. Send heralds into the streets to announce the funeral pageant of Tadarus. Tomorrow at the zenith of the sun, Udurum will mourn its fallen Prince.” And then, in a softer, hoarser voice: “Prepare the Royal Mausoleum.”
A gracious steward led the Princes to their respective chambers. D’zan would have hot water in which to bathe, warm food to eat, and many things to occupy his mind. And tomorrow would bring the death march of the Son of Vod.
In the haze of torchlight that filled the palace corridor, Vireon walked alone. Alua slept safely in his bedchamber, guarded by a trusted Uduru. His mind churned with memories of Tadarus. Visions of childhood, fleeting glimpses of hunts and fights and the reckless laughter of youth. He had known, weeks ago in the Palace of Blue Flame… he had sensed the death of his brother. So why did he grieve so deeply now? Having foreknowledge of the loss did nothing to soften its blow.
At the door of the Queen’s Chamber he nodded to the guard and knocked gently. A servant answered, admitting him quietly. He knew his mother would not sleep this night. Neither would he.
“Go to her,” Alua had said, stroking his chest with her pale fingers. “She needs you.”
“But she is angry with me,” said Vireon.
“No, you are angry with her,” said Alua.
She was right. The last thing his mother needed right now was his storming temper. He had only been returned nine days, and since then had spent more time with Alua than Shaira. He must make time for his mother now that she truly needed him. Now that Tadarus was gone.
Shaira sat before a great table laid out with swords, daggers, tunics, and other items of clothing and jewelry. These were meant for Tadarus, he knew instantly, and it made him want to weep. She was choosing his death garb, and the treasures that would go with him into the tomb. She did not notice his presence, so intent was she on these objects of finality.
“Mother?” he whispered.
She turned to him with an exhausted smile. “Son,” she said, and there was power and solace in the word. It gave her strength just to say it. He embraced her.
“This color will best suit him, don’t you think?” she asked, running her hand along a violet shirt with silver trim. Vireon nodded, having no real idea how to dress a dead man.
“I am sorry,” he said. She looked at him with her weary eyes.
“For what?” she said.
“For the oath I made… for my anger. I behaved foolishly.”
She rose from her chair and kissed his cheek, standing on her toes to reach it.
“You only miss your brother, as I do,” she said. She sat back in her chair and continued arranging the items. In the corners, patient servants waited for her choices. Down somewhere in the palace’s lower chambers, priests were preparing the body of Tadarus for burial. Vireon chose not to think about that. Better to do as his mother did, fiddle with precious, comely things that would turn their mourning into a glorious and beautiful thing.
“What did you mean earlier,” he asked, “about a mistake you had made? Something to do with…” He could not say the Kinslayer’s name. He might never be able to say it again. It was a poison shame in his mouth, in his thoughts. It made him want to lash out and spread death, spill blood. It was the lust for vengeance growing like a poison blossom in his heart.
Shaira sighed and leaned back in her chair. Her shoulders slumped as if carrying a great weight. Or had decided to set one down.
“Fangodrel was not the son of Vod,” she said.
Vireon did not understand at first.
“He did not carry the blood of Vod in his veins,” she said. “His father was another man… a cruel beast… a monster.”
Now the words took root in Vireon’s mind. Of course. This too he had always known somewhere deep inside. Always known and refused to admit it.
“How?” he asked.
“When I was nineteen my father sent me across the Golden Sea to Khyrei. I was to marry Prince Gammir, son of the Khyrein Emperor and the Sorceress Ianthe.” She looked into the shadows, never meeting his eyes as she told the story. He knew these memories pained her, and she had never spoken of them until now. He did not need to ask why.
“Gammir hated me,” she said. “He locked me in his dungeon. He raped me. I suffered more than I have ever suffered in those months that seemed like years. I thought I would die… but time after time I lived through his brutality. His mother made horrible potions that dimmed my mind. I became like an animal, a thing he used for his disgusting pleasures. I knew he would eventually kill me. I came to look forward to it.”
She grew silent then, and he was amazed that she did not cry.
“What happened?”
“Vod came across the sea with thunder and lightning at his back. He faced the sorcery of the Emperor and Empress. His rage shattered their palace. Everyone there died but us two… or so we believed.
“He took me back to the land of my father, nursed me back to health. Something magical he fed me, I never knew what it was. A strange fruit. But it restored my mind and memory. After that we were married, and we came north to rebuild Udurum. When my belly began to swell, we both thought it was Vod’s child. But when he was born, pale of skin and dark of eye, we knew the truth. Vod decided to raise the child as his own, and even named him after his own father. Yet Fangodrel was truly the son of Gammir… a bastard. We tried to give him our love the best we could. Then Tadarus came, and you, and Sharadza. It may be that we forgot Fangodrel then. We never told him why he was different. Yet I saw it tormented him. Now he must know… he must have been told. This is why he murdered Tadarus. Out of spite.”
“How can you know this?” asked Vireon.
Her green eyes bored into his. “Because word reached me years ago,” she said, “that the Empress of Khyrei did not die in the destruction of her palace. Ianthe the Claw survived through her sorcery. Now this sorcerer Elhathym conquers Yaskatha. How could these two not be twined together in some conspiracy?”
Vireon considered everything he had heard. “Do you believe… that Gammir’s son inherited the sorcery of Khyrei?”
“Did you not inherit the strength of your own father? The iron of his skin? The force of h
is will? Perhaps it was only a matter of time.”
“How could this sorceress reach across the world to corrupt…” He could not say the name. It would spill from his mouth like burning magma, set his world on fire.
Shaira leaned her head back to rest a moment. “How could a Giant shrink to the size of Man and grow back into a Giant when he pleased? How did Vod slay the Lord of Serpents? There is more sorcery in this world than you can guess, Vireon.”
He thought of Alua’s white flame, dancing in her palm. Of her naked fox-form running across the snow. Could she be? She must be.
Sorcery.
The word tumbled through his mind, splashing into the waters of his imagination, making ripples of thought. What is sorcery? It had killed his brother. Yet it had saved him. It had built this city. It had flowed in the blood of his own father. Is it in my blood too?
“Get some sleep,” said Shaira. “I am sorry I never told you these things before now. Please understand… I could not.”
“I understand,” he said. He kissed her cheek and walked toward the door.
“Vireon?” she called after him. He turned.
“Your friend Alua.” Shaira smiled. “She loves you.”
He nodded, returned her smile, and exited. As he walked the dim hallway, those ripples of thought pressed against the walls of his skull.
Sorcery. Love.
Love and sorcery.
Does any living Man truly understand such things?
18
War Plans
Tadarus lay upon a bier of silk, gold, and snowflowers. A shirt of silver mail hung over his fine robe of purple and sable. His gauntlets gripped the hilt of a jeweled sword upon his breast, and his face was obscured by the winged helm of an Udurum soldier. Tyro watched Vireon, dressed in armor of blackened bronze scales, place a Giant’s hammer at the side of his dead brother.
“It was the last gift I ever gave him,” Vireon said.
Tyro had no words for the grieving Prince. He looked instead at his own brother. Lyrilan was the only Prince who did not wear mail or plate this day. Lyrilan’s robes were cloth-of-gold trimmed in green, the colors of Uurz. His black curls were oiled and held from his brow by a golden band set with emeralds. The persistent stubble that never quite became a beard was gone. Lyrilan’s chin was shaved to the cleanness of boyhood, which almost made Tyro laugh. Lyrilan was his other half, the thought to his action. Each twin had mastered the skills his counterpart lacked. Together, they were body and mind. To lose Lyrilan would be to lose himself. Such thoughts kept Tyro from meeting the sad eyes of Vireon. Alua, dressed in a black gown of mourning, remained at Vireon’s side, a steady presence to guide him through the service. For the first time Tyro realized how beautiful this strange girl was, despite her lack of finery and jewels. Or perhaps because of it? Her eyes gleamed, yet they were darker than her funereal silks.
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