Seven Princes

by John R. Fultz

  D’zan wore a silver breastplate engraved with the sword and tree, a crimson cloak, and leggings of white silk tucked into tall black boots. On his sallow face sat a slim crown of gold studded with six emeralds and a single brilliant red opal. His eyes sat like heavy stones in the center of black sockets, and the flesh grew tight about his skull. The hole in his chest was completely covered by the corselet, and gloves of dark leather hid the pallid skin of his hands. As before, the greatsword lay across his knees, oiled and gleaming bright as his crown.

  Iardu climbed the dais and spoke to him in whispers. At length D’zan sighed and nodded. He arose and followed them into the garden. There he gave an order, in a voice like sand on stone, that his two guests and he not be disturbed.

  The Shaper found a secluded glade rimmed by blossoming pomegranate trees. Here D’zan lay down upon the grass, the sword on his chest pointing toward his feet. His gloved hands wrapped about the hilt like a slain hero fit for burial, which in many ways he was.

  Sharadza let Iardu lead the spell. She played the role of student and protégée.

  He plucked a single strand of D’zan’s brown-blonde hair from his head and breathed upon it; he gathered naked sunlight in his right hand and invested it into the strand. Then he offered it to Sharadza, who poured her own breath upon it and pricked her finger with a pin so that a single drop of her blood fell upon the hair.

  Iardu let go of the strand and it floated down to the green sward next to D’zan. Now Iardu sang over the strand in the grass, and Sharadza watched in awe. The hair grew into a rope, then wound upon itself to create an oval. Drops of white fire fell from Iardu’s hand upon the oval and it melted into a shape like that of a newborn baby.

  As Iardu sang, he made the sign Sharadza had been waiting for. She poured a ewer of fresh water and another of seawater over the infant sculpture. The substance of hair became flesh, and it grew longer and more solid. Iardu dropped a shard of white bone upon its belly, and the flesh rippled, taking the bone into itself. Now the shape lying near D’zan was that of a young boy, the hardness of bones filling its limbs. Soon the young boy was a young man, a twin to D’zan before his death. Its eyes were closed as if in sleep.

  Sharadza took D’zan’s sword from his cold hands and wrapped the new body’s warm fingers about its hilt. Then she took the crown from the rotting head and placed it on the fresh one. Now Iardu bent over the rotting corpse and pulled something miraculous from its mouth – a glowing orb large as an orange and blazing brightly even in the sunlight. He held it out to Sharadza. She took it in her hands gingerly, as if it were a delicate crystal. It hummed, warm and beautiful in her cupped palms. She knelt and dropped it into the open mouth of D’zan’s new body.

  His new eyes opened. They were sparkling, and as green as her own.

  He sat up, inhaling air with freshly molded lungs. She glanced at the corpse and saw that it was now truly lifeless… only a husk of dissolving skin and muscle. These two were twins – one living, one dead. She put her arms around the new D’zan. He could not speak or see yet – while Iardu stripped armor and clothing from the empty corpse. She helped D’zan then to stand in his new body, and he blinked at her, voiceless. His eyes gleamed at her. They had been dark before, but now they were bright as emeralds.

  They helped him to dress in tunic, corselet, cloak, leggings, and boots. By that time he had regained his voice. He spoke his first words to Sharadza, an intimate whisper.

  “You are beautiful,” he said. “I wanted to tell you this since I first saw you.”

  She smiled at him and could do little else. He stood on his own now, a proud young King restored to health and vigor.

  “Thank you, Shaper” he said, taking Iardu’s hand. “Now that I live again, my kingdom will live. I will never forget what you have done this day.”

  Iardu’s shoulders sagged a bit, but he seemed chipper. “Thank me later with some of your fine Yaskathan wine. Now you must bury this corpse to complete the spell.”

  He produced a silver shovel for D’zan, who proceeded to dig a grave between the pomegranate trees. Sharadza and Iardu kept an eye out for passers-by. It would not do to have anyone witness the burial of their new King. Even if it was the new King himself that dug the hole.

  D’zan rolled his former body into the hole and covered it with dirt. Iardu waved a hand and thick grass grew across the mound. Sharadza tossed a few flower petals on the unmarked grave, and a patch of golden magnolias sprouted there.

  Every grave must have some marker.

  She embraced D’zan, then Iardu. She wiped at her eyes. “Life from death… This miracle soothes my heart.” Something in D’zan’s eyes made her want to linger near to him. Perhaps it was because her own blood had played a small role in his rebirth. Or it could be the verdant green of his eyes? Suddenly the urge to kiss his warm pink lips overwhelmed her. She turned away and faced Iardu instead.

  “I supposed we must carry the grim news of Khama’s death to his family.”

  Iardu smiled. “There was no time to explain before now… but Khama is not dead.”

  Her mouth fell open. She turned to stare at handsome D’zan again. He grinned, his white teeth shining.

  “Elhathym merely caught the Feathered Serpent in a prison of earth,” Iardu said. “What better way to capture a Creature of the Air? Khama is of the Old Breed. We do not die so easily.”

  Sharadza beamed. “Then let us go to Zaashari and free him.”

  Iardu glanced at D’zan then back at her. “No… no, you stay here for a while, Princess. I will go alone to free Khama. Then I’ll return to my island.”

  “Why?” asked Sharadza.

  “There is a certain stone there that I’ve kept too long… a splendid pearl that belongs to someone else. I think it is time I returned it.”

  Sharadza hugged the Shaper, squeezed him in the way she used to squeeze her father’s neck. She kissed his cheek. “You should visit her,” she said. “Don’t just drop it in the sea.”

  Iardu smiled. His eyes glimmered. He turned to D’zan and motioned to the hidden grave. “If these bones are ever found, you must declare them a fallen soldier whom you loved well. No one must know what Elhathym did to you. Or what I have done to reverse it.”

  D’zan embraced him as well. “All the riches of my kingdom are yours for the asking. What would you have from me?”

  Iardu rubbed his beard, cocked his head. “A bottle of wine would suit me best.”

  D’zan called for a servant and Iardu had his wish. He kissed Sharadza’s forehead, then soared into the sky as a red eagle. They watched him ascend until he was only a speck in the blue vault. Then he disappeared behind a pearly cloud.

  Sharadza turned her gaze earthward again and found D’zan kneeling on the grass before her. In his open palm lay a ring of white gold set with three fiery stones.

  “Sharadza, Princess of Udurum,” he said, gazing into her eyes. “Every kingdom needs a King… and every King needs a Queen. You held my soul in your hands even before I died and was reborn. Will you be my Queen?”

  She stared not at the golden bauble, but into his eyes of glittering green.

  Lyrilan walked into the Royal Library of Uurz and felt himself at home. The journey from Yaskatha to Murala had taken nearly a month, with frequent stops along the coast to avoid winter storms. In those tiny villages and desolate stretches of coast, he had found a peace that was wholly unlike the peace of Uurz, or any of the cities he had visited. The simple fisher-folk of the coasts were unconcerned with wars, sorcerers, or the many evils abroad in the world. He wondered what secret they knew that allowed them to enjoy a day-to-day existence without the benefits of city culture, the written word, or the thoughts of history’s great men. They told folk tales around warm hearth-fires and showed him scattered ruins where the heroes of old fought monsters. Half their tales were lies or distortions of actual history, but that made them no less compelling. Some of them he would write down one day.

  First he mu
st write the story of D’zan as he had long intended. Upon the rolling sea for weeks, he often stared at the dark waters, thinking of his lost and incomplete manuscript rotting away on some sandy sea bed. It was better this way. How could he be objective and consider the whole story while he was stuck in the middle of it? Trying to write the chronicle of King D’zan’s rise to power was impossible while he shared that adventure himself. Only now, with months and a thousand leagues between him and those wearisome days, could he see it all clearly enough to set it down in ink.

  It was a tale of Princes, Kings, Sorcerers, a Princess and an Empress, a Boy-King and a Giant-King. The death of Shar Dni wove tragedy into the narrative, not to mention the betrayal and seduction of Fangodrel the Bastard. The rising legend of Vireon the Slayer began inside D’zan’s tale. Tales often grew from other tales – like buds from the branches of trees. Tyro played a starring role, though not as great a one as he had imagined.

  Tyro had expected a war of years, and the Battle of Yaskatha had not sated his lust for glory. He had tried to convince D’zan to march upon Khyrei, but the King of Yaskatha had other, sweeter endeavors in mind. So Tyro returned to Uurz with his battle fever still burning… No tragic fate had befallen him, only a minor wound quickly healed. He would continue to look for war where he could find it. Someday, sooner than Lyrilan or Tyro would like, their father would pass away and they would rule as Twin Kings. Lyrilan would have to balance his brother’s lust for war as the voice of peace. He did not look forward to those days.

  Dairon had greeted his sons with pomp and splendor when they returned, and his joy was even greater when he learned there was no longer a need for his legions to march south. He mourned the death of Shar Dni, but he rejoiced at the death of the Khyrein Beast-Queen. “Let them rot in their filthy jungle,” Dairon said. “We’ll not spill our blood unless they forget their place again.” Naturally, Tyro felt otherwise. Father declared it was time for Tyro to marry. A good woman would cool his warrior passion. Lyrilan was not so sure.

  The wedding of D’zan and Sharadza was a spectacular affair. Lyrilan would save its description for the closing scene of his book. It would make a fine and uplifting coda to a tale of death and grim sorcery. The rain of flowers from the golden heights, the silver parade of soldiers trailing crimson, the black horses thick with hanging jewels, the opulence of the bride’s gown and her crown of jewels… All these details lingered vivid in his mind. Now, however, he must cast his mind back to the day he met D’zan, a frightened, nervous lad who smelled of horseflesh and ate like a starved orphan. Or perhaps he would reach farther back and begin with the Prince’s early years… the tales of his father’s conquests. Whichever he chose, the tale would really begin when the dark stranger came to Yaskatha.

  Outside the librarium’s high windows, raindrops glistened in the sunlight and a rainbow glimmered above the Palace of Sacred Waters. Somewhere in the city bards sang of ancient lovers, and storytellers spun sagas of war and doom. Wine poured and flowers bloomed. Plowmen planted the fields beneath the rushing clouds of spring. Uurzians lived, loved, died, hoped, dreamed, wept, and laughed. A thousand thousand stories unfolded like the petals of numberless flowers, composing a pattern whose complexity was too great for a single mind.

  The only way to make sense of nature’s grand design was to isolate the threads, follow the individual strands in the weave of the world. To capture the essence of life itself on parchment with a spell of ebon ink. One tale at a time.

  He picked up his quill and dipped it into the flask of dark fluid.

  He thought of his friend who had lived, died, triumphed, and lived again, and he pictured the King and Queen of Yaskatha lying in some shady bower. They would have many heirs to read this story.

  In the brazen haze of daylight, he touched quill to page and began his spell.

  The broad streets of Udurum were full again. Not with bustling and rowdy Giants, but Sharrian refugees eager for homes and work. They carried bags of gold and precious jewels from the treasury of their dead city, placed into their hands by Vireon the Slayer. Spring warmed the black walls of the city, and the Sharrians walked humbly through lanes built by Giant hands. They spread their wealth gradually among the folk of Udurum and forged lives for themselves the way Giants used to forge steel here.

  Vireon looked across his city from a balcony on the high tower of Vod’s palace. His mother had gone south to visit her daughter and new son-in-law in Yaskatha. She had given him the crown before she left, and Udurum applauded her choice. Even the fiercely proud Uduri knew the city would be stronger with Vireon as its King. The Giants who went north might even return when they heard the tale of King Vireon whispered about their cold fires.

  Shaira lingered long enough to bless his marriage to Alua. Shar Dni’s fall and the murders of her entire extended family, brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces… it had all been too much for her. The lines of worry marred her face, and the burden of Queenship must come off her shoulders. So Vireon took the weight of the crown, made Alua his Queen, and now his mother would know at least a little happiness. She would have many grandchildren. He expected she would live out the remainder of her life in warm, sunny Yaskatha. It reminded her of Shar Dni as she had known it in her youth. He would visit her when duty allowed it.

  Now Udurum had both King and Queen again. Alua turned her natural wisdom to the fields and orchards. The blooms of spring had never come so thick and vibrant. Vireon watched the dancers of the spring festival in the streets below, and the lilting music filled his ears.

  She came from the tower to join him on the terrace, wrapping her cool arms about his chest from behind.

  “Shall we go down and join them?”

  “It is expected,” he said.

  “What troubles you? This should be a time of joy. The frost fades and the earth sends forth its bounty. Speak to me.”

  He breathed deep of the sweet northern air. Along the southern horizon, the Grim Mountains looked tiny and insubstantial, black fangs crowned by white mists.

  “At times… I still think of Tadarus,” he told her. “And the other one.”

  She knew of whom he spoke, as she knew he could never again say the name.

  She kissed his mouth softly. “The past is set in stone… the future is a mystery… but the now is what you wish it to be. Your memories honor Tadarus. Let that honor give you joy.”

  He held her in his arms while warm winds danced about the tower.

  He said nothing of Fangodrel’s last words, the hatred he spat as his scorched head flew from his shoulders.

  My blade interrupted that curse… stole it from his lips.

  I reject his curse.

  It is only the reminder of a sad revenge.

  The only true curse is that of memory.

  Alua was right. He must forget the one and honor the other.

  I reject his curse.

  They entered the tower and lay together, the melodies of the festival wafting in through the windows. Later they went down into the streets and sampled the delights of spring.

  He still did not understand Love.

  Or Sorcery.

  But this simple joy in a world filled with sorrow…

  Perhaps this was the beginning of Wisdom.

  Epilogue

  Shadows and Glass

  It took far longer than he imagined. His body congealed from mist to mud and finally to cold, weary flesh. He awoke in the center of runes and sigils carved into the floor. He blinked but could not raise his head. Here, in the highest chamber of the thorny tower, he knitted together a body from fluid strands of shadow. The windows were curtained, so he could not see the passage of days outside, but it must have been many. Eventually, after an eternity of gnawing hunger, he rose from the frigid floor and stood on two legs.

  The second ring of runes lay empty.

  Where was she? Ianthe should have manifested here at the nexus of her power. She had given him this knowledge, helped him carve the runes. On her shelv
es the skulls and tomes were cluttered and dusty. The great desk and its chair were empty but for the usual piles of scrolls and moldering volumes. The decanters and bottles along the walls stood festooned with cobwebs.

  She had never returned.

  She must be truly dead. Annihilated by Vireon’s bitch.

  He shivered at the memory of his burning agony. That was his physical body… The first death was the most difficult – so Ianthe had told him. This new body was a shell, a creation of his will and the power of the blood. His belly ached for more of that red wine.

  Now the pale ghost of Tadarus stood where Ianthe should be.

  “You are avenged,” he told it. “Vireon has killed me. You may go now.”

  And the ghost was gone.

  He stared at the blank spot on the basalt stones where she must appear. He wept a few tears, then remembered the Glass of Eternity. He approached it, bending its obscure surface to his will. A blur of colors and shapes swirled inside the flat pane, taking no form he could identify. The more he concentrated on Ianthe, the less he recognized. There could be only one answer… The Empress was dead and he was now Emperor of Khyrei. Or would be when he descended from the tower and laid claim to the throne. A city of ignorant, loyal slaves awaited him.

  Perhaps this was not such a terrible loss.

  He turned from the mirror and glanced at the books of antique lore, the texts of inscribed sorcery. He would miss her tutelage even more than her kisses. There was so much more to discover in the labyrinthine kingdom of sorcery.

  Something drew his eyes back to the glass. It swirled now of its own accord and turned to solid black. A starless void hung open before him. A distant hum rang in his ears.

  Something gleamed in the darkness… a star? No, a mote of azure crystal. It fell toward the mirror, hurling end over end, growing larger. He recognized it as a wine bottle crafted of delicate gemwork. Opal or sapphire. Curious, he reached through the mirror’s surface and let it fall into his hand, grasping it by the slender neck.