by Allan Cole
Below the treasury-which Rhodes loved even more than his harem. The treasury was guarded by his best and most loyal soldiers, who were paid three times the normal rate to ensure that loyalty.
Here he had experienced both his highest joys and deepest despair. Shuddering in pleasure during those times when he had heaped rich ransom and tribute chests into its crowded recesses. Weeping like a mourning woman as his wars with Palimak drained it to a puny thing, with only a few chests of jewels and gold left.
Only yesterday he'd deposited the two sacks of gold Palimak had given him to sweeten the treaty and to gain his favor for the Kyranian expedition into the Idol of Asper. When he'd added the fat coins to his store it had eased his humiliation a little bit. It had even given him slight hope that someday the tables might be turned: Palimak defeated, gold and gems once more flooding into the chamber.
As Rhodes walked past the treasury, guards snapping to and saluting, he had a moment of regret that he couldn't tarry there and run Palimak's gold through his fingers. Imagining that each coin was a piece of flesh wrested from Prince Timura's body.
Scores of torches lit the marble receiving area marking the entrance to his mother's apartments. The walls were decorated with enormous murals-pastorals extolling the many beauties of Syrapis.
On their surface the compositions radiated peace and harmony with nature. But if one looked closer there were little horrors in each mural that changed their whole meaning. A seascape, with Syrapisa€™
most picturesque shore in the foreground. A burning ship in the far background, a winged monster scooping up sailors from the sea and devouring them. A vineyard, where handsome lads and pretty maids played lusty games beneath ripe grape clusters, drunk with the joy of the harvest wine. In the distant corner, a demon king leading his fiends in an unspeakable orgy of torture of those same lads and maids.
Rhodes thought they were quite nice, although he was wise enough not to have similar murals in his own chambers. Beauty, apparently, was in the eye of the beholder. And what Rhodes beheld and loved would have given nightmares to even his cruelest soldiers.
The chief of the witch queen's eunuch guard greeted him, twitching his head in a perfunctory bow and asking him to wait while Rhodes was announced to his mother. The eunuchs were all enormous men-the chief guard was almost as large as Rhodes-thick slabs of muscle beneath even thicker slabs of fat.
Except their muscles were diligently exercised, whereas Rhodes had done nothing at all for a long time except eat, drink and shed tears over his starving treasury.
When he was granted permission to enter, Rhodes walked into his mother's salon with some trepidation.
Mighty ruler of Hanadu though he might be, his mother was a powerful influence over him. She wasn't exactly the power behind the throne, but what she wanted she generally got. And her son lived in fear for her favor. Something he had been out of for a long time now. Specifically, since he'd lost his first battle with Palimak.
Queen Clayre had been his father's third wife-taken to seal an alliance. Big as she was, she was perfectly constructed in proportion: long shapely legs and arms, a marvelous bosom and an hour-glass form. When Princess Clayre had wed his father that beauty-flowing out of such a large package-had made her a rather exotic bride and his father couldn't get enough of her in their early days. At least, this was what Rhodesa€™ mother frequently told him, as her body slaves gathered round to make her up and clothe her in robes which fairly flowed over a still near-perfect form.
Rhodes doubted that she exaggerated very much. To this day Queen Clayre was considered one of the most beautiful women in Syrapis. She was also renowned for her lusty appetites and took young lovers frequently and casually. She was quite discrete, however, surrounding herself and her ladies in waiting with eunuch guards whose loyalties were fierce and unquestioning.
It was one of those guards who greeted the king as he entered the chamber. He was quickly turned over to the chief eunuch who led Rhodes into her presence. He didn't announce the king, instead putting a finger to his lips to ask the queen's son for silence. Rhodes looked across the ornate chamber and saw his mother bent over her spelltable that was littered with ancient scrolls which were piled next to little jars filled with magical potions and powders.
Only the center of the table was clear. Although Rhodes couldn't actually see, what was there, he knew very well what it contained. Set into the table was a large area with tiles of pure gold, all encrusted with gems and arranged to form a pentagram.
Clayre seemed to be studying one of the parchments, glancing once in a while at the pentagram, then nodding as if to confirm her speculations.
She was dressed in the finest robes, all decorated with the magical symbols that declared her the High Priestess of Charize. Around her neck was a many-layered necklace made of black pearls. Some years before, six men working from tide to tide-day in and day out-had shortened their lives by many years to gather the pearly parts that made up his mother's necklace.
As Rhodes dutifully waited for his mother's attention, he saw sparkling red lights leap from one strand of the necklace to the next and back again, as if the pearls were alive with some inner force. Which, of course, they were, since Queen Clayre was a powerful witch.
Rhodes worried at a hang nail, thinking about his mother. Daughter of a minor king, she should have had little influence over his father's court. But she had proved to be a genius at harem intrigue. Within a few years of her only son's birth she'd removed her two rivals.
One by hired assassination-or, at least, that was what palace rumor said. Rhodes knew for a fact that his mother had used magic, plus her feminine charms, to work her will on one of her rival's sons. And it was that son who had slain his own mother, then committed suicide after he'd come out of his trance and seen what he had done.
The other rival she'd killed herself, smothering the woman with a pillow while the rest of the harem watched. Even the big eunuchs guarding the harem didn't dare interfere, because by then everyone feared his mother.
The two murders had made Rhodes crown prince, although this claim was disputed by his half-brothers and half-sisters who had been borne by his father's other two wives. But Rhodesa€™ mother worked hard to ensure his succession.
She put together a salon that welcomed the best athletes of the time. And she spent her money freely to buy the wisest scholar-slaves available in Syrapis. These athletes and scholars Rhodes teachers for his body and mind throughout his young years. And their wise words were backed up by his mother, who taught her son everything she knew about court politics.
At six, Rhodes could lift the fifty-pound stone shot that was favored for the mobile catapults. At eleven, he'd stalked his twenty-year-old half-brother-and his main rival to the throne-from one trysting place to another. His rival had a weakness-a fatal weakness as it turned out-for other men's wives. As a matter of fact, Rhodes had finally caught his brother at the very seaward wall he'd perched upon to spy on Palimak.
Just to the right of the base of the catapult was a little alcove. A sheltered altar to some minor god, whose name no one could remember. It was also a favorite meeting place for lovers.
As Rhodes waited nervously, he thought about that fateful day. Drawing strength from the memory. He grinned as the image rose up of the honey-tongued weakling who had opposed him so long ago. The mother of Rhodesa€™ princely rival had been an ambitious second wife. She'd named her son Stokalo after the legendary Syrapian prince who had been banished by his cruel father but who had eventually returned from the sea to win back his rightful throne.
Stokalo was strong, but not so strong as Rhodes. He had an agile mind, a mind schooled in warfare by Rhodesa€™ father, who favored Stokalo even after the life had been choked out of Stokalo's mother by the offending pillow. But he was not so smart as Rhodes, who as a boy used to humiliate him in games of chess.
Rhodes thought of that day when his sibling, angry over a defeat, had laid himself wide open for e
limination. He'd sent a message to his most recent lover-the young wife of a great general. The message said that they were to meet at the seaward wall where the fun would commence. Naturally, a spy who favored Rhodes had gotten a glimpse of that message and had passed on the news.
So the thirteen-year-old Rhodes had raced to the alcove ahead of the sinful couple. Lurked in the shadows until Stokalo was fully engaged-his lover pinned against the wall, gown hoisted above her hips-and then had crept up behind them.
A meaty hand grasped his brother's neck and a heavy knee jammed into his backbone, breaking it as easily as if it had been a twig in a drought forest. The woman had been too panicked to scream and had only moaned, cowering against the wall, as Rhodes lifted up his brother's dead body up and hurled it over the side.
He had thought about killing the woman on the spot-eliminating the only witness to the murder. Instead, he'd given her a chance to live or die and she'd chosen the wiser course.
First, by servicing the young Prince Rhodes. Second, by claiming that she'd inadvertently witnessed Stokalo's suicide while taking an evening stroll to catch the air.
Rhodes stirred a finger in his dirty beard, aroused by the memories of the means he'd finally used to eliminate Stokalo's former lover not many months later.
But before he could relax into that treasured memory, his mother coughed. He glanced up, starting when he saw her beckoning him.
As he approached, she said, "I have news, my son. Both fair and foul."
Her eyes were glowing, full of witchy power-making her appear even more beautiful than usual. "The foul news," she went on, "is that Queen Charize is dead. Slain by Palimak Timura."
As that disaster smacked him in the gut, Clayre waved it away as if it were nothing. Chortling in her rich, deep, earthy voice.
"The fair news," she said, "is that I've found someone better to replace her. Several someones, actually.
"And what they hate, above all things, is anyone named Timura!"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE COUNCIL OF ELDERS
Rhodes stared at his mother for a moment. His shock at her announcement that Queen Charize-the true source of Hanadu's strength-was dead gradually subsided as the rest of her words rang through.
The monster Charize was dead. Not so bad by half if the rest of what she had to say was true. But what was this about an alliance? With powerful figures who shared his hatred for Palimak Timura?
Rhodes grinned. "Good news, indeed," he rumbled. He looked about the room. "Where are these wise men? Bring them out so I can greet them properly."
Clayre gestured at the golden tiled pentagram in the center of the spelltable. Rhodes peered at it, as if expecting to see something. But it was empty.
"They can't be summoned so easily," she said. "They want certain assurances. Assurances, I'll warrant, that you'll be glad to grant."
"Anything!" Rhodes breathed with deep feeling. "As long as they'll deliver Timura into my hands."
Clayre stared at him a moment, as if measuring her son's commitment. Finally she said, "I'll need to cast some rather complicated spells. And there are certain sacrifices we'll need to make to appease Charize's ghost. Give me a a week or so-a month at the most-and the bargain can be sealed."
Although he was filled with curiosity, Rhodes didn't question his mother further. Magic made him nervous. It was something he had no talent for, so it was something to be distrusted. One of his secret regrets was that he hadn't inherited his mother's sorcerous abilities. Instead, they'd skipped a generation to favor his oldest child, Jooli.
He'd never liked Jooli. If it had been up to him he'd have drowned her at birth. After all, his first-born should have been a son. A male heir who no one would doubt was the rightful person to succeed him to the throne. Increasing his dislike of his daughter was the early talent she'd shown for things that only a man should have possessed. Strength, speed, skill at arms.
But what had sealed his dislike was the revelation that she was a witch. His mother had informed him of it one day and for a time had tutored the child. All went well for a while and then his mother had reported in great disgust that Jooli had suddenly turned away from her and would have nothing more to do with her grandmother.
Rhodes had chastised his daughter, but although she was quite young she spoke her mind quite plainly.
And she had made it very clear that she had no intention of entering into a spell bargain with Queen Charize, much less help provide the steady stream of sacrificial victims the monster queen had required of Hanadu for time immemorial.
The reasons Rhodes and Clayre hadn't removed Jooli long ago were complicated since they involved the bloody diplomacy Syrapis was known for. Further complicating things was the fact was that Rhodes had found it necessary to not quite withhold his blessing of Jooli as his rightful successor.
This was why he'd ordered her to become a royal hostage to Palimak. And it was his heartfelt desire that when the time came to break his treaty with the Kyranians Jooli would be the very first victim of young Timura's wrath.
His mother impatiently rapped bejeweled fingers on the spelltable, snapping Rhodes out of his reflections.
"Yes, mother?" he asked.
"I didn't summon you," she pointed out, "so I assume you came here for some purpose."
Rhodes nodded and proceeded to tell his mother about what he had seen while spying on the Kyranians.
The enormous coffin bearing Asper's image and the mysterious man who had been carried out of the idol on a stretcher, a man whom all the Kyranians seemed to worship.
Queen Clayre was troubled, frown lines marring her beauty. "This does not bode well," she said. "The coffin was clearly Asper's."
Rhodes frowned. "That's ridiculous," he said. "How could the Kyranians have taken it from Charize?"
"I told you she was dead," Clayre reminded him. "And that Prince Timura was the cause of her death.
Which should give us even greater reason to be especially wary of him. If he could kill Charize, he is even stronger than we feared."
Again, she rapped her rings on the table. "Possibly," she said, "it has something to do with the man you saw them remove from the idol."
Rhodes didn't answer. None of this made sense to him.
"Which means," his mother added, "that this alliance with these … ah … Timura-haters I mentioned, might be a better idea than even I'd imagined. In fact, I now think their offer has everything to do with the appearance of the mysterious person you observed."
Then she sighed, as if suddenly weary. "Leave me, my son," she said. "Let me reflect on this."
She offered a cheek, which Rhodes dutifully kissed and he started for the door.
But just before he left the room a gleam of light caught his attention. He glanced over to the mural just above his mother's spelltable, which was where the glimmer had come from.
The mural was an idealized painting of Hanadu during ancient times when, legend said, Lord Asper had lived in Syrapis. There was the castle, a bit smaller, not quite so imposing as the fortifications Rhodes had built. In the foreground, riding down the winding road leading out of the castle was a troop of soldiers, wearing archaic armor. At their head was the king-a handsome man of middle age. He was flanked by women warriors-his daughters the scholars said.
Rhodes had always admired the pictures of the king's daughters. Strong, fierce, all remarkably beautiful.
Many times he'd dreamed of bedding those warrior princesses. Particularly the ebony-skinned woman who rode next to the king on a stunning black mare. The two of them made a fiery, intriguing pair, so full of life they practically burst out of the mural.
He'd studied that mural many times over the years, so it came as a huge surprise to him that there was a detail present he apparently hadn't noticed before.
Just ahead of the column was a fabulous white stallion. Rearing up before the black mare and her rider.
Hooves striking painted sparks in the air.
He peered
closer, wondering why he hadn't seen that magnificent horse before. Something in the back of his mind also wondered if those sparks had been animated a second ago. The reason why his attention had been drawn to the familiar mural.
"Is there something else?" his mother asked.
He almost spoke. But then, as he gazed at the mural it came to him that maybe he hadn't noticed the stallion before because he had always been so intent on the king's shapely daughters.
This was not something a son discussed with his mother. "No," he said. "There's nothing more."
"Very well," she said. "I'll call for you when I know more about our new allies."
King Rhodes nodded and exited the room.
It was a strange homecoming for Safar. He was barely conscious when he arrived at New Kyrania, the mountaintop home his family and friends had carved out in their wars with the Syrapians.
Of this time he had only vague recollections of bells and pipes and songs sung in praise of someone the villagers must have loved dearly or there wouldn't have been such a grand celebration. He didn't connect that someone with himself.
He had vague impressions of his mother, Myrna, his father, Khadji, and all his sisters gathered about his bed. In the background was the tall figure of a strange person who reminded him of Palimak but who was too old and self-possessed to be the boy he remembered.
Also in this dream-for that was what he thought it was-stood Leiria. Beautiful as always. Strong and steady in her armor. A rock for his homecoming-if that was what this dream was about. And in that dream Leiria stepped through the throng and kissed him-and ah, what a kiss it was. And he felt such regret for steeling himself against that love before.
And in this odd otherworld of Safar's consciousness, he remembered their meeting. A warrior woman, one of Iraj's personal bodyguards, given to him by his former friend. He recalled his guilt about that act-which had required his acceptance. An even greater guilt, since it was against all Kyranian principles and teachings that one human being could be given to another. And he remembered their first days of lovemaking, when he was mourning Methydia's death and he had used her to soothe his grief.