Seven Princes

20

The great eagle fought the winds of winter, flying north into the Giantlands. When the snow and sleet grew too fierce, she rose above the winter clouds, where the air was even colder but the snow did not reach. The talons of her claws were black and shining, like her eyes, and they gripped a heavy bundle wrapped in leather, bound in sailors’ rope. The pinnacles of frozen mountains pierced the cloud-roof, so she knew the Grim Mountains lay below.

Night and day she flew, all the way from Murala on the coast. Days ago she had entered that town wearing the body of a Giantess, carrying Vod’s remains in a corroded iron chest. The folk there were unused to the presence of Uduru, and they had stared at her with wonder and curiosity. Three decades earlier they would have run screaming from her. That was before Vod brought Giants and Men together and changed the desert to a green and fertile plain. How could they know this weary Giant-girl carried the very bones of the hero himself… the Giant-King who had conquered every enemy but the sea?

With her oversized fingers she had pulled the ancient emeralds from their rust-caked holes in the surface of the chest, trading one of them to a Muralan jeweler for a appbe="0embag of gold. After walking leagues along the desolate shore, yet before she took lodging and rest, she hired the town’s undertaker to remove Vod’s body from the trunk and restore it as best he could.

“I am sorry, Milady,” he told her the next day. “The body of this poor Giant has obviously lain for months under the sea, and only his jumbled bones are left. But I have cleaned the salt encrustations from them and laid them out on my embalming table. Would you care to take a look?”

“No,” she said. “Wrap them for me… in some expensive oilcloth. I must carry them a long way.” She gave him the bag of gold and he followed her instructions to the letter. The iron chest was not only rusted and undependable, it was far too heavy. If she walked with it on her shoulder, it might take her a year to cross the Stormlands, then the mountains, and reach Udurum. She must fly instead. When she picked up Vod’s remains that evening, the undertaker had wrapped each bone carefully in a velvet cloth, then stacked them inside a canvas bag and tied it at the top like a great pouch of coins. She was glad of the velvet, for it kept Vod’s bones from rattling when she carried the parcel.

She walked inland from Murala, far enough that no eyes would see her. Then she took the form of the great eagle, grabbed the bone-bag in her claws and flew north toward the dark and jagged horizon.

After days of flight the mountains sank beneath an ocean of clouds flowing northward as far as her eagle eyes could see. She pulled back her pinions and arced down to break the cloud layer. The Forest of Uduria rushed beneath her, cloaked in a mantle of white snow. She skirted the heads of the mighty Uygas, speeding toward home. She was unsure how long it had been since she left Udurum. She longed to see her mother again and feel the warmth of her hugs. There would be tears, both for the end to her absence and the return of Vod’s remains. No longer would the false hope of Vod’s survival linger in her mother’s heart. His bones would bring Shaira peace, as they had for Sharadza. Only by knowing the truth of his death could they truly let him go.

The jet walls of Udurum rose from the pale forest. The dark towers wore hoods of white, and the city steamed its warmth into the afternoon sky. There was plenty of daylight left, but the gloom of winter simulated an early darkness. The watch-fires along the city wall blazed like miniature suns. The lights of street lamps and windows created the illusion of a vast blanket scattered with twinkling jewels. She beat her tired wings toward the palace and came to ground in the snow-packed courtyard where she used to meet Fellow and hear his stories. It seemed so long ago. She still thought of Fellow and Iardu as two separate entities, even though she knew it was a lie. Iardu had lied to her for years. But perhaps all stories were lies, and all storytellers were liars. Perhaps what really mattered were the lessons one could learn from a well-told lie.

Of all the trees, paths, and walls in the courtyard, she saw only one walkway clear of recent snows. It led to the far precinct of the gardens and the Royal Mausoleum. A brazier burned now before its doors, turning their white marble to gold. The mausoleum itself had also been scraped clean of ice and snow. Her heart sank. There could be only one reason why servants had polished and cleared the tomb, which had never been used. She meant to inaugurate it with her father’s bones. But someone else in her family had died and already been laid to rest there. A pit of emptiness yawned open insideed mother her stomach.

Mother!

The great bag of bones sat in the snow now, and Sharadza ran toward the palace gate in her girl form. Guards stared in awe and shouted as she ran by them, leaving a trail of melting snow. She heard their commotion behind her as word spread. “The Princess has returned! Gods of Earth and Sky be praised! Send word to the captain! Send word to the Queen!”

But there was no need. Sharadza ran up the stair of the Great Tower to the oak-and-gold door of the royal apartments. For some reason, there were no Uduru sentinels in the halls today. A man stationed outside the Queen’s chamber knelt as Sharadza banged on the locked door.

“Mother!” she shouted. “Mother, are you there?” Saltwater welled in her eyes, which were green now that she was a girl again.

“Her Majesty is resting,” said the guard, and Sharadza sighed.

She turned to the bronze-armored man. “Then who…” she started. “The tomb?”

The door opened at the hands of a servant and Queen Shaira stood in the doorway, dressed in a thick gown of white wool. Her face lit up as her eyes met Sharadza’s.

They fell into each other’s arms, and their tears fell each upon the other’s shoulders. Shaira pulled her into the room, rubbing her chilled hands, calling for mulled wine and a warm dry robe. Servants bustled in a fury of excitement and restrained joy.

They sat together on a soft divan and Shaira kissed her cheeks. Sharadza saw her mother clearly now as she wiped her sudden tears away. Shaira looked old. Lines of worry had invaded the smooth skin of her face; dark rings hung below her eyes, and crow’s feet nested in their corners. The green irises floated in pools of bloodshot milk.

“Oh, Mother,” she moaned and pulled her close again.

“The Gods are good,” said Shaira. “You have come back to me. My selfish, foolish, stubborn little girl!” Relief, rage, and affection mingled to a dark brew in her mother’s eyes.

“I am so sorry,” said Sharadza. Her words were not enough. What had happened to wear down her mother so heavily? Or was she already this worn when Sharadza had stolen away?

“Why?” asked Shaira. “Tell me first why you would do such a thing.”

Sharadza looked at the burgundy carpet. A servant handed her a mug of steaming spice-wine. She cradled it in her hands, unable to look now at her mother. “For Father,” she said. “I thought I could help him.”

“How?” asked her mother. “Where did you go? Who talked you into leaving me? Don’t you know how sick with worry I was? Don’t you know how I’ve suffered without you?”

There it was. The cold stab of guilt mixed into the warm liquid as she sipped the wine. “I left you the letter,” she said, hating herself for the words. “I promised I’d be back. And here I am.” “Where did you go?” asked Shaira. “What have you done?”

“I have learned so much,” she said. “ Remembered so much. I am the daughter of Vod, and I know now what that truly means.”

Shaira stared at her. That was no answer. She waited.

“Who lies in the tomb?” asked Sharadza.

Shaira’s eyes brimmed again. She turned her face to the ceiling, or to the Gods, or both. “Tadarus,” she sighed. “Your brother is dead, Sharadza.”

Her lungs stopped working. She could neither inhale or exhale. Then she burst into weeping, and the paralysis was broken. Her mother’s arms were a dim comfort around her neck.

“How?” she asked.

Shaira held her in silence for a moment, steeling herself for what must be told. Then she spoke of Fangodrel the Kinslayer… how he called up demons and murdered Tadarus with some vile sorcery. She went on, spilling secrets like tears. She told of Fangodrel’s bastardy, of her time in the dungeons of Khyrei, slave to Gammir the Cruel, the true father of her eldest child. Of the day Vod crossed the Golden Sea, wrought vengeance on the pale devils, and carried her home.

“The evil of his true father runs in Fangodrel’s veins,” said Shaira. “As much as we tried, we could not keep it down. And now it has consumed him. He fled to seek refuge in Khyrei, where Ianthe keeps her wicked court.”

Sharadza’s wine had grown cool in the cup, but she drank the last of it anyway. Her head spun from its potency, but it made this news more bearable. She had lost not one brother, but two. One to death… and one to sorcery.

Shaira told her that Vireon had gone south with four other Princes and a mysterious girl whom he apparently loved. He had vowed to avenge the death of Tadarus.

“Mother, can you forgive me for not being here for all of this?”

Shaira nodded, kissed her forehead. What other choice had she? A child who was thought lost and then regained was a treasure, no matter how vexing that child’s behavior. Sharadza’s weariness crept upon her suddenly and she longed for sleep. She could not ponder Fangodrel’s betrayal right now. Yet there was one thing she must do now.

“Come with me,” she said. “Put on your warm clothes and come into the courtyard.”

Despite her protests, Shaira did as her daughter bid. “I have much more to tell you, Sharadza,” she said, pulling on a cloak of gray fur.

“Tomorrow,” said Sharadza. “I am too weary. But there is something I must give you before I sleep.”

Shaira ran a hand through her daughter’s hair before they left the chamber. “You are taller,” she said, a tinge of pride in her voice. Sharadza grinned.

They descended the tower steps and passed a pair of Giants guarding the gutold hedoors of the Great Hall. Sharadza blinked. They were female Giants… Uduri. To her memory there had been no Uduri on the palace staff. Another change. She saw no other Giants that night.

A trio of spear-bearing soldiers followed them into the white garden. Sharadza bade them stand some distance away as she led her mother to the great bag. She stood before it as if to perform some rite or ceremony.

“What is this?” asked the Queen.

“Father’s bones,” said Sharadza. “They are all that is left of him. He walked into the sea and drowned.”

Shaira stared at the bulging leather canvas coated with crystals of frost. She looked at her daughter. “You… Where did you…” She was incapable of finishing the question.

“I spoke with the Mer-Queen, Mother. She did not kill him. She swore it. She let me take him home, though the waters had taken most of what we remember. Now he can lie in the tomb that he built. Next to poor Tadarus.”

Shaira did not weep. Her daughter was amazed by this fact but too tired to ponder it.

“We must have a funeral,” said Sharadza.

“No,” said the Queen.

“What?”

“No,” said Shaira. “The People of Udurum have endured too much sorrow. Too much death. There will be no march, no procession, no ceremony. We will lay Vod’s bones in the tomb tomorrow, and the Sky Priest will give a blessing. No one else must know he has died.”

“But… why?”

“As long as our people believe that Vod may return some day, they will have hope. If we take that away from them…”

Sharadza nodded. She had taken that hope from her mother. She had been wrong to do it.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

The Queen kissed her cheek. “You honor your father with this act. He would be proud of you. As I am.”

She insisted that Sharadza go and sleep. Sharadza could not argue.

Two of the soldiers carried the heavy bag into the palace and stored it in a secure vault for the night, completely unaware that they shouldered the very bones of their dead and beloved King.

Sharadza slept soundly in her warm and familiar bed. Her dreams were formless flowing questions. Or perhaps incomplete glimpses into the future. Or fragments of the past.

Nestled in the comfort of oblivion, she did not know or care.

During a breakfast of fresh bread, green cheese, eggs, and pomegranate juice, Sharadza learned from her mother about the Ice King and his kingdom in the White Mountains. The Uduru had marched north a month ago, only one day after the five Princes marched south. Even the Giants of She se, eggs, teephold had come down from the heights to join the exodus – their castle was fallen in any case. A legion of Shaira’s warriors would lead architects and masons into the pass in early spring to rebuild the fortress. Now Men, not Giants, would keep the watch on Vod’s Pass. There had been many a tearful farewell between the Uduru and their human compatriots in the city. Some of the departing Giants were the longtime lovers of the Uduri, who bade them go north and procreate. Such was the selfless nature of their love.

“Will they ever return?” Sharadza asked.

“Some will,” Shaira said. “They will bring Udvorg wives and children south with them, and they’ll pick up right where they left off. Others will grow to love the Icelands. They will enjoy the presence of a King who is truly a Giant. But even for those who return to Udurum, it will be years from now. Time passes more slowly for the Uduru.”

“Was Uncle Fangodrim happy?”

Shaira smiled. “You should have seen him when Vireon gave him a wife! He danced like a schoolboy. Danthus, Dabruz, they were the first to be married to those blue-skinned Uduri. Some even gained instant children already half-grown!”

“Why did they go north then?” she asked. “Those to whom Vireon brought wives?”

“A show of unity,” said Shaira. “Fangodrim was First Among Giants in Udurum. He could not send his people off to the Ice King unless he went too. It was a matter of honor. The rest of them felt the same.”

“All but the Uduri.”

“Yes,” said the Queen. “Yet they supported their men. Many gave up their mates for the future of their race. Most will not get them back.”

“So your Elite Guard is now these ninety-nine Uduri…”

“I could do no less than honor them in such a way,” said Shaira.

“It is good the Giants will live, and they have Vireon to thank for it. My brother the hero.”

Shaira smiled. “You should have seen the feast. They honored him for days. Already he is a legend in their tales. He did a fine thing.”

“What about this girl? Who is she? Is she beautiful?”

“She is,” said Shaira, “and a sorceress. She lived in the forest. Alone. Try as I might, I could not bring myself to disapprove of her. She seems such an honest soul. And she dotes on him. I have never seen him so attached to any girl.”

Sharadza laughed. “They say love comes to all men when they least expect it. Perhaps it is the same with women…”

The Queen’s face was serious, and her eyes looked far away. “I think not. Women wait for love with the patience of buds lying beneath the snow. This always seems the way.”

“Did you wait for Father’s love?” asked the Princess.

The Queen grew quiet. Sharadza chewed at a steaming hunk of bread. Warm food, such a delight. How long had it been? She could not say. Her days in the cave with the Iardu-crone remained unanswerable to time, a blur of memories.

“Yes,” said Shaira. “I waited for him.” She looked out the open window of the dining hall into the crystal freeze of the garden. She could not see the polished tomb from this angle, but Sharadza knew she thought of it. In a few hours, the Sky Priest would arrive, and they would quietly lay Vod’s bones in the crypt alongside those of his eldest son. Snowbirds chirped and darted among the snow-laden branches.

“Mother, what do you know of… Iardu?”

Shaira turned to stare at her. She hesitated, obviously deciding whether to lie or admit what she knew.

The Queen sighed. “Iardu the Shaper,” she said. “A sorcerer who lives on an isle in the Cryptic Sea. He is mentioned in many of the history texts, especially in the Chronicles of Uurz.”

“What about the Pearl of Aiyaia?” said the Princess. “The stone Father stole from the Mer-Queen?”

“He called out the name of that stone in his sleep often enough,” Shaira said. “Sometimes he called the name of Iardu as well. At the end, he hardly slept at all.”

“The Mer-Queen told me Vod stole the Sacred Pearl at Iardu’s request.”

Shaira’s shock seemed genuine. She had no words.

“Do you know why? Father would never tell us, but do you know why he stole the sea-stone for Iardu?”

The Queen dabbed at her eyes with a silken napkin. “I… I think that now I do.”

“Now? What do you mean?”

“When I first met Ordra – Vod, your father -” Shaira whispered, “he was a Giant. As tall and fearsome as any Uduru. Yet in his heart he was a Man. I was in a caravan traveling across the desert to Uurz. The son of the Old Emperor had come to sweep me away from Shar Dni. My father had granted him my hand in marriage. It would seal the peace between our kingdoms. Prince Aivor was young and handsome, though I barely knew him. I was glad to be his bride.

“Bandits set upon us in the desert. Aivor fought bravely with his soldiers, but he died. We all would have perished that day but for a young Giant who rushed out of the dunes and drove off the raiders. His name was Ordra, who would one day be called Vod.

“Aivor and I would have been married when we reached Uurz, but now that could never be. Ordra came with us to the city. I asked him to. Even then, I saw something in him… something in his eyes. The way he looked at me. I cannot explain it.

“When we reached the city, Emperor Iryllah, who was the oldest man I have ever seen in this world, declared that he would take me as his seventh wife in order to seal the peace treaty. But first would come a year of mourning for his fallen son; I must wait until then for the marriage. I was to live in the luxury of his paluryen napkin. ace all that time. Ordra became my personal guard, and my constant companion. I read to him books from the Great Library. We counted the stars, and all the court thought him a hero. But there was more between us. It grew as a plant grows, sinking its roots deep in our hearts. We fell in love.

“I had no wish to marry old Iryllah. It would be a loveless arrangement and children would be impossible. I knew it was my duty to the throne of Shar Dni… I had promised my father. Yet I grew selfish. Love can make you selfish, did you know that? It can do wonderful things, yes, but it can ruin you as well.

“I read about Iardu the Shaper in the Emperor’s books… how his sorcery could change men into beasts and beasts into men. He sometimes visted Iryllah’s court in the shape of kindly men or friendly animals. He was the master of shape and form. So I told Ordra about him and… I hatched a plan. I could say it was Ordra’s idea, but it was all me. I will take the blame. I wanted to escape before the end of the mourning year and avoid marrying the codger. I wanted to be with Ordra, though it seemed impossible. So I told Ordra to seek the Shaper on his island… to ask a great favor.

“Ordra would ask the sorcerer to turn him from Giant into Man, so we could be together at last. We would run away. Even if my father cast us out of Shar Dni, we would find somewhere to live. You see, Ordra hated being a Giant, for he was raised by human parents. He thought himself a freak, that his great size was a curse… and I am ashamed to say that I did too. Later we learned it was not a curse at all.

“Giant Ordra went away, and months later he returned as Man. As we made ready to escape the very next day, the Uduru laid siege to Uurz. We were trapped in the city, fugitives from the palace.”

The Queen paused in her story. “Ah,” Sharadza said. “I have heard this part of the story. Vod challenged the King of Giants to a duel, which he won, and so lifted the siege of the city.”

“No,” said Shaira. “That is not how it happened at all. Men are liars and they have short memories. Ordra lost that challenge and was taken prisoner by the Giants. Iardu had taught him to make himself a Man whenever he chose… but also to become a Giant again – his true self – whenever he wished. Iardu was wiser than either of us in that matter.”

Sharadza’s mouth fell open. “That’s it, isn’t it?” she said. “Father stole the Mer-Queen’s Sacred Pearl for Iardu, so the Shaper would teach him sorcery.”

The Queen nodded her head, lifting the napkin to her eyes again. Her red lips trembled.

“When Vod’s nightmares began… and when he spoke of the Pearl… I suspected. But I never knew until this moment. Now the pieces all fit. Ordra stole it for Iardu and learned his shape-changing magic for me. He did it for me, Sharadza! And earned the curse of the Sea-Folk.”

Sharadza grabbed her mother’s hand. “Mother, you must understand. The Mer-Queen had all but forgotten her curse. It was not her who called Father to his death. It was not your fault.”

“Yes, it was,” said the Queen. “I made him go! I looked on his Giant body as a curse and I m cuo callade him go to Iardu.”

“It was his choice,” said Sharadza. “And he was in love. You said yourself, love changes you. You know the philosopher Therokles? He said, ‘Love is the death of Wisdom.’ Do not blame yourself. Father would not want you to.”

The Queen regained her composure. She squeezed her daughter’s hands.

“Tell me though,” said Sharadza. “Why did he take the name Vod?”

“When the Giants captured him, Fangodrim the Gray recognized Ordra as the lost son of his brother Fangodrel, who died at the fangs of the Serpent-Father. When he realized this was his own nephew, he gave Ordra his true name. Fangodrel the First had named his infant son Vod. Ordra was the name Vod’s human foster-parents gave him. So Ordra become Vod, and regained his people. Yet he lost me… I blamed him for betraying Uurz to the Giants. A year later my father sent me to Khyrei to wed Prince Gammir.”

“Then Vod rescued you,” said Sharadza. “And re-won your love.”

Queen Shaira nodded, a mix of old emotions dancing in her eyes. She drank a cup of the pomegranate juice. “Are all your questions answered?” she asked.

“No,” said Sharadza. “One remains. The most important.”

Her mother looked at her, green eyes matching green.

“What was it that tormented Father so terribly that he would gladly walk into the sea and drown?”

Shaira’s eyes fell. “ Her,” she said. “It had to be her. She took Vod and now she’s taken Fangodrel. One is dead and one is lost.”

“Who?” asked Sharadza.

“Ianthe,” said her mother. “Empress of Khyrei… the sorceress. I told you how Vod brought her palace down about her ears, killing her husband and son. They were evil and deserved to die. We thought she had died too, but we were wrong. Word of her survival reached us years later, when the boys were still small. We thought she would stay away from us – New Udurum had become a great power – but her sorcery knew no bounds. It must have been her taking vengeance on Vod, poisoning his mind with visions. She stole his sanity… and now his adopted son.”

Sharadza considered the enmity of the sorceress. Ianthe had sent the nightmare madness that killed her father and blamed it on the Mer-Queen. Then she had somehow seduced her grandson away from his foster-family – driven him to murder Tadarus as she had driven Vod to murder himself.

“Sharadza?” asked her mother.

“Yes?”

“Where did you go? Tell me now.”

“I went to study… with Iardu,” she said. Her mother’s face tightened as if she had been smacked. “He taught me what he taught Father. He made me remember what I truly am. He taught me sorcery.”

Shaira said nothing. Saidightenedhe looked out the window again, studying the snow. She is truly an old woman now. The last of her youth has fled, if not her beauty. Sharadza felt pity for her mother and wanted to cry. But there had been enough tears lately.

“Tell me of these Princes,” she asked. “Why does Vireon lead them south?”

“They go to Mumbaza,” said the Queen. “To gain their alliance in the coming war.”

“War?” said Sharadza. “Against whom?”

“Who else?” said the Queen. “ Khyrei.” She spoke the name like an adder spits poison. “And Yaskatha… to regain the usurped throne.”

“You have planned a war for vengeance?”

Shaira explained the growing tensions with Shar Dni, the nautical conflicts, the onslaught of Khyrein pirates, and the sorcery that had slain the true King of Yaskatha. Two sorcerers. Shaira and Vireon gathered nations to war against two beings of immense power, each with a vast army that dwarfed the size of Udurum’s human legions. Shaira explained the plan to add Mumbaza to their ranks, to foster rebellion in Yaskatha. She would lead her own legions across the peaks when spring arrived.

Sharadza sat in stunned silence. It was not her father alone who had gone mad, it was the entire world.

“Is this right?” she asked. “Is it even wise? You know the cost of war, you’ve read the histories. Soldiers die gladly but it is the common people who suffer most. ‘War is the death of innocence.’ ”

“Do not quote Therokles to me!” said her mother, rising from the breakfast chair. “That bitch took your father and two of your brothers. Her malevolence is legendary. She was spilling the blood of innocents long before you or I were ever born! She will pay, Sharadza. For all that she has done.”

Sharadza recoiled from her mother’s sudden rage, and the gravel tone of her voice. It was the sound of unchained hate, given rein and let run free.

“How can you hope to defeat both Ianthe and this Elhathym with swords and spears?” she asked. “How many mens’ lives will you throw away in your lust for vengeance? How many more families will suffer as these armies tear across their lands and trample them to bloody dirt?”

“Vireon is the Son of Vod,” said Shaira. “He is mighty. If I did not agree to this war, he would have gone off alone to find and murder Fangodrel. Now he will have four armies at his back when he faces Ianthe the Claw. As for the Yaskathan tyrant… he will have his hands full trying to hold on to a stolen throne. Our strategy is sound, Sharadza. I would not rush into war lightly.”

It was no use. She could not reach her mother. The course had been set. Vireon was the master of the great horse upon which her pain and anger rode. The wheels of war were already in motion. Summer would bring blood and death washing across the world in a smothering tide.

“Come,” said Shaira. “We must go to lay your father’s bones in his tomb.”

“No,” said Sharadza. “I have spent enough time with those bones.” She stalked through the arch to the main hall, grabbing up a cloak of sable fur.

“Where are you going, Sharadza?”

She turned around, buckling the hasp of the cloak. “To see Iardu. He is here… in the city. He always has been.”

The Queen blinked at her. “Why?”

“This will be a war of sorcerers,” said the Princess. “Who else should I see?”

She stalked through the Great Hall, brushing aside the guards who offered her escort. Across the palace grounds and into the city she went, knowing she would find him at the Molten Sparrow, his white beard stained by wine and lies.