Seven Princes

4

Thousands of books lined the shelves of King Vod’s library, and hundreds of scrolls from every kingdom known to man. The pelts of wild beasts hung between the towering bookshelves, and the fanged skull of a great Serpent lay on a central pedestal beneath a dome of transparent quartz. A dozen torches flickered in sconces like the yawning mouths of gargoyles. The room was spacious enough for a Giant to comfortably peruse the shelves, but Giants did not read. Only their shamans knew the magic of capturing ideas into runes, and all their shamans were dead for two decades now. Sharadza sat in her father’s reading chair and pored over tome after tome, finding only frustration in the musty pages.

She sighed as she closed the most recent volume, re-clasping its lock of bronze and staring at its embossed cover. If The Codex of Ancient Knowledge did not contain the secrets for which she searched, what hope did she have of finding it anywhere else? She had read at least a hundred such works in the month since her father went marching westward to give himself to the Sea Queen. Her mother made daily offerings to the Four Gods, Earth, Sky, Sea, and Sun, but Sharadza held little faith in her mother’s religion. Queen Shaira had learned her faith during a childhood in distant Shar Dni. Sharawiddza could never admit it to her mother, but she did not believe at all in those faceless Gods.

Unseen powers of earth and air would not help her father, any more than his army of men and giants could. This was a matter of deepest sorcery, a curse that haunted Vod from before the birth of his children. The only way to fight it was through sorcery. In all the tales she’d ever read in the history texts, in all the legends told her by Fellow, even in the tales of traveling singers who visited Udurum, there was never any story of a sorcerer defeated by anything less than a more powerful sorcery. Her father was a sorcerer of legendary reputation – he rebuilt the crumbled city, slew the Lord of Serpents, and brought green life to the Old Desert – but he had given himself over to this curse and would not fight it. He was a man of honor, and that she understood. But she was not bound by the curse. If she could only learn sorcery, she might aid him in his time of need. She might defy the vengeance of the Sea Queen.

Had Vod reached the ocean shore yet? She checked the date on a nearby calendar. Any day now Vod’s chariot would come upon the Cryptic Sea, and he would cast himself into the lightless depths. Time was running out. Unless… unless his magic prevented him from drowning. Would he walk the sea bottom for leagues until he reached the Sea Queen’s aqueous palace? If the sea itself did not rob his life instantly, there might still be time for her to learn. Time to call up some dark power and send it to redeem her father.

She lowered her head to the dusty cover of the book, and tears welled in her eyes. She was tired of weeping; she felt dried up inside. But there was nothing in this damnable library to tell her, nothing that opened her mind to the secrets of sorcery. Why did her father keep all these books if they had nothing to do with his sorcery? Her grief turned suddenly to anger. She tossed the heavy book to the floor and kicked over her chair as she stood and wiped at her cheeks. This place was useless. Her brothers might accept that their father was doomed, but she would never believe it.

Damn them for being so chained to his will! Their sense of honor prevents them from defying him, even to save his life…

She called for a servant to darken the library, gathered up her cloak of purple wool, and stalked into the hallway. Tadarus and her mother were in the council chambers meeting with members of the giant and human populations, discussing taxes, tariffs, and other meaningless minutiae. Let them waste their time with such trivial notions; she would not sit and pretend that her father was not approaching death at this very moment. Signaling her personal escort, two soldiers by the names of Dorus and Mitri, she exited the palace through the lesser gate. The two men gathered up their shields and followed, but knew she was in no mood to wait so left behind their winged helms. She could not enter the city proper without their presence, or a single Giant guard. But the Giants drew far too much attention. She preferred these man-sized guardians; the fact that they were dumber than giants was a plus.

Evening in the City of Men and Giants was pleasant. Orange sunlight warmed the black stone of the towers. The lanes were dry today, and the sky was blue, filled with scattered cotton clouds. Since Vod had departed, there was hardly any rain, and no storms at all. It appeared that an age of warmth and sunlight had fallen on New Udurum, but Sharadza knew it for what it was: a drought caused by her father’s absence. The weather of Vod’s kingd CVodNewom had always reflected his moods. Now an absence boiled in the azure sky, a smothering lack that nobody seemed to feel but her. Laughter boomed from open doors, and the drinking songs of Giants rang inside vast taverns as she walked the Street of Grains. Such jollity only made her more angry. The entire city should be in mourning, but life seemed to go on as if Vod had never gone off to die.

“Majesty, would you rather we call up a coach for you?” asked Mitri, clomping along beside her in bronze-plated boots.

She shook her head. She didn’t feel like reminding him that he wasn’t supposed to talk to her. Or that doing so while she was in this mood was even less of a good idea. She did not want to say anything cruel, so she remained silent. They turned onto the Avenue of Legends, where the crowds were thicker. Along this wide thoroughfare the number of taverns, wine shops, and entertainment venues increased dramatically. Several Giant-sized drinking houses rumbled with mirth, although some of the human taverns grew even louder. Jugglers, musicians, and street performers lined the avenue. Peddlers pushed carts full of sweetmeats, apparel, or souvenirs in the form of figurines shaped like Giants. Ladies of the evening stood in doorways or windows, flaunting their fleshy wares. When visitors came from the southern lands, as they often did, they flocked to this wanton part of the city. Sharadza did not like it here, but it was the one place where she was sure to find Fellow.

She entered a plaza hemmed by enormous bronze statues of heroes (Giants) lifting spear, axe, and shield to the sky. This was the Square of Storytellers. A dozen groups of men, women, and children, and even a few Giants, gathered around the various tale-spinners here. Most of the orators stood on low wooden platforms, some on the bases of the great statues themselves, telling the stories of whichever hero loomed above.

Fellow sat on the rim of a marble fountain at the center of the square, beneath the pinions of a winged horse bubbling water from its muzzle. Fellow’s gaudy robes set him apart from the general crowd. Those gathered about him wore the simple garb of farmhands, laborers, artisans, and craftsmen. A handful of foreigners bore the sand-yellow garb and jeweled turbans of Shar Dni. This was a good crowd for Fellow. His upturned hat was full of bronze and silver coins, and even a sealed bottle of southern vintage. Sharadza bade her guards stay back as she crept to join Fellow’s audience – she did not wish to disturb his story or those enraptured by it. Nevertheless, the old man’s eyes turned to meet hers immediately. He always knew when she came into his plaza, as if he had a sixth sense for comely Princesses. She forced a wan smile at him as he continued telling his story.

“So the Men of Diiranor came to the lost city of Maethos, and since they had lost their King, they were determined to avenge him. A great battle began as a horde of Ancient Terrors crawled up from below the broken walls. It is said this battle lasted for three days, and its heroes were young Tagyl and his cousin Gyrid, whose swords spilled the blood of a thousand Terrors. So I will tell you of these two heroes and how they liberated the lost city from evil… if you return here tomorrow when the sun sets.”

The crowd moaned and pleaded for more while Sharadza grinned at their backs. Fellow always did this; in fact, every storyteller did. It seemed the audience forgot every single time and always tried to cajole or bribe the teller into continuing the tale. But Fellow waved th Clloencem away with smiles and yawns, saying he was an old man and could only tell one bit of a saga per evening. “Besides,” he told some of the younger listeners, “if you are respectful to the Gods, the rest of the story might come to you in your dreams tonight.” Sharadza doubted if this ever actually happened, but it soothed the passions of disappointed children.

The crowd dispersed, and Sharadza approached Fellow. He emptied the jingling contents of his hat into a shoulder pouch. The bottle of wine he kept in hand… It would not last long. “Princess!” he greeted her with a slight bow. “Our next meeting was to be tomorrow at midday… or did I forget?”

“You never forget, I’d bet on it,” Sharadza said. “I wish to speak in private. Is there some place?”

Fellow motioned toward Dorus and Mitri. “What about the royal goons?” he asked.

“I am forced to endure their protection,” she said. “But I can order them to sit away from us that we may talk.”

Fellow nodded, sat his patchwork hat atop his white head, and led her across the way toward a small tavern. Above the door hung the image of a silver bird perched on a burning branch. “I have a standing table in the Molten Sparrow,” he said. They walked down a set of narrow stairs into a small deserted common room. Certainly no Giant could fit in here, and any other day she would have laughed at Dorus and Mitri as they struggled to squeeze themselves through the narrow entrance. She handed Mitri a gold coin and ordered them to drink on the other side of the room. They knew well enough her temper not to argue with her.

Fellow and she sat at a curtained booth in the back. “Best leave the curtain open so they can see me,” she advised. Fellow ordered two clean cups for the wine he’d just earned. He studied the bottle, popped the cork and sniffed the vintage. “Aaaahhh… this one is from Yaskatha,” he said. “Someone was feeling generous today.”

Sharadza did not wait for the wine to be poured. She had waited long enough.

“Fellow, you are known to tell stories about sorcerers.”

Fellow poured them both a generous portion of the deep red vintage. The cups were bronze, but Sharadza’s was studded with imitation garnets. The innkeeper knew he had special company and this was the best he could do on short notice. He came forward to offer more services, but Fellow waved him away.

“You have heard a few such tales from me,” he said before taking his first sip of the Yaskathan wine. He closed his eyes a moment, savoring the flavor. Sharadza ignored her own cup.

“Have you any stories – any at all – about how these sorcerers gained their terrible powers?”

Fellow pondered the question, swirling the wine, inhaling its bouquet. “How does a Giant become a Giant? Or a man become a man? Why ask such an obscure question?”

Sharadza sighed and tasted the drink. It was biting, but excellent. The sunlight of a distant land had worked its magic on these grapes and cast a delicious spell. She licked her lips.

“I have been over and over the texts in my father’s collection,” she said. “There is nothing there that gives me any clue to his learning magic. Are you implying that he was… born a sorcerer?”

Fellow drank again, slowly, transfixed by the sun magic. “He was born a Giant, and Giants have sorcery in their very bones. It swims in their blood. Some say it was sorcery that created them.”

“Not the Gods, then?” she said.

“Who says the Gods created Giants? Or Men, for that matter?”

“My mother.”

Fellow smiled. “The Gods of Shar Dni are credited with mighty works, as are all the Gods of Men. The truth might be more evasive than priests and sages suspect. The world is a series of stories, Princess, and the tellers are often forgotten.”

“Do you know how my father learned sorcery?”

The old man stared at her, dark pupils fixed on her green ones. One hand stroked his pale mustache. Cheap rings of bronze and glass lined his bony fingers.

“He made a bargain,” Fellow whispered, “with someone who knew far more than he did. It was a bargain he regretted even to this day, I’m told.”

“Who was it?” she asked. “I want to make such a bargain.”

“No,” he said, drinking deeper now. “You do not.”

“You said Giants were created from sorcery. Well, my father was a Giant, and my father created me.”

“He and your mother,” Fellow corrected.

“Some say my mother is a sorceress. But I don’t believe it.”

“Nor should you,” said Fellow. “Your mother is a fine woman, a brave Queen, a heroine to her people. Now she bears the burden of rulership like a bronze yoke on her shoulders. It is no easy task to rule a kingdom.”

“Answer my question,” Sharadza said. “I love my mother, but I’m not made in her image. There is more of my father in me.” She picked up the bronze cup and squeezed it hard. The metal crumpled like paper in her fist. Wine ran across the table, dripping onto the floor like dark blood. “I have his strength… or some of it. Like Tadarus and Vireon.”

“You believe that you might possess some of his sorcery.”

“I know I do,” she said. “And if I am right I can save him, Fellow! I can deliver him from the Sea Queen’s curse!”

Fellow said nothing.

“Can you help me? Will you?”

Fellow drank deep, emptying his cup, then wiped his stained lip with a sleeve of triple colors. “You cannot learn sorcery from a book,” he said. “No more than you can learn strength from a book Ch f of. Or compassion. Or love.”

She stared at him. She sensed it now… this storyteller knew the path she must walk.

“You already have strength, compassion, and love,” said Fellow. “To master sorcery you must live it, as you live these other things. Because you have the first three, I think you may be able to gain the fourth.”

She smiled. Here was what she had been searching for in all those moth-eaten old books. She was at the threshold of a new existence. Her skin tingled.

“Are you willing to accept the pain of Knowledge?” he asked. “For there will be pain.”

“For my father’s sake, I am ready.”

“You may not save your father, even if you master the arts of which we speak. The Sea Queen is ancient and powerful.”

“And my father may already be dead,” she whispered. “I know this.”

“Are you willing not only to succeed… but to fail?” he asked.

“If I never try, then failure is certain.”

Fellow poured himself more Yaskathan wine. “Another cup?” he asked. She shook her head. He drained the cup in a single draft, then sighed and leaned his head back against the wall.

“First you must leave the city,” he said. “And none can see you go. They will search for you, and your mother’s heart will break.”

“I will leave her a letter,” said Sharadza. “She will understand.”

“She will not,” said Fellow, shaking his head. “Never.”

“Where must I go?”

“North,” he said. “Into the woods.”

She could hardly believe the hot spark of hope that burned inside her where cold gloom had lingered for weeks. She trusted Fellow, and she would follow him anywhere for a chance to save her father.

“Alone,” said Fellow.

The Queen of New Udurum received her brother’s son not in the grand throne room, but in a smaller and more intimate hall. Tapestries of velvet covered the walls with scenes of Giants battling leviathans and toppling mountains. Fangodrel found the Uduru’s ancestor worship boring and offensive. How many of these Giant heroes truly existed, and how many were the figments of dim imaginations? The Giants were dying off anyway, so it made sense they would look backward instead of forward. They had a history but no real future. The dumb brutes were being replaced in their own kingdom and they did not even realize it.

The King of Shar Dni was Ammon, brother to Shaira, and therefore Fangodrel’s uncle. That made this pompous blowhard, Prince Andoses, his cousin. Fangodrel had little appetite for the feast his mother had laid out for her nephew. Tadarus ate heartily, as always, stuffing his C sthat mad beefy frame with roast piglet, potatoes, and baked confections. Vireon was thankfully nowhere to be seen, and Sharadza was at her studies.

Andoses came seeking favor all the way from Shar Dni with a retinue of two hundred warriors, only to discover the Giant-King had abandoned his throne and left it to his forlorn Queen. Fangodrel held a goblet of wine before his face and listened to Andoses’ obsequious rhetoric. He wanted something from Shaira, that much was certain.

“Father wishes he could come himself to visit his beloved sister,” said Andoses, “but these troubled times demand his constant attention.”

Queen Shaira nodded. She had fallen into a deep gloom after Vod’s departure, but she looked genuinely pleased to see her nephew after so many years. She kept to her chambers most days, unless some demanding matter of state called her down. The rest of the time it fell to Tadarus to wrangle with counselors, advisors, and viziers. She had even given Fangodrel some minor responsibilities, just enough to appear kindly. Shaira was too lost in her own sorrow to rule Udurum effectively, and by rights the throne should be his. But Tadarus was the favored one, confirmed by her choice of delegation. Fangodrel avoided looking at his brother across the table. He kept his eyes on Prince Andoses, the cousin who was three years younger than him, yet commanded a cohort of warriors.

“I understand,” said the Queen. “A season of strife falls upon us all. But no matter the cause, it is good to see you again. How are my sisters?”

“Fine, one and all,” said Andoses. His face was dusky, his eyes green like Shaira’s. A single emerald sat in the center of his turban, and his robes of yellow silk were strung with teardrops of silver. Servants had carried away his fine scimitar and war helm.

“Dara speaks of you often,” said Andoses, referring to Shaira’s youngest sister. “She expects her first child next season.”

Shaira smiled, a brief ray of light in a cloudy sky. “I miss my sisters most of all,” she said. “But what news of my brothers?”

Andoses set down his cup. “Bad news, I’m afraid. Omirus thrives as commander of father’s fleet… but Vidictus was murdered.”

Shaira caught her breath. Tadarus ceased his incessant chewing. Fangodrel listened closely, still hiding behind his goblet.

Tears escaped the Queen’s eyes as Andoses explained. “He was killed at sea, leading an attack against southern pirates. They have plagued our shipping lanes for years. The Golden Sea is no longer a safe crossing for any ship. Twenty galleons lost in the last year alone. Agents bring us news that these pirate ships belong to the Empress of Khyrei. None can deny that war will soon be upon us.”

Shaira spoke, dabbing her eyes with a silken napkin: “Vod nearly slew Ianthe the Claw twenty-five years ago. Later we learned she survived to rule Khyrei.”

“The sorceress girds her jungle empire for war. Father will stand her nautical predations no more. That is why he sent me to call upon King Vod and his alliance with Shar Dni. If we are to stand against Khyrei, we will need the support of Udurum.”

So there it was. The real reason for this family reunion. Shar Dni seeks the aid of Giants so it can march off to war against the south. Fangodrel sipped his yellow wine.

“Of course we had no news of Vod’s leaving,” said Andoses.

Tadarus spoke up. “My father left mother in charge of men and giants. We, her eldest sons…” He glanced briefly at Fangodrel, who said nothing. “… will command her armies in your service, if she so wills it.”

All eyes turned to the somber Queen. She stared at her golden plate, where the viands lay untouched and cold. “War,” she whispered. “What has Vod left me to?”

Fangodrel cleared his throat. A gentle prod in the right direction might make all the difference here. “Mother, if I may speak.” He waited for the Queen’s gentle nod. “Father long ago secured alliance with Uurz, did he not? Emperor Dairon will respond if you call upon him to aid your brother’s kingdom. Surely between the armies of Udurum, Uurz, and Shar Dni, Khyrei cannot stand. I have read much about that kingdom… the land is fertile and rich in precious stones. There is much to gain from such a conquest.”

“Wars should not be fought for wealth,” said Tadarus, “but for honor. These Khyrein predators have none. But you speak truly. Their false empire cannot stand against our righteous alliance.”

“Both of my sons speak wisdom,” said Shaira. “I will send an emissary to Uurz, to hear the thoughts of my old friend Dairon. And I must think upon this… and pray.”

Fangodrel stiffened in his chair. Why must you pray? he wanted to shout, but held his tongue. Your Gods care nothing for war. War is the enterprise of men, and women should have no voice in it. If the fool Tadarus agreed with him, his mother would likely endorse the war. Perhaps I will command a legion if I speak in bold support for this conflict.

“War means death and suffering for the innocent as well as those who fight,” said Shaira. “It must be carefully considered… avoided whenever possible.”

Andoses slammed his goblet against the table. “Six hundred men have died already, Queen. The crews of those twenty ships had families, some of them onboard at the time of the raids. The Khyreins show no mercy. More will die in the coming months, as more battles are fought at sea. And how long until the Empress sends her armies north to take Shar Dni itself?”

Silence filled the chamber for a long moment. Shaira looked at her nephew, unoffended by his bluntness. “I am aware that more than poor Vidictus have died. I will not let my grief intrude upon my judgment. Thousands upon thousands of lives hang in the balance, Andoses.”

“There is something else,” said Andoses, tugging at his short, oiled beard. “Yaskatha has fallen to a usurper – another sorcerer if the tales are true. They say his powers are terrible, that he cannot die.”

“Superstition and poets’ lies,” said Tadarus, quaffing wine. “Every man can die.”

“It matters not,” said Andoses. “For this new Yaskathan King has allied himself with Khyrei. The Yaskathans are mighty on both land and sea.”

“That does complicate matters,” said Fangodrel. “If they win Mumbaza to their cause as well, the entire south will stand united. What word on Mumbaza’s loyalties?”

Andoses grimaced. “The Boy-King Undutu is but twelve years old. His mother, Umbrala, rules from behind the Opal Throne. She denies our ambassadors, as well as those from Khyrei and Yaskatha.”

Fangodrel grinned. “Without Mumbaza’s interference we stand a much better chance at victory.”

Shaira stood up. “You speak as if we have already committed our legions to war. We have not,” she said. “ I have not.”

Fangodrel seethed in his chair. Tadarus remained silent as well; as great and terrible as he was, his mother’s disfavor was the only thing he truly feared. Fangodrel hated that about him.

“Since Mumbaza refuses alliance with the southern kingdoms, perhaps she will respond to the generosity and grace of Udurum.” Shaira sat herself back down and dismissed the servants who were bringing in a fruit flambeau. “If we sway Queen Umbrala to join us, we will be four nations against two.”

Andoses nodded agreement. He had carefully led her to this line of thinking. Fangodrel saw it, even if his mother did not.

“I cannot ignore my brother’s plea for help,” said the Queen, “or the suffering of my homeland. But I cannot commit the Uduru to war unless they agree. I am their Queen, but only at their sufferance. It was Vod they followed. He was one of their own.”

“Let me speak with them, Mother,” said Tadarus. “Let me speak to Fangodrim.”

“I will speak with them myself, Tadarus. You – and Fangodrel – must go to Uurz and speak with Emperor Dairon. You will have a sizable retinue. Once you have secured Dairon’s blessing, go on to Mumbaza. You will take gold, silver, and other treasures of the north to lay at the feet of the Boy-King and his mother.”

Her eyes met those of Tadarus. She never looks me in the eye, thought Fangodrel.

“You must gain the alliance of Mumbaza. Only then will I commit to war with Khyrei.”

Tadarus stood. “I will do this, Mother. Have no doubt.” He clapped Fangodrel on the shoulder. “My elder brother and I will do this!”

Fangodrel wrinkled his nose. He disliked being touched, especially by Tadarus.

“I will keep Vireon near at hand,” said Shaira. “And you, Andoses, will stay as our guest until they return. Then if the Gods will it and the Uduru support us, we will march east to Shar Dni… and south to Khyrei.”

Andoses stood and bowed to his aunt. “This journey will take many weeks. I beg you: let me accompany my cousins on this errand. I cannot bear to sit here Cr tnt. while others speak on behalf of my father and our kingdom.”

Shaira placed her small hand on his shoulder, stared at his face. “You are so like my brothers… so like poor Vidictus… so like your father. Very well. Go then, you three Princes together. But Vireon stays here.”

Tadarus huffed. “He will not like that, Mother.”

“He is off on one of his hunts,” said the Queen. “By the time he returns, you will be long gone.”

Back in his private chamber, Fangodrel’s mind swam, and his body twitched.

Where is that cretin Rathwol? He should be waiting at my door. I’ll flay his hide.

The Prince stripped off his fine raiment and stood naked to the waist before his mirror. A figure of palest marble, lean as a hungry wolf. The fire in his hearth blazed. This was the moment he had been waiting for. A trip into the Stormlands, and beyond that to Mumbaza. Certainly she was only sending him along with Tadarus to get him out of the way, but he did not care. There were many terrible things that might happen to a lumbering dullard like Tadarus on a long and perilous journey.

He pulled from a drawer his unfinished poem. The scrawled words haunted him. He read again what had taken him so much effort to create. He knew he would never finish it. His life was an unfinished story so how could this piece of verse be complete? How could a living artist ever truly represent life when caught in the middle of its tumult and fury? His poems were lies, futile yammerings unworthy of the ink in which they were scribbled. But this… this one should have been his redemption. It should have been the summit of achievement that validated his long climb up the mountain of suffering.

It was imperfect… worthless. He was a fraud.

Cursing himself for a misguided fool, he crumpled the parchment and tossed it into the blazing brazier. He watched it curl and blacken, and turn to ash. Tears stung his eyes, but he wiped them away before they could fall.

A knock at the door interrupted his reverie, and he opened it to admit the lanky servant. Rathwol smelled as foul as ever, yet his threadbare tunic had been replaced by a gray satin shirt and cloak of lavender wool, marking him as an official of the court. Fangodrel’s personal attendant.

“Where have you been, sluggard?” Fangodrel asked, shutting the door and bolting it.

Rathwol winked, then wiped his dripping nose. The man was a walking sickness. But useful. “Obtaining what you desire, My Lord… as always.”

“Enough,” said the Prince. “Give it here.”

Rathwol presented a small coffer of jade and crystal. Fangodrel retrieved a hidden key from his boot and opened the tiny lock. Inside sat five splendid crimson flower-tops pruned from their black stems in some apothecary’s shop. He no longer asked or cared where Rathwol bought the bloodflower.

“A nice batch, Lord,” said the little man. “Imported straight from the poison jun Che ked or cargles of Khyrei – so the man tells me.”

Fangodrel pulled off a single soft petal and stuffed it into the bowl of his Serpent pipe. Firing it with a brand from the hearth, he inhaled the sweet smoke and fell into the fat cushions of his divan. Rathwol was a forgotten thing now, as irrelevant as his chamber pot. The Prince’s eyes clouded as the bloodflower’s magic infused his body.

“Sire, I was wondering,” said Rathwol. “Might I try some this time?”

Fangodrel laughed. Filled with a sudden energy, he stood and slapped the little man across his stubbly cheek. “I could sell your whole family and still not afford a single bloom,” he said. “So why would I give you a single petal when I could just as easily give you the point of my dagger?”

Rathwol cowered in mock fear.

“Here,” said Fangodrel, handing him a large sapphire. “Take this and get me three more coffers. No, as much as you can secure.”

“My Lord?”

“I am traveling south, Rathwol,” said the Prince. “I’ll need enough of this to make the trip pleasant. Oh, and take the remainder to buy yourself a decent horse, and a sword. You’re coming with me, as my personal groom. You do know how to groom a steed, don’t you?”

“Oh yes, Lord,” stammered Rathwol. “I was practically reared in the stables, I was.” There was more than enough worth in that single jewel to buy more bloodflower, secure Rathwol’s needs, and keep Fangodrel’s clandestine activities secret. Rathwol would endure any abuse, as long as he continued getting paid. He was the most trustworthy type of man. The kind you can buy. Or sell, if need be.

“Stop yammering and go find me a girl,” said Fangodrel. “I need a diversion. Be quick about it.”

Rathwol slunk out of the chamber. Fangodrel opened his window casement to stare at the rising moon and the twinkling lights of the City of Men and Giants. He smoked another petal of the bloodflower… then another.

Soon the chamber disappeared, and he floated in the warm crimson fog where he felt most at home. He lay at the center of a blood-colored cloud, stars dancing in his veins and his eyes. The hidden thunder of his pulse filled the vermilion sky, and he cast flames from his eyes, bolts of malevolent desire. His enemies appeared like columns of white marble in the scarlet mist, and his flaming eyes destroyed them all, one by one. First Tadarus, the hulking buffoon, reduced to black ashes like the paper of his burned poem. Then Vireon, a lesser Tadarus, burned to a swirling dust. Then his mother, Queen Shaira, burning and screaming in the lightning cast from the eyes of her unloved son.

On the couch Fangodrel writhed in pleasure, laughing at his private victories, roaming the confines of the Red Dream, where he and he alone ruled men and giants, where he distributed life and death as his whims demanded.

A black palace reared above the flames now, but it was not the palace of Udurum. It was a mass of thorny spires and pointed domes, rising over a red steaming jungle. Fangodrel moaned and floated nearer, for he had n C fos oever before seen this vision. He floated between the iron faces of demons that were the palace’s outer gates.

A white panther came stalking toward him. It stood as large as an ox, and its eyes were red as the petals of the bloodflower. It bared golden fangs at him, and he shot flames from his eyes, but the beast did not singe. It stared at him… It flowed like red wine and became a stunningly beautiful woman.

Jewels hung like wisps of starlight across her body, and a twist of silk barely obscured her breasts. Black diamonds were the soul of her eyes, and they dripped cold flames. She wore a spiked crown of onyx set with topaz. Her hair was a mane of milk-white silk, and her slim fingers ended in feline claws.

She smiled at him.

You are not the son of Vod, she said. Her voice was dark honey. Haven’t you always known this?

Who… who am I?

She flowed to him like water.

You are the Son of Gammir…

Who is Gammir?

She stood before him now, the tips of her claws gently stroking his chin.

My son. My beautiful dead son.

Who are you?

Ianthe, she whispered. The flames burst and rose about her lithe body.

Fangodrel stared at her, lust and fear mingled into some unnamable emotion.

You are the son of my son… my grandson…

He woke sweating near the fireplace, a cold draft blowing through the open window.

Shutting the panes, he pulled a blanket around his shoulders and puffed gently at his Serpent pipe. Her face swam in the eye of his memory, surrounded by red flames. Such a strange dream it was.

He had forgotten all about the girl for which he’d asked, until Rathwol arrived with her.

Soon after, wrapped in the excess of his violent pleasure, he alm ost forgot the panther-woman’s face. But her name rang in his head like a distant bell.

Ianthe…

Ianthe the Claw.

Empress of Khyrei.