Seven Princes (48 page)

They flew across the southern reaches of Dairon’s realm, an emerald plain scattered with villages and burgeoning farmlands. When they broke through the cloud layer into a crystal blue sky, the Great Earth-Wall lay far below, running in a crooked line from east to
west, dividing the continent into Low and High Realms. Sharadza’s hawk-eyes studied the green roof of a vast forest beginning at the top of the mighty cliff and rolling into the southern horizon.

The colors of fall never came to the forests of the High Realms. Here the trees grew thicker than in the northern forests and were never troubled by the kiss of winter. The High Realms were a green wilderness where cities, roads, and walls did not exist. The lower world of the Stormlands lay hidden beneath a sea of rolling clouds to the north. Sharadza flew beside the black hawk, humbled by the sheer immensity of the High Forests, while Iardu’s beaked head focused only on the horizon. He had flown over these lands many times, and probably knew what every part of the continent looked like from the vantage of the sky. Strange tales were told of the beings who dwelled deep in those woodlands, and she wondered how many of their secrets Iardu knew. Perhaps she would ask him, when they became man and woman again, exactly how long he had roamed the world. Since seeing his true form for the first time, she found herself increasingly curious about him.

Their wings carried them west now, as well as south, and the forests sank into deep valleys and rose across furrowed ridges. The land gradually fell back to sea level as the mass of trees grew thinner. By late afternoon they soared over the windy brown steppes of Mumbaza. Somewhere ahead, perhaps closer than she imagined, lay the capital city atop its pearly cliffs, overlooking the blue sea as it had for centuries. Mumbaza was among the world’s most ancient kingdoms; despite the dangers ahead, she thrilled at the prospect of walking its ancient streets.

Iardu changed his course, and she was bound to follow. He dove toward the flat heat-browned grassland. A village of domed huts passed below, and herds of horned cattle. Dark-skinned Mumbazans walked trails among the grass with tufted spears, talismans of gold and copper gleaming on their chests. Another village
nestled on the edge of a lake that glistened like a dark jewel. The swarthy villagers gathered here, some in crimson cloaks and hats of woven feathers. Dusky children gamboled between white sheep and black goats.

Eventually the Iardu-hawk alighted on the leafless branch of a twisted old tree near a cluster of round huts. Sharadza perched herself there beside him, blinking her avian eyes at the scene below. Here was the smallest of the villages yet. A single herd of goats gnawed the grass on a nearby hill. The golden steppe stretched out in all directions.

The two hawks sat on their branch and watched a few children run among the hide-walled huts, where the smoke of cookfires rose from clay chimneys. Sharadza sat patiently next to Iardu, although she longed to ask him what they were waiting for in this unlikely place. Where was the one they came to seek? This looked like no place a great sorcerer would live, but then what did the lair of a sorcerer look like? She rustled her feathers, trusting in the Shaper’s guidance. The sun sank toward the flat horizon, an orange ball of flame singing the steppe.

The goats moved off the hill and came slowly toward the cluster of huts. A man walked behind them with a crooked staff, the legendary tool of the herdsman. As he drew near, he looked right at the two hawks with his keen dark eyes. His skin was ebony, shining with sweat, and his thick hair tied into a mass of braids reaching the middle of his back. A loincloth and moccasins were his only garb, apart from the golden armbands, the copper amulets about his neck, and the jade bangles hanging from his pierced ears. His forehead was tall, his muscles lean and tight under smooth skin. His nose was broad and flat above ample lips, and the marks of ritual scarring formed zig-zag patterns on his chest and shoulders.

He led the goats into a pen, his eyes ever returning to the tree.
When he closed the pen’s gate, he came to stand before the tree and spoke to the hawks in the language common to all Men, accented in the lilting dialect of Mumbaza.

“Go away, hawks,” he said. “Your kind bring only trouble.”

Iardu melted from the branch and stood now as himself before the Mumbazan. Sharadza did the same, standing beside him in a traveling robe of green and black.

“Khama,” said Iardu. “How are you, old friend?”

Khama did not return Iardu’s smile. His eyes glittered like black pearls.

“Why do you come here, Shaper?” he said. “You are not welcome.”

“I come only because I have to,” said Iardu. “We must speak. This is Sharadza, Princess of Udurum.”

Khama turned away. “I cannot welcome you here, knowing what you are. You should have stayed in your northern kingdom.” He walked away toward the cluster of huts, where three curious children stared at the strangers. Iardu walked after him, and Sharadza followed.

“This is no way to greet a friend,” said the Shaper. “Surely you remember the things we’ve shared.”

Khama stopped and turned to face him. “I choose
not
to remember,” he said, voice low so the children could not hear his words. “I am only a
man
now, Iardu. These are my children, my goats, my land. I have found peace here. Why must you disturb it?”

“All of these things are beautiful,” said Iardu. He waved at the children, who responded with white grins. They shuffled shyly among the huts.

A voice called from one of the structures, and a lean Mumbazan woman looked out from its doorway. “My wife calls,” said Khama. “You must go. Please. Leave me to this simple life I have chosen.”

“You are a man of peace,” said Iardu. “I respect that. We do not
bring you trouble, Khama. We bring a warning. War brews in the south. All that you love is in danger. Mumbaza is the fulcrum in a struggle for power. Elhathym has returned.”

Khama slammed the butt of his herding staff into the ground, raising a cloud of dust. “I do not know this name.” He stared at Iardu as if he might strike him.

“You do,” said Iardu. “
Remember
…”

A cloud fell across the glow of Khama’s eyes, and he looked into the blue sky. He sighed, a long exhalation of regret, remorse, or perhaps weariness. The goats in their pen made helpless bleating noises. The children giggled and rubbed round stones across their palms.

Khama turned his eyes to Sharadza for the first time. His wife still stared from the doorway of their home. “Come and share food with us,” he said, and walked toward his family.

Sharadza shared a quiet glance with Iardu. His face said,
Trust me
. She decided she would. They followed Khama through the doorway of his lodge, and the laughing children filed in behind them. The family welcomed them with smiles and bowls of cool goat’s milk. Flat bread and roasted vegetables steamed on a small hearth-stove. Khama’s wife was named Emi, and his three children were Tuka, Bota, and Isha, two boys and a girl. Sharadza enjoyed the warmth and joy of their round, amiable faces.

“My oldest son Kuchka is out with our second herd,” said Khama. “We have forty-seven good sheep. Wool brings a high price at the capital.”

They served generous portions to the visitors, and Sharadza was famished. Flying all day took as much energy as walking all day. She ate well, but not enough to embarrass herself. Iardu did the same, and she knew he would rather be drinking wine than milk. Khama’s family spoke only Mumbazan, so they understood nothing of what Iardu told his old friend.

He told the herdsman of the recent events in Yaskatha, the usurping of the throne by the tyrant sorcerer, the murder of the Udurum Prince, the alliance of Ianthe and Khyrei with Elhathym and his new throne, and the war that was coming. As they spoke the sun began to set, and Kuchka returned with the sheep, herding them into a second pen near the goats. He came into the hut and ate the rest of the meal, his eyes darting back to Sharadza every few moments. A handsome lad, strong and well built like his father. If Khama was a sorcerer, then Kuchka would be too. But did he
know
anything about the ancient legacy of his father? She guessed not, since Khama lived here in the bosom of domestic bliss.

This man had found the happiness that Iardu never was able to grasp. Emi was a beautiful woman, a perfect wife and mother. Sharadza felt a pang of guilt for bringing Iardu back into Khama’s life. Yet what else could they do but seek aid wherever it could be found? What history did Khama and Iardu share? There was no doubt he came of the Old Breed, yet was trying to forget it. Like the Sea Queen, who had forgotten and carved her own paradise beneath the waves. Perhaps in a few more years Khama would have forgotten his true nature as well and truly become the simple man he so wanted to be. But Iardu had done something, looked into his eyes with a certain intensity, and it had all come rushing back to him.

Khama remembered… but would he help?

A sliver of moon stood over the prairie and stars blazed in the black sky. They walked with Khama to stand near the old tree. Talismans of bone and wire hung from its branches. A gentle wind blew across the steppe, dispelling the heat of the day.

“If we can remove Elhathym from his Yaskathan throne,” said Iardu, “there will be no chance of war with Mumbaza. Khyrei is far away. Fire and blood will not spill here.”

Khama crossed his arms and leaned against the peeling bark.
“Mumbaza has known peace for a hundred years,” he said. “The grandfather of our current King forged a peace treaty with Yaskatha at my urging. How do you know Elhathym intends to break the treaty?”

Iardu frowned. “Do you remember Takairo the Great? Before Elhathym left the world he shattered its opal towers and murdered or enslaved every living thing within its walls. Takairo, whose people had
never
known war. He is a predator, Khama, and worse now that he has endured the strangeness of the Outer Worlds. He raises the dead to conquer the living. He takes what he wants. It will not be long before he decides to take Mumbaza.”

Khama watched the stars, keeping his thoughts to himself.

Sharadza could stay quiet no longer. “Even now a delegation of Princes from the northlands seeks alliance with your Boy-King. A choice must be made. Mumbaza will be forced to side with Yaskatha and Khyrei, or with those who oppose them. Like you I fear the coming of war. This is why I have convinced Iardu to help me prevent it. He says you can help us. If you do not, you will face the coming destruction knowing that you could have done something about it.”

“I have enjoyed living as other men do these past decades,” Khama said. “Yet the Great Wheel turns always, and now you remind me that men face war in their time. It has always been so. So if I am to be a man, I must face it too. Though my heart screams to run from here, to take my children where they can be safe, I know that safety is an illusion. Still… to leave them now, I am unwilling.”

“Open your Inner Eye,” said Iardu. “Look to the south. Feel the currents of shadow smothering Yaskatha.”

Khama’s eyes closed. A night-bird cawed somewhere over the plain. The cool wind blew, and the grasses whispered earthy secrets.

After a moment the herdsman opened his eyes. He shivered. “The Dwellers in Shadow,” he whispered. “They answer his call. A great many of them… legions of hungry darkness…”

Iardu nodded. “You feel what I have felt. His power will only grow stronger until he strikes. And it may be well before the northern armies can assemble.”

“Oh, it will be,” said Khama, his face haunted. “Such hunger cannot be held in check for long. It could consume the world.”

“Stand with us now,” said Iardu. “We’ll take him before he ever knows of our coming. Surprise will be a dagger that kills in our hand, Khama.”

Khama shook his head, ran a hand through his braided locks. “Emi, the children… I must take them to the city… hide them behind the walls of the palace.” Tears welled in his eyes but did not fall. “Understand. If I join you in striking at Elhathym, I break the treaty of my King. I must speak with him first. Only with his blessing can I do this thing.”

Iardu looked at Sharadza. His eyes glowed, twin prisms brighter than the moonlight. The blue flame danced on his chest. She had grown used to this wonder and hardly noticed it now. She wondered what Khama’s family saw when they looked at Iardu.

“We will accompany you to the city tomorrow,” said Iardu. “Once your family is safe there, and you have spoken with the Boy-King, we will fly south together… to douse the fire of war before it burns across the steppes.”

Khama nodded. “I must speak with my wife.”

“We will sleep in the grass,” said Iardu.

Khama stopped halfway to his hut and turned to look at them. His face was unreadable in the dark.

“Hawks always bring trouble,” he said, and went inside to seek his wife.

Mumbaza sat like the King of Cities on its precipice above the turquoise sea. Its docks were vast marble quays lined with ships from every nation, a forest of multicolored sails and vessels of every size, from lean coast-huggers to round-hulled behemoths. The city kept a standing navy as well, a fleet of two hundred war galleons patrolling the coast for leagues, each flying the sign of the Feathered Serpent. Carved into the surface of the pale cliffs, the Upward Way climbed from the docks directly to the Seaward Gate in a series of terraced switchbacks. The city was unassailable from the sea thanks to its lofty position, and no nation had ever been foolish enough to assault the Upward Way.