Seven Princes (52 page)

Servants guided them into the Council Chamber with the long black table. Queen Umbrala sat at its head in a robe of sapphire silk. Her headdress and jewelry were absent. She, too, had awakened not long ago. The Boy-King was not present. A grimy soldier sat in the chair to the Queen’s left, his hands trembling about a goblet of wine. Soot and dirt smeared his bare face and arms, and a white bandage wrapped his left shoulder. His face bore the pall of exhaustion and terror. Perhaps he had been weeping. His white cloak hung in tatters.

The five Princes, Sharadza, Iardu, and Khama took their seats. Vireon had not roused Alua.

“Majesty,” said Khama. “Is the King all right?”

Umbrala nodded. “He sleeps. I am his voice until he wakes.”

“What has happened?” asked Andoses.

“This is Wayudi, a captain of the garrison at Zaashari,” said the Queen Mother. The haunted soldier gave a modest bow, his unsteady hands gripping the goblet like a holy talisman. “Explain to them what you have told me…”

Wayudi was an educated officer, schooled in the northern languages. His words were flavored with fear. “They came out of the night… seeking our blood.” His eyes grew round, the black pupils tiny in pools of white. “
Shadows
… things made of
shadow… some like tall wolves with eyes of fire… others slid like Serpents across the ground… or flew like bats… Some walked like twisted men. They came at dusk, when the last of the sunlight faded. There was no moon anymore… only the brightness of their scarlet eyes… the color of the blood they crave.”

Wayudi paused to drink deeply from his wine cup. Iardu and Khama shared a silent glance.

“These things… they flowed through the streets like a flood of dark water… or black smoke… finding men, women… even children. They
tore
at them, lapping at their blood like hounds. It was their screams that roused the watch… Commander Ulih ordered us into the streets with spear and sword… I headed the cavalry. They ripped our horses to shreds beneath us… then tore into men like jackals. One leaped on my back, biting me here.” He pointed to the bandage on his shoulder, spotted with seeping red. “Our metal was useless… Spears, swords, knives… we could not touch them… They were… they were ghosts…
muraki
… evil spirits.” He set the goblet down and put a hand on his shoulder. “Gods, how it aches.”

“You will rest soon, Wayudi,” said Umbrala, her tone motherly yet firm. “Only tell the rest of it first.”

Wayudi’s eyes scanned the table, as if he might find some belief there, or some comfort that did not exist. He breathed deeply. “We could not count their numbers – there were far too many. The town died and the men of the fortress died… We died trying to protect the people. Ulih… they pulled off his limbs, drank his blood like all the rest. I know I am a coward, but I fled… I was not the only one. Five or six of us fled through the shattered gate of the garrison. We rode hard along the North Road. One by one they picked us off our horses until there was only me riding north to the capital. I don’t know why the one that bit me flew away. I have a coward’s luck.” Wayudi bowed his head, ashamed. He
gulped more wine. “Zaashari is fallen,” he said, looking at Khama. “They are all dead. It belongs to the shadows…”

His head nodded slowly forward until it touched the table, and he grew still. Beyond the tall windows, stars glimmered against the black.

“Khama,” said the Queen, “what can you tell me?”

Khama’s grave face met the Queen’s. “The Dwellers in Shadow, ancient things that I have seen in my visions, they gather in the south and serve the Usurper.”

The Queen looked upon each face at the table, a wordless apology that her pride would not allow her to voice. She quietly ordered two servants to carry Wayudi to a bed. They lifted the soldier to his feet, his arms about their shoulders, and he stumbled away to rest.

“He
knows
we are here, Khama,” said Iardu. “We have lost the element of surprise… if we ever truly had it.”

“And so the treaty is broken,” said Umbrala.

“Yes,” said Khama. “Knowing we would come, Elhathym struck first. Next his shadows will come north, to the gates of Mumbaza and into its streets.”

“Only the sun will stop them,” said Iardu. “His living legions will ride into Zaashari at sunrise and take control of the fortress, now that all in it are dead.”

The Queen turned to Andoses. “We will join your Alliance of Nations,” she said, “but we cannot now send legions to Khyrei, for we must go to war against Yaskatha.”

“I am sorry for this slaughter,” said Andoses. “But I am glad for your allegiance. You can serve the Alliance by restoring Prince D’zan to his throne. While Mumbaza battles Elhathym, we in the east can march on Ianthe’s kingdom. When the tyrant is vanquished, send your legions to join us in Khyrei.”

The Queen nodded, her fine mouth set into a grim frown.

Iardu looked at Andoses. “You do not know the power of Elhathym,” he said. “Or Ianthe. This will not be a war of sword and shield, but a clash of forces you can scarcely comprehend.”

“We three go now to drive back the sorcerer and his demons,” said Khama. He faced the Queen. “Assemble your legions to retake Zaashari and march on Yaskatha.”

D’zan broke his silence. “Great Queen, I will fight with Mumbaza this day. Tyro and his warriors ride with me. The people of Zaashari will be avenged, and the usurper will pay for this peace-breaking.”

The Queen’s look changed from troubled to impressed as she eyed D’zan. “You will ride with my generals, Prince D’zan. And you
will
sit upon your father’s throne.”

Tyro gave Lyrilan a devious smile. Lyrilan licked his dry lips, coughed, pinched his nose.

“I would stand with you as well,” said Andoses, “if circumstances were otherwise. I must still depart this morning.”

“The King understands your need, Prince Andoses,” said Umbrala. “You have his blessing and eternal friendship. Once we have smashed this usurper and his army of shadows, we will support you in Khyrei.”

“Your Majesty is both wise and gracious,” said Andoses with a bow.

“I must meet with the King’s advisors now,” said Umbrala. “My servants will see to all your needs.”

The assemblage rose from their chairs, all but the Queen. A line of worried officials came through the doors to replace them. The sun was about to rise.

“Let us go at once,” said Khama.

“Wait,” said Iardu. “We must look in on poor Wayudi first.”

“Yes,” said Khama. “We must…”

Sharadza followed them to the room where Wayudi slept. He
lay on a bed below a window overlooking the dark sea. A cool wind blew through the casement, but Wayudi sweated and groaned as if in a fever.

“Is it poison?” asked Sharadza.

“Of the worst kind,” said Iardu. “Not a physical poison, but a spiritual one.”

Wayudi’s spasms grew worse as the far sea warmed with pink light. The sun was coming.

Khama bent over the suffering man, mumbling a chant.

“What were those things?” Sharadza asked. “The Dwellers in Shadow you spoke of?”

“There are many kinds of shadow spirits,” said Iardu, “but the Spirits of Vakai are the most deadly. When living men die, most move on to the World of the Dead, manifesting there the illusion of their own afterlife. Yet those whose souls were consumed by hatred, avarice, or cruelty often cannot find their way into the Deathlands, so they linger in the dark and forsaken corners of the world, or haunt the places where they died. When such entities spill the blood of the living, they consume its essence and gain power… but this power eventually forces them into the void, an Outer World called Vakai, where there is nothing more to feed on. A formless place of eternal hunger and torment.”

Wayudi tossed and turned, his chest heaving, yet still unconscious. His teeth gnashed as if he were chewing a piece of leather. Khama sang and waved a hand over his shivering body. The first sparkles of sunlight danced on the ocean, and the tip of the sun-orb rose above the waves. Wayudi cried out like a dog in pain, then growled.

“These Spirits of Vakai can slip back into our world at times, or someone like Elhathym may summon them. They cannot abide the sunlight, so they roam at night. When dawn comes they sink into the depths of the earth and its very stones, where no light can
penetrate. Yet at night they emerge into physical forms like wolves, reptiles, or flying beasts, to seek the blood that gives them power and substance. The
essence of blood
, torn from the living, is their only concern. Those they drain but do not kill – like Wayudi – bear their curse.”

The first sunray fell through the window and Wayudi fell still. “It is too late,” said Khama. “I cannot save him.”

Brightness grew on the pristine walls and ceiling, and Wayudi grew dim before Sharadza’s eyes. His flesh and clothing became transparent, and he flowed like water into the sheets, then into the stones of the floor. A black shadow bearing his shape lay on the floor, then that too faded.

“At nightfall he will rise and haunt the palace,” said Iardu. “Unless we bind him to this room.”

Khama nodded and sighed.

“You mean… he is… one of them?” Sharadza asked.

“A Vakai, yes,” said Khama. “He will crave only blood.”

“Why do such terrible things exist?” she asked.

Iardu looked at her as if she already knew the answer.

“Patterns,” he said.

Khama instructed a servant to bring certain herbs, a strong lock for the door, and boards for the window.

“We will wait in the Lemon Garden,” said Iardu, his hand on Khama’s shoulder.

Sharadza had time enough to say goodbye to Vireon. She hugged him and Alua.

“Come with us to Shar Dni,” said Vireon. She knew he feared for her in Yaskatha.

“I cannot,” she said. “I
asked
Iardu to face Elhathym. I cannot abandon him.”

Vireon seemed to understand. “We will meet in Khyrei then… when you are done here.”

“We will,” she said.

She ate a few grapes, drank some fresh milk, and joined Iardu on the terrace of a secluded garden. A ring of tall thin trees bore vivid fruits the color of topaz stones, and birds sang among the branches. The sky was blue and cloudless overhead, a hot southern sky. She had no time to visit the famous Forest of Jewels that lay somewhere in the heart of Undutu’s palace. Such wonders must wait for more peaceful times.

“This is your last chance to change your mind,” Iardu told her, his prismatic eyes glistening. “Once we leave here, there will be no turning back.”

“What is our other choice?” she asked. “Wait for the hordes of Vakai to come raging into Mumbaza? Then Uurz? Then on to Udurum? No… we must do this.”

“Khama and I must,” he said. “But
you
do not have to. Go east with your brother and cousin. They need you in Shar Dni.”

She tilted her head at him. He would go to face Elhathym without her if she asked him to. There it was again, that strange endearing look in his inhuman eyes.

“We three must go,” she said, and he said no more about it.

Khama came forth in his cloak of gaudy feathers. He had finally let go of his herdsman’s staff, leaving it with his wife. Without a word he sprang to the ground, balanced on his fingers, legs stretched taut behind him. The sea wind picked up and blew strong over the city as Khama’s cloak lengthened and grew. Beneath its feathery folds, the man-shape blurred and was lost. The feathers multiplied in all their shades: crimson, emerald, azure. He
lengthened
impossibly, his head growing into a huge triangular shape, his body coiling and writhing among the trees of the lemon grove. Sharadza grabbed Iardu’s elbow as Khama grew and swirled about them like a tri-colored wind.

A moment later his great head turned amber eyes to stare at
them. They stood now in the center space of his massive coils. Khama was the great Feathered Serpent, his neck the height of a tall horse, his body tapering in coil after coil toward the end of his pointed tail. A black stinger rose from its tip, sharp as the blade of a spear. His snout was frighteningly fanged, nostrils flaring with citrus-scented breath. She could not tell from the middle of his coiled immensity exactly how long he was.

“Climb upon my back,” said the Serpent in Khama’s voice, only deeper. A forked tongue long as a whip came darting from between his fangs, drawn as quickly back into the cavern of his throat. His eyes narrowed into slits as he watched them grab his plumage and lodge themselves behind his reptilian skull. Sharadza was amazed at the softness of the bright plumes.

All these wonderful feathers, and no wings
…

Khama did not need wings. His head rose into the air and his shifting coils followed, straightening to his full length. He rose toward the clouds and flew wingless above Mumbaza, two riders on his back, the sun glistening in three colors along his feathered length.

“How can he fly without wings?” Sharadza shouted through the wind at Iardu, who rode behind her.

“He is a Creature of the Air,” said Iardu. “Do you know the story of Mumbaza’s founding? How the Feathered Serpent told its first king Ywatha the Spear where to build his great city?”

Sharadza nodded. The legend could be found in any proper history text.
Ywatha and the Feathered Serpent
had always been one of her favorite epics.