The sight of this new standard lent credence to rumors that the city’s old Emperor had returned from death. Gammir the Bloody. The Undying One. These were the names they called him, if Yaskathan spies were to be heeded. Ianthe the Claw was no more, annihilated at the Fall of Shar Dni by Queen Alua’s white flame. Just as Fangodrel the Kinslayer, heir to Ianthe’s dark power, was slain by the sword of his own brother Vireon. So Khyrei’s forces had retreated, and the wicked nation had lain quiet for years. Sharadza’s three brothers had finally stopped killing one another, leaving only one still alive. Unless…
Now an Emperor from decades past had returned to revive the power of the black city. Or had he? She had flown a long way to discover the truth for herself. She hoped it was indeed the Gammir of old returned from death, for if what she suspected was instead the truth… Best not to consider it until proof emerged.
The jungle subsided below her, replaced by a swathe of orderly fields. Thousands of pale slaves labored among the rows of crops. Green plantations encircled the city except on the north and east, which were claimed instead by river and ocean. Narrow roads ran among the sprawling farmlands, often busy with slave-drawn carts and yoked oxen pulling loads of produce. Unlike Yaskatha, where most growing lands were lined with fruiting trees, nearly every crop nurtured here grew close to the ground. She wondered if citrus trees would take root and thrive in this place, or only be poisoned by the sour soil. Then the black walls of the city reared before her, and she glided between the peaks of barbed towers.
The city walked in fear, moving in slumped clusters between buildings of low black stone. Even among the sprawling garden estates of noble families there was no single structure to rival the palace of onyx and obsidian. Its central spire rose above all into a vaulted crest surmounted by seven curving spikes, a manifestation in stone of the seven-pointed crown woven into the sails of the black warships.
Clusters of huge bats hung from the eaves and battlements of the tower. The beating of her eagle wings disturbed them, sent clouds of them flapping into the sky like dark fogs screeching with thirst. Fearing they might swarm her, she dived low into the heart of the city, gliding along a wide street where pallid laborers traded with gray-robed shopkeepers. A squad of demon-masked soldiers cut a path through the milling crowds. She flew into the shadows of an alley and settled there among the filth and debris.
She took the shape of a Khyrein woman, middle-aged, whose long dark hair had started to turn gray. Her feathers became a drab shift tied with a black sash, and her feet stood upon the wet flagstones in sandals of worn leather. Grabbing a crooked stick to serve as a support, she walked from the stinking alley into the crowds of Khyrein peasants. There was nary a smile to be seen or laugh to be heard among the shuffling multitude. The wrinkles of deprivation and exhaustion were etched deeply on these people’s faces. Even their clothing reflected this lack of vitality, wrapped as they were in tunics and togas of gray or faded black homespun. Their hems were worn, the soles of their sandals thin, and a few wore jewelry of copper, bronze, or tarnished silver rings on bony fingers. They smelled of sweat and fear and denial.
There were no beasts of burden allowed in the city other than soldiers’ horses, so workers from the fields carried baskets of produce on their shoulders or balanced atop their heads. There were no public musicians here, no great works of art lining broad thoroughfares, no poets spouting verse in the dismal dugouts that served as taverns. There was only a hushed murmur of voices, tinged with worry and suffering. She also sensed an urgency to conclude the day’s business as the sun sank beyond the city’s western wall. These people feared the night.
The clomping of soldiers’ boots drowned out the wheedling voices of merchants, and the black-armored squad strode by. Their captain kicked a small boy into the mud. In the dullness of his youth, the sickly lad had failed to yield the right of way. She feared to next see one of their curving spearheads pointed at the boy’s heart, yet the masked ones continued on their way. A starving child was obviously beneath the notice of their spears or their charity. She tossed the child a jewel from her purse as she followed the group of soldiers, a tiny yellow topaz. Drenched in mud, he snatched up the stone and ran like a frightened hare into the maze of booths and vendors.
Now she walked behind the guards as one of their own. Her body had grown tall, sheathed itself in blackened plates of bronze; her shoulders broadened and a mask rose like a black vapor to obscure her face in the manner of all Khyrein warriors. Her walking stick became a tall barbed spear like those of the soldiers she followed. The squad entered a great plaza ringed by more open booths and vendor stalls, yet dominated at its center by a single great effigy.
The statue was carved of black basalt, like most of the city’s structures. A man with broad shoulders and long legs, draped in a flowing robe flecked with tiny sprays of quartz. The effect was an imitation of the night sky itself, hanging about the figure’s body, shimmering against the purple of early dusk.
As she marched closer, safe in her disguise at the rear of the squad, she saw better the head and face of the idol. A lean wolfish face, its eyes represented by rubies set like bloody almonds in the sockets of the dark skull. A seven-pointed crown rising from its brow. One arm extended toward the west, a globe of crystal in its palm clutched by clawed fingers. The symbolism of the sphere was lost on her. The other hand was high above the crown, lifting a gigantic version of the Khyrein spear. This was an image of Gammir himself, there could be no doubt. It radiated an aura of conquest, war, and sheer defiance. An arrogant Godling giving challenge to the world.
She studied the stony face as well as she could without tripping over her feet as she marched. Could it be? The resemblance was… Yes, it was there. Distorted perhaps, or exaggerated to evoke the lupine qualities, the ferocious grace. Her heart sank. A quickening in her belly that was the first fluttering of genuine fear. Suddenly she understood the folk of Khyrei. She knew what they feared.
Still, she must see him with her own eyes to be sure. She would know if it were truly him. She could not fail to know her own half-brother.
On the plaza’s far side lay the disgusting spectacle of the slave block. Such brazen cruelty amazed and appalled her. Khyreins selling Khyreins to the highest bidder. Frail children in rags stood upon the platform, linked neck to neck by an iron chain. A crowd of nobles, merchants, and foreign traders cast their bids with raised hands as the slavemaster touted the physical features and beauty of his stock. A line of waiting slaves cowered behind the platform in the shadow of masked guards. Farther back among those unfortunates she saw darker skins, prisoners taken in sea raids from the galleons of peaceful kingdoms. Every sailor knew it was better to die spitted on a Khyrein blade than to be taken alive for torture and servitude.
A handful of gold changed hands and a small boy was led away by a tall slaver She turned her face from the scene. She was not here to confront this injustice now. That time would come, but it was not today. Swallowing her revulsion, she bent her mind to the march, focusing on the armored backs of the men she followed.
The gates of the palace lay open before the Onyx Guards. She entered as one of them into a splendid courtyard. Here in the shadow of the black towers a tiny paradise thrived and bloomed in every shade of red. Blood oaks from the distant jungle grew here, surrounded by lesser vegetation of every kind, including several Yaskathan pomegranate trees. She thrilled to see them heavy with fruit, and knew her theory about poison soil had been foolish. Earth was earth, and growing things did not discriminate. The petals of gargantuan flowers lined a path of black stones, and she followed the squad toward the nearest of the guardhouses skirting the lush grounds. Some distance to her left stood the main doors of the palace proper.
The heavy iron portals were open wide, a quintet of legionnaires standing at attention before the opening. On the broad steps before them lay two black and scarlet tigers, each chained by the throat and anchored to the gauntlet of a guard. The beasts licked their paw
s and drowsed upon the marble, but she guessed they would tear apart anyone who sought to mount those steps unasked.
She slipped away from the marchers and entered a close group of trees where the foliage would hide her from prying eyes. The guards marched on until they disappeared through the portal of their barracks hall. A few seconds later, an identical squad marched out of the same building. It wound back down the courtyard path to begin its evening rounds in the city. In the ruddy glow of twilight, the palace towers seemed darker and more terrible. A few orange lights sprang up in scattered windows low and high.
Discarding the warrior shape, she stepped through a curtain of green ivy. A secluded grove lay beyond, rife with long-stemmed flowers the color of amethysts. She drank water from a stone fountain and sat in her true form on a tangle of mossy roots. She sighed as night coalesced above the blood oaks. She should have been thinking about what lay ahead of her, but instead her mind went back to Yaskatha. Back to D’zan. She lifted a palm to her eye and wiped away the moisture before it could escape to flee down her cheek.
Their first two years together were bliss, a heady blend of passion and splendor. Since the time Sharadza was a small girl reading the histories and tales of elder kingdoms, she had dreamed of a Prince who would one day become her husband and King. D’zan was everything she had imagined. When she first met the determined lad striving to regain his kingdom from the Usurper Elhathym, her heart had recognized him. Months later, when he gave his life to regain that lost throne, it was her magic that helped forge a new body for his undying spirit. D’zan’s first act as King of Yaskatha was to ask for her hand. How could she refuse the love in his reborn eyes, the culmination of all her secret hopes?
The wedding was a grand affair, high point of Yaskatha’s victory celebrations. The False King, a grave-robbing necromancer, was vanquished, and the Crown Prince annointed King at last. Only days later she became his Queen before a cheering multitude of sun-browned Yaskathans. She recalled with fondness the brace of doves set free at the zenith of the ceremony, the hundred musicians, the ranks of nobles draped in silk and jewels, the thousand bright sails gleaming in the harbor beyond D’zan’s city. From a balcony high atop the palace, King and Queen had waved to the masses, their hands tied by a golden chain in symbolic union. This was no political marriage. It was love, deep and soul-stirring.
The months that followed were full of banquets, feasting, parades, and quiet moments stolen by the young lovers for their own private pleasures. They lay together in secluded orchard groves while legionnaires stood guard beyond the trees, or they frolicked in forgotten alcoves behind gilt tapestries. The royal bedchamber was full of golden daylight, salty sea breezes, and the urgent moans of love. Man and woman learned together the mysteries of their bodies as they shared the deepest precincts of their souls. D’zan’s presence consumed her every moment, even when duties called him from her for a day of kingly concerns. Always he returned to her, as the moon returns to the sky at the close of day. Always she received him as the ocean received the weary sun at twilight.
All the pomp and jewelry, the adoration of commoner and noble alike, the manifold luxuries of the palace and its expansive gardens… all of these things meant very little. She had been raised in the great castle of her father in Udurum, and the ways of a Queen were not far removed from those of a Princess. She relished exploring the great library at the heart of Yaskatha’s palace, yet even that treasure trove of knowledge could not keep her from D’zan’s side for long. She craved the smell of his skin, the power of his arms, the weight of his chest against her own, the heat of his lips. She even misplaced her passion for sorcery. She had discovered a far more potent magic.
Her joy was magnified when her mother sailed from Udurum to visit the Kingdom of Orchards. The aging Shaira found peace in the warm climate and opulence of Yaskathan high society, so she decided to stay. She had left the ruling of the City of Men and Giants to Vireon, and she seemed to come alive again with the blessings of the southern sun.
Late in the second year of the marriage D’zan had changed. Something restless and irksome had grown within him like a slow fever. Eventually he confronted her with anger. The morning was like any other, yet their lovemaking had lacked fervor. He was distracted, preoccupied, and eventually pulled away from her to pace between the pillars of rosy marble. A cool wind blew in through the harbor window, chilling her skin. She gathered the silken sheets about her and waited for him to speak. Outside, seagulls cried out strange alarms.
At last she could take no more of his silence. “What is it?” she asked.
He stopped, hands behind his back, and turned to face her. She could not tell if it were anger or heartbreak on his face. His eyes, as green as her own, sparkled like wet emeralds.
“Why have you given me no heir?” he asked. The words were a slap across her cheek.
She had no answer for him. She swallowed a lump in her throat.
“For two years now we have lain together, nearly every day and every night,” he reminded her. It sounded like an accusation. “Yet your belly grows no rounder… Your womb rejects my seed. Have you… have you prevented this through some sorcerous means?”
The slap was now a whip scourging her back. Though he did not touch her, he could not have wounded her more deeply.
“I…” she stammered, unable to breathe. “I… never thought-”
“What?” he asked, stepping nearer to the bed. “You never thought a King might need an heir? A son to wear his crown when he dies? Or at the very least a daughter to indicate that a son might later be born? How can I believe this from you?”
“You must believe it,” she said, wrapping the sheet closer about her naked body. “Because I say it is true!” Despite her efforts not to do so, she wept. How long had this quiet storm been building inside him? How long had he doubted her intentions?
“Then why?” he demanded. It was frustration that ignited his anger, not her actions. “Why has my seed not taken root?”
She looked away from him, casting her attention beyond the window toward the wild blue sea. She could not tell him. She feared it might destroy him. She remembered the words of Iardu the Shaper on the day she had woven a new body for D’zan’s stubborn soul to inhabit.
He will live as other men, said the Shaper, and feel as other men. But he will not be as other men. We have given him a gift that carries its own price, for his body will not age as does one born of woman. If he is not slain he may live far beyond his desire to do so. Neither will he sire any sons, or daughters, for the mortal body that could produce such seeds has perished. Yet he loves you, and this he may do without impediment, just as he may freely rule his kingdom. We have shaped a vessel for the soul, but it is an imperfect one. This is the best we can do.
Knowing this, she had still chosen to work the Great Spell. Not to do so would have left D’zan’s spirit trapped inside a decaying body. The act of sorcery saved him from becoming a monster, yet could not restore him to full manhood. She could never tell him this. For all other purposes, he was a man, with a man’s hungers, desires, and emotions. The man she loved above all others. He might become the greatest King that Yaskatha had ever known, if he chose to pursue the goal. He might bring a new age of prosperity and peace to his nation. But never would he be able to father a child. The body that could have done so was destroyed by the Usurper Elhathym.
“I am barren.” The lie fell from her lips, heavy as a stone wrenched from her gut. “I was afraid to tell you.” Her tears fell to stain the bedsheets.
D’zan sighed. He wrapped his arms about her. He said nothing, and his touch was tender. Yet she had confirmed his fear. Her lie had preserved his pride.
He said nothing more about it after that day. He still lay with her, still smothered her with his passion, though not as often. He claimed pressing royal duties. Often she did not see him for days at a time. Yet always he returned to ravish her in the darkness of their chamber, as if she were some secret love rath
er than his ordained Queen and wife.
She renewed her interest in the study of history, philosophy, and sorcery. She spent most of her days in the library, or on the stone benches of the palace gardens, a book nestled on her lap. She dined frequently with her mother and those ladies of noble personage whose presence she could tolerate. She preferred the company of books and scrolls. Twice Iardu visted her in the form of a great eagle. He spoke of strange spirits, forgotten spells, and distant worlds. Some impending doom seemed always to worry him, but he was evasive. Always he flew from her at dawn, back to his lonely island, she supposed. The ageless wizard said many things she did not understand, or would not understand until years later. She learned not to forget a word that he mumbled.
In the fourth year of the marriage, the first of many black rumors floated across the marshes like poison vapors. The lost Emperor of Khyrei had returned. Gammir the Bloody. Now they called him Gammir the Reborn. It was Vod, Sharadza’s own father, who had killed Gammir nearly four decades ago. Yet the word of his return brought nightmares. Yaskathan mariners, as well as merchants from the Jade Isles and Mumbazan traders, spoke once more of Khyrein piracy. The marauding of the black-and-crimson ships had ceased for years, but now they plied the waves again, preying on any vessels in their path.
D’zan sat in long meetings with his advisors. Many who shared his confidence urged him toward war on the returned Emperor of Khyrei, yet there were no facts to prove Gammir’s return. Sorcerers could defy death a thousand times, so it was quite possible. Yet it was just as likely that some new lord, hungry for greatness and power, had taken the name of the old Emperor and used it to secure the throne. D’zan asked her to join a council meeting, against the wishes of his advisors. They did not care for what she had to say, or for her pleas for caution and diplomacy. They wanted war. That day she realized that these were the same advisors who had turned D’zan away from her, whispering in his ear the necessity for an heir. They were the ones who had ruined her marriage.
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