Seven Princes bots-1

by John R. Fultz

  “How far until Steephold?” asked Andoses. It was only the company’s first day in the mountains, but for him the journey could not pass quickly enough.

  “Two days at this speed,” said Tadarus. “If the weather holds.”

  They would find warm fires, fresh bread, and good meat at the citadel. Fifty Uduru were stationed there to watch over the pass from its mid-point. Andoses would see the Serpent bones Tadarus had mentioned. And friends were there whom Tadarus had not seen in five years, since his trip to visit Uurz with his father and brothers. He was barely twenty at the time, and it seemed Vod would live and rule forever. Perhaps it was thoughts of their father that now plagued Fangodrel?

  Tadarus let his steed drop back and drew up alongside his brother. Fangodrel looked at him with piercing eyes, his face a white wedge of calm. Tadarus rode near him in silence awhile. He never knew how to approach Fangodrel without sparking an argument, so he usually avoided him. Which, given Fangodrel’s introverted pursuits, was not hard to do. He rarely entered the training yard, the wrestling pit, or the stables. More likely he’d be in the library learning some esoteric history or holed up in his room writing verse… or cavorting with some courtesan. His appetites were notorious, but then Tadarus and Vireon also had their fair share of lovers. Fangodrel kept his affairs as secret as possible, yet there was only so much secrecy to be had in a palace. Tadarus knew how cruel Fangodrel was to his wenches, how he beat the servants and maidens who displeased him. Perhaps he thought a Prince should behave in such a way. Such behavior bred little love among the court.

  “ You must lead the diplomacy,” Queen Shaira had told Tadarus. “You will be the one who convinces Dairon to support Shar Dni… not Fangodrel.”

  “Then why send him at all, Mother?” Tadarus had asked.

  “He is the eldest,” she replied. “To not send him would be an insult. But we both know he is no sweet-tongued ambassador.”

  “Nor am I,” said Tadarus.

  “You do not have to be,” said Shaira. “You are the son of a Hero-King, and you wear Vod’s image on your face. Fangodrel… Fangodrel is different. You know this.”

  “Yes,” said Tadarus. “He is more like you than father.”

  Shaira stared at him then, as if he’d said something odd. Then she only smiled and reminded him of his duty.

  “Remember that you speak for New Udurum,” she said. “If Fangodrel fails to realize this you must… remind him.”

  Tadarus reassured her: he knew his role and that of his brother.

  “And when you get to Mumbaza this will be even more important,” said the Queen. “Fangodrel is a figurehead only. You, Tadarus, are my voice and mind. If we are to aid my brother’s people, it falls upon you to secure these alliances.”

  “Do not forget,” said Tadarus. “Andoses will be with us.”

  “Yes, of course. But a Prince of Shar Dni is not a Prince of Udurum. You are also the voice of the Giants. The world respects this, fears it even. It is what separates us from all other kingdoms.”

  “Mother…” Tadarus hesitated. “What if we gain the alliance of Uurz and Mumbaza, but the Giants decide not to fight? What then?”

  Shaira smiled at her son, kissed him on the forehead. “Son, when have you ever known an Uduru not to want to fight?”

  Now Tadarus rode beside the brooding Fangodrel and searched for words. The shadows of the peaks fell over them and the light of the sun was lost. A new chill crept along the pass like invisible fog. The horses breathed out white vapor.

  “What do you want, Tadarus?” Fangodrel finally asked.

  “You seem troubled, brother,” said Tadarus. “Do you think of our father?”

  Fangodrel started to laugh, but checked himself. He turned his lean face again to Tadarus.

  “No,” was all he said.

  “You do not seem your usual self,” said Tadarus.

  “You hardly know me, brother,” said Fangodrel.

  “True,” said Tadarus. “But this must change. We have a long journey ahead of us. Why must we stay at such lengths from each other? We are the same blood. Things should be different between us.”

  Fangodrel mused on his brother’s words awhile. He tilted his head. “Tell me,” he said. “Why do you wait until now to make this offer? You have spurned me all your life. You are favored by Mother and Father. I am at best tolerated. Now you find yourself forced to endure my presence, and you wish to make a peace?”

  Tadarus pursed his lips. He would not let his brother anger him, as he was so skilled at doing. He must see past the harsh words, the mistrust. This man was his brother, and however different they were, there should be love between them. Should be.

  “We’ve had our differences,” said Tadarus. “But Father is gone; our family is changed. Soon the world will change too. By the things we go to do now, we will change it. Let us join together and write a new story. We are no longer children, Fangodrel. We must act like Men.”

  Fangodrel guffawed. “You, who are younger, lecture me on maturity? Your ego knows no bounds, Prince.”

  Tadarus ignored the pressure rising in his chest. “You are but a year my elder,” he said.

  “Still… I am your elder,” said Fangodrel.

  “What of it?” said Tadarus, a sliver of anger slipping into his words.

  “The t [="3 Hehrone will be mine when Mother dies,” said Fangodrel. “You cannot accept this fact. It eats at you like a disease. I see your envy dripping like poison from your eyes.”

  “The throne will never be yours,” said Tadarus. Rage stole his words and ran away with them. His face flushed bright red. “You are too weak, and you are too cruel! Men will not follow you, nor Giants. What little wisdom you do have you waste on stale rhymes and cheap whores. That is why I lead this company – not you. Do not forget it.”

  Fangodrel rode on unmoved by his brother’s anger. He blinked as the sun appeared above a ridgeline. “This is how you make peace,” he said. “Well done, my loving brother.”

  Tadarus groaned, cursed between his teeth. His brother had done it again. Made him lose his temper. Gods be damned, he wouldn’t make the mistake of reaching out to this wretch again. He leaned over in the saddle, bringing his face close to that of Fangodrel.

  “Just you mind your place in my company, brother,” Tadarus said, teeth gritted.

  “Or what?” said Fangodrel. “You’ll kill me? You’d be a kinslayer, a cursed criminal.”

  “If I wanted to kill you I’d have done it years ago.”

  “You haven’t the stomach for it,” said Fangodrel. “You’ll always be Mother’s little boy. Play at war if you like, throw your stones and wrestle your Giants… but that’s all you are. You hate me because I know this better than anyone.”

  Tadarus refused to follow the conversation any further.

  “Mind your place,” he said again, and spurred his horse back to the front of the line. Once more he rode alongside Andoses.

  “How fares my cousin?” asked the Prince of Shar Dni.

  Tadarus breathed deeply, calming himself the way a warrior prepares for battle. “Always the same,” he said. “Miserable, offensive, and insufferable.”

  “Good thing he’s riding back there then, eh?” said Andoses.

  Tadarus looked at his cousin and laughed. Andoses caught the laughter and returned it.

  Fangodrel rode grim and silent behind them.

  In the narrow belt of sky above the ravine, stormclouds scudded and rumbled.

  Tadarus and Andoses were still laughing when the first of the cold drops fell.

  The cave was a tunnel leading deep into the bowels of the hill. The darkness lived there, seething and flowing and breathing like some ancient beast. Sharadza walked into the depths of the earth, the dark flowing thick about her like honey. She smelled damp granite and the spoor of little blind creatures. She heard her own footfalls, clattering and booming in the lightless regions, and the crone’s voice called her deeper and deeper into the subterrane
an void.

  “The [ze=, clatteri five senses are lies,” said the crone’s voice. She was somewhere nearby, hovering in the darkness. “Down here, without light, you will see more clearly.”

  Stumbling, groping, crawling through the dark. Echoes of her own movements dancing across the walls, the invisible ceiling.

  “The first step in learning sorcery,” said the crone’s voice, “is to look beyond the lies of the world. To see the invisible that dwells behind and beneath the visible. The world you know up there does not exist. Down here you are a newborn, and you must relearn. So you will come to understand the world in a new way. Eat this…”

  Sharadza’s head swam, and she felt the crone’s hand against hers. She closed her fingers over some kind of root like a gnarled carrot. It smelled of dirt. “Eat,” said the crone’s voice.

  Crunching molars, bitter taste vibrating on her tongue. The aftertaste of the sweet tea mingling with the earthy flavor of the root. Then a lightness, a dizzy flow, the pounding of blood in her ears.

  The rough ground at her feet glowed now, a phosphorescence she had not noticed. A hue of nameless color. She raised her head. A vast cavern opened before her, a forest of stalactites and stalagmites stretching into the darkness. Some of them had melded into magnificent pillars, glowing with that same colorless color, glinting with crystalline deposits like skeins of diamond. The roof of the vault was too far overhead to see, as were the walls. Here was another world altogether. Now white mushrooms tall as Giants grew in the murk, with lesser fungi sprouting beneath them in masses of shifting, pulsing colors. How had she not seen all this a moment before? Where was the source of light? There was no light. She was seeing the darkness. No… seeing through the darkness.

  The crone stood near a tall stalagmite, supporting her bent back with a wooden staff. She glowed like a rainbow, translucent and glimmering in wondrous shades that had no names.

  “Who are you?” asked the crone.

  “You know who I am,” said Sharadza, the non-lights dazzling her eyes.

  “Who are you?”

  “Sharadza.”

  “Who is Sharadza?” asked the crone.

  “The daughter of Vod and Shaira.”

  “Who are you?”

  The crone was gone. Tiny beings moved among the wilderness of fungi, glowing with life. Now the fungi sprouted above her like the forest of Uduria, and she walked – no scuttled – among the blossoming foliage. She sniffed, smelling color and sound and a dozen mysteries. Her hands and arms were gone. She had four clawed appendages now, and a proboscis nose, snuffling along the ground. The cave creatures greeted her with subsonic noises and bursts of scent. She responded by instinct. She roamed the fungi world for a time without measure, sometimes alone, sometimes with her pale-furred companions, dragging a long tail that switched and slapped the ground. She nibbled at the choicest of fungi, savoring its taste, going on to sample more. She ate, defecated, and [efeped moved on. She screeched, and fought, and fed again, and sang with her sightless brethren in the swirling fungus groves.

  “Who are you?” came the crone’s voice.

  It took her a moment to answer. “Sharadza,” she chirped as best she could.

  Now she came to a dark underground lake lying serene beneath a vast dome of granite. Ripples moved across its surface now and then, and she saw the glow of life drifting in its depths. The crone said something, and Sharadza slithered forward, letting the frigid waters envelope her. She swam the black currents, moving her lithe body, flexing flipper-like appendages, sensing the movements of subaqueous creatures by their vibrations. She swallowed blind cave fish, swirled her serpentine self over slime-encrusted boulders, and flowed into a subterranean river that fed the lake. She avoided the lunging maw of something much larger than herself. She was not ready to be devoured. She followed the swift current like an eel. After an eternity, she sensed sunlight above, and rose to find the river flowing through the forested wilderness. The brilliance of the sun made her spasm and twist in the rushing waters.

  “Who are you?” came the crone’s voice.

  She slithered up onto the riverbank and opened her fanged mouth. With difficulty she said, “Sharadza.”

  Now she ran through the forest as a great black wolf. She hurdled the swollen roots of the Uyga, reveling in the speed of her limbs, the keenness of her scent. She smelled game, the magnetic call of prey, and chased a buck for leagues through the leafy landscape. The sun was a ball of fire rolling across the sky, and the forest opened its secrets to her. They poured in through her black nostrils, and her thick fur stood on end. She drank from forest pools and chased another deer, bringing it down with fang and claw. She lapped up the hot blood, tore at the fresh meat, devoured the carcass until her belly was full. Her four-legged brothers and sisters came to share her kill, and she yowled her pleasure at the rising moon.

  “Who are you?”

  She howled into the twilight sky, “Sharadza…”

  Now she became that howl, and the moon grew larger, a golden orb bearing down upon her. She flapped her wings and turned from its radiance. The northern forest spread like a purple carpet below. Mountains ruled the southern and northern horizons; to east and west gleamed the oceans whose names she could not remember. She whirled and spun in the night winds, exulting in the perfection of flight. She soared above the forest among hundreds of other wind-riders above and below her, all pursuing nocturnal hunts. She flew toward the dawn as the sun rose, an infinite well of crimson, gold, and white flame. She turned back and flew westward until it stood high in the blue sky.

  “Who are you?” came the crone’s voice.

  She hardly heard the question. She soared downward now, toward that sea of fall colors, entering the forest through its whispering roof, gliding along its cool corridors until she found the hill. She flew toward the cave mouth where the crone stood, one wrinkled hand held up to the sky. She landed on the crone’s forearm, sinking her talons into a leather sleeve.

  “Who are you?”

  Sharadza stood now before the crone, looking down at her two hands, her two legs and her cumbersome feet. She flexed her arms, her clumsy arms that would not lift her into the skies. She smelled the forest smells, a symphony of aromas rising from the wild, as if she had never before been here. It smelled of earth, of freedom, and of power.

  “ Who are you? ” demanded the crone.

  “I… I… don’t know,” said Sharadza. Tears brimmed in her green eyes.

  “ What are you?” asked the crone.

  Sharadza blinked, weeping, smiling. “I don’t know.”

  The crone huffed. “Now we can begin,” she said.

  Sharadza followed her down the hillside into the depths of the autumn forest.

  From the summit of the pass rose the colossal bulk of Steephold, a citadel of black rock nearly as large as Vod’s palace. The sinking sun cast orange light across its dark walls as the Princes halted their company. At Tadarus’ command, a sergeant blew three notes on a horn of gold and bronze, and a deeper horn sounded its answer inside the fortress walls.

  The Giants were slow opening the gate, so Fangodrel stared impatiently at its embossed surface. A scene of Uduru in battle against fire-belching Serpents ornamented the black iron. The artistry was excellent, far too complex and well constructed to have been done by a Giant’s hands. Fangodrel smirked at its absurdity: the great deeds of the Uduru preserved by skill of a mere human.

  The saddle chafed his thighs, and his back ached from days of riding. How long would it take those lumbering morons to open the gates? Five days they had ridden from Udurum, the last three in the frigid shadow of the peaks. Sheer idiocy to send an escort of three hundred men on this mission. A company of four or five could travel at double the speed. Still, his mother had her way, as always.

  Steephold would offer at least one night of warm beds and passable food. More importantly, Fangodrel would have a private chamber here, a place to lock himself away and smoke the bloodflower. In
his frail tent the past few nights, he dared not indulge in the Red Dream for fear of being discovered by his brother or cousin. He drank plenty of wine in the camps, but tonight he would taste the smoke.

  Ianthe would come to him again.

  When she first appeared to him in the Red Dream, he thought it only the drug’s illusion. But the following night he spoke with her again, and a third time on the morning before the journey began. Somewhere in the distant south, in her jungle palace filled with slaves and riches, she too dreamed the Red Dream. But she knew it better than he… she knew how to reach out to him across a continent.

  She told him splendid things that he only half dared believe. He wanted them to be true so very much. She was his grandmother… a sorceress… an Empress. Vod was not his father, although Shaira did give him birth. His true father was Gammir, Prin [Ga ce of Khyrei, who died at Vod’s hand. She showed him this in a vision summoned from the past and played out in the swirling depths of the Red Dream. Vod in his Giant form, storming the Khyrein palace, calling down thunder and lightning with his cries of rage and hate. The onyx palace crumbling into shards, handsome Gammir lost beneath a heaving wall of rock, his bones crushed to powder along with his father the Emperor. Only Ianthe escaped the destruction, a white panther crawling along the blood-slick rubble.

  Now Fangodrel understood why he inherited none of Vod’s strength, why his skin was so pale. Like Gammir’s… like Ianthe’s. He had none of Vod’s blood in him, no Uduru blood at all. Shaira had been a Princess of Shar Dni when she wed Gammir. Vod stole her away and murdered Gammir that same year. He knew now why his mother never truly loved him. Why she favored his brothers. He only reminded her of Gammir, whom she hated. Shaira had plotted her escape with Vod even before the marriage. She was a traitor and a whore. His adoptive father was a liar, may his bones rot beneath the Cryptic Sea.