DragonThrone02 The Empire of the Stars

by Alison Baird

  “What was that?” she asked. “Did you see, Mag?”

  “You’ve never spied one of those before? ’Tis a dragon-lantern. At least, that’s what we call ’em hereabouts. They rise out of the sea and float inland, usually at this time of the year when the weather’s calm, and hang about the towers of the Forbidden Palace and the spires of the old temple, glowing like lamps. The old-timers say they’re magical tokens sent by the dragons that live under the sea, to honor their sacred places.”

  “What are they really?” Ailia gazed at the hills, intrigued by this new mystery, but the enigmatic light did not reappear.

  “No one knows. The Overseer and his lot say they’re naught but a sort of marsh gas or sailor’s-fire, and they just hang about those towers because they’re the tallest points in the city. But there do seem to be more of ’em these days. I used to watch for dragon-lanterns when I was a little girl, and I don’t ever recall seeing so many. Some come from the sky, and they do say one was seen rising from the ocean and vanishing into the clouds. Look, the weather’s changing.”

  The wind had picked up, shredding the steams that had hung like a cloud about the hilltops. On the highest summit the wisping vapor swirled aside to reveal the pointed towers of a huge castle.

  Ailia gave a little involuntary cry. “He lives there?” she exclaimed. “The Dragon King?”

  “His priests used to, up to twenty years ago. ’Twas they built the palace for themselves, or rather their slaves built it, there on the hill that was sacred to him. No one’s allowed to live there now, by order of the Overseer: it’s kept as a museum. Nigh on three hundred years it’s been since the Dragon King last revealed himself, but if he ever does come back that’s surely the place he will go to.”

  Ailia stared in fascination at the fortress on the hill. She recognized that tall central tower rising from its inner citadel, with the four tall pinnacles stabbing at the sky. It was the one she had glimpsed in her vision of the confrontation with Mandrake.

  15

  A Snare Is Set

  THE HAREM OF YANUVAN filled one entire wing of the castle, housing the two hundred or so women who were Khalazar’s wives and concubines. It had been built to accommodate guests long ago, and retained its luxurious appointments: it boasted a courtyard pleasance, hand-painted tiles and murals, sunken marble baths the size of fishponds. So many were the women, and so often did the king’s wandering fancy alight on some particular favorite, that a royal wife or concubine might wait many months before being summoned to his chamber. Some he never called—peasant girls, chosen by the clerics from among the villagers and brought here by force, tearful and trembling: Khalazar would often forget all about these, and they went on to become the pariahs of the harem, humiliated and used by the others as slaves. Their parents, already impoverished, were ruined by the dowries they were forced to pay to the king. Those women who enjoyed Khalazar’s favor lived a life of relative comfort and indolence, their royal children and their pets playing about them. But they were prisoners all the same. The enclosed garden was all they ever saw of the outside world.

  The eunuchs presided over the harem wing, and could be bribed to bring news from the court and the world beyond. No man ever entered this place on pain of death. But Mandrake was not considered a mortal man, and he visited the harem as he pleased. He found the gossip interesting: the eunuch network was highly efficient at information gathering, and the harem was the hub of rumor at the court.

  Today he sat on a marble bench, strumming on a Zimbouran sitar. He had no particular interest in music: it was merely one of the many pursuits to which he had turned to stave off boredom as the centuries of his protracted life wore on. There was no instrument he could not play, and he played them all well. The harem women, who in his presence need not veil themselves, cast on him many lingering glances and then quickly withdrew them—for even those completely ignored by Khalazar were forbidden to take lovers of their own.

  Today their talk was all of the rescue of the deserters by the Mohara rebels. “The people tell such wondrous tales of these warriors,” one royal wife said. “One is a sort of prophet, who used to fight gladiators in the arena before he escaped. They say that no living thing, man nor beast, could defeat him. And he is assisted in his battles by two angels. One wears armor of silver, they say, and carries a sword with a diamond blade. He is like a fair northern barbarian to look upon, with hair of gold and eyes blue as the sky. The other appears as an otherworldly being, neither man nor woman—”

  “But where do these rebels hide themselves?” interrupted another woman skeptically.

  “Have you heard of the lost city, built by the Moharas long ago? It lies in the deep desert, an enchanted city surrounded by trees and water, with roofs of gold and pillars of silver. In it there is a great palace, where Mohara kings and queens of ages past lie in sarcophagi carved from diamond, so perfectly embalmed that they seem merely to be sleeping. Frightful spirits guard the palace door, genii with lions’ feet and the wings of eagles, and should anyone get past these guardians worse evil awaits: for the kings and queens laid mighty curses on all who would dare disturb their rest. Those few thieves who escape do not live long enough to enjoy their plunder . . .”

  Faerie tales, Mandrake thought. He had flown more than once above those ruins in dragon form and knew they were little more than rubble, though the watery oasis that surrounded them was real enough. The escaped Mohara slaves who dwelt there lived only in rude huts of wood and reeds, and seemed to pose little threat to the armed might of Zimboura. More disturbing to him had been the silent howl of pure iron coming from somewhere within the ruin. The Mohara, like the Elei, had made little use of this metal until late in their history, and then usually only in its alloyed form. They would not likely wield cold iron against Khalazar’s armies. Were they perhaps crafting weapons to use against Mandrake? Or merely using the metal as a shield against his sorcery? He had flown above the place afterward only at a great height, and cautioned his Loänan and goblin allies against approaching it. Let the soldiers of the God-king storm the place in their stead! They might be weaker beings, but they at least had little to dread from cold iron save for a blade’s biting edge.

  “Prince Morlyn.” He looked up to see Ashvari, eldest of Khalazar’s wives—once a royal wife of Zedekara—eyeing him. “Why do you come here to the harem, yet again? A spirit is immune to the charms of mortal women, or so they say.”

  He continued to play. “That is true.”

  She reached out, silencing the strings with her hand. “Come! You know that you are no spirit! Who are you really—and what are you doing here? If Khalazar guessed you were only a mortal man you would be denied the harem—and likely lose your head as well. You are playing a dangerous game.”

  His eyes met hers over the sitar. “I assure you, I do not play games.”

  “We all know you seek to become king in his place, even as he overthrew King Zedekara! You play augur to him, as he did with Zedekara. It has not escaped our notice, Prince, that by increasing the king’s power and his confidence you have made the people hate him more than ever before. It is his downfall you are contriving, not his triumph.” Her kohl-rimmed eyes searched his. “When he seized the throne Khalazar chose to take Zedekara’s women and keep us for himself—meaning to dishonor him thereby. Will you do as he did, in your turn—add us to your harem?”

  Mandrake sighed. How weary he was of humanity, and Zimbourans in particular! “For the last time, I am not seeking the throne. Only a madman would want to reign over this sinkhole of intrigue! And I will thank you not to spread any such rumors. The last thing I need is to have Khalazar panicking and sending paid assassins after me!”

  “So you are mortal!” Ashvari’s face turned grave. “Prince, I must warn you. If you do seek the throne, beware. General Gemala swears he will kill you first.”

  It was not hard to understand the woman’s wish to preserve Mandrake from harm. He was the only hope for her and all the harem.
Should Khalazar die a natural death and pass on the throne to his son, the laws of succession demanded that every adult who dwelt here in the harem be slain and interred in the dead monarch’s tomb. This was not because he required their services in the afterlife, but simply because it would dishonor his name should any of his chattels survive to become the property of another man. His women had no purpose beyond pleasing him, and without him they had no reason to be; as for his slaves, they had been made to swear oaths of lifelong fealty to him alone, so it would be unseemly for them to serve another. They lived each day in that knowledge, these wives and slaves: from the wise and mature Ashvari to the child-bride Jemina, from the chief eunuch to the captive princess of Shurkana, all dreaded to hear that their aging master had succumbed to some fit or perished in his sleep. But a usurper might yet spare them for his own use. Disgust at the barbarism, and a stirring of pity for the doomed prisoners within these walls, arose within him and must have shown in his face, for Ashvari made as if to speak again. But she was interrupted by the entrance of Yehosi, who was wringing his hands and wailing. “He is mad—mad!”

  “You mean the king?” said Mandrake.

  The chief eunuch mopped his perspiring forehead. “Yesterday some poor women of the city came to the castle gates, to plead for their hungry children who had accompanied them—Zimboura’s children, they called them. You would think a heart of stone would relent, but he had them executed for their impudence, and hung their bodies from the battlements. And he has slain Captain Jofi of the palace guard, not for any crime or failing, but because he wants a spirit-servant to report to him from the Netherworld, and it must be someone whom he can trust! And last week in the arena—you will not believe this, but it is true—a bear mauled two cheetahs that had been set on it. Khalazar wanted the cheetahs to win—they were hunting cheetahs from his own royal stables. You will hardly believe me, I say, but he had the bear formally charged with treason, and held a trial for it, and the royal executioner publicly beheaded it! He has gone mad, I tell you!”

  Mandrake shook his head. “No, not mad. He is merely showing the populace that he is king and god, and can do anything he pleases. It is a warning to anyone who would dare oppose him.”

  “But how much longer will the people endure it? There will be a riot next, and the castle will be sacked and all of us slain. Unless there is a revolt from within—a palace revolt . . .” He looked at Mandrake hopefully.

  The prince went back to his strumming, indifferent. “Nothing will ever change that way, Yehosi. You will just end up with another despot.”

  “Better than have the mob rule! Too much will change then!”

  “Why do you not overthrow him yourselves? Here in the harem he is vulnerable as he is nowhere else. It would be the work of a moment to slip a dagger between his ribs while he sleeps. Yet none of you does anything.”

  “We are afraid.” Yehosi avoided his eye, and Ashvari laid her head in her hands.

  “Yes. It is not your king that holds you all prisoner, but your own fear.”

  They all glanced up as another eunuch entered and bowed. “Yehosi, Prince Morlyn: your presence in the throne room is required immediately.”

  Yehosi blanched. Mandrake set the sitar down and rose from the bench, his face calm. “Well, let us see what he wants.”

  KHALAZAR WAS IN AN ILL HUMOR.

  Crown Prince Jari had been taken to the arena that afternoon, where a large crowd had watched him kill a tethered antelope with half a dozen arrows. The boy had come into the throne room flushed with excitement, clutching the animal’s decapitated head by its horns. His first kill. From ancient times a Zimbouran male had been considered to be fully adult only after his first kill—usually a wild beast, though the poor had to be content with slaughtering a pig or chicken for their sons’ manhood ceremonies. But Khalazar had felt no pride in his son’s achievement: he was, rather, disturbed by the rite of passage.

  If Jari was a child no longer, then did that not mean he, Khalazar, was growing old? His own angry visage peered at him from his bedroom mirror. There, in his beard—yet another gray hair, amid the black! They continued to appear, ruthless reminders of mortality, despite all the promises of the genii.

  “How can this be?” he raged. “I am a god! How can I age like any mortal? Have they lied to me?” Cold fear washed over his anger, momentarily quenching it. He yearned to kill his son, to stop him from growing older.

  “I am immortal!” he told the puffy, flushed face in the mirror. But there was doubt in his mind now. Where were his divine powers, said to be awakening soon? Were the spirits deceiving him for their own ends?

  He stormed out of the bedchamber and down the stone stair to the council room. Mandrake, Gemala, Yehosi, and the replacement for Berengazi awaited him.

  “Let me guess,” said Mandrake. “Is it Jomar and the others again?”

  At the name of Jomar Khalazar turned beet-red and slammed his fist down upon the table, making Yehosi jump. “They must be captured and killed—killed! I have set a bounty on their heads—and raised it—where does it stand now, Yehosi?”

  “Ten thousand silvers, Majesty,” Yehosi quavered.

  “Yet still no one brings me these villains, alive or dead!” Khalazar tore at his own hair. “I am sick of them, do you hear! They have attacked my caravan in the desert, stolen the goods, and taken away the slaves!”

  “Majesty, this is a war unlike any you have ever fought before. These three intruders are fighting you, not for your land, but for the hearts of your people. The Zimbourans will not betray their helpers,” Mandrake said.

  “What? Because of a few pathetic deserters? Do my own subjects oppose me now? I will send my soldiers to burn down a few houses, cut off a few heads, and we will see how sympathetic they remain to the rebels! But my soldiers—why do they not bring me the heads of my enemies?”

  “The rebels are concealed in the desert ruin,” Gemala informed him. “It serves them well as a fortress, and they have springs of fresh water to draw on. They fire arrows and cast spears at my men, who must also endure the heat of the desert when they seek to besiege the oasis.”

  “Excuses, always excuses! Is there no one in Zimboura loyal enough to do my bidding? Where is the captain of my guard?”

  Yehosi trembled. “Dead, Majesty—by your order.”

  “Then why has he not yet been replaced?”

  “Perhaps they are having difficulty finding an aspirant for the position,” suggested Mandrake, straight-faced.

  Khalazar glared at him. “And you, spirit—why can you not locate these criminals, for all your powers?”

  “Remember they too have supernatural allies, Majesty, and can call on those powers to conceal them.” Mandrake decided to say nothing of the iron he had sensed within the ruin. “But I have a plan,” he added, stepping forward. “You will prepare another sacrifice, but this time you will anticipate a rescue attempt by these warriors. There must be no more Zimbouran executions for a while: the people will not stand for it. Princess Marjana will do instead. She is a foreigner, and a slave. Send her to the Valley of the Tombs, supposedly for sacrifice to the firedrake that now dwells there. But you will prepare an ambush.”

  Gemala scowled. “And if the monster attacks my men?”

  Mandrake had to admit that was a possibility: firedrakes were notoriously stupid and vicious, and not infrequently ignored or forgot the instructions of their masters. “I will send the drake out of the valley. By night, so no one will know it has gone from its lair.”

  “A true warrior does not use trickery in order to obtain a victory,” said Gemala with disdain.

  Mandrake raised both eyebrows. “Then you would have me leave the drake in the valley? As you please.”

  “Silence, Gemala! You have not succeeded in taking the rebels, for all your vaunted warrior skills,” snapped Khalazar. “Make the necessary preparations. It shall be done as Prince Morlyn says.”

  How I weary of these games! Mandrake thought as h
e left the room. There was little point in capturing Ailia’s friends now, if she were truly dead. But there was no way to know for certain. He had heard nothing yet from the searchers on Nemorah, but the longer her body went unfound, the more he began to suspect that she lived still.

  I must go there and seek for her myself, he thought. In Nemorah my powers are the stronger: in seeking to find and destroy me where I live, the poor fool has put herself at a disadvantage. But I cannot go now, not until this business is concluded. It may yet prove useful to have hostages. For then I need not fight the Tryna Lia at all . . .

  THE VILLAGE IN THE OASIS was growing. Many forays had been made against the work camps in the desert, freeing Moharas and Zimbourans to join them and swell their ranks. Every night there were campfires glowing openly throughout the oasis, and the sound of singing in the air. The rebels had set up some elaborate traps, covered pits and tripwires and nets rigged to fall on those below, and archers were always hiding in the ruins. Several scouts and one Zimbouran platoon had entered, their fear of Khalazar worse than their fear of the rebels. They had all been captured before they got halfway to the village. Some of the Mohara men had wanted to kill them, but Damion and the shaman insisted they be kept as prisoners. Some of them offered to join forces with the Moharas, as Kiran Jariss had done. When none of the men returned to the city, their fellow soldiers balked at following them. Kiran reported that the conscripted men were close to mutiny.

  The few zealots among the captured soldiers were not grateful to be spared; rather, they thought the Moharas cruel for taking live prisoners. “I wish nothing more than to die for my God-king!” one objected as he was brought in. Lorelyn stared at him. Something burned in this man like a fever, giving his eyes a hard gleam and his cheeks an unhealthy flush.