John Fultz - Seven Kings

Last night’s conjuring was long and painful and exacting. He had yet to see the fruits of his nocturnal weaving. Yet for now it was enough to spy on this murderess who wore the crown.

So Lyrilan watched.

Patience is the key to crafting any great work of art.

Talondra enjoyed her lofty view from the throne of Uurz, yet little else pleased her on this day. The faces of the fawning courtiers looked up at her with a mixture of jealousy, fear, and desire. No woman could be more intoxicating to a man than one who held utmost power over him. The females of her court were scheming fools, and she had already removed her greatest rivals from the palace. It was easy to create imaginary crimes and enforce very real penalties for those who defied her. Yet those who remained were only hypocrites. Her spies knew the secret blasphemies whispered behind the doors of noble houses. She forgot nothing and forgave less.

How could the burdens of an Empress be so worldly and mundane? She was called to judge a string of cases involving theft, slander, and murder. Each man hauled before her claimed his innocence, shouting it to the very rafters of the Great Hall; each accuser claimed his own veracity with equal fervor. Both sides unfailingly invoked the Four Gods in their pleas and protests, as if the Gods had anything to do with the fates of Men and their tiny lives. Still, she must judge and deliver the Emperor’s justice in his stead. For a fleeting moment she wished Tyro were still here to handle these unpleasant verdicts, instead of conquering Khyrei.

These pitiful cries for justice never seemed to end. This morning alone she had sent two men to the dungeons, another to the headsman, and ordered the hands removed from a woman infamous for stealing palace loaves. And still there were the tax advisors waiting, the masters of the granaries, the lords of the vineyards, and the ambassador from Mumbaza would arrive any day now. Preparations for this southern dignitary’s visit had consumed the better part of a week. There would be daily feasting and nightly entertainments, all for the benefit of Undutu’s favorite cousin and his humorless retinue. She did not look forward to the Mumbazans’ stay. They were a singularly humorless people.

She played with a jeweled bracelet at her wrist and listened to the latest accuser, a smith who stood at the bottom of her dais and condemned his apprentice for stealing silver.

She sighed. “How many ingots were stolen?”

“Five, Majesty! Enough to make a fine chalice.”

She turned to the sooty face of the smith’s apprentice. A lanky boy of no more than fifteen, he looked as if he had never eaten a whole meal in his entire unglamorous life. Such poverty created thieves, as surely as rain caused the grapes of the field to grow.

“Five ingots of silver,” she repeated. “Guards, remove five of this boy’s fingers.”

The smithy and his ward cried their protests at the same time. No matter what decision she gave, there was never much satisfaction among the parties involved. The people of Uurz were ungrateful, spoiled, and worthy of little but her contempt.

She missed the fine lords of Shar Dni and their splendid daughters. The games and dances and contests of her youth were nowhere to be found in the green-gold city. Here a royal steward put together various entertainments for her nightly distraction. Yet more often than not he missed the mark. Off-key minstrels plucked from the muddy Stormlands roads, motley fools who tumbled and leaped like trained monkeys, even contests of skill where swordsmen and knife wielders fought to the death. All of these desperate spectacles left her restless and bored.

She rubbed the gentle swell of her belly. In another month the last of her lithe figure would be lost beneath the growing bulk of her pregnant stomach. This was her only source of joy. She missed Tyro’s strong arms and his savage lovemaking. He had been the source of all her pleasure in Uurz; without him she would rather travel to some distant land and find new ways to spend her time. Yet her duty was here. She must run the Stormlands while Tyro ended the threat of Khyrei. When the Sword King Emperor returned, his son would be healthy and strong, a worthy heir. Now Sharrian blood would one day sit upon the throne of Uurz; she shuddered with quiet glee when she mused upon her son’s future reign. Then her ennui always returned, mixed with a painful longing for her husband’s touch.

The ladies of the court told her not to fret, for pregnant women were often besieged by stormy moods and periods of clinging sadness. She supposed they were correct, but she seemed to have lost the joy of golden Uurz without Tyro at her side. She had only the birth of her son to anticipate in less than seven months. The little Prince growing inside her would transform her life, as he would one day reshape the Stormlands and the world.

Sentinels dragged away the displeased smith and the weeping boy. Talondra declared an end to the proceedings. “I will hear no more cases today,” she announced. “The rest of you must wait until tomorrow. My condition causes me to tire easily. I am sure you understand.”

The assorted courtiers, advisors, and petitioners nodded, smiling to conceal their disappointment. Nobody in the palace ever spoke honestly or revealed his true thoughts. She admired their skill in these courtly games, but since Tyro’s leaving these too had grown to annoy her. All of the courtiers were so predictable. She might ban all spoken word from the palace, and still she would know the exact thoughts of every man and woman who entered her presence.

A train of twelve maidens accompanied her from the great hall to her private chambers. There she slipped free of her bejeweled robe and the crown of silver and opal. She lay naked across the bed where Tyro used to work his magic on her willing body. She slept for a little while, then awoke to thirst and hunger as the sun sank low and thunderheads rumbled across the purple sky.

A light rain fell outside the arched windows as she dined on candied fruits, rare legumes, and slivers of braised swordfish. Instead of wine she drank warm goats’ milk blended with honey and sprinkled with cinnamon. One of her maidens plucked at the harp while Talondra ate, and another girl sang in high, clear tones. She crooned the story of a valiant knight gone off to war, and the dreams of the faithful girl who awaited his return.

Talondra caressed the singer’s cheek. “You always pick the loveliest and saddest songs.” She gifted the girl with a soft kiss from her red lips.

They dressed her in an evening gown of maroon with gold stitching, trimmed with an abundance of white lace. The hairdresser wove a matrix of silver wire and diamonds into her hair and set twin rubies dangling from her ears. She walked barefoot across the western wing of the palace to meet with her private guests.

The Lords Ymbrand and Adacus had arrived last evening. Although they had called Udurum their home for the past seven years, they were both loyal Sharrians, and Talondra’s eyes and ears in the City of Men and Giants. Before the fall of Shar Dni both lords had enjoyed the lives of Merchant Princes, yet both had successfully transferred knowledge and experience into profitable ventures north of the Grim. Since the fall of Shar Dni, the population of Udurum had tripled.

Talondra ate very little as the two lords devoured the bulk of a roast piglet and washed it down with some of her finest Uurzian wine. “It is true, Majesty,” Ymbrand told her. He was a portly man with terrible taste in clothing. His gaudy robes were more suited to a court fool than a master of jewelcraft and royal intrigue. “A true Man sits upon the throne of Udurum. Ryvun Ctholl, they call him, and damn me if he doesn’t have some Sharrian blood. Got the green eyes, you see.”