John Fultz - Seven Kings

Vireon sat at ease in the captain’s cabin aboard the Kingspear. D’zan had invited him aboard the docked vessel so they might share counsel. For the first time since he awoke at the scarlet jungle’s edge, Vireon felt the weight of exhaustion on his shoulders.

In the broad cabin sat a bed, desk, chair, and a cabinet stocked with Yaskathan wines. Vireon’s greatsword hung from a peg on the wall, his crown of sapphire and iron beside it. He sat in the padded seat and drank from a bottle of dark red. He did not bother to pour its contents into one of the cabinet’s jeweled goblets, instead pulling out the cork with his thumb and forefinger and swilling directly from the bottle’s mouth.

Through the round porthole a lowering sun set the horizon aflame; the seven hundred sails of the double armada were cast into silhouette. He was glad that he could not see from this vantage the black ships of Khyrei sitting in the harbor, or the risen city that still smoked and roiled with the chaos of revolution. Such sights would only deepen his mood.

As he brooded over the drink, his memory replayed the vision of Iardu’s golden cloud. He doubted none of the sorcerer’s words, yet the truth of it all disturbed him. How could two worlds exist for so many ages, yet remain ignorant of one another’s existence? It seemed the depths of time were bottomless, full of blood and terror, and mysteries beyond the understanding of mortal beings. He missed Alua fiercely. At times like this she would speak some gentle wisdom to him, quelling the storm of his consternation with tranquil hopes.

A polite knock on the cabin’s door broke his reverie. His sister had come to him as requested. “Enter,” he called through the oaken door.

Sharadza opened it and stepped inside. She closed the door behind her and smiled in a way that reminded him of their mother. She sat on the bed, her hands smoothing the wrinkles of her amber gown. Her lengthy black hair was tied at the back of her neck with a leather thong, and he saw no jewelry on her person. Not even the splendid wedding ring given her by D’zan.

“How are you?” she asked him.

“Alua is dead,” he said. “Killed by Maelthyn.”

Sharadza’s jaw fell and her brow creased. “What? Little Maelthyn? How…” Her green eyes reddened and began to water.

“Maelthyn was never my daughter,” he said. The words pierced his own heart as surely as a length of sharp steel. Air came thick and stifling into his chest. “She was… only a product of Ianthe’s sorcery. For seven years she grew among us, feeding on our love, and our ignorance. At last she came for our hearts.”

Sharadza came forward to wrap him in a warm embrace. “Oh, Vireon, I am so sorry.” She wept quietly, and for a moment he joined her. Then he battled the tears away with the power of the red bottle tipped at his lips once again. He offered it to his sister; she declined.

“You came all this way for vengeance,” she whispered. “No. For justice.”

She took his big hand, cradling it like that of a child.

Justice had been done. Certainly not by his own hand as he had wished. Yet it was justice nevertheless. He must accept it. He had little choice.

“Why are you not sitting in D’zan’s palace,” he asked, “ruling his kingdom while he sails?”

She turned away from him, her hands slipping from his own.

Now it was her turn to fight back tears.

“Have you not heard the rumors?” she said.

“I have,” he said. “Yet I would rather hear the truth from your own tongue. Before I speak with D’zan on the subject.”

She faced him now with something akin to fear in her eyes. “No,” she said. “I beg you, say nothing to D’zan about this. It’s not his fault.”

“Is it yours then?”

“Yes,” she said. “No! I don’t know…”

“What are you not telling me, Sharadza?”

She lingered, hesitating to speak at all, while he took another swig from the bottle of jade glass. The wine was strong, a tribute to grapes emboldened by sun and rain.

“It’s simple, really,” she said. “I could not produce the heir he wanted. So he chose someone else who can do so. I am still Queen of Yaskatha. Yet I must share my husband.”

Vireon shook his head. “This is not our way.”

“But it is the way of Yaskathans,” she said. “Some of their Kings have had twenty wives or more.”

Vireon sighed. “So you will endure this humiliation to retain the crown and title?”

“I don’t know. I came to Khyrei seeking Fangodrel and found him reborn as Gammir. A creature of hate, a drinker of blood, a beast made of shadow. And I have destroyed him. Stolen his kingdom.”

Vireon chuckled without mirth. “There are those who would say that a slave named Tong has stolen Gammir’s kingdom.”

Sharadza gave him a shallow smile, wiping at her eyes. “Former slave,” she said. “Just as well. It was all a part of Iardu’s plan.”

Vireon sat up straighter in his chair. “Tell me what you know of Iardu’s plans.”

“You saw what is coming. The force coming to claim our lands. The greatness of this Zyung. Iardu prepares our nations to defy him. That is my understanding.”

“Who is Zyung?” asked Vireon.

“Gammir knew,” Sharadza whispered. “He showed me in his mirror of sorcery. Like you, I have only looked upon the image of the Conqueror’s face. My guess is that spying on him directly would be far too dangerous. I know only what you and the other Kings know. That he is coming and there will be no making peace with him.”

Vireon accepted this. He would speak with Iardu later. The Shaper must know more than he revealed. Such was the nature of sorcerers, sages, and madmen alike. They spoke in fragments of truth, forced their listeners to delve deeply for wisdom. It seemed they thrived on such games of the mind.

“You wear a new crown,” Sharadza said. Her eyes fell upon the loop of iron and sapphires hanging on the wall beside his blade. “They say you are lord of both Uduru and Udvorg now.”

“This is so,” he sighed. “Though I did not wish it. I hold the crown for Angrid’s eldest son. Someday it will be his to claim. Udurum is mine by blood. I am content with it.”

She smiled again, and once more he saw the face of his mother in her own.

“The world makes terrific demands on us all,” she said. Her eyes drifted toward the bloody twilight beyond the porthole. “I would tell you of the terrible things Gammir and Ianthe forced upon me. The killing, the tortures, the carnal crimes… yet I would spare even the glimmer of these things from your memory. Suffice to say that I was torn apart and rebuilt… then torn and rebuilt again. I am no longer… what I was.”

“You seem far greater,” Vireon said. “Father’s power glows in your eyes. You have the strength of the Uduru in your veins. I have discovered this same strength. Father’s gift.”

“Yes,” she said. “Already I have heard the tale of how you slew the Swamp God. How you grew like Vod against the Serpent-Father. I knew you carried this within you. Like it or not, we are both sorcerers, just as we are both Men and Giants. Creatures of two worlds, born to unite them as one.”

“Unity.” Vireon examined the word. “Perhaps this was Iardu’s goal all along.”

“I believe it was,” she said. “A dream he long held impossible. Now it must succeed, or we perish.”

“How long do we have?” he asked. “Has the Shaper told you?”

“Days. Perhaps weeks. No more than that.”

Vireon took another pull from the bottle. Half empty already. His weary head swam.

“What will you do?” she asked.

“Fight. What else is there to do?”