John Fultz - Seven Kings

He left the pulpit to the sound of their applause and shouts of jubilation. There was much left to do, and little time. The legions of New Khyrei must be assembled and organized. Many slaves-turned-soldiers would require training. Weapons and armor production must increase while the work of restoring streets and fields progressed. Life must go on in the freed city, even as the greatest war in history threatened its existence.

Iardu and Sharadza walked with Tong to share a breakfast of succulents in his council chamber. Outside the vaulted windows, the sounds of excited chatter filled the blackened courtyards.

“You speak with power and grace,” Sharadza said. “Your people love you.”

“I hope that is so,” said Tong. “As I hope I am worthy of their love.”

Iardu patted his shoulder. “You are, Tong,” said the wizard. “It is why I chose you.”

Tong regarded Iardu’s chromatic eyes over the bowls of sliced pomegranates and heaped grapes. The cooks and servants of the palace were only too glad to embrace Tong in place of their former masters. He would not demand the use of their flesh for his own pleasure, nor would he drink their blood to satisfy his thirst.

“Since it was you who picked me to guide the rebirth of Khyrei,” Tong said, “I must ask this: could you not have prevented the death of she whom I loved?”

Iardu’s ageless face lowered. “I am sorry that I could not. Even a sorcerer cannot be everywhere at all times. Even we have our limits. Yet it was this tragedy that set you upon the path I knew you must walk.”

Tong considered this as he sipped from a goblet of amber wine. “I would trade all of this to have her back,” he said. His eyes swelled. “I would rather live as a slave with Matay at my side than be a King without her. I speak only the truth of my feelings, which I have shared with no one else.”

Sharadza regarded him with pity. She reached a hand to cradle his atop the polished table. “Losing someone we love can be our greatest challenge,” she whispered. “Yet such pain makes us what we are. Survivors.”

He met her green eyes with his own and suddenly he envied the King of Yaskatha. Here was a woman worthy of marrying a King. Beautiful, wise, and possessed of unguessable power.

“Your victory honors her memory,” said Iardu. “You must live in a way that would make her proud. You must choose a worthy Queen from the ranks of your freed folk, another who has known the yoke of slavery. It seems only fitting.”

Tong did not mention the unborn son that died with Matay. She would greet him again someday, when he was ready to enter the Deathlands. Perhaps that day would be soon, what with the ancient might of Zyung about to fall upon the world.

“Iardu is right,” said Sharadza. “You must choose a Queen. Someone to soothe your aching heart. Someone to share your burden.”

Tong stared out the southern window. Beyond the plain of blackened fields, the red jungle steamed in the glow of morning. Already groups of freed men worked there, removing debris and detritus, clearing the rows for fresh plantings. The houses of Overseers had been trampled into the earth and would not be rebuilt.

He sensed the truth of Iardu and Sharadza’s advice. When a tree falls in that ruddy wilderness, another eventually rises to take its place. This was the cycle of existence. So must he find another Matay, another mother for those children he had yet to father. Among all the new duties of his royal status, this would prove the most difficult.

He squinted at the disk of golden sun rising low in the eastern sky.

The splendid sun that she had loved so well.

Forgive me, Matay, he asked silently.

Forgive me for what I must do.

In time he would claim another wife, provide a living Queen for his people. She would give him not a single son, but many. Such was the way of Kings, and as a King now he must abide by it. He owed nothing less to the People of New Khyrei.

For all their sakes, he would take the hand of another woman and learn to love her.

One day he would smile at the faces of his strong sons and lovely daughters.

One day he would forget the face of Matay.

Yet that day would not come soon.

The sun blazed high above the azure sea. The Kingspear sat with sails furled, the Sword and Tree banner waving silver and scarlet above the wharves. The Mumbazan flagship had sailed out of the bay in early morning to rejoin the fleet. Undutu wished to consult with his admirals regarding Iardu’s visions. Khama the Feathered Serpent in his manly guise had accompanied the Mumbazan King as always. The Yaskathan flagship lingered foremost in the bay full of Khyrein vessels.

Tong had offered each visiting King a chamber in the shattered palace, yet none had accepted his hospitality. Something about those barbed towers still reeked of ancient depravity. D’zan remained quartered on the Kingspear, perhaps waiting for Sharadza there. He certainly had not sent anyone to summon her.

In the shape of a white gull she soared above the forest of ships’ masts, circling the bay in an effort to spot D’zan walking the decks of his ship. Behind the palace walls Tong worked tirelessly to restore order to his city and prepare a new army for the coming war. Iardu had lingered to assist the King of New Khyrei in his daunting task. Tyro still lay in his tent, lost in the grip of fever, and Vireon was nowhere to be found among Giants or Men. Perhaps he had braved the red jungle for a morning hunt. Yet it was D’zan she must find now. She must face her faithless husband one last time. She did not anticipate kind words and loving reconciliation. She wondered if he would speak to her at all.

D’zan strode across the Kingspear’s foredeck to stand beneath the rippling banner. He wore a shirt of silver mail and a crimson cloak bearing the royal insignia. The greatsword with its graven sun sigil hung across his back. His blond hair had grown longer and wilder since Sharadza had fled Yaskatha. A light beard had sprouted across his chin and jaws. He looked older, even from her lofty vantage point. He was no longer the boy who had stolen her heart; he had become a man she no longer recognized. He stared at the black city and the milling legions camped about its walls, then turned to survey the double fleet as if weighing these assembled forces against the host of Iardu’s vision. Now seemed as good a time as any to do what she needed to do.

She circled down to alight on the deck a few paces behind D’zan. When he turned at the sound of her flapping wings, she stood already in her human form. A simple gown of white silk hung upon her shoulders. Her feet were bare, as she had always preferred, comfortable against the warm wood of the deck. Her green eyes met his own. His had inherited that color when she and Iardu forged him a new body eight years ago. Except for those emerald orbs, so like her own, everything about him seemed changed. The smiling Prince had grown into a grim-faced King carrying all the worry of the world on his broad shoulders.

“Sharadza.” He greeted her with a nod. There was a time when the sound of her name on his lips weakened her knees and set butterflies loose in her stomach. Now it sounded like nothing less than a royal decree. “I have missed you.”

She wondered if that were true. “How fares your wife and child?” she asked. Immediately she regretted her biting tone.

“Cymetha is well,” he said. “And Theskalus-my son-will soon be born.”

She forced a smile. “Congratulations on your good fortune.”

He took a step nearer to her, still far enough away that she could not touch him.

“You look lovely,” he said.