John Fultz - Seven Princes

Vod raised his hand. “I have more to say,” he spoke. “The time has not yet come for a Son of Vod to sit the throne.”

Fangodrel’s eyes flared. He breathed through his nostrils, his mouth clamped tight. His hands were fists at his side, crumpling the folds of his verdure cloak.

“Although the King of Udurum must go,” said Vod, “its rightful Queen shall remain.” His eyes turned to meet Shaira’s again. She saw him through a watery haze, thinking of the deep ocean and its harsh secrets. “Queen Shaira shall rule when I am gone. She is beloved of the Uduru, and there is much strength and wisdom in her. I ask all of you to honor your mother in this new office. She will stand above men and giants, and she will need the strength of her hearty sons. Yes, and her daughter-”

Fangodrel could contain his outrage no more. “This cannot be!” he shouted, hurling spittle from his lips. “The Uduru will not settle for a frail woman to rule them! Nor should Men, if true Men they be! I am the rightful heir to this throne, Father. I am your eldest son and I demand you name me your successor.”

Vod rose from his throne. The children stepped back from his terrible gaze… all save Fangodrel, who stood now on the top step of the dais. He stood nearly as tall as Vod, yet his bulk was less than half of his sire’s. Shaira had seen Fangodrel’s anger before, but never this blatant, never this directed and never aimed at his own family. He was at times a terror to the servants and the lesser folk of the palace, but now he stood before his father as an equal. No, as a rival.

“I have spoken,” said Vod.

“You have gone mad,” said Fangodrel. “This is a city of warriors, hunters, and builders. And I am within my rights as first-born to claim it… even before my own mother.”

Thunder broke the sky above the palace, and the walls trembled. The black hound whimpered and pranced into the shadows.

Shaira felt Vod’s rage building like a typhoon in his breast.

“You are not-” he began, then stopped himself.

Will he say it? Will he declare the truth of Fangodrel’s bastardy? Will he disown this impudent boy? Will he slay him? Oh, Gods of Earth and Sky, grant my poor husband wisdom in this moment.

“You… are not… ready,” said Vod. e g said His anger died as quickly as it was born. He sat back in his chair and stared at his adopted son. This son who thought his blood was true.

Thank you, merciful Gods. Shaira gripped the arms of the throne to calm her trembling hands.

“Many will support my claim,” said Fangodrel. “Both men and giants will rally to the cause of my inheritance.”

“I think not,” said Tadarus the second-born. He stood now between Vod and Fangodrel. Gallant soldier versus brooding poet. “The Uduru like you not, for they respect only the strong. You have not a tenth of the strength of Vireon or myself. And you dishonor us all by standing against our father.”

Vireon stood calm at the side of his father’s chair, with Sharadza on the other side. Always it had been thus. The two youngest would never confront Fangodrel in his tantrums; it was always Tadarus who rose up to defend them, and anyone else, against the eldest.

“Enough,” said Vod. “You will both obey the Queen’s will. Someday, when she is too old and feeble to rule… then may Fangodrel take his inheritance. But there are many years of good life in your mother, boys. Your argument does her dishonor. Go to her now and beg forgiveness.”

The eyes of Tadarus and Fangodrel stayed locked together. They did not move.

“Now!” bellowed Vod, and his voice shook the flames in their braziers.

Tadarus tore himself away from Fangodrel’s gaze, and kneeled before Shaira. He kissed her hand. “My mother, my Queen,” he said. “Body, heart, and soul are yours, as they always have been and ever shall be.”

Fangodrel stood his ground. He stared first at Vod, then at Shaira.

Does he hate me now? Poor boy… poor, misplaced soul. We cannot tell you that your father was a monster and that you’ve no claim to this throne. It would destroy you.

Fangodrel said not a word, but strode across the hall, his cloak flapping like the wings of an incensed bat. He stalked through the main arch and was lost in the shadows beyond.

“Little does he care about the loss of his only father,” spat Tadarus, staring after him with disgust. Vireon said nothing.

Sharadza wept aloud, and Vod pulled her to his lap and hugged her.

Shaira did not know what to say, so she sat in her royal chair and wept as well. I will be alone now… the burden of Queenhood on my back. O Vod, my love. You have cursed me.

Vod’s sons, his true sons, stood with their hands on his massive shoulders. They wept also, though silently, as Men do to hide the shame of it.

Above the hiss of the burning braziers, Shaira heard a strange, low sound. It took a moment to recognize. Even the six Giant sentinels who stood guard in the hall were weeping. Their tears glistened like great diamond s in the glow of orange flames.

The black hound slipped quietly into the night to weep alone.

Murala was a tiny city, a collection of gray stone dwellings without a single tower or rampart to protect its inland borders. For less than a league it stretched along the western coast, a town built upon the convenience of its busy wharves. There were no other ports north of this place, so Murala was gateway to the Stormlands for the southern kingdoms. It was a passing place, a weigh station on trade routes that ran to Uurz and New Udurum, the metropolises of the north. Dozens of galleons were moored here in various stages of loading and unloading. The sky was full of rolling thunderheads. The sun rarely broke through that eternal layer of cloud, and a day without rain here was as rare as an eastern jewel.

D’zan was glad to put the ocean behind him with its endlessly rolling face and unpredictable temper. For thirty-three days he had endured the lurching decks and sodden quarters of one trading vessel after another, on a diet of dried fish, hardtack, and stale keg-water. He would never take ship again if he could avoid it. The weeks were spent in nausea and misery, nights in silent despair or nightmares. The Stone hardly left his side, and D’zan would not weep in sight of the big man. So he let his tears flow only in the dark of night, among the moldy blankets of whatever cabin they had secured. The Stone slept lightly, and sometimes not at all. For a time D’zan wondered if his guardian was human, but eventually he saw the man give in to weariness, and his snores were undeniably mortal. The one thing all their cabins and berths had in common was the ever-present odor of fishy brine. It was a reek D’zan was glad to escape along with the pitching decks and foul-mouthed sailors.

Nine days out from Yaskatha they had approached the white cliffs of Mumbaza on the merchant vessel Lion’s Heart. The capital city stood proudly atop the precipice, a cluster of pearly domes and spires glaring down at the sea with arrogant beauty. D’zan marveled at the Upward Way, the staircase road cut into the bare rock leading up to the city’s towering sea gate. The trip had been a torture, and his inability to sleep made it worse. The Stone said they would find sanctuary in Mumbaza with the Boy-King Undutu. But it was not to be.

When the Lion’s Heart drew into port, an inspector boarded the vessel. He wore a cloak of sable feathers and a helm of beaten gold. His skin was as dark as his cloak, and his eyes were nuggets of onyx, cold and hard and without mercy. He spoke to the Stone in a tone that no man of Yaskatha would ever dare to use, and D’zan thought the two would draw their blades and settle the matter right there on the foredeck. Yet the Stone only walked away, his great hands balled into fists, and came to stand near D’zan as the official continued his inspection.