John Fultz - Seven Princes

Iardu’s shoulders sagged a bit, but he seemed chipper. “Thank me later with some of your fine Yaskathan wine. Now you must bury this corpse to complete the spell.”

He produced a silver shovel for D’zan, who proceeded to dig a grave between the pomegranate trees. Sharadza and Iardu kept an eye out for passers-by. It would not do to have anyone witness the burial of their new King. Even if it was the new King himself that dug the hole.

D’zan rolled his former body into the hole and covered it with dirt. Iardu waved a hand and thick grass grew across the mound. Sharadza tossed a few flower petals on the unmarked grave, and a patch of golden magnolias sprouted there.

Every grave must have some marker.

She embraced D’zan, then Iardu. She wiped at her eyes. “Life from death… This miracle soothes my heart.” Something in D’zan’s eyes made her want to linger near to him. Perhaps it was because her own blood had played a small role in his rebirth. Or it could be the verdant green of his eyes? Suddenly the urge to kiss his warm pink lips overwhelmed her. She turned away and faced Iardu instead.

“I supposed we must carry the grim news of Khama’s death to’s dea his family.”

Iardu smiled. “There was no time to explain before now… but Khama is not dead.”

Her mouth fell open. She turned to stare at handsome D’zan again. He grinned, his white teeth shining.

“Elhathym merely caught the Feathered Serpent in a prison of earth,” Iardu said. “What better way to capture a Creature of the Air? Khama is of the Old Breed. We do not die so easily.”

Sharadza beamed. “Then let us go to Zaashari and free him.”

Iardu glanced at D’zan then back at her. “No… no, you stay here for a while, Princess. I will go alone to free Khama. Then I’ll return to my island.”

“Why?” asked Sharadza.

“There is a certain stone there that I’ve kept too long… a splendid pearl that belongs to someone else. I think it is time I returned it.”

Sharadza hugged the Shaper, squeezed him in the way she used to squeeze her father’s neck. She kissed his cheek. “You should visit her,” she said. “Don’t just drop it in the sea.”

Iardu smiled. His eyes glimmered. He turned to D’zan and motioned to the hidden grave. “If these bones are ever found, you must declare them a fallen soldier whom you loved well. No one must know what Elhathym did to you. Or what I have done to reverse it.”

D’zan embraced him as well. “All the riches of my kingdom are yours for the asking. What would you have from me?”

Iardu rubbed his beard, cocked his head. “A bottle of wine would suit me best.”

D’zan called for a servant and Iardu had his wish. He kissed Sharadza’s forehead, then soared into the sky as a red eagle. They watched him ascend until he was only a speck in the blue vault. Then he disappeared behind a pearly cloud.

Sharadza turned her gaze earthward again and found D’zan kneeling on the grass before her. In his open palm lay a ring of white gold set with three fiery stones.

“Sharadza, Princess of Udurum,” he said, gazing into her eyes. “Every kingdom needs a King… and every King needs a Queen. You held my soul in your hands even before I died and was reborn. Will you be my Queen?”

She stared not at the golden bauble, but into his eyes of glittering green.

Lyrilan walked into the Royal Library of Uurz and felt himself at home. The journey from Yaskatha to Murala had taken nearly a month, with frequent stops along the coast to avoid winter storms. In those tiny villages and desolate stretches of coast, he had found a peace that was wholly unlike the peace of Uurz, or any of the cities he had visited. The simple fisher-folk of the coasts were unconcerned with wars, sorcerers, or the many evils abroad in the world. He wondered what secret they knew that allowed them to enjoy a day-to-day existence without the benefits of city culture, the written word, or the thoughts of history’s great men. They told folk tales around warm hearth-fiarm hearres and showed him scattered ruins where the heroes of old fought monsters. Half their tales were lies or distortions of actual history, but that made them no less compelling. Some of them he would write down one day.

First he must write the story of D’zan as he had long intended. Upon the rolling sea for weeks, he often stared at the dark waters, thinking of his lost and incomplete manuscript rotting away on some sandy sea bed. It was better this way. How could he be objective and consider the whole story while he was stuck in the middle of it? Trying to write the chronicle of King D’zan’s rise to power was impossible while he shared that adventure himself. Only now, with months and a thousand leagues between him and those wearisome days, could he see it all clearly enough to set it down in ink.

It was a tale of Princes, Kings, Sorcerers, a Princess and an Empress, a Boy-King and a Giant-King. The death of Shar Dni wove tragedy into the narrative, not to mention the betrayal and seduction of Fangodrel the Bastard. The rising legend of Vireon the Slayer began inside D’zan’s tale. Tales often grew from other tales – like buds from the branches of trees. Tyro played a starring role, though not as great a one as he had imagined.

Tyro had expected a war of years, and the Battle of Yaskatha had not sated his lust for glory. He had tried to convince D’zan to march upon Khyrei, but the King of Yaskatha had other, sweeter endeavors in mind. So Tyro returned to Uurz with his battle fever still burning… No tragic fate had befallen him, only a minor wound quickly healed. He would continue to look for war where he could find it. Someday, sooner than Lyrilan or Tyro would like, their father would pass away and they would rule as Twin Kings. Lyrilan would have to balance his brother’s lust for war as the voice of peace. He did not look forward to those days.

Dairon had greeted his sons with pomp and splendor when they returned, and his joy was even greater when he learned there was no longer a need for his legions to march south. He mourned the death of Shar Dni, but he rejoiced at the death of the Khyrein Beast-Queen. “Let them rot in their filthy jungle,” Dairon said. “We’ll not spill our blood unless they forget their place again.” Naturally, Tyro felt otherwise. Father declared it was time for Tyro to marry. A good woman would cool his warrior passion. Lyrilan was not so sure.

The wedding of D’zan and Sharadza was a spectacular affair. Lyrilan would save its description for the closing scene of his book. It would make a fine and uplifting coda to a tale of death and grim sorcery. The rain of flowers from the golden heights, the silver parade of soldiers trailing crimson, the black horses thick with hanging jewels, the opulence of the bride’s gown and her crown of jewels… All these details lingered vivid in his mind. Now, however, he must cast his mind back to the day he met D’zan, a frightened, nervous lad who smelled of horseflesh and ate like a starved orphan. Or perhaps he would reach farther back and begin with the Prince’s early years… the tales of his father’s conquests. Whichever he chose, the tale would really begin when the dark stranger came to Yaskatha.

Outside the librarium’s high windows, raindrops glistened in the sunlight and a rainbow glimmered above the Palace of Sacred Waters. Somewhere in the city bards sang of ancient lovers, and storytellers spun sagas of war and doom. Wine poured and flowers bloomed. Plowmen planted the fields beneath the rushing clouds of spring. Uurzians lived, loved, died, hoped, died, d, dreamed, wept, and laughed. A thousand thousand stories unfolded like the petals of numberless flowers, composing a pattern whose complexity was too great for a single mind.