John Fultz - Seven Princes

Marshall Antuu announced the Princes one by one. Andoses’ men carried their ten chests to the foot of the dais, unlocking and flinging back the lids. The splendor of their jeweled contents cast brilliant hues across the hall. The queen seemed impressed, but the Boy-King held his stone face. No doubt he had been well coached and had plenty of chances to practice.

“Great King,” said Andoses, speaking to the boy but addressing the mother, “we come with this tribute of wealth to show our high regard for you and your kingdom. We represent four nations allied in the cause of justice. We would speak with you of adding Mumbaza’s might to our alliance.”

The Boy-King nodded. “I accept your tribute,” he said. His reedy voice was that of a typical boy, yet weighted with the iron of responsibility. “We hold all your nations in high esteem. We will speak of this alliance as we eat and drink together in this hall. You shall enjoy the hospitality of my roof as long as you like. Your retinues are likewise welcome here. But before we speak of alliances, there is a messenger for you, Prince Andoses.”

The Queen Mother turned to a robed functionary. “Send for the Sharrian,” she said, her voice smooth and deep. Andoses thought her twice his age, but still he marveled at the smoothness of her thighs, the deep color of her cheeks, and the fullness of her hips. These Mumbazan women had splendid hips. It took a moment for him to realize what she had said.

“A Sharrian?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Queen Umbrala. “A herald from your homeland arrived thirteen days past. Thus we knew of your conew/p›ming. He bears a personal message from your father’s court.”

The Sharrian messenger entered through a far door and approached down the corridor. The Boy-King ordered wine brought for his guests. Andoses had forgotten his thirst. He recognized the man in the blue-and-white livery of Shar Dni.

“Prince Andoses!” called the Sharrian, rushing to bow before him.

“Dyartha the Swift,” Andoses said. “I did not expect to see you so far from home.”

Dyartha was chief herald in service to the throne of Shar Dni. He carried messages to Uurz and Udurum, but Andoses had no idea he traveled this far. He must have ridden south to Allundra at the eastern end of the Earth-Wall, then west along its fringe all the way to the steppes. Hard riding for weeks, leaving behind a string of spent horses. Only a single rider with a good supply of strong mounts could travel so fast. Only a skilled warrior could survive the dangers of such a journey.

The smile fell from Dyartha’s face as he took a tube of white bone from his belt. He withdrew a curled scroll from within and handed it to Andoses. The King’s Hall grew quiet as Andoses read the message on the parchment. His knees grew weak, and his legs abandoned him. Dyartha caught him as he fell, and helped him to a cushioned divan between pillars. A murmur of concern rushed like a momentary wind through the hall.

“What is it, Cousin?” asked Vireon, leaning over him. Andoses slumped on the couch, his fingers numb, his heart shattered like a glass globe. His stomach churned, and he gasped for air. Someone handed him a cup of Mumbazan wine… the wine he had so anticipated. He quaffed it to the dregs but tasted none of it.

“Speak, Andoses,” said Tyro. “What is the message?”

“My father is dead,” he said. The words sounded distant, faraway syllables spoken by someone else. “I am to come home at once… and be crowned King.”

“What happened?” asked Lyrilan. “What else does the scroll say?”

Andoses handed it to Lyrilan. The world spun about him, and he held his head in his hands. His father could not be dead… not Ammon the Strong… he was still hearty and full of life. Tears welled, but Andoses wiped them. He would not blubber in the hall of the Boy-King. It was bad enough that the five Princes gathered about him now like a group of maids about a vexed housewife. He forced himself to stand.

“According to this,” said Lyrilan, as the Princes’ eyes fell upon him, “it was Fangodrel. He came into the palace and unleashed some kind of sorcery, killing everyone in the royal hall. Ammon, his seven sisters, and a Duke named Dutho, Son of Omirus…”

“My father’s brother,” said Andoses, regaining his composure. There would be time for grieving later. Not now. “My Uncle Omirus holds the throne as Regent until I return.”

“You are King of Shar Dni,” said D’zan.

“Not until the Sky Priests have performed the Rites of Coronation.”

“I am sorry for the loss of your father,” said Tyro, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Not here,” said Andoses in a low voice. “Remember our goal.”

Vireon simmered silently. Alua whispered something in his ear, but the Prince of Udurum held murder in his eyes. Ammon had been the brother of Vireon’s mother. Anot her victim of his mad half-brother.

Andoses swallowed his pain.

Use it, use it all. Hide the sorrow, the tears, the hate.

Use it to guide you. It is a dark power… See it burning in Vireon’s eyes.

The Princes returned to their formation before the Boy-King.

“The tragedy of your loss is felt in our hearts also,” said Queen Umbrala. “Please accept our condolences. Tonight we will feast in honor of King Ammon’s memory, and you will know the comforts of our palace.”

“I thank you, kind Queen… great King,” said Andoses, bowing.

This, too, can work in your favor.

It must. Otherwise it could destroy you.

“We accept your gracious offer. There is much to discuss before I depart to claim the Sharrian throne.”

The Queen Mother clapped her hands, and robed servants came to attend the Princes. The hall became a bustling scene of activity, and the guests were led to their individual chambers to prepare for the feast.

Andoses was given a vast room of hanging silks and jasper murals. A tall window overlooked the brilliant sea. When the servants left, he ordered his personal guard to stand outside the door. Then, alone at the window, caressed by a cool sea breeze, he wept.

None heard the sound of his sorrow carried away on the fragrant winds.

At Iardu’s touch the gnarled tree became a four-wheeled wagon with a canopy of woven grass. He called two white goats from the pen and changed them into strong horses to pull the carriage. In the misty gold of morning Khama loaded his three sons, his daughter, and his wife into the wagon. He set the rest of his sheep and goats free to find their own grazing grounds, then joined his family on the conveyance. Food and clothing were bundled into burlap sacks, and five clay jars of fresh water completed the family’s provisions. Iardu and Sharadza sat on the driver’s bench as the horses trotted westward across the steppe. Khama wore a cloak of feathers, its colors fading from red along the shoulders to green at its middle, then blue around his ankles. Squatting at the back of the wagon, he watched his tiny farm diminish until the tall, windblown grass swallowed it.

They came to an unpaved road leading west toward the capital, and here the white horses picked up speed. Sharadza watched the villages of Mumbaza pass by, all of them similar to Khama’s own. The ripe crops of farms were being harvested, and herds of livestock were tended by brawny black youths. The road crossed a bridge of arching stone above a lazy river. Mumbazans lined the riverbanks, filling ewers and jars for nearby villages. Groups of shouting children jumped into the brown water, and riverboats glided gracefully into the west. Commerce in this land ran always toward the city and its ancient wealth. The river wound like a great glistening ribbon, and from the middle of the bridge Sharadza saw a dozen villages hugging its course. Soldiers in white-plumed helmets manned a garrison at the bridge’s far end, but a wave from Khama’s hand brought easy passage. She did not think he worked a spell; the soldiers knew his face. Probably he passed this way several times a year going to the Great Market.