Fellow poured them both a generous portion of the deep red vintage. The cups were bronze, but Sharadza’s was studded with imitation garnets. The innkeeper knew he had special company and this was the best he could do on short notice. He came forward to offer more services, but Fellow waved him away.
“You have heard a few such tales from me,” he said before taking his first sip of the Yaskathan wine. He closed his eyes a moment, savoring the flavor. Sharadza ignored her own cup.
“Have you any stories – any at all – about how these sorcerers gained their terrible powers?”
Fellow pondered the question, swirling the wine, inhaling its bouquet. “How does a Giant become a Giant? Or a man become a man? Why ask such an obscure question?”
Sharadza sighed and tasted the drink. It was biting, but excellent. The sunlight of a distant land had worked its magic on these grapes and cast a delicious spell. She licked her lips.
“I have been over and over the texts in my father’s collection,” she said. “There is nothing there that gives me any clue to his learning magic. Are you implying that he was… born a sorcerer?”
Fellow drank again, slowly, transfixed by the sun magic. “He was born a Giant, and Giants have sorcery in their very bones. It swims in their blood. Some say it was sorcery that created them.”
“Not the Gods, then?” she said.
“Who says the Gods created Giants? Or Men, for that matter?”
“My mother.”
Fellow smiled. “The Gods of Shar Dni are credited with mighty works, as are all the Gods of Men. The truth might be more evasive than priests and sages suspect. The world is a series of stories, Princess, and the tellers are often forgotten.”
“Do you know how my father learned sorcery?”
The old man stared at her, dark pupils fixed on her green ones. One hand stroked his pale mustache. Cheap rings of bronze and glass lined his bony fingers.
“He made a bargain,” Fellow whispered, “with someone who knew far more than he did. It was a bargain he regretted even to this day, I’m told.”
“Who was it?” she asked. “I want to make such a bargain.”
“No,” he said, drinking deeper now. “You do not.”
“You said Giants were created from sorcery. Well, my father was a Giant, and my father created me.”
“He and your mother,” Fellow corrected.
“Some say my mother is a sorceress. But I don’t believe it.”
“Nor should you,” said Fellow. “Your mother is a fine woman, a brave Queen, a heroine to her people. Now she bears the burden of rulership like a bronze yoke on her shoulders. It is no easy task to rule a kingdom.”
“Answer my question,” Sharadza said. “I love my mother, but I’m not made in her image. There is more of my father in me.” She picked up the bronze cup and squeezed it hard. The metal crumpled like paper in her fist. Wine ran across the table, dripping onto the floor like dark blood. “I have his strength… or some of it. Like Tadarus and Vireon.”
“You believe that you might possess some of his sorcery.”
“I know I do,” she said. “And if I am right I can save him, Fellow! I can deliver him from the Sea Queen’s curse!”
Fellow said nothing.
“Can you help me? Will you?”
Fellow drank deep, emptying his cup, then wiped his stained lip with a sleeve of triple colors. “You cannot learn sorcery from a book,” he said. “No more than you can learn strength from a book Ch f of. Or compassion. Or love.”
She stared at him. She sensed it now… this storyteller knew the path she must walk.
“You already have strength, compassion, and love,” said Fellow. “To master sorcery you must live it, as you live these other things. Because you have the first three, I think you may be able to gain the fourth.”
She smiled. Here was what she had been searching for in all those moth-eaten old books. She was at the threshold of a new existence. Her skin tingled.
“Are you willing to accept the pain of Knowledge?” he asked. “For there will be pain.”
“For my father’s sake, I am ready.”
“You may not save your father, even if you master the arts of which we speak. The Sea Queen is ancient and powerful.”
“And my father may already be dead,” she whispered. “I know this.”
“Are you willing not only to succeed… but to fail?” he asked.
“If I never try, then failure is certain.”
Fellow poured himself more Yaskathan wine. “Another cup?” he asked. She shook her head. He drained the cup in a single draft, then sighed and leaned his head back against the wall.
“First you must leave the city,” he said. “And none can see you go. They will search for you, and your mother’s heart will break.”
“I will leave her a letter,” said Sharadza. “She will understand.”
“She will not,” said Fellow, shaking his head. “Never.”
“Where must I go?”
“North,” he said. “Into the woods.”
She could hardly believe the hot spark of hope that burned inside her where cold gloom had lingered for weeks. She trusted Fellow, and she would follow him anywhere for a chance to save her father.
“Alone,” said Fellow.
The Queen of New Udurum received her brother’s son not in the grand throne room, but in a smaller and more intimate hall. Tapestries of velvet covered the walls with scenes of Giants battling leviathans and toppling mountains. Fangodrel found the Uduru’s ancestor worship boring and offensive. How many of these Giant heroes truly existed, and how many were the figments of dim imaginations? The Giants were dying off anyway, so it made sense they would look backward instead of forward. They had a history but no real future. The dumb brutes were being replaced in their own kingdom and they did not even realize it.
The King of Shar Dni was Ammon, brother to Shaira, and therefore Fangodrel’s uncle. That made this pompous blowhard, Prince Andoses, his cousin. Fangodrel had little appetite for the feast his mother had laid out for her nephew. Tadarus ate heartily, as always, stuffing his C sthat mad beefy frame with roast piglet, potatoes, and baked confections. Vireon was thankfully nowhere to be seen, and Sharadza was at her studies.
Andoses came seeking favor all the way from Shar Dni with a retinue of two hundred warriors, only to discover the Giant-King had abandoned his throne and left it to his forlorn Queen. Fangodrel held a goblet of wine before his face and listened to Andoses’ obsequious rhetoric. He wanted something from Shaira, that much was certain.
“Father wishes he could come himself to visit his beloved sister,” said Andoses, “but these troubled times demand his constant attention.”
Queen Shaira nodded. She had fallen into a deep gloom after Vod’s departure, but she looked genuinely pleased to see her nephew after so many years. She kept to her chambers most days, unless some demanding matter of state called her down. The rest of the time it fell to Tadarus to wrangle with counselors, advisors, and viziers. She had even given Fangodrel some minor responsibilities, just enough to appear kindly. Shaira was too lost in her own sorrow to rule Udurum effectively, and by rights the throne should be his. But Tadarus was the favored one, confirmed by her choice of delegation. Fangodrel avoided looking at his brother across the table. He kept his eyes on Prince Andoses, the cousin who was three years younger than him, yet commanded a cohort of warriors.
“I understand,” said the Queen. “A season of strife falls upon us all. But no matter the cause, it is good to see you again. How are my sisters?”
“Fine, one and all,” said Andoses. His face was dusky, his eyes green like Shaira’s. A single emerald sat in the center of his turban, and his robes of yellow silk were strung with teardrops of silver. Servants had carried away his fine scimitar and war helm.
“Dara speaks of you often,” said Andoses, referring to Shaira’s youngest sister. “She expects her first child next season.”
Shaira smiled, a brief ray of light in a cloudy sky. “I miss my sisters most of all,” she said. “But what news of
