did not die in the destruction of her palace. Ianthe the Claw survived through her sorcery. Now this sorcerer Elhathym conquers Yaskatha. How could these two not be twined together in some conspiracy?”
Vireon considered everything he had heard. “Do you believe… that Gammir’s son inherited the sorcery of Khyrei?”
“Did you not inherit the strength of your own father? The iron of his skin? The force of his will? Perhaps it was only a matter of time.”
“How could this sorceress reach across the world to corrupt…” He could not say the name. It would spill from his mouth like burning magma, set his world on fire.
Shaira leaned her head back to rest a moment. “How could a Giant shrink to the size of Man and grow back into a Giant when he pleased? How did Vod slay the Lord of Serpents? There is more sorcery in this world than you can guess, Vireon.”
He thought of Alua’s white flame, dancing in her palm. Of her naked fox-form running across the snow. Could she be? She must be.
Sorcery.
The word tumbled through his mind, splashing into the waters of his imagination, making ripples of thought. What is sorcery? It had killed his brother. Yet it had saved him. It had built this city. It had flowed in the blood of his own father. Is it in my blood too?
“Get some sleep,” said Shaira. “I am sorry I never told you these things before now. Please understand… I could not.”
“I understand,” he said. He kissed her cheek and walked toward the door.
“Vireon?” she called after him. He turned.
“Your friend Alua.” Shaira smiled. “She loves you.”
He nodded, returned her smile, and exited. As he walked the dim hallway, those ripples of thought pressed against the walls of his skull.
Sorcery. Love.
Love and sorcery.
Does any living Man truly understand such things?
18
Tadarus lay upon a bier of silk, gold, and snowflowers. A shirt of silver mail hung over his fine robe of purple and sable. His gauntlets gripped the hilt of a jeweled sword upon his breast, and his face was obscured by the winged helm of an Udurum soldier. Tyro watched Vireon, dressed in armor of blackened bronze scales, place a Giant’s hammer at the side of his dead brother.
“It was the last gift I ever gave him,” Vireon said.
Tyro had no words for the grieving Prince. He looked instead at his own brother. Lyrilan was the only Prince who did not wear mail or plate this day. Lyrilan’s robes were cloth-of-gold trimmed in green, the colors of Uurz. His black curls were oiled and held from his brow by a golden band set with emeralds. The persistent stubble that never quite became a beard was gone. Lyrilan’s chin was shaved to the cleanness of boyhood, which almost made Tyro laugh. Lyrilan was his other half, the thought to his action. Each twin had mastered the skills his counterpart lacked. Together, they were body and mind. To lose Lyrilan would be to lose himself. Such thoughts kept Tyro from meeting the sad eyes of Vireon. Alua, dressed in a black gown of mourning, remained at Vireon’s side, a steady presence to guide him through the service. For the first time Tyro realized how beautiful this strange girl was, despite her lack of finery and jewels. Or perhaps because of it? Her eyes gleamed, yet they were darker than her funereal silks.
Andoses stood tall in gilded mail and turban-helm, scimitar gleaming at his waist. D’zan, poorest of the Princes, had been given a shirt of bronze links and a black tabard by his Udurum hosts, and the great sword hung on his back as always. Tyro had supplied him with a new pair of spotless boots for the occasion – since he claimed the throne of Yaskatha, D’zan must look the part of a King. His cloak of fine brown fur was washed and groomed, and a circlet of fine silver held back his thick blonde mane. He looked presentable enough, if somewhat out of place this far from home.
Fangodrim and fifty Uduru sentinels in full armor formed the heart of the procession, and Queen Shaira arrived last of all. Servants had draped her in black: a flowing dress, shawl, and a cloak pinned by a silver brooch in the shape of the Udurum hammer. An elaborate headdress replaced her usual crown of slim silver. Twelve rays of a platinum sun spread outward from her brow, radiating from a faceted amethyst at the center of her forehead. Her green eyes glimmered through the delicate lace of a veil. Her feet were bare in the traditional Sharrian mode of mourning. The day was cold, so this was a bold choice. Perhaps the chill could be no worse than the pain of losing her son.
A quartet of Uduru lifted her chair onto a broad palanquin hung with black silks. Another four Giants lifted the bier of Tadarus. At noon four priests representing Earth, Sea, Sun, and Sky filed from the palace gates swinging censers full of incense. The Dead Prince came next, followed by the Living Queen, both held high on the shoulders of the solemn Giants. Next came the five Living Princes, Vireon and Alua at their head. Fangodrim and his fifty Uduru marched at Vireon’s heels, then a hundred spearmen in silver helms, purple cloaks, and black mail. At the rear of the procession rode a captain on a black stallion, holding high the banner of New Udurum.
The procession went first along Giant’s Way, the city’s main avenue, toward the Great Gate, which stood closed for the funeral. The procession turned north andrne he made a circuit along the Outer Ring, a road running in the shadow of the city wall about the entire city. A frigid wind blew, but the streets were largely clear of snow. A drab sky hung above, heavy with cloud, as if the sun refused to look upon the Dead Prince. No rain or snow fell, but the tears of the gathered Udurumites rained from their eyes to stain cheeks, chins, and chests. Vod’s people lined the streets by the thousands, climbing onto the roofs of houses, stables, and taverns to catch a glimpse. Some wailed aloud, lamenting Tadarus the Brave, Tadarus the Strong, Tadarus the Mighty… Tadarus the True Son of Vod.
Mournful Giants and Giantesses gathered among the crowds. More Uduru than Tyro had ever seen – hundreds of them standing with heads bowed along the avenues. Some wore the accoutrements of war – helms, armor, and shields – while others wore the smocks of blacksmiths and builders. Obviously, plenty of the Uduru chose not to make the warrior’s way their focus.
So very like humans. Like my brother and I.
Tyro had seen grand funerals in Uurz, but never one with such honesty on display. These people had loved their Prince. Some even shouted the name of Vireon – Vireon the Hunter… Vireon the King. They thanked the Four Gods for sparing Vireon. Some cried vengeance for Tadarus. The Uduru kept silent in a show of respect, but human men and women could not restrain their grief, their anger, or their tongues.
All afternoon the procession wound slowly about the perimeter of the city. Sentinels upon the walls looked down upon the funeral march, their sadness no less than the multitudes lining the streets. Foreign traders stood solemn among the populace, mimicking the mute Giants. At the end of the third hour, Tyro was glad to see the gates of the palace looming ahead. So much weeping and moaning could wear on a man’s soul. It reminded him of his own mortality, and that everyone he knew would some day die and be mourned.
Once inside the palace courtyard, the procession wound toward the Royal Mausoleum. The Queen’s tears flowed as she neared the granite tomb. Tadarus would be the first of his line to inhabit the death-house. Tyro swallowed hard to contain a surging grief that had lain dormant in his stomach until now. The royal father had built this house for himself and his Queen, but the son would lie in it before either of them. The Queen descended from her palanquin to weep over her son’s body, to embrace Tadarus for the last time.
The priest of the Sky God spoke a litany over the body, then a Giant pulled open the marble door of the vault. Vireon and a crouching Fangodrim carried the dead Prince inside and lowered his body into a sarcophagus along the far wall. Other coffins lay empty and waiting. By the size of this tomb, Tyro realized that Vod had intended to be buried as a Man, not a Giant. There were no sarcophagi here large enough to house a Giant’s bones. He wondered if Vod were truly dead, or if he might return some day to reclaim his throne. Yet he feared the world had seen the last
