“We three have much to discuss,” she said.
She burned like a pale flame between the locked eyes of Gammir and Elhathym.
20
The great eagle fought the winds of winter, flying north into the Giantlands. When the snow and sleet grew too fierce, she rose above the winter clouds, where the air was even colder but the snow did not reach. The talons of her claws were black and shining, like her eyes, and they gripped a heavy bundle wrapped in leather, bound in sailors’ rope. The pinnacles of frozen mountains pierced the cloud-roof, so she knew the Grim Mountains lay below.
Night and day she flew, all the way from Murala on the coast. Days ago she had entered that town wearing the body of a Giantess, carrying Vod’s remains in a corroded iron chest. The folk there were unused to the presence of Uduru, and they had stared at her with wonder and curiosity. Three decades earlier they would have run screaming from her. That was before Vod brought Giants and Men together and changed the desert to a green and fertile plain. How could they know this weary Giant-girl carried the very bones of the hero himself… the Giant-King who had conquered every enemy but the sea?
With her oversized fingers she had pulled the ancient emeralds from their rust-caked holes in the surface of the chest, trading one of them to a Muralan jeweler for a appbe='0embag of gold. After walking leagues along the desolate shore, yet before she took lodging and rest, she hired the town’s undertaker to remove Vod’s body from the trunk and restore it as best he could.
“I am sorry, Milady,” he told her the next day. “The body of this poor Giant has obviously lain for months under the sea, and only his jumbled bones are left. But I have cleaned the salt encrustations from them and laid them out on my embalming table. Would you care to take a look?”
“No,” she said. “Wrap them for me… in some expensive oilcloth. I must carry them a long way.” She gave him the bag of gold and he followed her instructions to the letter. The iron chest was not only rusted and undependable, it was far too heavy. If she walked with it on her shoulder, it might take her a year to cross the Stormlands, then the mountains, and reach Udurum. She must fly instead. When she picked up Vod’s remains that evening, the undertaker had wrapped each bone carefully in a velvet cloth, then stacked them inside a canvas bag and tied it at the top like a great pouch of coins. She was glad of the velvet, for it kept Vod’s bones from rattling when she carried the parcel.
She walked inland from Murala, far enough that no eyes would see her. Then she took the form of the great eagle, grabbed the bone-bag in her claws and flew north toward the dark and jagged horizon.
After days of flight the mountains sank beneath an ocean of clouds flowing northward as far as her eagle eyes could see. She pulled back her pinions and arced down to break the cloud layer. The Forest of Uduria rushed beneath her, cloaked in a mantle of white snow. She skirted the heads of the mighty Uygas, speeding toward home. She was unsure how long it had been since she left Udurum. She longed to see her mother again and feel the warmth of her hugs. There would be tears, both for the end to her absence and the return of Vod’s remains. No longer would the false hope of Vod’s survival linger in her mother’s heart. His bones would bring Shaira peace, as they had for Sharadza. Only by knowing the truth of his death could they truly let him go.
The jet walls of Udurum rose from the pale forest. The dark towers wore hoods of white, and the city steamed its warmth into the afternoon sky. There was plenty of daylight left, but the gloom of winter simulated an early darkness. The watch-fires along the city wall blazed like miniature suns. The lights of street lamps and windows created the illusion of a vast blanket scattered with twinkling jewels. She beat her tired wings toward the palace and came to ground in the snow-packed courtyard where she used to meet Fellow and hear his stories. It seemed so long ago. She still thought of Fellow and Iardu as two separate entities, even though she knew it was a lie. Iardu had lied to her for years. But perhaps all stories were lies, and all storytellers were liars. Perhaps what really mattered were the lessons one could learn from a well-told lie.
Of all the trees, paths, and walls in the courtyard, she saw only one walkway clear of recent snows. It led to the far precinct of the gardens and the Royal Mausoleum. A brazier burned now before its doors, turning their white marble to gold. The mausoleum itself had also been scraped clean of ice and snow. Her heart sank. There could be only one reason why servants had polished and cleared the tomb, which had never been used. She meant to inaugurate it with her father’s bones. But someone else in her family had died and already been laid to rest there. A pit of emptiness yawned open insideed mother her stomach.
Mother!
The great bag of bones sat in the snow now, and Sharadza ran toward the palace gate in her girl form. Guards stared in awe and shouted as she ran by them, leaving a trail of melting snow. She heard their commotion behind her as word spread. “The Princess has returned! Gods of Earth and Sky be praised! Send word to the captain! Send word to the Queen!”
But there was no need. Sharadza ran up the stair of the Great Tower to the oak-and-gold door of the royal apartments. For some reason, there were no Uduru sentinels in the halls today. A man stationed outside the Queen’s chamber knelt as Sharadza banged on the locked door.
“Mother!” she shouted. “Mother, are you there?” Saltwater welled in her eyes, which were green now that she was a girl again.
“Her Majesty is resting,” said the guard, and Sharadza sighed.
She turned to the bronze-armored man. “Then who…” she started. “The tomb?”
The door opened at the hands of a servant and Queen Shaira stood in the doorway, dressed in a thick gown of white wool. Her face lit up as her eyes met Sharadza’s.
They fell into each other’s arms, and their tears fell each upon the other’s shoulders. Shaira pulled her into the room, rubbing her chilled hands, calling for mulled wine and a warm dry robe. Servants bustled in a fury of excitement and restrained joy.
They sat together on a soft divan and Shaira kissed her cheeks. Sharadza saw her mother clearly now as she wiped her sudden tears away. Shaira looked old. Lines of worry had invaded the smooth skin of her face; dark rings hung below her eyes, and crow’s feet nested in their corners. The green irises floated in pools of bloodshot milk.
“Oh, Mother,” she moaned and pulled her close again.
“The Gods are good,” said Shaira. “You have come back to me. My selfish, foolish, stubborn little girl!” Relief, rage, and affection mingled to a dark brew in her mother’s eyes.
“I am so sorry,” said Sharadza. Her words were not enough. What had happened to wear down her mother so heavily? Or was she already this worn when Sharadza had stolen away?
“Why?” asked Shaira. “Tell me first why you would do such a thing.”
Sharadza looked at the burgundy carpet. A servant handed her a mug of steaming spice-wine. She cradled it in her hands, unable to look now at her mother. “For Father,” she said. “I thought I could help him.”
“How?” asked her mother. “Where did you go? Who talked you into leaving me? Don’t you know how sick with worry I was? Don’t you know how I’ve suffered without you?”
There it was. The cold stab of guilt mixed into the warm liquid as she sipped the wine. “I left you the letter,” she said, hating herself for the words. “I promised I’d be back. And here I am.” “Where did you go?” asked Shaira. “What have you done?”
“I have learned so much,” she said. “ Remembered so much. I am the daughter of Vod, and I know now what that truly means.”
Shaira stared at her. That was no answer. She waited.
“Who lies in the tomb?” asked Sharadza.
Shaira’s eyes brimmed again. She turned her face to the ceiling, or to the Gods, or both. “Tadarus,” she sighed. “Your brother is dead, Sharadza.”
Her lungs stopped working. She could neither inhale or exhale. Then she burst into weeping, and the paralysis was broken. Her mother’s arms were a dim comfort around her neck.
