stone. It was a happy age. The laughter of children and lovers was a lovers s common as the singing of birds. Gentle rains fed the streams. The beasts of the forest looked to the People of Omu as friends and guardians. There is a word in your tongue to describe it. Paradise.
“Then the Pale Queen came, spreading darkness and contagion. Our waters dried up and our young ones died. She brought a horde of demons against our city and sought to drive us from the forest if she could not kill us all. She was as old as I… yet so very wicked. A selfish thing driven by her lust for destruction… a drinker of blood. I stood against her, but she cast me down. Her pacts with dark powers made her too terrible, and there was nothing more I could do. Rather than be her slave, I rode the flame as far as I could go. It carried me north, to a land untouched by her evil. There I roamed and hunted and forgot my pain… my name… my people.
“I forgot my power too. Until you came, Vireon. You awakened me from a long sleep. It was your love that brought me home… You have given me the gift of memory.”
She kissed him then, long and deep. They made love on the temple floor, wrapped in the glow of the white flame. Her urgent cries echoed through the ruins, but there were no ghosts left to hear them.
“I remember the Pale Queen’s name,” she told him afterwards, lying in his arms.
“Tell me.”
“Ianthe,” she said. “Ianthe the Claw.”
He held her tightly, and they slept for a little while amid the ancient stones.
In the hazy light of pre-dawn they ran laughing together until they regained the forest’s edge and the camp of Andoses. The Prince had risen early and stoked a breakfast fire.
“Where have you two been?” he asked.
“To the Ruins of Omu,” said Vireon. “Visiting with the spirits of a lost people.”
Andoses’ eyes grew large. “You never cease to amaze me, Cousin. Here… have some vegetables.”
Alua ate none of the breakfast, but stood quietly and stared eastward. The direction they must go to reach the sea and passage north.
“Vireon,” she called to him. “You spoke of vengeance yesterday.” A gust of rising wind caught up her blonde locks and tossed them savagely about her shoulders.
“For my brother,” said Vireon.
“I, too, seek this,” said Alua. “Though I had forgotten it. Now this desire has returned with the rest of my memories.”
Vireon quaffed a bowl of steaming broth. “We seek two things that are one… intertwined, like our fates.” He went to Alua and pulled her close.
“She must pay for what she did,” Alua whispered.
“As must he.”
“I sense them now,” she said. “North and west…”
“Shar Dni?”
“It must be. They are no longer in Khyrei.”
“Then we must travel faster,” he said.
“Yes.”
Andoses eyed them curiously as he stamped out the morning fire. “Shall we ride?” he called. He had not yet saddled and burdened the horses, waiting for Vireon’s strong arms to help.
Alua took Vireon’s hand and led him to stand beside his cousin.
“This way is too slow,” she told them. “These mounts are too tired. We must ride the flame to Shar Dni.”
Andoses looked at him. Vireon nodded.
Alua spread her arms, and white flames erupted from her palms. She cast the fire about them in a burning ring that floated in the air like smoke. Then another, and another, until they stood cocooned in a sphere of blazing whiteness. Vireon and Andoses shut their eyes against the brilliance. There was no heat, only a pleasant warmth that replaced the cool of morning.
Alua grabbed them by the hands. Now the globe of white flame rose, and Vireon felt his feet leave the ground.
She is a sorceress, he thought. This power is the substance of her memory.
The flaming sphere rose into the sky, hurtling eastward. Vireon could see nothing, but he felt great winds rush past the globe. He remembered a comet he and Tadarus had seen as young boys, a spark of light rushing across the starlit sky. That must be how they looked from below, if any could see them against the blue vault of sky.
The smell of seawater met his nostrils, and he knew they flew now above the Golden Sea. At what great speed, he could not guess. The hand of Alua was cool and strong in his own. The hand of Andoses was sweaty and warm. After a while came the gradual sensation of sinking. The white flames faded and their feet met the earth again, ever so gently.
Vireon opened his eyes, blinking. Alua smiled at him. Andoses smiled too, and gave a quick laugh. They stood upon damp green grass atop the western heights of the valley containing the River Orra. The Valley of the Bull. Andoses stared past Vireon’s shoulders toward the city. The laughter died on his lips.
Vireon turned and saw the charred walls of Shar Dni across the river. Red fires danced like crazed Giants, and pillars of black smoke rose from the streets. They were not the ritual smokes of the temples. The holy pyramids were piles of rubble; slim towers stood ablaze. The stench of burning flesh hung over the valley, and the bridge to the Western Gate was gone, great chunks of it lying in the river. The Orra ran black with blood, or oil, or both. The husks of burned ships lay along its banks, tilted on their sides like dead fish.
In the harbor a fleet of black warships flew the emblem of the white panther.
30
True to his word, he placed her in his throne room between two fluted pillars. She was a statue of white granite flecked with gray, and even a discerning eye would see her as no more than a finely crafted sculpture. Yet the only eyes in the great hall were Elhathym’s, and he knew she was a slave of living stone. He had restored her to human height and would keep her in this petrified state until it pleased him to do otherwise. Or he might simply forget about her, until her thoughts grew thick and dull as the granite of her body. For now she lingered fully conscious inside her stone form, imprisoned but aware of everything that passed in the royal chamber.
What had once been a sun-bright dome where the Yaskathan Kings held feasts, rituals, and entertainments was now an austere vault of gloom. Tapestries of black wool obscured the soaring window casements so that no sunlight could intrude on the usurper’s court. Statues of former Kings and Queens had fallen to mounds of dust in their niches. Three great braziers burned with eldritch fires that never waned and required no oil or tender. The rich carpets and wall hangings depicting the histories of Yaskatha were gone, replaced by drapes of crimson fabric stitched with the hair of corpses. A pile of bleached skulls sat where the Vizier’s podium used to stand.
The Great Hall of Trimesqua was now more tomb than throne room. About the royal dais concentric rings of sigils, wards, and runes were carved into the marble floor. Elhathym sat and brooded in the jeweled throne at their center. Near his chair stood a tall mirror of murky obsidian, its frame embroidered with tiny carved demons. Often he stared into the volcanic glass, and Sharadza saw and heard the things that he saw and heard there.
At times he trailed a finger along her chin or breast, anticipating a delicacy he would devour later. His touch brought a rush of fear into her stone heart. But always he wandered into the shadows, or back to his throne to mumble incantations and stare into the enchanted glass. Terrified servants or cautious generals entered through the chamber’s high doors. Elhathym spoke with them in tones of menacing calm, or raged and brutalized them, giving orders that were followed to the letter. Once he killed a trembling cup-bearer with a touch of his finger. The man had spilled drink at his feet. Other servants hauled his corpse from the chamber, and there were no more clumsy servitors. Mostly the tyrant sat in his mausoleum throne room alone, but for the mute presence of the stone girl between the pillars.
