ultimate dark, and then she could no longer even see it. Iardu waved a hand, and the mirror faded to dull obsidian.
“Your Majesty.” Iardu bowed to D’zan. The Prince had watched their actions with no trace of emotion on his pallid face. He did not look well at all. His blood loss must be severe.
Suddenly she feared for him.
“Would you be so kind,” said Iardu, “as to destroy this looking glass?”
D’zan stepped atop the dais. He brought his blade down upon the mirror with both hands, shattering it to bits. The noise of its breaking filled the throne room and deafened Sharadza momentarily. As if a whole world of mirrors had died instead of one.
Thousands of gleaming shards lay scattered in the gloom.
D’zan pointed his blade at the marble floor. He stood wordless and still on the throneless dais. The warriors who had entered after him tore the black shrouds from the windows. The golden light of early evening fell into the chamber, chasing shadows from the door.
Iardu worked a spell above the barren dais. The white marble flowed upward to take the form of a high- backed chair engraved with the sword and tree of Yaskatha.
D’zan gave the Shaper a silent glance, then sat heavily upon his new throne.
The Men of Yaskatha fell to their knees, bowing at last to their rightful King. Now their voices raised in salute: “Long live D’zan! Long live the King!”
The sound of metal boots filled the outer corridors, and more Yaskathans came rushing in to hail their mohail thenarch.
“Long live D’zan! Long live the King!”
Sharadza watched the young King’s pale face. His eyes were sunken in pools of shadow, and there was no joy in his gaze. He did not smile, or weep, or look upon his people with cheer.
She saw then the gaping wound in his chest… the hole where his living heart had beaten.
King D’zan sat with sword across his knees, tranquil as a sculpted icon.
“Long live D’zan! Long live the King!”
31
The survivors of the night’s blood-feast gathered in the withered courtyard outside the Sharrian palace. Most of the city’s men were dead, so the majority were wailing children and weeping mothers, huddling in miserable clusters. Masked soldiers roamed the city tossing thousands of drained corpses into bonfires. The horde of Vakai had drank their fill and sunk into the cracks between the city’s stones, or fled to hide in cellars and tombs until sunset. At daybreak the Khyreins had claimed the massacred city for Ianthe. They burned the dead and rooted out the living, herding them like sheep into the royal gardens. A bounty of perhaps three thousand slaves for hauling back to Khyrei.
After sating his own thirst on the blood of panicked Sharrians, Gammir found the bloodless corpse of Omirus slumped on the Sharrian throne. The Vakai had entered the palace before him and taken the last of the royal blood for their own pleasure. It was a small price to pay for conquering the kingdom in a single night. Gammir kicked the corpse away with the heel of his boot. He wondered why Omirus wore no crown, only the golden circlet of a regent. No matter; the Khyreins would scour the palace vaults until they found the crown Ammon had worn. It must sit upon Gammir’s own head. He would claim the Valley of the Bull as his own, a colony of Khyrei. In time he would grow a new city to replace the old, as Vod had replaced Old Udurum with New. From Prince of Khyrei to King of Shar Dni. His rise had been faster than he ever expected.
Perhaps he should change the city’s name when he rebuilt it. Shar Dni was dead. He might give it her name: Ianthe, City of Shadows. That might please her.
While he sat upon the Sharrian throne and legionnaires poured through the palace looking for loot and prisoners, Ianthe walked the corpse-littered streets and called lightning down upon the Four Temples. The thunder of their destruction, one collapsing pyramid after another, brought laughter spilling from Gammir’s mouth. His chin and chest were stained with the wine torn from living veins. The smell of roasting flesh wafted through the high windows of the palace. He breathed deeply the savory aroma… the tang of overcooked Sharrian pork. Not unpleasant, but his appetite was only for the rich red fluid, and his belly was full. For the first time since he mastered the Power of the Blood, he was satisfied.
She had taught him so much since then. The weeks spent with her in the sanctuary of her High Tower were an interval of dark bliss. Ancient texts and words ohf power he had learned, and the gates of deeper sorceries opened before him. There was so much more to learn… and so much time in which to do it. Tonight they would send the Vakai horde to Uurz, ridding themselves of northland opposition. Not long after that would come the sweet pleasure of draining Udurum dry. He relished the promise of blood from men and giants. His lying mother would die then, or perhaps he might keep her as a slave… Make her pay for betraying his true father. Yes, that would serve his taste for irony – a Queen reduced to serving a King whom she had rejected as unworthy of her own throne. Unless Ianthe wanted her blood… He could deny her nothing.
The Khyreins found the treasure vault of Ammon, and they brought him chests of gold, silver, and jewels, pouring them into mounds before his throne. Caskets of sparkling jewelry, strings of pearl, gemmed statuettes… a hoard of wealth glittered at his feet. Among these treasures they also cast the severed heads of Sharrians found hiding in the palace.
The white panther came stalking through the gates. She picked her way through the treasure-mounds to join him by the throne. He ordered a great chair brought from some other chamber and Ianthe took her human form to sit beside him. It was easy to imagine she was not his grandmother at all then, but his young and lovely queen. All these riches had been gathered for her pleasure. Perhaps it could be that way if he convinced her of his regal presence. His power would grow to rival hers… then he would be her equal. Then he might claim her as his own, just as he did this slaughtered capital.
“How do you enjoy your new kingdom, Sweet Boy?” she asked him.
He met her dazzling dark eyes with his own. One day she will be mine.
“I find it amusing,” he told her. “I quite enjoy this game of blood and fire.”
She laughed and his skin tingled. “These baubles are of some interest,” she said, poking at a mound of jewels with her toes.
“They are yours,” he said.
“You will need most of this to rebuild this pile of refuse into a city worthy of your rule,” she said. “Still… I may take a choice stone or two. To remind me of this day’s sweetness. Did you drink your fill?”
“Oh yes,” he said. “And you?”
“The blood of priests pleases me most,” she said. “Nearly as much as the crumbling of their temples.”
He frowned. “Their Gods came not to help the Sharrians. Why endure the presence of such useless shrines? They should thank you for ridding them of these reminders that their Gods care nothing for them.”
“ We are their Gods now,” she said.
“Well, then…” he reflected. “We must build a temple!”
They laughed loudly, and the sound of it drowned the noise of weeping slaves in the courtyard.
The palace doors exploded as a great globe of white flame crashed into the throne room. Gammir shrank against his tagainst hrone beneath the terrible glare. The sphere broke into bolts of radiance hurtling throughout the hall.
Vireon came leaping from the fireball, greatsword raised behind his head, handsome face snarling with hate.
When Alua’s fireball broke apart, its sorcerous momentum hurled him toward vengeance. Even before his feet touched the floor, Vireon swung his blade in a downward arc at Fangodrel’s head. But the Kinslayer cringed beneath the bursting flames, and Vireon’s sword bit into the gilded chair-back instead of the traitor’s skull.
