Above the rolling swells of the Cryptic Sea the sky was blue and cloudless. There had been no inclement weather or large waves, nothing to make the journey taxing. Yet D’zan stood at the railing of the Cointosser and wished he were back on solid ground. Visions of his fleet’s destruction plagued him when he tried to sleep, and ever since he had begun this voyage the dreams invaded his waking hours as well.
The many wounds he had endured were entirely healed and had left no scars. Examining his healthy physique in a mirror reminded him that he was no longer fully human. His unblemished flesh was a construction born of sorcery, and after eight years of ignorance he finally understood what that meant. Only his mind and spirit remained unchanged, both of them trapped inside a body that would not age or die. This should have brought him comfort, as most men fear death above all other enemies. Yet so many things which should have made him content failed to do so these days.
D’zan stared at the sunlight broken into flashing diamonds atop the water. The Cointosser was a fat-hulled merchant trader with a single sail, less than half the size of a Yaskathan warship. Yet there were no more Yaskathan warships to carry him northward. His own folly had lost every last one of them, along with every member of his royal navy. Yaskatha’s treasury would not support the building of another fleet, not without several years of robust trading and exports to fill the coffers with tax revenues. So his closest advisors had informed D’zan on his return from the siege of Uurz. The great harbor of Yaskatha was filled now with merchant ships like this one, the only vessels remaining to serve the realm’s interests.
“Perhaps I should avoid building another fleet,” D’zan had told Cymetha. “If there is no fleet of warships, there will be no war upon the sea. If I build another fleet, some King who comes after me might commit the same crime of which I am guilty.”
His Second Wife, who had become his First Wife in all but name, soothed his pain with kind words and the pleasure of her skilled touch. “You acted honorably,” Cymetha reminded him, “and honored our long treaty with Mumbaza. You sought to end the ancient threat of Khyrei. How could you or anyone know that these strange invaders would overwhelm your fleet and that of Undutu as well? I have thanked the Sea God many times that the Feathered Serpent was there to save you. Be glad that you have returned alive and wiser, and that you have a healthy son to carry on your bloodline. The Four Gods returned you to us because Theskalus needs you. He will be a great King someday like his father.”
Yes, Theskalus.
Another miracle that should have brought D’zan happiness. Yet when he had returned home to meet his three-month-old son for the first time, when he held the infant in his arms, he had felt only suspicion. He saw none of himself in the child’s face. The baby’s eyes were blue, yet D’zan had been born with his father’s dark eyes. His grandfather had shared those same black pupils. The eyes of his sorcery-built body were green, but that color was only a reflection of Sharadza’s power. If Theskalus was the product of D’zan’s loins, he should be dark of eye. Cymetha’s own eyes were dark as well. Perhaps some blue eye color lay in her family tree somewhere, but D’zan did not ask. He did not want her to know of his suspicion.
The baby was handsome and healthy, but his hair was also dark. D’zan and Cymetha both possessed hair as yellow as ripe corn. D’zan had no dark hair at all in his family, unless it had been so many generations ago that it had been forgotten. All of his living relatives were slain by Elhathym when the necromancer murdered Trimesqua and stole the throne of Yaskatha. In gaining back his dead father’s kingdom, D’zan had been forced to surrender his very humanity. Only recently had he realized the cost of that victory.
He loved Sharadza, but she had given him no child. So he had turned to Cymetha. Within months his mistress had grown heavy with child. Sharadza had fled, unwilling to share her husband, even for the sake of royal heirs. Yet now D’zan wondered, not for the first time, if his own seed was barren instead of his First Wife’s womb. He had asked Iardu that very question at Uurz, when the Shaper was explaining the truth of D’zan’s enchanted body.
You need not fear, the Shaper had told him. Your son will be fine.
D’zan believed those words at the time, yet upon his return to Yaskatha they had lingered in his mind. Every time he looked at the round, soft face of his infant son, they rang in his head again. Had Iardu lied? Had Sharadza done the same? It would be just like her to bear the secret of his impotency and take the blame for it upon herself. She was always one to put the welfare of others before her own interests.
Is this truly my son?
The question haunted D’zan even more than the nightmares of his shattered fleet. For three months he sat above the royal court conducting the affairs of state, and he returned to Cymetha and Theskalus every evening. Peace had once again fallen upon Yaskatha. There were rich harvests to swell the pockets of the people and the holds of trading vessels. The merchant houses had actually benefitted from the demise of the royal fleet; the King had no more ships of his own to send on trading missions, so the merchant fleets took up the slack. The Jade Isles were constructing a new capital to replace the one sunk by Zyung’s wrath, so Yaskatha had replaced Ongthaia as the central hub of trading among the Five Cities. There was also the newly opened trade with Khyrei, a business which turned minor investors into wealthy men as their ships came in loaded with goods from the black city.
The nation prospered while D’zan brooded.
On the day that Theskalus turned six months old, the King of Yaskatha decided that he could no longer suffer the pain of his own doubt. If D’zan was ever to love his son as a father should–if he was ever to trust Cymetha as a husband must–then he must discover the truth. If Theskalus was a bastard, he would never be heir to the throne. And if D’zan was truly incapable of fathering children, then he would never have a blood heir.
I owe it to my son to find this truth.
D’zan announced his intention, though not its true reason, during a court assembly.
“My mind is troubled by dark dreams and bloodstained memories,” he said. The rouged faces of courtiers, advisors, and attendants looked upon him with concern. “In order to find the peace that eludes me, I must speak again with Iardu the Shaper. Although I would rather not sail the unforgiving sea again, I must seek the wizard on his lonely isle. Until I do so, I will know neither peace nor rest.”
He expected a deluge of objections, but the court was silent. The merchant lords in their gaudy robes and jewels avoided his gaze. They knew what he would ask next.
“Since I have no royal ships left,” D’zan said, “I require a merchant vessel and its crew for this voyage. I will pay handsomely any sea lord who volunteers. You will also have the glory of serving your King and the interests of the realm.”
There was silence between the tapestries decorating the throne room walls.
The graybeard Metricus, who served as Master of Coin for the King, leaned close to whisper in D’zan’s ear. “Majesty, you will find it difficult to convince any of the merchant houses to offer up their vessels. This is the busiest of trading seasons after all. And there are other factors as well.”
“What other factors?” D’zan asked.
“Forgive me, my King,” said Metricus, “but there is a rumor that the Sea God’s curse lies upon your house. No other King in our history has lost an entire fleet. Naturally I, myself, do not believe such nonsense, but these merchants are prey to many superstitions. Lastly, it is well known that the Isle of Iardu is protected by sorcery that manifests as a ring of perpetual storms to drive away continental ships. Many men have died while seeking the Shaper’s favor.”
D’zan leaned his head against the cushioned back of his throne. “So fear and superstition rule the hearts of Yaskatha’s nobles.” He said it loud enough so that all in the hall could hear him. “If the Sea God’s curse lies upon me, then why did he spare me at the Battle of the Jades?”
None of the assembled nobles would dare to answer this question.
“I will pay fourteen chests of gold to the lord who lends me a ship,” D’zan said. “Consider this offer as you dine at my table and enjoy the pleasures of my court this evening.”
D’zan left the throne and the fawning courtiers, choosing to take his supper on a balcony overlooking the harbor. Sharadza used to sit with him on this same terrace. The young couple had watched the moon rise many times from this perch. Lyrilan had sat here drinking with D’zan during his brief exile. Both D’zan’s first love and his best friend were far from him now.
Surrounded by a palace full of people, D’zan was alone.
In the early morning a servant roused him while Cymetha and the baby were still asleep. It seemed that a young merchant lord had come forth to accept the King’s generous offer. D’zan dressed himself in a tunic of silver and sable, donned the lightest of his three crowns, and met the merchant in his private study.
Lord Andolon of House Silver was at least two years younger than D’zan, who was still a young King at the age of twenty-four. Andolon was a slim youth with angular shoulders, bright eyes, and a strong chin. His black mustache was neatly trimmed and oiled, and he wore rich fabrics done in a simple style. A necklace of silver links marked the sign of his wealthy and well-reputed house. His father had died only recently, leaving tremendous wealth and status to his eldest son. Andolon’s five younger brothers sailed the finest vessels in their house’s fleet. D’zan could tell Andolon was also a swordsman by the thickness of his arms and the way he carried himself. The longblade on his hip with its ornate handle might have been worn by any merchant nobleman, but here was a man who knew how to wield such a blade. This was a rare skill among the elite of tradesmen.
After formal introductions, Andolon spoke with candor and grace. “My Lord, I am ashamed of the cowardice displayed by my fellow merchants,” he said. “I offer you my house’s proudest vessel, the Cointosser, and the service of its best and boldest captain, that noble personage being myself.”
D’zan smiled. “My gold has swayed you.”
Andolon cocked his head. The oiled ringlets of his hair hung below his shoulders. “I will accept no payment, Majesty,” he said. “It is my duty to serve you, and in so doing to prove that Yaskathans are not afraid of the sea or its mysteries. My father served your own in the wars of the Southern Isles. It was the abiding pride of his life. I can do no less.”
You are lucky that you did not serve me when I sailed to the Jade Isles.
“I accept your kind offer,” said D’zan, “and I commend your bravery.”
The very next day the Cointosser had departed. Cymetha tried to talk D’zan out of making the voyage, and little Theskalus cried the whole morning. D’zan could not explain himself to his wife. Not yet. He simply asked Cymetha to trust him. He kissed the infant on its forehead before leaving the palace.
The Cointosser was manned by thirty men, including Andolon, who was its captain. D’zan brought a company of twelve palace guardsmen along, at the insistence of his advisors. The bright sails of the merchant fleets in the harbor grew tiny as the Cointosser took to the open sea. On the ninth day they passed the pearly cliffs of Mumbaza, whose harbor sat nearly empty of swanships. Perhaps a dozen of the white ships had remained behind when most had sailed to make war under Undutu’s banner. D’zan had considered leaving a few of his own ships in Yaskatha when he had joined the swan fleet, but he knew he would need every single one of them to destroy the black reavers of Khyrei. How could he know that the reavers would end up his allies instead of enemies? Or that numbers of ships would make no difference in the slaughter to come? As it was with Yaskatha, the majority of ships docking at Mumbaza now were merchant vessels.
Word of a new King on the Cliffs had come to D’zan months ago, and then a few months later the news that the Feathered Serpent himself had removed the new King and replaced him with a bastard sired by Undutu. A strange decision, but Khama must have his reasons. His power would overrule any objections to such an heir. The folk of Yaskatha would never accept a bastard ruler, and there was no revered Feathered Serpent there to change their minds about it. D’zan put thoughts of Theskalus from his mind as the sparkling domes of the Pearl City dwindled in the wake of the Cointosser.
Sailing along the established trade routes took longer than braving the open ocean, but it helped ensure the safety of any ship. Today, as in all the nine days previous, the sky and sea were calm and a good wind filled the sails. Soon the ship would turn its prow west toward the wizard’s isle, and then would come the ring of storms.
D’zan passed the gentle days reading Lyrilan’s biography of Dairon the First. In the evenings he gathered with Andolon in the captain’s cabin and played at dice. A minstrel named Yudun entertained them with harp, flute, and bawdy tales as they drank fine wines from the Jade Isles. D’zan enjoyed the young lord’s company, and that of Andolon’s cousin Hammon. The lad was only fifteen but possessed all the wit of a lord twice his age. Between Hammon’s jokes, Yudun’s tales, and Andolon’s good wine, D’zan found himself enjoying the voyage. Yet at the end of each night he was left alone in his cabin with his churning thoughts, his burning memories, and his doubt.
The evening of the fifteenth day saw a dark wall of stormclouds rushing toward the ship. Rain came in gusts, pelting the decks and ripping at the sails. D’zan spent the next three days inside his cabin while Andolon and his crew battled the storms. They must have come deep into the Shaper’s territory by now. A natural storm would have broken after a day or two. The ship rocked incessantly, and D’zan’s nightmares rose like Sea Serpents to tear apart his sleep. A sailor was swept over the railing and lost on the third day of storms.
The fifth day into the ring of storms dawned gray and windy, yet calm and dry. A cry from the crow’s nest brought D’zan from his cabin, stomach queasy and feet unsteady on the deck. He could still feel the ship moving and swaying beneath him, even though his eyes told him it sat steady upon the water. On the horizon a small green chunk of land had appeared.
Andolon clapped his hands together. “There’s your wizard isle, Majesty.” The young lord smiled and rubbed the stubble of his chin. “The Sea God smiles upon us.”
By midday the Cointosser had made the island. Bright birds filled the sky above thick groves of palm and cypress. A citadel of white stone rose from the eastern shore, hemmed by a range of forested hills. Three slim towers stood at the keep’s center, their cupolas bright with jewels inset into clever patterns. Pitted stone gargoyles perched on the ramparts.
A long and narrow cove welcomed the Cointosser. At its end was no dock or wharf, but only a set of weedy stairs rising from the black water toward the citadel’s main gate. There was no sign of guardian or sentinel along the white walls. The sailors eyed the stony grotesques along the battlements as if the monsters might spring to life at any moment. They might indeed do such a thing if Iardu willed it, D’zan mused. He did not share this thought with the nervous crew.
Andolon ordered a rowboat dispatched so that a small party might approach the stair. The forestland was so thick and the cliffs so steep that no other approach to the keep was possible.
“I must go alone,” D’zan said. His guards objected, as did Andolon, but he commanded them all to silence. Then he followed the path of their wide eyes past his shoulder and turned to see what had captured their attention. At the summit of the salt-crusted stairway stood a woman in a robe of white silk. Her hair was long, dark, and curly. Even from this distance D’zan recognized the emerald glare of her eyes.
Sharadza. He had guessed she would be here. She had made no secret of her choice to join Iardu on his island. Perhaps it was her magic that had guided his ship through the ring of storms.
The crew lowered D’zan alone into the small boat, seeing now there was no evident threat to his person. He rowed it toward the stair with anxious strokes, then mounted each of the slippery steps until he stood before her. Sharadza’s presence stole his breath away, as it had always done. The supple skin of her cheeks held a rosy hue, and he longed to kiss her scarlet lips. Yet he had lost the right to do so. It was perhaps his greatest mistake, letting her go. Greater even than sailing his fleet to its doom at Ongthaia.
She spoke his name and embraced him heartily. There was no longer any heat or passion between them. It was the embrace of a sister, not a wife or lover.
“Why have you come?” she asked him.
Her eyes said: Please do not say that you have come for me.
“I need to speak with Iardu,” he said. “I must know the truth once and for all.”
Sharadza sighed and led him into a courtyard beyond the gate. The trees here were full of tiny, domed huts like oversized beehives. Chattering monkeys pale as clouds darted in and out of them. A lion creature with the head of a beautiful girl watched D’zan and Sharadza approach the doors of the citadel, petite wings fluttering on its tawny back. What other strange beings lived in the Shaper’s domain? D’zan could not begin to guess. The scents of the wild garden were overpowering: citrus, jasmine, vanilla, starberry, and a hundred others he could not name. He became dizzy amid the mélange of exotic fragrances.
Sharadza sat beside him on a stone bench before a gurgling fountain carved into the shapes of impossible creatures. “Iardu is not here,” she said. “He has not returned from… wherever he has gone.” Her voice was tinged with sorrow. Yet it was obviously a sorrow she had lived with for some time, not some fresh wound. D’zan could always read her moods.
With careful words she explained to him what he had not understood after the siege of Uurz. The Shaper had sacrificed his own living heart to work a spell that turned the invaders away from the Five Cities and sent them back to their side of the world in peace. Yet it had done far more than that.
“Iardu changed their hearts with the power of his own,” Sharadza said. She told him more, but D’zan could not understand exactly what the Shaper had done. Only that he had apparently given up his life to save the Five Cities and create peace between the two sides of the world.
“Are you telling me the Shaper is dead?” he asked.
“Iardu cannot truly die,” Sharadza said. “One day he will return.”
“When will that be? I must know the truth of what he told me.”
“I do not know when,” she said. “He has gone beyond my power to reach him.”
“Then why do you stay here alone?” he said. “Come to Yaskatha, or return to your family in Udurum. Surely either would be better than this isolation.”
Sharadza shook her head. “I wait for him.”
He tried once more to sway her.
“I wait for him,” she said again.
He gave up and accepted her offer of food and drink. Now that he was on solid ground again, his appetite had returned. The inter ior of Iardu’s manse was as opulent as any palace. The dining hall was thick with ancient silk hangings in colors of mauve, ochre, and gold. D’zan ate roasted fowl and drank an entire bottle of amber Uurzian wine. The lion-lady sat upon a purple rug in the next room. D’zan sensed that the creature was watching over Sharadza. Perhaps it was a specimen of some lost race that Iardu had preserved in his sanctuary. Or the Shaper himself might have created the beast specifically to guard his house.
“What is this truth you seek?” Sharadza asked.
He put down the cup of wine and swallowed a mouthful of meat. He laid his hand upon hers, and the words came tumbling out of him.
“Iardu told me about the nature of this body that you and he created for me. If not for its magic, I would be dead many times over. He told me I will not sicken or age. Yet he also told me that my children would be normal. Human.”
Sharadza blinked. Her hand twitched beneath his own.
He understood her enough to know what these small things meant.
“You are not barren, are you?”
She said nothing.
“I must know,” he said. The wine had loosened his tongue, and he let the words spill forth. “I look at my son and I do not see myself in him. I remember your pain and my accusation, and it tears me apart. You must know as Iardu knew. Is Theskalus my son? Can I have a son? I must know the truth now or I will go mad. It is why I have come all this way, sailing every league in the shadow of nightmares. I will not leave this place without an answer.”
Sharadza took a deep breath and turned away from his eyes. “You cannot father children in this body,” she said. Her voice was only a whisper.
Gods of Earth and Sky, I knew it. Somehow I knew it.
“Then… Theskalus is not mine?”
Sharadza shook her head.
“I could not tell you,” she said. “I wanted to spare you pain. D’zan, I am sorry.”
He grabbed her by the shoulders. The lion-lady sprang up but did not advance. Her eyes were upon D’zan, yet she was a civilized creature.
“No,” he said. The tears began to fall and he did not try to stop them. “I am the one who must apologize. I blamed you for not giving me an heir. I let this ruin our love, when all the time it was my own fault. Can you ever forgive me?”
“I already have,” she said.
They kissed then, but he did not remember moving toward her. The kiss was a tender one, but she broke it first and moved away from him.
“Come back with me,” D’zan said. “Cymetha is not fit to be Queen. You are the only one I love. Let me fix my terrible mistake.”
Sharadza shook her head again, and her black curls shuddered.
She dabbed at her eyes with a silken napkin. “Please try to understand,” she said. “I do love you. But I am waiting for Iardu.”
D’zan could not finish the fine meal. Sharadza held him in her arms for a while, and they said nothing. She knew Cymetha was unfaithful, but she chose not to tell me. She took the blame to spare me the reality of my impotency.
Theskalus is not my son.
And I will never produce an heir.
D’zan rose from the table at last and emptied his wine cup. “I came to learn the truth from Iardu, but you have given it to me. I thank you.”
“Wait,” Sharadza said. “Your voyage was long, and your men are weary. Stay here a few days at least. There is room.”
“I cannot,” D’zan said. “The longer I am near to you the more I will want you, and the more I will hate myself for what I did to you. To both of us. Yet I am grateful. You have given me a precious gift today, as you once gave me the gift of life inside this body. I may not have a son to bear my crown, but I still live to sit upon my father’s throne.”
“What will you do?” she asked, one hand on his chest. She meant about Theskalus. Yaskathan tradition did not allow for illegitimate offspring among royal bloodlines. Women and children had been put to death many times over the issue. D’zan knew now how those betrayed Kings of history must have felt. He could not imagine spending another night with Cymetha, or holding Theskalus in his arms ever again. Yet he would have long days of sailing ahead of him. Plenty of time to decide the fate of the liar and her spawn.
My father would have them both killed without another thought.
Trimesqua had been a Warrior King, with a warrior’s ruthless nature.
“I do not know,” D’zan told Sharadza. He did not want her to bear any guilt for the death of a faithless trollop and a bastard child.
I will do what must be done. As all Kings must do.
He left her standing at the top of the sea-stained stairway and rowed back to the ship with a few hours of daylight remaining. Sharadza waved as the Cointosser raised its sail and glided from the cove. Andolon and the crew had not questioned D’zan’s orders for an immediate departure. They saw the look on his face and knew that a King’s worries were not theirs to share.
There were no storms as they left the isle behind. The sorcery that kept ships away from Iardu’s domain must have been configured to assault only approaching ships. Or perhaps Sharadza spread her own magic across the sea to ensure D’zan’s safe departure. He sat in the shuttered cabin and drank Andolon’s wine until he passed out.
Over the next few days the King rarely emerged from his cabin. He refused the company of Andolon, Hammon, and the minstrel. He drank and read the pages of Lyrilan’s book until his eyes grew bleary and his head was too full of wine vapors to continue. The nightmares of marine slaughter returned, but they were distant and blurred now. He was unsure if this was the wine’s effect or the result of his new concerns. The weight of what he must do pressing on his soul before he even gave the order.
Bastards cannot be Kings.
A King must have an heir.
D’zan could not unravel the knot in his mind, and his anger grew like a sickness inside his non-human heart. He shouted visitors away from his cabin door and refused the company of anyone but the guard who brought him fresh bottles of wine. This man visited him often.
Mumbaza came and went upon its bone-bright cliffs.
D’zan was lost in a dark dream of flame and smoke when the shouts of men and clanging metal eventually roused him. The wooden deck rumbled with the thundering of booted feet. The voices of sailors and soldiers mingled into a violent cacophony. The sounds of a battle outside the cabin door were unmistakable, and the scent of burning sails filled D’zan’s nostrils.
Still drunk, his head pounding, D’zan took up his greatsword and staggered out of the door onto the middle deck. Black, ragged shapes rushed about him, driving silver sabres into the bodies of crewmen and dueling with the skilled Yaskathan guards. The main sail had been set ablaze by a half-dozen flaming arrows.
Along the starboard rail of the Cointosser sat a black Khyrein reaver flying a tattered crimson sail without insignia. The free-blood banner of pirates. The immersion into carnage sobered D’zan instantly. Before he could raise his voice to rally the ship’s defenders, a grinning pirate rushed at him with a curved blade raised high.
D’zan caught the downstroke against his greatsword. The pirate was not a Khyrein, but a Jade Islander. His eyes were squinted with bloodlust, his brown face marred by scars and open sores. He screamed something in the dialect of Ongthaia, but D’zan did not understand it. Most likely a curse.
“Protect the King!” someone shouted. The middle deck was a forest of clashing blades beneath a canopy of black smoke.
D’zan’s greatsword cleaved his attacker from shoulder to breast-bone. The brigand went down howling. The decks were already lathered in blood, littered with bodies and piles of slippery entrails. D’zan’s arcing blade took the head of another charging pirate. The raiders were clumsy fighters, used to preying on those that feared them.
Yudun the Minstrel lay dying not far from where D’zan stood blinking. The singer’s throat was sliced from ear to ear. Men died every second that D’zan hesitated. The pirates had killed a dozen men already, and now they outnumbered the Yaskathans. D’zan leaped recklessly into the fray, catching a glimpse of Andolon fighting for his life atop the foredeck.
The greatsword that bore the mark of the Sun God cut men down like a great scythe. The points of curved daggers and rusty sabres bit into D’zan’s flesh, slicing deep cuts into his chest and back. He ignored them all, knowing that each wound would heal. He could not die at the hands of Men, and certainly not from the blades of diseased vagabonds. He had stood against the Manslayers of Zyung in their multitudes and stolen hundreds of their lives. These desperate thieves were no match for him. He poured his anger upon them like a poison, slicing through arms and ribcages and knees like summer grasses.
The fury of D’zan’s assault gave fire to his guardsmen, who shouted his name as they cut down pirates. This in turn inspired the sailors to fight bravely and with confidence. Soon the decks were choked with dead brigands: Khyreins, Jade Islanders, Sharrians, even a few Yaskathan outlaws. The black reaver cut loose its grapples and glided away, the last of its crew no doubt regretting their decision to raid the Cointosser.
Andolon Silver raised his dripping longblade and shouted a cry of victory. He bled from a deep shoulder wound, but his fierce skill with the sword had kept him alive. Half of the crew was dead, and only three guardsmen were left standing. The Cointosser’s losses were great, but it had survived the boarding.
If I had not been a sleeping drunkard, I would have fought sooner.
Some of these men would still be alive.
How many times must I fail those who serve me?
D’zan barely heard his name ringing out as sailors rushed buckets of water toward the burning mast and sails. He dropped his filthy blade to the deck and leaned over the nearest railing. His guts rumbled, wanting to spill from his belly into the sea.
With his eyes on the foaming water, D’zan never saw the shaft that flew from the distant reaver’s deck. Something slammed into his right shoulder, and the arrow struck with a meaty sound. D’zan fell on his left side into a puddle of congealing blood, and he retched. He rolled away from the stench and discovered Andolon lying near, the black-feathered shaft protruding from his chest. The young lord gasped for air.
He took this arrow meant for me.
Some pirate aboard the departing ship had heard D’zan’s name and tried to pin the King of Yaskatha with a well-aimed shot. Andolon had shoved him out of the way, but could not avoid the speeding shaft.
The reaver was too far out now for another shot. D’zan shouted for help. Hammon came running across the smeared planks, crying his brother’s name. D’zan sent him for bandages and wine.
“Rest easy,” D’zan told Andolon. He examined the arrow. It had sunk deep and pierced the heart. There would be no need for bandages after all. Whether or not D’zan removed the shaft, Andolon would soon be dead.
“Majesty…” Andolon’s voice was a rasping croak.
D’zan hushed him. “Don’t try to talk. You are a hero, Lord Andolon. A statue of you will stand forever in my palace courtyard. Bards will sing of your great deed.”
“No!” Andolon spat blood. He waved away those gathering about him, even his brother. “My words are only for the King’s ears.”
D’zan poured a bit of wine into Andolon’s mouth and leaned low to hear him.
“Speak quickly then.”
“The child,” said Andolon. His eyes burned, drowning in tears. “The boy Theskalus… He is mine. I am his father.” D’zan saw it clearly now, as if a spell of blindness had been washed from him. The face of Cymetha’s child mirrored the face of Andolon. The same blue eyes.
“You cried out in your sleep,” Andolon breathed. “I heard your pain. Let the lie die with me. Please… Majesty… Forgive me…”
You gave your life to save mine.
You could not know that no arrow can slay me.
You died for nothing. Nothing but loyalty.
“I already have,” said D’zan.
Andolon grabbed his King’s hand, sticky with blood. He squeezed it with the last of his strength. “I have loved Cymetha… since we were children,” he wheezed. “I could not forget her when… she went to the palace. I have betrayed you…”
Let him believe this. It might have been so.
Andolon smiled through his tears. “You are a great King…” He gasped and coughed blood. His flesh grew paler by the moment. “Promise me… that you will not slay the boy. Exile him… give him to the temples… but let him live.”
D’zan nodded.
“Promise me!” Andolon’s red fingers clutched D’zan’s shoulder, the final spasm coming.
“Theskalus will live,” said D’zan.
Andolon’s head fell back against the deck. His blue eyes were dull glass.
D’zan would never know if the young lord heard his promise.
A King must have an heir.
The funeral of Andolon Silver was a grand affair, and his statue erected in the palace courtyard was of purest white marble. Cymetha wept as D’zan had never seen her weep. He knew her heart was broken. He comforted her as best he could.
The following week he conducted the ceremony that raised her officially to the status of First Wife and Queen of Yaskatha. In the years that followed, he would take many more wives. They too would bear him children: sons and daughters who looked nothing at all like their royal father. Yet only Theskalus mattered to the masses, for he was the first-born heir to the throne.
D’zan saw Andolon in the boy more and more as he grew, yet the King never spoke of the young lord to any of his wives or children. One day D’zan would teach Theskalus the ways of the sword, the spear, and the arrow. Yet he would also insist that the brightest of sages tutor the boy in diplomacy, commerce, and philosophy.
Theskalus would make a clever Prince and a wise King.
Yaskatha deserved no less.