“The rage of my winds might tear these dreadnoughts from the sky,” said Khama. “Drown them in the sea.”
I stared out the chamber window at the double fleet arrayed in and around the Khyrein bay. So many lives. So many deaths.
“Perhaps,” I admitted.
Undutu smiled. “We have the Feathered Serpent with us,” he boasted. “All is not lost.”
Tyro drained his goblet. “A warrior fears not death,” he said. The old saying that led generations of Men into giving up their lives for rash causes: It was at the same time a foolish yet wise statement. Death was not to be feared, but neither was it to be sought after in the name of something as useless as honor. If only the Earthborn Kings could see this, it might have ended differently at the council.
A servant bustled about the table refilling the wine cups.
“I will provide your fleets with nine black hawks,” I told them. “Bring me nine of your most clever soldiers. They will be your eyes upon the seas.” By this they knew I would reshape the soldiers into the forms of hawks for tactical advantage.
“Come with us, Iardu,” said D’zan. “With your power and Khama’s at our side, we will give the God-King pause. Perhaps we can even defeat him.”
I shook my head. The Flame of Intellect flared indigo below my beard. “You listen but you do not hear. Our only chance of resisting this invasion lies in gathering this land’s sorcerers to oppose the thousand who serve Zyung. This is what I must do, if there is to be any hope of survival.”
Undutu turned his head and rolled his eyes. Too young to know truth when he heard it. Eager for the spilling of blood and the seductive songs of death.
The servant refilled the Mumbazan King’s cup.
“I am going with Iardu,” said Sharadza. “We will wake the Dreaming Ones.” My heart raced when she said my name.
“We leave at first light,” I said.
“As will our fleets,” said Undutu.
I shook my head. There was no reaching sense with a young King who wished more than anything to be a warrior. I did not understand Khama’s willingness to indulge the boy’s death wish. Yet Khama was of the Old Breed, and we had built this world apart from Zyung, along with those others who came across so long ago. I must respect his decision.
The servant stood now at Tong’s elbow. From the waist of his robe a dagger of green jade appeared. He thrust it at Tong’s breast. Tong’s powerful legs propelled him backward, knocking over his chair and sending him to the floor. The dagger failed to find its mark.
The translator yelled for a guard while the assassin leaped upon the fallen Tong. I raised a hand to still the would-be slayer. Yet before my spell was cast a white wolf sprang across the table and collided with the knife-wielder. Sharadza. She shredded the man’s wrist with ivory fangs, keeping him on the floor with the sheer weight of her wolfish form. The dagger fell from useless fingers. Tong righted himself as guards rushed into the chamber, and Tyro picked up the jade dagger.
“A Deathbringer,” muttered Tyro, studying the stone blade and the purple hue of its poison. “I have not seen such a dagger since Olthacus the Stone was killed by Khyrein assassins behind the walls of Uurz.”
Tong did not chastise or interrogate his attacker in the presence of his fellow Kings. Guards dragged the man kicking and screaming from the room. Only those who spoke his language heard his words: “Death to the False King! The Claw shall return! Death to Tong!”
The translator righted Tong’s chair and the King of New Khyrei resumed his place at the table. He spoke again through the interpreter: “It seems that not all the Royal Houses approve of a Khyrei free of slavery,” he said. “This is a minor problem that we are looking to solve soon. Until then, Ianthe’s cult of assassins has found some new master.”
“A pity the Deathbringers do not serve their King with such fervor,” said D’zan. “I do not envy you, Tong. There are no assassins lurking in the palace at Yaskatha.”
Tong nodded his understanding. “The traditions of Khyrei are long and deeply held,” he said. “Not all of them will change so quickly.” Sharadza had taken on her womanly form again, and Tong took her hands in his own. “Thank you, Great Lady,” he said.
Sharadza bowed low before him, though she did not need to do so. There was pride and something far more dangerous surging in my heart. Vod’s daughter was everything I had hoped she would become, and so much more.
Thus the council had ended, with a decision to divide our forces and an attempted regicide. There would be more such attempts before Tong managed to quell the rebellious nature of every last Royal House. A revolution does not end in a single day. Like a war, or a disease, it can linger and cause vexation even in the midst of triumph.