“Why did the bitch truly aid us?” Vaazhia asks. She drinks wine and eats lobster, but has no taste for the other foods. I should have called for red meat to suit her tastes. But there is little time for such indulgence.
“Ianthe seeks to use us,” I say. “As she is using Zyung.”
“To what end?” says Sharadza. She knows Ianthe’s cruelty firsthand. It has left a scar upon her soul that will never be completely healed.
“She wishes to pit me and my allies against the God-King, hoping that we will defeat him.”
“Why does she not rise against him herself?” asks Sharadza. “She is of the Old Breed, and no doubt Gammir will obey her.”
“Because she fears Zyung,” I say. “As great as Ianthe’s power is, it is no match for that of Zyung. She must have fled into his service when we defeated her at Khyrei, and taken the bastard with her. These two cannot hope to stand against the God-King and his thousand High Seraphim. A legion of Old Breed has been chained to Zyung’s will, as we were chained to the dream of Udgrond for a while. Yet Zyung’s long dream is an earthly force, a grand theory put into practice, a dogma of absolute order. The longer Ianthe serves him, the more she is Diminished by his will, as these others have been.”
“She would have us rid her of Zyung,” says Alua.
“She will break Zyung’s hold on her only if we cast him down,” says Vaazhia.
“And she will claim his empire for her own,” I say. “She will become him.”
“Does she put so much faith in us?” Sharadza asks. “Can we defeat this God-King?”
There is quiet about the table.
“We must try,” I say. “Perhaps Ianthe will aid us when the time is right. I sense that Khama still lives as well. He lies recovering in Uurz even now, with the rest of the survivors.”
“Can you not sense Vireon?” Sharadza pleads.
“Vireon carries the blood of the Old Breed, but he is not one of them,” I explain. “My bond with Khama is strong. I would sense his death from any distance. As for Vireon, and the rest of the Kings, we must go to them now.”
I stand and ask Alua to work her spell. The power swells deep inside her. Vaazhia, too, seethes with restrained energies. Our return to the sunlit world has awakened her lust for life. We do not have Udgrond, but I am glad for the presence of the lizardess.
Alua spins her white flame about us and we rise, gliding through an open window. The gray-white citadel grows small beneath us. The ocean glimmers in all directions. Alua turns her eyes toward the distant coastline, and her comet streaks across the blue sky.
Sharadza’s hand slips into my own. I hold it tighter than I should. In her worried state, she does not seem to mind. If my tragic error has caused the death of her brother, I will never forgive myself.
Hand in hand, we hurtle toward the Stormlands.
The City of Wine and Song prepared for a siege. The folk of a hundred surrounding villages streamed along the Eastern and Western Roads toward the gates of Uurz. Many led entire herds of sheep, goats, or pigs, hoping to find refuge as well as profit behind the city’s walls.
From inside Alua’s rushing flame we watched the men, women, and children of the Stormlands converge on the city. The gates would remain open until Uurz had swelled to the point of saturation; those left outside would have to fend for themselves when the Hordes of Zyung came. Very few common folk knew that the sturdy walls of the city would mean nothing to an enemy who could sail above them on currents of wind.
The skies above the Stormlands were cloudy yet calm when we crossed them. If they had been raging with storms or blackened by thunderheads, I would be assured of Vireon’s health. Like his father before him, the weather often reflected his temperament. It was Vod who turned black desert to green plain, loosing rivers from the earth and rains from the sky. Vireon held this legacy and more of Vod’s magic in his blood. Lately he had discovered this fact and embraced it. Yet he had not learned the full depth of his power. If he still lived, I would show it to him.
The globe of white flame sinks toward the great palace at the heart of Uurz. I look across its jumbled vista of streets, orchards, and commons. Although every tavern and shop is crowded, there is little mirth and far less music than usual. An aura of fear hangs about the metropolis like a cloying fog.
Among verdant roof-gardens the noble families gather to fret and glare at the commoners milling below their walls. In the orchards and vineyards of the palace, groups of servants rush to fill baskets with produce that will be priceless treasures if the siege is a long one. Along the congested avenues, merchants haggle with laborers and ask triple the normal price for their goods. Farmers and brickmakers trade in their shovels and trowels for swords and spears, hiding their families in cellars, rented hovels, or overpriced inns. Legions of soldiers in green cloaks patrol the main thoroughfares while the city ramparts teem with spearmen, their eyes aimed eastward, searching for the first sign of the invaders.