Read Seven Princes for Free Online

her throat, the bloodflower singing in his veins. Flames seemed to burst from his eyes as he took his pleasure. His body moved of its own volition, while his mind floated in a miasma of swirling crimson. The bloodflower danced in his vision, telling its tale of endless secrets. He listened… at the edge of awareness… he burned… he almost, almost understood. The flames faded.
    When he was finished, cold rain blew in through the window and the storm still raged. The girl lay limp in his hands. He pulled away. Her neck bore a purple ring, and his fingers were numb.
    Lightning threw mock daylight into the chamber, and for an instant he saw himself in the oval mirror on his far wall. A pale, emaciated figure bending over the pink and lifeless carcass of a slain animal. He stared into his own eyes for an eternal instant. Then the chamber plunged into darkness again. The coals in the brazier had burned out, moistened by the big raindrops blowing through the window.
    He stood and fastened the obsidian panes into place, shuttingout the storm. He re-lit the candle with a tinder stick and held it over the body of Yazmilla. So beautiful she was, even in death. More beautiful even, for the absolute stillness of her features, the cool pleasantness of her pallid skin.
    A pounding at his chamber door brought him out of the trance, and he turned from the dead girl to face the oak-and-bronze portal.
    “What is it?” he bellowed.
    “My Prince, your Lord-King Father summons you.” A thin, reedy voice. “Even now he gathers in the Chamber of Audience all those of his household.”
    Fangodrel watched the candle flame dance in the dead girl’s eyes, twin rubies captured in orbs of glass.
    “My Prince?” came the voice again, through the heavy door.
    “Rathwol, is that you?”
    “Yes, My Lord. So sorry to trouble you. The summons comes from the King’s Viceroy.”
    He stumbled to the door and unfastened the heavy chain. Opening it just enough, he motioned his body servant inside.
    Rathwol entered, a slight man with a hawkish nose, his lavender tunic reeking of turnips, sweat, and sour ale. His bald pate was covered by a leather skullcap, and his tunic bore the fine gold trim of a palace servant, though it needed a good washing. He appeared to have crawled out of a gopher’s burrow somewhere. The man was an offense to royal sensibility, but he was very useful.
    “Light a brazier,” Fangodrel commanded him, handing over the candle.
    Rathwol followed the order, using a fine oil to ignite some coals in a dry bowl of hammered iron. His close-set eyes immediately fell upon the body of Yazmilla, lying on the soiled couch. Another man might have screamed in shock or revulsion, but Rathwol had seen much worse. He had prowled the streets of Uurz for twentyyears before finagling his way onto the palace staff in New Udurum. Most likely he had fled his native city to avoid imprisonment. Fangodrel had never asked what crimes he may have committed, and he did not care. He only knew that Rathwol was a loyal subject, and a man who could keep his many secrets.
    Fangodrel scrubbed himself with a towel and bowl of lemonwater. Rathwol bent to examine the dead girl’s neck, checking for a pulse.
    “Oh, My Prince,” he muttered. “Here was a tasty bit of flesh for the nobbin’…”
    “Get rid of her,” said Fangodrel, pulling on a pair of doe-skin leggings and boots of black leather. “
Discreetly
.”
    Rathwol looked up at his master. “Into the furnace? Same as the others?”
    “Need you ask, fool?” Fangodrel pulled on a high-collared tunic of green and silver, fastening it along the sternum with engraved buttons. “There’s a palm-weight sapphire in it for you.”
    “My Lord is generous,” said Rathwol, his eyes turning back to the dead girl’s face.
    “Get rid of that carpet, too,” said Fangodrel. “She
burned
it.”
    Rain pelted against the window panes, like claws scratching at the inner hood of a coffin. Such thoughts made