Chapter 23

'My father is failing, ' said the prince Iordan to himself.

Try as he might, he could not silence the thoughts which came unbidden; his unconscious mind would no longer suffer to be quieted, and even the distraction of the bustle all around him was not enough to tear the part that listened away from the part that spoke.

'Even in his age, he grows old before his time. He was wounded when my sister and I were lost to him, and our return did not heal the hurt. No: if anything, it's deepened, though he hides it well. I see the wisdom gone from his mind - replaced by what, I don't know. And I can do nothing to stop it.'

It was morning on the day after the great lord made his departure for the Cloud City, and the prince had taken the tasks laid upon him as one who is driven. Despite the unexpected victory and moments of joy which followed, Iordan turned more to worry than he did to gladness. Upon hearing the full told account of all that had transpired since his departure seventeen days prior, he had been dismayed to consider all the actions of his father. True, Iosoan was an honorable man, and had acted with honor. But had he acted with wisdom? Had there been no other courses which an honorable man might have followed? And in the absence of wisdom, was the requisition of honor worth the price should none be left to remember it?

In youth, Iosoan had been the legendary maker of war and the bringer of peace; in senescence, only half the man remained. The war-maker was but a memory, a bare glimmer of what he had once been. A great man to be certain, and a great leader, still able to rally around himself those that followed into battle, even if the cause was hopeless. But for the war-maker of old, for the man who had scattered the countless armies of his enemies on the battlefield, the cause would not have been near hopeless. Without need or aid, he would have driven the dragon-threat from his borders. But the war-maker had not lived to face the threat; only the peace-bringer had survived to answer the call, and the once-great ruling house would have fallen but for the appearance of a mysterious woman with dark hair. Iordan knew only too well that no songs would be sung, nor tales told, about the deeds of the lord Iosoan and the battle of the forest.

And what of wisdom? Had it been wise to leave the capitol unprotected? Had it been wise to walk knowingly into the jaws of a trap, to allow the enemy to dictate the terms? To pit father and son each against superior forces with only a faint whisper of hope as their ally: had there not been some other hope held by the great lord, secret, fueled by grief and flamed by despair? Even with the rescue, un-looked for, the losses suffered in the forest were almost too great to bear. Had he not, upon learning of his daughter's supposed death, nurtured the private and unconscious desire for father and son to find the same end? The thought was frightening.

'All things fail with time, ' said part of Iordan's mind; the other part listened. 'Yet where a man may fail in deed, seldom will he fail in his seed. The child of a great man may rise to become greater, and his child greater still. Am I soon to rise now? And should I rise, am I later to fail and fall in the same way?'

The young prince felt the world press upon him, his new worries as one burden on another. Since his coming of age at eighteen, since he had first taken the royal title of 'prince-lord, ' he had felt his body grow in strength, his mind in wisdom, his heart in passion. He knew the strength of the blood which flowed in his veins, knew it was stronger than himself, knew he had yet to grasp it and rise to the fullness of his power. Like the countryside around him, he was soft. Living all his years in peace had made him soft, but more-so had his years with only the peace-bringer as a father. He knew he was not soft in the eyes of his people, but softness is a relative term. While he could outmatch any man who stood to challenge him, he was nothing when compared to his birthright, and all that he might yet become.

"My lord prince," came a voice.

Iordan turned from his place on the new city wall to see Hama, the aged foreman who had been the chief understudy during construction of the palace nineteen years before. The old man still carried a hammer in his belt, though he hardly had strength left to drive more than a few nails; his skill was in the direction of those younger but with less vision, and he was a master at his craft.

"Hama, how are things going?" said the prince.

"Very well, as you can see. We're making much better time than I'd hoped," Hama said, pleased, wringing his wrinkled hands together. "We've laid the foundation for the entire South span. That'll be finished by nightfall."

"Excellent work! Much better than I'd hoped as well."

The foreman beamed, the lines on his face twisting into a cracked smile. "Thank you, my lord. I was hoping you would agree."

"At this pace, we'll have the entire city walled before week's end."

"That's what I wanted to ask you about."

Iordan raised his eyebrows in question.

"See, at this point in the construction, we have a choice. Rather, you have a choice, my lord," said Hama.

The prince smiled, said: "Tell me the choice, then, and maybe you can help me make it."

Hama's smile broadened, becoming even more withered and parched, as he replied. "Well see, here's how it is. We can keep working with the original plan: wall up the whole city and be done, like you said, 'fore the end of next week. I think we can get it done in five more days. Or..." he paused, as if for effect, continued: "Or we can make it a little smaller - not a lot, mind you - and cut off the West quarter and the merchant district."

"I don't think I like the sound of that: cutting off the city. The West quarter..."

"... has most of the residential neighborhood, I know. But if it's protection for those people you're after," he laughed, "I know as well as anyone there's room for the lot of them at the palace."

"I can't argue with that," said Iordan, considering. "But what's your reason for splitting the city? What benefit is there?"

"Just thought you should know, I already did all the figuring, see? And if we cut off just those two bits, we could finish the wall in three day's time. Two, even, if we had a few more people with a hammer."

"Two or three days?" the prince exclaimed. "It would make that much of a difference?"

"I know it doesn't seem it, but I figured the lengths twice, just to be sure."

"That would make me feel a lot better. Less vulnerable, at least. Still, I hate to see the city divided." Iordan thought for a moment. Then, "What would you do?"

"Me?" Hama thought a moment as well. "I'd see the whole wall built. Around the whole city, I mean, same as you. But that's just the architect in me talking. Am I right in thinking the wall's not just about scenery?"

"You are."

"Then I'd say it's better to finish it as quick as possible, even if some of the city has to stay outside."

"But is speed really worth it?," Iordan said, mostly to himself. "I don't even know for sure that any more danger is coming." He knew as well as his father that Darrak Krun was not one to suffer defeat unanswered. Their enemy made his attack as part of some larger plan, but what was it? And what was his next step, after the invasion had failed? The prince did not think the risk of another military threat likely; how could a man summon an army of five thousand and still have more to follow? But he also reminded himself that two weeks earlier he had not thought those five thousand likely either. And if he did not fear another invasion, then why did he order the building of the wall? He sighed as he realized he knew the answer from the beginning.

"You realize, of course, that we can always extend the wall later," said Hama. "There's no reason the city has to stay cut off, as it were."

Iordan smiled. "You're right, of course. Build the smaller wall, and I'll make sure to send you some more builders. I'm bound to find a farmer here and there with a bad crop."

"Yes, my lord," said Hama. Then the old man bowed and returned to his work.

The prince continued his walk atop the completed portion of the wall, inwardly lost in thought, but giving the appearance of one who carried no cares or worries. He greeted the builders he passed, and they bowed to him and set to their labors with increased vigor. When he had reached the end, near the Southwest corner of the city, he slid easily down a tall ladder onto a waiting pile of lumber, and from there leapt to the ground. Patches of sunlight touched his face through the overhead canopy as he strode along the twisting streets. For an hour he walked the West quarter, watching frolicking of children in the streets and among the trees; should danger arise, he would have to hasten to bring all of them and their families inside the wall. In the meantime, he could only hope the danger he feared would not arise. And as he watched the many happy faces he saw, he was glad: builders were building, children were playing, and the immediate threat was passed. Still, he could not lift free of his own worries.

At last, Iordan turned the last corner and saw the sprawling palace standing proudly in its birthplace among the trees. It was still a sight which stole away his breath. As his long, sure stride carried him closer, he felt much the same as had the very first time he walked upon the same street: with the uncertain steps of a five year old boy. His father had been at the height of his power, his mother still alive and beautiful, his sister not yet even a dream.

His mother! The inescapable black wedge driven through the houses Lei and Menadin: his father would not speak of her, his sister had only memories of their step-mother, his grandfather Rau had died from grief, and his uncle Ramad had never quite stopped trying to place the blame. Iordan often felt that he alone carried fond and loving memories of once-princess Psiolia Menadin from under the sea, the first Lady Lei, mother of two.

Iordan blinked, surprised to find how his thoughts and his steps had carried him so far along the road. He felt a knot in his throat and tried to swallow; it was amazing how closely happy memories were linked to painful ones, how an image from his past could dredge up so much of the present. But the flash of boyhood returned again, and he stepped off the road to take what was once his favorite route to reach his private chambers: through the open fifth story window. As a boy he had found no trouble moving all about the palace, for leagues on end, without once touching the ground; as a man he had become only more skilled a climber, and found no trouble pulling himself lightly into the limbs of an inviting mallorn. He winced at the soreness in his shoulder - how long had it been since the arrow wound? Eight days? Ten? - but held his purchase nonetheless. He leapt from branch to branch, swinging and pulling himself higher as he neared the palace walls, at last finding the ornamental woodwork with his outstretched fingertips and pulling himself up and through the window.

"I wasn't expecting you to come in that way," said a voice. The speaker was female.

Iordan spun in surprise, said: "And I wasn't expecting to find you in my room."

"Your two servants let me in. They've gone to help with housework. Do you want me to leave as well?"

"No. I mean... now that you're here, I'll invite you to stay."

"And what should I do to repay such an invitation?" The woman rose from the prince's canopied bed where she had been seated. The simple wraparound she wore fell in a fluid motion to the polished floor; she wore nothing beneath. Her bare flesh was exposed in the light of day, by the shaft of sunlight that fell through the window. "This?" she asked, raising her eyebrows.

"That's... I..."

"Are you just going to look?" she said. With one hand she brushed a lock of hair away from her brown eyes.

"Miliana..."

"Anna."

"... Anna... I..."

"Let me explain how this works." She took a step forward. "You're very handsome. Very charming, but I don't love you."

"... this..."

"Shh..." she hissed softly. "My heart belongs to someone else. You think I'm beautiful; you can hardly look at me without blushing and going mute. I know what's been going through your mind the past few days. But you don't love me. Your heart belongs to someone else as well. Or should I say two someones?"

And as he heard the words, Iordan realized she was correct. For the past two years, Mia and Mikka had been his playmates. But amid all the nights of passion and pleasure, there had been something more. Until that moment, he had not seen it. Yet when he heard it spoken aloud...

"But," the woman continued, even as she took another step. "They're the ones who let me in here. They knew what I wanted, because I asked their permission. So now the question is: what do you want?" Another step. "And are you going to take it?"

The prince had no answer. Since he first laid eyes on the mysterious woman, he felt himself under her spell. He lusted after her and worshiped her, and there she stood in his chamber, offering herself to him.

"It's been a long time since I've felt a man's touch," she said. Another step. "That's all I want. You won't come between me and my love, and I won't come between you and yours." Another. "If I go one more minute without touching you, my blood is going to boil. And if you go one more minute without touching me, you're going to explode. So let's each do what we need to do, take care of what we want - what we need - and then go back where we really belong." Another. No more space remained. "Can you do that?"

Iordan's voice came at last, and he said, "I can do that." He leaned down to kiss her, wrapped his arms around her perfect waist, and lifted her over to the bed. Even as he set her down, he felt her fingers at work on his clothing. His tunic fell to the floor. His belt was loosed, and with a knee up on the bed, he held his naked body over the dark-haired woman, ready to feel the inside of her. The prince could not have stopped even if he wanted to, so strong was her hold on him; he found himself completely in her power. But as he was about to enter her, she broke the spell: he felt the sting of a slap across his face.

"Don't even think about trying to be gentle," she said, almost spitting in his face. Her tone was a mockery. She put her hands behind the prince's back, first pulling his body closer, then raking her bared fingernails roughly across his skin.

No, she had not broken the spell! If anything, she had only pulled the prince further in. Iordan at once found himself awakened, and he saw the woman lying beneath him as a wild animal, a predator, and her hunger was insatiable. She was the most beautiful and terrible creature ever to walk beneath the sun, and he could not naught but bow to her will. So he entered her at last with a mighty thrust of his hips, moaning at the tightness of the passage. He felt himself gripped by her hands and her body; he suffered her claws on his flesh once more, then he wrenched her arms from his back and held both wrists firmly above her head.

"Harder," she said, breathless. "You can do me harder than that."

Iordan did his best to comply. He thrust into her again and again with such force as he had never before used, worshiping her as a goddess by giving her everything he had to give. His heart pounded; blood coursed through his veins and sweat flowed from his pores, as a testament to his efforts. Salty perspiration stung his eyes and dripped from his nose onto her heaving chest.

"Come on," she chided. "I said harder."

And he exerted himself to such a level that his vision began to go black. Then at last, he felt a great tightening in his testicles, and with a lurch forward he ejaculated into her, and collapsed, spent. But not as spent as he thought.