Seven Kings

10

The Chamber of Orchids stood adjacent to the gardens of the eastern courtyard. Six pillars of lapis lazuli sparkled about a pool of turquoise water, replenished daily from the depths of the Sacred River. Servants heated the bath with hot stones baked in sacred fires. They seasoned the water with fragrant petals, costly oils, and secret spices known to invigorate the skin. The chamber was open only to the Queen and her immediate family; its attendants were seventeen lovely girls plucked from the corners of the known world.

Yaskathan maidens with golden curls, dusky daughters of Mumbaza, almond-eyed beauties from the Jade Isles, all hand-picked to serve the Queen in her most intimate of rituals. When Talondra wedded Tyro she had insisted that a majority of Sharrians be assigned to the maintenance of her bath. As in nearly every instance, Tyro acceded to her wishes.

The twelve dark-haired Sharrian girls Talondra honored with this duty had lost their families to the Khyrein invaders eight years ago. She saved them all from a mean existence on the streets of Uurz. Talondra also made sure that any dark-eyed Khyrein girls were suitably discharged. Her hatred of the Pale Race was legendary in the green-gold city. No one in Uurz could deny her right to this prejudice; the Khyreins had destroyed her family and her nation. Here in the inner sanctum of her privacy she would allow none of that race. The rumors that she had put several Khyrein girls to death were true.

Early stars blinked to life beyond the lattice of orchid vines that served as the chamber’s eastern wall. The evening sky glimmered violet above towers limned in twilight. The day’s heat had worn away and a pleasant breeze entered the bath chamber through the nearby gardens. It rustled the white orchid blooms in such a way that they seemed a hundred bobbing heads emitting vanilla breath into the steam.

Talondra lay at ease, floating atop the hot water. Her black hair spread across its surface and mingled with the fragrant petals. Barefoot girls in brief togas came and went silently, replacing hot stones as needed and perfecting the blend of botanicals. She called them forth to scrub her body and hair with delicate soaps. When that was done, she lay back once more and admired the watery light playing across the polished ceiling. A hearth and twin torches glowed brightly beside the pool. The last rays of daylight were lost beyond the wall of orchids.

The eastern doors flew open to crash against the wall. Maidens yipped and scattered from Tyro’s path as he stalked across the chamber, his long hair a disheveled sticky mess. Dripping scarlet smeared the golden lion’s head on his breastplate; his face was hot with sweat and rage. The gilded bracers on his forearms were nicked and scarred, and a dozen minor lacerations scored his muscled arms like red welts. His sword was missing from its scabbard, but a silver dagger hung still at his broad belt.

“What have you done?” he seethed. He kneeled at the pool’s edge, spilling dark drops of gore into the sweet water. His breathing was loud. His fists clenched and unclenched and clenched again. He supposed there was murder gleaming in his eyes. Yet there was no mirror in the Chamber of Orchids, so he could not see it for himself.

Let her see it. Let her know the depth of my anger.

She must have plotted this for months.

Talondra raised herself to a standing position in the middle of the waist-deep pool. She frowned at the bloody sight of him, but more at his tainting of the bathwater. She pulled her thick black tresses behind her head. Beads of water like tiny diamonds gleamed on her smooth brown skin, dripped from the buds of her breasts.

Even in the depths of his red fury he wanted her.

Conniving lioness bitch.

“Tell me!” he bellowed. “And who it was that helped you.”

Talondra smiled fearlessly. “Calm yourself, My Lord,” she said, making her way toward the far steps. Two trembling girls held up a white robe for her shoulders. “You look a fright.”

“Do not play with me, woman,” he said. “Time for your confession.”

The robe hung loose about her slim figure now, and she did not bother to close it. He forced his eyes away from the brazen display of her womanhood as she turned to face him.

“Would you treat your wife as a common criminal?” she asked. “Interrogate me with whips and hot irons? A confession implies a crime committed. I have done a great service for you, Tyro. And for the realm.”

He lunged forward and took her jaw between his bloodstained fingers and thumb. He pulled her face near to his own, and she resisted. His other hand grabbed her arm, tender as a twig in his grip. Her green eyes blazed at him. He gritted his teeth.

“I should kill you,” he said.

“Then kill me,” she whispered. Her eyes closed and she offered him her slim neck to break. “It is my honor to die by the hands of an Emperor.”

He breathed hotly into her face. A lovely mask of flesh sculpted by the clever hands of the Gods themselves. He squeezed until she whimpered. He kissed her hard on the lips, then tore the robe from her body. A single hand pushed her splashing into the pool, and he tore off the buckles of his breastplate, removed the soiled tunic, the plaited bronze girdle and sandals. Then he slid into the bath and took her in his arms. Servant girls crouched behind the blue pillars as the Emperor and his Queen made love in the steaming water. Afterwards the couple lay side by side with their heads against the lip of the pool.

The blood and sweat and rage was gone from Tyro’s body, but a red stain lay upon his conscience.

Talondra kissed his broad chest and lifted her eyes to regard his face.

“The Stormlands are yours now,” she said. “No more Scholar King to stand in your way. No more fractured court. No more obstacles to our just war.”

“He is my brother,” said Tyro, as if she had never recognized this fact. “And she belonged to him. I think he even loved her.” His eyes grew moist. Perhaps it was only the steam.

“She was a Yaskathan harlot,” said Talondra. “There are twenty thousand more exactly like her.”

“Who did it?” he asked.

She said nothing. He looked away toward the pale orchids. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” “As you wish.” She kissed his lips.

“They found… her head… in the lower cellar… surrounded by the sigils of some obscure sorcery. Did it need to be so-”

“Killing Ramiyah would be pointless if it did not paint your brother as a mad practitioner of the dark arts. They will say, ‘He sought to sacrifice his wife to demons so that he might rise above his brother and seize the Empire.’ It was the only way to break this stalemate. In your iron heart you know this to be true. Now you must see it through.”

“How can I?” he said. The lovemaking had washed away his fury. Only sorrow had replaced it. The sorrow of an Emperor, and he must wear it like a set of chains now. A far heavier burden than any jeweled crown. “How can I stand before the court-the entire city-and proclaim my brother a murderer, a sorcerer, and a madman? I know these are lies… and worse than lies.”

She placed a hand on his cheek and turned him toward her splendid eyes again. “Lies are only tools. Some say they are the most important tools a ruler can wield. More powerful than blade or spear, more deadly than venom. You need only learn how to wield a lie as you wield a sword… to cut down your enemies without mercy.”

“So must I cut down my own brother.”

“For the good of the realm,” she said. “And for the good of the world once Khyrei is no more. What stakes could be higher?”

He rose from the bath and accepted a robe from the attendants. Talondra followed him past the lattice of orchids to sit upon a divan overlooking the darkened gardens. The moon was a silver crescent hanging sharp as a dagger in the starry night. A cool wind blew across the courtyards, and distant melodies wafted from a band of strolling musicians. Drum, flute, and lyre blended into a song both melancholy and sweet. Tyro could not hear the lyrics, and the gentle strains brought him no peace.

“Where is he now?” asked Talondra.

Tyro stiffened, ran a hand through his wet hair. “Mendices came to the sparring field and told me of the murder. I took a squad from the field and entered the western wing. I heard Lyrilan screaming before I reached his apartments. The Green Lords set their men before his door. The fools actually expected me to turn away and ignore my brother’s mad cries. Swords were drawn and blood was spilled. Several men died on both sides. In the end it was Undroth, my father’s old friend, who halted the fight and opened the sealed door…”

His words faded beneath the memory of Lyrilan’s distorted face stained with Ramiyah’s blood, runneled with tears, his eyes empty of all but pain. The girl’s headless body lay on a red sheet that had once been white. A pair of legionnaires restrained Lyrilan, but not even old Volomses could calm him. They gave him wine but he tossed the cup away. A physician came to inspect the body, and he forced a noxious potion down Lyrilan’s throat. The Scholar King grew silent at last, mired in the depths of his loss. Tyro went to him but could not dispel the emptiness on his brother’s face.

Gradually, details of the murder emerged. The dagger found was Lyrilan’s own; he was known to carry it on ceremonial occasions. On Tyro’s orders and with the consent of Undroth, they moved Lyrilan to a clean quiet chamber low in the Western Tower. Eventually he slept, while Tyro led the investigation. He examined the soiled bedchamber with great care, knowing in the back of his mind that it was all Talondra’s doing. One of her agents had done this, one of the many scions of shadow who moved through the city unseen and unheard, dispatching death and vengeance at her command. One of the silent killers she used as pawns to pursue her private vendettas. Yet there would be nothing to link her officially with the slaying. Instead, everything was arranged to point directly at poor Lyrilan.

When the missing head was found, Tyro went below to see the signs of sorcery for himself. Such a scene was not terribly difficult to construct. The great library was full of books detailing the marks of sorcery and witchcraft, most of which were meaningless, harmless, or both. There were magicians in Uurz, and probably even a few true sorcerers, but they did not reside in the palace and they certainly did not get their powers from such antiquated tomes. Yet Talondra’s agent had done well, both in assembling a convincing scene of demon worship, and in leaving barely enough droplets of blood along the corridors to lead directly into the cellar. The subterranean vault where Lyrilan had attempted his evil spell.

Tyro sensed the falseness of the scenario instantly. He knew his brother was incapable of such a heinous act. Yet he said nothing. Surely the failure of this blood sacrifice accounted for Lyrilan’s sudden madness, Mendices posited. Surely no King would grieve so deeply and powerfully over a mere dead wife. No, Lyrilan must be a dabbler in the ancient and forbidden arts. An aspiring blood mage. So much evidence could not be discounted.

When news of this theory spread, only hours after the murder, a contingent of the Green Lords had decided to attempt a coup. Cohorts of green and gold forces clashed in the paved courtyard below the steps of the Great Hall. Most of the Green Lords took advantage of the chaos to flee the palace-and perhaps the city itself-but Undroth remained with Lyrilan in his sickness.

Tyro was not bound to join the fray. In fact, it was unheard of that a modern-day King should take up a sword to defend his own palace grounds. Yet the pain in his heart was easily smothered by the press of bodies, blades, and shields. He waded into the skirmish and killed seven men wearing green tabards. Three of these had been skilled swordsmen. One came close to piercing Tyro’s eye with a quick blade before he died at the Sword King’s feet.

The Gold Legionnaires, inspired by their King’s savage presence, fought like tigers. As the sun sank beyond the golden towers, Uurzian hacked Uurzian to bits. Soon the men of the Green lost heart as they realized their lords, and their chosen King, no longer stood behind them. Those who surrendered were cast into cells as traitors.

Later, when hot tempers cooled, Tyro would give them a chance to swear a fresh oath and repent their treason. With war looming on the horizon, every capable warrior would be of value. The rest of the Green Lords were already surrendering their forces to Tyro via proxies. They had no choice now but to accept him as their sole ruler.

Emperor at last.

There was only the matter of what to do with Lyrilan.

Tyro had marched livid and bloody from the courtyard littered with the bodies of his countrymen. So he had confronted Talondra, and as usual she soothed his boiling blood and reminded him of the essential nature of his royal duty.

Now he lay with her on the divan and wondered at the cold beauty of the stars.

Forgive me, Lyrilan.

“He gave me a book,” Tyro told his wife. “All about Dairon. He chronicled our father’s life one year at a time. I was… I was reading it.” Tears welled in his eyes. He might never be able to finish reading those pages now. Every drop of ink would remind of him of the innocent blood shed in his name.

She wrapped her arms, then her long legs, about him. Like a mother she held his head to her bosom, making gentle sounds.

“Weep now, Emperor of Uurz,” she whispered. “Mourn your brother’s loss and know that you walk the righteous path.”

“What can be righteous about what we have done?” he asked. “Or what I will now have to do?”

“Everything!” she said. “The Gods respect strength, Tyro. The blessings of Earth, Sea, Sky, and Sun will fall upon the second Emperor of the New Blood. The people will rejoice. An empire deserves an Emperor, and by these deeds, bitter though you find them, you have gained the great throne.”

He drew in a deep breath, expanding his chest, and sighed. “I need wine.”

She motioned the servants to bring refreshments. “Lyrilan does not speak?” she asked. “Not even to defend himself?”

“Not this day,” he said. “Perhaps never. This may have killed him as surely as a spear in the heart. We will see.”

“If he does not speak, so much the better. He will not then deny the charges you lay upon him, or the sentence you prescribe. He is done.”

He looked at her again, studying the contours of her perfect face: the proud nose, the sloping cheekbones, the high forehead. She had no brothers, at least none living. No family left at all. Could she understand his bond with his brother? Did it even matter, the bond itself or her understanding of it? He did not have the answer.

They shared a carafe of strong red vintage, she sipping and he guzzling. The heaviness in his breast was replaced by a numb warmth. Killing men was easy. War was easy. The ways of the sword were cleaner and simpler than the ways of politics. In war a man might spare his enemy and gain honor. In politics, honor was an illusion, like a morning mist taken on the shape of a forlorn ghost.

“The realm is yours.” She toasted him with a raised goblet. “And we will have our war. Death to Khyrei.”

Tyro nodded and drank. All he need do was condemn his brother. Turn his back on the person who loved him most in the world. Enforce a lie that was a weapon and use it to kill a King. Talondra had done the messy work for him. Now he must do the inevitable and learn to live with himself.

Yet there would be the glorious chaos of war to drown his remorse. Blood and smoke and death in which to lose the memory of this betrayal. In the smoking ruins of Khyrei he would find vindication. Or the Gods would punish him for this crime and he would die on the battlefield. Let them judge him as they saw fit. Such was the role of Gods. The role of an Emperor was to lead. The role of a warrior was to fight. Such were the ways of the world, and so would it ever be. Life was a battle and pain was the soul of it.

Tyro called for more wine and drank until he slept.

He welcomed the nightmares when they came.

Three days later an anxious gathering filled the Great Hall. Lords and ladies, courtesans, chamberlains, sages, priests, stewards, philosophers, constables, prefects, and generals, all dressed in their best silk and satin. From the vantage point of Tyro’s throne, the crowd seemed sprinkled with the dust of precious gemstones. The Royal Legions no longer wore either gold or green, but had joined their colors once more: gilded bronze cuirass and helm, olive tabard and cloak, silver spears, and round shields bearing the Golden Sun of Uurz on a green field. Several of the former Green Lords were still missing, yet most had given up their cause. What hope did they have now that Lyrilan was lost to them?

The Scholar King’s throne sat empty next to Tyro’s own. Talondra stood close at his elbow. His heralds had done well in spreading word of Lyrilan’s insane crime. They hardly needed to bother; such scandal and tragedy captured the fancy of every Uurzian. Even in the lowest of streets the common folk spoke of the Scholar King’s madness. Vigils honoring the dead Queen Ramiyah sprang up across the city. Those citizens with keen memories compared Lyrilan to Fangodrel of Udurum, the Kinslayer who murdered his own brother to feed his blood-hungry magic. This act had led to his ultimate doom, just as it must for the Scholar King.

Talondra disguised the gleam of triumph swimming in her eyes, but Tyro saw it clearly. A silvery eel gliding in dark waters. Soon she would be the wife of an Emperor. She understood his pain, yet she did not feel it. He followed her example, dispelling emotions to the back of his mind. Today, this day of days, he wore the great crown, a thick loop of gold set with three egg-shaped emeralds above eyes and brow. Already he felt the weight of his impending reign on his head. A golden corselet and green kilt completed his royal attire. The greatsword hung at his side, and the emerald in its pommel matched perfectly the stones of his crown. He might have worn the cloak of emerald silk embroidered with a golden sun, but the day was already hot at mid-morning. He sweated uncomfortably beneath the waving fans of his attendants.

Lyrilan had spoken no words since the morning of his loss. He lingered silent and alone in his lofty chamber, accepting no company save that of Undroth. Tyro had gone to try and speak with his brother, but he could not bring himself to enter Lyrilan’s presence. What could he say that would possibly matter? To apologize would only cement his guilt. Lyrilan might even talk him out of what he intended this day. Or he might never speak again. In order to have the strength for what he must do, Tyro chose not to face him at all. Let it be done, and let their lives move on as they must, in separate directions.

That which is painful is best done quickly. Now was the time.

The Sword King rose before the assembled masses. Outside, beyond the trees and hedges, past the outer wall of the palace, the roar of milling commoners was the booming of an ocean shore. Inside the Great Hall every voice fell to silence as Tyro stood. He gazed mournfully at his brother’s vacant throne. The sour-sweet scent of blooming heartflower entered the hall, wafted through the high windows on an errant breeze.

“My brother’s throne sits empty,” Tyro said. His voice rang against the domed ceiling and echoed between glistening marble columns. “The Scholar King will not speak to me. He will not deny what you have heard and what members of this court have seen with their own eyes.

“As I love Lyrilan, I will speak on his behalf. I will speak of Lady Ramiyah, who lies now in the tomb of our ancestors. Faced with the reality of his bloody crime, my brother’s mind and heart have deserted him. I know that he grieves for Ramiyah, even as I know he killed her. I know that he repents his pursuit of the dark arts. He is no sorcerer. I know that it was an evil voice in his ear, the tongue of a demon from some dark hell, that raised his hand against the woman he loved. So where Lyrilan will not repent for his crimes, where he will not ask for mercy, I do it for him.”

The hall remained silent as his words faded. A lady wept softly somewhere amid the gaudy throng. Someone coughed.

“When power lies just within a man’s grasp, yet just out of his reach… this can bring a fever to the soul, a poisoning of the spirit. So Lyrilan thought to grasp what had eluded him while I yet lived. Every man here knows that my brother was a master of quill rather than blade. He had no hope of defeating me by traditional means. To raise his hand against me in violence would have brought him nothing. So he sought this blood sorcery to bring me low, but instead found his own demise.

“Ah… my heart is riven. Would that Lyrilan had taken up a sword and found my bare breast. Such would have been a cleaner fate for us both. Yet he chose the way of the shadow, the coward’s way. He placed his faith in powers that can never be trusted to guide the destiny of Men. And in that dark investiture, he failed. His demon did not come; his wife lies dead by his own hand, and his sanity hangs by a thread.”

Tyro allowed another moment of calm to envelop the chamber. He glanced at Talondra in her sparkling gown of black and green. Her golden crown was a lesser version of his own.

Yes! Her eyes spoke to him. The power is yours. Take it! Seize this golden moment!

He turned back to the expectant court.

“The penalty for murdering a noble… is death,” Tyro said, struggling to keep his voice even. His stomach trembled, but he hoped the golden cuirass hid it well. “The penalty for treason is also death. And it is true that my noble father, Emperor Dairon the First, did put to death more than a few warlocks in his day. There is no place in Uurz for this obscene sorcery. Three times my brother has earned his death!”

Now the tears came and Tyro did not stop them. He paused and gathered his breath. Some in the crowd moved forward, moved by his display of grief. Many of those present had loved Lyrilan. Including Tyro.

Forgive me, Brother.

“Yet who but the Gods themselves has the authority to condemn a King to death? I… I, who love my brother despite his madness and his treachery… I will not consign him to die. I have not the h…” He paused. “The heart for it.”

Somewhere in the hall a woman cried out. The sounds of sobbing grew louder.

“So I declare on this day, before the High Court of Uurz, that my brother Lyrilan, Son of Dairon… be exiled. The term of this banishment will be the remainder of his years. So do I give my poor brother life in place of death. Let him take what retainers he wishes to nurse his shattered mind back to health, and enough gold to secure a princely domain in some distant land. Let him walk no more in the City of Sacred Waters or in the Stormlands that serve it.

“Let this decree be inscribed in the Books of Law. Let it be set down in our histories.”

The applause began as a smattering then grew to a wave of noise. Nodding heads and approving voices yammered to fill the upper air of the hall like hot smoke.

Tyro inhaled the perfumed sweat of his audience and prepared himself for the final stroke. The battle was almost won.

A raised hand silenced the crowd.

“I, Tyro, Son of Dairon, proclaim myself on this day sole Emperor of Uurz, Sovereign of the Stormlands, Lord of the Sacred River. Let all who are loyal kneel before me in the presence of the Gods. I go now to their house, to receive the holy blessings.”

Every man and woman in the hall kneeled then, even the soldiers stationed against column and wall. The moment was pristine and as pure as a drop from the holy river. Even Talondra bowed her head in salute to her husband. Her Emperor. He took her hand and bade her stand. Now she spoke aloud, voice bright with victory.

“Hail the Emperor!”

“Hail the Emperor!” The crowd echoed her words, their common voice ringing from the windows into the courtyards. It reached the dusty streets where the masses waited to hear the news.

Soldiers lifted Tyro in his chair and carried him through the hall, out through the courtyard where the spilled blood and maimed bodies of the skirmish had been removed. They carried him into the teeming streets toward the Grand Temple. There he would take the Emperor’s Oath and make his conquest complete.

He wept as if humbled. Uurz cheered and howled and praised his name.

“Look! The Emperor weeps for his poor brother!” someone yelled from a garden wall.

Mistaking the source of his sorrow, they only loved him more.

In their eyes he was the merciful brother, not the mad one.

All the way to the golden walls of the temple towers they shouted his name and proclaimed his worthiness. Talondra followed atop a palanquin of cushions and silks borne on the backs of brawny servants.

“Hail the Empress!” someone called.

Tyro lowered his face into his hands.

Forgive me, Father.

He vowed silently to finish reading Lyrilan’s book. Perhaps one day he would see Lyrilan again and tell him how much the gift had meant to him. Or perhaps the Gods would intervene and smite him in the coming war. He might die before ever seeing his brother again. This was, in fact, the most likely outcome of today’s events. The world was harsh and the ways of Men were cruel.

Either way, the path to glory lay open before him.

Emperor of Uurz. Conqueror of Khyrei.

All for the cost of a brother’s love.

Eventually Lyrilan gave in to the demands of Undroth and took a little water.

A few bites of food. Tasteless. Like mud on the tongue.

He lay on the couch of his sumptuous prison chamber and twisted his hands together. Through the single window he watched western Uurz glimmering in the sunlight, a toy city of golden domes and spires. Somewhere below lay the gardens she had loved. He had waited too long. He should have given her children their first year together. His damn books took him away from her too many times. They even took him away from his throne when he had it.

He said nothing as Undroth explained to him the plot that had claimed Ramiyah’s life. She had been used like a game piece, a speck of quartz to exploit and throw away. His brother was a murderer and a liar. Yet he could not believe Tyro did the murdering himself. Killing any woman was beneath the Sword King.

Yet it must have been done with Tyro’s approval. How could it not be?

Talondra. She was the soul of it. Now Tyro called him a mad sorcerer, a fiend who would murder what he most loved in a quest for unholy power. Power! As if that had ever mattered to Lyrilan. The power of the written word was his only magic. Now words had failed him utterly. The book of Dairon’s life was worthless in his brother’s eyes.

“… has declared himself Emperor and even now takes his oath in the Grand Temple.” Undroth droned on in a soft but rugged voice while Lyrilan tugged at the frayed hem of his robe. They had dressed him in dark green, but it seemed the color of dried blood. He had refused to bathe since servants had scoured the blood from his senseless body three days ago. The smell of his own sour sweat reminded him of the reality that lay beneath the surface of all things. Underneath the stink of his living body lay a reeking, rotting corpse waiting to be born.

So does all the world seem now to rot and decay, he mused. But he did not speak such thoughts aloud, or write them down.

Worse than the pain of losing Ramiyah was the agony of guilt. He could have abdicated and given Tyro what he wanted. Yet Lyrilan had refused to give up a throne that he held less worthy than a roomful of parchment and ink. That stubborn refusal had led to his wife’s death.

He contemplated leaping from the window. His prison chamber was still high enough in the western tower that the fall would certainly kill him. Whenever Undroth caught him staring at the window like that, the bearded lord placed himself between it and Lyrilan. Very patient, like a father, Undroth attended him always. Was there evil in him as well, lurking beneath the patient words and kindly visage of his uncle?

“Do you hear me, Majesty?” Undroth asked.

Lyrilan turned his eyes away from the mosaic stones of the ceiling. Old Volomses had entered the room unnoticed. He stood behind Undroth with a trio of shuffling attendants bearing coffers and scrolls. Lyrilan stared at them, the muscles in his face and jaw gone slack.

“You must leave the Stormlands,” said Undroth. The words sank slowly into Lyrilan’s consciousness, as if he lay underwater. “Your exile begins tomorrow. Volomses and I are going with you. I have a few loyal soldiers who will ride with us. We will see to your portage and your funds, but we must move quickly. Is there anything you desire to take with you?”

Lyrilan cast his gaze about the chamber. What mattered this opulent shell, this palace, this city, this Great Assemblage of Lies? The only thing he wanted in this place was Ramiyah. His eyes burned. On a table across the room lay a stack of six dusty tomes. The Books of Imvek the Silent. Somehow Volomses had managed to smuggle them in here during the investigation.

Lyrilan raised a bony arm and pointed to the books.

Sorcery. It lay on those pages.

For the first time since the murder, Lyrilan spoke. His voice was a hollow rasping sound. His index finger trembled.

“Bring those,” he said.

Volomses bowed low and packed the six books into a small trunk.

Undroth and Volomses shared a hopeful look. They seemed to like the fact that he was now speaking after so much silence.

“Yaskatha,” Lyrilan muttered.

“Pardon, Majesty?” said Undroth, drawing nearer to him.

“We will go… to Yaskatha.”

“As you wish, My King,” said Undroth. King D’zan, a trusted friend, had once lost his throne. He would understand Lyrilan’s plight. And there was Sharadza, Daughter of Vod, who took D’zan as her husband. She was a well-known sorceress.

“Yaskatha,” he said again, nodding only to himself.

The two lords did not hear him this time. There was too much scuffling and babbling in the room. The effort to pack a King’s entire life into trunk, coffer, and bag had begun.

Lyrilan stared out the window at the jubilant crowds along the tiny streets. They shouted Tyro’s name. Another mighty celebration had overtaken the City of Wine and Song. Such parades were not uncommon, but it was not often that the coronation of a new Emperor was their cause.

The green-gold city sighed and moaned beneath him like a great ignorant beast.

He contemplated once more the idea of throwing himself out the window. Letting his bones shatter on the white marble, his flesh burst like a dropped gourd, his blood fountain up to enlighten the festivities.

No. There were better things to do with flesh and blood.

“Yaskatha…” he mumbled, sitting still amid the flurry of activity.

He breathed and blinked and nodded. He stared at the gray mineral of the floor.

He bit his lip until a drop of red fell from his chin.

“Yaskatha…”