Seven Kings

14

The capital of Yaskatha sat proud and gleaming on the edge of a turquoise sea. Its lean spires shone silver against the blue heavens, and its flapping crimson banners bore the Sword and Tree sigil of King D’zan’s house. The Royal Palace stood atop a hill at the center of the city, surrounded by vineyards and orchards ripe with pomegranates, peaches, mangoes, plums, and other bounties of nature. The city streets were arranged in a series of concentric avenues and spacious colonnades. Public gardens grew thick with homeflower, jasmine, coconut, and starblossom. Sun-browned folk with golden hair filled the seaside marketplace, filing in from the green pastures east of the city.

Below the polished ramparts, marble wharves swarmed with activity. Hundreds of trading vessels unloaded spices, silk, and exotic wines. At either end of the crescent bay, three hundred tall war galleons sat poised for sailing, the famous Yaskathan fleet, second only to Mumbaza’s in size and grandeur. The King’s banner flew from every gilded prow, and the sails bore greater versions of the Sword and Tree.

Lyrilan stood in the bow of the Sunrider with Volomses and watched the gaudy sails of foreign traders flow in and out of the port. After thirty-three days at sea it would be good to feel solid ground beneath his feet again. The voyage had been an easy one, despite several summer storms. No pirates or sea monsters to endure. He had survived the sinking of Dairon’s Spear eight years ago thanks to dumb luck and the valor of Vireon Vodson. No far-seeing necromancer was striving to sink his vessel this time, which was fortunate because the Sunrider carried no heroes today. In addition to the busy crewmen, there was only Lyrilan, Undroth, Volomses, and the dozen legionnaires who had accompanied them from Uurz.

Lyrilan breathed deep the salty air, laced as it was with the aroma of foreign spices and peeled fruits. The warm scents of Yaskatha, where he hoped to find sanctuary.

The trip from Uurz to Murala remained a dull blur in his memory. His mind had still been fragmented during that leg of the journey, sodden with the terrible weight of guilt. Undroth had hired a carriage and four strong stallions for Lyrilan’s exodus. Volomses had ridden beside him on the thick cushions of the coach’s interior. Undroth and his loyalists rode escort on mailed horses. In order to avoid the mass of crowds and the acrimony of those who might waylay or harass the banished Scholar King, the carriage had left the city well before dawn.

Only a few wandering drunks and a squad of gate guards witnessed Lyrilan’s departure. None of them had fair words for Lyrilan or his retainers. Any such sentiments might see a man jailed or killed now that the Sword King was Emperor. Lyrilan curled himself upon the carriage’s couch and slept, waking only at the prompting of Volomses to eat dried fruit and drink a bit of stale wine. Ramiyah’s kisses still burned on his tongue, and he tasted nothing else.

Two heavy chests rattling on the floor of the carriage contained all that was left of his royal status. The first one held the Books of Imvek the Silent, along with a few fresh quills and rolls of good parchment. The second chest held a fortune in tourmalines, topazes, opals, emeralds, garnets, and other precious stones. Undroth had chosen well the most valuable items from Lyrilan’s personal treasury. Although he was no longer King, he would still live like a monarch wherever he decided to go.

One piece of jewelry stayed gripped in his hands for that ride, and Undroth could not remove it with soft words or prying fingers. Ramiyah’s necklace of pearls was set with a single great ruby; it was all he had to remind him of her. He moved the pearls tenderly through his fingers, kissed the bright ruby, and at times he even spoke to it. He offered to the stone the apologies that he would never be able to bestow upon his wife. Volomses indulged him, though often Undroth would peer in through the carriage window, braided beard heavy with the dust of the road, and wipe his sweaty face in consternation.

Lyrilan spoke very little as the carriage pulled them along the Western Road, past villages destroyed by the long drought. Undroth gave out bits of copper and bronze to appease the crowds of beggars, but he did not stop the little caravan often. Lyrilan peered out the window at the brown and yellow fields that were once verdant and prosperous. They passed by like sad dreams sweltering in the heat of day. It seemed the Stormlands were dying.

Tyro had won the Empire, but it would crumble beneath him. His war would sap the land of its strongest and heartiest men, and the drought would continue to drain the land of everything else. Eventually this realm would all be desert once again, as it was in Dairon’s day. The Desert of Many Thunders would return. All those who survived would have to leave the Stormlands or move to Uurz itself, where overcrowding and starvation had already taken hold of the poorest quarters. These were the problems Tyro and his advisors ignored as they planned for the red game of war. Madness.

Lyrilan wondered if his own miserable condition was simply part of the madness that infected his homeland. Perhaps a Great Dying had come to the realm, and there would be no escape from it. No escape except, perhaps, for that of an exiled King. He laughed that day in the carriage, imagining himself the last survivor of the dead and decaying Stormlands, yet unable to ever set foot there again. Tyro and his descendants would soon rule a kingdom of dust and bones.

Dreams of Ramiyah tormented him during those nights on the seaward highway. When there was no inn, or when he wished to keep their presence hidden, Undroth made camp in the dry grasses far off the main road. There Lyrilan’s retinue slumbered beneath the stars, and all the men heard his moaning as he attempted to sleep. He clung to Ramiyah’s necklace and whispered to it when he awoke in the dark, then fell back into dreaming her murder over and over again. He remembered few of these nightmares, but in some of them Tyro executed him before the assembled crowds of Uurz, shearing off his head with a double-bladed axe. From these dreams he awoke calm and full of disappointment. For an instant he thought himself mercifully freed from the burden of living. Volomses ignored his perpetual heavy sighs, enduring them like a patient physician. He prepared boiled herbs and mulled wine to ease Lyrilan’s pain.

The carriage and its guardians crossed a stone bridge spanning the Western Flow, where a few tiny fishing villages still clung to life. Fishermen pulled catfish from sluggish waters. Not enough to trade for any kind of profit, but nearly enough to feed themselves and their meager families. The river flowed brown and low from its source high in the Grim Mountains. In better days there would be riverboats gliding to and from Murala, trading the river’s bounty for the sea’s riches. Not so in these troubled times.

Six days on the road brought the Scholar King’s company to the coast, where the hearth smokes of Murala rose to join the flat gray sky. Beyond the unwalled town’s squat towers and peaked roofs lay the blue face of the Cryptic Sea. Ocean breezes carried the scents of brine and roasting fowl along the narrow avenues. Swanships from Mumbaza sat in the harbor alongside slim traders from Tadarum and a few Yaskathan galleys with billowing triple sails. Here the cliffs of the coastline sank low so that the town itself sat directly above the bay with several muddy roads leading directly to the wharves.

Murala itself was as unremarkable as ever, excepting its colorful blend of peoples and the enticing nature of its tavern girls. Harlots did a brisk trade with the endless parade of seadogs and soldiers passing through the port. Here the drought had less effect on the populace, for the storms of the sea often fell to land. The wells were full, as were the pockets of traders and fishermen. In another twenty years, Murala might grow as large as Uurz itself. In that same time, the City of Sacred Waters might have dwindled to a pile of sacred ruins.

The sight of the open sea was good for Lyrilan. As the land fell away, so too did the weight that he had borne all the way from Uurz. He stepped from the carriage’s open door and blinked at the sinking sun, letting the immensity of the ocean view wash over him. He ran then into the bustling streets, past the calls of leering strumpets, ignoring the cries of fish vendors, canvas makers, and tanners hawking leather goods.

Undroth sent three men after him, but they ran slower than Lyrilan due to the weight of mail hauberks and longblades. By the time they caught up to him he was already wading into the white surf, giving himself to the roaring waves that battered against the sand. He might have run on into the deep sea and drowned himself like poor, mad Vod had done decades ago, but one of the soldiers caught him by the shoulders and dragged him back to the beach. He later learned that the man’s name was Haruud, and thanked him for the favor with a jewel from his travel chest. Yet, that day, he only wept and sat mute upon the beach, watching the waves roll in and out. Undroth let him sit there for hours, until the sun went down. Volomses then persuaded him to seek rest at a local inn.

“We have secured southward passage, Majesty,” the sage told him. “The Sunrider sets sail for Yaskatha tomorrow, after a successful trading venture in Tadarum.”

“Yaskatha.” Lyrilan repeated the name. It held a fresh meaning for him that night. The spell of the ocean had cleared his head of cobwebs. His heart was still heavy, and the betrayal of his brother was unforgivable. Yet he breathed more easily, and he ate a solid meal of roasted lamb and boiled lobster. Volomses and Undroth took heart from his renewed appetite.

In the morning they boarded the Sunrider and Lyrilan greeted its captain in the formal manner. The brawny trader bowed low before him, vowing to give safe passage under penalty of his own life. The mariner knew, as most Yaskathans did, that Lyrilan was a close friend of his own King. He introduced himself as Captain S’dyr. His ship’s hold was loaded with ingots of ore and raw steel from New Udurum, both acquired at Tadarum. Also among his cargo was a selection of expensive Uurzian wines taken on at Murala. The captain offered his private cabin to Lyrilan, although Volomses quartered there as well. The sage made himself at home on a pallet of blankets near to the bed where Lyrilan would sleep.

As the ship cast off and Murala diminished in its wake, Lyrilan stood at the railing with Ramiyah’s necklace, studying the waves and the purple horizon. He prayed to the Gods of Sea, Sun, Earth, and Sky, but not for the blessings of a safe voyage. He prayed for Ramiyah. They had only let him see her tomb once before he fled the city. He had set a bouquet of fresh roses next to the mausoleum door, then guards had escorted him back to his room. That had been his last day in Uurz.

He ran through a litany of prayers for the dead while stray memories rose like bubbles to the surface of his mind. The day of his marriage, a glorious ceremony of gold and green splendor. Before that, the first time he lay with her in a Yaskathan garden outside D’zan’s palace… the same citadel in which he now sought refuge. Ramiyah’s arrival in Uurz and the foolish way she substituted Yaskathan etiquette for Uurzian protocol, gifting baskets of ripe fruit to the lords and ladies of the court, as if she were a fawning tributary instead of a King’s wife. He had shielded her from the laughter and pointed remarks of the courtiers who found her rustic ways amusing. She had a giving heart, Ramiyah. Always looking for some way to help with the duties of the realm. Perhaps in two years’ time she had grown bored with the idle life of a northern Queen. He had no doubt she would have made a fine vizier or diplomat.

It was the warmth of her broad smile that had first drawn his eyes across a hedge purpled with blossoms; that smile won the hearts of every man that met its radiance. He recalled the evening he had proposed to her on the beach below the southern capital. She wept when he asked her to be his Queen; he thought for a moment that she would deny him. Yet they were only tears of joy. She said, “Yes,” and they stood cheek to cheek while the surf pounded at their feet. The ocean was an abyss of watery stars ruled by the moon’s silver reflection.

Only once had she lost her gentle temper with him. He was assembling notes and journals for The Life of Dairon when she came into his study. One look at her sweet face gone to gray and he knew the pain in her heart. She had endured his isolation and lack of attention while he wrote the previous book-the writing of it had consumed half of their first year of marriage. But this second volume seemed beyond her patience.

“It is time you produced an heir, Scholar King,” she scolded him. “These books that you are so fond of writing… they will not rule your kingdom when you are gone. Nor will they warm your bed at night!” She turned to storm out of the room, but he caught her by the shoulders.

“I do not blame you for asking this of me,” he said. “I love you more than any book or jewel or kingdom.” She would not meet his eyes as he explained the importance of Dairon’s biography, how it might create understanding for Tyro and himself. How it would set the tone for the next fifty years of Kingship in Uurz. Not only would it be a testament to his father’s wisdom, it would bond the Twin Kings together as only a father’s love could do. “My father gave me a throne,” he told her. “The least I can give to him is this one last tribute. One more year is all I need to complete what will be my greatest work.” He begged her to understand.

“You are my King,” she said at last. “And my Lord. I will do as you command.”

He grimaced. “I do not command you, Ramiyah. I only ask you to believe in me.”

She met his eyes again. He stared into the deep blue of her pupils, the color of love itself.

“One more year,” he said. He kissed her forehead, wrapped her hands in his own. “I promise. Then we will have a dozen children if you wish it.”

She laughed unwillingly and smacked his hand from hers. “You make a fool of me!” But he was winning her over. He grabbed her about the waist and she wiggled away from him. He strove to kiss her lips but she was too quick. She bounded to the door and raised a hand to stay him.

“You ask me to wait, so I will,” she said. “So too must you wait, Scholar King.”

He tried to sweep her into his arms, but again she evaded his grasp.

“Ah-ah,” she said, peering from behind a pillar of glossy stone. “Perhaps if I deny you certain… pleasures… your year will shrink to a few months… or days.” She smiled in mock wickedness.

He poured wine into crystal cups, but when he turned around she had slipped from the chamber. He dispelled the desire in his loins by drinking deeply of the vintage, and it took him nine days to get her back into his bed. There were many nights when he worked alone until dawn, yet when he came seeking comfort in her arms, she never again denied him. At this point she might have refused the arts of the palace midwives, who taught northern women how to stave off pregnancy with herbs and ancient remedies. She might have fooled him, taken his seed sooner than he had wished. Ultimately, it was a woman’s decision whether or not to use such arts. Even in the absence of them, it still took years for some women to conceive.

Yet Ramiyah kept her faith and her word: she had waited for him to finish the book. She waited too long, and it was all his fault. Now she would never know the joy of a son, a daughter, or a family. Now she waited only in the realm of the Gods, some mysterious netherworld where only the dead might go. He did not believe the priests of the Grand Temple, who pontificated that loved ones are united in the realms beyond death. Those were only words to comfort simple-minded mourners. If he killed himself to join Ramiyah, he would likely find only oblivion. Not even the greatest of philosophers could prove otherwise. And he had read them all.

His prayers complete, he kissed the ruby heart of the necklace one last time. Then he cast it far into the churning waters with all his might. Let this precious bauble sink and be lost to Men, as Ramiyah has been lost to the world. Let it linger in the sands of the seabed until the day her death is avenged by my own hand. Let it rejoin the deep earth as an offering to Sea and Sky.

Only Volomses saw him cast the priceless memento into the sea, but the wise sage said nothing about it.

Lyrilan spent the first day’s voyage on the deck, lost amid the cries and shuffling of busy sailors. Undroth came to stand near him, and the two of them enjoyed the rolling freedom of the sea. The old warrior did not say much, and Lyrilan was glad of it. Undroth had given up everything he had ever worked for… as had the twelve men under his command. It was a gift Lyrilan could never repay. A silent understanding passed between deposed King and devoted subject.

Tucked away in the captain’s cabin after sundown, Lyrilan opened the first of the traveling chests. The First Book of Imvek lay dusty and faded beneath his fingertips. He called for a cup of wine, which Volomses hurried to find for him, and began to read. In fact he read more than he slept during that first week at sea, until the weariness of travel and grief finally caught up to him. He studied the esoteric theories and obscure philosophies that lay behind much of sorcery and its demands. He read the exploits of Imvek, the wayward Prince who had left his imperial home in Uurz to search for ancient knowledge. He had found it in the ruined temples of the Southern Isles.

Unlike Lyrilan’s predicament, Imvek’s exile from the green-gold city was voluntary. Yet soon Lyrilan found himself identifying with the shrewd Prince. Among the tribes of idol-worshipping islanders Imvek discovered the gateway to a lost cache of treasure, the scroll chambers of a kingdom long dead. He spent years studying the lost language of the scrolls, learning from them the precepts of magic, defying the curses that accompanied such knowledge.

At the first volume’s conclusion, Imvek returned to the islanders and gifted them with jewels pried from the depths of the ruins. He worked small miracles for the tribes, improving their crops, ridding them of the amphibious raiders who came out of the deep sea to plunder the islands. The King of the Southern Isles was a warrior known as Caramong the Great. His grandson would one day unite the islands to wage a war against Yaskatha and its allies. Yet Caramong himself was not as ambitious as his heirs would be. He loved Imvek and wanted to keep him as a bondsman. Yet, seeing how determined the Prince was to regain his homeland, he relented and gave only one condition for Imvek’s safe return to Uurz.

“You have raided the tombs of our ancestors,” declared Caramong from the steps of his great pyramid temple. “You have learned the secret of powers long forgotten by my people. Our stone Gods do not wish this knowledge spread to our enemies. Therefore, if you leave us, your tongue must stay here, so that you may speak to no one of the great wisdom you carry.”

For months Imvek lingered, weighing the choice of a simple life among the islanders against a return to the power and prestige of Uurz. He longed to taste the Sacred Waters again, to feel the hot breath of the Desert of Many Thunders on his skin, to see the girl he had left behind and vowed to wed one day. He was the eldest son of his father, so he must return to take the throne. Otherwise there would be civil war and riots when the Emperor died.

The Prince of Uurz wrote at length about the irony of his situation. The islanders had lost the art of written language, so their King did not understand that Imvek-even tongueless-could still communicate his arcane discoveries by means of ink and parchment. For a whole year he brooded on Caramong’s decree, until finally he accepted it.

The feathered volcano priests drugged him so that he would not feel pain. Then their High Priest cut out his tongue with a knife of steaming obsidian. As soon as he recovered from the mutilation, he bade farewell to the Island King. On his journey back to Uurz, he began writing the first of his six volumes, and that is how the book concluded.

Discussing the book’s contents with Volomses, Lyrilan found his voice again. He spoke of the sacred power of blood and its relationship to true sorcery. The sage listened with careful intent. Together they recalled the names of the philosophers of old who had confirmed and hinted at the dark truths in Imvek’s work. Ultimately, the Silent One had outsmarted the Island King because knowledge of the islanders’ forgotten magic was passed on to Uurzians in his books. Yet, in another tragic irony, that hard-won knowledge had lain forgotten and disused for centuries.

Until now.

While the first of the summer storms rocked the ship, Lyrilan read his way through Imvek’s second volume. This took far longer as the text evolved from narrative to a succession of formulas, recipes, and rituals. At times the book veered off into myth and legend, transcribing the tales of ancient beings and primeval realms whose origins and endings must be understood to provide context for conjurations. By the time Lyrilan finished the second book, the ship had been at sea for seventeen days. He stopped his reading there, turning instead to his quill and parchment. He assembled notes to reconfigure the book’s various truths, translating them in his own way for greater understanding. He scribbled complex formulae and strung together the syllables of enigmatic tongues.

Volomses had given up the duties of a sage for those of a body servant. He supervised Lyrilan’s food, drink, clothing, and various needs without a word of protest. Lyrilan vowed to find a good position for the old man somewhere in D’zan’s archives. The libraries of Yaskatha were nearly as extensive as those of Uurz. He was sure the southern sages could use someone of Volomses’ wisdom and character. For now, he was glad of the old man’s fatherly attention.

These men that followed him into exile were his true brothers. Tyro was his flesh and blood no longer. In full sight of the Gods and the moonlit sea, he vowed to repay the cruelties Tyro had bestowed upon him.

The second storm of the voyage took the lives of two men. Waves carried them overboard, and the ship was battered until Lyrilan believed that all aboard would soon perish. Drenched and desperate, he made his way across the pitching deck to his cabin, stopping only to retrieve a large unbroken mollusk from a covered barrel. Inside the tiny room, tilting and swaying in wretched motion, Volomses lay on the floor and moaned in his own sickness.

Lyrilan opened Imvek’s second book and lit a tallow candle.

He drew the princely dagger from his side and cut a shallow gash in the palm of his left hand. He spilled this blood upon the shell of the mollusk, where it mingled with traceries of clinging seaweed. Then he sang an incantation from the book, holding the candle’s flame above the bloodied clam. The ship lurched, and he accidentally singed the hem of his robe with the candle.

Again he sang the incantation and more of his blood dripped to cover the mollusk. The candle gleamed in his unsteady hand. It was the sun, and the mollusk was the earth. His blood was the sea in which the mollusk had been birthed, and from which it had been torn by the hands of men.

He flung open the cabin door and braved the tempest once again. Stumbling through the wind and rain to stand at the ship’s rail, he dropped the mollusk into the angry sea, mouthing a final refrain. He returned to the cabin, where he made sure to keep the candle burning. Slowly the storm lost its fury. The rain fell slow and steady now, but the winds had died away. The surging waves fell back into their depths. Eventually even the rain stopped, and the early moon emerged from a mountainous pile of black clouds.

Volomses laughed, regaining his feet and his stomach.

“Majesty!” the sage breathed. “You may have saved all our lives.”

“Or it may have been a coincidence,” said Lyrilan. “All storms must die eventually.”

The sage frowned at him. Lyrilan’s heart fluttered. He recalled a secret that the tongueless Imvek had also known. A nameless understanding of the world’s hidden workings. One of many such secrets…

Volomses said nothing else, and the rest of the journey passed without storms. On the twenty-fifth day the Sunrider passed within view of the white cliffs of Mumbaza. The City of the Feathered Serpent flew the image of its legendary guardian on every banner, from low-lying wharves to cliff-top metropolis. Domes and towers gleamed white as pearls, with shades of crimson, blue, and silver dancing in the sunlight upon its smooth stones.

Lyrilan could see little of the city from so far out, but the wharves at the foot of the great cliffs were full of ships from every nation except Khyrei. The Mumbazan navy, matchless in all the world, comprised hundreds of white galleons built in the likeness of swan and seabird. They gleamed bright as dreams upon the dark waters. On the western horizon stood a misty island where even more Mumbuzan swanships were known to be stationed. Lyrilan could barely see its dim outline across the purple main.

The Sunrider was halted by a swanship so Captain S’dyr could display his merchant papers.

“We might stop here, Majesty,” suggested Undroth, staring at the white cliffs. The old campaigner had exchanged his bronze corselet for a loose robe of green and gold silk. The longblade that never left his sight hung now upon his back like a lonely wing. “We’ll find respite from these waves, along with fresh food… and that famous Mumbazan wine.”

“No,” said Lyrilan, gazing beyond the cliffs at the pearly towers. “Eight more days brings us to Yaskatha. I know that D’zan will aid me. The same cannot be said of Undutu-the Lord of Mumbaza will remain aloof. Who can say where he sides with Tyro’s war? No, I’ll endure the discomfort of sea travel a few more days for the luxuries to be found in Yaskatha.”

“A wise choice, My Lord,” said Volomses. “After all, it was your father who provided young D’zan refuge when the Usurper stole his throne. He cannot now refuse you sanctuary under such considerations.”

“He will not refuse,” said Lyrilan. “He is my friend.”

The sage nodded, and Undroth let his men know there would be no shore leave on that day.

The Third Book of Imvek was far more dense and less comprehensible than the second. Lyrilan had barely cracked the first chapter’s secrets when the call came from the upper deck. He set the tome aside and went up to stand on the prow. Bright Yaskatha came into view across the sun-speckled waves.

Volomses and Undroth stood beside him as the ship glided into the great port. Sails of every color and make passed them by on either side. At the docks a cohort of D’zan’s elite guard awaited them; word of a lord’s arrival had been sent from Murala by a trained Yaskathan bird. The Yaskathan soldiers stood at attention in silver mail and crimson tabard, pennoned spears glinting like the ocean.

“King D’zan sends an honor guard to receive you,” said Undroth. “This is a good sign.”

Undroth and his men unloaded their fifteen Uurzian mounts from the hold, saddling the horses and dressing them in jeweled caparisons packed for this moment. The time for keeping a low profile was done. Now the folk of Yaskatha and their King must know that a Lord of Uurz rode among them. Undroth settled with the captain, and Lyrilan’s band of exiles rode their steeds down the plank onto level ground. There the captain of the escort greeted them with official words and bows. Lyrilan stared at the bright city and its soaring palace.

They rode through the Seaward Gate into the bustling streets. Half of the mounted escort went before them, while the other half trailed close behind, riding beneath the Sword and Tree banner. Undroth flew a lesser banner, the Golden Sun of Uurz, from the seat of his own steed.

The citizens of Yaskatha were a plain but happy lot. Their tan skins and gleaming hair fascinated the quiet Lyrilan. Now the crowds of merchants, laborers, harvesters, and nobles divided in the path of the Uurzians. He admired the fine horses that thrived here; every Yaskathan learned to ride at an early age. Oxen and horned goats pulled wagons and carts through the lanes. Public wells stood open in carefully tended grottoes thick with leaf and blossom. The music of minstrels and poets fell from the windows of taverns and alehouses. Children ran in laughing gangs about the streets, flitting between column and arch, trying to catch a glimpse of the Scholar King as he passed.

Many streets were lined with trees whose green foliage neither turned nor fell. There was no winter in this part of the world, or at least nothing compared to the winters of Uurz and Udurum. Here there was only the Hot Season and the Rainy Season. The heat was mitigated by the breezes of the ocean; Lyrilan found it far more pleasant than parched Uurz. Aqueducts carried fresh water throughout the city, and public baths were not uncommon.

The Uurzians and their escort passed through a noisy bazaar where every manner of bright bird, sturdy horse, and fresh-caught fish was on display. In the chaos of shouting commerce Lyrilan and his train were practically ignored. The green hill of the palace lay directly ahead. The riders wound unhurriedly up a spiral hill-path, passing beneath the boughs of a hundred orchards before they reached the outer gates of the palace.

The aroma of the blossoming orchards was overpowering. It filled Lyrilan’s nostrils with delight and made his head spin. Birdsong wafted from the high branches of trees. He wished Ramiyah could have seen once more the beauty of her homeland before she died. His eyes welled; he fought against the tears.

The time for weeping was done.

He turned his burning gaze back to the silver gates as they swung open.

D’zan received him with opulence and ceremony. The great hall of his palace was lined with courtiers and courtesans, a multitude of bejeweled individuals in all the garish colors one expected from southern nobility. A cohort of soldiers stood at attention about the hall, where musicians, dancers, and jugglers awaited a chance to display their skills. A great table sat before the high throne, and servants rushed to cover it with steaming meats, golden breads, heaping platters of grapes, and diced fruits. The fine goblets and platters along the board shone like some lost treasure hoard unearthed for public display.

The walls to east and west were open colonnades coiled with hanging grape vines and blossoms. The sea air found its own course through the great hall, making the flames of braziers and torches dance as if to invisible melodies.

The King of Yaskatha left his throne to meet Lyrilan at the entrance of the hall, a sign of the great warmth shared between them. D’zan looked much the same as he had four years ago. A few new lines on his boyish face spoke of worry. But when he smiled his teeth flashed in the sun. He wore his hair longer now, a blond mane falling past his shoulders. The crown on his brow was jeweled platinum, and his golden armlets were set with fine diamonds. He took Lyrilan in a laughing embrace.

“Lyrilan, Son of Dairon!” D’zan squeezed him fiercely. By the power of those limbs, Lyrilan knew that his friend had not abandoned the sword. D’zan had the arms of a warrior now, and it was Tyro who had set him on that path eight years ago. “You look healthy! Come and see the banquet I’ve set for your company.” The King of Yaskatha turned to shake the hand of Undroth, bowed low to Volomses, and saluted the twelve Uurzian soldiers as one.

All the eyes of the Yaskathan court fell upon the Uurzians as they gathered about the table, the faint stink of fishy brine lingering on their cloaks and boots. The musicians struck up a lively tune on fife, lyre, pipe, and drum. Dancers in colored veils whirled between the great table and the two lesser ones set in either wing of the hall. D’zan’s golden throne glimmered upon a dais before the great Sword and Tree banner, alongside a lesser chair meant for his Queen. Lyrilan had caught word of Sharadza’s leaving, and of D’zan taking a second wife already with child. He admired the tall beauty at the head of the table who rose to take the King’s hand. This must be Sharadza’s rival, or her replacement.

“Sit!” called D’zan. “My table is yours, Lyrilan. Eat and drink and wash the weight of the sea from your backs. Later we will speak of weighty matters, but now we celebrate the reunion of old friends.” He paused as his lady stood and beamed a smile at his guests. “Cymetha, Second Wife of the Throne, I present to you Lyrilan, Scholar King of Uurz. Cymetha bears my first child, whom the Sea Priests tell me will be a strong boy.”

“Congratulations, Great King,” said Lyrilan. He noticed now the round belly of Cymetha, heretofore hidden behind her gown of spun gold and indigo. “I am honored to be received in your gracious manner, as I am undeserving of such splendor.”

“You always were too modest,” said D’zan, taking his seat next to Cymetha. The Uurzians followed his lead, placing themselves about the table nearest to the monarch. The remaining seats soon filled with advisors, generals, and courtiers.

Lyrilan found it easy to ignore them all. He sat at the corner, nearest of all to D’zan save Cymetha. Volomses and Undroth sat at his left elbow. The music swelled, and the smells of braised meats made his stomach growl. Along the table sat a feast to sing about in legends, a board fit for heroes. A servant poured dark wine into his goblet.

D’zan lifted his own chalice and toasted the new arrivals. “To Friendship! A power greater than all save Love itself.”

The tables were full now, and all those present drank to the King’s words. The wine was sharp, yet sweet and potent. Lyrilan’s head swam.

“Eat! Drink! Your presence does my house honor,” called D’zan. “You have many admirers among this court. Most of my courtiers have read The Perilous Quest.” He said nothing of Ramiyah or her death. The last time Lyrilan had come here, he left with her by his side. D’zan must have known she was dead, yet he would not burden his friend with questions, or magnify Lyrilan’s sorrow with pity.

Lyrilan avoided giving a response by stuffing his mouth full of roast pork. A floodgate of hunger opened, and he dined like a warrior fresh from the battlefield. He ate until his stomach felt as full and round as Cymetha’s. The Yaskathans engaged in polite conversation, at times prodding Undroth and Volomses to join in their dialogues. Yet D’zan was kind enough to let Lyrilan fill his belly before drawing him into deep conversation.

After the feast the two Kings retired to a private terrace overlooking the western half of the city, where the harbor played host to a forest of varicolored sails. Volomses and Undroth were assigned to quarters in the palace proper, and Lyrilan had charged them to stow his possessions and secure the rooms. His discussion with D’zan could wait no longer.

They sat in deep chairs, staring past a viny balustrade at the Cryptic Sea. The last rays of sunlight burned crimson on the far horizon. It reminded Lyrilan of Ramiyah’s blood spattered across white sheets. He put the image from his mind as an attendant filled the Kings’ cups and left them to their peace. A guard in silver mail and crimson cape stood near the terrace’s edge.

“Ah, my friend, it is good to see you again,” said D’zan, surveying his crowded harbor.

“It has been too long,” said Lyrilan. “Dare I ask about Sharadza?”

D’zan frowned and sighed. “Sharadza comes and goes as she pleases. Much like the wind.” A faraway look came across his face. This was obviously a subject upon which he did not intend to dwell for long.

Lyrilan let silence overtake them both. Then he asked: “So you know everything?”

D’zan looked at him. “Only that your brother denounced you, accused you of murdering your wife, and banished you for life.”

Lyrilan laughed without humor. “Then you know almost everything.”

“Pigeons,” said D’zan. “The only birds privileged to serve Kings and wise enough to do it well.” His eyes were deep green, the same color they had been ever since he defeated Elhathym the Usurper and took back his kingdom. Some sorcery unleashed by the Tyrant had resulted in the change of eye color, but D’zan never spoke to anyone about it. Perhaps the truth of it was best left unsaid, since everything else about D’zan seemed unchanged by his struggle.

The Yaskathan King placed a hand on Lyrilan’s shoulder. “I grieve for Ramiyah…”

“Then you do not believe…” Lyrilan could not finish the question.

“Believe what? Tyro’s lies about you meddling with sorcery?” D’zan exhaled. “I know you, Lyrilan. How could I believe such nonsense?”

A pang of guilt writhed in Lyrilan’s stomach. He nodded.

He told D’zan of the book he had written to chronicle Dairon’s life, how he had gifted it to his brother, and how it had made no difference at all. He spoke of Ramiyah, how deeply he had loved her, and his hopes for a child, a decision he had made far too late. He spoke of Tyro’s wicked wife, Talondra, and the schemes of Mendices. He spoke of treachery, lies, and the lust for power. He might never have spoken with such candor and rarely so vividly, but the Yaskathan wine had loosened his tongue. D’zan listened as attentively as a patient priest.

“These political games are the most deadly of all,” D’zan mused. “I feared this would happen when Dairon appointed you the Twin Kings of Uurz.”

“I am a man without a home,” said Lyrilan. He accepted that fact for the first time even as he said it aloud.

“No, Brother,” said D’zan. “As long as I am King here, you will always have a home.”

Lyrilan grinned, something he owed entirely to the wine. “You have my gratitude… Brother.”

“Is this some jest of the Four Gods?” said D’zan. “You stand now in the straits where I stood eight years ago.”

“Then you know what lies in my heart,” said Lyrilan.

D’zan breathed deeply of the cool evening air. “I know you dream of revenge. Of taking back your title and your throne. What else would a King dream but these things?”

“It is…” said Lyrilan, “a heavy weight to bear.”

“Then let me lighten your burden a bit,” said D’zan. “I have struck a bargain with your brother.”

Lyrilan stood and grabbed the banister, his fists crushing the green leaves that sprouted there. “You will join his mad war?”

D’zan stood beside him. “ ‘All war is madness.’ ” He quoted Therokles the Sharrian, one of Lyrilan’s favorite philosophers. “Yes, I’ve agreed to join Tyro… as have the Kings of Mumbaza and Udurum. There is even talk of some Giant-King from the Frozen North, a fierce ally of Vireon’s. The time has come for Khyrei to pay for its many crimes.”

Lyrilan slumped back into his chair. Somewhere below, in the gardens lined with fountains and statues, a minstrel strummed upon a lyre and sang a song of lost beauty.

“You, who claim friendship with me, have allied with my sworn enemy.”

“With your brother,” D’zan corrected him. “Remember that, Lyrilan, no matter what has happened. You and Tyro share the same blood. Dairon’s blood.”

“No longer,” said Lyrilan, turning away. He watched the moonlight sparkling on the dark ocean. “ You are more my brother than him who betrayed me. You resisted this war of vengeance for many years-why give in now? Is it the voices of your royal peers that sway you? Do you forget the suffering that war brings? You are well read, wise in learning. You know this path is treacherous, built on the suffering of men, women, and children.”

“Listen to me,” said D’zan. “I know you speak from a wounded heart. I know you believe in peace, as I do. I also believe that you would have me change course now simply to thwart your brother. But you have not heard the core of my reason.

“You ask why I join this Alliance of Five Nations, why I am willing to send my navy against the black reavers of Khyrei. Why I am willing to suffer. My covenant with Tyro was sealed by his agreement to specific terms. First, he has recanted your lifetime exile. He allows your return to the Stormlands after a period of five years. Second, you shall be restored the title Prince of Uurz. Third, you will rule as Lord of Murala for the rest of your days, and may return to visit the City of Sacred Waters as often as you like.”

Lyrilan sat speechless on the terrace. The wind ruffled the tapestries at his back.

“You would do this… for me?” he asked. “You would condemn hundreds, likely thousands, of your people to death… simply to restore a portion of my lost dignity?”

“And to destroy Khyrei once and for all,” said D’zan.

Lyrilan stared into his friend’s emerald eyes. They seemed colder now. Less human.

“How could you make such an accord?”

“How could I not?” asked D’zan.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” Lyrilan whispered.

“Then say nothing. Only drink more of this wine with me.” D’zan reached for the flask and refilled their cups himself. “Even now the northern Kings march toward the Eastern Marshes, where Khyrei’s Border Legions no doubt stand ready to meet them.”

“Will you march, then?” asked Lyrilan. A strange mixture of drunkenness, remorse, and gratitude swelled in his chest.

“No, I will sail” said D’zan. “Yaskatha and Mumbaza will join our navies and enter the Golden Sea. Our combined forces will assault the black city from the east, while the legions of Tyro and Vireon converge upon it from the west. Vireon has stirred the Ice Giants to wrath. They march alongside the Men of Udurum. The Giants are finally on our side. Khyrei is doomed.”

Lyrilan sighed. Nothing was ever so simple. “There is nothing I can do to change your mind about this? To keep Yaskatha from the conflict?”

“Nothing,” said D’zan. “And if you did, you would be stuck here in Yaskatha for the rest of your life. I know my hospitality is rich, yet I wager you would like to go home someday, eh?”

Lyrilan considered the question. Five years. Would it be long enough? D’zan’s work on his behalf would bring him close to Tyro. Far easier to find vengeance when you are close to your enemy.

“Yes,” he said, distantly. Home. The word rang like thunder between his ears.

“Look on the brighter side of the coin,” said D’zan. The King of Yaskatha leaned in close and lowered his voice. His sea-green eyes stared deep into Lyrilan’s own. “In the red fury of war, Tyro might easily fall. And if such a tragedy was to occur… it would put you back on the throne of Uurz.”

Lyrilan rubbed his eyes. The world was moving on, as it always did, regardless of what he wished. It was so much easier to chronicle the events of history than to live them. Simple scribes need not fret over the matters that troubled Kings.

Kings could not be scribes.

Five years.

Or sooner, if Tyro died on the battlefield. “When do you sail?” he asked.

“In seven days,” said D’zan, “when Undutu’s Swan Fleet reaches my shores. We’ll have a force the likes of which the world has never seen. Sail with me, Lyrilan!”

Lyrilan shook his head. His black curls were unkempt and wild from days of sea winds. “As you say, I am no warrior,” he said. “I grow too old for such adventures.” He was only thirty, the same age as Tyro. But D’zan said nothing of this; he knew the twins were not of one make.

“Very well,” said D’zan, shrugging his broad shoulders. “You will find the Royal Library at your disposal, as well as the libraries of the temples. And there are plenty of hot-blooded women here in the palace eager to soothe the pain of your loss. I trust you will keep busy while I am gone.”

“Oh, yes,” said Lyrilan. His thoughts turned to the candle and the mollusk.

The blood.

Five years to plan my vengeance.

“To friendship,” he said, echoing D’zan’s words from earlier in the evening. He raised his cup and stared at the dark ocean as if toasting its deep mystery. He swallowed the last gulp of wine as D’zan did the same.

The King of Yaskatha refilled both chalices and made his own toast.

“To friendship, war, and the deaths of our enemies.”

They drank deeply of the ancient vintage.