Seven Kings

26

The fountain sat amid a ring of palm trees and beds of blooming lavender. Some sculptor from a previous century had carved it whole from a massive block of white marble. It was not an overly large pool, nor any deeper than a man’s knees. A mosaic of finned and scaly Sea Folk decorated its outer rim: mermaids and mermen, gliding squids, graceful mantas, and swirling eels all brought to life from inert stone by the sheer skill of a single man’s obsession.

At the fountain’s center a dais rose from the cascading waters. Atop the dais stood a trio of white stallions, sculpted as if rearing on their hind legs. From the sleek backs of each marble horse spread a pair of pearly wings, each feather evoked by minute tools and infinite patience. The mouths of these winged steeds spewed arcs of water into the air, and each arc fed the bubbling waters in the basin.

Lyrilan sat on a padded seat in the dappled solitude of the Yaskathan garden. The pinnacles of the palace rose high beyond the palm trees, while close-set hedges and cypresses blocked the rest of the courtyard from view. The rhythmic sound of ocean beating against the strand reached his ears. A legion of tame birds sang melodies from the branches of southern oaks, myrtlewoods, and willows.

He bent forward to study the fine lines of the fountain mosaic, then stood to admire the stone stallions’ musculature and exquisite wings. Patience. Yes, that was the key to creating a great work of art. He saw the marks of patience in every curve and detail of the fountain. The laughter of its waters joined the symphony of mingled birdsongs. Here was a day to define Yaskatha, a golden paradise growing ripe beneath a cloudless sky.

A robe of checkered black and white hung loose on his thin frame, tied at the waist with a sash of crimson silk. A matching necklace of twelve rubies hung about his neck. Volomses had helped him relearn the importance of a proper appearance. His long black hair was entirely gone, shorn from his lean skull in a symbolic show of rebirth. He enjoyed the feel of warm sun on his bald head. The ocean breeze soothed his skin and brought the faint scents of brine and seaweed into the eastern gardens.

He sat now with hands in his lap, eyes closed, enjoying the song of the fountain and the warbling refrains of birds, soaking in the wash of sunlight. His recent studies had taught him, among other things, how to embrace the moment. Nothing else existed beyond this fountain, these trees, and this garden. If he listened long enough, he might understand the deeper meanings of the birds’ language. He might hear the wind whisper secrets from faraway lands. The fragrance of blossoms might deliver to him the secrets of the ancient cosmos. He might wear the sun and stars as his crown, King of the world and all its petty intrigues.

He might have sat thus forever, yet no solitude endures. The shuffling of sandaled feet on the jade path told him that Volomses approached. He knew the sage’s awkward gait, the sound of one leg perpetually lagging behind the other. Victim of an old riding wound that never truly healed, Volomses always favored his right foot. So Lyrilan knew that his request had been seen to by the old man.

“Majesty,” said Volomses. The fabric of his burgundy robe rustled as he kneeled. Lyrilan opened his eyes to see the sage poised on one knee, a shuttered box of rosewood in his brown hands.

“You found it? All of it?” asked Lyrilan.

Volomses stood and offered him the box. “I faced many difficulties, but everything is here.”

Lyrilan took the modest box and sat it on his lap. “Very good,” he said, staring at the casket. “You never fail me, old friend. You may go.”

Volomses blinked. “But… My Lord… shall I not stay to assist you?”

Lyrilan met the sage’s rheumy eyes. “I will be fine.”

Volomses nodded and left him once more alone in the garden. Lyrilan opened the lid and scanned the coffer’s contents. The eyes of an eagle, brought down by a skilled archer in the High Realms; they lay on a velvet cushion like two tiny topazes with ebony centers. A small vial of aged Uurzian wine spiced with the venom of a camel spider. The fingerbones of a dead King, purloined from the deepest crypts of Yaskatha. To be caught with such remains would earn a death sentence from the Yaskathan authorities, but Volomses had hired only the most discreet of burglars. Finally, a short-bladed dagger newly forged of purest silver. The mark of a local smith lay upon the base of its blade, and the pommel bore a single black onyx as its only decoration.

Lyrilan carried the open box to the fountain. He walked slowly about its circumference, singing a low song of the Vital Tongues. When he reached the place where he had begun, completing the circle, he started the song again and dropped the eagle’s eyes into the fountain waters. They hardly disturbed the swirling flow.

As he circled the fountain a second time, he poured in the entire contents of the vial; poisoned wine swirled like blood in the foamy water. He scattered the fingerbones into the fountain as well, each one sinking to lie still on the bottom like pale pebbles. When his second circuit was complete he cast away the empty box, stopped his walk, and held the silver dagger in his right hand. He began the song a third time and placed the utmost tip of the dagger to the tip of his left index finger. A tiny drop of crimson sprang forth, swelling into a minute red sphere. He touched the water of the fountain with this bloody finger, and his touch turned the clear water black as pitch.

Stars gleamed in the black waters now, although the sky was blue and bright overhead. Lyrilan began a second incantation and waved his hands in precise patterns above the benighted water. An image swirled to life, replacing the darkness with the daylight of a distant kingdom. Mighty Uurz reared its towers into a roiling sky heavy with gray clouds. The first thing he noticed was the steady rainfall. The long drought of his homeland was over. He sang on, and the vision in the fountain pool shifted. The great palace loomed above streets of green and muddy gold, an assemblage of forested terraces, blooming roof gardens, jeweled domes, and gilded spires. Sentinels walked the walls beneath green banners bearing golden suns.

Again the vision changed, and Lyrilan stared through the water into the throne room of Uurz. There, on a jeweled seat worthy of a King, sat Talondra, Empress of Uurz. A throng of courtiers in the bright silks and baubles of their station filled the hall, every face turned to heed the words of Tyro’s wife. In his absence she was the Ruler of Uurz. Lyrilan had no doubt that she would rule the city with an iron fist. There could be no more effective plotter or strategist than this Sharrian with the soulless eyes of a Serpent.

He smiled as he spoke the final syllables of the incantation. This living vision of Uurz and Talondra was proof that he had mastered a modicum of Imvek’s wisdom. He anticipated the emergence of a far greater proof very soon.

Last night’s conjuring was long and painful and exacting. He had yet to see the fruits of his nocturnal weaving. Yet for now it was enough to spy on this murderess who wore the crown.

So Lyrilan watched.

Patience is the key to crafting any great work of art.

Talondra enjoyed her lofty view from the throne of Uurz, yet little else pleased her on this day. The faces of the fawning courtiers looked up at her with a mixture of jealousy, fear, and desire. No woman could be more intoxicating to a man than one who held utmost power over him. The females of her court were scheming fools, and she had already removed her greatest rivals from the palace. It was easy to create imaginary crimes and enforce very real penalties for those who defied her. Yet those who remained were only hypocrites. Her spies knew the secret blasphemies whispered behind the doors of noble houses. She forgot nothing and forgave less.

How could the burdens of an Empress be so worldly and mundane? She was called to judge a string of cases involving theft, slander, and murder. Each man hauled before her claimed his innocence, shouting it to the very rafters of the Great Hall; each accuser claimed his own veracity with equal fervor. Both sides unfailingly invoked the Four Gods in their pleas and protests, as if the Gods had anything to do with the fates of Men and their tiny lives. Still, she must judge and deliver the Emperor’s justice in his stead. For a fleeting moment she wished Tyro were still here to handle these unpleasant verdicts, instead of conquering Khyrei.

These pitiful cries for justice never seemed to end. This morning alone she had sent two men to the dungeons, another to the headsman, and ordered the hands removed from a woman infamous for stealing palace loaves. And still there were the tax advisors waiting, the masters of the granaries, the lords of the vineyards, and the ambassador from Mumbaza would arrive any day now. Preparations for this southern dignitary’s visit had consumed the better part of a week. There would be daily feasting and nightly entertainments, all for the benefit of Undutu’s favorite cousin and his humorless retinue. She did not look forward to the Mumbazans’ stay. They were a singularly humorless people.

She played with a jeweled bracelet at her wrist and listened to the latest accuser, a smith who stood at the bottom of her dais and condemned his apprentice for stealing silver.

She sighed. “How many ingots were stolen?”

“Five, Majesty! Enough to make a fine chalice.”

She turned to the sooty face of the smith’s apprentice. A lanky boy of no more than fifteen, he looked as if he had never eaten a whole meal in his entire unglamorous life. Such poverty created thieves, as surely as rain caused the grapes of the field to grow.

“Five ingots of silver,” she repeated. “Guards, remove five of this boy’s fingers.”

The smithy and his ward cried their protests at the same time. No matter what decision she gave, there was never much satisfaction among the parties involved. The people of Uurz were ungrateful, spoiled, and worthy of little but her contempt.

She missed the fine lords of Shar Dni and their splendid daughters. The games and dances and contests of her youth were nowhere to be found in the green-gold city. Here a royal steward put together various entertainments for her nightly distraction. Yet more often than not he missed the mark. Off-key minstrels plucked from the muddy Stormlands roads, motley fools who tumbled and leaped like trained monkeys, even contests of skill where swordsmen and knife wielders fought to the death. All of these desperate spectacles left her restless and bored.

She rubbed the gentle swell of her belly. In another month the last of her lithe figure would be lost beneath the growing bulk of her pregnant stomach. This was her only source of joy. She missed Tyro’s strong arms and his savage lovemaking. He had been the source of all her pleasure in Uurz; without him she would rather travel to some distant land and find new ways to spend her time. Yet her duty was here. She must run the Stormlands while Tyro ended the threat of Khyrei. When the Sword King Emperor returned, his son would be healthy and strong, a worthy heir. Now Sharrian blood would one day sit upon the throne of Uurz; she shuddered with quiet glee when she mused upon her son’s future reign. Then her ennui always returned, mixed with a painful longing for her husband’s touch.

The ladies of the court told her not to fret, for pregnant women were often besieged by stormy moods and periods of clinging sadness. She supposed they were correct, but she seemed to have lost the joy of golden Uurz without Tyro at her side. She had only the birth of her son to anticipate in less than seven months. The little Prince growing inside her would transform her life, as he would one day reshape the Stormlands and the world.

Sentinels dragged away the displeased smith and the weeping boy. Talondra declared an end to the proceedings. “I will hear no more cases today,” she announced. “The rest of you must wait until tomorrow. My condition causes me to tire easily. I am sure you understand.”

The assorted courtiers, advisors, and petitioners nodded, smiling to conceal their disappointment. Nobody in the palace ever spoke honestly or revealed his true thoughts. She admired their skill in these courtly games, but since Tyro’s leaving these too had grown to annoy her. All of the courtiers were so predictable. She might ban all spoken word from the palace, and still she would know the exact thoughts of every man and woman who entered her presence.

A train of twelve maidens accompanied her from the great hall to her private chambers. There she slipped free of her bejeweled robe and the crown of silver and opal. She lay naked across the bed where Tyro used to work his magic on her willing body. She slept for a little while, then awoke to thirst and hunger as the sun sank low and thunderheads rumbled across the purple sky.

A light rain fell outside the arched windows as she dined on candied fruits, rare legumes, and slivers of braised swordfish. Instead of wine she drank warm goats’ milk blended with honey and sprinkled with cinnamon. One of her maidens plucked at the harp while Talondra ate, and another girl sang in high, clear tones. She crooned the story of a valiant knight gone off to war, and the dreams of the faithful girl who awaited his return.

Talondra caressed the singer’s cheek. “You always pick the loveliest and saddest songs.” She gifted the girl with a soft kiss from her red lips.

They dressed her in an evening gown of maroon with gold stitching, trimmed with an abundance of white lace. The hairdresser wove a matrix of silver wire and diamonds into her hair and set twin rubies dangling from her ears. She walked barefoot across the western wing of the palace to meet with her private guests.

The Lords Ymbrand and Adacus had arrived last evening. Although they had called Udurum their home for the past seven years, they were both loyal Sharrians, and Talondra’s eyes and ears in the City of Men and Giants. Before the fall of Shar Dni both lords had enjoyed the lives of Merchant Princes, yet both had successfully transferred knowledge and experience into profitable ventures north of the Grim. Since the fall of Shar Dni, the population of Udurum had tripled.

Talondra ate very little as the two lords devoured the bulk of a roast piglet and washed it down with some of her finest Uurzian wine. “It is true, Majesty,” Ymbrand told her. He was a portly man with terrible taste in clothing. His gaudy robes were more suited to a court fool than a master of jewelcraft and royal intrigue. “A true Man sits upon the throne of Udurum. Ryvun Ctholl, they call him, and damn me if he doesn’t have some Sharrian blood. Got the green eyes, you see.”

“Go on,” she urged. Finally a topic of interest. How did the City of Men and Giants endure without its legendary King? Especially when there was no longer a Queen to rule in his stead? And why pick a human to rule? The Vodson must trust this Ctholl to an immense degree.

“Vireon declared him regent as long as the Khyrein War lasts,” said Adacus. “The Udurumites are quite fond of him as well. His reputation is built upon loyalty and fairness. Not a bad choice for regent, if you ask me.” He lifted a bunch of black grapes and shoved them into his mouth six at a time. Thin as a ship’s rail, Adacus nevertheless ate with all the manners of a pig.

Yet he was a useful pig.

“How many Giants are in the city?” she asked.

“None,” said Ymbrand. “Only thirty Giantesses.”

“Uduri,” clarified Adacus. Grape juice dripped from his chin onto his crimson doublet.

“You saw no signs of unrest? No whispers of revolt?”

Ymbrand’s tiny eyes narrowed. “If any there are unhappy, they must keep it to themselves,” he said. “In fact, I’d say the Men of Udurum are glad to see one of their own on the throne for a change. For we who remember the glory of Shar Dni, it reminds us of our lost monarchy.”

“Fascinating. What else can you tell me?”

“Mmmm.” Adacus struggled to swallow a mouthful of cheese. “They’re building… a great statue. A new one… for the Avenue of Idols.”

Ymbrand nodded, swilling the expensive wine. “A bronze effigy of Vireon the Slayer to stand alongside the great image of his father.”

“So Vireon continues to enjoy his people’s love, even while long absent.”

Her informants nodded. “He remains ever the hero of Udurum,” said Ymbrand. “Before he departed, he called the Ice Giants down from the White Mountains. No one has ever done such a thing. Bards are still writing lays about the Son of Vod. No doubt he will return from Khyrei with a whole new host of legends.”

“No doubt,” Talondra said.

Ymbrand’s eyes looked nervous. “In the company of Mighty Tyro, of course,” he stammered. “Two heroes for the northlands! It shall be a glorious day indeed when the northern Kings return.”

She left them to finish their meal and ordered a pair of palace courtesans to share their beds tonight. They were simple fools, but she would continue to employ them as her agents in Vireon’s realm. A shrewd ruler must know everything about her allies as well as her enemies. Knowledge was ever the gateway to power.

She returned to the great hall and watched two brawny Uurzians wrestle for the prize of a splendid yellow opal. The courtiers enjoyed such blood sports, yet Talondra found them taxing. Two oily brutes pounding at each other’s faces and trying to squeeze the life from each other. She lingered long enough to see one warrior break his opponent’s neck. He beamed at the cheering of those who had wagered on his prowess. More duels were scheduled for the evening, as well as a contest of throwing knives and a display of archery. Yet she had no appetite for them.

She excused herself and returned to her bedchamber. The songs of her favorite maidens lulled her to sleep while a golden moon rose into view beyond the bay window.

She lay on her side, one hand cradling the small lump of belly that was her gestating son. She dreamed of Tyro’s face emerging from a wall of flames and rattling bones. He screamed a warning at her, but his lips made no sound. She woke in the darkness after midnight, chilled by a sudden breeze blowing in through the casements. The rain had ceased, but its coolness had dispelled the warmth of the Uurzian night.

Raising her head from the pillow, she would have called for a heavier blanket. Yet the dark silhouette that caught her eye made the words linger in the back of her throat. A man stood on the terrace, wrapped in a loose black cloak. No, it was not a man at all. The cloak rustled like a pair of leathery wings, and spread out to hide the moon and stars.

Inside the black folds was no man, but the coiling mass of a bloated viper. Its diamond-shaped head hovered above the shifting coils. Its eyes were identical flames, bright as blood.

They caught her, those eyes, and she lay transfixed in their ruddy glow. The viper slithered across the floor. The wings wavered and twitched, joined to its coils just behind the pointed head. She could only watch it glide, her breath and her voice frozen, as it neared her bed. Two spearmen stood outside her door as always; they might as well be in Khyrei with Tyro, so far were they from her side.

She scrambled across the bedcovers toward the door, saw the golden gleam of torchlight that limned the rectangle, and tried again to cry out. But she was mute, terrified into silence.

A frigid coil slipped about her left leg, pulling her back toward the bed. She coughed and vomited and struggled as the black viper encircled her entire body, squeezing and hissing. Its red eyes flamed, and now she felt the heat of them singing her face. She expected the pungent smell of reptile flesh, but there was no smell at all. Only the tangy ocean air that filled her nostrils yet refused to enter her lungs.

She lay helpless at the heart of the tight glistening coils, and the serpentine face hovered above her own. The black wings cast her world into shadow. The fiery eyes glowed like mad stars. A forked tongue darted out to lick her cheek. Tears welled in her eyes and ran across her face. The tongue licked at them curiously. She lost control of her bladder, and her water ran across the marble floor. She trembled in the iron grip of the devil-shadow.

Her eyes studied its fangs, long as daggers and dripping amber venom. Drops of it burned her flesh when they fell upon her neck and breast. She quivered and stared against her will into the dancing flame eyes of the beast.

Now those strange eyes grew familiar. The winged reptile grinned, and a voice that she recognized spoke to her softly.

Lyrilan’s voice.

You did this.

The horrid mouth yawned wide. Twin fangs sank deep into her eyes, and her bones snapped inside crushing coils.

Lyrilan stood by the fountain long after sunset. In the enchanted pool he surveyed the grisly pulp on the floor of Talondra’s bedchamber as the winged shadow withdrew. It slithered out the high window, flapped its wings, and soared into the night trailing strands of blood.

What lay on the marble floor could no longer be called a human being. A mass of flesh and jagged bones, even the skull had been crushed to splinters. There was no trace of the second life his servitor had claimed. Its fetal remains must lie somewhere among the heaped entrails and minced viscera of its mother, but he did not care to look any longer.

He waved a hand and the lights gleaming in the fountain pool faded. Darkness rushed to fill the water beneath the trio of winged horses. He longed to call up an image of Ramiyah and explain his vengeance to her. Yet he had already tried reaching beyond the grave. It was not to be.

Finally he understood the Apotheosis of Shadow, the underlying principle of Imvek’s Fourth Book. Here was definitive proof of it. Conjuring this foul thing from beyond the living world showed that his grasp of the Vital Tongues was strong.

The Incantations of Night were now his own.

He inhaled the brisk nocturnal air. A fine night for stargazing. He sat himself on a padded chair and considered the blinking constellations. He thought of Tyro, marching or fighting or sleeping somewhere beneath these same stars. The Sword King could not know that his wife and son were gone now, like his exiled brother. Yet word would soon come to Tyro on scrawled parchment carried by a red-eyed rider from Uurz. And he would know at last the weight of the pain his brother had endured. The scales had been balanced.

Lyrilan was wise enough to know that he was no true sorcerer. Yet he stood well inside the gateway to a storehouse of ancient knowledge that would forever separate him from his fellow man. He spoke enough of the dead languages to understand their power. He had grown adept at singing these ancient songs of blood, death, and wisdom.

He was no longer Lyrilan the Scholar. He was Lyrilan, Son of Dairon. Soon he would be Emperor of Uurz. He was no sorcerer. He was only a man who commanded some small portion of the knowledge that other men had owned long before him.

He left the scented garden and retired to his private chamber, where the final two Books of Imvek waited heavy with secrets.