Seven Kings

6

The bloodletting started with a slit throat in a Palm Street brothel. The son of a lord from House Burillus fell to squabbling with the cousin of a lord from House Tyllisca. The two lads had been fast friends until the discord between the Twin Kings divided the royal house into factions. Too much wine and too many hot words led to the drawing of blades and the spilling of Uurzian blood across the cobbles. The lords of House Burillus supported Tyro’s drive toward war, while Tyllisca stood behind the Scholar King. It was unclear who struck the first blow, but a Son of Burillus was the first man to die in the argument for peace.

The killing set houses against one another, each lord calling upon his private legions and fortifying his estates as if the Khyreins were about to march out of the south and lay siege to the city. Twelve houses claimed allegiance to Lyrilan, fifteen to Tyro. In three weeks of waggling tongues, raised fists, and logical stalemates the unity of Uurz had been shattered. In the days since the Burillus lad’s death, two skirmishes had broken out in the Central Market and six servants had been found dead in gutters or stuffed into dry wells. The city’s commoners began to reflect this unrest, so that companies of city guards marched on constant alert. Fights broke out every night in taverns, gambling dens, and even on the steps of temples. Men died for poorly chosen words or careless bravado.

The long dry nights brought no relief from the heat of the day. In the torrid lack of rain, the Uurzians had begun to water their city with the blood of their fellows.

The specter of disunity brought palace life to a standstill. Lyrilan stayed sequestered in the western wing with Ramiyah and his chief advisors. The Green Legions paced along his towers and walls, while the Gold Legions fortified Tyro’s apartments in the eastern wing. The two sides had not yet come to blows, yet there was little love between the commanders of the divided army.

Lyrilan sat most days in his high tower and discussed ways to mend the broken court. He missed the Royal Library, where he usually went to do his best thinking. Now, if he dared enter the middle precincts of the palace, he must take a cadre of legionnaires with him. How could he possibly think with all those clattering spears and tromping boots surrounding him like a pack of snuffling hounds? At least here he could keep the guards outside the doors of his quarters. He could send for the books he needed, but that was no substitute for walking among the forest of bindings and scrolls and shelves. It was his own private temple, and he resented being driven from it.

“This is not what my father wanted,” he complained to Ramiyah. “It is everything he feared for his empire.” She listened patiently, as she always did. She smiled sadly and rubbed a hand across his back. The sunlight through the casements of their bedchamber glittered on her golden hair.

Ramiyah took a green and silver robe from a servant and bade her husband stand while she helped drape it about his shoulders. “Tell them,” she said.

“I have told them,” he said. “They listen, they nod, they sympathize. But what can they do? What one of them can reach my brother’s ear, let alone his heart?”

She placed a necklace of opals, centered with an eight-sided topaz, about his neck. “Your brother surrounds himself with wicked men, hawks eager for blood and glory. He listens to their flattery and their lies. And she is the worst of them…”

Lyrilan nodded, adjusting his slim crown. He raised his feet one at a time while the servant slid tall boots onto them.

“Talondra wants vengeance, that is all,” he agreed. “I understand that. Who would not want it? Her entire family died when Shar Dni fell… along with thousands of others. The tragedy of her loss blinds her to everything else, sweeps aside all other considerations.”

“As it blinds your brother,” said Ramiyah. He watched as attendants finished dressing her in a gown of green silk trimmed with white roses. She added silver accoutrements chosen carefully from a coffer of jade. She would not wear gold while the division lasted. Nor would any of the Scholar King’s followers. Gold was the color of Tyro’s legions, and therefore the color of war. Lyrilan hated this random assignation of pigment and metals. For twelve centuries Uurz had been the green-gold city. Now its colors were split, as were its people.

He gazed upon his beautiful wife in all her glory. He reached out to stroke her soft hair, drew her close to him in a rustle of royal silks. Her blue eyes locked onto his, and he wished he could dive into those pools of azure. It was the color of love, undiluted by ceremony or guile.

He had known so many women, and they had all been as one to him. Until the day he met Ramiyah in the palace of Yaskatha while visiting the court of King D’zan. Lyrilan’s extended visit became a months-long affair, and he brought her back to Uurz for a wedding that sent the city into a week of celebration. Already Emperor Dairon had grown ill, but the marriage of his son revived him for a while, and he had whispered to Lyrilan that he liked Ramiyah. Soon afterward, perhaps not to be outdone, Tyro had married Talondra. It seemed a hasty decision, but perhaps Tyro felt the same about Lyrilan’s choice. The brothers had congratulated each other and made fabulous gifts to their new sisters-in-law. All under the eyes of Dairon, who would not live to see the year’s end.

I chose well in you, Lyrilan thought. Your love is as bright as sunlight. How can I ever tell you what it means to me?

She was the most lovely thing he had ever seen, but he had learned enough of women not to tell her so. At least, not too often. So he had tried instead to show her, in a thousand different ways: jewels, gowns, pearls, parties, celebrations. After a year of such indulgence, she had taught him that the best way to show his love was simply to listen to her. So he listened.

Does this same devotion consume my brother’s attention? If Ramiyah spoke of war to me, would I listen to her as Tyro listens to Talondra?

Ramiyah kissed his lips as gently as a drop of dew. “If the lords cannot reach your brother, then you must do it.”

Lyrilan’s eyes fell across the room to his new book. Volomses had finished his proofing and had only good things to say about it. Now Lyrilan might present it to Tyro as a gift. A reminder of their common heritage… a testament to their father’s legacy. Perhaps it would remind Tyro that unity is more important than glory. Or perhaps he would only dismiss it as he dismissed so many of Lyrilan’s interests. Yet this was their father. How could even the Sword King deny the life and vision of his own progenitor?

Lyrilan nodded and kissed his wife’s smooth cheek. “I will try,” he said. “If they will let me, I will try.” Lyrilan’s advisors’ concern for his well-being had trumped all his efforts at a personal meeting with Tyro thus far. The twelve lords in service to Lyrilan, the Green Lords as they were now called, represented him at all assemblies, conferences, and summits with their nemeses the Gold Lords. Similarly, Tyro’s advisors bade him stay away from such parleys. So the two brothers had not exchanged a single word since the night when Tyro slew the Khyrein spy and split the houses.

Lyrilan approached the double doors that led to the hallway and turned to look at Ramiyah once more. She planned to enter the Western Gardens today with a coterie of noble ladies, under heavy guard of course. He would see her again at the sun’s zenith, when they would dine on the terrace overlooking western Uurz. She blew him a kiss as a servant opened the doors. Three mailed guards paced at his back when he crossed the tower’s middle and entered the carpeted stateroom. There the Green Lords sat gathered about a table of black marble.

Volomses was there too, seated next to the King’s Chair. A pile of massive tomes lay before him. He had gathered whatever books Lyrilan had requested these past weeks, seeing them safely brought into the Western Tower. Yet Lyrilan had requested no books today. He did not recognize the topmost of the leather-bound volumes, though he could tell their great age by the yellowed parchment and cracked bindings.

The Green Lords stood and bowed as the Scholar King entered. Twenty guardsmen in green tabards over bronze mail stood about the room. The shafts of their upraised spears spoiled the view from the tall windows that opened on the city’s northern quarter and the fortified wall beyond. Past the massive ramparts lay a grassy plain segmented by the northern road and a few muddy rivers in the distance. Portraits hung between the windows, the bearded visages of Emperors long dead, scions of the Old Blood. Their dead eyes seemed to mock Lyrilan as they gazed upon his predicament.

Lyrilan sat and the lords followed his lead. Undroth was the first to speak.

“Good morning, Majesty,” he offered politely, striving to sound jovial. His heavy black beard was woven into a mass of braids set with jeweled bands, and his massive fingers were thick-set with emerald and ruby. His eyes were gray and his face kindly. Undroth was a longtime friend of Lyrilan’s father, a veteran of the Island Wars, and a trusted counselor. Lyrilan found it easy to place faith in the man. Since his father had no brothers, he had long thought of Undroth as an uncle.

Lyrilan nodded to all the assembled lords, careful not to show favoritism. “What news?”

Undroth frowned. “None but two more deaths,” he said. “Both of them nobles, boys barely out of school.”

Lord Vaduli sighed. “Young fools eager to prove themselves, as is usually the case.” Silver beads sparkled on the chest of his gray-green robe. Vaduli could easily pass for a sage, so long was his beard and so bright his eyes. He often displayed a sage’s wisdom in these councils.

A moment of quietude settled upon the council chamber. Servants brought platters of black grapes and yellow cheese. They poured wine from crystal decanters. Some of the lords drank deeply, while others barely sipped. Lyrilan ignored his own cup. It was still morning, and the heat of the day had not yet awakened his thirst.

“I will wait no longer,” he announced. “I must speak with my brother.”

A chorus of protests broke forth. He silenced the lords with a raised hand.

“Negotiations have proved useless,” he reminded them. “This is a family matter, a dispute between brothers… and what’s more… it is what my father would want.”

Most of the lords looked to their cups, but Undroth looked Lyrilan in the eye. “My Lord.” His voice was soft, almost a whisper. Lyrilan often felt his dead father advised him through the words of this living man. “It is not safe. The Gold Legions have their zealots, and Tyro’s loyalists are eager for blood. Give us more time to reach an accord.”

“No,” said Lyrilan. “I’ve waited too long already. No more Uurzians will die because the Brother Kings cannot see eye to eye. I have decided.”

Undroth pulled at his braided beard. He nodded, but said nothing more.

Vaduli drank deeply from his cup, then set it down and looked at Lyrilan. “Majesty, as much as I fear this course of action, I commend your bravery. Your escort shall be thirty of the finest blades. I feel it best that you too carry a sword. It will send a message to your brother that mere words may not.”

“I will carry no sword,” said Lyrilan. “I take a gift to my brother. I will not enter his presence equipped as if ready to spar. In any case, we both know it would be an empty gesture.”

The twelve lords shifted nervously in their seats, some gnawing at grapes, others inspecting the polished surface of the table. Lyrilan could not tell what most of them thought. They were closed books to him, all except Undroth and Vaduli. Perhaps it was because these two spoke most freely with him. Were the others afraid to disagree? Or were they relieved to hear the King make his own decision?

Old Volomses broke the silence. “Majesty… may I?”

“Speak,” said Lyrilan. Volomses normally left the discourse to the lords at these meetings. Yet Lyrilan’s newfound determination seemed to make the sage’s tongue grow bold.

Volomses gestured to the pile of heavy books lying before him. They were six in number. “Your Majesty’s strength has always been one of mind, whereas King Tyro’s is of the arm and thew. Yet here in these ancient pages lies another kind of strength. One that will make the Sword King tremble. Or at the very least… make him listen.”

“What is this, Volomses? What have you discovered?” Lyrilan eyed the topmost volume as the sage wiped a layer of dust from its embossed cover with his napkin.

“The Books of Imvek the Silent,” said the sage. His bony fingers caressed the pile nervously.

Lyrilan’s eyes narrowed. “Sorcery?” He nearly laughed. But the situation was too dire for any humor. “Would you have me learn some spell of peace to secure the kingdom? Some charm of brotherhood to mend this rift?”

The Green Lords sat quiet, not a single outraged stare or protest among them. By this Lyrilan knew that they had asked Volomses to gather these books.

“So you all would have a sorcerer as your King.”

Volomses spoke for them all. “Sorcery is simply a form of knowledge, My Lord. It is known to the wise that true sorcerers are born into magic. Yet a wise man may learn the secrets of those who master universal forces. A wise man like Imvek, who traded his own tongue for such wisdom. He ruled the City of Sacred Waters for sixty years. His reign was a prosperous one.”

Lyrilan could not account for this silent conspiracy. How long had the lords discussed this? How many of them were secretly studying such ancient tomes, hoping to unleash some dread magic to aid his cause? Or were they all too frightened by the potential of such power to even try? No, they were foisting the dark duty onto him. After all, he was their King. Here was an advantage he might secure for himself and for their interests. The interests of peace. But it was ludicrous.

“And how did Imvek’s golden reign end?” Lyrilan asked, already knowing the answer.

Volomses lowered his head. “Imvek died, as all Men must.”

“Yet he left behind a strong kingdom,” interrupted Undroth, “and he wrote all his wisdom down on these pages. They’ve been kept hidden here since the day his third son took the throne.”

“If Imvek’s own sons could not master his writings, what hope have I?”

“They were warriors like Tyro… not scholars,” offered Vaduli.

Lyrilan crossed his arms, leaned back in his padded chair. He stared at the moldering pile of leather and parchment. It was tempting. The books were priceless, if only for their historical value. Had it really come to this? Was his case so weak that only this ancient wizard’s scribblings offered any hope?

No. There was still the book about his father. There was still a chance to reach Tyro and remind him of his family honor. To rekindle their father’s dreams of lasting peace. Dairon had refused to go to war unless Khyrei showed direct aggression toward Uurz. This had not come to pass, save for a few missing merchant ships. And there was no actual proof that Khyrein pirates were involved. There were only swirling rumors at the time. Yet the owners of those lost ships were firmly in the camp of Tyro, Gold Lords who made their fortunes from trading with the Jade Isles. Of course they supported Tyro’s vendetta; they had everything to gain from it.

Lyrilan could not let economic interests and personal wealth outweigh the cost in human lives that war would surely bring. It was worth any chance to avoid the blood debts of such a conflict. These were the words of Dairon, himself a student of history, who had written such thoughts in his own journals.

If only Tyro would read those words. That would be the true sorcery.

“I have no time for this foolishness,” said Lyrilan. He rose from the table. “Undroth, send a herald to arrange a meeting with my brother in the Great Hall. I will take your suggested thirty guards. Make the same offer to my brother. Be sure that he understands I have something of great worth to give him. And be sure that no advisors, no Gold Lords, are present in the hall.”

“And no wives, My Lord?” asked Vaduli.

Lyrilan nodded. My one chance to get Tyro away from Talondra’s tongue. “Make this clear as well. Today the two brothers must meet alone.”

Lord Undroth stood, one hand on the hilt of his sheathed greatsword. “It shall be done.”

Volomses followed Lyrilan out the door, a servant carrying the six ancient books for him. Lyrilan paused before entering his study. He turned to face the sage but had no words to chastise him.

“They were hidden beneath the library, Majesty,” said Volomses. “In a secret vault built just for the purpose. Waiting all these centuries for your eyes to scan their pages…”

Volomses knew the way to his heart.

Lyrilan sighed. “Bring them in,” he said, entering the study. The tables and shelves were thick with more recent volumes ferried up from the library. “I’m sure I have a place for them somewhere.”

Lyrilan sat before his desk and stared across a clutter of scrolls through the triangular window. Below, the city was still green and gold. Its towers still gleamed in the sunlight, its walls still stood strong. Its people, though thirsty, and angry, and at one anothers’ throats, endured. They filled the dusty streets and teeming plazas where the day’s commerce was enacted in a million tiny transactions.

If only some cool rain would fall, he thought. It might change everything.

As the servant arranged the Books of Imvek carefully upon his desk, Lyrilan asked Volomses to retrieve The Life of Dairon, First Emperor of the New Blood from his bedchamber. He stared at Imvek’s sextet of tomes.

These books supposedly contain magic, he mused. Yet the book I have written must contain the most powerful magic of all. The magic of a son’s love for his father. If that should fail, what hope is there in a thousand such volumes of sorcery? And here we have only six.

He walked to the window and looked down, surveying the green expanse of the royal courtyards. He could not see clearly the gardens where Ramiyah and her ladies were walking. Yet he knew she was down there somewhere, beneath the vine-woven bowers and the tangled canopies of fruit trees. Knowing this gave him the strength to face Tyro alone.

The heat of the day was growing sharp, and the sky was absent of clouds, an endless expanse of blue above the sweltering, smoking city. Perhaps there was something in Imvek’s books that might bring the rains back to Uurz? He walked back to his desk and studied the cover of the first volume. The scaled leather had once been olive-green, the hide of some great lizard no doubt, but it had faded to gray over the ages.

The Empire of Uurz was well over a thousand years old. How many Emperors had lived and died, conquered and lost, breathed and bled before the Giants came and ended the Old Bloodline? He had studied their histories, but never actually counted their number. The Old Bloodline might have gone on forever if the Uduru had not squashed it and set Dairon upon the throne. Or had there been other coups over the ages, other shifts in the royal blood? Other fresh starts? Other squabbling Brother Kings? The written histories only went back seven hundred years, so nobody really knew. Not even the wisest of sages.

We are all history unfolding, he told himself. There is a book waiting to be written about what is happening right now. Yet I am stuck within its pages and cannot break myself free to write it. He remembered feeling this way before, when D’zan’s quest had drawn him far from the comforts of Uurz. He missed the Yaskathan King. When all of this was settled, he must arrange a trip to visit his southern friend.

Lord Undroth arrived, winged helm in hand. “My Lord,” he reported, “your brother agrees to the terms. He wishes to meet upon the hour.”

“Good,” said Lyrilan. His midday lunch with Ramiyah would have to wait. She would understand. If his errand succeeded, if his creation could truly reach Tyro’s heart, they would have something to celebrate.

Thirty guards with silver spears awaited him outside the study. He took up the book that contained his father’s life and held it to his chest like a talisman.

The Scholar King and his green-clad retinue descended the tower steps and streamed through the vaulted portico of the Great Hall.

Gods of Sun and Sky, Lyrilan prayed, let him be moved.

In the eastern courtyard the flag of Uurz billowed atop Tyro’s pavilion, a golden sun on a green field. The canvas walls of the tent were raised to admit the breezes of morning. Orderly rows of pomegranate trees stretched from the base of the palace to the foot of its eastern wall, where soldiers in golden helms and bronze mail walked the battlements. Attendants moved about the orchard bearing large urns of water hauled up from the cavern of the Sacred River. They poured the holy liquid generously among the tree roots. Thus did the royal orchards thrive, even in the midst of the long drought. The branches hung thick with swollen purple fruit.

Inside the tent the Sword King gathered with Lord Mendices and three captains of the Gold Legions. Daggers and jeweled goblets served as paperweights securing a series of dog-eared maps to the oval table. Tyro leaned forward in his chair to better view the markers and notations scrawled upon the maps. From the center of his chairback a pair of gilded wings spread from a central sun of inlaid opals. His broad chest was already bare against the heat of the day, and he wore a kilt of scarlet silk in lieu of his usual bronze girdle. Golden bracers hid the dueling scars upon his thick forearms. The emerald at the forepoint of his light crown glinted dully in the shade of the tent.

“Here…” Lord Mendices stabbed at the map with a pointed finger. “Where the marshes meet the Golden Sea. That is the route for our legions.”

“Treacherous territory,” said Tyro, tugging at his thick braid of beard. “Infested with vipers, lizards, and worse. Some say more dangerous than the jungles beyond it.”

“ ’Tis true, Majesty,” responded Lord Aeldryn. The man was the oldest of the captains, having fought with Dairon in his younger days. Tyro trusted his word, if not the strength of his now-unsteady arm. Aeldryn’s gray hair was still thick, but the deepset lines on his face spoke of a weary soul. “The dangers of the lands west of Khyrei cannot be overstated. Massive beasts wander those swamps, the kind that no longer live in the northlands. Throwbacks to the Age of Serpents.”

“Nonsense,” said Lord Mendices. “Superstition, Your Majesty. I am certain there will be some resistance, but Serpents? We may lose a few men, I’ll concede, but what beast can stand against an entire army? This route through the swamps is the only way to flank the Khyrein forces. They will never expect it because no one has ever dared to try it.”

Lord Rolfus harrumphed. “None have ever tried it because it is so dangerous. You make Aeldryn’s point for him. I say we approach entirely by sea. With the aid of Yaskatha’s navy we’ll cut round the southern horn-”

“No,” said Mendices. “You revisit an argument already proven false. The Khyrein navy is formidable, perhaps the greatest in the world. Our allies’ ships will serve as a diversion, while our land legions move in to sack the city from the east. The Crab Strategem. Rolfus, do not undo these last days’ work by taking us backward.”

Rolfus chose not to face the accusing eyes of Mendices. Few men could. Tyro watched as Rolfus chose instead the goblet of wine sitting before him, letting the red vintage fill his mouth instead of rash words. Tyro considered the advice of Mendices. There was much battle wisdom there… and a great sense of reckless courage. He admired Mendices for both qualities. It was partly the reason he had made the bald Warlord his chief advisor. That and Mendices’ hunger for destroying the threat of Khyrei once and for all. Nothing could be more important.

“Very well, Mendices,” said Tyro. He glared at the three captains. “ ‘In the midst of battle, the best choice is often the least sane choice’,” he quoted. “Your advice hearkens to the words of Quorances the Fourth. His ability to surprise and confuse his enemy led Uurz to victory in the Campaign of the Southern Isles. I see no reason why the same approach will not serve us here.”

“Well quoted, Majesty,” said Mendices.

“The strategy is decided,” said Tyro. “Now let us speak of alliances. What news from Mumbaza?”

The taciturn Captain Dorocles spoke for the first time this morning. “The King on the Cliffs remains indecisive. Undutu neither refuses nor denies our entreaties. Yet I believe we can bring him to our cause. We must remain persistent.”

Tyro nodded. The Mumbazans were known for their long love of neutrality. Yet eight years ago they had marched against the Usurper of Yaskatha. Tyro had ridden with them. At that time Undutu had still been called Boy-King. Now he was a man, and must be eager to prove the might of his nation. Tyro decided that a generous gift of gold and precious stones would likely sway the balance. He would send Dorocles with a sizable amount of treasure for the ruler of the Pearl Kingdom, as soon as the business of unifying Uurz was settled.

“What of Yaskatha? Does good D’zan join us? Surely he wishes to avenge the death of his father.”

Rolfus put down his wine cup. “The signs are excellent, My Lord. D’zan has sired an heir, soon to be born. He will wish to secure the safety of his kingdom now, so that his son can inherit his throne during peacetime. He awaits the birth of the child before committing his forces.”

Tyro smiled. “Sharadza is pregnant? I thought her too wild and independent to settle into the role of Royal Mother.”

Rolfus coughed. “Your perception is keen, Majesty. The mother of D’zan’s heir is not the daughter of Vod. It seems she has… gone missing.”

Tyro sat up straighter in his chair. “Vireon will be displeased,” he mused. “What is the word from Udurum?”

Mendices handled that ambassadorship. “Our envoys have yet to return, Sire. Surely your close relationship with the Slayer will bring him to our side. Although he can offer little in the way of Giant forces, his kingdom boasts a sizable army of Men these days. At least twelve legions, if my sources are correct. And there is no enemy to fight north of the Grim.”

Tyro looked at him. “Do not be so quick to discount the Ninety-Nine Uduri,” he said. “Yes, they are Giantesses, but they are not like human females. They are every bit as dangerous as male Giants. Perhaps even more so. Look to your history books, Mendices.”

“Yes, Majesty.” Mendices bristled. Tyro knew he hated being talked down to like this, even by his King. Tyro was but half his age, yet he was still the ruler of Uurz. Mendices occasionally needed reminding of the fact. The Warlord was wise in military matters, but Tyro’s father had forced his sons to endure a broader education. Only now that he sat upon the throne did he value Dairon’s insistence. The sword alone is not enough, Dairon had told his son. The arm wields the sword, but the mind wields the arm.

Tyro paused to sample the morning wine. Not a bad vintage, though not the sweet fruit of the deep cellars. He stood to stretch his arms while the lords picked at the fruits and bread offered by servants.

“These matters of strategies and alliances are of secondary concern to me,” Tyro said. He walked into the sunlight and let it warm his face. The lords ate and drank at his back. “My mind dwells most on our local troubles. How can we set our plans in motion without the twelve legions allied to my brother? We must end the division of the Royal Court. Ideas?” The lords were silent behind him.

“I’ve an idea, Lord,” said a feminine voice. “And a message.” He turned to see Talondra approaching along the garden path. Her loose gown of black silk rippled in the slight winds. Her arms and neck were lined with jewels, and a mass of black hair fell unrestrained past her slim shoulders. Her brown skin was splendid in the sunlight, and she lost none of her glow when she stepped into the shadow of the pavilion. He walked around the table to take her in his arms, kissed her red lips. She was his lioness, an exquisite creature of dangerous grace. He feared no sword or spear, nor the wrath of any man, but her words could wound him worse than a length of steel in the gut. For this reason, and because he loved her so, he went to great lengths to keep her happy.

It took a woman like her, a firebrand, to make him give up his many concubines. Talondra was every bit the warrior he was, yet she fought in the ways that were available to women. She crushed her enemies by manipulating them. Before she came to him from Shar Dni, he had never thought to find a woman who could tame his wild heart. She was born to be his Queen. Her onyx eyes captivated him. He forgot all about Mendices and the three lords as her fingers danced along his bare chest. He would take her right now if she wished. Let them run like timid servants from the sight of their King’s passion.

“You speak in riddles,” he said, biting her ear.

She smiled. He inhaled the ripe petal fragrance of her skin. “Not at all, My Lord. Which would you hear first, my solution to your problem or the message from your brother?”

He pulled away from her, but kept his arms about her waist. “Lyrilan sends a message?”

She glided from his grasp like a viper. “Your eyes make your choice evident. Always the brother before the wife…”

He frowned at her. She knew that was not true. It was a little game she played for his attention. Attention he would give her in great detail tonight in their bedchamber. “Tell it, woman,” he said.

“The Scholar King wishes to meet with you today. Alone. In the Great Hall he will present you with a gift. His messenger did not say what it might be.”

Mendices stood, suspicion growing on his narrow face. “A ruse, My Lord?”

Tyro shook his black mane. “No, that is not Lyrilan’s way. He is honest to a fault. I think he wishes to apologize and restore our shattered unity. He must be tired of the bloodshed our feud has caused.”

“Would he give in so easily?” Aeldryn asked.

Tyro considered the question. He loved Lyrilan, but hated sharing the throne with someone so weak. Often he wondered why his father had not simply named him Emperor instead of endorsing this ridiculous dichotomy of state. The Stormlands empire needed an Emperor. Perhaps Lyrilan had realized this and would step down, finally letting Tyro rule. Lyrilan was not a King, not truly. He was a scribe, a quill, a haunter of libraries. He would make a fine chief advisor, but he would never be a King. At least not the one that Uurz deserved. Lyrilan did not even understand the need to rid the world of Khyrei’s wicked influence.

“My spies among the Green tell me he still refuses to march on Khyrei,” said Talondra. “Do not expect this to change, Lord. No doubt this is some pitiful effort to make you see the error of your ways.”

Tyro drained his goblet. “Mendices, see to the arrangements.”

“I’ll accompany you myself,” said the bald lord.

“No,” said Talondra, not bothering to look at Mendices. “Speak with the messenger. He has a list of demands set by Lyrilan. He obviously fears you, Tyro. He will allow no advisors. Not even your beloved wife.”

Mendices laughed. “He must fear you as well, My Queen.”

She gave the lord a quick look, driving him out of the tent. The three captains rose and followed. They had grown adept at sensing when their Queen demanded privacy.

“What is this idea of yours, Sweetling?” Tyro asked. “Have you some answer to the dilemma of the Twin Kings? One that Mendices and I could not design ourselves?”

Talondra playfully avoided his grasping hands and placed herself across the table from him. He loved it when she made him chase her. He was the hunter, she was the deadliest of prey. Her eyes fell upon the war maps.

“All this,” she waved a hand, “will never come to pass while your legions are divided. Yet you have the power to bring them together. You must only be strong enough to wield it.”

Tyro grabbed his empty goblet and crushed it in his fist. “I am strong.”

“Strong of arm, yes,” she said. “But are you strong of heart?”

“How can you ask me this?”

“Because I know the love you bear your brother. You forbid me to speak of killing him, although it would solve all your problems and make you Emperor. Yet you forbid it, so I will not speak of it. There is, however, another way to remove this obstacle in your path to glory.”

“Speak,” he said. Let her come out with it. He was no Sharrian to murder his own blood kin. That course could only bring the wrath of the Sky God upon his head, a curse to any throne won by murder. The proof of his belief was the Doom of Shar Dni. The Khyreins wiped it off the map, but surely the Gods had allowed them to do so. It must have been for the sins of its rulers… the feuding families and the blood-soaked throne. Generations of infighting and scheming for power. He would not reduce Uurz to such a state. The Gods had set him here to cleanse the earth of Khyrei, not to fall its victim. Not to perish by his own moral weakness, as had Talondra’s home. He had never spoken such thoughts aloud to her.

“Banishment” she whispered. A breeze blew through the tent and rustled her black locks. “Send him into exile. Someplace safe, someplace far away, where his will can no longer trouble your own.”

Tyro frowned. “Do you think I have not considered this? It is impossible. I have no legal grounds. He has done nothing wrong.”

“But what if he did?”

Tyro stared into her narrow eyes, pools of dark beauty. A keen wisdom swam there.

“Lyrilan is a King, like me,” he reminded her. “What could he do?”

She rounded the table and curled herself about him like a purring tiger cub. “What if he went mad? Proved himself to be unworthy of the throne?”

Tyro shook his head. “But he is not mad. He would never do anything to warrant exile.”

She raised her wet lips to his ear and let her hot breath slide into it with her words.

“He can be made to seem mad,” she whispered. “Such an easy thing to do. Both his life and your kingdom are then spared.”

He grabbed her wrists and kissed her again.

A servant came forward and kneeled a respectful distance from their embrace. “Majesty, Lord Mendices sends me to inform you: King Lyrilan approaches the Great Hall.”

Tyro nodded and released Talondra. Her cleverness never ceased to amaze him. There was much to think about here. But first, he must speak with Lyrilan. His brother could also be surprising.

“Let us see what the day brings,” he said.

Talondra bowed her head. “As you wish, Lord.”

He left her among the trees, picking the choicest of pomegranates from the branches.

The sculpted pillars of the Great Hall stood thick as the bodies of Giants. Rays of amber sunlight streamed in through the ceiling oriels. The history of Uurz hung about the walls on tapestries of spun gold and wool. Blood-bright rubies lay scattered across the stitched fields of ancient battles, and schools of sapphires glimmered beneath the prows of woven war galleons. The marble statues of past Emperors stood upon bronze pedestals, displaying sword, spear, and crown for generations who barely knew their names. No flames burned in the golden braziers hanging about the twin thrones, for the heat of the day had found its way inside the hall. The lower casements looked out upon the emerald gardens of noonday. If one were to awake in this place with no memory of coming to Uurz, one might believe oneself in some lofty temple at the heart of a verdant forest, so deep and tall were the encircling gardens.

Lyrilan entered the hall first, thirty men of the Green Legions at his back. They placed themselves in a half-circle about his side of the royal dais, and two of them came to stand at the arms of his throne. He sat himself uncomfortably on the high seat. A pair of twin opals, each larger than a man’s head, served as centerpieces for the identical thrones. Patterns of green tourmaline ran along the seatbacks and down the legs, which ended in tigerish claws bright as gold. The armrests were carved into long-bodied eagles with backspread wings. Lyrilan leaned his book against the high seat and rested his nervous hands on the skulls of the eagles.

Tyro did not keep him waiting long. Soon the Sword King entered, trailing a scarlet cloak to match his kilt, sandals gleaming with golden shinguards, a string of sapphires sparkling across his brown chest. How different he seemed now, this King of Uurz, yet how much he remained the same. His face was Lyrilan’s own, yet sun-hardened, perhaps firmer of jaw. The unruly curls of his long black mane were identical to Lyrilan’s own. Tyro’s healthy beard, plaited by the customary gold rings, distinguished his face from that of his brother, who preferred to remain clean-shaven.

Thirty legionnaires with eagle helms and golden corselets followed Tyro into the hall. Their flapping cloaks were, of course, spun from golden silk. These soldiers formed their own arc about the dais, completing the circle begun by the Green Legionnaires. Two of Tyro’s warriors stood at the back of his throne to match Lyrilan’s personal guards.

Tyro climbed the five steps of the dais and sat himself on the second throne, turning sideways to look his brother in the face. A cautious smile greeted Lyrilan.

“At last, he comes down from his tower,” said Tyro. “Good to see you, Brother.”

Lyrilan returned the smile, though his heart was not in it. “Men die while we do not speak,” he said. “This has gone on long enough.”

Tyro nodded. “I agree. Are you ready to listen?”

Lyrilan raised a hand. “I have heard your arguments and found them wanting. I did not come to discuss what we have already discussed.”

“Then why come at all?” said Tyro, his voice rising.

Ever the impatient one. Quick with a blade, slow of wit. Make him listen… make him understand. Lyrilan shifted in the hard seat. Perhaps thrones were meant to be uncomfortable to emphasize the pain of rulership. It seemed likely.

“I admit, I have been distracted this past year,” said Lyrilan. “I have not always been available to make the hard decisions. I have dropped the burden of rulership onto your shoulders too many times. For that I am sorry.”

Tyro laughed. “No need to apologize,” he said. “Simply abdicate, and I’ll save you the trouble of running a kingdom. You’ll be free to pursue your studies and write your books. Things will be as they should always have been. You weren’t meant to rule, Lyrilan. You’re a sage, not a King. It’s time to accept that.”

Lyrilan chose not to take the bait for an endless argument. “My studies are what bring me here.” He lifted the book from his side and stood. A rustling of fabric came from the Gold Legionnaires, who would have sprung to murder him if he had raised a knife or dagger instead. “This is what I have labored on since Father died. You loved him. You commissioned his statues, made by the hands of the finest sculptors in the city. This… is my sculpture.”

Lyrilan offered him the book of Dairon’s life, and Tyro accepted it. He read the title aloud, his voice barely a whisper. He laid it across the arms of his throne and flipped idly through the fresh white pages lined with dark new ink. Lyrilan sat back in his own throne, letting the weight of the volume impress itself on Tyro’s hands, on his mind, on his heart.

Tyro sat quiet as he closed the volume. He ran a hand across the stiff leather of the surface. His eyes glimmered and the hardness of his jaw softened. He must have been at a loss for words. He said nothing.

“Our father’s life is on these pages,” Lyrilan said. “His thoughts, his philosophies, his advice. His triumphs and tragedies… his dreams for his sons and his Empire. Read it, Tyro. Read it and tell me if you still believe he would want this war. You owe it to him, if not me. Read it.”

Tyro glared at him. The tears welling in his sable eyes refused to fall. He was too mighty for tears, this iron-hearted warrior. He raised a hand from the book and touched Lyrilan’s shoulder. He wore a smile that reminded Lyrilan of his younger self.

The brothers stood and embraced. Tyro pulled away and held Lyrilan gently by the shoulders. “No matter what happens, you are always my brother. Remember that I love you, as our father loved us both.”

“Never will I forget that,” said Lyrilan. “Uurz is a single kingdom with two beating hearts. This is the way our father wanted it… green and gold together. The explanation is on these pages. I swear it.”

“Then I will read them,” said Tyro. “You honor his memory with this work.”

Tyro called for wine, a deep vintage. The sons drank to the memory of their father.

“We will speak again soon,” said the Sword King, and he departed with his gift.

Lyrilan sat upon his throne for a moment. How different this hall had seemed when he was a child chasing Tyro between the pillars. While their mother still lived, they had seen little of Dairon. He sat up here on a single massive throne in those days, dispensing wisdom and justice. Lyrilan had thought him some kind of bejeweled Giant until he came down the steps and caught both his boys in a warm bearhug. Later, years after his mother’s passing, Lyrilan realized that Dairon the Emperor, Lord of the Sacred Waters, was only a Man. A frail and sad man who had lost everyone he loved but for his two young sons.

Even the greatest of Kings and Emperors were only human.

And yet, he supposed, all fathers are Giants in the eyes of their sons.

Talondra found Lord Mendices waiting for her, deep beneath the palace where the Sacred River flowed through a grotto lined with potted palms. The cavern’s stairwells were hewn from naked limestone, and clever aqueducts used the river’s own momentum to drive water toward adjoining wells and reservoirs. The river’s rushing thunder filled the grotto with a dull roar, and spume wafted from its worn banks like wisps of fog. The smells here were deep earth and the clean scent of fresh water. This was the priceless treasure upon which Uurz had built its foundations; while the Desert of Many Thunders had ruled the world above, this river had sustained the City of Sacred Waters for twelve hundred years. This was the Eighth Cavern, frequented only by the lowest level of palace functionaries who filled vats of river water for domestic purposes above. There would be no one of importance here to see the Warlord meet with his Queen.

Mendices lowered his bald head as Talondra trod carefully down the slick steps. His golden breastplate glittered beneath a sable cloak and, when he bowed, only his prodigious nose showed through its hood. As she reached the bottom step his glittering black eyes raised toward her own. A strange blend of duty, honor, and lust mingled in his curious expression. She motioned for her handmaidens to linger upon the lowest stair as she approached the Warlord. His fist rested on the pommel of his sheathed sword, as if to remind her that despite this secrecy he was foremost a warrior. How deep did his infatuation with her go? Would he kill his own King to have her? Did such thoughts ever run through his hairless head? Such musing mattered little; he was only another man that her beauty had enslaved. Reflecting upon this truth, she offered him a coy smile and the back of her hand for his lips.

“Majesty, what would you have me do?” Mendices said. He released her hand as if it pained him to do so. “You need only ask.”

Talondra turned her face toward the underground river. Cool air excited the skin of her naked arms. In a matter of minutes her gown would be entirely damp from the mist, yet it was not an unpleasant sensation. Sometimes she came down here to find release from Uurz’s great heat. She missed the cool breezes of Shar Dni’s river valley.

“Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer?” she asked. “Tyro is too soft-hearted for what must be done.”

Mendices nodded, his eyes falling upon the rough stone at her feet. Or perhaps he stared at her painted toes. She had come barefoot down the slick stairwell, the carven rock cold against her soles. “Must we do this thing, then? Without the King’s approval?”

She turned her eyes to him, imagined his heart beating faster as she stepped near. Her voice was calm and low. “Often a King does not know what is best for his realm,” she said. “That is what Queens are for.”

Mendices rubbed his smooth head. The golden rings on his fingers glinted in the wet gloom. He nodded. “Once you give this order there is no turning back. You must be certain!”

“I am,” she said, keeping her anger in check. Often it rose like a viper from deep within her breast to sour her demeanor with its venom. She had learned to control that poison; she had made a weapon of it. “I am certain that Khyrei has no right to exist. I am certain that Uurz and its allies will wipe it off the map. And I am certain that this tragedy must occur first. Tyro’s greatness must no longer be stymied by his brother’s weak resolve. For the Sword King to rise, the Scholar King must fall.”

“I could not agree with you more,” Mendices said. “Yet it is Tyro who will feel the bite of this pain.”

“He is a warrior,” she said. “Tyro will endure this as he has endured all other wounds.”

“Are you so sure of it?”

Talondra gritted her teeth and looked again toward the river. It ran black and deep with secrets. The current was fierce and relentless.

“When I was fifteen the Khyreins came to Shar Dni,” she said. “A horde of bloodthirsty shadows came before them. Ianthe the Claw and Gammir the Bloody led an armada of reavers across the Golden Sea. My three little sisters and I stood upon the wall with our parents and watched the Sharrian fleet sail out to meet the cloud of darkness. You know the slaughter that followed. The bloodshadows reached our gates well before the warships. They swam through the air like smoke, falling like great bats upon man, woman, and child. I will never forget the sound of my family’s screams.” She offered a sidelong glance to the Warlord. “Have you ever heard an entire city scream, Mendices?”

Mendices lowered his head again. “No, Majesty.” A raw whisper.

“We fled into the cellars, but the shadows followed us. My mother and father died as we watched, helpless. Their lives were torn away by dark, wolvish things. They stared at me with eyes like flames hungry enough to burn the world to a cinder. They were the servants of Death itself… things never meant for our world. We hid in empty wine barrels but still the creeping shadows found us. My sisters…”

Her voice betrayed her. She cleared her throat. Her eyes welled. She must not weep. It was not becoming for a Queen to weep.

“My sisters were torn from me. Sashai, Elymna, Tehroti… they were only three, five, and seven. The shadows carried them away. I heard them howling in pain as I ran. What could I do? The devils would come for me next… I had no protection to offer the little ones. The entire city was dying. I found my way into the bloodied streets, where the bodies of Sharrians lay like trampled flowers. The flagstones were red as rubies… pools of blood reflected the light of great fires. The shadows swirled, and I stood there waiting for them to take me. I had no hope left: my family was gone, and I would soon join them. Yet the shadows lingered, bloated on the feast of blood perhaps.

“Then the soldiers came with their iron-masked faces, the faces of grinning demons, and they plundered the city. You’ve been to war, Mendices. I don’t have to tell you of the cruelties they inflicted on me.

“Then the white flame arrived. Vireon the Slayer had come to liberate us. The Khyreins fled like frightened hares. Yet the Lord of Udurum had come too late. I might well have perished that day. In some ways, I did die. Yet someone found me in the street among the corpses and nursed me back to health. When my torrid fever finally passed, I awoke days later, already on the trail to New Udurum with the survivors. I did not speak for weeks, though I wept often. Many times I considered taking my own life. But I made a choice. I would make the pale ones pay for what they had done. This was my vow, and it has brought me to Uurz and delivered me to the Sword King.

“I love Tyro as I could love no other man. He is the key to my vengeance. Now is the time to turn that key. Tyro will survive this wound… as I survived all of mine.”

The Warlord’s face was pale. If the tale of her past had moved him, he did not show it. He only nodded and raised his dark hood.

“So be it,” said Mendices.

He marched up the gleaming stairwell to set their plan in motion. Talondra stared at the rushing waters, so like a flood of hungry shadows surging through the dark, penetrating the earth with its violence. Like the Sacred River itself, she would carve away all obstacles between herself and her satisfaction.

Alone now in the grotto, standing well apart from her maidens, she wept freely. The sounds of her sobs were drowned beneath the thundering river. Then she splashed river water against her face and ascended to pace the resplendent halls.

Lyrilan dined with Ramiyah on the balcony of the Western Tower. They watched the lights of the city emerge from purple twilight as the sun sank beyond the horizon, a ball of orange fire. She had brought her favorite blossoms up here from the courtyards. Their table sat surrounded by painted vases ripe with flowers, heady with the scents of tarnflower, elderleaf, jasmine, and mistblossom.

He told her about the meeting with Tyro. She shared his hopes. If the book changed Tyro’s mind about Lyrilan, about Dairon, about war itself, then all would fall into place. The strife would end and the blood would cease to spill.

“Lyrilan,” said Ramiyah, grasping his hands, “you must be prepared for the worst. Your brother may be beyond your reach.”

Lyrilan groaned, stared across the city where evening caravans were streaming through the northern gate. A parade of camels, horses, men, and goods from north, west, and south. Eight years ago there would have been Sharrians among those traders. Yet Shar Dni was only a pile of haunted ruins now. The result of war with Khyrei.

“I must reach him,” he told Ramiyah. “If I don’t, who will?”

She wrapped her arms about him and laid her head against his chest. “Only the Gods can say. Only the Gods…”

He kissed her and led her into their bedchamber. In the final glow of evening they made love. “I want sons,” he told her. “I have waited long enough.” She breathed satisfaction in his ear.

“You… will have… many sons…” she promised. She sang it to him as their bodies merged in the ancient dance of man and woman.

He did his best to ensure she kept that promise. He had been too careful for too long. Too involved with his books to start a family. He would deny his wife no longer. No matter what happened with Sword King and Scholar King, a man must have sons. This was something else he had learned while writing the book of his father’s life. Let the world be filled with the joy of children and the laughter of family. Let blood spill, let the Gods cast Uurz into ruin. Let Tyro march off to war if he must. Lyrilan would rule his family here, and it began on this night, in this room, in the arms of the woman he loved.

The winds of passion cast him headlong into dream. He slept deeply and fully. Dairon spoke to him from the lips of a marble statue. Two hearts… one kingdom. The voices of his unborn sons sang to him a distant melody. Lyrilan’s dream-self walked alone in a garden of fruiting vines, an old man full of wisdom precious as magic. He followed the sweet song of innocence, seeking its source among the green opulence. He found the shore of a river flowing bright as silver beneath the sun. Ramiyah beckoned to him from the distant bank. She was not old like him, but young. Young as she had been on this night of nights. The night he would never forget.

The cool breath of early morning wafted through the windows. The sun rose on the far side of the palace, so that shadows lingered about the western wing. Lyrilan’s eyes fluttered open in the silver gloom. A sensation of wetness came to him through the sheets. He pulled them back and discovered a world gone red.

Blood smeared his naked body, sinking into the bedding, staining it from purest white to violent crimson. The breath fell from his slack mouth as he found her lying next to him.

Ramiyah lay still. Her flesh was pale as marble but for the obscene scarlet spray on chest, arms, and shoulders.

He raised his hands. His fingers dripped a thick, congealing red.

He cradled her close to his breast and moaned. Her body was already cold as a stone.

The legionnaires found him shouting and weeping as he dragged her body about the chamber. He searched and searched, and carelessly kicked aside the bloody dagger on the carpet.

Where is it?

Where is her head?

When they carried him away, kicking and screaming, he still had not found it.