Seven Princes

6

The Royal Gardens of Uurz encircled the soaring walls of the palace proper like a swathe of preserved wilderness. In the works of sages and poets they stood alongside such wonders as the Forest of Jewels in Mumbaza, the Great Earth Wall that divided the continent into Low and High Realms, and the Giant-City of New Udurum. Every known species of plant, tree, and fruit grew in Emperor Dairon’s circular courtyard, a treasury of botanical imports from across the world. Rare birds from Khyrei, Yaskatha and the Southern Isles filled the green canopies with melodious warbling; blue-furred monkeys built tiny huts in the tops of the trees; feline predators, great cats in shades of gold, alabaster, and amber, walked between the walls of sunken enclosures. A popular saying held that there were more blossoms in the Emperor’s Garden than living souls in the six kingdoms.

To walk the winding ways of the Royal Gardens was to visit aspects of every forest and glade, every lush jungle and valley, inhaling the redolence of the entire world’s foliage with every breath. The intoxicating air made women swoon and filled men’s heads with fancies, dreams, and holy visions. Yet to Prince D’zan, sitting by himself on a stone bench beneath a Yaskathan fig tree, the garden’s delights were only shadows… dim, powerless shades existing at the edge of his dulled senses.

He did not touch the plate of fruit and cheese brought by servants for his morning meal, or the cup of spiced wine from his homeland. He stared into the green depths of the garden but saw none of its gaudy birds, hanging vines, or blooming colors. The birdsong and the distant songs of minstrels were sluggish winds in his ears. He wrapped himself in his own arms. In the humid heat of this man-made paradise he sat shivering and chewing on his lip. Beside him on the bench lay the jade dagger that had taken the Stone’s life instead of his own.

The Emperor had been kind to him on the morning after the assassins struck.

“I regret that we must meet under a cloud of sorrow,” said Emperor Dairon, looking upon D’zan from his throne of opal and sandstone at the very heart of the Palace of Sacred Waters. The citadel’s name came from the underground river beneath its walls. Legends said the river was a gift from the God of Waters, the foundation on which the desert capital was buil N far iver beneat. A quarter-century ago Vod’s sorcery had turned the Old Desert into the Stormlands, but the Sacred River still flowed beneath Uurz, unchanged and eternal.

Emperor Dairon’s hands were gnarled with the calluses of a warrior but disguised by a host of sparkling rings. They lay upon the heads of eagles carved into the arms of his chair. The Princes Tyro and Lyrilan stood on either side of the throne, one a detached image of strength, the other wearing an expression of honest grief. A crowd of courtiers, advisors, and chancellors stood about the royal dais, strutting peacocks in green and yellow satin.

D’zan bowed before the ruler of Uurz. “Thank you for granting me refuge here, Lord of Waters.” He wore a tunic of green and gold, the colors of Uurz, since his Yaskathan garments were stained with blood.

Dairon grunted. “You are unnecessarily polite under the circumstances, Prince D’zan. Olthacus the Stone was a friend to this court – a friend to me – as was your father. I mourn them both deeply.”

D’zan could say nothing, so he swallowed the lump in his throat and held back tears.

“The security of this palace has not been compromised in twenty-five years,” said the Emperor, his kohl-rimmed eyes still set on D’zan. “Not since the Uduru conquered this city and put the Old Emperor to death. This is a shameful day for all of us. Know that my ministers will soon discover who aided these Khyreins. I can never repay the loss of your guardian. But I swear to you I will bring justice upon the heads of any who are implicated in his murder. I only wish I knew why the Khyreins wish you harm.”

“Khyrei is the enemy of my ancestors,” said D’zan. “I believe the assassins were sent by its Empress, who aligns herself with the usurper Elhathym. Now I have no choice but to ask your royal protection while I gather an army to reclaim my kingdom.”

Dairon frowned. “You have the protection of my house as long as you wish it. However, I cannot allow you to recruit my soldiers and citizenry for your campaign. You may contract any number of mercenaries who roam the Stormlands. They are hearty warriors who sell their sword arms to the highest bidder.”

D’zan stared at the lowest step of the dais. He fought back the anger growing in his chest, mixing with the bile of his grief.

“Thank you, Lord of Waters,” he said with forced calm.

He could not tell the Emperor that he had no money to hire an army. He could not beg for assistance in front of the entire Uurzian court. He could not speak the eloquent words that would bend Dairon’s armies to his cause. The Stone was supposed to help him win the support of Uurz. How could he do it himself? How could he possibly do it alone?

“If what you say is true,” said the Emperor, after some thought, “and Khyrei now stands allied with this sorcerer Elhathym… then the south may become a fearsome power. I will send agents to both realms to gather news. But we cannot take action against the usurper until we know the true state of southern politics, and also where Mumbaza’s loyalties lie. Do you understand, Prince D’zan?”

D’zan nodded, then looked up and met the Emperor’s eyes with his own. The glare of sunlight from Dairon’s tall crown almost blinded him. “What of the Giant-King?” he asked.

“You speak of Vod, Lord of Udurum. What of him?”

“I have heard that he once feuded with the Empress of Khyrei, that he cast down her palace before he went north to rebuild Udurum.”

Dairon smiled. “You know your history well. This is all true.”

“Then perhaps he will support my claim. Will Your Majesty grant me an escort beyond the mountains to the City of Men and Giants?”

Dairon stroked his braided beard. His eyes turned to those of his warrior-son, Tyro. The young man leaned in close to his father, and the two spoke in whispers. Then the Empreror turned to his other son, scholarly Lyrilan, and those two exchanged words.

The Emperor turned back to D’zan. “You are truly the son of Great Trimesqua to ask such a favor. I salute your courage. You will have a cohort of my finest warriors as escort to Udurum. But there is something you should know…”

D’zan stood a bit taller. There was some glimmer of hope here. “Your Majesty?”

“We have received word recently that King Vod has abdicated his throne and gone off to the Cryptic Sea. Men say he spoke of answering a curse. His wife, Queen Shaira, rules Udurum in his stead.”

D’zan blinked. “Will the Giant-King return?”

Dairon looked grim. “None can say but Vod,” he replied. “And he speaks to no one.”

D’zan felt his glimmer of hope fade and grow cold, like the dying embers of a fire. Suddenly he thought of nights on the Stormland plain, sleeping about the embers with the Stone snoring nearby, his big sword laid across his chest. His eyes welled.

“Then I will appeal to Queen Shaira,” he said.

He no longer cared that his tears flowed freely. Let the nobles of Uurz see his pain. Let it flow like their Sacred River, down his cheeks and onto the smooth marble of their palace floor.

Let them see the cruelty of the world on his face.

Dairon’s head seemed to bow under the weight of his jeweled crown. “Shaira is a great woman, Prince. She will hear your plea. And know this: if Udurum stands behind your claim, then so shall Uurz, with all its power.”

A collective gasp sounded among the crowd of courtiers and spectators. The Emperor must have been moved by D’zan’s tears. D’zan faced him, eyes gleaming with pride and shame.

“Your kindness honors the memory of my father,” said D’zan, “and my uncle.”

They gave a banquet in his honor that night, dancing girls and musicians filling the Hall of Waters, and great tables heaped with roasted fowl, barbecued pork, and braised fish. T Saisg ghe wine flowed heavily among the revelers, but D’zan ate very little. Prince Lyrilan sat beside him and asked for tales of Trimesqua’s adventures, but D’zan was too wrapped up in thoughts of the future to dwell on the past. He excused himself early and went to sleep in the new and heavily guarded chamber assigned to him. Sleep came in fits and starts. He tossed and turned and battled nightmares wrapped in black silk.

The next morning he walked into the palace grounds and lost himself in the depths of the Royal Gardens. Tomorrow would be the funeral of Olthacus, followed by another banquet to honor his memory. But today D’zan sat among the splendor of foliage wrestling with his own self-doubt.

Who was he to defy the necromancer Elhathym? A man who could call the dead up from their graves to obey his will. What other terrible powers did he possess?

D’zan was only sixteen, little more than a boy. His father had not prepared him to rule Yaskatha, let alone to assemble an army and lead it to reclaim the throne. Olthacus was the hero, the man of wisdom whose worldly influence would guide the Prince back to his people. D’zan was nothing, merely a name, and the last living specimen of a bloodline being forced into extinction. Would the Queen of Udurum help him? Would it even matter?

He considered death and weighed it against his continued living. He knew what his father would say: “If you find a thing difficult, then all the more reason to do it!” Sometimes his father’s love had been disguised as cruelty. For two years Olthacus had taught him the discipline of swordplay, but he was nowhere near ready for a real fight. He had neither the strength nor the speed a true warrior needed. He had been pampered and made weak by a life spent under the royal roof. What could he know about being a man… being a King?

He contemplated the Khyrein dagger lying next to him. There would be more of these killers stalking him. Elhathym was not the type of man to let a single threat to his rule go on living. At any moment D’zan expected a troop of walking corpses to shamble upon him, eager to tear out his life with bony claws. Death hung in the sky above him like a circling hawk, waiting for the right moment to swoop and strike. And the Stone was no longer here to shield him.

D’zan wrapped his arms about his knees and rocked himself back and forth on the stone seat. The lush vegetation was a scintillating jungle where deadly things stalked unseen. Yet instead of some deadly predator it was only Prince Lyrilan who emerged from the green shadows. The scholar wore a yellow tunic, his thin waist supporting a belt of golden leaves studded with emeralds. Green hose covered his skinny legs, and his boots of dark leather seemed a tad too large for his feet. He sat on the bench near D’zan, brushing a swathe of black curls from his eyes and crossing his legs. By his very manner, D’zan could tell the Prince was several years older than himself, though his aspect was that of a young man. Lyrilan had all the height of his brother Tyro, but none of the brawn. D’zan realized for the first time exactly how similar their faces were. They must be twins.

“Do you miss Yaskatha?” asked Lyrilan.

“Is it so obvious?”

Lyrilan looked up at the branches of the fig tree. “You choose a tree from your homeland as shade.”

D’zan shrugged.

“Do you wish to talk?” Lyrilan asked.

“What good will talking do?” said D’zan. “I have a kingdom to win back. I have no army. No sorcery. No gold. Talking will not change these things.”

Lyrilan smiled. “Oh, will it not? The trick is to talk with the right person.”

D’zan turned to meet his dark, mischievous eyes. “Can you give me these things then, Prince Lyrilan?”

Lyrilan tossed his head, his tongue emerging to moisten his lips. “I can give you something far more precious than all of these, my friend.”

D’zan stared at him, unmoved. Was the scholar truly a jester in Prince’s clothing? He was in no mood to be fooled and saw no humor in Lyrilan’s friendly smile.

“What might that be?” he asked, when he realized Lyrilan was waiting for the question.

“Wisdom,” said Lyrilan. “Knowledge.”

D’zan picked up the assassin’s dagger and held it in his fist. A sudden rage filled him. “What good is wisdom against this? What knowledge can strike men down like the poison on this blade?”

Lyrilan’s face lost its smile. “Wisdom and knowledge can do far more than that,” he said. “Without them there would exist neither the blade or the poison. Knowledge is the root of all things both earthly and spiritual. Wisdom is the understanding and application of this concept.”

D’zan threw the dagger point first into the dirt of the garden, where it stuck upright with a sound like a hiss. “I have never been fond of riddles. Speak plainly or leave me be.”

Lyrilan sighed. “I know your soul aches for what you have lost. I know you carry pain like an iron cloak about your shoulders. You may think you have lost your last friend in this world. But if you will allow me… I will be your friend.”

D’zan stared into the green depths of the garden. He did need a friend. But could he trust an Uurzian? The son of the man who would send him north to beg at the feet of the Giant-Queen?

“Why?” asked D’zan. “Why befriend me? I am nothing to you.”

Lyrilan pushed his palms together, lowered his face. “Nothing? You are the living heir of a bloodline that stretches back into the Age of Heroes. Farther even – to the Age of Serpents. You carry the currents of history in your veins, D’zan. To me you are everything I have spent my life studying. To be your friend… your ally… is to enter the great story that began with your ancestors. You have the task of a hero before you, and every hero needs a guide… an advisor. Someone to read the movements of the sun and stars, interpret the deeper meanings of everyday phenomena.”

“Are you a sorcerer, Lyrilan?”

“No.”

“Then what power have you to offer? Other than friendship.”

“Let me show you.” Lyrilan stood and motioned for him to follow.

D’zan tucked the jade dagger into his belt and plodded behind the Uurzian Prince. It took some time to find egress from the sprawling gardens, and there were strange birds, beasts, and plants to marvel at with every turn of the marble path, although D’zan paid little attention to these things.

Eventually they came to a great fountain carved from white stone: a trio of winged tigers spewing water from roaring mouths. Here the winding paths of the Royal Gardens converged, meeting the wider expanse of the Main Way, which led to the steps of the palace proper. Palace servants, noble personages, and visiting potentates meandered the vaulted passageways, their bodies wrapped in myriad hues of silk and clouds of perfume. The glitter of jewels on their fingers, necks, and arms made D’zan feel like a beggar sneaking into some place he had no business being.

Lyrilan brought him at last to a tall set of double doors set with bronze plates. These were engraved with celestial insignia, swirling glyphs, and a central sun radiating beams of jewels. The doors swung soundlessly open on oiled hinges, and the rich smell of ancient parchment filled D’zan’s nostrils. Here was the Royal Library of Uurz, a vast repository of books and scrolls in a huge circular chamber. Clear panes of glass lined the dome of the ceiling, and brilliant sunlight lit the room. Motes of dust danced in the shimmering beams.

Lyrilan walked inside, hands clasped at his back, and D’zan followed. His eyes scanned shelves twice the height of his head. Volume upon volume of leather-bound tomes, more than he had ever seen gathered in one place, lined the curving walls. A few bronze statues of legendary scribes, scholars, and heroes stood beneath the dome like burnished pillars. The floor was a collection of wooden tables, padded chairs, smaller shelves for special collections, and stores of ink and quills. D’zan spotted two bald scribes at work, painstakingly creating copies of some elder text, filling the pristine pages with ancient knowledge.

Lyrilan stopped at the very center of the chamber, where the floor tiles were arranged in the image of a great open book, its pages inscribed with holy passages. He turned to look at D’zan, whose eyes were still sweeping over the book-lined walls.

“What do you see?” Lyrilan asked.

“Books…”

“Is that all? Look closer. This is the greatest library in all the Stormlands, possibly in all the world. What do you see?”

D’zan turned his eyes from the books to look at Lyrilan, who stood now with his hands spread like a street magician about to perform a trick. Was this another riddle?

“Knowledge?” he guessed.

Lyrilan clapped his hands together. “Yes, knowledge. Here is knowledge, that’s to be sure. What else?”

D’zan sighed. He should have stayed under the fig tree. Why didn’t these Uurzians speak plainly like good Yaskathans? Ever Skatzanything here was all innuendo and court etiquette. His father had been a warrior first, a King second, and parent third. He had no time for tricky wordplay or men who did not say what they meant openly and clearly. Suddenly he remembered that his father was gone, as if he’d somehow forgotten it. His heart became a lead weight in his chest. He remembered Lyrilan asking about his father.

“History?” D’zan said.

“Indeed,” said Lyrilan. “Knowledge, history… wisdom. The thoughts of the greatest minds of all the ages. The struggles and triumphs, the failures and tragedies, of all the men who walked this earth for eons… they are all here, D’zan, on the pages of these books.”

D’zan watched one of the scribes working carefully with his trembling quill, squinted eyes focused on the patterns of ink he scrawled across the page. The man was oblivious to all else but the page upon which he worked.

“The tales of dead men,” D’zan said. “Of kingdoms fallen to dust… ages that are no more than dreams to us now.”

Lyrilan laughed. “Are they?” he said. “Let me ask you this: how else can a man communicate his hopes, his dreams, his thoughts across the eternal ages? How else can a mind reach through the veil of millennia and touch another mind with understanding? How else but through this glorious invention that we call the written word? It began on stone tablets, then scrolls of papyrus and myra, and finally it takes the form of these wonders… these books. This is the greatest magic of all magics, D’zan. This is immortality.”

“Immortality?” D’zan said. “Only the Gods are immortal.”

Lyrilan slapped him on the shoulder. “Ha! The Gods do not write books, D’zan. Men write books about the Gods! What does this tell you?”

“That Gods are not scribes.”

“The Gods write upon the face of the world itself. They have no need of books. As the Gods write our lives into the world, so we write our lives into these books. We can invent whole new worlds in these books if we wish. Some have…”

“What do you mean?”

“Men whose words and thoughts live through the ages are never truly gone from us,” Lyrilan said. “Their spirits are preserved on these pages. They are as immortal as the Gods themselves.”

“Do you suggest that writing is a form of sorcery?”

Lyrilan smiled. “A brilliant question. What is sorcery, really? Who knows? Why do sorcerers write more books than anyone? There are hundreds of books here written by those called ‘sorcerer.’ But I believe that writing – the written expression of wisdom and knowledge – is something far greater then sorcery.”

“Ah, you are a philosopher,” said D’zan. What was the point of all this nonsense? Why couldn’t the Warrior-Prince have asked to be his friend? The other brother could gather men and arms to D’zan’s cause. What could this Lyrilan hope to give him besides pretty words?

“Not exactly,” said Lyrilan. “I am a scholar. Do you know the difference?”

“No,” said D’zan.

“A philosopher thinks. A scholar thinks and writes.”

D’zan stood quiet for a moment. This was a pretty place, to be sure. But he saw little to gain from it. He needed the promise of the Uduru Queen and her Giants; he needed the pledge of Uurz’s Emperor and his legions. He needed sorcery to rival that of Elhathym.

He needed hope and he had none.

“Lyrilan,” he said, “why do you show me these things? Why distract me with such thoughts? Why ask to befriend an outcast with little chance of redemption?”

Lyrilan sat at a broad table and motioned for D’zan to join him. He called for an attendant to bring them wine and spoke some words to the man before he departed. Then he turned to D’zan with the most serious expression he had yet worn.

“You stand at the beginning of a great journey. An adventure to rival any of those in these books around us. You ride upon the tide of history… you are a legend in the making. You face an evil the likes of which you or I can scarcely comprehend, and you face it alone. Yet I see in your eyes the fire of your father, and your father’s father. Warriors. Heroes.”

The servant gave them each a cup of yellow wine. It sparkled in the sunlight. D’zan drank deeply. His head spun pleasantly.

“I know that you would give your very life to liberate Yaskatha,” said Lyrilan. “You must walk a thousand leagues, and your first step is right here before you. You will gather about you those who can aid your cause, and you will never abandon your people. I know all this about you, D’zan.”

He looked into Lyrilan’s dark eyes. A sudden rush of warmth filled his limbs. Perhaps it was only the wine.

“ That is why I want to be your friend,” said Lyrilan. “That is why I want to help you. That is why I want to write the story of your life.”

D’zan hiccupped. “My life?”

“The saga of your exile, your wandering, and your eventual return to power.”

“What if…” D’zan hesitated. “What if I should die?”

Lyrilan smiled and took a drink of his wine. “All heroes, all Kings, all Men must die eventually.”

D’zan grinned. “My father used to say it matters not when a man dies, only how he dies.”

“Your father was a wise man.”

“I accept your offer, Lyrilan,” said D’zan. “You may chronicle my life as you will. Only speak the truth – that is all I ask.”

“I can do more than that, brave Prince,” said Lyrilan. “I SLyronicle my can help you find the truth.”

“Will the truth restore me to my father’s throne?”

“A famous sage once wrote, ‘Truth will set the world aright.’ ”

“Pericles of Yaskatha,” said D’zan. “I’ve read him.”

Lyrilan nodded, smiling.

“Am I to understand that you will be coming with me to Udurum?” D’zan asked.

“Of course,” said Lyrilan. “What sort of scholar would I be if I did not?”

D’zan offered his hand, and Lyrilan squeezed it.

“I appreciate your confidence in me,” said D’zan. “It may be more than I have in myself. But I will try to give you a good story.”

“I have no doubt of that.”

Footsteps interrupted their conversation, and D’zan watched two lovely courtesans enter the library. The voluptuous girls looked entirely out of place here, their spreading gowns and glinting jewelry at odds with the rather plain decor of the place. Both smiled at Lyrilan, their mouths painted ruby, eyes lined in kohl. Their brown skins spoke of days in the sunsplashed garden, and their fragrance overpowered the reek of ancient books.

“Ah! Sweet Moryia and Juniel! Come here, my darlings,” Lyrilan called to them, raising his cup.

The girls approached the table, and Lyrilan introduced D’zan. He stood and kissed the hand of each maiden. Both women eyed him with sly grins, as a hungry man might eye a steak.

“Come, D’zan,” said Lyrilan. “Enough of our heavy talk for the day. It is time for you to experience our Uurzian hospitality.”

D’zan looked at Lyrilan, who stood with his arm around Moryia. Juniel had already taken D’zan’s hand in her own. “I’d be delighted,” he said, quaffing the last of his wine.

Lyrilan smiled as Moryia kissed his cheek. “I may be a scholar,” he said, “but I’m still a Prince.”

The girls led them into private chambers, and D’zan soon forgot all about the long road ahead and the terrible evil he was to fight.

At least for a little while.

Prince Tyro met his father on the great veranda overlooking the green and gold city. Stormclouds rolled on the horizon, lightning danced, and the smell of coming rain filled the air. A flock of ravens flew above the domes of the Grand Temple in the distance, and a thousand thousand smokes rose into the blue afternoon sky. This was always the weather in Uurz: brief periods of brilliant sunlight between thundering squalls that came three or four times a day.

Emperor Dairon sat on a cushioned divan at the veranda’s center, where he could look over his realm and see into the gray skies of the north. The Grim Mountains were barely visible along Svis wh the purple horizon, hovering like smoke at the edge of the Emperor’s vision. A pair of guards stood nearby, and servants prepared a tray of wine and fruits for Dairon’s pleasure.

Tyro’s green tunic was tied with a belt of silver and onyx. A bronze kilt left his strong legs bare in the manner of an Uurzian footsoldier. The short sword at his side had been a gift from the Emperor on Tyro’s thirteenth birthday. A single emerald set into the pommel was the only extravagance in its design. Tyro had mastered the longblade, the scimitar, the dagger, the spear, and even the war axe, but always he wore this modest blade, his first weapon.

The son stood beside his father and looked beyond the city walls into the rising storm.

“What word of these assassins?” asked Dairon.

“None,” said Tyro. “They may as well have sprung from evening mist. They left no trace entering the city or the palace.”

The Emperor frowned. “Then they were truly the Death-Bringers of Khyrei,” he said. “Ghosts of the Jungle…”

Tyro sat beside his father on the royal divan. Dairon had not touched the platter of black grapes or the sparkling wine.

“What does it mean, Father?” asked Tyro.

“It means that Khyrei and Yaskatha are allied,” said the Emperor, “and they both want Trimesqua’s son dead.”

Tyro plucked a grape from the bunch and popped it into his mouth. He savored the tartness of its taste for a quiet moment.

“Surely these are evil kingdoms,” said Tyro, “ruled by wicked powers. This Elhathym is some new terror unleashed. Ianthe the Claw we already know. Why not support Prince D’zan’s claim for the throne?”

The Emperor smiled at Tyro. “Are you so eager for war, son? You think of the glory, yes. But what of the blood… the innocent lives… the destruction, the mayhem? What of the terror and disgrace that war brings? These things always outweigh the glory. Always.”

Tyro could say nothing. His father had fought in a war; he had not. There were few among the legions who could best Tyro in the dueling pits, but that was not the same as leading men into battle. Thousands of men tramping forth to slaughter thousands more. Still… how could evil be defeated if not through battle and blood? Should they simply wait for the legions of Khyrei and Yaskatha to come marching north, bringing flame and death upon the Stormlands?

“Olthacus the Stone,” said Tyro, “was your friend.”

Dairon nodded, and the long braids of his beard shook. “As was Trimesqua…”

“You taught me that a wrong must be avenged,” said Tyro. “That justice can sometimes only be found at the end of a sword. The world is cruel and dangerous, so we cultivate strength to preserve the innocent. Must we not do that now?”

“You are young, Tyro,” said Dairon. “You understand the subtleties of combat, the S cowidrules of the blade. But you know little of diplomacy, statecraft, strategy. These are the things that matter most. It is not enough to be strong. You must be wise in your strength.”

Tyro drank his father’s untouched wine. Thunder rolled in the north. The storm moved closer, threatening the blue sky with looming shadows.

“Listen to me,” said the Emperor. “Never, never, begin a war without a strategic advantage. Preparation is everything. Alliances must be made, declarations issued. No nation can stand alone. Udurum and Shar Dni are our brother-cities. We will not fight without them.”

“Then send me to Shar Dni to make alliance with King Ammon,” said Tyro. “He has no love for the Khyreins – they raid his ships on the Golden Sea. He must be hungry for justice.”

“Perhaps,” said Dairon. “But Shar Dni does not have a quarter the military might of Uurz. They have warships, yes, but on the land their numbers are small. Ammon has already been appealing to Uurz for assistance against these pirates.”

“There you have it,” said Tyro. “An alliance is inevitable.”

Dairon turned his squinted eyes to Tyro. This was the look his father always gave him when he was about to make an obvious point that Tyro had somehow missed.

“Tyro, why do you think I am sending D’zan to Queen Shaira? Why grant him a company of legionnaires for the journey?”

Tyro thought a moment, casting his gaze across the city. In the noble quarters servants were running through gardens as the first cold drops of rain fell. In the streets beyond, tiny figures rushed for shelter.

“Because you pity him… because Trimesqua and Olthacus were your friends.”

“No, son. I do pity poor D’zan. But this is not the reason. An Emperor does not rule only with his heart, but with his mind.”

Tyro stroked the light stubble on his chin. “You send him because you believe he will gain Shaira’s sympathy.”

Dairon smiled. “Now you begin to use that head of yours.”

“If Udurum stands with us, and Shar Dni, will we be prepared for war?”

Dairon leaned back in his cushions. Black clouds had swallowed the sun, and a curtain of cold rain fell beyond the veranda roof. A slight spray of mist cooled Tyro’s skin. The city now lay in the shadow of the booming clouds. Lightning kissed the distant fields, turning black to emerald for a brief moment.

“War is a test for which no nation can ever be fully prepared,” said the Emperor. “But I have seen the Uduru on the march. I have seen the spectacle of a thousand Giants striding across the desert, heard the thunder of their feet and the clashing of their steel. They nearly brought down the walls of Uurz before you were born. As it was, they conquered the city in three days. Only Vod’s intervention saved my life and thousands more who would have been crushed into dust.”

“I’ve read the stories, Father,” said Tyro. “I know the tale of your rise to power.”

“It was Vod who made me Emperor,” said Dairon. “He had the city in the palm of his great hand, Tyro. He could have kept it, smashed it, or ruled it forever. But he gave it to me. Someday I will give it to you.”

“But Vod is gone.”

“So they say. But men have said such things before.”

“Men say the Giants are a dying race.”

“That may be… but they are long-lived. No longer do they breed, it’s true.”

Thunder roared above the palace, and Dairon rose stiffly, walking back into his chambers. Servants rushed to prepare a fresh seat for him, and Tyro followed him. He smelled the water of a scented bath, saw the steam of hot water.

Dairon placed a hand on his son’s broad shoulder.

“I know you wish to prove your manhood on the field of battle. But trust an old warrior who loves you. The Uduru are essential. We cannot face the combined might of Khyrei and Yaskatha without them. There is also the question of Mumbaza… but we’ll discuss this later.”

Tyro nodded his understanding, and Dairon embraced him, slapping his back. He turned away and servants came to remove his royal vestments.

“Let me lead the cohort, Father,” Tyro said. “Let me accompany D’zan to the Giant-City.”

The Emperor raised his gray-flecked eyebrows. “Why?”

“Because we could not protect him under this roof. We owe him.”

Dairon sighed. His bare sunken chest was bronzed by the suns of many desert treks. Tyro glanced at the familiar scars along his father’s ribs and stomach – reminders of old wounds, mementos of battles won with no small cost. Once Dairon had been a huge well-muscled man. In his old age those wounds still troubled him, but Tyro never heard him complain.

“Go then,” Dairon said. “Speak with Captain Jyfard. Keep D’zan safe… and your brother.”

“Lyrilan?” asked Tyro. “Why does Lyrilan go to Udurum?”

“Why else?” answered Dairon. “He’s writing a book.”

Tyro laughed. Dairon joined him.

Before servants led him off to the bathing chamber, Dairon’s face grew serious once again.

“Watch over them, Tyro.”

Tyro bowed before his father.

When he looked up, the opulent chamber was empty but for servants darting about the pillars and preparing the Emperor’s dinner raiment.

Tyro walked back So w Em to the veranda, letting the cool air and rain-mist wash his face. It was too long since he’d last seen the City of Men and Giants. Six years at least. He remembered the Uduru in their armor of black and violet. Their greatswords and axes. Their hammers of stone and steel, their laughter like the very thunder that shook the earth. He had seen a hundred of them at most during that trip. He tried to imagine a thousand of them marching into battle.

He smiled, watching the storm.

If there must be war, let it come, he thought. I will lead these Giants into the south, and all the glory of myth will flow in our sweat and our blood. We will crush the Usurper of Yaskatha and the Bitch of Khyrei. Lyrilan will set it all down on the pages of history .

He closed his eyes and listened to the sweet song of thunder.