“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.”
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