Seven Kings bots-2

by John R. Fultz

  “The realm is yours.” She toasted him with a raised goblet. “And we will have our war. Death to Khyrei.”

  Tyro nodded and drank. All he need do was condemn his brother. Turn his back on the person who loved him most in the world. Enforce a lie that was a weapon and use it to kill a King. Talondra had done the messy work for him. Now he must do the inevitable and learn to live with himself.

  Yet there would be the glorious chaos of war to drown his remorse. Blood and smoke and death in which to lose the memory of this betrayal. In the smoking ruins of Khyrei he would find vindication. Or the Gods would punish him for this crime and he would die on the battlefield. Let them judge him as they saw fit. Such was the role of Gods. The role of an Emperor was to lead. The role of a warrior was to fight. Such were the ways of the world, and so would it ever be. Life was a battle and pain was the soul of it.

  Tyro called for more wine and drank until he slept.

  He welcomed the nightmares when they came.

  Three days later an anxious gathering filled the Great Hall. Lords and ladies, courtesans, chamberlains, sages, priests, stewards, philosophers, constables, prefects, and generals, all dressed in their best silk and satin. From the vantage point of Tyro’s throne, the crowd seemed sprinkled with the dust of precious gemstones. The Royal Legions no longer wore either gold or green, but had joined their colors once more: gilded bronze cuirass and helm, olive tabard and cloak, silver spears, and round shields bearing the Golden Sun of Uurz on a green field. Several of the former Green Lords were still missing, yet most had given up their cause. What hope did they have now that Lyrilan was lost to them?

  The Scholar King’s throne sat empty next to Tyro’s own. Talondra stood close at his elbow. His heralds had done well in spreading word of Lyrilan’s insane crime. They hardly needed to bother; such scandal and tragedy captured the fancy of every Uurzian. Even in the lowest of streets the common folk spoke of the Scholar King’s madness. Vigils honoring the dead Queen Ramiyah sprang up across the city. Those citizens with keen memories compared Lyrilan to Fangodrel of Udurum, the Kinslayer who murdered his own brother to feed his blood-hungry magic. This act had led to his ultimate doom, just as it must for the Scholar King.

  Talondra disguised the gleam of triumph swimming in her eyes, but Tyro saw it clearly. A silvery eel gliding in dark waters. Soon she would be the wife of an Emperor. She understood his pain, yet she did not feel it. He followed her example, dispelling emotions to the back of his mind. Today, this day of days, he wore the great crown, a thick loop of gold set with three egg-shaped emeralds above eyes and brow. Already he felt the weight of his impending reign on his head. A golden corselet and green kilt completed his royal attire. The greatsword hung at his side, and the emerald in its pommel matched perfectly the stones of his crown. He might have worn the cloak of emerald silk embroidered with a golden sun, but the day was already hot at mid-morning. He sweated uncomfortably beneath the waving fans of his attendants.

  Lyrilan had spoken no words since the morning of his loss. He lingered silent and alone in his lofty chamber, accepting no company save that of Undroth. Tyro had gone to try and speak with his brother, but he could not bring himself to enter Lyrilan’s presence. What could he say that would possibly matter? To apologize would only cement his guilt. Lyrilan might even talk him out of what he intended this day. Or he might never speak again. In order to have the strength for what he must do, Tyro chose not to face him at all. Let it be done, and let their lives move on as they must, in separate directions.

  That which is painful is best done quickly. Now was the time.

  The Sword King rose before the assembled masses. Outside, beyond the trees and hedges, past the outer wall of the palace, the roar of milling commoners was the booming of an ocean shore. Inside the Great Hall every voice fell to silence as Tyro stood. He gazed mournfully at his brother’s vacant throne. The sour-sweet scent of blooming heartflower entered the hall, wafted through the high windows on an errant breeze.

  “My brother’s throne sits empty,” Tyro said. His voice rang against the domed ceiling and echoed between glistening marble columns. “The Scholar King will not speak to me. He will not deny what you have heard and what members of this court have seen with their own eyes.

  “As I love Lyrilan, I will speak on his behalf. I will speak of Lady Ramiyah, who lies now in the tomb of our ancestors. Faced with the reality of his bloody crime, my brother’s mind and heart have deserted him. I know that he grieves for Ramiyah, even as I know he killed her. I know that he repents his pursuit of the dark arts. He is no sorcerer. I know that it was an evil voice in his ear, the tongue of a demon from some dark hell, that raised his hand against the woman he loved. So where Lyrilan will not repent for his crimes, where he will not ask for mercy, I do it for him.”

  The hall remained silent as his words faded. A lady wept softly somewhere amid the gaudy throng. Someone coughed.

  “When power lies just within a man’s grasp, yet just out of his reach… this can bring a fever to the soul, a poisoning of the spirit. So Lyrilan thought to grasp what had eluded him while I yet lived. Every man here knows that my brother was a master of quill rather than blade. He had no hope of defeating me by traditional means. To raise his hand against me in violence would have brought him nothing. So he sought this blood sorcery to bring me low, but instead found his own demise.

  “Ah… my heart is riven. Would that Lyrilan had taken up a sword and found my bare breast. Such would have been a cleaner fate for us both. Yet he chose the way of the shadow, the coward’s way. He placed his faith in powers that can never be trusted to guide the destiny of Men. And in that dark investiture, he failed. His demon did not come; his wife lies dead by his own hand, and his sanity hangs by a thread.”

  Tyro allowed another moment of calm to envelop the chamber. He glanced at Talondra in her sparkling gown of black and green. Her golden crown was a lesser version of his own.

  Yes! Her eyes spoke to him. The power is yours. Take it! Seize this golden moment!

  He turned back to the expectant court.

  “The penalty for murdering a noble… is death,” Tyro said, struggling to keep his voice even. His stomach trembled, but he hoped the golden cuirass hid it well. “The penalty for treason is also death. And it is true that my noble father, Emperor Dairon the First, did put to death more than a few warlocks in his day. There is no place in Uurz for this obscene sorcery. Three times my brother has earned his death!”

  Now the tears came and Tyro did not stop them. He paused and gathered his breath. Some in the crowd moved forward, moved by his display of grief. Many of those present had loved Lyrilan. Including Tyro.

  Forgive me, Brother.

  “Yet who but the Gods themselves has the authority to condemn a King to death? I… I, who love my brother despite his madness and his treachery… I will not consign him to die. I have not the h…” He paused. “The heart for it.”

  Somewhere in the hall a woman cried out. The sounds of sobbing grew louder.

  “So I declare on this day, before the High Court of Uurz, that my brother Lyrilan, Son of Dairon… be exiled. The term of this banishment will be the remainder of his years. So do I give my poor brother life in place of death. Let him take what retainers he wishes to nurse his shattered mind back to health, and enough gold to secure a princely domain in some distant land. Let him walk no more in the City of Sacred Waters or in the Stormlands that serve it.

  “Let this decree be inscribed in the Books of Law. Let it be set down in our histories.”

  The applause began as a smattering then grew to a wave of noise. Nodding heads and approving voices yammered to fill the upper air of the hall like hot smoke.

  Tyro inhaled the perfumed sweat of his audience and prepared himself for the final stroke. The battle was almost won.

  A raised hand silenced the crowd.

  “I, Tyro, Son of Dairon, proclaim myself on this day sole Emperor of Uurz, Sovereign of the Stormlands, Lo
rd of the Sacred River. Let all who are loyal kneel before me in the presence of the Gods. I go now to their house, to receive the holy blessings.”

  Every man and woman in the hall kneeled then, even the soldiers stationed against column and wall. The moment was pristine and as pure as a drop from the holy river. Even Talondra bowed her head in salute to her husband. Her Emperor. He took her hand and bade her stand. Now she spoke aloud, voice bright with victory.

  “Hail the Emperor!”

  “Hail the Emperor!” The crowd echoed her words, their common voice ringing from the windows into the courtyards. It reached the dusty streets where the masses waited to hear the news.

  Soldiers lifted Tyro in his chair and carried him through the hall, out through the courtyard where the spilled blood and maimed bodies of the skirmish had been removed. They carried him into the teeming streets toward the Grand Temple. There he would take the Emperor’s Oath and make his conquest complete.

  He wept as if humbled. Uurz cheered and howled and praised his name.

  “Look! The Emperor weeps for his poor brother!” someone yelled from a garden wall.

  Mistaking the source of his sorrow, they only loved him more.

  In their eyes he was the merciful brother, not the mad one.

  All the way to the golden walls of the temple towers they shouted his name and proclaimed his worthiness. Talondra followed atop a palanquin of cushions and silks borne on the backs of brawny servants.

  “Hail the Empress!” someone called.

  Tyro lowered his face into his hands.

  Forgive me, Father.

  He vowed silently to finish reading Lyrilan’s book. Perhaps one day he would see Lyrilan again and tell him how much the gift had meant to him. Or perhaps the Gods would intervene and smite him in the coming war. He might die before ever seeing his brother again. This was, in fact, the most likely outcome of today’s events. The world was harsh and the ways of Men were cruel.

  Either way, the path to glory lay open before him.

  Emperor of Uurz. Conqueror of Khyrei.

  All for the cost of a brother’s love.

  Eventually Lyrilan gave in to the demands of Undroth and took a little water.

  A few bites of food. Tasteless. Like mud on the tongue.

  He lay on the couch of his sumptuous prison chamber and twisted his hands together. Through the single window he watched western Uurz glimmering in the sunlight, a toy city of golden domes and spires. Somewhere below lay the gardens she had loved. He had waited too long. He should have given her children their first year together. His damn books took him away from her too many times. They even took him away from his throne when he had it.

  He said nothing as Undroth explained to him the plot that had claimed Ramiyah’s life. She had been used like a game piece, a speck of quartz to exploit and throw away. His brother was a murderer and a liar. Yet he could not believe Tyro did the murdering himself. Killing any woman was beneath the Sword King.

  Yet it must have been done with Tyro’s approval. How could it not be?

  Talondra. She was the soul of it. Now Tyro called him a mad sorcerer, a fiend who would murder what he most loved in a quest for unholy power. Power! As if that had ever mattered to Lyrilan. The power of the written word was his only magic. Now words had failed him utterly. The book of Dairon’s life was worthless in his brother’s eyes.

  “… has declared himself Emperor and even now takes his oath in the Grand Temple.” Undroth droned on in a soft but rugged voice while Lyrilan tugged at the frayed hem of his robe. They had dressed him in dark green, but it seemed the color of dried blood. He had refused to bathe since servants had scoured the blood from his senseless body three days ago. The smell of his own sour sweat reminded him of the reality that lay beneath the surface of all things. Underneath the stink of his living body lay a reeking, rotting corpse waiting to be born.

  So does all the world seem now to rot and decay, he mused. But he did not speak such thoughts aloud, or write them down.

  Worse than the pain of losing Ramiyah was the agony of guilt. He could have abdicated and given Tyro what he wanted. Yet Lyrilan had refused to give up a throne that he held less worthy than a roomful of parchment and ink. That stubborn refusal had led to his wife’s death.

  He contemplated leaping from the window. His prison chamber was still high enough in the western tower that the fall would certainly kill him. Whenever Undroth caught him staring at the window like that, the bearded lord placed himself between it and Lyrilan. Very patient, like a father, Undroth attended him always. Was there evil in him as well, lurking beneath the patient words and kindly visage of his uncle?

  “Do you hear me, Majesty?” Undroth asked.

  Lyrilan turned his eyes away from the mosaic stones of the ceiling. Old Volomses had entered the room unnoticed. He stood behind Undroth with a trio of shuffling attendants bearing coffers and scrolls. Lyrilan stared at them, the muscles in his face and jaw gone slack.

  “You must leave the Stormlands,” said Undroth. The words sank slowly into Lyrilan’s consciousness, as if he lay underwater. “Your exile begins tomorrow. Volomses and I are going with you. I have a few loyal soldiers who will ride with us. We will see to your portage and your funds, but we must move quickly. Is there anything you desire to take with you?”

  Lyrilan cast his gaze about the chamber. What mattered this opulent shell, this palace, this city, this Great Assemblage of Lies? The only thing he wanted in this place was Ramiyah. His eyes burned. On a table across the room lay a stack of six dusty tomes. The Books of Imvek the Silent. Somehow Volomses had managed to smuggle them in here during the investigation.

  Lyrilan raised a bony arm and pointed to the books.

  Sorcery. It lay on those pages.

  For the first time since the murder, Lyrilan spoke. His voice was a hollow rasping sound. His index finger trembled.

  “Bring those,” he said.

  Volomses bowed low and packed the six books into a small trunk.

  Undroth and Volomses shared a hopeful look. They seemed to like the fact that he was now speaking after so much silence.

  “Yaskatha,” Lyrilan muttered.

  “Pardon, Majesty?” said Undroth, drawing nearer to him.

  “We will go… to Yaskatha.”

  “As you wish, My King,” said Undroth. King D’zan, a trusted friend, had once lost his throne. He would understand Lyrilan’s plight. And there was Sharadza, Daughter of Vod, who took D’zan as her husband. She was a well-known sorceress.

  “Yaskatha,” he said again, nodding only to himself.

  The two lords did not hear him this time. There was too much scuffling and babbling in the room. The effort to pack a King’s entire life into trunk, coffer, and bag had begun.

  Lyrilan stared out the window at the jubilant crowds along the tiny streets. They shouted Tyro’s name. Another mighty celebration had overtaken the City of Wine and Song. Such parades were not uncommon, but it was not often that the coronation of a new Emperor was their cause.

  The green-gold city sighed and moaned beneath him like a great ignorant beast.

  He contemplated once more the idea of throwing himself out the window. Letting his bones shatter on the white marble, his flesh burst like a dropped gourd, his blood fountain up to enlighten the festivities.

  No. There were better things to do with flesh and blood.

  “Yaskatha…” he mumbled, sitting still amid the flurry of activity.

  He breathed and blinked and nodded. He stared at the gray mineral of the floor.

  He bit his lip until a drop of red fell from his chin.

  “Yaskatha…”

  11

  Mountain of Ghosts

  The White Mountains did not exist on any map made by the hands of Men. Few, if any, had explored the colossal forest known as Uduria, the untamed realm known as the Giantlands. Fewer still survived the northward trek to view the frozen peaks hemming the northern lip of the continent. Here in the I
celands, on frosted plateau and glacial mountainsides, the blue-skinned Udvorg hunted the great moose and the shaggy mammoth.

  King Angrid the Long-Arm was Lord of the Icelands and all the Giant clans north of Uduria. Twice Vireon had walked the eternal snows and entered the vast palace of ice and rock where the Ice King held his court. Yet now, standing once more in the shadow of the icebound peaks, he did not seek the Udvorg King or his counsel. He ran instead up the slopes of frozen hills into the face of a driving storm. He followed the spark of white flame that lingered deep in his heart.

  Dahrima the Axe and twenty sisters of the Uduri trailed him, their purple cloaks and black armor sheathed in patches of blue-green ice and pristine frost. Neither Vireon nor his followers felt the bite of the cold, not in the way a human would suffer. They had run for days on end, stopping every third night to rest beneath a frozen moon. They ignored the signs of wild herds passing through the great forest, for this was no time to hunt simple meat. They hunted a Queen and a Princess, and for Vireon nothing else existed in this world. Least of all the driving snow, the smothering winds, or the whelming ice.

  At first he went alone into the wild, following in the wake of the white flame. Only the fastest and hardiest Uduri ran after him, as he knew they would. Each day his long strides ate up the leagues of ground between the titanic trees, and each evening as he rested the Uduri caught up to him. After three such evenings he stopped ordering them to turn back. It was no use. Dahrima was as headstrong as any Uduru; her sister-cousins would follow her into death and beyond. So he brooded atop a moonlit boulder while they roasted a freshly killed elk to feed him. Otherwise he would not have eaten at all.

  Alua was not herself… the child that was not a child had somehow conquered her mind. It must have been easy for the sorceress to twist a mother’s love into doting slavery. It was Alua’s magic that carried them into the northern sky, yet it was Maelthyn who demanded it. How could he have not seen it sooner? The long trance… Alua’s crying out… her casual dismissal of the problem… her sudden sleep. Yet how could a father ever dare to think that his daughter was not his offspring at all, but a vessel for something ancient and wicked? Was there any of Maelthyn left in the tiny body he had cradled and protected for seven years? Or was there only Ianthe the Claw now? And, if so, what did that mean for his family?