Lyrilan could see little of the city from so far out, but the wharves at the foot of the great cliffs were full of ships from every nation except Khyrei. The Mumbazan navy, matchless in all the world, comprised hundreds of white galleons built in the likeness of swan and seabird. They gleamed bright as dreams upon the dark waters. On the western horizon stood a misty island where even more Mumbuzan swanships were known to be stationed. Lyrilan could barely see its dim outline across the purple main.
The Sunrider was halted by a swanship so Captain S’dyr could display his merchant papers.
“We might stop here, Majesty,” suggested Undroth, staring at the white cliffs. The old campaigner had exchanged his bronze corselet for a loose robe of green and gold silk. The longblade that never left his sight hung now upon his back like a lonely wing. “We’ll find respite from these waves, along with fresh food… and that famous Mumbazan wine.”
“No,” said Lyrilan, gazing beyond the cliffs at the pearly towers. “Eight more days brings us to Yaskatha. I know that D’zan will aid me. The same cannot be said of Undutu-the Lord of Mumbaza will remain aloof. Who can say where he sides with Tyro’s war? No, I’ll endure the discomfort of sea travel a few more days for the luxuries to be found in Yaskatha.”
“A wise choice, My Lord,” said Volomses. “After all, it was your father who provided young D’zan refuge when the Usurper stole his throne. He cannot now refuse you sanctuary under such considerations.”
“He will not refuse,” said Lyrilan. “He is my friend.”
The sage nodded, and Undroth let his men know there would be no shore leave on that day.
The Third Book of Imvek was far more dense and less comprehensible than the second. Lyrilan had barely cracked the first chapter’s secrets when the call came from the upper deck. He set the tome aside and went up to stand on the prow. Bright Yaskatha came into view across the sun-speckled waves.
Volomses and Undroth stood beside him as the ship glided into the great port. Sails of every color and make passed them by on either side. At the docks a cohort of D’zan’s elite guard awaited them; word of a lord’s arrival had been sent from Murala by a trained Yaskathan bird. The Yaskathan soldiers stood at attention in silver mail and crimson tabard, pennoned spears glinting like the ocean.
“King D’zan sends an honor guard to receive you,” said Undroth. “This is a good sign.”
Undroth and his men unloaded their fifteen Uurzian mounts from the hold, saddling the horses and dressing them in jeweled caparisons packed for this moment. The time for keeping a low profile was done. Now the folk of Yaskatha and their King must know that a Lord of Uurz rode among them. Undroth settled with the captain, and Lyrilan’s band of exiles rode their steeds down the plank onto level ground. There the captain of the escort greeted them with official words and bows. Lyrilan stared at the bright city and its soaring palace.
They rode through the Seaward Gate into the bustling streets. Half of the mounted escort went before them, while the other half trailed close behind, riding beneath the Sword and Tree banner. Undroth flew a lesser banner, the Golden Sun of Uurz, from the seat of his own steed.
The citizens of Yaskatha were a plain but happy lot. Their tan skins and gleaming hair fascinated the quiet Lyrilan. Now the crowds of merchants, laborers, harvesters, and nobles divided in the path of the Uurzians. He admired the fine horses that thrived here; every Yaskathan learned to ride at an early age. Oxen and horned goats pulled wagons and carts through the lanes. Public wells stood open in carefully tended grottoes thick with leaf and blossom. The music of minstrels and poets fell from the windows of taverns and alehouses. Children ran in laughing gangs about the streets, flitting between column and arch, trying to catch a glimpse of the Scholar King as he passed.
Many streets were lined with trees whose green foliage neither turned nor fell. There was no winter in this part of the world, or at least nothing compared to the winters of Uurz and Udurum. Here there was only the Hot Season and the Rainy Season. The heat was mitigated by the breezes of the ocean; Lyrilan found it far more pleasant than parched Uurz. Aqueducts carried fresh water throughout the city, and public baths were not uncommon.
The Uurzians and their escort passed through a noisy bazaar where every manner of bright bird, sturdy horse, and fresh-caught fish was on display. In the chaos of shouting commerce Lyrilan and his train were practically ignored. The green hill of the palace lay directly ahead. The riders wound unhurriedly up a spiral hill-path, passing beneath the boughs of a hundred orchards before they reached the outer gates of the palace.
The aroma of the blossoming orchards was overpowering. It filled Lyrilan’s nostrils with delight and made his head spin. Birdsong wafted from the high branches of trees. He wished Ramiyah could have seen once more the beauty of her homeland before she died. His eyes welled; he fought against the tears.
The time for weeping was done.
He turned his burning gaze back to the silver gates as they swung open.
D’zan received him with opulence and ceremony. The great hall of his palace was lined with courtiers and courtesans, a multitude of bejeweled individuals in all the garish colors one expected from southern nobility. A cohort of soldiers stood at attention about the hall, where musicians, dancers, and jugglers awaited a chance to display their skills. A great table sat before the high throne, and servants rushed to cover it with steaming meats, golden breads, heaping platters of grapes, and diced fruits. The fine goblets and platters along the board shone like some lost treasure hoard unearthed for public display.
The walls to east and west were open colonnades coiled with hanging grape vines and blossoms. The sea air found its own course through the great hall, making the flames of braziers and torches dance as if to invisible melodies.
The King of Yaskatha left his throne to meet Lyrilan at the entrance of the hall, a sign of the great warmth shared between them. D’zan looked much the same as he had four years ago. A few new lines on his boyish face spoke of worry. But when he smiled his teeth flashed in the sun. He wore his hair longer now, a blond mane falling past his shoulders. The crown on his brow was jeweled platinum, and his golden armlets were set with fine diamonds. He took Lyrilan in a laughing embrace.
“Lyrilan, Son of Dairon!” D’zan squeezed him fiercely. By the power of those limbs, Lyrilan knew that his friend had not abandoned the sword. D’zan had the arms of a warrior now, and it was Tyro who had set him on that path eight years ago. “You look healthy! Come and see the banquet I’ve set for your company.” The King of Yaskatha turned to shake the hand of Undroth, bowed low to Volomses, and saluted the twelve Uurzian soldiers as one.
All the eyes of the Yaskathan court fell upon the Uurzians as they gathered about the table, the faint stink of fishy brine lingering on their cloaks and boots. The musicians struck up a lively tune on fife, lyre, pipe, and drum. Dancers in colored veils whirled between the great table and the two lesser ones set in either wing of the hall. D’zan’s golden throne glimmered upon a dais before the great Sword and Tree banner, alongside a lesser chair meant for his Queen. Lyrilan had caught word of Sharadza’s leaving, and of D’zan taking a second wife already with child. He admired the tall beauty at the head of the table who rose to take the King’s hand. This must be Sharadza’s rival, or her replacement.
“Sit!” called D’zan. “My table is yours, Lyrilan. Eat and drink and wash the weight of the sea from your backs. Later we will speak of weighty matters, but now we celebrate the reunion of old friends.” He paused as his lady stood and beamed a smile at his guests. “Cymetha, Second Wife of the Throne, I present to you Lyrilan, Scholar King of Uurz. Cymetha bears my first child, whom the Sea Priests tell me will be a strong boy.”
“Congratulations, Great King,” said Lyrilan. He noticed now the round belly of Cymetha, heretofore hidden behind her gown of spun gold and indigo. “I am honored to be received in your gracious manner, as I am undeserving of such splendor.”
“You always were
too modest,” said D’zan, taking his seat next to Cymetha. The Uurzians followed his lead, placing themselves about the table nearest to the monarch. The remaining seats soon filled with advisors, generals, and courtiers.
Lyrilan found it easy to ignore them all. He sat at the corner, nearest of all to D’zan save Cymetha. Volomses and Undroth sat at his left elbow. The music swelled, and the smells of braised meats made his stomach growl. Along the table sat a feast to sing about in legends, a board fit for heroes. A servant poured dark wine into his goblet.
D’zan lifted his own chalice and toasted the new arrivals. “To Friendship! A power greater than all save Love itself.”
The tables were full now, and all those present drank to the King’s words. The wine was sharp, yet sweet and potent. Lyrilan’s head swam.
“Eat! Drink! Your presence does my house honor,” called D’zan. “You have many admirers among this court. Most of my courtiers have read The Perilous Quest.” He said nothing of Ramiyah or her death. The last time Lyrilan had come here, he left with her by his side. D’zan must have known she was dead, yet he would not burden his friend with questions, or magnify Lyrilan’s sorrow with pity.
Lyrilan avoided giving a response by stuffing his mouth full of roast pork. A floodgate of hunger opened, and he dined like a warrior fresh from the battlefield. He ate until his stomach felt as full and round as Cymetha’s. The Yaskathans engaged in polite conversation, at times prodding Undroth and Volomses to join in their dialogues. Yet D’zan was kind enough to let Lyrilan fill his belly before drawing him into deep conversation.
After the feast the two Kings retired to a private terrace overlooking the western half of the city, where the harbor played host to a forest of varicolored sails. Volomses and Undroth were assigned to quarters in the palace proper, and Lyrilan had charged them to stow his possessions and secure the rooms. His discussion with D’zan could wait no longer.
They sat in deep chairs, staring past a viny balustrade at the Cryptic Sea. The last rays of sunlight burned crimson on the far horizon. It reminded Lyrilan of Ramiyah’s blood spattered across white sheets. He put the image from his mind as an attendant filled the Kings’ cups and left them to their peace. A guard in silver mail and crimson cape stood near the terrace’s edge.
“Ah, my friend, it is good to see you again,” said D’zan, surveying his crowded harbor.
“It has been too long,” said Lyrilan. “Dare I ask about Sharadza?”
D’zan frowned and sighed. “Sharadza comes and goes as she pleases. Much like the wind.” A faraway look came across his face. This was obviously a subject upon which he did not intend to dwell for long.
Lyrilan let silence overtake them both. Then he asked: “So you know everything?”
D’zan looked at him. “Only that your brother denounced you, accused you of murdering your wife, and banished you for life.”
Lyrilan laughed without humor. “Then you know almost everything.”
“Pigeons,” said D’zan. “The only birds privileged to serve Kings and wise enough to do it well.” His eyes were deep green, the same color they had been ever since he defeated Elhathym the Usurper and took back his kingdom. Some sorcery unleashed by the Tyrant had resulted in the change of eye color, but D’zan never spoke to anyone about it. Perhaps the truth of it was best left unsaid, since everything else about D’zan seemed unchanged by his struggle.
The Yaskathan King placed a hand on Lyrilan’s shoulder. “I grieve for Ramiyah…”
“Then you do not believe…” Lyrilan could not finish the question.
“Believe what? Tyro’s lies about you meddling with sorcery?” D’zan exhaled. “I know you, Lyrilan. How could I believe such nonsense?”
A pang of guilt writhed in Lyrilan’s stomach. He nodded.
He told D’zan of the book he had written to chronicle Dairon’s life, how he had gifted it to his brother, and how it had made no difference at all. He spoke of Ramiyah, how deeply he had loved her, and his hopes for a child, a decision he had made far too late. He spoke of Tyro’s wicked wife, Talondra, and the schemes of Mendices. He spoke of treachery, lies, and the lust for power. He might never have spoken with such candor and rarely so vividly, but the Yaskathan wine had loosened his tongue. D’zan listened as attentively as a patient priest.
“These political games are the most deadly of all,” D’zan mused. “I feared this would happen when Dairon appointed you the Twin Kings of Uurz.”
“I am a man without a home,” said Lyrilan. He accepted that fact for the first time even as he said it aloud.
“No, Brother,” said D’zan. “As long as I am King here, you will always have a home.”
Lyrilan grinned, something he owed entirely to the wine. “You have my gratitude… Brother.”
“Is this some jest of the Four Gods?” said D’zan. “You stand now in the straits where I stood eight years ago.”
“Then you know what lies in my heart,” said Lyrilan.
D’zan breathed deeply of the cool evening air. “I know you dream of revenge. Of taking back your title and your throne. What else would a King dream but these things?”
“It is…” said Lyrilan, “a heavy weight to bear.”
“Then let me lighten your burden a bit,” said D’zan. “I have struck a bargain with your brother.”
Lyrilan stood and grabbed the banister, his fists crushing the green leaves that sprouted there. “You will join his mad war?”
D’zan stood beside him. “ ‘All war is madness.’ ” He quoted Therokles the Sharrian, one of Lyrilan’s favorite philosophers. “Yes, I’ve agreed to join Tyro… as have the Kings of Mumbaza and Udurum. There is even talk of some Giant-King from the Frozen North, a fierce ally of Vireon’s. The time has come for Khyrei to pay for its many crimes.”
Lyrilan slumped back into his chair. Somewhere below, in the gardens lined with fountains and statues, a minstrel strummed upon a lyre and sang a song of lost beauty.
“You, who claim friendship with me, have allied with my sworn enemy.”
“With your brother,” D’zan corrected him. “Remember that, Lyrilan, no matter what has happened. You and Tyro share the same blood. Dairon’s blood.”
“No longer,” said Lyrilan, turning away. He watched the moonlight sparkling on the dark ocean. “ You are more my brother than him who betrayed me. You resisted this war of vengeance for many years-why give in now? Is it the voices of your royal peers that sway you? Do you forget the suffering that war brings? You are well read, wise in learning. You know this path is treacherous, built on the suffering of men, women, and children.”
“Listen to me,” said D’zan. “I know you speak from a wounded heart. I know you believe in peace, as I do. I also believe that you would have me change course now simply to thwart your brother. But you have not heard the core of my reason.
“You ask why I join this Alliance of Five Nations, why I am willing to send my navy against the black reavers of Khyrei. Why I am willing to suffer. My covenant with Tyro was sealed by his agreement to specific terms. First, he has recanted your lifetime exile. He allows your return to the Stormlands after a period of five years. Second, you shall be restored the title Prince of Uurz. Third, you will rule as Lord of Murala for the rest of your days, and may return to visit the City of Sacred Waters as often as you like.”
Lyrilan sat speechless on the terrace. The wind ruffled the tapestries at his back.
“You would do this… for me?” he asked. “You would condemn hundreds, likely thousands, of your people to death… simply to restore a portion of my lost dignity?”
“And to destroy Khyrei once and for all,” said D’zan.
Lyrilan stared into his friend’s emerald eyes. They seemed colder now. Less human.
“How could you make such an accord?”
“How could I not?” asked D’zan.
“I… I don’t know what to say,” Lyrilan whispered.
“Then say nothing. Only drink more of this
wine with me.” D’zan reached for the flask and refilled their cups himself. “Even now the northern Kings march toward the Eastern Marshes, where Khyrei’s Border Legions no doubt stand ready to meet them.”
“Will you march, then?” asked Lyrilan. A strange mixture of drunkenness, remorse, and gratitude swelled in his chest.
“No, I will sail” said D’zan. “Yaskatha and Mumbaza will join our navies and enter the Golden Sea. Our combined forces will assault the black city from the east, while the legions of Tyro and Vireon converge upon it from the west. Vireon has stirred the Ice Giants to wrath. They march alongside the Men of Udurum. The Giants are finally on our side. Khyrei is doomed.”
Lyrilan sighed. Nothing was ever so simple. “There is nothing I can do to change your mind about this? To keep Yaskatha from the conflict?”
“Nothing,” said D’zan. “And if you did, you would be stuck here in Yaskatha for the rest of your life. I know my hospitality is rich, yet I wager you would like to go home someday, eh?”
Lyrilan considered the question. Five years. Would it be long enough? D’zan’s work on his behalf would bring him close to Tyro. Far easier to find vengeance when you are close to your enemy.
“Yes,” he said, distantly. Home. The word rang like thunder between his ears.
“Look on the brighter side of the coin,” said D’zan. The King of Yaskatha leaned in close and lowered his voice. His sea-green eyes stared deep into Lyrilan’s own. “In the red fury of war, Tyro might easily fall. And if such a tragedy was to occur… it would put you back on the throne of Uurz.”
Lyrilan rubbed his eyes. The world was moving on, as it always did, regardless of what he wished. It was so much easier to chronicle the events of history than to live them. Simple scribes need not fret over the matters that troubled Kings.
Kings could not be scribes.
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