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?”
