“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
