After the trek to and from the chamber of the Godstone a great weariness fell upon Tong. He stumbled back through the mushroom wood toward the glittering city-column. He sought only the soft bed of moss where he would lay himself down to sleep.
“Your wounds have healed, but your body is still weak,” said Iardu. “You have not worked the fields in weeks. The daily journey to the Godstone will do you good in more ways than one.”
Tong drank a bowl of water and fell asleep on the moss. He dreamed of faraway lands that he had never seen. Shining towers of alabaster and gold rose from walled cities on plain, coast, and cliff. They had names, these bastions of human civilization, yet he did not know them. Like a soaring hawk, his vision turned back to Khyrei. A blot of darkness where the crimson jungle met the Golden Sea. He looked upon the green fields where his people lived and worked, he floated low above the endless rows of grape, bean, wheat, and corn.
Slaves worked the fields with all the desperate intensity he remembered, but when he sank lower he saw they were not human. Thousands of horned Sydathians worked the harvest, filling baskets with green stalks, shucking corn, picking grapes. Demons in ebony masks whipped and smote them to greater efforts.
He woke from the dream parched and with aching muscles. A fresh draft of water brought him walking into the orange gloom of the cavern. The dancing firelight here never altered: there was no night or day, so there was no way to know how long he’d slept. Only the hunger in his belly told him it had been a long time.
Now came the time of the Godstone again. He felt it growing in his gut, even before the first of the Sydathians lined up and marched into the fungus woods. It had awakened him.
He almost took a step, but Iardu’s voice halted him.
“Tong,” said the wizard. He stood not far away, wrapped in a cloak of black feathers. “I must leave for a while. I will return soon. Remember the Godstone.”
Tong raised his hand in a gesture of farewell. He did not look behind when the sound of beating wings filled the air then faded into silence. He walked toward the forest and the hidden fissure that led deep into the bowels of the earth. He walked lightly, feeling that he now lived truly in the realm of the Earth God. The entity his people venerated had saved him from the Deathlands long enough to allow him this gift. The secrets of the earth itself were opening to him. He did not fear the eyeless ones, or dread spending his time with them. He moved forward in sublime serenity with his thousands of new brothers and sisters.
The dream had opened a gate of wisdom in his heart. These Sydathians were as much his people as were the slaves toiling and dying in Khyrei, as were the citizens of all those cities the dream had shown him. He did not need to know their names, their customs, or their languages. He needed only to know of their presence.
By virtue of a common existence, all living things were of the same family, united behind the masks of shallow differences.
He smiled into the dark as he descended toward the chamber of the Godstone.
The Sydathians, grotesque and beautiful, crowded about him.
This Great Truth, he mused. I will carry it to the world above.
These, my brothers, will help me spread it.
By spear and blade and fang and claw, we will spread this wisdom.
This freedom.
10
Emperor of Uurz
The Chamber of Orchids stood adjacent to the gardens of the eastern courtyard. Six pillars of lapis lazuli sparkled about a pool of turquoise water, replenished daily from the depths of the Sacred River. Servants heated the bath with hot stones baked in sacred fires. They seasoned the water with fragrant petals, costly oils, and secret spices known to invigorate the skin. The chamber was open only to the Queen and her immediate family; its attendants were seventeen lovely girls plucked from the corners of the known world.
Yaskathan maidens with golden curls, dusky daughters of Mumbaza, almond-eyed beauties from the Jade Isles, all hand-picked to serve the Queen in her most intimate of rituals. When Talondra wedded Tyro she had insisted that a majority of Sharrians be assigned to the maintenance of her bath. As in nearly every instance, Tyro acceded to her wishes.
The twelve dark-haired Sharrian girls Talondra honored with this duty had lost their families to the Khyrein invaders eight years ago. She saved them all from a mean existence on the streets of Uurz. Talondra also made sure that any dark-eyed Khyrein girls were suitably discharged. Her hatred of the Pale Race was legendary in the green-gold city. No one in Uurz could deny her right to this prejudice; the Khyreins had destroyed her family and her nation. Here in the inner sanctum of her privacy she would allow none of that race. The rumors that she had put several Khyrein girls to death were true.
Early stars blinked to life beyond the lattice of orchid vines that served as the chamber’s eastern wall. The evening sky glimmered violet above towers limned in twilight. The day’s heat had worn away and a pleasant breeze entered the bath chamber through the nearby gardens. It rustled the white orchid blooms in such a way that they seemed a hundred bobbing heads emitting vanilla breath into the steam.
Talondra lay at ease, floating atop the hot water. Her black hair spread across its surface and mingled with the fragrant petals. Barefoot girls in brief togas came and went silently, replacing hot stones as needed and perfecting the blend of botanicals. She called them forth to scrub her body and hair with delicate soaps. When that was done, she lay back once more and admired the watery light playing across the polished ceiling. A hearth and twin torches glowed brightly beside the pool. The last rays of daylight were lost beyond the wall of orchids.
The eastern doors flew open to crash against the wall. Maidens yipped and scattered from Tyro’s path as he stalked across the chamber, his long hair a disheveled sticky mess. Dripping scarlet smeared the golden lion’s head on his breastplate; his face was hot with sweat and rage. The gilded bracers on his forearms were nicked and scarred, and a dozen minor lacerations scored his muscled arms like red welts. His sword was missing from its scabbard, but a silver dagger hung still at his broad belt.
“What have you done?” he seethed. He kneeled at the pool’s edge, spilling dark drops of gore into the sweet water. His breathing was loud. His fists clenched and unclenched and clenched again. He supposed there was murder gleaming in his eyes. Yet there was no mirror in the Chamber of Orchids, so he could not see it for himself.
Let her see it. Let her know the depth of my anger.
She must have plotted this for months.
Talondra raised herself to a standing position in the middle of the waist-deep pool. She frowned at the bloody sight of him, but more at his tainting of the bathwater. She pulled her thick black tresses behind her head. Beads of water like tiny diamonds gleamed on her smooth brown skin, dripped from the buds of her breasts.
Even in the depths of his red fury he wanted her.
Conniving lioness bitch.
“Tell me!” he bellowed. “And who it was that helped you.”
Talondra smiled fearlessly. “Calm yourself, My Lord,” she said, making her way toward the far steps. Two trembling girls held up a white robe for her shoulders. “You look a fright.”
“Do not play with me, woman,” he said. “Time for your confession.”
The robe hung loose about her slim figure now, and she did not bother to close it. He forced his eyes away from the brazen display of her womanhood as she turned to face him.
“Would you treat your wife as a common criminal?” she asked. “Interrogate me with whips and hot irons? A confession implies a crime committed. I have done a great service for you, Tyro. And for the realm.”
He lunged forward and took her jaw between his bloodstained fingers and thumb. He pulled her face near to his own, and she resisted. His other hand grabbed her arm, tender as a twig in his grip. Her green eyes blazed at him. He gritted his teeth.
“I should kill you,” he said.
“Then kill me,” she whispered. Her eyes closed and she off
ered him her slim neck to break. “It is my honor to die by the hands of an Emperor.”
He breathed hotly into her face. A lovely mask of flesh sculpted by the clever hands of the Gods themselves. He squeezed until she whimpered. He kissed her hard on the lips, then tore the robe from her body. A single hand pushed her splashing into the pool, and he tore off the buckles of his breastplate, removed the soiled tunic, the plaited bronze girdle and sandals. Then he slid into the bath and took her in his arms. Servant girls crouched behind the blue pillars as the Emperor and his Queen made love in the steaming water. Afterwards the couple lay side by side with their heads against the lip of the pool.
The blood and sweat and rage was gone from Tyro’s body, but a red stain lay upon his conscience.
Talondra kissed his broad chest and lifted her eyes to regard his face.
“The Stormlands are yours now,” she said. “No more Scholar King to stand in your way. No more fractured court. No more obstacles to our just war.”
“He is my brother,” said Tyro, as if she had never recognized this fact. “And she belonged to him. I think he even loved her.” His eyes grew moist. Perhaps it was only the steam.
“She was a Yaskathan harlot,” said Talondra. “There are twenty thousand more exactly like her.”
“Who did it?” he asked.
She said nothing. He looked away toward the pale orchids. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” “As you wish.” She kissed his lips.
“They found… her head… in the lower cellar… surrounded by the sigils of some obscure sorcery. Did it need to be so-”
“Killing Ramiyah would be pointless if it did not paint your brother as a mad practitioner of the dark arts. They will say, ‘He sought to sacrifice his wife to demons so that he might rise above his brother and seize the Empire.’ It was the only way to break this stalemate. In your iron heart you know this to be true. Now you must see it through.”
“How can I?” he said. The lovemaking had washed away his fury. Only sorrow had replaced it. The sorrow of an Emperor, and he must wear it like a set of chains now. A far heavier burden than any jeweled crown. “How can I stand before the court-the entire city-and proclaim my brother a murderer, a sorcerer, and a madman? I know these are lies… and worse than lies.”
She placed a hand on his cheek and turned him toward her splendid eyes again. “Lies are only tools. Some say they are the most important tools a ruler can wield. More powerful than blade or spear, more deadly than venom. You need only learn how to wield a lie as you wield a sword… to cut down your enemies without mercy.”
“So must I cut down my own brother.”
“For the good of the realm,” she said. “And for the good of the world once Khyrei is no more. What stakes could be higher?”
He rose from the bath and accepted a robe from the attendants. Talondra followed him past the lattice of orchids to sit upon a divan overlooking the darkened gardens. The moon was a silver crescent hanging sharp as a dagger in the starry night. A cool wind blew across the courtyards, and distant melodies wafted from a band of strolling musicians. Drum, flute, and lyre blended into a song both melancholy and sweet. Tyro could not hear the lyrics, and the gentle strains brought him no peace.
“Where is he now?” asked Talondra.
Tyro stiffened, ran a hand through his wet hair. “Mendices came to the sparring field and told me of the murder. I took a squad from the field and entered the western wing. I heard Lyrilan screaming before I reached his apartments. The Green Lords set their men before his door. The fools actually expected me to turn away and ignore my brother’s mad cries. Swords were drawn and blood was spilled. Several men died on both sides. In the end it was Undroth, my father’s old friend, who halted the fight and opened the sealed door…”
His words faded beneath the memory of Lyrilan’s distorted face stained with Ramiyah’s blood, runneled with tears, his eyes empty of all but pain. The girl’s headless body lay on a red sheet that had once been white. A pair of legionnaires restrained Lyrilan, but not even old Volomses could calm him. They gave him wine but he tossed the cup away. A physician came to inspect the body, and he forced a noxious potion down Lyrilan’s throat. The Scholar King grew silent at last, mired in the depths of his loss. Tyro went to him but could not dispel the emptiness on his brother’s face.
Gradually, details of the murder emerged. The dagger found was Lyrilan’s own; he was known to carry it on ceremonial occasions. On Tyro’s orders and with the consent of Undroth, they moved Lyrilan to a clean quiet chamber low in the Western Tower. Eventually he slept, while Tyro led the investigation. He examined the soiled bedchamber with great care, knowing in the back of his mind that it was all Talondra’s doing. One of her agents had done this, one of the many scions of shadow who moved through the city unseen and unheard, dispatching death and vengeance at her command. One of the silent killers she used as pawns to pursue her private vendettas. Yet there would be nothing to link her officially with the slaying. Instead, everything was arranged to point directly at poor Lyrilan.
When the missing head was found, Tyro went below to see the signs of sorcery for himself. Such a scene was not terribly difficult to construct. The great library was full of books detailing the marks of sorcery and witchcraft, most of which were meaningless, harmless, or both. There were magicians in Uurz, and probably even a few true sorcerers, but they did not reside in the palace and they certainly did not get their powers from such antiquated tomes. Yet Talondra’s agent had done well, both in assembling a convincing scene of demon worship, and in leaving barely enough droplets of blood along the corridors to lead directly into the cellar. The subterranean vault where Lyrilan had attempted his evil spell.
Tyro sensed the falseness of the scenario instantly. He knew his brother was incapable of such a heinous act. Yet he said nothing. Surely the failure of this blood sacrifice accounted for Lyrilan’s sudden madness, Mendices posited. Surely no King would grieve so deeply and powerfully over a mere dead wife. No, Lyrilan must be a dabbler in the ancient and forbidden arts. An aspiring blood mage. So much evidence could not be discounted.
When news of this theory spread, only hours after the murder, a contingent of the Green Lords had decided to attempt a coup. Cohorts of green and gold forces clashed in the paved courtyard below the steps of the Great Hall. Most of the Green Lords took advantage of the chaos to flee the palace-and perhaps the city itself-but Undroth remained with Lyrilan in his sickness.
Tyro was not bound to join the fray. In fact, it was unheard of that a modern-day King should take up a sword to defend his own palace grounds. Yet the pain in his heart was easily smothered by the press of bodies, blades, and shields. He waded into the skirmish and killed seven men wearing green tabards. Three of these had been skilled swordsmen. One came close to piercing Tyro’s eye with a quick blade before he died at the Sword King’s feet.
The Gold Legionnaires, inspired by their King’s savage presence, fought like tigers. As the sun sank beyond the golden towers, Uurzian hacked Uurzian to bits. Soon the men of the Green lost heart as they realized their lords, and their chosen King, no longer stood behind them. Those who surrendered were cast into cells as traitors.
Later, when hot tempers cooled, Tyro would give them a chance to swear a fresh oath and repent their treason. With war looming on the horizon, every capable warrior would be of value. The rest of the Green Lords were already surrendering their forces to Tyro via proxies. They had no choice now but to accept him as their sole ruler.
Emperor at last.
There was only the matter of what to do with Lyrilan.
Tyro had marched livid and bloody from the courtyard littered with the bodies of his countrymen. So he had confronted Talondra, and as usual she soothed his boiling blood and reminded him of the essential nature of his royal duty.
Now he lay with her on the divan and wondered at the cold beauty of the stars.
Forgive me, Lyrilan.
“He gave me a
book,” Tyro told his wife. “All about Dairon. He chronicled our father’s life one year at a time. I was… I was reading it.” Tears welled in his eyes. He might never be able to finish reading those pages now. Every drop of ink would remind of him of the innocent blood shed in his name.
She wrapped her arms, then her long legs, about him. Like a mother she held his head to her bosom, making gentle sounds.
“Weep now, Emperor of Uurz,” she whispered. “Mourn your brother’s loss and know that you walk the righteous path.”
“What can be righteous about what we have done?” he asked. “Or what I will now have to do?”
“Everything!” she said. “The Gods respect strength, Tyro. The blessings of Earth, Sea, Sky, and Sun will fall upon the second Emperor of the New Blood. The people will rejoice. An empire deserves an Emperor, and by these deeds, bitter though you find them, you have gained the great throne.”
He drew in a deep breath, expanding his chest, and sighed. “I need wine.”
She motioned the servants to bring refreshments. “Lyrilan does not speak?” she asked. “Not even to defend himself?”
“Not this day,” he said. “Perhaps never. This may have killed him as surely as a spear in the heart. We will see.”
“If he does not speak, so much the better. He will not then deny the charges you lay upon him, or the sentence you prescribe. He is done.”
He looked at her again, studying the contours of her perfect face: the proud nose, the sloping cheekbones, the high forehead. She had no brothers, at least none living. No family left at all. Could she understand his bond with his brother? Did it even matter, the bond itself or her understanding of it? He did not have the answer.
They shared a carafe of strong red vintage, she sipping and he guzzling. The heaviness in his breast was replaced by a numb warmth. Killing men was easy. War was easy. The ways of the sword were cleaner and simpler than the ways of politics. In war a man might spare his enemy and gain honor. In politics, honor was an illusion, like a morning mist taken on the shape of a forlorn ghost.
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