Mendices tried to raise a hand, but the shattered bones of his arm would not allow it. His tongue bulged black and swollen from red-stained lips.
“I suppose I owe you my thanks,” said Lyrilan. “For here now lie fifteen more traitors who would have lurked among my court until they saw a chance to betray me. I will no longer have to worry about them. Or you. Know that your death has served the Emperor of Uurz in this way.”
Lyrilan apologized to the Khyreins, who were unharmed yet shaken. He led them into the garden for a discussion of the great treaty to be signed the following day. Later that evening he walked with Vaazhia across a high terrace, and there he saw the heads of Mendices and the fifteen rebels spiked along the palace wall. Their slack faces were turned toward the streets beyond, where all who entered the royal precinct could witness the fate of traitors.
In the weeks that followed, the people of Uurz stopped referring to Lyrilan as the Scholar King. A new sobriquet had grown to fit him: Lyrilan the Ruthless. Yet at the same time they called him also the Peace Bringer. He had gladly signed the first treaty with Khyrei in all of Uurzian history. During the celebration of that agreement, which fell upon same day as the annual Festival of Ascension, he finally unveiled his new consort to the masses. Vaazhia rode beside him through the roaring streets, her limbs bright with jewels, her horns and hair thick with garlands. A shower of white blossoms cascaded from the walls and towers.
When the festivities ended, Lyrilan returned to working on his new book. Vaazhia told him many spectacular truths long forgotten by mankind. Many of these he recorded in Chronicles of the Old Breed, but many of them he did not.
Sorcerers, like Emperors, must keep some secrets.
22
The Truth
Above the rolling swells of the Cryptic Sea the sky was blue and cloudless. There had been no inclement weather or large waves, nothing to make the journey taxing. Yet D’zan stood at the railing of the Cointosser and wished he were back on solid ground. Visions of his fleet’s destruction plagued him when he tried to sleep, and ever since he had begun this voyage the dreams invaded his waking hours as well.
The many wounds he had endured were entirely healed and had left no scars. Examining his healthy physique in a mirror reminded him that he was no longer fully human. His unblemished flesh was a construction born of sorcery, and after eight years of ignorance he finally understood what that meant. Only his mind and spirit remained unchanged, both of them trapped inside a body that would not age or die. This should have brought him comfort, as most men fear death above all other enemies. Yet so many things which should have made him content failed to do so these days.
D’zan stared at the sunlight broken into flashing diamonds atop the water. The Cointosser was a fat-hulled merchant trader with a single sail, less than half the size of a Yaskathan warship. Yet there were no more Yaskathan warships to carry him northward. His own folly had lost every last one of them, along with every member of his royal navy. Yaskatha’s treasury would not support the building of another fleet, not without several years of robust trading and exports to fill the coffers with tax revenues. So his closest advisors had informed D’zan on his return from the siege of Uurz. The great harbor of Yaskatha was filled now with merchant ships like this one, the only vessels remaining to serve the realm’s interests.
“Perhaps I should avoid building another fleet,” D’zan had told Cymetha. “If there is no fleet of warships, there will be no war upon the sea. If I build another fleet, some King who comes after me might commit the same crime of which I am guilty.”
His Second Wife, who had become his First Wife in all but name, soothed his pain with kind words and the pleasure of her skilled touch. “You acted honorably,” Cymetha reminded him, “and honored our long treaty with Mumbaza. You sought to end the ancient threat of Khyrei. How could you or anyone know that these strange invaders would overwhelm your fleet and that of Undutu as well? I have thanked the Sea God many times that the Feathered Serpent was there to save you. Be glad that you have returned alive and wiser, and that you have a healthy son to carry on your bloodline. The Four Gods returned you to us because Theskalus needs you. He will be a great King someday like his father.”
Yes, Theskalus.
Another miracle that should have brought D’zan happiness. Yet when he had returned home to meet his three-month-old son for the first time, when he held the infant in his arms, he had felt only suspicion. He saw none of himself in the child’s face. The baby’s eyes were blue, yet D’zan had been born with his father’s dark eyes. His grandfather had shared those same black pupils. The eyes of his sorcery-built body were green, but that color was only a reflection of Sharadza’s power. If Theskalus was the product of D’zan’s loins, he should be dark of eye. Cymetha’s own eyes were dark as well. Perhaps some blue eye color lay in her family tree somewhere, but D’zan did not ask. He did not want her to know of his suspicion.
The baby was handsome and healthy, but his hair was also dark. D’zan and Cymetha both possessed hair as yellow as ripe corn. D’zan had no dark hair at all in his family, unless it had been so many generations ago that it had been forgotten. All of his living relatives were slain by Elhathym when the necromancer murdered Trimesqua and stole the throne of Yaskatha. In gaining back his dead father’s kingdom, D’zan had been forced to surrender his very humanity. Only recently had he realized the cost of that victory.
He loved Sharadza, but she had given him no child. So he had turned to Cymetha. Within months his mistress had grown heavy with child. Sharadza had fled, unwilling to share her husband, even for the sake of royal heirs. Yet now D’zan wondered, not for the first time, if his own seed was barren instead of his First Wife’s womb. He had asked Iardu that very question at Uurz, when the Shaper was explaining the truth of D’zan’s enchanted body.
You need not fear, the Shaper had told him. Your son will be fine.
D’zan believed those words at the time, yet upon his return to Yaskatha they had lingered in his mind. Every time he looked at the round, soft face of his infant son, they rang in his head again. Had Iardu lied? Had Sharadza done the same? It would be just like her to bear the secret of his impotency and take the blame for it upon herself. She was always one to put the welfare of others before her own interests.
Is this truly my son?
The question haunted D’zan even more than the nightmares of his shattered fleet. For three months he sat above the royal court conducting the affairs of state, and he returned to Cymetha and Theskalus every evening. Peace had once again fallen upon Yaskatha. There were rich harvests to swell the pockets of the people and the holds of trading vessels. The merchant houses had actually benefitted from the demise of the royal fleet; the King had no more ships of his own to send on trading missions, so the merchant fleets took up the slack. The Jade Isles were constructing a new capital to replace the one sunk by Zyung’s wrath, so Yaskatha had replaced Ongthaia as the central hub of trading among the Five Cities. There was also the newly opened trade with Khyrei, a business which turned minor investors into wealthy men as their ships came in loaded with goods from the black city.
The nation prospered while D’zan brooded.
On the day that Theskalus turned six months old, the King of Yaskatha decided that he could no longer suffer the pain of his own doubt. If D’zan was ever to love his son as a father should–if he was ever to trust Cymetha as a husband must–then he must discover the truth. If Theskalus was a bastard, he would never be heir to the throne. And if D’zan was truly incapable of fathering children, then he would never have a blood heir.
I owe it to my son to find this truth.
D’zan announced his intention, though not its true reason, during a court assembly.
“My mind is troubled by dark dreams and bloodstained memories,” he said. The rouged faces of courtiers, advisors, and attendants looked upon him with concern. “In order to find the peace that eludes me, I must speak again with Iardu the Shaper. Alth
ough I would rather not sail the unforgiving sea again, I must seek the wizard on his lonely isle. Until I do so, I will know neither peace nor rest.”
He expected a deluge of objections, but the court was silent. The merchant lords in their gaudy robes and jewels avoided his gaze. They knew what he would ask next.
“Since I have no royal ships left,” D’zan said, “I require a merchant vessel and its crew for this voyage. I will pay handsomely any sea lord who volunteers. You will also have the glory of serving your King and the interests of the realm.”
There was silence between the tapestries decorating the throne room walls.
The graybeard Metricus, who served as Master of Coin for the King, leaned close to whisper in D’zan’s ear. “Majesty, you will find it difficult to convince any of the merchant houses to offer up their vessels. This is the busiest of trading seasons after all. And there are other factors as well.”
“What other factors?” D’zan asked.
“Forgive me, my King,” said Metricus, “but there is a rumor that the Sea God’s curse lies upon your house. No other King in our history has lost an entire fleet. Naturally I, myself, do not believe such nonsense, but these merchants are prey to many superstitions. Lastly, it is well known that the Isle of Iardu is protected by sorcery that manifests as a ring of perpetual storms to drive away continental ships. Many men have died while seeking the Shaper’s favor.”
D’zan leaned his head against the cushioned back of his throne. “So fear and superstition rule the hearts of Yaskatha’s nobles.” He said it loud enough so that all in the hall could hear him. “If the Sea God’s curse lies upon me, then why did he spare me at the Battle of the Jades?”
None of the assembled nobles would dare to answer this question.
“I will pay fourteen chests of gold to the lord who lends me a ship,” D’zan said. “Consider this offer as you dine at my table and enjoy the pleasures of my court this evening.”
D’zan left the throne and the fawning courtiers, choosing to take his supper on a balcony overlooking the harbor. Sharadza used to sit with him on this same terrace. The young couple had watched the moon rise many times from this perch. Lyrilan had sat here drinking with D’zan during his brief exile. Both D’zan’s first love and his best friend were far from him now.
Surrounded by a palace full of people, D’zan was alone.
In the early morning a servant roused him while Cymetha and the baby were still asleep. It seemed that a young merchant lord had come forth to accept the King’s generous offer. D’zan dressed himself in a tunic of silver and sable, donned the lightest of his three crowns, and met the merchant in his private study.
Lord Andolon of House Silver was at least two years younger than D’zan, who was still a young King at the age of twenty-four. Andolon was a slim youth with angular shoulders, bright eyes, and a strong chin. His black mustache was neatly trimmed and oiled, and he wore rich fabrics done in a simple style. A necklace of silver links marked the sign of his wealthy and well-reputed house. His father had died only recently, leaving tremendous wealth and status to his eldest son. Andolon’s five younger brothers sailed the finest vessels in their house’s fleet. D’zan could tell Andolon was also a swordsman by the thickness of his arms and the way he carried himself. The longblade on his hip with its ornate handle might have been worn by any merchant nobleman, but here was a man who knew how to wield such a blade. This was a rare skill among the elite of tradesmen.
After formal introductions, Andolon spoke with candor and grace. “My Lord, I am ashamed of the cowardice displayed by my fellow merchants,” he said. “I offer you my house’s proudest vessel, the Cointosser, and the service of its best and boldest captain, that noble personage being myself.”
D’zan smiled. “My gold has swayed you.”
Andolon cocked his head. The oiled ringlets of his hair hung below his shoulders. “I will accept no payment, Majesty,” he said. “It is my duty to serve you, and in so doing to prove that Yaskathans are not afraid of the sea or its mysteries. My father served your own in the wars of the Southern Isles. It was the abiding pride of his life. I can do no less.”
You are lucky that you did not serve me when I sailed to the Jade Isles.
“I accept your kind offer,” said D’zan, “and I commend your bravery.”
The very next day the Cointosser had departed. Cymetha tried to talk D’zan out of making the voyage, and little Theskalus cried the whole morning. D’zan could not explain himself to his wife. Not yet. He simply asked Cymetha to trust him. He kissed the infant on its forehead before leaving the palace.
The Cointosser was manned by thirty men, including Andolon, who was its captain. D’zan brought a company of twelve palace guardsmen along, at the insistence of his advisors. The bright sails of the merchant fleets in the harbor grew tiny as the Cointosser took to the open sea. On the ninth day they passed the pearly cliffs of Mumbaza, whose harbor sat nearly empty of swanships. Perhaps a dozen of the white ships had remained behind when most had sailed to make war under Undutu’s banner. D’zan had considered leaving a few of his own ships in Yaskatha when he had joined the swan fleet, but he knew he would need every single one of them to destroy the black reavers of Khyrei. How could he know that the reavers would end up his allies instead of enemies? Or that numbers of ships would make no difference in the slaughter to come? As it was with Yaskatha, the majority of ships docking at Mumbaza now were merchant vessels.
Word of a new King on the Cliffs had come to D’zan months ago, and then a few months later the news that the Feathered Serpent himself had removed the new King and replaced him with a bastard sired by Undutu. A strange decision, but Khama must have his reasons. His power would overrule any objections to such an heir. The folk of Yaskatha would never accept a bastard ruler, and there was no revered Feathered Serpent there to change their minds about it. D’zan put thoughts of Theskalus from his mind as the sparkling domes of the Pearl City dwindled in the wake of the Cointosser.
Sailing along the established trade routes took longer than braving the open ocean, but it helped ensure the safety of any ship. Today, as in all the nine days previous, the sky and sea were calm and a good wind filled the sails. Soon the ship would turn its prow west toward the wizard’s isle, and then would come the ring of storms.
D’zan passed the gentle days reading Lyrilan’s biography of Dairon the First. In the evenings he gathered with Andolon in the captain’s cabin and played at dice. A minstrel named Yudun entertained them with harp, flute, and bawdy tales as they drank fine wines from the Jade Isles. D’zan enjoyed the young lord’s company, and that of Andolon’s cousin Hammon. The lad was only fifteen but possessed all the wit of a lord twice his age. Between Hammon’s jokes, Yudun’s tales, and Andolon’s good wine, D’zan found himself enjoying the voyage. Yet at the end of each night he was left alone in his cabin with his churning thoughts, his burning memories, and his doubt.
The evening of the fifteenth day saw a dark wall of stormclouds rushing toward the ship. Rain came in gusts, pelting the decks and ripping at the sails. D’zan spent the next three days inside his cabin while Andolon and his crew battled the storms. They must have come deep into the Shaper’s territory by now. A natural storm would have broken after a day or two. The ship rocked incessantly, and D’zan’s nightmares rose like Sea Serpents to tear apart his sleep. A sailor was swept over the railing and lost on the third day of storms.
The fifth day into the ring of storms dawned gray and windy, yet calm and dry. A cry from the crow’s nest brought D’zan from his cabin, stomach queasy and feet unsteady on the deck. He could still feel the ship moving and swaying beneath him, even though his eyes told him it sat steady upon the water. On the horizon a small green chunk of land had appeared.
Andolon clapped his hands together. “There’s your wizard isle, Majesty.” The young lord smiled and rubbed the stubble of his chin. “The Sea God smiles upon us.”
By midday the Cointosser had mad
e the island. Bright birds filled the sky above thick groves of palm and cypress. A citadel of white stone rose from the eastern shore, hemmed by a range of forested hills. Three slim towers stood at the keep’s center, their cupolas bright with jewels inset into clever patterns. Pitted stone gargoyles perched on the ramparts.
A long and narrow cove welcomed the Cointosser. At its end was no dock or wharf, but only a set of weedy stairs rising from the black water toward the citadel’s main gate. There was no sign of guardian or sentinel along the white walls. The sailors eyed the stony grotesques along the battlements as if the monsters might spring to life at any moment. They might indeed do such a thing if Iardu willed it, D’zan mused. He did not share this thought with the nervous crew.
Andolon ordered a rowboat dispatched so that a small party might approach the stair. The forestland was so thick and the cliffs so steep that no other approach to the keep was possible.
“I must go alone,” D’zan said. His guards objected, as did Andolon, but he commanded them all to silence. Then he followed the path of their wide eyes past his shoulder and turned to see what had captured their attention. At the summit of the salt-crusted stairway stood a woman in a robe of white silk. Her hair was long, dark, and curly. Even from this distance D’zan recognized the emerald glare of her eyes.
Sharadza. He had guessed she would be here. She had made no secret of her choice to join Iardu on his island. Perhaps it was her magic that had guided his ship through the ring of storms.
The crew lowered D’zan alone into the small boat, seeing now there was no evident threat to his person. He rowed it toward the stair with anxious strokes, then mounted each of the slippery steps until he stood before her. Sharadza’s presence stole his breath away, as it had always done. The supple skin of her cheeks held a rosy hue, and he longed to kiss her scarlet lips. Yet he had lost the right to do so. It was perhaps his greatest mistake, letting her go. Greater even than sailing his fleet to its doom at Ongthaia.
Seven Sorcerers: Book Three of the Books of the Shaper Page 37