John Fultz - Seven Kings

The warrior was only too glad to assist his King. When Mendices returned, he was shocked to see the Sword King arrayed in all his finery: golden breastplate, sunray cloak, jeweled sandals, and the golden helm with its intricate wings. Tyro buckled the wide belt that held his broadsword in its scabbard.

“Majesty!” Mendices huffed. “You should be resting still.”

Tyro swayed on his feet. His scalp was damp with fresh sweat. Like an ancient tree caught in a windstorm, he stubbornly refused to fall.

He was the Emperor of Uurz. He was the Sword King.

“I am done with resting,” he said. “We have a war to plan.”

Mendices lowered his bald head, expressing his disapproval in silence.

Let this Zyung come. The world stands ready to meet him.

Tyro plodded from his tent into the humid purple twilight.

The fountain sat amid a ring of palm trees and beds of blooming lavender. Some sculptor from a previous century had carved it whole from a massive block of white marble. It was not an overly large pool, nor any deeper than a man’s knees. A mosaic of finned and scaly Sea Folk decorated its outer rim: mermaids and mermen, gliding squids, graceful mantas, and swirling eels all brought to life from inert stone by the sheer skill of a single man’s obsession.

At the fountain’s center a dais rose from the cascading waters. Atop the dais stood a trio of white stallions, sculpted as if rearing on their hind legs. From the sleek backs of each marble horse spread a pair of pearly wings, each feather evoked by minute tools and infinite patience. The mouths of these winged steeds spewed arcs of water into the air, and each arc fed the bubbling waters in the basin.

Lyrilan sat on a padded seat in the dappled solitude of the Yaskathan garden. The pinnacles of the palace rose high beyond the palm trees, while close-set hedges and cypresses blocked the rest of the courtyard from view. The rhythmic sound of ocean beating against the strand reached his ears. A legion of tame birds sang melodies from the branches of southern oaks, myrtlewoods, and willows.

He bent forward to study the fine lines of the fountain mosaic, then stood to admire the stone stallions’ musculature and exquisite wings. Patience. Yes, that was the key to creating a great work of art. He saw the marks of patience in every curve and detail of the fountain. The laughter of its waters joined the symphony of mingled birdsongs. Here was a day to define Yaskatha, a golden paradise growing ripe beneath a cloudless sky.

A robe of checkered black and white hung loose on his thin frame, tied at the waist with a sash of crimson silk. A matching necklace of twelve rubies hung about his neck. Volomses had helped him relearn the importance of a proper appearance. His long black hair was entirely gone, shorn from his lean skull in a symbolic show of rebirth. He enjoyed the feel of warm sun on his bald head. The ocean breeze soothed his skin and brought the faint scents of brine and seaweed into the eastern gardens.

He sat now with hands in his lap, eyes closed, enjoying the song of the fountain and the warbling refrains of birds, soaking in the wash of sunlight. His recent studies had taught him, among other things, how to embrace the moment. Nothing else existed beyond this fountain, these trees, and this garden. If he listened long enough, he might understand the deeper meanings of the birds’ language. He might hear the wind whisper secrets from faraway lands. The fragrance of blossoms might deliver to him the secrets of the ancient cosmos. He might wear the sun and stars as his crown, King of the world and all its petty intrigues.

He might have sat thus forever, yet no solitude endures. The shuffling of sandaled feet on the jade path told him that Volomses approached. He knew the sage’s awkward gait, the sound of one leg perpetually lagging behind the other. Victim of an old riding wound that never truly healed, Volomses always favored his right foot. So Lyrilan knew that his request had been seen to by the old man.

“Majesty,” said Volomses. The fabric of his burgundy robe rustled as he kneeled. Lyrilan opened his eyes to see the sage poised on one knee, a shuttered box of rosewood in his brown hands.

“You found it? All of it?” asked Lyrilan.

Volomses stood and offered him the box. “I faced many difficulties, but everything is here.”

Lyrilan took the modest box and sat it on his lap. “Very good,” he said, staring at the casket. “You never fail me, old friend. You may go.”

Volomses blinked. “But… My Lord… shall I not stay to assist you?”

Lyrilan met the sage’s rheumy eyes. “I will be fine.”

Volomses nodded and left him once more alone in the garden. Lyrilan opened the lid and scanned the coffer’s contents. The eyes of an eagle, brought down by a skilled archer in the High Realms; they lay on a velvet cushion like two tiny topazes with ebony centers. A small vial of aged Uurzian wine spiced with the venom of a camel spider. The fingerbones of a dead King, purloined from the deepest crypts of Yaskatha. To be caught with such remains would earn a death sentence from the Yaskathan authorities, but Volomses had hired only the most discreet of burglars. Finally, a short-bladed dagger newly forged of purest silver. The mark of a local smith lay upon the base of its blade, and the pommel bore a single black onyx as its only decoration.

Lyrilan carried the open box to the fountain. He walked slowly about its circumference, singing a low song of the Vital Tongues. When he reached the place where he had begun, completing the circle, he started the song again and dropped the eagle’s eyes into the fountain waters. They hardly disturbed the swirling flow.

As he circled the fountain a second time, he poured in the entire contents of the vial; poisoned wine swirled like blood in the foamy water. He scattered the fingerbones into the fountain as well, each one sinking to lie still on the bottom like pale pebbles. When his second circuit was complete he cast away the empty box, stopped his walk, and held the silver dagger in his right hand. He began the song a third time and placed the utmost tip of the dagger to the tip of his left index finger. A tiny drop of crimson sprang forth, swelling into a minute red sphere. He touched the water of the fountain with this bloody finger, and his touch turned the clear water black as pitch.

Stars gleamed in the black waters now, although the sky was blue and bright overhead. Lyrilan began a second incantation and waved his hands in precise patterns above the benighted water. An image swirled to life, replacing the darkness with the daylight of a distant kingdom. Mighty Uurz reared its towers into a roiling sky heavy with gray clouds. The first thing he noticed was the steady rainfall. The long drought of his homeland was over. He sang on, and the vision in the fountain pool shifted. The great palace loomed above streets of green and muddy gold, an assemblage of forested terraces, blooming roof gardens, jeweled domes, and gilded spires. Sentinels walked the walls beneath green banners bearing golden suns.

Again the vision changed, and Lyrilan stared through the water into the throne room of Uurz. There, on a jeweled seat worthy of a King, sat Talondra, Empress of Uurz. A throng of courtiers in the bright silks and baubles of their station filled the hall, every face turned to heed the words of Tyro’s wife. In his absence she was the Ruler of Uurz. Lyrilan had no doubt that she would rule the city with an iron fist. There could be no more effective plotter or strategist than this Sharrian with the soulless eyes of a Serpent.

He smiled as he spoke the final syllables of the incantation. This living vision of Uurz and Talondra was proof that he had mastered a modicum of Imvek’s wisdom. He anticipated the emergence of a far greater proof very soon.