John Fultz - Seven Princes

Gigantic palms stood sentinel over taverns, manors, and common houses. The smells of blooming orchids, spiced pastries, and perfumed ladies nearly overpowered the more pedestrian odors of animal dung and hearth smoke. Not even in Yaskatha had D’zan smelled such clean streets. Uurz might indeed be a paradise. Or as close to it as any earthly place could be.

Everywhere Uurzians walked and laughed and danced and haggled and shouted. D’zan spied a trio of girls atop a lush roof garden as he rode past, and each of them seemed to be winking at him. Olthacus ignored the women of Uurz as he ignored all the city’s wonders. His eyes were fixed upon the golden towers at the city’s hub, and D’zan knew they would find the Emperor’s palace there, at the very center of this great hive of green and gold.

Night fell softly upon Uurz, and the lights of the city came alive. A hundred thousand lanterns cast their warmth across the damp streets, and cheerful groups of youths gallivanted along the lanes. Olthacus, who had been here when the land was dry and parched, had no trouble finding the gates of the royal grounds. The palace stood taller and wider than Yaskatha’s own. Its hundreds of windows gleamed in all the colors of the rainbow, some trick of the painted glass. A half-moon rose above the soaring spires, taking on the golden hue of the edifice. Even the moon was jealous of this place and tried to imitate its beauty. The courtyards about the palace proper were thick with trees, a miniature forest rising above the spiked walls. Guards walked the ramparts in pairs, and such a pair on the street hailed Olthacus as he rode toward the baer. oward trred entry.

“No sightseeing after dark,” said the guard, a phrase he was evidently accustomed to repeating. “Come back tomorrow.”

The Stone brought his horse to a halt, and D’zan followed his example.

“Olthacus, General of Yaskatha, Right Hand of King Trimesqua, seeks audience with His Majesty Emperor Dairon.”

Both guards perked up, eyeing Olthacus from beneath the rims of their helmets, then scanning over D’zan. “You carry the seal of Trimesqua?”

Olthacus showed the man his ring. The guards bowed, then opened the gate. An attendant came forth to guide them through the splendid courtyard. The scents here were overpowering, ripe fruit and flowery nectar, all the finest shrubs, hedges, and trees meticulously arranged for maximum aesthetic value. D’zan wished it were daylight so he might better appreciate the renowned gardens. Perhaps there would be time for that, if he found the sanctuary he sought in this place.

The horses were led off to the stables, and the attendant conducted them through a columned portico into an outer hall of the palace. Statues of marble and granite lined the walls, and servants brought them wine in jeweled cups. The vintage was of the finest quality, and a deep drink made D’zan’s head spin. Olthacus quaffed it like water. Eventually they were shown to a smallish chamber furnished with velvet couches, beaded tapestries, and a table of polished black wood. At the head of the table stood a young man dressed in the gold and green of the royal family, a necklace of opals on his chest, a coronet of silver and ruby about his forehead. His thick hair was black and curly, falling to his shoulders, and his face clean-shaven. His arms were brawny, and he radiated the demeanor of a soldier. A short-bladed sword hung from his wide belt in a scabbard crusted with gems.

“Olthacus of Yaskatha?” asked the soldier.

The Stone nodded and dropped to one knee. D’zan was unsure of what to do, so he stood quietly and observed. Surely this youth was not the Emperor of Uurz.

“I am Prince Tyro, son of Emperor Dairon. My father regrets that he cannot greet you in person.”

“When last I saw you, Majesty,” said the Stone, “you were a babe in your mother’s arms.”

“So they tell me,” said Tyro, smiling. His sharp eyes turned to D’zan, who felt suddenly dirty and disheveled. He hardly looked the part of a Prince today, caked with mud and sweat, smelling of horseflesh.

The Stone introduced him. “May I present to you Prince D’zan, Son of Trimesqua. Heir of Yaskatha.”

Tyro’s eyes narrowed. He bowed to D’zan, who returned the courtesy. “I am honored to welcome you to Uurz. Please sit. There is food and drink.”

Servants appeared from behind the tapestries and laid out a feast. D’zan found himself entirely without appetite. He had many questions, but he did not know what to say. So his eyes turned to Olthacus.

“We thank adi“We tyou for your hospitality, Majesty,” said the Stone. “Too long it has been since I’ve tasted the fare of your house.”

Tyro waved the servants away. He seemed uninterested in food or drink.

“Traders brought news of Trimesqua’s fall only days ago,” said Tyro, addressing D’zan now. “The Emperor mourns your loss.”

“I… thank you, Prince,” said D’zan.

“You have traveled far and your journey must have been taxing. You will find safety and comfort within these walls. These are the Emperor’s own words.”

D’zan thanked him again, somewhat awkwardly.

“Please… eat, drink,” said Tyro. “There will be plenty of time to talk when you have bathed and rested. My father will see you on the morrow. Tonight he is otherwise engaged.”

Olthacus attacked the delicious fare, and D’zan found his own appetite. Tyro ate little, and was polite enough not to stare as the two hungry riders sated their appetites. A second princely figure glided into the room. His broad face resembled Tyro’s, but he was skinny, his nose a tad longer, and a coronet supported a trio of emeralds above his eyes. He carried in his arms a great book bound in worn leather.

“Ah, my brother Lyrilan joins us,” said Tyro, “having found his way out of the musty depths of the library. A rare occurrence, Prince D’zan. You are met with interest.”

The thin Prince smiled at D’zan and stood at the end of the table.

“He is a scholar, you see,” explained Tyro with the faintest trace of scorn.

D’zan caught the hidden meaning of those few words: But he ought to be a soldier.

“Greetings to you, Prince Lyrilan,” said Olthacus, wiping his mouth with a silken napkin. “May I present Prince D’zan of Yaskatha…”

Lyrilan smiled at D’zan, offering the briefest of bows. “Forgive my curiosity,” he said. “Tyro usually handles matters of state. News of your arrival only just reached me, and I wanted to pay my respects. I’ve been reading, you see…”

Prince Tyro laughed. “When are you not reading?”

Prince Lyrilan ignored the question. He laid the great book on the end of the table, well away from the nearest dish. “Your father, King Trimesqua, was a great man,” he said. His fingers absently traced the engraved patterns on the book’s cover. “A great warrior. A hero in thought and deed. It is an honor to have you here. I have many questions about Trimesqua’s life.”

“Brother!” interrupted Tyro. “Our guests have only just arrived.”

“No, it’s all right,” said D’zan. The potent wine made him feel at ease, and there was something about this skinny Prince he liked immediately. Perhaps it was simply nice to hear someone speak so highly of his father. “What is that book

Lyrilan lifted the volume to display the embossed cover, its title written in the northern dialect. “ Odysseys of the Southern Kings,” he said. “It lists the entirety of your family history going back three hundred years. Did you know your father slew a sea monster that devoured a thousand ships? The Beast of Barragur, they called it. He freed the shipping lanes for a generation of trade.”

D’zan smiled. Of course he knew that story. “My father told me that one several times.”