John Fultz - Seven Princes

Dairon’s head seemed to bow under the weight of his jeweled crown. “Shaira is a great woman, Prince. She will hear your plea. And know this: if Udurum stands behind your claim, then so shall Uurz, with all its power.”

A collective gasp sounded among the crowd of courtiers and spectators. The Emperor must have been moved by D’zan’s tears. D’zan faced him, eyes gleaming with pride and shame.

“Your kindness honors the memory of my father,” said D’zan, “and my uncle.”

They gave a banquet in his honor that night, dancing girls and musicians filling the Hall of Waters, and great tables heaped with roasted fowl, barbecued pork, and braised fish. T Saisg ghe wine flowed heavily among the revelers, but D’zan ate very little. Prince Lyrilan sat beside him and asked for tales of Trimesqua’s adventures, but D’zan was too wrapped up in thoughts of the future to dwell on the past. He excused himself early and went to sleep in the new and heavily guarded chamber assigned to him. Sleep came in fits and starts. He tossed and turned and battled nightmares wrapped in black silk.

The next morning he walked into the palace grounds and lost himself in the depths of the Royal Gardens. Tomorrow would be the funeral of Olthacus, followed by another banquet to honor his memory. But today D’zan sat among the splendor of foliage wrestling with his own self-doubt.

Who was he to defy the necromancer Elhathym? A man who could call the dead up from their graves to obey his will. What other terrible powers did he possess?

D’zan was only sixteen, little more than a boy. His father had not prepared him to rule Yaskatha, let alone to assemble an army and lead it to reclaim the throne. Olthacus was the hero, the man of wisdom whose worldly influence would guide the Prince back to his people. D’zan was nothing, merely a name, and the last living specimen of a bloodline being forced into extinction. Would the Queen of Udurum help him? Would it even matter?

He considered death and weighed it against his continued living. He knew what his father would say: “If you find a thing difficult, then all the more reason to do it!” Sometimes his father’s love had been disguised as cruelty. For two years Olthacus had taught him the discipline of swordplay, but he was nowhere near ready for a real fight. He had neither the strength nor the speed a true warrior needed. He had been pampered and made weak by a life spent under the royal roof. What could he know about being a man… being a King?

He contemplated the Khyrein dagger lying next to him. There would be more of these killers stalking him. Elhathym was not the type of man to let a single threat to his rule go on living. At any moment D’zan expected a troop of walking corpses to shamble upon him, eager to tear out his life with bony claws. Death hung in the sky above him like a circling hawk, waiting for the right moment to swoop and strike. And the Stone was no longer here to shield him.

D’zan wrapped his arms about his knees and rocked himself back and forth on the stone seat. The lush vegetation was a scintillating jungle where deadly things stalked unseen. Yet instead of some deadly predator it was only Prince Lyrilan who emerged from the green shadows. The scholar wore a yellow tunic, his thin waist supporting a belt of golden leaves studded with emeralds. Green hose covered his skinny legs, and his boots of dark leather seemed a tad too large for his feet. He sat on the bench near D’zan, brushing a swathe of black curls from his eyes and crossing his legs. By his very manner, D’zan could tell the Prince was several years older than himself, though his aspect was that of a young man. Lyrilan had all the height of his brother Tyro, but none of the brawn. D’zan realized for the first time exactly how similar their faces were. They must be twins.

“Do you miss Yaskatha?” asked Lyrilan.

“Is it so obvious?”

Lyrilan looked up at the branches of the fig tree. “You choose a tree from your homeland as shade.”

D’zan shrugged.

“Do you wish to talk?” Lyrilan asked.

“What good will talking do?” said D’zan. “I have a kingdom to win back. I have no army. No sorcery. No gold. Talking will not change these things.”

Lyrilan smiled. “Oh, will it not? The trick is to talk with the right person.”

D’zan turned to meet his dark, mischievous eyes. “Can you give me these things then, Prince Lyrilan?”

Lyrilan tossed his head, his tongue emerging to moisten his lips. “I can give you something far more precious than all of these, my friend.”

D’zan stared at him, unmoved. Was the scholar truly a jester in Prince’s clothing? He was in no mood to be fooled and saw no humor in Lyrilan’s friendly smile.

“What might that be?” he asked, when he realized Lyrilan was waiting for the question.

“Wisdom,” said Lyrilan. “Knowledge.”

D’zan picked up the assassin’s dagger and held it in his fist. A sudden rage filled him. “What good is wisdom against this? What knowledge can strike men down like the poison on this blade?”

Lyrilan’s face lost its smile. “Wisdom and knowledge can do far more than that,” he said. “Without them there would exist neither the blade or the poison. Knowledge is the root of all things both earthly and spiritual. Wisdom is the understanding and application of this concept.”

D’zan threw the dagger point first into the dirt of the garden, where it stuck upright with a sound like a hiss. “I have never been fond of riddles. Speak plainly or leave me be.”

Lyrilan sighed. “I know your soul aches for what you have lost. I know you carry pain like an iron cloak about your shoulders. You may think you have lost your last friend in this world. But if you will allow me… I will be your friend.”

D’zan stared into the green depths of the garden. He did need a friend. But could he trust an Uurzian? The son of the man who would send him north to beg at the feet of the Giant-Queen?

“Why?” asked D’zan. “Why befriend me? I am nothing to you.”

Lyrilan pushed his palms together, lowered his face. “Nothing? You are the living heir of a bloodline that stretches back into the Age of Heroes. Farther even – to the Age of Serpents. You carry the currents of history in your veins, D’zan. To me you are everything I have spent my life studying. To be your friend… your ally… is to enter the great story that began with your ancestors. You have the task of a hero before you, and every hero needs a guide… an advisor. Someone to read the movements of the sun and stars, interpret the deeper meanings of everyday phenomena.”

“Are you a sorcerer, Lyrilan?”

“No.”

“Then what power have you to offer? Other than friendship.”

“Let me show you.” Lyrilan stood and motioned for him to follow.

D’zan tucked the jade dagger into his belt and plodded behind the Uurzian Prince. It took some time to find egress from the sprawling gardens, and there were strange birds, beasts, and plants to marvel at with every turn of the marble path, although D’zan paid little attention to these things.

Eventually they came to a great fountain carved from white stone: a trio of winged tigers spewing water from roaring mouths. Here the winding paths of the Royal Gardens converged, meeting the wider expanse of the Main Way, which led to the steps of the palace proper. Palace servants, noble personages, and visiting potentates meandered the vaulted passageways, their bodies wrapped in myriad hues of silk and clouds of perfume. The glitter of jewels on their fingers, necks, and arms made D’zan feel like a beggar sneaking into some place he had no business being.

Lyrilan brought him at last to a tall set of double doors set with bronze plates. These were engraved with celestial insignia, swirling glyphs, and a central sun radiating beams of jewels. The doors swung soundlessly open on oiled hinges, and the rich smell of ancient parchment filled D’zan’s nostrils. Here was the Royal Library of Uurz, a vast repository of books and scrolls in a huge circular chamber. Clear panes of glass lined the dome of the ceiling, and brilliant sunlight lit the room. Motes of dust danced in the shimmering beams.