Eril-Fane took the stage. A hush fell fast. Many of the scholars were seeing him for the first time, and you could almost feel their carefully cultivated skepticism fail.
If there were gods in need of slaying, here was the man for the job.
Lazlo’s pulse thrilled through him as the Godslayer began. “It has been two centuries since my city lost the world,” the warrior said, “and was lost to it. Someday that story will be told, but not today. Today it is enough to say that we have passed through a long, dark time and come out of it alive and strong. Our difficulties are now behind us. All but one.” He paused. A somberness darkened his voice and regard—the mysteries of Weep, writ on its own hero’s face. “The . . . shadow of our dark time still haunts us. It poses no danger. That much I can say. There is nothing to fear. I assure you.” Here he paused, and Lazlo leaned forward, hardly breathing. Why did he assure them? What did their fear matter? Could he mean . . . ?
“You may know,” he went on, “that my city was ever forbidden to faranji. ‘Outsiders,’ as we would call you.” He smiled a little and added, “Fondly, of course,” and a low laugh rippled through the audience.
“You may also have heard that faranji who insisted on trying their luck were executed, one and all.”
The laughter ceased.
“I am grateful to your good queen for giving us a gentler reception here.”
Laughter again, if hesitant. It was his manner—the warmth of him, like steam rising from tea. One looked at him and thought, Here is a great man, and also a good one, though few men are ever both.
“No one born this side of the Elmuthaleth has ever seen what lies beyond it. But that is about to change.” A rushing filled Lazlo’s ears, but he didn’t miss a word. “I have come to extend an invitation: to visit my city as my personal guest. This last remaining . . . problem, we have been unable to solve on our own. Our library and university were crushed two hundred years ago. Literally crushed, you understand, and our wisdom-keepers with them. So we find ourselves lacking the knowledge and expertise we need. Mathematics, engineering, metallurgy.” A vague gesture of his fingers indicated he spoke in broad terms. “We’ve come far from home to assemble a delegation of men and women—” And as he said this, his eyes sketched the crowd, as though to confirm what he had already noted: that there were no women among the scholars of Zosma. A furrow creased his brow, but he went on. “—who might supply what we lack, and help us to put the last specter of the past where it belongs.”
He looked out at them, letting his eyes settle on individual faces. And Lazlo, who was accustomed to the near invisibility his insignificance bestowed on him, was jolted to feel the weight of that gaze on himself. A second or two it rested there: a blaze of connection, the feeling of being seen and set apart.
“And if this chance, in itself,” Eril-Fane continued, “does not tempt you to disrupt your life and work—for a year at least, more likely two—rest assured you will be well compensated. Further, for the one who solves the problem”—his voice was rich with promise—“the reward will be great.”
With that, most every scholar in Zosma was ready to pack a trunk and strike out for the Elmuthaleth. But that wasn’t to be the way of it. It was not an open invitation, the Godslayer went on to say. He would select the delegates himself based on their qualifications.
Their qualifications.
The words flattened Lazlo like a sudden shift in gravity. He didn’t need to be told that “dreamer” was not a qualification. It wasn’t enough to want it more than anyone else. The Godslayer hadn’t come halfway around the world to grant a junior librarian’s dream. He’d come seeking knowledge and expertise, and Lazlo couldn’t imagine that meant a faranji “expert” on his own city. Mathematics, engineering, metallurgy, he’d said. He’d come for practical knowledge.
He’d come for men like Thyon Nero.
10
No Story Yet Told
The Godslayer was two days interviewing scholars at the Great Library of Zosma, and in the end, he invited only three to join his delegation. They were: a mathematician, a natural philosopher, and, to no one’s surprise, the alchemist, Thyon Nero. Lazlo wasn’t even granted an interview. It wasn’t Eril-Fane who denied him, but Master Ellemire, who was overseeing the process.
“Well, what is it?” he asked, impatient, when Lazlo reached the front of the queue. “Do you have a message for someone?”
“What? No,” said Lazlo. “I’d . . . I’d like an interview. Please.”
“You, an interview? I hardly think he’s recruiting librarians, boy.”
There were other scholars around, and they added their own mockery. “Don’t you know, Ellemire? Strange isn’t just a librarian. He’s practically a scholar himself. Of fairy tales.”
“I’m sorry to say,” the master told Lazlo, eyes heavy-lidded with disdain, “that Eril-Fane made no mention of fairies.”
“Maybe they’ve an elf problem in Weep,” said another. “Do you know anything about elf trapping, Strange?”
“Or dragons. Perhaps it’s dragons.”
This went on for some time. “I’d just like the chance to speak with him,” Lazlo pleaded, but to no avail. Master Ellemire wouldn’t “waste their guest’s time” by sending in someone so “manifestly unqualified,” and Lazlo couldn’t find it in himself to argue on his own behalf. He was unqualified. The fact was, if he did get in to see the Godslayer, he didn’t even know what he would say. What could he say to recommend himself? I know a lot of stories?
It was the first time he ever felt, for himself, a measure of the contempt others felt for him.
Who had ever expended so much passion on a dream, only to stand helpless as it was granted to others? Others, moreover, who had expended no passion on it at all. His impossible dream had, against all probability, crossed deserts and mountains to come to Zosma and extend an unprecedented invitation.
But not to him.
“I owe you a thank-you, Strange,” said Thyon Nero later, after everything was decided and the Tizerkane were preparing to depart.
Lazlo could only look at him, blank. A thank-you for what? For helping him when he was desperate and alone? For handing him the secret to his fame and fortune? For rescuing the royal treasury and enabling Zosma to pay its army and avoid war?
No. None of that. “Your books were quite informative,” he said. “Of course, I imagine real scholars will take an interest in Weep now, and amateur records won’t be needed. Still, it’s not bad work. You should be proud.”
Proud. Lazlo remembered that solitary thank-you from back when they were boys, and couldn’t believe that it had ever been meaningful. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Shouldn’t you be over there with the chosen?”
The Tizerkane were mounted, spectrals gleaming white and lys, the warriors in their bronze, faces fierce and alive. Eril-Fane was bidding the queen farewell, and the mathematician and natural philosopher were with them, too. The chosen scholars weren’t leaving with the Tizerkane today. They were to meet them in four months’ time at the caravansary in Alkonost, where the full delegation would assemble to strike out together across the Elmuthaleth. It would take them time to wrap up their work and prepare themselves for a long journey. None of them were adventurers, at least not yet. In the meantime, the Tizerkane would continue their travels, searching out more delegates in the kingdoms of Syriza, Thanagost, and Maialen. Still, Lazlo didn’t know what Thyon was doing mingling among the unchosen. Besides gloating.
“Oh, I’m going,” he said. “I just wanted you to know that your books were helpful. Eril-Fane was most impressed with my knowledge of his city. Do you know, he said I was the first outsider he’s met who knew anything about it. Isn’t that a fine thing?”
Fine wasn’t the word that came to Lazlo’s mind.
“Anyway,” continued Thyon, “I didn’t want you to worry that you’d done all that work for nothing.”
And Lazlo wasn’t a creature of anger or envy, but he felt the scorch of both—as though his veins were fuses and they were burning through him, leaving paths of ash in their wake. “Why do you even want to go?” he asked, bitter. “It’s nothing to you.”
Thyon shrugged. Everything about him was smooth—his pressed clothes and perfect shave, his cavalier voice and blithe expression. “Stories will be told about me, Strange. You should appreciate that. There ought to be adventure in them, don’t you think? It’s a dull legend that takes place in a laboratory.”
A legend? The tale of the golden godson, who distilled azoth and saved kingdoms. It was all about him, and not Weep at all. He smacked Lazlo on the back. “I’d better go and say good-bye. And don’t worry, Strange. You’ll get your books back.”
It was no comfort. For years, Lazlo’s books had represented his dream. Now they would represent the end of it.
“Don’t be so glum,” said Thyon. “Someday I’ll come home, and when I do, I promise”—he put a hand to his hearts—“I’ll tell you all about the mysteries of Weep.”
Numbly, Lazlo watched him walk away. It wasn’t fair. He knew it was a childish thought. Who knew better than he that life wasn’t fair? He’d learned that lesson before he could walk, before he could speak. But how could he accept this? How could he go on from this, knowing that his chance had come and gone, and he hadn’t even been allowed to try? He imagined marching forth right now, right here, in front of everyone, and appealing directly to Eril-Fane. The thought made his face burn and his voice wither, and he might as well have been turned to stone.
Master Hyrrokkin found him there and laid a consoling hand on his arm. “I know it’s hard, Strange, but it will pass. Some men are born for great things, and others to help great men do great things. There’s no shame in it.”