Page 9

“Really,” says Trysta. “Why?”

“So we can read old poetry, mainly.”

“Oh yes. Can you recite any of this Magaar poetry?”

“Not really. I’ve not had much call for it lately. There was one about roses, I liked that, I remember.”

Lyr leans forward. The ale he has drunk has made him feel relaxed and far more confident at the table of these two huge soldiers. “All the Roses Die?” he asks.

Damon laughs. “That’s the one.”

“Sounds like the kind of thing you’d like,” says Trysta. “Dramatic and maudlin. Let’s hear it.”

“From me?” Lyr points at himself.

“Yes,” says Trysta. “Go on. I want to hear this beautiful language that rivals even Plumian.”

“Perhaps Damon would rather. It is his favourite.”

“No please,” Damon says, gesturing with his cup. “You’ll do it justice.”

Lyr nods and closes his eyes for a second, remembering the words of the old rhyme. He recites the first line in the sweet, lilting language of his home. How long has it been since he’s spoken Magaar aloud? Many of the incantations Jareleezi had chanted over his body had been in Magaar, but he hasn’t spoken it himself since he left Klish.

“The roses raise their faces to the sun,” Damon translates as Lyr finishes the first line.

“Almost,” says Lyr softly. His head is swimmy from the ale. “That word, ‘juzu’ means faces but specifically, in Magaar, it means the faces of children. Maybe ‘The roses raise their childlike faces to the sun,’ would be closer, but even then it's not quite right because their faces are literally children, not like the faces of children. ‘The roses raise their faces of children to the sun’ is accurate. It doesn’t sound quite right though.”

Damon watches him with a strange expression on his face. Lyr can’t read it. What is he thinking? Lyr recites the next line.

Damon translates again. Line by line. “All day they drink the sun’s rays like honeywine. But the night must always come. All the roses die in their beds. They never drink the sun when they are dead. Is that right?”

Lyr nods.

“I know it is far more beautiful in Magaar,” says Damon. “But that’s why noble sons learn it. Artemian doesn’t do it justice.”

Trysta nods at them both. “Noble sons learn Magaar so you can read the beautiful words of ancient poetry before you go off to lead the Imperial army to kill.”

Damon laughs. “Yes. With poetry in our hearts.”

Trysta sneers. “Revolting. Is that how it ends? With the roses dead and never drinking honeywine again?”

“In some versions,” says Lyr, “but sometimes there are two more lines.” He recites them in soft, sweet Magaar, the language feels lush, delicious on his tongue. When he’s done, he translates, “It means, Their petals rot into the earth to rest with the Demon King as he sleeps in the soil. Their death is permanent, but his is not. The Demon King will rise.”

“I’ve never heard it with those lines before,” says Damon softly. He gazes at Lyr in the candlelight.

“A twist ending,” says Trysta. “It’s not about roses at all. It’s about demons. Roses and men die forever. But apparently, demon kings do not.” She looks at Damon who is still staring at Lyr. “Does it ruin your favourite poem?” she asks. “To discover that it has a strange ending about the return of the Demon King?”

“I don’t think I have ever liked it quite as much as I do now,” Damon says.

“See, I was quite correct. Prince Atticul has done you a great favour by giving you this pleasure slave,” Trysta says. “He is rather delightful.”

“It was not Aticul’s intention to delight. His intention was only to undermine me and fuel rumours. I’m sure he would like nothing better than to have me arrested for sins of the body the moment I set foot in Azuria.”

Trysta shakes her head. “Your poor foolish brother. He’s so threatened by you.”

“I’m a better soldier than him.”

“You’re a better everything than him. Your father’s oldest and favoured son. And you have been commended by Emperor Selim more than anyone. It’s not hard to understand why Atticul feels threatened by his glory-laden older brother.”