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.”
Lazlo could have laughed. What would Master Hyrrokkin say if he knew the help that Lazlo had already given the great golden godson? What would everyone say, those scholars who’d mocked him, if they knew a fairy tale had held the key to azoth? When Lazlo had gone to Thyon with his “miracle for breakfast,” it had been so clearly Thyon’s story that he hadn’t even considered keeping it for himself. But . . . this was his story.
He was Strange the dreamer, and this was his dream.
“I do want to help a great man do great things,” he told the librarian. “I want to help Eril-Fane. I want to help the Unseen City.”
“My boy,” said Master Hyrrokkin with deep and gentle sadness, “how could you help?”
And Lazlo didn’t know how, but he knew one thing. He couldn’t help if he stayed here. He watched Eril-Fane bid Thyon farewell. The scene dazzled. Royalty and warriors and spectacular beasts. Eril-Fane stepped a foot up into his stirrup and mounted. Thyon stood beside him, a perfect part of a perfect picture. Some people were born to inhabit such scenes. That was what Master Hyrrokkin believed, and what Lazlo had always been taught. And others were born to . . . what? To stand in the crowd and do nothing, try nothing, say nothing, and accept every serving of bitter nothing as their due?
No. Just . . . no.
“Wait! Please.”