The Rise and Fall of a Dragonking - By Lynn Abbey Page 0,17

sweet fruit the old templar loved was already in the throes of preparation. House Pavek, formerly House Escrissar, the residence that Hamanu had assigned for Pavek’s city use, had been unlocked for the first time in two years. Freemen and women had been hired; Pavek would not be served by slaves. Larders had been restocked, windows had been unboarded, and the rooms were airing out by the time the moons had risen.

Everything would be ready—except Hamanu’s history.

There were no distractions in the cloister, no excuses left unused. There was nothing but this last night before Pavek’s arrival and the sheaf of virgin vellum. With an unappreciated sigh, Hamanu smeared oil on the ink stone and swirled the stylus in a black pool.

He’d thought it would be easy, but he’d never told the whole story, the true story, to anyone—including himself—and, with the stars sliding toward dawn, he still didn’t know where to start.

“Recount,” he urged himself. “Begin at the beginning, in the middle, or at the end, but, at the very least, begin!”

* * *

You know me as Hamanu, the Lion of Urik, King of the World, King of the Mountains and the Plains, the Great King, the Mighty King, King of the World. I am the bulwark of war and of peace wherever I hang my shield.

My generosity is legend… and capricious. My justice is renowned… for its cruelty. My name is an instrument of vengeance whispered in shadows. My eyes are the conscience of my city.

In Urik, I am called god, and god I am, but I did not choose to be anyone’s god, least of all my own.

I was not born immortal, invincible, or eternal.

I was born a human infant more than a thousand years ago, in the waning years of the 176th King’s Age. As the sun ascended in the Year of Dragon’s Contemplation, my mother took to the straw and bore me, the fifth of my father’s sons. She named me Manu, and before my black hair dried, she had wrapped me in linen and carried me to the Gelds, where my kin harvested himali. My father tucked a golden ear between my swaddled hands. He lifted me and the ripened grain toward the sun.

He gave thanks for the gifts of life, for healthy children and bountiful harvests. Without the gifts of life, a man would be forever poor; with them, he needed nothing more.

The women who had attended my mother and followed her to the fields passed around hot himali cakes sweetened with honey and young wine. All my kin—from my father’s father’s mother to a cousin born ten days before me—and the other families of Deche, our village, joined the celebration of a life beginning. Before sundown, all the women had embraced me, that I might know I was cherished. Each man had lofted me gently above his head and caught me again, that I might know the safety of strong hands around me.

I remember this because my mother often told me the story while I was still young and because such were the customs of a Deche family whenever a child was born. Yet, I also remember the day of my birth because now I am Hamanu and my memory is not what it was when I was a mortal man. I remember everything that has happened to me. After a thousand years, most of what I remember is a repetition of something else; I cannot always say with certainty when a thing happened, only that it did, many, many times.

Perfect memory is another portion of the curse Rajaat placed on the champions he created: I am jaded by my memories. Every day, I seek a new experience, one that does not echo endlessly through my past. I delve deeper and deeper into the mire of mortal passion, hoping for a moment I have not lived before, but I was born once, and once only. The memory of that day still shines as bright as the sun, as bright as my mother and father’s faces.

Deche was a pleasant, prosperous place to be a child. It was pleasant because every family was well housed and well fed; my grandfather’s family was the best housed and best fed of all. It was prosperous because the Cleansing Wars had raged since the 174th King’s Age, and armies always need what villages provide: fighters and food.

Deche owed its existence to the wars. My ancestors had followed Myron Troll-Scorcher’s first sweep through the northeastern heartland when the