ASHTHERA: Come out and speak the next lie, and the next. I know. I will. Give me a little time. I have to learn to walk. My little truth was light, no burden, but lies are lead. I can hardly get up off the ground. Weak-kneed. Unkingly. Even the king’s wife looks contemptuous.
TASSALIL: That’s not true.
ASHTHERA: See how they breed, the lies? Like flies!
TASSALIL: I am not contemptuous! How could I be? I’ve never understood you — you know that. You’re beyond my reach. I was a child in a fortress in the mountains. Hunters, soldiers, horses, falcons, hounds. A red stag gutted by the fire in the snow, the horned men dancing on midwinter’s day, the old women chattering by the hearths. And all the talk was food, and blood, and hides, and hunts, and raids. And there were always the mountains and the forests and the snow, nothing else, and that was all I knew, when I came here. When I came here ten years ago, to you, and to the sunlight, and the gold, and the silk, and the roses in the gardens, and the flowering trees in sunlight, to you, to marry you. What did I know about kindness then? or patience? or peace? What did I know of strength, but swords? What did I know of truth, but words? What true man did I ever know, but you? You are my truth.
ASHTHERA: (after a pause) What a relief shame is….
Their hands meet.
TASSALIL: Did you sleep last night?
ASHTHERA: I heard the watchmen call all night. I heard every dog in Aremgar. I heard the mice making love.
TASSALIL: Sleep for an hour now.
ASHTHERA: I must see that messenger.
TASSALIL: King Kammin’s messenger can wait. He can wait in hell. Sleep for a while. I’ll bring my harp.
She goes out. Ashthera stands up and stretches, stares a moment at the tapestry, lies down on the cot. Tassalil returns with a small, heavy-framed harp and sits on the floor beside the cot, tuning the strings.
TASSALIL: Shiros has learned to play the Apple Dance, and Tammad sings with her.
ASHTHERA: Let me hear them tonight.
TASSALIL: This peg’s loose.... (She spits on the peg and rubs the saliva into it.) Who’s this man my women call the Silver Man?
ASHTHERA: Romond, he calls himself. A traveller. Travels very light, no burdens; a very practical man.
TASSALIL: Where does he come from?
ASHTHERA: From beyond the Mountains of the Moon, he says. From a country where they have no king.
TASSALIL: Barbarians.
ASHTHERA: There’s no need to have a king if each man acts as a king. Freedom is the mother of order, he says.
TASSALIL: Order is the mother of freedom. Why do you hold your kingship cheap, Ashthera?
ASHTHERA: Because I have better things to do.
TASSALIL: The forest.
ASHTHERA: Yes, the forest. But don’t worry. I’m on the leash now.
He closes his eyes, lying relaxed. Tassalil tests her instrument with a run of arpeggios.
ASHTHERA: Tassalil, listen. Your father wants Hantammad at his court. He should go there, since he’s going to be Prince of the North. Will you take Shiros there too, and live there, till I come back from the East?
TASSALIL: Go back to my father’s court — back to Jogen?
ASHTHERA: The North is half our children’s heritage. Tammad will be prince there, when Shiros is queen. Besides… Jogen is a good fort.
TASSALIL: You think the war might come to Aremgar?
ASHTHERA: (closing his eyes again) I’d give odds on it. Five to three.
TASSALIL: Harish says we’ll have no trouble driving Kammin back to his own border. Or farther if we want.
ASHTHERA: I wouldn’t bet on that....Once you start to beat the drum, how do you stop the dancing?
TASSALIL: I’ll take the children north. There; it’s because the frame’s warped.
She retunes one string, and plays, and presently sings softly to her playing:
TASSALIL’S SONG
O come my king!
I dance beside the river,
I see the river flow.
I will dance life over,
I will dance death forever.
I sing, I sing
The name I do not know.
In love’s name I destroy.
I am danced by joy.
I sing, I sing
O come my king!
Part Two: King Kammin’s War
At the Gates of the Palace Compound in Aremgar.
The slanting sunlight of early summer morning is full of people and animals, dust and bustle; the air rings with excited and cheerful voices. If you were sitting up over the gates of the compound in the little guard-tower you would be able to make out that over to the right a packtrain is making ready to set out, and to the left some kind of military expedition, both horse and foot, is beginning to pull itself together. Everybody gets in each other’s way, including the large crowd of citizen onlookers and their children. Trumpets snarl, a troop of armed horsemen pass down a cross-street at the gallop; townsfolk scramble out of the way and cheer. All sounds are clear, all colors bright, all movements lively.
Tassalil, dressed for travel, rides out of the gates on a big horse; Shiros and Hantammad, excited, trying to be dignified, come after her on ponies. The packtrain of horses and fine white mules, all in good trim and gear, festive with ribbons, is ready to go. Ashthera rides past the gate on a dapple grey mare; he wears leather breeches and jerkin, a light bronze breastplate. He swings off his horse and goes to the children. Hantammad sits very erect on his fat pony. Their farewell is self-consciously manly and restrained: the boy stoops almost unwillingly for a formal kiss on the forehead. Ashthera turns to Shiros. They begin their farewell with the same reserve, but when Ashthera kisses her forehead Shiros throws her arms about him, and he hugs her. The child is in tears and he talks tenderly to her; their voices are lost in the noise of the crowd, and only once can her words be heard clearly for a moment.
SHIROS: I will. Father —
Again he reassures her, again they embrace; she straightens up in the saddle, mindful of her duty as princess. Ashthera goes to Tassalil and stands by the saddle, his hand on the silver-decked bridle of her horse. Again what they say to each other is lost in the jingle of harness, the shouting of commands to man and beast, and the general commotion. Tassalil stoops so that their heads are close together. Their hands part. Very erect in the saddle, Tassalil guides her horse to a space held open in the middle of the packtrain, Shiros and Hantammad following. Shouts, whipcracks, neighing and braying, a peacock flies screaming from under the feet of the horses, and the packtrain is under way, heading north through the city streets. The crowd cheers for the queen, children run alongside the procession. As Ashthera, at the gate, turns away alone for a moment, courtiers are already closing in on him: Batash, Kida, and others. Romond stands aside, inside the gate, watching. Harish Ashed rides up on a stocky, hairy warhorse, shouting.
HARISH: Have they left for the North yet? I was at the barracks—
And seeing the dust of the packtrain down the wide street, he canters after it, still shouting.
HARISH: Hey, clear the way there! Hey! Tammad! Can’t you wait to say goodbye to your uncle!
Smiling now and talking, Ashthera goes past the gates, walking between Fezat and Batash.
ASHTHERA: I want the gardens kept up, but the whole east wing may as well be closed.
They come to his grey horse, held for him by a young soldier; he embraces Batash with emotion and affection. He mounts. Fezat mounts his bay and with a flourish of the hand goes off at a trot to find his troop. Ashthera wheels his horse and for a time is lost in the milling confusion as the army of the InnerLand sorts itself out to go to war. Men are coming together into troops, cavalry beginning to form ranks. In the bright slanting light full of dust the confusion begins to make sense: the army is on the move, heading east: cavalry with banners, high-backed saddles on small, spirited, unshod horses, leather-jacketed riders with bow, quiver, and lance; foot soldiers, armed with sword, pike, lance,
or bow, with leather shields and helmets, not in uniform and not marching in step; supply wagons pulled by mules and by big white oxen. The people of Aremgar line the way, children, women, old men, smiling, cheering, waving. As the vanguard of the army passes the GreatTemple the king is seen riding under long banners, in breastplate and helmet of bronze, with his brothers and Harish Ashed, leading the horse troops. In the courtyard of the temple the priests and priestesses bow down deeply as he passes, all but one who, in dusty clothes, grimacing, in trance, dances wildly on the temple steps, spinning and stamping and turning, arms outstretched and hands as if holding hollow spheres; she seems almost falling from exhaustion, but dances on. The footsoldiers now coming past the temple turn to look at her. A drum in the ranks starts up a lively beat and the foot soldiers drop more or less into the rhythm of the march. A flute begins a tune and the soldiers pick up the song and belt it out:
O what did your grandmother say to the sheriff?
Go and pick me a rose, a rose.
O what did your grandmother say to King Kammin?
Go home and pick your nose, your nose,
Go home and pick your nose!
The morning sunlight makes a glory of the dust and the banners rising out of it, as they go on out of the city, singing.
The March of the Army of the Kingdom to the East.
In the broad light of summer afternoon they are passing a dark forest, in a deep lane: through summer weeds on the top of the bank one would see the faces of helmeted riders, Ashthera, Bolhan, Fezat laughing, Harish Ashed yawning, and horses’ ears flicking, and the plumes on bridles, tops of wagons, lances, spearpoints passing, and hear the noise of marching feet and accoutrements jingling and voices talking and the drum softly beating the rhythm of “What did your grandmother say. ...“
The Encampment of the Army of the Kingdom.
In late evening of a hot summer day, in flat grasslands, around the king’s pavilion cookfires and tents are scattered out in a broad circle. Sentinels pass, moseying along. The horses are picketed in long lines; the humped white oxen lie chewing their cud. The king’s pavilion is open to the air on three sides. The group nearest the one canvas wall is engaged in serious drinking. They have pillows and some folding campstools. Under the propped-up front flap of the tent the gamblers sit cross-legged in a large circle, their faces half lit by flickering candle-lanterns. Their dice are not cubical but twelve-sided, with symbols not dots, and some blank facets. The game is intense, with taut silences broken by enigmatic, low-voiced statements:
DICE PLAYERS: Four tigers.
That’s eight and eighteen.
One sword to the king.
Silence again; the rattle and roll of the dice; faces peer to see them fall. Then Ashthera’s face, laughing, and a general laugh as he rakes in the stake — small, crude gold coins.
A DICE PLAYER: Damn, he’s done it again!
Ashthera replaces the coins in the circle of lantern light.
ASHTHERA: Double stakes?
DICE PLAYERS: Done!
Double!
Throw!
From the wagons nearby a woman’s voice rises in a scream that dies off into a swooning laugh. The drinkers and the gamblers look up and laugh or grin, and go back to the dice or the leather bottle passing from hand to hand.
Images of the War in the East.
Darkness, and the woman’s voice rising now into a terrible, prolonged scream: and men’s voices shouting hoarsely, and horses neighing, and drums beating frantically. Out of darkness the first image:
A horse’s bloodstreaked belly and legs as it rolls. It gets up and starts off wildly, then drops to a walk, carrying an empty saddle and dragging reins.
A cavalry charge seen at some distance, left to right, across plowed lands, clods flying, the horses laboring, crows frightened up cawing overhead.
Harish Ashed on his heavy horse, plumes flying, at full gallop and close by, right to left, roaring —
HARISH: This way! follow me! This way!
He swings his sword over his head to bring his troop after him. He keeps turning in the saddle to look for them.
Hand to hand combat with short swords, footsoldiers in armor of leather, wood, and bronze; the fighting is ugly, awkward, cautious, desperate. There is no way to tell which soldier is on which side, except that some of them wear a crude hawk figure on helmet or shield.
Farm buildings and hayricks on fire, horses running in the night.
Rainclouds over a low swell of land, a grey day; the enemy army attacks, a dark swarming of men and horses coming straight across the land at us.
Rain. Rain beating on bloody ground, making mud. A glimpse of the corpse of a child, naked and half sunk in mud.
Images of the Retreat and Invasion.
Rain in the forest. Ashthera’s face under a dripping leather cap- helmet, under dark, dripping trees, intently following something on a map which Fezat is holding.
FEZAT: If they break through here at the ford, we’ll have to pull back behind these hills.
ASHTHERA: Right. Better send the wagons back now.
Cavalry in heavily forested, hilly country: men lead the horses, left to right, struggling to make their way through trees and underbrush. Harish Ashed brings up the rear, looking haggard, with several days’ growth of beard, glancing back over his shoulder continually.
A winter day. Snow patchy on the ground. In similar forest country, a cavalry party led by the king crosses a shallow creek at full gallop, left to right. Ashthera swings his horse around and returns to the ford; he waits there, gesturing the men onward patiently till the last one is across and riding up the wooded hill. A larger party of cavalry, wearing the hawk emblem, break from the woods on the left, and Ashthera sets his heels to his horse and rides breakneck after his men, laughing wildly, while the enemy pursue.
Plum blossoms nod in the spring wind. A village burns: blue smoke rises peacefully.
Full, bright sunlight on a town under siege. Townsfolk crowd out the western gate with bundles, carts, chickens, children, an old scolding bejewelled woman in a litter, dogs, goats, cows, a scared girl of fifteen carrying a kitten. In the town streets, soldiers are running. At the eastern wall, at a breach in the wall, fighting, assaults. On a rise outside the eastern wall a mounted troop in close array comes at the canter, and draws up on the hilltop to watch the taking of the town. One face is seen close for a moment in profile, watching steadily, a firm, heavy face under a hawk- crowned helmet: King Kammin. Then a different face: Fezat’s, white, staring without seeing, against stones splattered with blood, in the bright sunlight.
The Palace in Aremgar in autumn. The gardens are neglected, unkempt; leaves blow across the ponds, the fountains are dry.
The gates of the Palace in Aremgar in autumn rain and wind. A packtrain is ready to set out, but this time there is no fine harness, no loaded carts, no crowd. The wide streets are deserted. The servants and riders work hurriedly. Kida and Romond are already mounted. Batash comes puffing from the palace compound with a coffer, which he makes a servant stuff into one of the mules’s packloads.
KIDA: Come on, Batash!
With help from an old servant, Batash mounts his horse. A boy runs past down the street, shouting.
BOY: They’re at the Eastern Gate! The enemy king! At the Eastern Gate!
Romond looks around with interest to see if he can see the enemy. Kida is very nervous.
KIDA: Come on, come on! Get moving, there!
The servants, alarmed, are already whipping up the packhorses and mules, and the train sets off hurriedly through the empty, windy streets, going northward.
The Throne Room of the Place in Aremgar.
A cool, grey daylight in the beautiful room, which stands empty.
King Kammin enters with an escort of fifteen or twenty men, all in well-worn battle gear. They look about them in silence. Kammin gazes at the throne; then, with some effort and selfconsciousness, he mounts the dais, pauses to examine or pretends to
examine the inlaid arms of the throne, and at last turns and seats himself, while his men grin and applaud by slapping their sword-sheaths or striking their fist into their hand.
KAMMIN’S MEN: Long live King Kammin! Long live! Long live!
Part Three: Jogen
The Approach to Jogen.
It is a winter day in the mountains. The peaks are hidden by freezing mist, which crawls down every slope and canyon. Through ice-coated branches of underbrush the rocks of a steep streambed appear fantastically covered with ice, the falls like curtains of stalactites. At some distance down the stream-gorge, indistinct in the mist, a small troop of men is slogging along, going uphill. One of them is being helped to walk by another. They look animal-like, crouching, insignificant in this vast landscape. They disappear in the trees and rocks and snow and mist.
Above the gorge the eye looks up to the rocky edges of the gorge, and up farther, higher slopes, snowy and forested, arriving at last at a stone fort high in the mountains: Jogen. The walls are squat and dark above alpine meadows and chasms. It is not a mediaeval castle, but a bronze-age fort. The outer portal is big enough to let a loaded wagon through, closed with massive crosslaid gates, in one of which a narrow door is cut just high enough for one horse or man at a time. This small gate is open to let in a party of four hunters carrying a dead stag. It is closed behind them, and three great log-bars running in hasps are rammed across it.
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