Winter King

by Carl, Lillian Stewart

  Tembujin twitched again, as if Andrion were only an annoying fly and could be flicked away.

  “Your necklace is still in the room below,” said Dana. “I am sorry, I meant to recover it for you. But someday you may have a gross of them.”

  The corners of Andrion’s mouth pinched themselves white. She realized too late that those words were not the ones he wanted.

  The sun faded and the room was filled with soft-silvered twilight. Carousing Khazyari voices boomed through the floor. Andrion and Dana rose and glanced at each other. But the brown eyes and the green shared nothing. Silently Dana cursed her clumsiness in a man-ruled world.

  She turned and peered out the window into the gloomy alley. The horses were tethered beneath. So that was how he had gotten in, standing on one of the horses. Without a backward glance Andrion sheathed his dagger, swung himself out of the window and down. Dana turned for only one moment. Tembujin lay, an indistinct, unmoving lump on the floor, wrapped in sullen silence. Mercy, she thought, is to him worse than death.

  She clambered over the sill, lowered herself to the back of the horse, settled upon it. She and Andrion did not speak while they passed the edge of the town, slipped through the stubbled field, gained the shadow of the woods. A wind chimed through the oak branches and an owl hooted. The west was filled with a crimson light, Bellasteros’s cloak spread over his namesake town. But the town was now only a jumble of pale blotches behind them.

  They turned their horses toward the bridge over the river Jorniyeh. Just beyond lay the Royal Road, forking east to Farsahn and south past Azervineh to Iksandarun. Dana looked at Andrion, a tight, unbending shape mantled in darkness. Did I ever think, she asked herself, that it would be easy to love a man? Her hand reached toward him and fell back, empty.

  His hand touched his throat. Nothing was there. The rhythm of the horses’ hooves played a counterpoint to the wind that lit the stars.

  Chapter Twelve

  Andrion rode in a spiky carapace, brooding on his impotence. The darkness was an encompassing mantle, he thought, smothering him with the amused tolerance of the gods. The night should be lashed by a storm, claps of contemptuous thunder, lightning bolts like arrows of anger. But the gods ignored his weakness—Dana ignored his weakness—with a mocking indulgence.

  Slightly strangled, Dana called, “Andrion, was it my fault?”

  “No.” It was my own jealousy, he thought. Not only the banal canker of lovesickness, but jealousy of that chieftain, of his confidence, of his strength, of his power—that he could walk openly through the land his father had bought with blood and pride. Not a canker, but a deep abscess.

  “Andrion,” said Dana, as tautly as if trying to channel her words into another language to explain herself to this man. “I laughed then, at the inn, because what Tembujin said about breaking in new stock; do you not see, it was what you said about stealing the innocence of a general’s daughter. You were compassionate, and he arrogant, but still I was struck by the similarity between you.”

  “I am not like that barbarian,” Andrion snapped. He glanced back, but her face in the darkness was closely guarded, unreadable. “You did nothing. I lowered my guard.”

  She muttered testily, “A woman outside the borders of Sabazel is expected to do nothing.”

  Andrion hated her. As a Sabazian she was aloof from the struggles that consumed him, free of his search for confidence and power; to her he was the pair of that animal Tembujin. How could she say that name so calmly? Andrion guided his horse around a great oak tree whose branches coiled almost to the ground, whose shadow writhed across the Road, resenting the twilight that would consume it. My blood, Dana, he thought, spilled on the earth of Sabazel; my pride trampled into the dust at Bellastria, where my parents first met.

  The last of the sunlight faded, the stars spread across the vault of the sky, distant, implacable lights. Andrion turned his face upward, appealing to the night.

  And he thought brutally, Yes, I am the same as the barbarian. He has, and I seek, a power Dana does not need. Always she has seen the strengths of men eddy about Sabazel, but Sabazel disdains any power save that of Ashtar.

  He seized the self-control that befitted his father’s son. “I meant no insult, Dana.”

  “I know,” she replied. Her features softened, and once more she struggled with that strange, unaccustomed tongue. “I, like my mother and my grandmother before me, must pay the price of loving men.”

  “These men help to preserve Sabazel. Is it so hard, then, to love?”

  Her reply was a humorless laugh. “Forgive me, Andrion.” Dana leaned from her horse to touch his extended hand. Another barrier was burned. What new one would arise, Andrion wondered, and when?

  The bridge lay before them, arches of stone leaping from bank to bank of the Jorniyeh. The river was black liquid shadow. A mist lay on the water, wavering uncertainly in the wind, and the water whispered through the arches as if weeping softly. At this end of the bridge was the still-smoking shell of a guard post. The bodies of the guards were blotches in the night, clumps of darkness tufted with black-barbed Khazyari arrows; shocked eyes were only points of phosphorescence.

  Andrion turned away from those arrows. Dana reined in her horse but he motioned her on. “We cannot stop to bury them; the Khazyari might well ride after us.” And to the soldiers, “Forgive us what we owe you all.” As they hurried across the bridge, they heard no sound except the murmur of the wind in the reeds and willows lining the river and the quiet sobbing of the river itself. The mist reached upward, flowing over the parapet. They broke free of its grasping fingers.

  Farsahn lay ahead, and Sardis. Andrion’s vision leaded the panes of his mind, vivid and bright; the great ziggurat of Harus, and the tomb of Gerlac, and the sword—his father’s sword—the sword of Daimion. I shall return the sword to you, Father, he thought. The Empire is in dire straits, and needs your firm hand . . . But he knew that firm hand was gone. It must now be his own that raised Solifrax.

  The smooth, hard-packed dirt and flagstones of the Road were a ribbon unfurling before them, beckoning them on.

  * * * * *

  The Khazyari moved implacably north, long wings of mounted troops leisurely raking the land. The barbarian army passed some deserted villages and caravanserais; other settlements disgorged clots of frightened people flocking forward with cries of obeisance. Baakhun, basking in victory, extracted tribute from them and allowed them to live. But the pickings were slender in these still ailing lands, and the Khazyari quarreled like jackals over their kill.

  A dim, clouded twilight promised a dark night when Sita emerged from Tembujin’s yurt and stood, a solitary figure under the standard with the white feathers. The other women of the prince’s household had set up the shelter and then dispersed throughout the camp, looking for better sport than one lonely girl; not even a guard stood outside the doorway, since the odlok himself was gone.

  Sita clasped her hands protectively and watched the sun plunge into a retreating mass of storm clouds. The west was red, like the red of her father’s cloak, fading and dying. The stars were muted by shadow, unattended by any moon. The sounds of the camp—voices, piping music, the grunts of animals—seemed muffled by a curtain of uncertainty.

  Toth hovered nearby, the dusk concealing his withered face and uncannily bright eyes. As Sita crumpled onto the spread Mohendra carpet, he reached out consolingly, but figures moved around the fires that burned before the evil image of Khalingu, and he stopped, wary.

  Odo danced before the image, amulets jangling on his hairless chest, flames reflected in his swart face, singing in cracked falsetto a prayer of lust and greed. Vlad squatted, holding the offering trays, mouth hanging open in anticipation. A goat squawked and died; in the rushing torrent of light and shadow, the many armed shape of Khalingu seemed to shift and reach forward, pointed tongue curling to lap at the blood. The gathered crowd sighed in satisfaction. Vlad giggled.

  Baakhun lumbered unsteadily from the
mass of people. They bowed and murmured fealty. He saluted them all with his drinking skin and drank again. Raksula was a ferret-thin shadow at his side, Hilkar a wisp of darkness an arm’s length behind her.

  Sita shrank into an inconspicuous huddle. Words drifted to her ears, and she studied them, understanding them. “. . . how Tembujin is faring in the north, so close to our enemies?” Raksula was saying.

  Baakhun grunted. “He should be returning soon.”

  “Yes, he should; but he is so independent, so proud. What does he do all this time, far away to the north, close to the armies of the Empire?”

  “Proud,” repeated Baakhun. “He is too independent and proud.”

  Raksula’s eye fell upon Sita’s bowed head. “And he would not leave you his prize, as a loyal son would.”

  “Ah.” Baakhun said. Attracted by the faint gleam of copper hair, a reflection of the sunset’s embers, he staggered into a sudden turn and bent over Sita. “Ah,” he boomed in common speech, “red hair alone. Come, we play.” He sloshed the drinking skin before her, fanning her with his fetid breath. She gagged, contained herself, shrank even farther.

  “Look up, pretty girl,” Baakhun ordered. He fumbled at her chin.

  Reluctantly she raised her face. It was glistening pale, not reflecting the ruddy light of the fires or the sunset, but some distant silver gleam. Raksula’s brows shot up. “Are you ill?” she demanded.

  The shadow that was Toth shifted uneasily. The shadow that was Hilkar emitted a gasp of recognition, quickly quelled.

  Sita’s eyes darted to the side, saw Hilkar, saw his expression. She became even paler. Raksula turned and snarled at the man, sending him scurrying away. He almost collided with Toth. For a long moment the two stared at each other, Hilkar’s jowls flapping, Toth’s translucent eyes steady and unblinking. Then Hilkar quailed and darted into the night.

  Someone called Baakhun. He sighed, tweaked Sita’s breast, tugged her hair; he stalked heavily away, like an elemental molded of the earth itself. Raksula coiled down beside Sita and peered closely at her. Sita averted her face, but it was too late. “So,” Raksula hissed, in a long release of breath and inspiration, “you are pregnant.”

  Sita swallowed and knotted her hands in her lap.

  “You are not pleased to bear the child of such as Tembujin.” The name, on her lips, was a curse.

  Sita’s eyes flicked suddenly to Raksula’s face, wary and yet fascinated, a bird enspelled by a snake.

  Raksula’s talon-like fingers jabbed at Sita’s belly. “You would like to rid yourself of this small parasite.”

  Something small, frightened, and yet malevolent moved in the depths of Sita’s lapis lazuli eyes.

  “When you hate the fine arrogant odlok enough,” Raksula crooned, “come to me. Bring me some part of his body, a nail clipping perhaps, and I shall cast his spawn from you.”

  Sita’s eyes crossed, unfocused. With a rustle of her skirts Raksula was gone, leaving only her words to shift in the breeze like some provocative charm. Then the words were gone, and the breeze as well, and the stars melted across a damp sky. But Sita did not move, did not blink.

  Toth rushed forward and fell to his knees before her, hands extended to shake her awake. “What did she say to you, child?”

  Sita started and looked around her, unsure for a moment just where she was. “Hilkar recognized me,” she whispered.

  “Do not fear that worm. Fear Raksula.”

  Sita’s hands held her belly as if Raksula’s touch had seared through her flesh to her womb. If she heard him, she did not reply.

  * * * * *

  The new city of Farsahn rose upon the rubble of the ancient one. Raw bricks and stone, thatched roofs and tiled ones; tall, fast-growing poplar trees stood high upon their mound, as if eyeing the horizon for invaders. But Sardian invaders had freed it from the old imperial dynasty, and the northern provinces flourished, safe between mountain and sea.

  An encampment lay outside the gates, ordered rows of tents and wagons and neat wooden buildings dozing under a late afternoon sun. Andrion squinted at it as he and Dana left a guard post and followed a sentinel up the Road. Those were the legions wounded in battle? Those were the huddled refugees from Khazyari greed? Nikander had done well.

  But then, he had always done well. One of Bellasteros’s legionaries before Iksandarun twenty years before, he was now third behind Patros and Aveyron. Second, Andrion corrected himself, for Aveyron was dead. Death scoured every familiar landscape.

  They met crossed spears and a challenge. Their escort passed them on. And there was Nikander himself, attended by scribes and staff, inspecting a freshly raised palisade when many officers would have retired for the evening meal.

  “My lord,” called the guard. “Andrion, the emperor’s heir, is here.”

  Nikander and his staff, a cluster of faces glinting with sweat, turned like sunflowers to Andrion. The grimy soldiers levering a log into place quickly laid the log back down and squatted in the dirt, grateful for whatever respite this youth, prince or no, could bring. A wind hummed down the taut blue dome of the sky.

  “My lord Nikander.” Andrion called. He saluted, then extended his hand. Dana hung back, looking surreptitiously about her, ignoring the curious glances bent upon her by officer and legionary alike.

  Nikander raised his hand, wiped it on his tunic, firmly clasped Andrion’s. The proconsul’s long neck protruded from his light cuirass, seeming barely strong enough to support his helmeted head; his lips were thin and tight, his eyes hooded by bushy brows. His glance moved deliberately across Andrion’s face and form, inspecting his lashes, his beard, his brooch shaped like the spread wings of a falcon. He seemed to sense in the features of this youth some veneer of Bellasteros’s face and manner, some echo of Bellasteros’s strength.

  His thought resolved, he spoke. “Welcome, my lord.”

  Nikander reminded Andrion of a great sea turtle, slow to move, but once roused, crushing any opposition. “Thank you.” He smiled. “May I present Dana, a Companion of the queen of Sabazel.”

  The turtle nodded. Dana nodded, her eyes dancing, amused perhaps at the contrast of this stolid general and Andrion’s mercurial self.

  As they turned into the encampment, Nikander signaled almost imperceptibly to a centurion, and the man hurried off. The proconsul then began to report the messages that had recently passed through Farsahn. Andrion only half heard the imperturbable drawl; his mind leaped ahead, finishing each sentence and gauging its significance. Patros had sent word by faithful Miklos to leave only hidden sentries in the valley of the Jorniyeh and beyond, lulling the Khazyari into underestimating imperial strength. Nikander had sent Miklos on to Ilanit, suggesting that she do the same in the small land of Sabazel. I am the least competent of them all, Andrion thought glumly. Patros, Ilanit, Nikander, even Miklos, they do not need me; it is my father who deserves to lead them . . .

  He should tell Nikander the extent of Bellasteros’s wound, he thought, but he could not bring himself to speak the words.

  Shouts and the frenzied neighing of a horse echoed through the evening. Andrion turned and was transfixed.

  Soldiers scattered like leaves driven before a wind, the exasperated centurion waving his arms futilely. A magnificent black stallion plunged after, teeth bared, hooves lashing out. The reins of his halter dragged in the dust.

  The horse stopped, dancing, shaking his head. The soldiers, with sheepish glances at Nikander’s dour face, cautiously circled the animal. The horse’s sides glistened, ebony polished with a patina of red, in the slanting rays of the sun. His rolling eyes were somehow amused; he feinted at the soldiers, his tail and mane floating, and the men scattered again. In spite of himself, Andrion could not help but be reminded of the Khazyari chieftain, Tembujin, teasing the people of Bellastria with his power. He realized he was holding his breath in awe. He exhaled, and the wind stirred.

  Nikander said, “I was given the beast in tribute. I saved it for you, a gif
t from Farsahn to the heir of the Empire.”

  The horse reared, hooves slicing the air. So, Andrion said mutely to the old turtle, you give me a chance to prove myself before my father’s veterans. Or do you test me on your own behalf?

  Nikander’s seamed face did not change expression. He leaned on his saddle bow. Dana opened her mouth, thought better of speaking, closed it.

  The proconsul’s motives did not matter. “My thanks,” Andrion said, and he grinned. This horse was the mount for a warrior. This was a familiar worthy of the man he should be. He dismounted and walked toward him, drawn by his beauty and strength. The gathered soldiers and civilians parted before him, their murmuring voices only notes in the humming of the wind.

  The great horse shied, snorting. His eyes were as dark as Andrion’s own, flickering with intelligence. “So,” Andrion said softly to him. “You are surrounded by strangers, and choose to strike rather than run away. Good. We understand one another.”

  The horse’s ears flicked. He snuffled at Andrion’s shoulder. The animal’s scent was strong in his nostrils, its presence fanning a desire in him he had only realized a moment ago he could feel.

  A wind pealed down the sky. A falcon coasted high above Farsahn and the gathering people. The sun was a brilliant circle of fire, a shining shield set against the horizon. The shadows of tree and building and man lay like offerings to the coming night. “Ventalidar,” Andrion whispered to the horse, naming him. “Ventalidar, come to me.” Andrion laid his hand on the animal’s neck. He shied, though not violently, and allowed Andrion to grasp the reins. A murmur, quickly quelled, ran through the crowd.