Arrows of the Sun

by Judith Tarr

  He sat a little straighter. The walls about his mind were high and strong, but his head ached in spite of them.

  He knew the pounding of his mother’s siege-engines. Disapproval was too mild a word for her response to the sight of him in the finery of her people. Even Iburan had taken his beard out of its braids and abandoned his kilt for the stifling confinement of a robe.

  He looked like a cave-bear in a coat, vast and ruffled and surly. But he was proper as Asanians thought of it. He was covered in accordance with his rank.

  Maybe Asanians did not feel the heat as other people did. They did not sweat that he could see, or grow faint. They seemed content to stand for hours out of count, not moving, not speaking, not meeting his restless eyes.

  His grace the Regent was in no haste to appear before his emperor. First he must come to the city; then he must be borne through it in his litter; at last he must enter the lord’s palace and be received by the lord, and offered refreshment, and bathed and robed with honor and conducted to the hall. While Estarion sat fasting, sweltering, barely breathing lest he say something unfortunate.

  In Keruvarion at least he would have had a hallful of petitioners to keep him occupied. Here he was given nothing to do but sit.

  It was designed to drive an emperor mad. But he was mage and priest before he was emperor. There were disciplines in which he had too little practice, and exercises of the mind that prospered well enough behind full shields. One of them was to draw all of his self inward save a sentinel behind the eyes, and focus it, and quicken time until movement without was a blur.

  In that shifted time he ran through the Prayers of Passing, first the invocation, then the doxology, then the petition, and at the last the praises. And as the last great singing line sank into the silence of his self, the blur before him slowed, and the world ran level again with his awareness. A wind ruffled the hall. An army marched in upon it.

  The other face of time’s quickening was time’s slowing. Estarion took his leisure to examine the invasion. It was not as numerous as at first it seemed, or so headlong. It was simply determined.

  He knew the livery of the Regent’s guard, armor ornate to uselessness, lacquered and gilded till it rivaled his own finery, and all of it crimson and silver, the colors of his lordship’s house. He knew their master, memory as sharp as a knife in the flesh, prince of seven robes, crimson on crimson on crimson, and the man within them aged cruelly in the years of Estarion’s absence. But the ones who came behind, he did not remember, unless they were the shadows of his dream.

  Cold reason named their kind. Bred warriors. Olenyai.

  Black robes, black hoods, black veils shrouding faces to the eyes. Twin swords, baldricked one on either side. Hands ivory-pale, eyes gold or amber, and none of them taller than any other, and that was small in any country but this; but even that smallness was deadly.

  Asanion had bred its princes for a thousand years and more, for beauty, for subtle wit, for impeccably civilized viciousness. These were its warriors, bred as carefully as princes, reared and trained in secret, forbidden ever to reveal their faces. They were the dogs and slaves of the emperors, the soldiery of its warlords, bought and sold in captains and companies, bound to their lords by oaths and gold and, it was said, deep-woven sorcery.

  Estarion had seen none of them since he came to Asanion. The armed men whom he had seen were men like any other, guards as he knew them in Keruvarion, free men taken into lordly service. There were no wars where he had gone, no emperor but the one, and that was himself. There had been no need of Olenyai.

  He had all he could do to force his eyes away from them, to hold his face still while the Regent performed the nine prostrations of the Asanian homage. His following performed them with him, concerted as a dance. But not the Olenyai. The shadow warriors did not sacrifice vigilance even for the emperor’s majesty.

  The pain behind Estarion’s eyes was near to blinding. He saw as in a broken glass, a thin glittering shard that held a remembered face. “My lord Firaz inShalion Echaryas,” he said. “Well met again, and welcome.”

  “My lord Meruvan Estarion Kormerian Ganimanion iVaryan,” said the Regent, stumbling not even once, “well met at last, and welcome.”

  Tidily put, thought Estarion. He did not remember that he had been fond of this man. One was not fond of Asanian high princes. One hated them, or one admired them, or both.

  This prince was as high as any but the highest, and he paid the price of his blood and breeding. He had been beautiful once as his kind could be. Now he was all gone grey, worn and ravaged with the years. And yet he was younger than the empress, whose hair had not begun to whiten, whose beauty was just coming into its prime.

  They blossom young, said a voice in the deeps of his mind, and they wither soon. They’re all the more deadly for that.

  Memory; but when or where, or who spoke, he could not tell. Nor had he time to hunt it to its source. Lord Firaz was speaking: long elegant phrases of greeting, gladness, judicious flattery. But there was a barb in the tail.

  “My emperor will know that he is now in my domain, under, of course, the imperial majesty. Those of the east who accompany him are freed to return to their places. Henceforth he will prosper in the hands of his western servants.”

  Estarion drew himself up slowly. He cut across a further spate of nonsense, but carefully, in High Asanian as perfect as he could make it. “Is my lord Regent implying that I should send back my escort?”

  “Its task is done,” said the Regent, “majesty. Your majesty’s servants have been sent to your majesty’s chambers. Your majesty’s guard stands before your majesty. Your majesty’s regent—”

  “My servants? My guard?”

  “As your majesty sees.” The Regent’s hand gestured slightly, gracefully. The Olenyai bent their shrouded heads. It was not humility. Not in the least.

  “And if I wish to keep my own people?”

  “These are your majesty’s people.”

  Estarion closed his eyes, opened them again. His mother listened in unmarred serenity. He shot a bolt through the walls of his mind. You knew!

  She inclined her head a fraction. Wait, the gesture said. Be patient.

  He was in no mood for patience. “Suppose,” he said, “that we compromise. I keep my own Guard, and suffer your servants.”

  “These are your guard,” said the Regent.

  “We shall consider this,” Estarion said, “later.” He rose. “You are most welcome in our presence. But the sun approaches its zenith; the heat likewise comes to its height. Be free now until evening. Rest; seek what coolness there may be.”

  o0o

  “That was peremptory,” said the empress. There was no censure in her tone; simply observation.

  “It was scandalous.” Estarion prowled her antechamber. Her servant—as much a northerner as she, and blessedly silent—had rid him of his gauds and cooled him with a cloth dipped in water and herbs.

  The sharp green scent followed him as he paced. At the far wall he spun. “Mother, I’m not going to let him rule me.”

  “Are you clever enough to stop him?”

  “You are.”

  She sighed. “Estarion,” she said, “have you considered that it might be wise to yield? In body only. In spirit you remain yourself.”

  “I won’t wear all those robes in this heat.”

  She frowned, but then, as if she could not help herself, she smiled. Here where only he and Zherin could see, she had yielded to simple sense and discarded her robes. Her beauty was garment enough in his reckoning, that and the pride that never forsook her, even when she slept. “I am not about to abandon you,” she said, “if that’s what you fear.”

  He would not admit that he had. “I don’t want to lose my Guard. Or my squire.”

  “And your court?”

  “They might be happier away from here.” He began to pace again. “Mother, I can send them back. Most of them will be glad to go. But not Godri. And not my warrio
rs.”

  “You do know,” she said, “that under the compact of the empires’ union, the heart of Asanion is Asanion’s own. Firaz is doing no more than his duty—and granting you ample grace in demanding it no sooner than this. He could have met you at the border and not at the gate.”

  “He could have waited till I came to Kundri’j.”

  “He was wise to wait so long, but wiser to come so soon. Easier then for you to accept it, and come to the city in proper estate.”

  “If that’s what he wants, then I’ll ride in like a wild tribesman, and damn him and all his works.”

  Her gaze on him was level. He flushed under it. “Will you, Estarion?” she inquired.

  “No, damn it.” Her doubt stung him; her glance at his kilt and his braids. “Mother, I’m not a complete fool. I’ll behave myself tonight: I’ll even wear a robe. But he has to know that I’m not his puppet. I’ll be as proper as I can be. I’ll promise him no more than that.”

  “And me? Will you promise me to be more circumspect? Here they find it in themselves to endure your outland fancies. Kundri’j Asan endures nothing that is not Asanian.”

  “I’m not Asanian.”

  “You must learn to be.”

  His jaw set against her. “Maybe it’s time they learned to see the world as it is and not as they would have it. The Golden Empire is gone. The Blood of the Lion is here, in me, blackfaced bearded barbarian that I am. I am not ten robes and a wig and a mask. I am living, breathing, human power. And I rule them.”

  “Do you?”

  Testing, always testing. He would hate her if he loved her less. He swooped down, set a kiss on her brow. “Can I do less than try?” he asked her.

  She caught him before he could straighten, and held him with her hands on either side of his face. Her eyes were ages deep. The goddess dwelt in the depths of them. He was light and fire, Sun’s child, bright noon to her deep night, man to her woman, son and emperor as she was mother and queen.

  “My beautiful bright child,” she said. The words were tender, but their edge was fierce. “I’ll never call you wise. But neither will I stop you.”

  “Will you help me?”

  “Only if there’s wisdom in it.”

  “Then I’ll try to be sensible.”

  “Sensible is even rarer than wise.”

  He grinned between her hands. “If I fall short of sense, then maybe I’ll reach wisdom.”

  She cuffed him hard enough to bruise. “Puppy! Go, torment your servants, give me a moment’s peace.”

  17

  The battle royal between Godri and the Regent’s servants was a ladies’ walking-party to the war that Estarion found at the door of his chambers. The scarlet livery of his Guard held the way against the black regiment of the Olenyai. When Estarion came upon them, they were close to drawn swords.

  His temper had, he thought, been holding up remarkably well. But this, after all the rest that he had had to endure, snapped the fragile cord of his patience. Just as a scarlet-liveried hothead went for a little snapping beast in black, Estarion let his temper go. “Hold!”

  His battlefield bellow brought even wild Alidan up short, sword half drawn.

  Estarion drew a very careful breath. “Put away your swords,” he said.

  Alidan obeyed him. The Olenyas glanced at another of his like, his captain maybe. That one lowered lids over yellow eyes. The blade snicked into its sheath.

  Estarion noticed, but he forbore to remark on it. “Now,” he said. “What is this?”

  The Olenyai went still. The Guard burst out in a babble of furious voices.

  Estarion’s hand slashed them into silence, and singled out the decurion of his Guard. “Kiyan. And you—Olenyas. Arc you their captain?”

  “I am captain of this watch,” said the voice out of the veil. A quite ordinary Asanian voice, no power or terror in it. And no title for the emperor, either.

  “Explain this,” Estarion said.

  The Olenyas did not answer at once. Kiyan the decurion said, “Sire, they invaded your chambers, ordered your guards’ dismissal, and informed me, when I came to settle it, that none but they will guard you. Is that so, my lord?”

  “They have orders to that effect,” Estarion said. And as Kiyan opened his mouth to speak: “But not from me. I have a matter or two to settle with the Regent. While you wait for that, let your two commanders come to an agreement. Both companies will guard me. Both, sirs; together and alike.”

  That was not at all to their liking. The Guard scowled; someone snarled. The Olenyai looked as supercilious as eyes could look in faceless masks.

  A long look quelled the scowls. The Olenyai, who being Asanian would not meet his eyes, needed more. Estarion said, “My guards, my Olenyai. You are mine, no?”

  “We are the emperor’s,” their captain said.

  “Just so,” said Estarion.

  He stepped forward. They parted, Olenyai and Guardsmen alike. He escaped to the sanctuary of his chambers. Such as that was, with imperial servants infesting it and Godri brooding balefully in their midst.

  o0o

  Asanian custom permitted an emperor to receive a high lord in private, with no more than a servant or two in attendance. Estarion was careful. He put on the robes the servants chose for him, simple as such things went, inner and outer only, and thin enough almost to be endurable in the heat. He let them comb his hair out of its braids. He arranged himself as they—discreetly, politely, firmly—suggested, in a chair in one of the smaller rooms. It would have been a ghastly cupboard of a place, save that it opened on the garden. A fountain played just beyond, cooling the air and the ear.

  Set up like an idol in a temple, watched over by a glowering pair of guards, bronze-dark narrow-eyed plainsman and black-robed Olenyas, Estarion received the Regent of Asanion. Lord Firaz came in unattended, which marked either very great insult or very great trust; his robes were no more elaborate than Estarion’s, and his manner was much less stiff than it had been in the hall.

  He insisted on a single prostration, but then he let Estarion raise him and set him in a chair a little lower than his own. He sipped the wine that the servant poured: great trust again, not to ask that it be tasted before he ventured it. He even abbreviated the dance of courtesies, restraining himself to a few dozen phrases in praise of the wine, the weather, and the appointments.

  The wine was drinkable, the weather wretched, the appointments no more and no less than they should be; but Estarion did not say so. It was his part to listen, smile inscrutably, murmur inanities.

  After hardly more than a turn of the glass, Firaz approached the meat of the matter. “Your majesty—”

  “Come now,” said Estarion. “We’re kin, or so I’m told. Let me be ‘my lord’ if you insist; or if you can bear it, let me be myself: Estarion.”

  “My lord,” said Firaz. “I rejoice to see you so well reconciled to our ways.”

  “But,” said Estarion, “I am not. I do turn and turn about as my fathers did before me: now of the north, now of the east, now of Asanion. None of them owns me. I belong to them all.”

  “You are in Asanion now,” said its Regent.

  “I had noticed,” Estarion said mildly.

  Firaz took the warning: his nostrils thinned. But he was not one to be daunted by imperial temper. “May I speak freely, my lord?”

  “I would prefer it,” said Estarion.

  The Regent’s eyes widened a fraction. Estarion tasted doubt, and a flicker of respect. “Very well, my lord. If I may say so without risk of grievous injury to your pride or to mine, your exhibition in the hall would not have been well received in Kundri’j Asan.”

  “No?”

  Firaz went on doggedly. “I believe that you knew it, and that you did it for precisely that reason. Are you determined, my lord, to turn this half of your empire against you?”

  “What if I were?”

  “I would understand it,” said Firaz. “I would not condone it.”

&nbs
p; “You don’t think Asanion would be better served if it were rid of its pack of mongrels and upstarts, and an emperor of the pure blood set upon its throne?”

  Firaz astonished Estarion. He laughed. “Should I say yes, and die for speaking treason? Or should I say no, and be hanged for imbecility? My lord, you are the Heir of the Lion. It is written in your face. If your servants are blind, or if they do not know you, then it were best you teach them to see. But not,” he added, “quite so much as we saw in hall this morning.”

  “Why?” asked Estarion.

  “Modesty is not to be explained. It is.”

  “I wasn’t naked.”

  “You were.” Firaz stopped himself. “My lord, I see clearly that you are no fool, nor do you do aught but as you choose. I would venture to ask that when you choose in Kundri’j, you choose the wise man’s portion.”

  “And that is to do as you dictate?”

  “I do not dictate,” said Firaz.

  “Your servants do. They ordered my squire, the chosen attendant of my journey, out of my presence. Your Olenyai had dismissed my Guard, at your command and in defiance of my will.”

  “It was your squire, my lord, who led me here. I see a Guardsman out of Endros and an Olenyas of Kundri’j at your right hand and your left.”

  “I discovered,” said Estarion, “that my titles have a certain worth, even in Asanion.”

  “They are your servants, my lord, and your warriors. They but come to fulfill their duty.”

  “So they do. There will be, I hope, no further objections to my escort or to its disposition.”

  “Will your majesty see fit to indulge Asanian eccentricities in the matter of clothing and of conduct?”

  “That depends upon the eccentricity.”

  “Will your majesty consent at least to observe the fundamental proprieties?”

  “I will not ride in a litter. I will not wear the mask or the wig. I will, if I choose, walk outside of the palace.”

  Firaz paused, perhaps to gather patience. “My lord, will you learn to be an emperor in Asanion?”

  Cruelly hard, that, to ask so direct a question. Estarion was almost minded to be merciful. “If you will teach me, I will learn as I may.”