Arrows of the Sun

by Judith Tarr

  “And you, my lord?”

  “I,” said the Master, “do not approve. But I can understand. I too wish to see what kind of man he has become. He was an engaging child, for a foreigner.”

  “You knew him?” Korusan asked, startled.

  “I guarded him. He coaxed my name out of me, but he never saw my face.”

  “And I have your face but not your name,” said Korusan with careful mildness.

  The Master raised his brows. “What, you do not know? My name is Asadi.” He sighed. “Such nonsense, to conceal one’s name. We never did so before the mages came among us.”

  “Before I came,” said Korusan, “newborn of a mother who died before they took me from the womb, in a flock of mages. Would I know my own true name, my lord, if I had not insisted on it?”

  The Master’s lips twitched. “Perhaps not, my lord Ushayan inMuriaz. But your usename serves you well.”

  “It will serve me in the Golden Palace.”

  “And what of the truth that it embodies? All that any stranger may see of you is your eyes, and those alone suffice to betray your lineage.”

  “I will chance that,” said Korusan. “Some of the Olenyai lines come close enough, and all of us walk faceless. Who will see aught but the veil and the swords, unless I wish him to see?”

  The Master was wavering again toward resistance. Korusan steadied him with a last, strong thrust. “You are the captain of the emperor’s guard. You have named me your emperor. I will enter Kundri’j; I will serve in the palace. Do you refuse me?”

  He looked for anger, or for outraged pride. He received wry amusement: lifted hands, crooked smile. “You know that I cannot refuse my emperor.”

  Korusan looked hard at him, suspicious. “Is this a game you play?”

  “Certainly,” the Master said. “The greatest game of all: the game of kings.” He rose and stretched, supple as a cat. “And it does please me to set a caltrop in the mages’ path. They presume too much, my prince: of you, of all of us.”

  Korusan’s heart eased its hammering. His fever was high still, dizzying him, but his mind was clear on top of it. He smiled slowly. “So they do, my lord. So indeed they do.”

  19

  Kundri’j Asan.

  Estarion said the name to himself in silence, like the silence that rode with him. Even the clatter of hooves on paving stones was muted, the clink of armor among the guards, the snort of a senel as it shied at a dangling pennon. The sky was the color of hammered brass, the heat a living thing, breathing heavy on his neck, and he robed ninefold; not ten, not on his last march, for he was not yet come to the throne, and he would not wear the mask that made the emperor.

  He was mere high prince, then, with his bared face and his nine robes. He cared little for the count of the damnable things, only that he wore them. It was that or wear armor, and he would not come as a conqueror.

  Estarion could not have felt less like an emperor. His body was dripping wet, shoulders and breast and thighs rubbed raw between the weight of robes and the unfamiliarity of the high Asanian saddle.

  He had not inflicted that torment on Umizan. The beast he rode was one of Lord Dushai’s own, placid to torpidity but blessed with a coat the color of pure minted gold.

  Umizan’s contempt for the creature was the only distinct thing in this blurred and sun-battered world. The stallion would have broken his halter when this ride began and taught his rival a lesson, if Estarion had not forbidden and Godri mounted him.

  He could not shed that born rider short of flinging himself down and rolling; and that, even in his fit of temper, he was too sensible to do. He contented himself with flattened ears and horns lowered not quite enough for threat, keeping to the place reckoned proper for the squire who rode him, and stabbing Estarion with darts of acute displeasure.

  I, too, brother, Estarion said to him behind words.

  Ulyai would not even pass the first gate. She tried. She clung as close as Estarion’s idiot mount would allow, from Induverran across the plain to Kundri’j. But as the walls drew closer, her ears went flatter, her tail lashed more fiercely.

  Before the bridge that spanned the river of Asanion, broad brown Shahriz’uan, she halted. Her muzzle wrinkled, baring fangs. She could not bear the scent or the sound or the sense of this city of all the cities in the Golden Empire.

  Her eyes were as close to pleading as an ul-queen’s could ever be: pleading afire with rage. She could not cross the bridge. Not unless he laid his will on her.

  And that, he would not do. Go, he willed her. Be free.

  A yowl escaped her, a cry of protest. She wheeled. Seneldi shied. She broke through them, running swift as a shadow on the grass.

  The last horned idiot veered and skittered. Then she was free. The plain was open before her, her freedom calling. She sped to meet it.

  Estarion’s heart yearned after her. But he was bound by his word and his damnable duty.

  He shifted in the saddle. His mount plodded on. The sun beat down. The city swallowed him.

  o0o

  Nine circles in the circle of the river, Shahriz’uan in its chains of locks and bridges. Nine levels as in the courts of this empire, from lowest to highest, from plain white marble to burning gold. It turned its splendor toward him, its high houses, its thousand temples, its broad plazas and straight ways, even its gardens and its cool places. The walls were hung with banners, the fountains flowing with wine and sweet perfumes, the way paved with flowers or carpeted with richness, priceless rarities to be trampled under hoof and foot.

  He would happier have seen that wealth fed to the people who were not permitted to line the ways, the poor and the sick, the maimed, any who fell short of perfection. They were there: he felt them. There was hunger here, and sickness in this unrelenting heat. Squalor behind the splendor. A reek of dung beneath the heavy scent of flowers.

  The imperial majesty was not to see such things, not to know of them, lest they sully him. His Asanian teachers had not said so in as many words. They knew it, as he knew that majesty must see everything, the dark and the bright, and know the face of death as he knew life. How else could he rule? How else speak for his people in the courts of the god?

  He passed through the nine gates, white marble, black marble, lapis, carnelian, jasper, malachite, ice-blue agate, silver, and last of them all, the innermost, bright gold. It drank the sun’s heat and poured it forth again, a blinding brightness, a fire as terrible as that which burned in his hand.

  His mount halted unbidden. He raised burning hand to burning gate. It did not rock and fall.

  It was only stone sheathed in gold. The sun was only sun, fierce with the breath of summer on Asanion’s plain. His hand was flesh, his arm, his shoulder itching where he could not scratch.

  Laughter welled in him. The Olenyai who rode ahead, the point of the spear, understood at last that he was not behind them. The court in back of him, the Guard, the servants in their multitudes, had begun to knot and tangle.

  He was a great discomfiture to the heart of the Golden Empire. He kicked the senel back into its amble, and passed through the gate.

  o0o

  From Golden Gate to the Gate of the Lion was an avenue of lions, great stone beasts crouched on guard. The gate itself was a frieze of lions on the hunt and in the pride, rearing rampant to form the lintel and the posts. There was a joy in them that struck Estarion strangely in this joyless place, a delight in their play, even a welcome for this lost mongrel child riding under them, into the prison that was the Golden Palace.

  Lord Firaz was waiting beyond the gate, on foot, attended by courtiers in the robes of princes. He greeted Estarion with the nine prostrations and the nine great salutations, less the tenth that was for the emperor enthroned. Then he took Estarion’s bridle and led him inward, pacing slowly, as princes did in the Golden Empire.

  The chain of courts opened and closed before them. In one they left the seneldi. In another, Estarion’s courtiers found themselves polite
ly but firmly directed toward another way than the one on which he was led. In the next, all but the core of his Guard fell back; but the bulk of the Olenyai were kept back as well, and that was a comfort. Lightly guarded, with the Regent ahead of him still, not quite touching him to guide him, he came to the heart of the palace.

  The Sunborn had built the hall of the throne in Endros in the image of this: the Hall of the Thousand Years with its thousand pillars and its roof of gold, wide enough for armies to march in, and a floor of panels inlaid with jewels and gold, that could be lifted up from golden sand and dust of jewels, ruby, sapphire, topaz, emerald. The throne was moated so, behind a black wall of Olenyai.

  In older days the throne had been a great bowl of gold lifted on the backs of golden lions. That did not please its last true-blood emperor. He had had it remade, suffering its lions to stand as they had stood for a thousand years, but setting on their backs a broad chair. Two could sit there on an abundance of cushions, taking their ease, and behind them a marvel of jewelwork: a lion rampant upon the face of a golden Sun.

  Estarion faltered. He had come well-nigh to the wall of Olenyai, hardly marking the glittering ranks of the High Court, aware chiefly of the man who led him and the guards who paced behind, and the throne to which he came.

  It was not the great work of magery that was the throne in Endros, and yet it had its own power. Hirel Uverias had made it to share with his Varyani empress. Their son had sat in it, and their son’s son. Their names rang in his memory. Hirel and Sarevadin, Ganiman, Varuyan, Ganiman. And now, if he did not falter, Meruvan Estarion.

  He was dazzled, or ill with heat. He saw a shadow on the throne, a dark man, dark-eyed, with a sudden, brilliant smile. Not a young man, for he had married late, but still in the prime of his manhood, and gifted with the light bold spirit of his Gileni mother. He bore the weight of robes with easy grace, wore the mask when he must and smiled at it after, and was all the emperor that the Asanians could have wished for. And they killed him.

  The throne was empty. Lord Firaz had just begun to perceive Estarion’s hesitation. Before he could pause or turn, Estarion finished the stride he had begun. Briefly he wondered if the Olenyai would hold the way against him. But they parted smoothly, with no sign of reluctance.

  Lord Firaz halted at the foot of the dais. Estarion must mount alone. One waited beside the throne, prince of seven robes with a face as like to the Regent’s as a brother’s or close cousin’s, and in his hands, upheld with the barest hint of waver, the tenth robe, the emperor’s mantle, woven of silk and gold.

  It was as heavy as worlds. How the Asanian had borne it, Estarion could not imagine. He was a small man even for one of his kind, and yet he laid the mantle about Estarion’s shoulders, hardly trembling with the effort, and secured it, and sank down in obeisance.

  It was not Estarion’s part to raise him, still less to thank him. He backed down the steps and past the Olenyai, into the first rank of princes.

  Estarion stood erect in front of the throne, though the mantle’s weight strove to bow him down. The court lay flat to a man, all but the Olenyai, black motionless stones among the pillars of the hall.

  Then at last Lord Firaz came up. He held the mask, the dreadful golden thing that Estarion had refused. It glittered in his hands. Blind eyeless face, Asanian to the last graven curl of its nostril, and beautiful in the way of these people: broad low brow, full cheeks, straight nose, lips that seemed as soft as a girl’s.

  It was all smooth curves, no planes, no angles. It grew no beard. It never aged or scarred, or suffered the shame of a flaw.

  Estarion reached, startling the Regent, capturing the mask. It was gold, and heavy, and despite the heat of the air it was cool. He lifted it. Its eyes were narrow windows on a world gone strange. Olenyai backs. The clean line of a pillar. A lord still prostrate, hair thinning on his skull, sadly exposed within the circle of his coronet.

  Estarion lowered the mask before it touched his face. He kept it in his hands as he sat, giving in at last to the weight of his robes. Lord Firaz had recovered himself. Estarion could not tell whether he approved, or whether he chose to take the bargain he was given.

  He spoke in a clear, strong, trained voice, words as numerous as the grains of sand under the paneled floor; but all of them came simply to this: “Behold, lords of the Golden Courts. Behold your emperor!”

  o0o

  It was no more terrible than receiving homage from the throne of Endros. Estarion had not expected that. His back grew tired; his rump protested the long hours of sitting. Worse was hunger, but thirst was worst of all. This was a test of imperial hardihood, to bring him straight from the road into the hall, and set him down without food or drink or pause to rest, and compel him to accept the full homage of the High Court.

  But he had done almost as much in Keruvarion, coming to audience from the hunt or the practice-field, forgetting to send for wine or water, and laboring till dark over matters of state. His mother was not here to call him away, nor did a servant creep up behind with a filled cup. That was not done in Kundri’j Asan. The emperor must not appear to be a human man, with a man’s needs of the body. He did not even join in banquets, although his son and heir might do so.

  Peculiar logic, Estarion thought, considering how many feasts he had suffered on his journey here. Then he had been the Varyani emperor, but not yet full lord of Asanion. Now that he would have welcomed a cup of water as a gift from heaven, he was forbidden anything but homage.

  A weaker man would faint, or call a halt to the ordeal. Estarion refused. He received the respects of every lord in that hall, singly and in companies, father or eldest brother with all his sons and brothers and cousins and hangers-on, each of whom must be named to the imperial majesty, and his place affirmed, his authority made certain by the emperor’s decree.

  There was none who came as that lord had come to the throne of Endros, defiant out of turn. Nor did his lordship appear among the princes of five robes. Estarion was cravenly glad. These Asanians were making the best of the emperor they had. They did not afflict him with hostility, nor did they try visibly to shame him.

  The emperor did not speak at the giving of homage, which was a mercy. His Regent spoke for him, or his Voice if he had one. Firaz did duty for both. He said all that an emperor should say, in phrases as elegant as they were politic. No insults there, that Estarion could discern; no errors in the thousand shades of inflection.

  He could grow accustomed to this. The knowledge chilled him. So many years, so many battles, so much hatred of Asanion and Asanians, and he sat here, surrounded with them, and he accepted it. Worse than that: he knew that he was born for it.

  Maybe it was a poison. Or a mage’s trick; though the ache in his head was for his empty stomach, and not for the touch of sorcery.

  The last princeling came, made his obeisances, withdrew. Estarion sat unmoving, but no one else came forth. He was to rise, then. Stiff, struggling not to sway. The hall stretched endless in front of him. He must walk the length of it, mantled if not masked.

  He could not do it. It was nearly sunset; he had not eaten or drunk since before dawn. He was drained dry.

  He essayed a step. He did not fall. Another. It bred another.

  Like Asanians in their harems, spawning sons. That made him want to laugh, dizzily, weak with fasting. And was that a fast, then, this mere day’s stretch? He had gone thirsty three days running in the cause of his priesthood, and fasted longer, until his body was a light and singing thing, and his soul stood naked to the sun.

  Pride, then. Stubbornness. He would not show himself weak to the court of his western empire.

  He hated them for testing him. He loved them as he loved anything that dared him to outmatch it.

  He walked unaided from the hall down the passage that presented itself, into the room on which it opened. Servants waited there. The one who relieved him of the mantle won the most loving of all his smiles. The one who brought him water in a golden cup ga
ined a prayer of thanks unto the hundredth generation.

  It was not a eunuch, either, which was Estarion’s good fortune. Ungelded servants were rarer, he had noticed, the closer one came to the throne. Were they afraid that the emperor would be seduced as women were, and bear a child out of turn?

  He was too wise to ask them that. He drank the cool sweet water, and never mind that the boy who brought it had sipped it first lest it be poisoned. There were cakes, too, and something with spices in it, and fruit, whole and sour-sweet.

  He was wise with a priest’s wisdom. He did not gorge himself on either food or drink, but partook slowly, sparingly, letting each sip or bite settle well before he essayed another. The servants freed him from his robes while he ate, combed the tangles from his hair, indicated with Asanian subtlety that he could bathe when he was ready.

  He wanted most to fall upon the couch that stood against the wall, and not wake till morning; but a bath was a potent enticement. He let himself be led into a chamber like a hall under the sea, green and blue and sun-shot gold, with a play of tiled fishes, and a pool as wide as a lake, full of warm and ever-flowing water. He opened his mind without thinking, reached for the one who was not there, who had not been there in a bitter count of Brightmoon-cycles. Vanyi, look. Here’s a bit of your sea, all in the dry land.

  But she was gone, her mind closed away as if she had never been, or been part of him. He was alone.

  Truly. None of his Guard had come so far, none of his court, his priests, not even his mother. She was in the queen’s palace as was proper. If he would speak with her, he must summon her.

  He opened his mouth to do it. Then he shut it, and likewise his mind. She had forced him to this. Let her know what she had done, and suffer its consequences.

  20

  Vanyi was proud of herself. Having left Estarion to his own devices, she devoted the whole of her self to her duties and her priesthood. She was not even dreaming of him every night now, or missing him for more than two heartbeats out of three. Sometimes, when they were still in Induverran, she had seen him from a distance. He looked well, if harried, and strikingly cool in the heat.