by Judith Tarr
Eyes glittered out of the gloom, many eyes, every patron struck dumb it seemed by the spectacle at the door. One man stood close: a round buttery creature with an astonishingly sour face. “Show me your silver,” he said.
Sarevan’s grip shifted on Hirel, and Hirel thought he saw a glint of gold. Certainly the innkeeper saw something that satisfied him. “Come,” he said.
The room was tiny, no more than a crevice in the roof; Sarevan could stand erect only in the center. But it was clean, it had a window that opened after a blow or two of the barbarian’s fist, and its bed-cushions were deep enough to drown in. The bath when it came was hot and capacious, the wine cool and sweet, and cakes came with it, and dumplings filled with meat and grain and fruit, and a dish of soft herbed cheese.
“No,” Sarevan was saying, “it’s not catching. He’s always been delicate, and the excitement of the festival . . . you understand. With these thoroughbreds, one has to take such care, but the beauty is worth much; and he serves me well, in his way.”
Hirel fought his way back to full awareness in time to see the innkeeper’s leer, and the closing of the door upon it. He lay in the deep soft nest of the bed, and he was wrapped in a drying-cloth, damp still from a bath he could hardly remember, with the taste of wine on his tongue. The innkeeper had been ogling him. The mongrel had said—
“How dare you call me your slave.”
“Would you rather I called you my catamite?” Sarevan inquired.
“You did just that!”
“Hush,” Sarevan said as to a fretful child.
Hirel raised his voice in earnest. “May all the gods damn you to—”
A hand clapped over his mouth. “The gods do not exist,” the priest reminded him with poisonous sweetness.
He choked and gasped and twisted, and found the edge of that quelling hand, and bit hard.
He won all he could have wished for. Sarevan’s breath left him in a rush; his hand snapped back.
Hirel stared. The priest’s skin was not opaque at all. It was like black glass; and a corpse-light burned ghastly beneath. His lips were grey as ash.
But Hirel had not even drawn blood.
Sarevan withdrew as far as he might, which was only a step or two. His hand trembled; he thrust it behind him.
It was his right hand. Hirel committed that to memory. This man of limitless strength and overweening arrogance had a weakness, and it was enormous and it was utterly inexplicable, and it was worth bearing in mind. It evened the score, somewhat.
“Cubling,” Sarevan said, and his voice did not come easily, “did your teachers never instruct you in proper and honorable combat?”
“With proper and honorable opponents,” Hirel answered, “yes.”
Sarevan tilted his head. Considered. Bared his white teeth and saluted left-handed, as a swordsman would concede a match.
“And I am not your servant,” Hirel said.
“So then, you are my catamite.”
Hirel hissed at him. He shook out his hair, laughing almost freely, and availed himself of the cooling bath.
THREE
Hirel slept a little. When he woke, Sarevan was gone.
He knew a moment’s panic; then he saw the worn leather of the priest’s scrip hanging from a peg by the bed. Everything was in it, even the small but surprisingly heavy purse. He had not gone far.
Hirel relieved himself, nibbled the remains of a seedcake, poured a cupful of wine and peered out of the window. Nothing below but an alleyway.
He wandered back to his cushions, sipping the sweet strong vintage. It was not one he knew; not nearly fine enough for a high prince in his palace. But in this place it was pleasant.
He settled more comfortably. The room was warm but not unbearable.
One of his scars itched within where he could not scratch it: one of the deep furrows in his hip and thigh. The guardhound had caught him there, terrifying him for his manhood; he had found strength he had never known he had, and broken the beast’s neck. The hound had paid the proper price, but Hirel would bear the marks until he died, livid and unlovely against his skin.
He was changing. He was thinner, with ribs to count. His child-softness was sharpening into planes and angles. A fleece of down was coming between his legs, and he was not the same beneath it. He was becoming a man.
Perhaps he would call for a woman. That would wipe the leer from the innkeeper’s face. Sarevan, poor maiden priest, would wilt with envy.
Hirel frowned. He could not imagine Sarevan wilting. More likely the creature would stand by the door and fold his arms and smile his most supercilious smile, and make of manly virtue a creeping shame.
“Damn him,” Hirel said. His voice lacked conviction. “I will go. I will go now and find my own way home. My brothers will fall down in terror when they see me; and I will have my vengeance.”
He clasped his knees and rocked. His eyes blurred; he could not stop them.
Alone, all alone, with only a demon-worshipping madman to defend him. No one in the empire even knew he lived; and those who cared could care only that he was not safely dead. His mother who had loved him, and yes, spoiled him shamefully, his mother was two years dead by her own hand, and his father was a golden mask on a golden throne, and his brothers would have sold him a eunuch into the south.
And he was going home. Home to hate and fear and at best indifference; to the nets of courtiers and the chains of royalty, and never a moment without the dread of another betrayal.
A shudder racked him. He must go back. What else was left to him?
He knew what he must do. Dress. Gather the last of the food. Take a handful of silver from Sarevan’s purse. Just enough to buy a mount and to keep him fed until he came to Kundri’j Asan. When he was done, he would repay the lending a hundred times over: send a bag of gold to Orozia in the town the name of which he had never troubled to learn, and instruct her to give it to the priest.
He went as far as to rise and turn toward his clothes. They were wet. He was close to tears again.
The door opened. Sarevan had to stoop to pass it. Lean though he was, his shoulders were broad; he filled the cramped space. His face was set in stone. His eyes were burning.
The wall was rough and cool against Hirel’s back. He did not even remember retreating to it. Somehow the priest had divined what he would do. Theft; flight.
No. Only true mages walked in minds, and there were no true mages, only charlatans. Sarevan turned blindly about, hands clenching and unclenching. One, the bitten right, rose to his torque and fell again. “They burned it,” he said low in his throat. “They burned it to the ground.”
“What?” Hirel snapped, sharp with guilt and startlement.
At first he did not know if Sarevan heard. The eyes never turned to him. But at length the voice answered, still low, almost rough. “Avaryan’s temple. They burned it. They burned it over the heads of the priests, and sowed the ashes with salt, and set up a demon-stone in the midst of it, cursing Avaryan and his priesthood unto the thousandth generation. But why? Why so immeasurable a hate?”
It was a cry of anguish. Hirel’s throat ached with the power of it; his own words came hard, half strangled. “Avaryan is the enemy here, the symbol of the conqueror, of the empire that has dared to rise and challenge us. His priests are suspected as spies, and some have been caught at it. But hatred of that magnitude . . . I do not know.”
Sarevan’s laughter was frightening. “I know. It is politics, cold politics. A game of kings-and-cities, with living folk for pawns. Burn a temple, open the way to the destruction of its patron’s empire. They died in torment, my brothers and sisters. They died like sea-spiders in a cauldron.”
“Perhaps,” said Hirel, “they offended someone in power. No great conspiracy; a personal vendetta. But whatever is the truth of it, you are not safe here, and you should not linger. By now all Shon’ai will have seen your torque.”
“Oh, yes, they have seen it. They have all seen me, the mongrel, the monster, the de
mon’s minion. I cast down the cursed stone and laid a curse of my own upon it, and sang the god’s praises over it.”
“You are stark mad.”
“What! You did not know?”
“They must be hunting you now.” Hirel’s heart raced, but his brain was clear. “We can run. The crowds will hide us. You can stoop, and cover your body and your hair, and feign a limp, perhaps.”
“No,” Sarevan said. “One at least of my torque-kin remains alive, though the prison is hidden from me. But I will find it. Before Avaryan I will find it.”
He spoke as if the prison’s hiding were an impossible thing, a deep and personal insult. Yet when he looked at Hirel he seemed perfectly sane, cool and quiet, reasonable. “You will go. Ulan will come to you when you have passed the gates; he will guard you and guide you and bring you safe to your father. No one will molest you while you travel in his company.”
True, all true, and very wise. Hirel had intended to do much the same.
But.
“I will not abandon you,” he said stiffly.
“Cubling,” said Sarevan, “you cannot help me, you are certain to hinder me, and it is altogether likely that I will get my death in this venture. It was a mage who laid the curse on the temple; he is strong, and he will not be merciful.”
Hirel sneered. “A mage. I tremble where I stand.”
“You should, child. He’s no trumpery trickster. He has power, and it is real, and it tastes of darkness.”
“Superstition. I know better. I have seen the mages in Kundri’j Asan. Powders and stinks and spells and cantrips, and a great deal of mystical posturing. It deceives the masses. It enriches the mages. It amuses my father to retain a few of the more presentable in his court. They can do him no harm, he says, and one day they might prove useful.”
“That day has come, and the lord of this province has seized upon it. I am going to do battle with the sorcerer.”
“You dare it?” Hirel asked, meaning to mock him.
“I dare it. You see, cubling,” Sarevan said, “I am one myself.”
Hirel blinked at him. He did not sprout horns or cloak himself in stars or spawn flights of dragonels from his cupped hands. He was only Sarevan, too large for that cupboard of a room, and rather in need of a bath. The reek of smoke and anger lay heavy upon him.
He gathered Hirel’s garments and dropped them on the bed. “Dress yourself. You must be away from here before they close the gates for the night.”
Slowly Hirel obeyed. He would be well rid of this lunatic. Mage, indeed. Gods, indeed. A little longer and the barbarian would have had Hirel believing it.
o0o
Sarevan saw to Hirel’s bag, packed the seedcakes and a napkinful of dumplings, added his own waterskin, and rummaging in his scrip, brought out the purse. Without a word or a glance, he laid it in the bag.
Hirel’s throat closed. Sarevan held out the bag; Hirel clutched it to his chest.
“Come,” the priest said.
Hirel tried to swallow. Time was running on. And he could not move.
Sarevan snatched him up; and he left the inn as he had entered it, carried like an ailing child. The streets were as crowded as ever, the shadows growing long with evening.
Hirel began to struggle. Sarevan ignored him. There was a new tension in the priest’s body, a tautness like fear, but the press was too tight, the current too strong; he could breast it, but he could not advance above a walk, with many turns and weavings and impasses. It was like a spell, a curse of endless frustration.
At last he could not move at all, and from his shoulder’s height the inn was still visible, its sign of the sunbird mocking Hirel’s glare. “I will do it,” Sarevan muttered. “I must.”
“What—”
Sarevan stood erect and breathed deep, and Hirel felt—something. Like a spark. A flare of heat too brief to be sure of. A note of music on the very edge of hearing. The small hairs of his body shivered and rose.
“There!” Sun flashed on helmets; a senel tossed its horns and half reared, its rider calling out, sweeping his arm toward the priest.
Sarevan plunged into the crowd. It parted before him. But against the company behind came a second, barring the broad way, and the throng milled and tangled itself, and no escape but straight into the air.
Sarevan seized it. He launched himself upward.
For a soaring, terrifying moment he flew, and Hirel with him, and people cried out to see it. Then darkness filled the sky. Something like an eagle stooped above them, but an eagle with wings that spread from horizon to horizon. With a sharp fierce cry Sarevan reared back, gripping Hirel one-handed, hurling lightnings.
Hirel saw the arrow come. He tried to speak, even to shape a thought. The dart sang past his cheek and plunged deep into the undefended shoulder. Sarevan cried out again, sharper and fiercer still, and dropped like a stone.
o0o
“Fascinating,” said the Lord of Baryas and Shon’ai when he had heard his captain’s account, inspecting the prisoners bound and haughty before him. Hirel had only a set of manacles, which was an insult. Sarevan was wrapped in chains, his shoulder bound with a bandage, and his face was grey with pain. But he met the lord’s stare with perfect insolence.
The lord smiled. He was tall for an Asanian, a bare head shorter than Sarevan, and slender, and exquisitely attired. His slaves were skillful: one had to peer close to see that he was not young, that his hair was not as thick as it feigned to be. But his eyes were not the eyes of a fool.
“Fascinating,” he repeated, circling Sarevan, lifting the loosened braid and letting it fall. “High sorcery in my own city before the faces of my people, and the sorcerer . . . What is your name, priest of Avaryan?”
“You know it as well as I,” said Sarevan with perfect calm.
“Do I?” the lord inquired. He raised a hand. “Unbind him.”
Soldiers and servants slanted their eyes and muttered, but under their lord’s eye they obeyed, retreating quickly as if the sorcerer might blast them where they stood. He barely moved except to flex his good shoulder and to draw a breath. “Ah then, perhaps I’ve changed a little; I was somewhat younger when we met. I remember you, Ebraz y Baryas ul Shon’ai.”
“And I you,” the lord admitted, “Sarevan Is’kelion y Endros. I confess I never expected to see you here in such state, with such attendance.”
“What, my boy?” Sarevan grinned and ruffled Hirel’s hair. “Do you like him? I found him in a hedgerow; I’m making a man of him, though it’s hard going. His old master didn’t use him well, and he’s not quite sane. Fancies himself a prince of your empire, if you can believe it.”
Ebraz barely glanced at Hirel, whose rage bade fair to burst him asunder. “He has the look, true enough. They breed for it in slave-stables here and there; it fetches a high price.”
“I had him for a song. The strain is flawed, it seems. It produces incorrigibles. But I’ve not given up hope yet.”
“What will you do with him when you have tamed him?”
“Set him free, of course.”
Ebraz laughed, a high well-bred whinny. “Of course!” He sobered. “Meanwhile, my lord, you have presented me with rather a dilemma. By command of my overlord, all priests of Avaryan are outlawed in Kovruen; and you have not only stood forth publicly as a bearer of the torque, you have also wielded magecraft without the sanction of the guild.”
“Guild?” Sarevan asked.
“Guild,” Ebraz answered. “Surely you know that your kind are licensed and taxed in the Golden Empire.” He spread his narrow elegant hands. “So you see, my lord, between emperor and overlord I am compelled to hold you prisoner. I regret the necessity, and I regret still more deeply the circumstances which led to your wounding. You can be sure that I will send to my lord with a full explanation. And to your father, of course, with profoundest apologies.”
Sarevan flinched, although he tried to make light of it. “You needn’t trouble my father with my foolishness.�
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“But, my lord, if he discovers for himself—”
“We can take care that he does not. Imprison me if you must, I’ve earned it, but spare me my father’s wrath for yet a while.”
The lord smiled in understanding. “I can be slow to send a message. But Prince Zorayan must know; your freedom lies in his hands.”
“That will suffice,” said Sarevan. He swayed; his lips were ashen. “If you will pardon me—”
“That would not be wise, my lord.”
Hirel started. A man had come out of nowhere, a man who looked much less a mage than Sarevan, small, dark-robed, quiet. “My lord,” he said, “this weakness is a lie. He plots to deceive you, to cozen you into giving him a gentle imprisonment, and thence to escape by his arts. See, such a fine fierce glare. He knows that his power is no match for mine.”
“No?” asked Sarevan, eyes glittering. He no longer looked as if he were about to faint. “I would have had you, journeyman, but for an archer’s good fortune. You are but a spellcaster, a slave to your grimoires; I am mageborn.”
“Mageborn, but young, and arrogant with it. Arrogant far beyond your skill or your strength.”
“Do you care to test me, conjurer? Here and now, with no book and no charmed circle. Come, summon your familiar; invoke your devils. I will be generous. I will hold them back if they seek to turn on you.”
“I have your blood, Sunchild,” the mage said calmly. “That is book and circle enough.”
Sarevan’s breath caught. His defiance had an air of desperation. Feigned, perhaps. Perhaps not. “You cannot touch me.”
“Enough,” said Ebraz quietly, but they heard him. “I cannot afford an escape, my lord. Surely you understand. Your word would suffice, but . . . Prince Zorayan is not an easy man, and he is not altogether certain that he trusts me. I must be strict. For appearance’s sake. I will be no more rigorous than I must.”
“I will remember,” Sarevan said. Warning, promising.
“Remember, my lord, but forgive.” Ebraz signaled to his men. “The lower prison. Minimal restraint but constant guard. Within reason, let him have whatever he asks for.”
