Hall of the Mountain King

by Tarr, Judith

  “But they do know, they do remember those who remained here. Your mother had a brother, my lord. He was a child when she left. Now he is a man and a prince, and his father has never let him forget that he is not judged worthy of the name of heir; that he is bastard seed, acknowledged, endured, even loved, but never equal to the one who is gone. Whereas to the people, who have no care for the passions of kings except as they breed war or peace, he is their sole and rightful prince. He has dwelt among them all his life; he is one of their own, and he is strong and fair, and he wields his lordship well enough. They love him.”

  “And I,” said Mirain, “am a foreigner and an interloper, an upstart, a presumptuous stranger.”

  Vadin’s thoughts to a word; the squire knew a stab of superstitious dread. And another of annoyance. All of it should be obvious to the merest child, which Mirain most certainly was not.

  He seemed undismayed by it. He was not stupid, Vadin was certain; very probably he was mad. It was in his blood.

  He prowled the room, not precisely as if he were restless; it seemed to help him think.

  He was doing it again, that witch’s trick of his, filling the wide space, towering over the two who watched him. When he halted and turned, he shrank a little. “Suppose I leave quietly, singer. Have you considered what that might do to the king? It could very easily kill him.”

  “It will kill him to have you here.”

  “One way or another.” Mirain’s head tilted. “You could be speaking for my enemies.”

  “If so,” she said unruffled, “they have moved upon you with supernatural speed.”

  “It has happened to me before.”

  “Were you ever a child, my lord?”

  He stood back on his heels, eyes wide and ingenuous. “Why, lady, what am I now but a babe scarce weaned?”

  She dropped her mask and laughed aloud.

  It was not all mockery. Much of it was honest merriment. When it passed, her eyes danced still; she said, “You are a match for me, I think. You may even be a match for the whole of Ianon.” She sobered fully. “When you are king, my lord, and more than king, will you let me make songs for you?”

  “If I forbade it, would that prevent you?”

  Ymin looked down, then up, a swift bright glance. “No, my lord.”

  He laughed half in pain. “You see what kingship I can claim, when not even a singer will obey me.”

  “When it comes to singing,” she said, “I obey only the god.”

  “And your own will.”

  “That most certainly.” She stepped away from the window. “The god calls me now to sing his office. Will you come?”

  Mirain paused, a breath only. Then: “No. Not . . . quite yet.”

  She bowed her head slightly. “Then may he prosper you. Good day, my lord.”

  oOo

  When she was gone, Mirain sent Vadin away. None too soon for the squire’s peace of mind. He was soul-glad to be back among his own, comfortable, sane and human kind, driving his body until it was all one mindless ache.

  He drove himself so far that when Adjan called him out of the baths, he could only think that he had earned a reprimand somewhere on the practice field. That was terror enough, but he had survived the old soldier’s discipline before. It was only pain; it passed, and everyone forgot it.

  Adjan inspected his damply naked person with no expression that he could discern. In spite of himself he began to be afraid. When Adjan roared in rage, all was well. But when he was silent, then it was wisest to run.

  Vadin could not be wise. He could not even cover his shriveling privates.

  After an eternity the arms master said, “Dry yourself and report to me. Full livery. Without,” he added acidly, “your spear.”

  oOo

  Vadin dried himself and dressed with all the care his shaking hands could muster. He was beginning to think again, after a fashion. He kept seeing Mirain’s face. Damn it, the foreigner had sent him away. Ordered him in no uncertain terms, and barred the door behind him. What had the little bastard done, brewed up a mess of sorceries over the bedroom hearth?

  He braided his hair so tightly it hurt, flung the scarlet cloak over his shoulders, and went to face his master.

  Adjan was standing in the cubicle that served him as both workroom and bedchamber. On the battered stool that the squires called the throne of judgment sat the king.

  Vadin came very close to disgracing himself and all his house. Came within a twitch of turning and bolting, and if he had, he would not have stopped until he came to Imehen.

  Pride alone held him back, pride and Adjan’s black grim stare. His body snapped itself to full attention, and stayed there while the king examined him. He was raw with all the scrutiny, and growing angry. Was he a prize colt, that all these people should memorize his every line?

  His majesty raised a brow—gods, precisely like Mirain—and said to Adjan, “He has promise, I grant you. But this demands performance.”

  “He can perform,” the arms master said, no more smoothly or politely than he ever did. “Are you questioning my judgment?”

  “I am pointing out that this task would challenge a seasoned soldier, let alone a boy in his first year of service.”

  “And I say that’s to his advantage. He’ll keep up his training; he’ll simply be assigned to a different duty.”

  “Day and night, Captain. Whatever befalls.”

  “Maybe nothing.”

  “Maybe death. Or worse.”

  “He’s young; he’s brighter than he looks; and he’s resilient. Where an older man would break, he’ll bend and spring back stronger than before. I say he’s the best choice, sire. You won’t find a better in the time you’re allowing.”

  The king stroked his beard, frowning at Vadin, hardly seeing him except as a tool for the task. Whatever it was.

  Vadin’s heart was pounding. Something high and perilous; some great and glorious deed, as in the songs. For that his father had sent him here. For that he had prayed. He was no longer afraid; he was ready to sing.

  “Vadin of Geitan,” the king said at last, his voice like drums beating, “your commander has persuaded me. You shall continue to train among my squires, but you are no longer in my service. Henceforth you are the liege man of the Prince Mirain.”

  Vadin was not hearing properly. No longer serving the king—serving the prince—Moranden? There was only one prince in the castle. There could not be—

  “Mirain,” said the king relentlessly, “stands in need of a good and loyal man. He has come late and all unlooked for; he is godly wise, but I do not think that he knows truly what he faces here. I call on you to be his guide and his guard.”

  High. Honorable. Perilous. Vadin wanted to laugh. Nursemaid to a priestess’ bastard. He would dare death, oh yes, death by stoning or poison when Ianon turned against the upstart.

  The king was not asking him to choose. He was a thing; a servant. A half-trained hound, mute and helpless while his master handed his lead to a new owner.

  No, he thought. No. He would speak. He would stalk away.

  Go home, no, he could not do that to his father or his poor proud mother, but maybe the prince would take him. The true prince, the man who had time to smile at a guard or speak to a squire in the market or greet a boy coming new and homesick and scared into a city greater than he had ever dreamed of. Moranden had taken the edge off his terror, made him feel like a lord and a kinsman, and better yet, remembered him thereafter. Moranden would be glad of his service.

  “Go now,” the king said. “Guard my grandson.”

  Vadin gathered himself to cry out. Found himself bowing low, mute, obedient. Went as, and where, he was commanded.

  oOo

  The foreigner was gone. For a blissful instant Vadin knew that he had changed his mind; he had escaped while he could. Then Vadin thought to go to the window Mirain had seemed so fond of, and there were the braid and the torque and the girl-smooth face, exploring the garden.

>   Vadin took a long moment to steel himself. At last he went down.

  Mirain had folded himself on the grass, bent over his cupped hands. When Vadin’s shadow blocked the sun he looked up.

  “See,” he said, raising his hands a little, carefully. Something fluttered in them, small and vividly blue, with a flash of scarlet at the throat and on the iridescent wings.

  The dragonel scaled the pinnacle of Mirain’s forefinger and coiled there, wings beating gently for balance. Mirain laughed softly. The creature echoed him four octaves higher. With blurring suddenness it took wing, darting away into a tangle of fruitthorn.

  Mirain stretched and sighed and smiled his sudden smile. “I never thought northerners were a folk for gardens.”

  “We’re not.” Vadin tried an insolence: he dropped beside the other, full livery and all. Mirain chose to pay no attention. “The king had it made for the yellow woman—for the queen. She pined amid all our bare stone. Herd fields weren’t enough, and the women’s courts were too severe with their herbs and such. She had to have flowers.” His lip curled a little as he said it.

  “The yellow woman,” Mirain repeated. “Poor lady, she died before my mother could know her. I understand that she was very beautiful but very fragile, like a flower herself.”

  “So the singers say.”

  Mirain plucked a scarlet blossom. He had small hands for a man, but the fingers were long and tapering, with a touch as delicate as a girl’s.

  They closed over the flower. When they opened they cupped a hard green fruit. It ripened swiftly, darkening and swelling and speckling with gold.

  He held the thornfruit under Vadin’s nose. Thornfruit in spring, real as his own staring eyes, with its sweet potent scent, its suggestion of a blush.

  “Yes,” said Mirain, “I am a mage, a born master; I need no spells to work my magics, only a firm will.”

  A sun kindled in his hand. The fruit vanished. Mirain clasped his knees and rocked, and regarded Vadin, and waited. For what? Abject submission? Cowering terror?

  “Plain acceptance,” the mage said, dry as old leaves.

  Vadin gave him red rage. “Get out of my mind!”

  Mirain raised a cheer. “Bravo, Vadin! Obey my grandfather, endure me, but keep your rebellion alive. I do detest a servile servant.”

  “Why?” demanded Vadin. “One word of power and I’m your ensorceled slave.”

  “Why?” Mirain echoed him. “By the king’s orders you’re mine already.” He sat erect, suddenly grim. “Vadin alVadin, I do not accept unwilling service. For one thing, it hurts my head. For another, it’s an invitation to assassination. But I will not stoop to win your willingness with my power. If your loyalties lie elsewhere, go to them. I can settle matters with the king.”

  Vadin’s anger changed as Mirain spoke. He had been close to hate. He was still, but to a different side of it, a side much closer to his pride. Instead of roaring or howling or striking out, he heard himself say coldly, “You’re a supercilious little bastard, do you know that?”

  “I can afford to be,” Mirain answered.

  Vadin laughed in spite of himself. “Sure you can. You’re planning to be king of the world.” He stood and planted his hands on his hips. “What makes you think you can get rid of me? I’m a good squire, my lord. I served my master loyally; my master gave me to you. Now I’m your man. Your loyal man, my lord.”

  Mirain’s eyes widened and fixed; his chin came up. “I refuse your service, sir.”

  “I refuse your refusal, my lord.” I am an idiot, my very unwelcome lord.

  “You most certainly are.” That stopped Vadin short; Mirain grinned like a direwolf. “Very well, sir defiance. You are my man, and may the god have mercy on your soul.”

  THREE

  The king’s summons came at evening, and with it a robe of honor, royal white embroidered with scarlet and gold.

  Someone had been cutting and stitching: it fit Mirain admirably. He preened in it, vain as a sunbird; and he did look well. He had his hair braided differently, Ianyn prince’s braid, although he had not let the servant add the twist that marked the royal heir.

  “I’m not that yet,” he said, “and I may never be.”

  Vadin restrained a snort, which Mirain pretended not to hear.

  The servant struggled with the heavy black mane. Freed, it was as outrageous as its bearer’s moods; it curled with abandon, and it had a life of its own, a will to escape the grimly patient fingers and run wild down Mirain’s back. A brand of his Asanian blood, like his smallness, like his dancer’s grace.

  At last the servant won his battle. Mirain applauded him; young man that he was, he broke into a smile, swiftly controlled.

  It was almost amusing to see how easily these bondmen fell into Mirain’s hand. His glittering golden hand.

  oOo

  The king sat enthroned in the great hall with before and below him the lords and chieftains of his court, gathered for the evening feast. He rose as Mirain entered; the rest rose perforce, a royal greeting.

  Mirain stood straight in the face of it and met the old king’s gaze, that was dark and keen and quietly exultant, filled with a welcome as fierce as it was joyous. “Mirain of Han-Gilen,” he said in a ringing voice, “son of my daughter. Come, sit by me; share the honor of the feast.”

  Mirain bowed and advanced down the long hall through a spreading silence. His back was erect, his chin up. Unconsciously Vadin, following in his wake, matched his bearing and his steadiness.

  The king’s hand clasped Mirain’s and set him to the right of the throne, in a seat but little lower. The heir’s place.

  Eyes glittered; voices murmured. Not in thrice seven years had that chair been filled.

  Mirain sat very still in it, as if the slightest movement might send him leaping into flight. Vadin could almost taste his tension.

  Surely he had planned for this. But now that he had it, it seemed he was human enough to have a doubt or two.

  His fist had clenched in his lap. A muscle had knotted in his jaw. He raised his chin another degree, to imperial hauteur, and held it there.

  The king sat beside him. A sigh ran through the hall as the court returned to their seats. Their lord raised a hand.

  The door of the hall flew open. Figures filled it. Prince Moranden strode through them, resplendent in scarlet and in mountain copper. Tall even for a northerner and broad with it, he towered above the seated nobles. The men with him, lords, warriors, servants, passed insubstantial as shadows. But their eyes gleamed.

  He stalked to the dais and halted before the king. “Your pardon for my lateness, sire. The hunt kept me away longer than I had looked for.”

  The king sat too still, spoke too gently. “Sit then, and let the feast begin.”

  “Ah, Father,” Moranden said, “you waited for me. It was courteous, but you had no need.”

  “Indeed, sir, we did not. Will you sit?”

  Still the prince lingered. As if for the first time, his eyes found Mirain. Stopped; widened.

  They were all innocent surprise, and yet Vadin’s blood ran cold from heart to clenched fists. “What, Father! A guest? You do him great honor.” His eyes narrowed; his lips thinned. “Nay, nay, I had forgotten. The boy who came this morning, the little priest from the south with the news we’ve all dreaded for so long. Shouldn’t we be mourning instead of feasting?”

  “One does not mourn a priestess whom the god has taken to himself.” Mirain’s voice was soft and steady, but higher than it should have been, the voice of a boy just come to manhood.

  It was well feigned. A stranger would have heard the youthful tenor with its hint of uncertainty, as if it would break on the next word, and seen the clear-skinned beardless face, and taken it all for what it seemed.

  It seemed that Moranden did. His tension eased. The fire of wrath sank to an ember, swiftly banked in ash. He walked easily around the dais to settle beside the heir’s place.

  It was not his wonted seat. Even
in the lower chair he dwarfed his sister-son. “Well, lad,” he said with hearty good humor, “are you pleased with the hospitality of Han-Ianon?”

  “I am well content,” Mirain answered him, as ingenuous as he, “and pleased to greet you at last, uncle.”

  “Uncle?” asked Moranden. “Are we kin?”

  “Through my mother. Your sister Sanelin. Is it not her place I sit in?”

  Moranden had taken half a loaf of bread and begun to break it. It crumbled in his tensed fingers, falling unheeded to his plate. “So,” he said, “that’s what kept her. Who was her lover? A prince? A beggar? Some fellow pilgrim?”

  “No mortal man.”

  “I suppose everyone believed that. At least until she died. Or did they kill her?”

  “They did not.” Mirain turned slightly, with an effort Vadin could just see; he took up a bit of meat and began slowly to eat it.

  “She left you alone then,” Moranden said, “and you came to us. Not much welcome anywhere for a priestess’ bastard, is there?”

  “I am not a bastard.” Mirain’s voice was as calm as ever, but it had dropped an octave.

  The king stirred at his left hand. “Enough,” he said, low and harsh. “I will not have you coming to blows in my hall.”

  Moranden lounged in his seat. “Blows, Father? I was only exchanging courtesies with my sister’s son. If so he is. Ianon is a rich prize for an ambitious wanderer.”

  “I do not lie,” Mirain said in his proper tone at last. His nostrils were pinched tight below the haughty arch of his nose.

  “Enough!” rapped the king. Suddenly he smote his hands together.

  oOo

  Although Ymin had sat among the court, she had not been eating with them. She rose now with fluid grace and went to a low seat which the servants had set before the dais. As she sat, one handed her an instrument, a small harp of golden wood with strings of silver.

  It was common enough that she should sing so in hall. But this was a new song. It began softly as a hymn of praise to the rising sun. Then, as the court quieted, caught by the melody, she changed to a stronger mode, that half-chant which told the deeds of gods and heroes. A god tonight, the high god, Avaryan whose face was the sun; and a priestess, royal born; and the son who came forth from their loving, born at the rising of the daystar, god’s child, prince, Lord of the Sun.