Hall of the Mountain King

by Tarr, Judith

  Avaryan’s worship centered in his temples around his gold-torqued priesthood. Uveryen suffered no walls or images. Her realm was the realm of air and darkness, her priests chosen and consecrated in secret, masked and cowled and eternally nameless. In her holy groves and in the deep places of the earth they practiced her mysteries; nor ever did they suffer a stranger’s presence.

  Vadin crouched behind a stone, willing even his heart to be silent. It was a long cruel way from the castle to the place of the goddess, the wood upon the mountain spur where no axe had ever fallen. A long way, the last and worst of it on foot with all the stealth of his hunter’s training, and before him one who was a better hunter than he.

  But Prince Moranden had not been looking for pursuit. He had ridden out quietly with a hawk on his wrist, as if for a solitary hunt; none but Vadin had seen him go, or dared to follow.

  Whatever Moranden’s thoughts of the one who had supplanted him, before men’s faces he smiled and did proper obeisance. And stayed away as often as he might on one pretext or another. Hunting most often, or hawking, or governing his domains, for he was Lord of the Western Marches.

  Vadin had neither right nor duty to creep after him like a spy or an assassin. But Mirain had gone where Vadin could not follow, into Avaryan’s temple. It was a day of fasting for the Sun’s priests, the dark of Brightmoon, when the god’s power grew weak before the might of the Dark; they would chant and pray from sunrise to sunrise, bolstering their god’s strength with their own.

  Mirain, who had gone on his second day in the castle to chant the sunset hymn, had found himself more welcome there than anywhere else in Ianon, except perhaps in his grandfather’s presence; thereafter he had sought the temple as often as he might. And he had made it clear that Vadin was not to dog his heels there, even in the outer chambers which were open to any who came.

  Thus Vadin was at liberty, and by hell’s own contriving he could take no joy in it. Mirain was already gone when he woke in the dawn; woke from a nightmare that haunted him long past waking.

  He rose, pulled on what garments came to hand, eyed with utterly unwonted disfavor the breakfast that Mirain’s servants had left for him. He abandoned it untouched, wandering he cared not where, until he found himself in the stables, and saw Moranden saddling the black-barred dun.

  Without thought for what he did, Vadin flung bridle and saddle on Rami and sent her in pursuit. If he had been thinking, he might have acknowledged some deep urge to accost this prince who had been kind to him. To be kind in return, somehow. To explain a betrayal that, doubtless, Moranden had never noticed among so many others.

  Moranden had ridden easily but swiftly, without undue stealth, almost straight to the wood. No one hunted there if he valued his life and his soul, nor did anyone ride for pleasure beneath those dim trees.

  The prince had not loosed his falcon, and he had not turned back even from the guardians of the goddess’ grove, and black birds which seemed to infest every branch. The air was full of their cries, the ground of their foul droppings.

  Vadin shuddered in his place of concealment. Whether Moranden’s intrusion had obscured his own, or whether he had moved more skillfully than he knew, the birds paid him no heed.

  Yet the wood itself seemed to tremble in outrage. Outlander that he was, bound by the king’s command to the son of the Sun, still he dared to trespass in the domain of the Dark. The sky was black with thunder, casting deep twilight under the trees, where one by one the goddess’ birds had settled to their rest.

  Moranden stood a short spearcast from him, near the edge of a clearing. Open though it was, the darkness seemed no less there. The ground was bare, without grass or flower, save in the center where lay a slab of stone.

  Rough, hewn by no man’s hands, it rose out of the barren earth; a great mound of flowers lay upon it, deep red like heart’s blood. A mockery, it may have been, of the blossoms which adorned Avaryan’s temple at this season of his waxing power.

  Or was Avaryan’s altar the mockery?

  Again Vadin shivered. This was no place and no worship of his. Northern born, he feared the goddess and accorded her due respect, but he had never been able to love her. Love before Uveryen was a weakness. She fed on fear and on the bitterness of hate.

  Moranden stood as if frozen, his falcon motionless on his wrist, his stallion tethered at the wood’s edge far from swift escape. Vadin could not see his face. His shoulders were braced, the muscles taut between them; his free hand was a fist.

  The dim air stirred and thickened. Vadin swallowed a cry. Where had been only emptiness stood a half circle of figures.

  Black robes, black cowls, no face, no hand, no glimpse of brightness. Nor did they speak, these priests of the goddess. Or priestesses? There was no way to tell.

  One glided forward. Moranden trembled, a sudden spasm, but held his ground. Perhaps he could not do otherwise.

  Wings clapped. The falcon erupted from his hand, jesses broken. Blackness swept over it. A single feather fell, wintry gold, spiraling to Moranden’s feet.

  The birds of the goddess withdrew. Neither blood nor bone remained of the hawk, not even the bells upon its jesses.

  “A pleasant morsel.”

  The voice was harsh and toneless. Vadin, glancing startled at the robed figure, saw on its shoulder a black bird. Its beak opened. “A sufficient sacrifice,” it said, “for the moment. What do you look for in return?”

  Moranden’s hand was raised as if the falcon perched even yet upon it. Very slowly he lowered it. “What—” His speech was thick; he shook his head hard and lifted it, drawing a long breath. “I look for nothing. I came as I was summoned. Is there to be no rite? Have I lost my best falcon for nothing?”

  “There will be a rite.”

  A mortal voice, this one, and not born within the circle. One stood beyond it, beyond the altar itself, robed as the rest. But her cowl was cast back from a face neither young nor gentle, beautiful and terrible as the flowers on the stone.

  “There will be a rite,” she repeated, coming forward, “and you shall be the Young God once more. But only once. Hereafter we will have done with pretense, and with the blood of mere mute beasts.”

  The black bird left its perch to settle on her shoulder. She smoothed its feathers with a finger, crooning to it.

  Moranden stood taut, but it was a different tautness, with less of fear, less of awe, and more of impatience. “Pretense? What do you mean, pretense? That is the rite: the dance, the coupling. The sacrifice.”

  “The sacrifice,” she said, “yes.”

  His breath hissed between his teeth. “You don’t—” Her hand raised infinitesimally, sketching a flick of assent. “That is forbidden.”

  “By whom?” She stood full before him now, the bird motionless, eyes glittering. “By whom, Moranden? By the priests of burning Avaryan, and by the king who is their puppet. He gave his daughter to the Sun, who by long custom should have gone to the Dark. But in the end the goddess had her blood.”

  “Then the goddess should be content.”

  “Gods are never content.”

  Moranden’s back was stiff. “So then. Once more I act the Young God; but it will be no act. I would have preferred that you had warned me.”

  Surely this woman was the Lady Odiya, and she was more terribly splendid even than rumor made her. She seemed torn between rage and bitter laughter. “You are a fine figure of a man, my child, and much to the Lady’s taste. But you are also a fool. Once more, I have said, you act the god’s part. Then do you abdicate in another’s favor. Another will undergo the full and ancient rite.”

  “And die in it,” Moranden said harshly. “I don’t like it, Mother. Time was when every ninth year a young man died for the good of the tribe; and maybe the tribe was the better for it. Myself, I doubt it. Waste is waste, even in the gods’ name.”

  “Fool,” said the Lady Odiya.

  Once again the black bird shifted. Its talons gripped Moranden’s shoulder. Its b
eak clacked beside his ear as he stood frozen, robbed of breath and arrogance alike.

  “Sacrifice is never wasted. Not when it can purchase the goddess’ favor.”

  “It is murder.”

  “Murder,” echoed the bird, mocking him. “Man,” it said, “would you be king?”

  “I would be king,” Moranden answered; and that was not the least courageous thing he had ever done, to speak in a steady voice with such a horror on his shoulder. “But what does that have to do with—”

  The bird pecked him very, very lightly a hair’s breadth from his eye. His head jerked; his hand flew up.

  “Man,” said the bird, arresting the hand in midflight, “you would be king. What would you give to gain the throne?”

  “Anything,” gritted Moranden. “Anything at all. Except—”

  The beak poised like a dagger. “Except, man?”

  “Except my honor. My soul,” he said, “you may have. My life even, if you must.”

  “The goddess asks none of these. Yet. She asks only this. Give her your sister’s son.”

  Moranden must have known what the creature would ask. Yet he stood as if stunned, bereft of speech.

  His mother spoke softly, almost gently. “Give her the boy. Give her the being you hate most in this world, the one who has snatched your throne and your kingdom and given you naught but his scorn. Let him usurp your place but once more; let him die for you. Then you shall be king.”

  Moranden’s eyes clenched shut; his mouth opened, half gasp, half cry. “No!”

  The bird tightened its claws until blood welled, vivid on the bare shoulder. He paid no heed to the pain. “I will have the throne, and very likely I’ll have to kill the little bastard to get it. But not this way. Not creeping about in the dark.”

  Odiya had drawn herself to her full height. “Creeping, Moranden? Is it so you see me? Is it so you have looked on all your life of worship? Have I borne an apostate to destroy us all?”

  “I’m a warrior, not a woman or a priest. I do my killing in the daylight where men can see it.”

  “He is a priest!” cried the queen who was not. “He is a sorcerer, a mage born. While you prate of honor and of war, he will witch you into the shadows you despise, and destroy you.”

  But Moranden was not to be swayed. “So be it. At least I’ll die with my honor intact.”

  “Honor, Moranden? Is it honor to bow to him? Will you die his slave, you who are the only son of Ianon’s king? Will you let him set his foot upon your neck?”

  “I cannot—” Moranden’s breath caught, almost a sob. “It’s infamy. To sell—even—that—to betray my own blood.”

  “Even,” the bird said, “to be king?”

  “I was meant to be king! I was born—”

  “So too was he.”

  Moranden’s lips clamped upon wrath.

  “He is mightier than you,” said the bird. “He is the one foretold: the Sunborn, the god-king who shall bring all the world beneath his sway and turn all men to the worship of Avaryan. Beside him you are but a shadow, an empty posturer who dares to fancy himself worthy of a throne.”

  “He is a bastard child,” Moranden spat with sudden venom.

  “He is the son of the Sun.”

  Moranden ground his teeth.

  “Foreigner and interloper though he is, all Ianon pays him homage. Its people are learning to love him; its beasts fawn before him; its very stones bow beneath his feet. Lord, they call him; king and emperor, god-begotten, prince of the morning.”

  “I hate him,” grated Moranden. “I—hate—”

  The bird’s beak clashed; its wings stretched. “When we have him,” it said, “you shall be king.”

  Moranden raised his fists. “No. You want him, you fetch him yourself. But be quick, or I’ll have him. My way. None other. Or die. And be damned to all your treacheries!”

  Sharply, viciously, the bird stabbed his cheek, driving deep through flesh into bone. Moranden’s head snapped back. The bird sprang into the air. “Damned!” it shrieked. “Lost and damned!”

  The wood was a tumult of wings and voices, sharp talons and cold mocking eyes. And beneath it, a sound as beautiful as it was horrible: the ripple of a woman’s laughter.

  oOo

  Vadin staggered erect. Vast shapes loomed about him, trees both immense and ancient, cloaked in the presence of the goddess. Branches clawed at him, roots surged up against his feet; twigs thrust into his face, beating him back. He struck against them, wildly yet with a fixed, half-mad purpose.

  His arms flailed at nothing. He stumbled painfully against stone. Flower-sweetness filled his brain, stronger than wine, stronger than dreamsmoke. He flung himself away.

  By slow degrees his mind cleared. The space about the altar was empty of birds, of robed priests, of the goddess embodied in the mortal woman. Close by him, almost at his feet, lay what they had discarded. Its face was a mask of blood.

  He dropped to his knees beside Moranden. With the hem of his cloak he wiped away the blood.

  Moranden neither moved nor uttered a sound. One eye stared blindly at the sky; the other was lost in a rush of scarlet.

  Vadin might have wept had there been time, or had this been the place for it. Setting his jaw, he stooped and drew the slack arm around his shoulders. With all his half-grown strength, with curses and prayers, he dragged Moranden up. Grimly, step by step, he began to walk.

  The wood was deathly silent. The only sound was the rasp of his breath and the hiss of Moranden’s in his ear; the shuffling of their feet in the mould; and the hammering of his heart.

  There were eyes upon him. They watched; they waited. He could taste their hatred, cold and cruel, like blood and iron.

  He shut it out with all his will, flooding the levels of his mind with every frivolity he could remember. Love songs, lovemaking, wine and mirth and bawdy jests. And he walked, dragging his senseless burden. Slowly, carefully, to the tune of a drunkard’s dirge, while the wood closed in about him. In stillness was death, in surrender destruction; in terror, damnation.

  Light glimmered. Surely it was illusion. This wood had no end. He was trapped within it until he went mad or died.

  The light grew. And suddenly it was all about him, the clear light of day upon a long slope, and Rami tethered at a safe distance from Moranden’s stallion, and the Vale below him.

  With a long sigh he let Moranden slide to the ground. His own body followed, suddenly boneless. A red mist thickened about him.

  A shadow loomed in it, darkness edged with fire. It stooped over him, spreading vast wings, crying out in words of power and terror. He cried back and fought, drawing strength from the depths of his will.

  The shadow gripped him. A hand lifted, all dark, but in its center a sun.

  Vadin gasped and went slack. The shadow was Mirain with the Mad One behind him, the hands Mirain’s, holding Vadin up with ease that belied his body’s smallness. There was blood on his face, on his kilt.

  “Not mine,” he said in his own familiar voice. “It covers you.”

  He shifted Vadin’s weight to his shoulder, raised his hand again. Involuntarily Vadin flinched. The god’s brand flamed even yet, like molten gold.

  It was warm, not hot; flesh-warm. It eased him down, drew forth a cloth from he knew not where, began gently to cleanse his face.

  He struck it aside. “Let me be. I need nothing. Help me look after the prince.”

  Mirain’s expression had been grave, intent. Now it darkened. “You should have left him where he lay.”

  Vadin was as weak as a child, yet he dragged himself up, away from Mirain, toward Moranden. The elder prince lay slack and somehow shrunken, as if the goddess had taken life with his blood, draining away his soul.

  As he had done by the altar, Vadin strove to stanch the flood. He could not see Moranden’s eye. It was all blood. If it was pierced—

  “It is no more than he deserves.”

  Vadin whirled in a white rage. Mirain, even pro
ud Mirain, fell back a step.

  But he came forward again and looked down at his mother’s brother and said in that calm, young, royal voice, “He plots treason. He deserves to lose much more than an eye.”

  “He is your kin.”

  “He is my enemy.”

  Vadin struck him. But the blow was feeble. Worse were the words he flung without measure or mercy. “Who are you to judge this man? You, you haughty prince, so firm in your righteousness, with the god’s blood in your veins and your empire in front of you, what do you know of right or power or deserving?” His wrath had brought him to his feet; it held him there, towering over Mirain. “From the moment of your birth you were destined to be king. So you say. So the songs say. So even I was beginning to believe, in spite of all I could do.

  “But now.” His voice lowered almost to a whisper. “Now I see you for what you are. Go back to your grandfather and leave me to remember who is truly my lord!”

  He was far beyond any care for his own safety. But when his voice had stilled, his heart beat hard, and not only with anger. All expression had vanished from Mirain’s face, but the black eyes were blazing. He could strike Vadin down with the merest flick of his hand, blind him as he had blinded his mother’s betrayer, turn all his high words to the croaking of carrion birds.

  Vadin raised his chin and made himself meet that unmeetable gaze. “Or,” he said quite calmly, “you can help me. He needs a healer, and quickly. Will your lordship deign to fetch one?”

  Mirain’s fist clenched. Vadin waited for him to strike. He said, “It would take too long to bring anyone from the castle.”

  Vadin turned his back on him. Moranden had changed even while they spoke. His face was grey beneath the lurid scarlet of the wound; his eyes were glazed, his breath rattling in his throat.

  “But,” Vadin said to the heedless air, “his hurt is so small, and he so strong.”

  “The goddess is stronger than he.”

  Mirain knelt on the other side of Moranden’s body. Vadin regarded him with a flat, empty stare. He was neither prince nor enemy now, only a weary annoyance.

  “Yes,” Vadin said without inflection, “she is strong. Will you kill him now? He’s at your mercy.”