by Tarr, Judith
Not that the pain itself was any less, or the shame. Vadin said, “You’re an initiate now. You’ve blooded your saddle; you’ve been anointed with redroot.”
“What makes you think I need the reassurance?”
“So you don’t,” said Vadin, beginning the slow task of covering salved flesh with bandages. “So you’re snapping at me because it amuses you. How do you think I got this leathered hide? Days in the saddle and nights on my face with redroot burning me to the bone, and half a dozen stints of wearing bandages wrapped like trousers.”
“You should wear trousers to start with, and spare yourself suffering.”
“That would be too easy. Or you’d have done it yourself.”
Mirain stood for Vadin to finish, moving with care, looking as grim as his grandfather. “Easy. That’s the heart of it. Trousers reek of ease and comfort and southern effeminacy. I can’t wear them here and be looked on as either a man or a prince. Whereas my shaven face, now that is scandalous, but it’s endurable: it’s difficult, it’s troublesome, it often draws blood. Men in Ianon will sacrifice their beards gladly for a fashion or a flattery, but they’ll die before they wrap their legs in trousers.”
“I’ll die before I do either.” Vadin bound off the last bandage, but he remained on his knees. It was strange to look up at Mirain and to know that it had nothing to do with wizardry. He sat on his heels. “I’ve earned my comfort in a kilt; I’m not about to atone for it with a razor.”
“You are a philosopher.” Mirain grinned so suddenly that Vadin blinked, and ran a finger down the squire’s cheek. It was a gesture just short of insult, and just short of a caress. “Also much handsomer than I, and charmingly blind to the fact. It’s not only your fine character that endears you to Ledi.”
“Of course not. She loves my fine copper, and my occasional silver.”
“Not to mention your splendid smile. And that cleft in your chin . . . ah!”
Vadin locked his hands together before they hit something. “You had better dress,” he said, “my lord. Before the others wake and see.”
“They won’t.”
But Mirain went in search of clothing and found a tunic that made him a rather handsome robe, and Vadin found his temper again. As the prince approached the food, he was able to follow suit, even to keep from glowering. Even, in time, to muster a smile, albeit with a touch of a snarl.
oOo
When Moranden rode in at last, Mirain was there in his own kilt and cloak, now clean and mended. The elder prince had for escort his kinsman of Umijan; and every Umijeni behind them carried on his spear the head of a rebel. So too did a number of Ianyn, and they were singing as they came.
The women of Umijan raised their own shrill paean, the chant that was half of exultation for the victory, half of grief for the fallen. Amid the tumult Mirain stood alone with the three who were left of his companions, and there was a circle of stillness about them, a flicker of fingers in the sign Vadin had seen before.
Again its familiarity pricked, again he had no time to remember. They were all coming toward Mirain, Moranden leading, handing the reins to one who reached for them, facing his sister’s son.
He was full of victory, magnanimous with it; he embraced his rival, and Mirain grinned at him as if they had never been aught but friends. Vadin could not understand why he was so little minded to join in the cheer that went up. It was not a feeble cheer. The army clashed spear on shield, roaring their names. Mirain! Moranden! Moranden! Mirain!
When some semblance of quiet had fallen, Moranden said, “Well done, kinsman. Splendidly done. If you weren’t a knight of Han-Gilen, I’d make you one of Ianon.”
Mirain smiled up into the glad and lordly face, so amiable to see, and responded with all sweetness, “I take your words as they are meant, my uncle.”
Moranden laughed and clapped him on the back, staggering him, and turned to the baron. “I trust you’ve housed and looked after my kinsman as he deserves. He’s no less than Ianon’s heir.”
“I’ve set him in my own chamber,” Ustaren said, “and given him my own slaves to command as he wills.”
“With which,” said Mirain, “I am well content.”
Such a love-feast. It was making Vadin ill. Mercifully they cut it short; there were wounded to see to, and trophies to hang, and women to be bedded in the rites of triumph.
oOo
Mirain was encouraged to rest, with much solicitude for the toll his ride must have taken. Not that they knew the truth of it, or could guess; he refused to walk lame, and two days out of the saddle had smoothed the furrows of exhaustion from his face. He was being pampered like a royal maiden, nor could he help but know it, yet he left the courtyard with good grace.
Jeran went to see his mare, who was expected to live; Mirain had had something to do with that. Tuan followed with an eye on the hayloft and one of the serving maids. Mirain trailed at some distance.
They had had to set the Mad One apart in a stable of his own. He endured strange hands upon him, provided that they presumed only to tend him, but he would not suffer the stallion who ruled as king here.
The beast, a splendid young bay, would bear the scars until he died, although the Mad One had forborne to slay him. For scorn, Vadin suspected.
The black demon seemed content in his exile, with Rami near him and Jeran’s mare coming slowly back to life within his sight. He accepted the delicacies Mirain had saved for him, submitted to the prince’s scrutiny, snorted when Vadin observed, “Not a mark on him. You’d think he’d done nothing more strenuous than march on parade.”
Mirain fondled Rami’s head. The gap in the wall through which it had appeared had not been there before the Mad One came. “This beauty, too,” he said; “already she frets to be idle.”
“You can talk to her,” Vadin said more sullenly than he had meant.
“Seneldi don’t use words.” Mirain inspected the Mad One’s hoof, bending with care, speaking as to it. “To Rami I’m a great one who shines in the night, a master of magic. I can speak clearly to her and know what she wishes me to know, and maybe she thinks well of me. But you are the one she loves.”
Vadin barely heard. The words were only words, sound obscuring the thoughts behind, and memory had smitten him with such force that he nearly fell.
Men in Han-Ianon, Marcher born, and secret signs, and a flicker of fingers wherever Mirain was. “The sign,” he said. “The sign they all make where you can’t quite see. It’s a Great Sign. It’s the sign against a prince of demons.”
“I know,” said Mirain calmly, releasing the hoof, smoothing a tangle in the black mane.
“You know?” Vadin shook with the effort of shouting in a whisper. “You know what it means? This is the goddess’ country. What she is in Han-Gilen, and what the king would make her in Ianon, Avaryan is here. Enemy. Adversary. Burning devil. And they know that you’re his son. Any man in Umijan could cut you down and be counted a saint for doing it.”
“None has tried yet. None tried when we were all helpless. And now Moranden is here, and his army comes from the Vale.”
“How do you know Moranden won’t egg the murderer on? He goaded you into coming here. This may be his very own trap, all nicely baited.”
“Have you turned so completely against him?”
Bile stung Vadin’s throat. He choked it down. “No. No, I haven’t. I only know what I would do if I were Moranden and this were my fief. I’d challenge you and kill you, and see that the truth never found its way eastward.”
“And yet,” Mirain said, “you forget. The army has learned to wish me well.”
“That’s too easily unlearned.” Vadin gripped his arm, pulling him about. “Let’s run for it. Now.”
Mirain looked from Vadin’s hand to his face, and raised a cool brow. “Have you suddenly turned coward?”
“I don’t linger in closing traps.”
Slowly Mirain’s free hand raised in denial. “No, Vadin. I know what my pride has br
ought me to, but I can’t flee now. The game is too well begun. I have to play it out.”
“Even to your death?”
“Or Moranden’s.”
“Or both.” Vadin let him go. “Why am I arguing with you? Ymin herself couldn’t talk sense into you; and that was before you even started. Go ahead then. Kill yourself. You’ll be comfortably dead, and you won’t have to face what comes after.”
That stung Mirain, but not enough. “If the god wills it, so be it. But I’ll do all I can to forestall it. Can that content you?”
It would have to. Mirain would yield no further than that.
oOo
Baron Ustaren kept princely state in his hall. His knights dined on white wood, his captains on copper; for himself and his highborn guests there were plates and goblets of chased silver.
Here as elsewhere in the Marches, women did not eat with their men; but maids served the high table, robed and modestly veiled, with downcast eyes.
One or two, Vadin thought, might have been lovely. The one who hovered about Mirain certainly was, if a soft dark eye and a lissome figure were any guide; though she was taller than Vadin, and beside Mirain she was a giantess. Unobtrusively Vadin tried to penetrate her veil, to see whether her face matched her eyes.
Mirain watched her likewise with an intensity that came close to insult.
Close, but not, it seemed, on the mark. Ustaren laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and grinned. “My sister’s daughter,” he said, cocking his head toward the girl. “Do you like her?”
Mirain shaped his words with visible care. “She is very beautiful; she serves me well. She honors your house.”
“Would she honor yours, Prince of Ianon?”
She had frozen like a hunted doe. Her fear was palpable. Of the baron; of Moranden, who watched and listened and said no word; of Mirain. Of Mirain most of all, a fear mingled with fascination and a strange, reluctant, piercing pity.
“I am young,” he said, “to think of such things.”
Ustaren laughed, a great bellow of mirth. “Too young for that, prince? Your stature may be a child’s, but all the tales grant you a man’s years. Do they lie after all?”
The hall, Vadin noticed abruptly, was very still. Neither Tuan nor Jeran sat close by, nor any other of the men who had shown themselves loyal to Mirain.
Indeed he could not find them at all. Every man whose face Vadin knew was Moranden’s, watching Mirain steadily, with palpable hostility.
Old tactics, and effective. Separate the enemy from his allies; surround him and conquer.
Mirain’s cup was full of strong sweet wine. He raised it and drank, saluting Ustaren. “A man is a man, whatever his size.”
“Or maybe,” said Ustaren, “he’s half a god. Tell me, did he come to your mother as a man comes? Or as a spirit, or a shower of gold, or a warm rain? How would a god take his bride?”
Mirain’s eyes glittered, but his voice was level. “That was, and remains, between herself and the god.”
“However he came,” Ustaren said unruffled, “he left his mark on you. Or so they say.”
Mirain’s fist clenched upon it. “He was so gracious as to leave me proof of my parentage.”
“Are mere mortals permitted to look upon it?”
The tension in the hall had risen until it was all but visible. Vadin’s brain throbbed with it. He struggled to speak.
“The mark!” a man cried. “Let us see the mark!”
Mirain rose suddenly, nearly oversetting his chair. One or two men laughed, thinking he had drunk his fair share. He flung up his fist. “Yes, my father marked me. Branded me for all to see. Here; look at it!”
Gold caught fire in his palm. Someone cried aloud.
Behind Vadin danger crouched. He tensed to leap. Too late. Strong arms locked about him, dragging him back.
Where Mirain’s heart had been, a black blade clove the air. The maidservant spun, eyes wide and fixed.
Moranden surged to his feet. Men of Umijan were all about him. Two had Vadin, who fought with all the strength he had.
But Mirain was free. People in the hall had drawn back, taking the tables with them. A wide space lay open around the central fire, and there was order in the folk who rimmed it, the order of ritual. Men outside, veiled women in a circle within, and in the center, Mirain with the baron’s kinswoman.
She had cast aside her veil; she was even more lovely than Vadin had suspected. And far more deadly. In each hand she held a dagger; one was black and straight, one bronze-brown and curved. She moved slowly, fluidly, as in a dance, closing in upon her prey.
Vadin bit a careless hand. Its owner struck him half senseless but did not let him go. As he gathered to renew his struggle, Moranden shouted with the roughness of rage, “No! I forbid this!”
It was Mirain who answered him, Mirain casting aside his robe of honor, never losing a step in the dance of death. His voice was frighteningly gentle. “Let be, kinsman. I’ll die and give you what you long for, or I’ll live to face you on the field of honor. How can you fail?” He flashed his white smile. “I don’t intend to.”
The black knife licked out. He danced away. The girl smiled. “O valiant,” she said almost tenderly. “O brave boy, brought here to fight in the war we made for you. It is a pity you must die. You are so young.”
“The black blade,” Moranden said harshly over the fading echo of her words. “The black blade is poisoned. The other is for your heart when she has you. After it has taken your manhood.”
“Gentle poison,” she said. “It makes its victim long to lie down and love me. Will you come to it? You are the goddess’ own, so fair to see.”
“So beloved of her enemy.” Mirain saluted Moranden, who could not or would not aid him, but who had given him what honor demanded. He matched the woman step for step, mirroring her, keeping a distance which she could not close. She was no swifter than he, but she was no slower.
At first Vadin thought his ears tricked him. The hall was as silent as any hall could be with half a thousand people in it, and a fire blazing, and two mad creatures stalking one another around the hearth. But under the silence and about it and through it wove a slow sweet music. Darkness shot with gold. A voice at once deep and clear. Mirain had begun to sing.
The woman—no, she was a priestess, a votary of the goddess; she could be no other—the priestess sprang, clawed with bronze and black iron.
The chant broke. Resumed. It was clearly audible now, but the words were strange. They seemed to have no meaning, or a meaning beyond mere human words.
A massive form lunged into the circle. Ustaren, still-faced, still-eyed, enchanted.
Mirain was gone like a shadow. The priestess wheeled, her daggers a blur in her hands. Black slashed foremost. The force of the baron’s advance drove him full upon the poisoned blade.
Slowly, with no more sound than a sigh, he sank down. The priestess laughed high and wild. “Blood! Blood for the goddess!”
Mirain was on her, cat-quick, cat-fluid. The black dagger lodged deep in Ustaren’s body, stilling as the heart stilled. The bronze flashed so close to Mirain’s cheek that surely it was shaved anew.
He laughed sharp and fierce. His golden hand closed upon the woman’s wrist; she wailed in agony.
The knife fell, she after it. He let her fall. The dagger he caught, wheeling about.
The fire roared to the roof and collapsed into embers. He walked over it. Through it.
The circle broke, shrinking from the terror of his eyes. They swept the greying faces. The god filled them, flamed in them, consumed them.
“You fools,” he said with terrible softness. “You brave, blind, treacherous fools.”
“Hell-spawn!” howled one bolder, or madder, than the rest. It might have been a woman. It might have been a man shrill with fear.
Mirain did not answer. He faced his mother’s brother and said, “I will remember that you spoke for me. Do you remember that I brought about the death of the chief of
your rebels, the raiser of the Marches, the master of the tribes. He would have trapped us both, me to my death, you to be his puppet in the king’s hall. I leave you his holding and his people.”
He hurled the dagger to the floor at Moranden’s feet. It clattered in the silence. “Do with them as you will, my lord of the Western Marches. My father calls me elsewhere.”
ELEVEN
Since Mirain left, the king had taken to the battlements again, gazing not southward now but westward. Ymin was with him through much of his vigil, still and silent, her eyes as often upon him as upon the horizon.
He was old, she thought. He had always been old; yet he had been strong, like an ancient tree. Now he was brittle and like to break. When the wind blew chill from the mountains, he shivered, huddling in his cloak; when the sun beat down, he bowed under it.
On the fourth day of Brightmoon’s waning, the twentieth since Mirain’s leaving, the sun rose beyond a heavy curtain of cloud. A thin grey rain darkened the castle; yet the king kept his watch. Even Ymin had striven in vain to dissuade him.
He stood unheeding under the canopy his servants had erected for him, with the rain in his face and the wind in his hair. Now and then a shiver would rack his body, despite a rich cloak of embroidered leather lined with fleece.
Those who came and went on the kingdom’s business—for the king ruled as firmly from his battlements as from his throne—looked at one another and made signs which they thought he could not see. Surely, and at long last, he had fallen into his dotage.
He did not deign to notice them. Ymin suffered them, for having failed to entice him from his post she held her peace. Sometimes she sang to herself, old songs and new ones, rain-songs and hymns to the Sun.
Suddenly she faltered. He had stiffened and stepped forward into the full force of the wind.
The Vale of Ianon was hidden in a thin mist. Shapes moved within it, now all but invisible, now clear to see: farmfolk on errands that could not wait for a clear sky, a traveler or two trudging toward warmth and dry feet. Once there had been a post-rider, and once a lady’s carriage.
