by Tarr, Judith
“The kingdom is blinded by its grief for its old king, whom in turn you blinded with your sorceries. Southerner, wizard’s brat, not all fall into your snares. When the people pause to think, then where will you be?”
“On the throne which my grandfather left me.” Mirain sat in it with dignity but without ceremony. His eyes never left the messenger’s face. “My uncle said and did much that could be construed as bitter enmity, and somewhat that came close to treason. In my predecessor’s mind he richly deserved his exile. And yet,” he said, sitting straight, and although he did not raise his voice it penetrated to the edges of the wide court, “I am willing to recall him.”
The man’s lip curled. “At what price?”
“This,” said Mirain. “That he present himself in true repentance; that he beg forgiveness of all Ianon for what has been done in his name; and that he swear fealty to me as his lord and king.”
The envoy laughed. “Should he crawl at your feet, who are not worthy to stand in his shadow?” He spat in the dust. “You are no king of his or of ours.”
As the echoes of his words died, the throng began to mutter. It was a low sound, barely audible, yet blood-chilling. Still no one dared the scythes, but the press of bodies had tightened about the mounted men, hampering the seneldi.
Mirain raised his hand. Instinctively the messenger flinched from it, hauling at the reins.
The chariot backed half a length and stopped short. A solid wall of people barred his escape. His mares trembled and sweated with eyes rolling white.
Gently Mirain said, “Give my message to my uncle.”
“He will destroy you.”
“Tell him.” Mirain’s voice rose a very little, speaking now to his people. “It was my will that these men should come here unmolested, else the Towers of the Dawn would have forbidden them. Let them go now as they came, unharmed.”
The mutter turned to a rumble. Anger hung thick in the air, gathering like a storm.
A senel screamed, rearing. A hundred hands pulled it down before its rider could free his sword from its scabbard.
“Let them go.” Mirain had not risen, nor had he shouted. Yet he was heard.
The rumble faltered. For an eternal moment the envoys’ fate hung in the balance.
Mirain lowered his hands and sat back as if at his ease. Slowly, with reluctance as palpable as their outrage, the crowd freed their prisoners. Equally slowly, the invaders backed away from them.
The messenger turned his chariot, gentling his frightened mares. With a sudden shout he lashed them forward. His escort spurred behind him.
Even beyond the gate they could hear the full-throated roar, the acclamation of the king enthroned.
SEVENTEEN
Mirain would gladly have feasted until dawn, and his lords and commons were minded to do just that, but it was hardly past sunset when Ymin gave the signal Vadin had been warned to expect. Although Mirain had been drinking considerably more than he ate, he was far from drunk; warm was the word, and joyous, and more prodigal than ever with the magic of his presence. His cloak was cast over the back of the high seat; he leaned across the table, watching a ring of fire-dancers and parrying the lethal wit of a lord who sat near the dais.
Even as Vadin moved to touch his shoulder, he saluted a bold stroke and drank deep. He turned, laughing and glittering, and the simple nearness of him was enough to weaken Vadin’s knees. “M—my lord,” stammered Vadin, who had not stammered since he was weaned. “Sire, you must—”
The brilliance did not dim, but Mirain’s eyes focused, touched with concern. “Trouble, Vadin?”
He laughed at that, shakily. “Gods, no! But it’s time to go, my lord.”
“Go!” Mirain frowned. “Am I a child, to be put to bed with the sun?”
Vadin had his self-possession back at last, and he grinned. “Of course not, my lord. You’re the king, and there’s one more thing you have to do to put the seal on it, and it’s best you do it soon, before anyone catches on. Here, leave your cloak; they’ll think you’ve just gone out to the privy.”
For a moment Vadin knew Mirain would resist. But surely he knew what he was going to; he was the Sunborn, he knew everything. Except that he did not act as if he knew anything at all. Was it possible . . . ?
He came slowly, but he came. Maybe he used magic; no one seemed to care that he was leaving. Vadin led him down the passage behind the throne, up to the hidden door and the chambers that were now Mirain’s. Some of his belongings had appeared there, but the touch of his hand was very faint yet, hardly perceptible over the deep imprint of the one who was gone.
But Vadin had not brought Mirain here to brood on the dead. He turned toward the bedchamber, opened the door, and stood back. “My lord,” he said.
If Mirain was beginning to understand, he was far enough gone in wine not to hesitate. He entered the great room, its austerity soft-lit now with lamps, scented with flowers.
Others were there before him. Nine, Vadin counted from the door. Ten with Ymin. Ten women sitting or standing or kneeling, waiting in a shimmer of jewels. One or two were familiar, maidens of the king’s bath now adorned as befit their rank; Vadin recognized several more from court and castle, and one at least of the guests who had come for High Summer and lingered for a funeral and a kingmaking. There was even one in the collar of a slave, but she had a fine bold eye, and she was one of the fairest, a daughter of velvet night.
Mirain stood stock-still under their eyes, almost as he had stood in the gateway before he claimed his throne. Vadin heard the sharp intake of his breath, saw the tensing of his back.
Ymin smiled at him. “Yes, my lord. One last test remains in the making of the king. As sacred singer I have been given authority to free you from the vow that binds you; as the king’s singer I am sworn to accept the testimony of the lady you choose. Or ladies,” she added with a touch of wickedness.
Mirain’s voice was flat. “I do not wish to partake of this rite.”
“You must, my lord. It is prescribed. Ianon knows that you are a man and that you bear no blemish which will weaken the land. Now you must prove your strength. Time was when you would have done so in the fields under the stars, for any to watch who wished to; and you would have kept a share of your seed for the earth itself.”
“And now?”
“You need only satisfy your chosen one. Who will satisfy me that you are fit, and I will bear witness before your people.”
“And . . . if I fail?”
“You will not.” She spoke with assurance, coming forward and bowing low and holding out her hands. “If you please, my lord. Your torque.”
His hand went to it. “I may not—” He stopped; he stripped off all his jewels, flinging them at her feet. But not his robe, and almost not his torque.
At last, with visible reluctance, he unclasped it, held it up on his flattened palms. The words he spoke were in a tongue Vadin did not know, chanted softly and swiftly, almost angrily.
Ymin raised her own hands, responding in the same mode, in the same sonorous tongue. With all reverence she took the torque, kissed it, bowed over it, and set it again upon him.
As simple as that? Vadin wondered.
It would seem so. Mirain drew a long breath, and the way he stood spoke of a little regret, and a great deal of fear, but a worldful of relief; though he would die before he acknowledged any but the first. When he spoke again he sounded more like himself. “Must I be given so difficult a set of choices? Nine ladies of such beauty—how can I choose?”
“A king must always choose,” Ymin said with the barest hint of iron beneath the softness.
He was delaying, that was obvious. Nervous as a virgin, and probably he was not far from one; and now he had to prove himself for such a cause, after so long an abstinence, with bitter consequences if his body played him false. Vadin wished desperately that there were something he could do. Anything.
He was not even supposed to be here. He bit his tongue and knotted his f
ists and made himself stay out of it. Mirain was Mirain, after all. And Ianon needed a strong king.
Mirain gathered himself all at once, and laughed almost freely. “I shall choose, then; and may the god guide my hand.”
He made a slow circuit, pausing before each lady, taking her hand, saying a word or two. He lingered longest for his golden princess of the bath, whose hands he even kissed, and she looked at him with her heart in her eyes. But he did not say the word that would seal the choosing.
He drew back, and they all waited, hardly breathing. He faced Ymin, held out his hand. “Come,” he said.
There was a stunned silence. Even she had not looked for this. Surely he was mocking her, taking his revenge for the ordeal which she had forced upon him.
She said what they were all thinking. “I am more than twice your age.”
“And a head taller than I,” he agreed willingly, “and no tender maid, and my chosen. It is permitted that I choose as I will.” Again he held out his hand. “Come, singer.”
If she shaped protests, she let them die before she uttered them. Coolly and quietly she dismissed the ladies who had been chosen with such care and to so little effect, setting Vadin the task of looking after them. The last he saw as he shut the door, they were facing one another, king and singer, and it looked more like war than love.
oOo
“Why?” Ymin asked when the rest were gone. She was still calm, but the mask was cracking.
Mirain’s seemed the firmer for the weakness of hers. He shrugged and smiled. “I want you.”
“Not the Princess Shirani?”
“She’s very lovely. She’s also terrified of me, although she calls it love. And tonight I’m not up to a maiden’s holy awe.” His face darkened. “Is it that I repel you? I know I have no beauty, and I’m too young to be a good lover, and too small to look well beside you.”
“No!” Her hands took it on themselves to seize his, to hold them fast. “Never say such things. Never even think them.”
“I was taught to speak the truth.”
“The truth, aye and well. But that is a lie. Mirain my dearest lord, do you not know that you are beautiful? You have that which makes even the lovely Shirani seem commonplace beside you. A brilliance; a splendor. A magic. And a very fine pair of eyes in a very striking face, and a body with which I can find no fault.”
“What, none at all?”
“Perhaps,” she mused, “if I might see the whole of it . . .”
“Have you not already?”
“Ah, but that was the kingmaking, and I was blinded by the god in your eyes. I should like to see the man, since he has persisted in choosing me.”
He freed himself easily, dropped his robe, stood for her to look at. She looked long, and she looked with great pleasure, and she smiled, for he was rousing to her presence. “No flaw at all, my lord. Not one.”
“Sweet-tongued singer.” He unbound the cincture of her robe. His hands were not quite steady. “I hope, my lady, that your modesty is only for the world.”
“My lord, I am a famous wanton.” She cast aside the heavy garment, growing reckless now that she had no retreat, and shook down the masses of her hair. It tumbled from its woven braids, pouring like water to her feet; his gasp of wonder made her laugh. But when he touched her she gasped herself, and their eyes met, and she sank down in the pool of her hair.
His arms closed about her; she trembled within them. “My lord, you should not have done this to me.”
He stroked her hair with gentle hands. “My name is Mirain.”
She raised her head in a flare of sudden heat. “My lord!”
“Mirain.” Gentle, implacable. “The kingdom commands that I do this, and the god commands that you be my chosen, but I will not be my lord. Unless you honestly wish me to fail.”
Her heart went cold. He had let slip the truth at last. The god had commanded it. Not his will. Not his desire, nor ever his love. That his body responded to her beauty, that was mere fleshly desire; it meant nothing.
She knew her face was calm, but he did not read faces. He stared stricken, and he cried, “No, Ymin. No! Oh, damn my tripping tongue! The god guided me, I admit it, but only because I would never have dared it alone. How much easier to take one of yon eager worshipful maids, do my duty, send her away. You came harder. Because you outshone them all, body and soul. Because—because with you I would have more than duty and ritual. With you I would have love.”
She raised her hand, let it come to rest on his cheek. “Curse you,” she said very softly, “for a mage and a seer.”
He kissed her palm.
“Child,” she said. He smiled. “Insolent boy. I have a daughter only a little younger than you. I would spank her if she looked at me as you are looking now.”
“It would be appalling if she did.” His hand found her breast; he paid it the homage of a kiss. “How beautiful you are.”
“How ancient.”
“And how young I am, and how little it matters.” He kissed her other breast, and the warm secret space between them, and the curve of her belly beneath. Her body sang where he touched it; keened when he withdrew; began to sing again as he led her to the bed.
Her mind, letting go its resistance, took up the descant. Its refrain was perfect in its purity: simply and endlessly his name, with no lord or king to taint it.
He saw; he knew. His fire flooded over her and drowned her.
oOo
Vadin yawned and stretched and grinned at the ceiling of his new chamber. Bold-eyed Jayida had gone back to her mistress, who had been one of the old king’s ladies; but she had promised to visit him again. Nor had she seemed to find him a poor second to the king. After all, she had said, the king was half a god and all a priest, and that did not bode well for him as a lover. Whereas the king’s squire . . .
Still grinning, he sat up, tossing back his loosened hair. No sound reached him from the king’s bedchamber.
He opened the door with great care and peered within. And jumped like a startled thief.
Mirain stood in the opening and laughed, as bare and tousled as himself but somewhat wider awake. “Good morning, Vadin,” he said. “Did she serve you well?”
Vadin flinched. It had occurred to him that he was usurping a woman chosen for the king. She had scoffed when he said it. But there were places where he would have paid in blood for his night’s pleasure.
Mirain embraced him with unfeigned exuberance, dragged him to the bath that was blessedly empty of its maidens, pushed him in and leaped after him in a cloud of spray. Vadin came up spluttering, not ready yet to join in the game. “My lord, I—”
“My lord, you are forgiven, she is yours, you may have your joy of her. Shall I free her for you? I can do that.”
Mirain was alight with it, knowing that he was king, that he was free, that he could do whatever he pleased.
Vadin blinked water out of his eyes. “I don’t think—she was just for a night. If I were asking for anyone I’d ask for Ledi. But—”
“But.” Mirain had sobered. “You don’t want gifts. When I hold Great Audience today I’ll take the liege-oaths of all the lords who are here, and of the fighting men, and of the pages and the servants. And of the squires who served my grandfather. Would you like to go back to them? You no longer need look after me all alone; you can be a squire among the squires again, only taking your turn with me when it suits you. If it suits you at all.”
Vadin stood very still in the warm ever-flowing water. Mirain waited without expression. Hoping, maybe, that Vadin would accept. Looking for an escape from his most reluctant servant.
Except that the reluctance had got itself lost somewhere, and the resistance had dwindled to a ritual, a saving of face. And the thought of going back to the barracks, of being plain Vadin the squire again, held no sweetness at all. Seeing someone else at Mirain’s back—knowing that someone else would stand here dripping, enduring Mirain’s gentle chaffing, sharing bath and breakfast—
>
Vadin swallowed hard, half choking. “Do you want me to go, my lord?”
“I don’t want you to stay in a place that you dislike.”
“What—” Vadin swallowed hard. “What if I don’t dislike it?”
“Even though people call you my dog and my catamite?”
Vadin thought of the names they had called Mirain. Which, if he could but hear them—
“I have.”
“You’re walking in my mind again. After all I’ve said. You used my body when you sent me to that unspeakable woman. Who knows what you’ll do to me next? But I’m getting used to you and your wizard’s tricks. Life in the barracks would bore me silly.”
“It would win your wager for you.”
“Sure it would. And who’d nursemaid you when you got into one of your moods? No, my lord, you won’t get rid of me now. I said I’d stay with you, and I’m a man of my word.”
“Beware, Vadin; you’ll be admitting to friendship next.”
“Not likely,” Vadin said, scooping up a handful of cleansing foam. “Turn around and I’ll wash your back.”
Mirain did as he was told, but first he said, “I know exactly what I’m going to do with your soul when I win it. I’ll house it in crystal and net it in gold and hang it over my bed.”
“Fine sights it will see there,” said Vadin unperturbed, “now that you’re allowed to live like a man.”
Mirain laughed, and that was answer and to spare.
EIGHTEEN
In the grey light before sunrise, a lone rider sent his mount through its paces. He rode superbly well, wrapped with his stallion in a half-trance of leap and curvet and sudden swift gallop, challenging the targets set here and there on the practice ground of the castle: that art of princes called riding at the rings. Three circlets of copper glinted on his spearpoint; as Ymin watched, he turned his mount on its haunches, striking for a fourth.
“Well done!” she applauded him as he lowered his lance. Three rings rolled from it; the fourth spun through the air into her hand. She smiled and sank down in a low curtsey. “All thanks, my knight, for your tribute.”
