by Tarr, Judith
Mirain raised his head. He laughed, and it was terrible to hear, for even as he mocked her, he wept. “You are a poor liar, O servant of the Lie. I see your shame; I taste your thwarted wrath. She would not break. She died as she had lived, strong and valiant.” His voice deepened. It had beauty still, but all its velvet had worn away. Iron lay beneath: iron and adamant. “I swear to you and to all the gods, she will have her vengeance.”
Odiya would not be cowed. There was death between them; it bore witness to her power. It laid bare the truth: that he could not protect even where he loved.
She met his mockery with bitter mockery. “Will you come to battle now, Mirain who had no father? Dare you?”
“I dare, O queen of vipers. And when I have done with your puppet, look well to yourself.”
He turned the fire of his hand toward Obri. The chronicler urged his grey mare shying past the pool of black and scarlet, cloak and blood, into the swift bright water, halting in the center.
“Here is the midpoint between our forces.” He spoke evenly, with more strength than anyone might have believed possible, small and withered as he was. “But since no custom dictates that the champions engage in the midst of a river, and since the choice of ground rests with the challenger, let him choose where he will fight.”
“My lord,” answered the herald, “bids you engage upon the western bank.”
“So shall we do,” said Obri, riding forward.
Together with the herald in a barbed amity of duty, Obri dismounted and marked with his rod upon the ground the half of a circle: twenty paces from edge to edge, joined at its twin extremities to the half-circle of the other.
When the battleground was made they left it. Moranden prepared to dismount; the herald took his bridle. Vadin stood at the Mad One’s head.
Mirain sprang down lightly. His head did not even come to Vadin’s shoulder. The squire’s eyes pricked with tears; he blinked them away.
By the gods’ fortune Mirain had not seen. Eyes and mind bent on the fastening of his cloak.
Firmly, almost roughly, Vadin set his hands aside and loosed the clasp. Mirain smiled a very little. Vadin flung the cloak over the stallion’s saddle; Mirain unwrapped his kilt, setting it atop the sweep of scarlet, running a hand down the Mad One’s neck.
Moranden waited within the circle, arms folded. But Mirain paused. He caught Obri in a swift embrace, startling the scholar for once into speechlessness. And he reached for Vadin before the squire could escape, pulled his head down with effortless strength, and kissed him on the lips. The king’s touch was like the lightning, swift and potent and burning-fierce.
Vadin drew a sharp and hurting breath. “Mirain,” he said. “Mirain, try to hold on to your temper. You know what happens when you lose it.”
“Be at ease, brother,” Mirain said, light and calm: a royal calm. “I will mourn her when it is time to mourn. But now I have a battle to fight.” He smiled his sudden smile, with a touch of wryness, a touch of something very like comfort. “May the god keep you,” he said to them both.
He stepped into the circle. The herald stood in its center with rod uplifted. Obri raised his own rod and strode forward.
“Hold!”
Obri stopped.
Odiya would not enter the circle, but she stood at the witness’ post on the western edge, leaning on her eunuch’s shoulder. “One matter,” she said, clear and cold, “is not yet settled. Yonder stands no simple warrior but a priest of demon Avaryan, mage-trained by masters. Shall he be left free to wield his power against one who cannot match it?”
“I will not,” Mirain said with equal clarity, equal coldness.
“Swear,” she commanded.
He raised his branded hand. For all her pride and power, she flinched.
A small grim smile touched his mouth. He took off his torque and laid the golden weight of it in Vadin’s unwilling hands, standing a little straighter for its passing, saying levelly, “I swear by the hand of my father, whose image I bear, whose torque I lay aside in token of my oath: This battle shall be a battle of bodies alone, without magecraft or deceit. Swear now in your turn, priestess of the goddess, mage-trained by masters. Swear as I have sworn.”
“What need?” she countered haughtily. “It is not I whom you must fight.”
“Swear.” Moranden’s voice, his face implacable. “Swear, my lady mother, or leave this field. Bound and gagged and sealed with my enemy’s sorceries.”
“Has he such strength?” Have you? her eyes demanded.
But she yielded with all appearance of submission. She swore the solemn oath, lowering herself to the earth that was the breast of the goddess. “And may she cast me into her nethermost hell if I break this oath which I have sworn.”
Before her servant had helped her to her feet, they had forgotten her. The judges stood back to back, each facing the other’s champion, waiting.
With infinite slowness Avaryan climbed above the eastern margin of the world. At last he poised on the hills, his great disk swollen, the color of blood. As one, the rods swept down.
TWENTY-FIVE
The judges withdrew from the center of the circle to its edge; the champions advanced from edge to center.
From both armies a shout went up. That of the west held a note of triumph; that of the east, of defiance. For Moranden stood as tall as the mountains of his birth, massive yet graceful, with a glitter of gold in his hair and in the braids of his beard. Mirain beside him was no larger than a child, slight and smooth-skinned, with weight and inches yet to gain; and he would never equal his enemy in either. And he had sacrificed his one advantage: the sword and armor of his power. He had not even his torque to defend his throat.
Vadin had slid from the verge of tears to the verge of howling aloud. There was Mirain staring at his adversary like a small cornered animal, but managing the shadow of a smile. There was Moranden staring back and forbearing to sneer.
And yet how alike they were; how damnably alike, two kinsmen matched in their pride, bristling and baring their teeth and granting one another no quarter. And for what? A word and a name and a piece of carven wood.
They were slow to move, as if this battle must be one of eyes alone. But after a while that stretched long and long, Mirain said, “Greetings again at last, my uncle.”
Moranden looked him up and down as he had on the first day of Mirain’s coming. If he knew any regret, he did not betray it. “Are you ready to die, boy?”
Mirain shrugged slightly. “I’m not afraid of it.” His head tilted. “And you?”
“I’m not the one who’ll fall here. Won’t you reconsider, child? Take what I offered you once. Go back to your southlands and leave me what is mine.”
“Bargains?” asked Mirian, amused. “Well then, let me cast my own counters into the cup. Recant and surrender your army. Swear fealty to me as your king. And when the time comes, if you prove yourself worthy, you will be king after all. King in Ianon as you always longed to be, subject only to me as emperor.”
“There’s the rub,” Moranden said. “Under you. How have you managed on the throne of the mountain kings? Do you perch yourself on cushions like a child allowed to sit at table? With a footstool, of course, to keep your feet from dangling. I trust no one dares to laugh.”
“Oh, no,” said Mirain. “No one laughs at me.”
As they spoke they crouched, circling slowly. Mirain wore a small tight smile. Moranden wore no expression at all. He was light on his feet for a big man, and fast; when he struck, he struck with the suddenness of a snake.
Mirain escaped the stroke, but only just. His smile slipped, shifted.
Barred from Mirain’s mind by the oath the king had sworn—and dear gods, after all this time and in spite of all his resistance it had become second nature, so that its loss was cruel to endure—still Vadin could read Mirain’s face and eyes and body as easily as that young scholar-king could read a book. His mind had narrowed and focused, doubt and grief and terror blurre
d into distance. There was no fear in him, only fierceness and the beginnings of delight. He was strong and he was swift, and ah, how he loved a battle.
Mirain poised, waiting. Moranden’s hand came round: a long, lazy, contemptuous blow, as a man will cuff his hound. Mirain eluded it with a flicker of laughter.
He won no smile in return, but a grin like a snarl. “Aha! They pit me against a dancing boy. Dance for me now, little priest. Awe me with your art.”
“Better yet, uncle, let us dance together.” Mirain moved close, tantalizing; and when Moranden made no move to strike or seize, closer still, deathly close, as if his daring had overwhelmed his prudence.
Moranden struck.
Mirain stood just out of his reach, hand on hip. “Adjan is faster than you,” he said.
“Adjan stoops to dance with slaves and children. You can run, priestess’ bastard. Can you fight?”
“If you like,” said Mirain with the air of a king granting his vassal a favor.
Moranden straightened from his wrestler’s crouch and stepped back. Mirain waited. The prince flexed his wide shoulders, filled his lungs, emptied them.
Easily, fluidly, he settled into a stance that made Obri, close by Vadin, catch his breath. Vadin saw only that it was lethally graceful, like a cat before it springs. It had a look of—
“The gentle killing,” Obri said. He was losing the coolness he was so proud of, the detachment of the scholar. He was like everyone but Moranden and the witch of Umijan. He had fallen in love with Mirain. “The rebel has it. Of course he has it. He is a Marcher and a westerner.”
Mirain neither wavered nor retreated. If he saw that he faced a master of his own art, he was too much the warrior to show it. His body shifted toward its center and steadied, taking the posture of his defense.
“Issan-ulin,” Obri murmured. “The Serpent-slayer. Pray your gods, Vadin alVadin, that the tale your lord told Adjan was more than a vaunt. Pray your gods that it can save him.”
Vadin’s prayer was wordless, nor had he eye or mind for naming the movements of this subtle dance, but his will matched the foreigner’s. Let Mirain be wise, let him be strong. Let him put up a good fight before he died.
Moranden stalked his prey in silence the more deadly for all his words before; Mirain watched him as the issan-ulin watches the serpent, both fierce and wary, striking no blow.
Moranden’s hand lashed out and round; his foot followed it in a smooth concerted motion, as graceful as it was deadly. Mirain caught the hand on his forearm, deflected it, swayed beneath and away from the striking foot.
There was a measured and measuring pause. Moranden feinted. Mirain slid away.
Moranden sprang. Mirain grasped his shoulder, then his surging thigh, and guided them up, back, headlong to the ground, whipping about even as Moranden left his hands.
The prince had spun in the air, coming to earth on one knee, bounding erect. Even as Mirain turned, Moranden seized him.
One arm caught his middle in a grip of iron. One hand clamped on his throat. Moranden laughed, little more than a gasp, and raised him higher, the better to break his body.
Mirain writhed, kicking, mouth gaping for air, eyes wide and blind. With all his failing strength, he drove his head into Moranden’s jaw.
Moranden staggered. Mirain dropped. For a long count of breaths he lay utterly helpless.
His enemy loomed above him, foot raised and pointed for a bitter blow. Mirain snatched wildly at it. Held. Thrust it upward.
Moranden went down like a mountain falling.
Mirain set his knee on his kinsman’s chest and closed his hands around the heavy neck, setting his thumbs over the windpipe. Moranden made no effort to cast him off. “Uncle,” Mirain said, his voice a croak, coming hard from his bruised throat, “yield and I will pardon you.”
Moranden’s eyes opened wide. Mirain met them. He gasped and froze like a man under a spell, or like a boy who cannot make his kill.
Vadin wanted to howl Ymin’s name. But his throat had locked, and Mirain was lost. With a faint wordless protest, he hurled himself away.
His body struck the ground. Moranden’s full weight plunged down upon it.
Desperately Mirain scrambled sidewise. A hammer-blow smote him, driving his arm and shoulder deep into the yielding earth, wringing from him a short sharp cry.
Moranden’s hands tore cruelly at his hair, freeing the braid from its coil, twisting it, dragging him to his feet. He looked into Moranden’s face. With brutal strength the prince wrenched his head back.
Mirain stood as one who waits to die. His left arm hung useless; his body shook with tremors.
He smiled.
Moranden thrust him away. He staggered and fell.
He rose, though he bled from the stones that had stabbed his cheek, though at first he could not stand. With excruciating slowness he raised himself to his knees. More slowly still, he stood. His lips were grey with pain.
Moranden watched him from a few strides’ distance, arms folded, lip curled. For yet a while longer he would toy with his prey. Tease it; torment it; teach it all the myriad degrees of pain. Then—only then—he would slay it.
Mirain’s head came up. His eyes glittered. He seemed to grow, to swell with newborn strength.
He raised his hands, the left but little less easily than the right, and glided forward. Issan-ulin once more, but issan-ulin pricked to fury, closing in upon the Lord of Serpents.
Moranden’s contempt wavered.
“Yes,” Mirain said softly. “Yes, uncle. The game is past. Now the battle begins in earnest.”
Moranden spat at him. “Fool and braggart! God’s son or very god, you stand in a body reckoned puny even in the south that bred you; and you have given up your magic. You can do no more than your flesh allows. And I,” he said, spreading his arms wide, “am the Champion of Ianon.”
“Are you indeed?” Mirain beckoned. “Come, O champion. Conquer me.”
Once and once again they circled. As smoothly as dancers in a king’s hall, they closed.
Moranden was strong, but Mirain was swift to strike, swift to spring away. Moranden’s blow swung wide as he reeled.
Mirain struck again. Moranden staggered, flailing. One fist brushed Mirain’s brow, rocking but not felling him.
“Uncle, uncle,” he chided, “where is your strength?”
Moranden hissed and began to sway, serpent-supple. It was beautiful, it was horrible, to see that great-muscled body turned suddenly boneless. The lips drew back; the eyes glittered, flat and cold. Death coiled within them.
For a bare instant Mirain faltered. His face twisted, as if all his hurts had burst free at once from their bonds.
Moranden lashed out.
Mirain parried. Moranden advanced, hands a deadly blur, feet flying.
This too had its name in the west: the Direwolf. Moranden was the great wolf-chieftain, Mirain the tender prey, fleeing round the circle of battle past the silent judges, the silent and helpless witnesses.
Moranden passed his mother, who had let her veil fall. Her face was grey and old, furrowed deep with the pain of her wound.
She smiled. He did not or would not see her. Full before her, Mirain turned at bay; the combatants closed, grappling near the circle’s edge, almost upon it.
Metal flashed in Odiya’s hand. She held that weapon which had dogged them all from Umijan: the black dagger of the goddess.
It licked toward the struggling figures, hesitated. They were twined like lovers, flesh woven with flesh, no clear target for the blade. And the herald watched, making no move to prevent her.
“Foul!” cried Vadin. “Treason! Stop her!” He flung himself forward.
The dagger sang to its zenith.
And fell. No will and no hand guided it. Odiya’s eyes were very wide, very surprised, and very, very angry.
Her eunuch stood beside her, still bearing her up with a hand on her arm. In his other hand, a blade ran red.
“Treason indeed,
” he said with perfect calm, in part to Vadin, in part to her. “It is time the world was free of it.”
Her lips drew back from her teeth. Her hands came up. Black fire filled them.
She spoke a word. The fire leaped forth, caught the withered body, transfixed it.
But the eunuch laughed. “See, mistress! I win the cast; revenge is mine. Do you not even know that you are dead?”
The fire leaped for his open mouth. Voice and laughter died.
But even as he fell, Odiya convulsed. She reared up, and her face was the face of death, her power bleeding like black blood from her hands, hopeless, helpless, unstoppable.
She clawed at the blind uncaring sky. She raged at it. She cursed it and its deadly sun and the goddess whose realm lay beneath it.
Her power poured away. The poison filled her body. Her life flamed and flared, guttered, rallied, and went out.
The eunuch was dead when he struck the ground. But Odiya was dead before she began to fall.
Mirain and Moranden were up, apart, staring appalled. Vadin, coming too late, dared the black mist of sorcery that hung even yet over the dead; he knelt beside them and closed the staring eyes of slayer and slain, each of whom was both.
The woman’s face raged even in death. The eunuch smiled with terrible sweetness.
Moranden stooped over them. One eye was swelling shut, but he bore no other wound.
“Beautiful, treacherous bitch.” He spat on her, and he bent to kiss her brow. With a strangled roar he whirled.
Mirain, the madman, held out his hands. “Uncle.” He might never have been wounded, never have come within a breath of dying with the goddess’ blade in his back. “Uncle, it’s over. The one who would have besmirched our honor is dead. Come. Swear peace. Rule with me.”
Moranden’s head sank between his shoulders. His fists clenched and unclenched. A shudder racked him; he nearly fell.
“Uncle,” Mirain said, “it was she who drove you, she who made a bitter pawn of you. You yourself, you alone, I can forgive. Will you not share this kingdom with me?”
“Share! Forgive!” It was hardly human, that voice. Less human still was the laughter that came behind it. “I hated her, little bastard. I hated her and I loved her, and because of you she is dead. What have you left me but revenge?”
