The Lady of Han-Gilen

by Judith Tarr

  “You know I won’t.”

  “Then my body will school itself to wait. It’s most skilled in that.”

  “I’m not, and I won’t.” She stepped into the water, wading through it, ready to leap if he moved. “I could swear your oath, take my three days, and do as I please. But I’m honorable; I tell you the truth. Whether you give me three nights or none, when you go to Ashan I go with you. I’m your hope, Mirain. Your hope and your queen.”

  Her voice quivered on the title. She cursed herself for it, for the doubt it betrayed. That the certainty of her knowledge might be not of the light but of the mocking dark.

  Mirain stood motionless, face of a royal stranger, body of an eager lover. But the eagerness was fading, yielding to his will.

  She closed her eyes. The hope that had borne her up, the power of prophecy that had moved within her, ebbed away, leaving behind an utter weariness. She let her knees yield, her body sink into the warm scented water.

  Strong arms lifted her. She looked into Mirain’s face. Seeking no yielding, she found none.

  All damp and dripping as she was, he laid her in his bed. His arms were gentle; his expression was cold, almost angry. “Woman,” he said, low and rough, “you would tax the patience of a god.”

  “I know.” It was a sigh. “You’ve always said it: I don’t think. I just am. I love you, Mirain.”

  “And I . . .”

  He stroked the hair from her brow: tender hand, grim mouth. “There’s never been anyone for me but you. Women—lovers— friends, some of them; but only one of you. Though I never knew how very much I wanted you until I saw you there in the wineseller’s stall, so obviously and exquisitely you that I wondered how anyone could possibly take you for a boy. Do you know what it cost me, then and after, to keep my distance?”

  “No more than it costs you now. And that is remarkably little.”

  “No,” he said. “Oh, no. It costs the world.”

  She clasped her arms about his neck. There was no calculation in it. He was stone-stiff, stone-hard.

  Her lips touched his. Cold, so cold, with no yielding in them. She opened lips and mind, both at once, offering all she had to give.

  Fire burst from him. Light and heat and sudden, fierce, uncontrollable joy.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Elian opened her eyes. Morning light met them. She lay warm, languid, every muscle loosed.

  Warmth stirred against her, and memory flooded.

  She was a maid no longer. She was a woman and a queen.

  Dark eyes caught hers. “Regrets?” Mirain asked softly.

  She touched his cheek, following the line of it down his jaw to his neck to the plane of his chest. A slow smile rose and bloomed. But she said, “Yes.”

  His eyes stretched wide; she laughed.

  “Yes, that it took me so long to know my own mind. And,” she added with the beginnings of a blush, “your body.”

  He laughed, deep and joyous, and rose above her. “Would you know it better still, my lady?”

  She sparked at his touch; but she held him back, palms flat on his breast. “Are you sorry, Mirain? You could have had any woman in the world. There are many more beautiful, and some more witty, and a few of higher birth; and any one of them would be more sweetly submissive than I.”

  “How excruciatingly dull,” he said.

  “Am I interesting?” she asked, all wide eyes and astonishment.

  He leaped. Her laughter broke into a gasp, half of startlement, half of piercing pleasure.

  oOo

  When it was past, Mirain was very quiet. Not sad; but his high delight had faded, his mind withdrawn into some realm of its own.

  She, seeking, met a wall. Not a high one nor very strong, but she respected it, turning her will to the suppression of a sudden and utterly ridiculous jealousy.

  oOo

  Her head rested on his breast; his arms circled her, one hand tangled in her hair. Its fire fascinated him. “And fire even . . . there,” he had marveled in the night, laughing at her fierce blush and taking her by storm.

  A memory flitted past. Ziad-Ilarios in the temple, all gold and all lost. She clung to Mirain with sudden fierceness, startling him out of his reverie. “I won’t let them kill you!” she cried. “I won’t!”

  “Nor shall they,” he said with royal confidence. He sat up, drawing her with him, and smiled as he smoothed her hair out of her face. “Now, ladylove. How shall we receive the waking party?”

  oOo

  It found them most decently clad, he in a white kilt and she robed in green, playing at kings-and-cities beside the glowing brazier.

  Even the most uproarious young lord stood still before their calm. But the women smiled, the maids in admiration mingled with envy, the wedded ladies with approval; and the eldest folded back the bed’s coverlet. There was the maiden-chain, and the marriage-stain.

  With a roar of delight the young men fell upon the lovers. Two, the youngest, bore garlands of winter green; with these they crowned both, while others brought forth cloaks of fur to wrap them, and lifted them up, singing the morning song.

  For that was the wedding of a great lady in the southlands: three evenings and three nights alone with her lord, but three mornings of festival. On the first, they must be carried in procession through the keep, and break their fast with their closest kin; on the second, all the palace would see them and feast with them; and on the third, they would be borne through the city and presented in the temple, and brought forth to bestow their blessing and their largesse upon their people.

  Elian clung to every moment. Even in the depths of his mind Mirain betrayed no impatience, but she knew: the fourth morning would begin the ride to Ashan. With a word or two, to Adjan the commander of his armies in Vadin’s absence, to Halenan the general of the southern legions, he had seen to it that all would be ready. And having so settled his fate, he laid it aside, becoming wholly the young lover.

  She tried. But she was a woman and a seer. She could not make herself forget.

  oOo

  The third day fled like the dove before the hawk. She had dreaded the ordeal in the temple, the long ritual so close to the Altar of Seeing. But the altar was silent, the water unclouded by visions; and soon she was spun away from it. The blessing, which she barely heard even as she uttered it; the feasting, of which she partook almost nothing, so that the old dames and the young bucks exchanged wicked, knowing looks; and she was alone again, the doors bolted, and Mirain sinking to the bed with a sigh.

  She perched beside him, stiff in her jeweled skirts, and regarded him without speaking. His quick hand found the lacing of her bodice; it came free all at once and somewhat to his surprise. His hand closed over her bared breast.

  She shivered convulsively. He found the fastenings of her skirts and loosed them one by one, letting them fall where they would, and wrapped her in a furred robe.

  Even that could not take away the chill. He drew her close and held her.

  “I know,” she said through chattering teeth. “I know what it is. It’s seeing. It’s—knowing, and trying not to know. Mirain, I hoped this would be the saving of you. I prayed it would be. But—I don’t—know. It’s so cold.”

  “And dark.”

  She clutched at him. “You know. You know, too!”

  “Yes.” His lips brushed her hair; his fingers kneaded the knotted muscles of her back. “We have enemies who would rob us of all hope. And now there are two of us for them to strike.”

  “Three,” she whispered.

  His arms tightened until she gasped. But, “Three,” he said steadily. “We may be deadly weak. Or—as the god is my father—we may be stronger than ever we were alone. The dark would never let us see that. But we can believe it. We must.”

  “I want to.” Her voice was stronger; she was a little warmer. A very little. “I will. If only—” She pulled back to see his face. “You can’t make me stay behind.”

  His brows knit. “Distance is nothing to
power. You can aid me just as well from here. Better, maybe, with no hardships of travel to—”

  She cut him off with a flare of anger. “Don’t be an idiot! By your own logic, I can be killed as easily here as in Ashan. More easily, what with fretting for you and pacing in a cage.”

  “The child—”

  “The child is the merest spark of life, but it won’t go out for a little riding in the wind. On the contrary. We’ll both thrive on it.”

  He laid a light hand on her belly. “You see why I wanted to wait for you. Now I’ll be doubly afraid.”

  “And doubly dangerous to anyone you meet,” she countered swiftly. “We’ll make you strong, the little one and I. We’ll make you conquer. Because if you won’t, my dearest lord, we’ll do it ourselves.”

  Suddenly he laughed. “Why, you’ve already done it! You believe now. You’re warm again.”

  She was, to burning. She bore him back and down, and pinned him there. “Do you love me?” she demanded of him.

  “Desperately. Madly. Eternally.”

  For all his lightness, his mind bore not a grain of mockery. She searched it, piercing deep through all his open barriers, knowing that he saw likewise into her own soul.

  No one else had ever gone down so far. It was like nakedness—worse than nakedness, for her body had nothing to hide. Even its womanhood; had he not possessed all of it already?

  Gently, and in the same moment, they withdrew. Mirain brushed her lips with his fingertip. “Lady,” he said, “you are as wondrous fair within as without.”

  “And you,” she said, “are splendid. Within, and without.”

  For once he did not try to deny her.

  oOo

  Lamplight illumined serenity: the Prince of Han-Gilen stretched out on a low couch, half in a dream. His princess sat beside him with a lute, playing softly, singing in her low sweet voice. His hand moved idly among the freed masses of her hair.

  Elian hesitated in the curtained doorway. She had looked on this scene, or on scenes like it, more often than she could remember. It was a fact of the world’s existence, like the rising of Avaryan or the running of Suvien, certain, immutable: that she was the child of two who were lovers. She knew how rare it was, and how very precious.

  But her own new joy made her the more keenly aware of it, an awareness close to pain. She had this, and oh, it was sweet. Would she have it when the child within her was grown? Would it even live to be born?

  The prince stirred. The song ended; he turned his head a little, smiling, holding out his hand.

  She came to it as a drowning man to a lifeline. There in the warmth between the two of them, for a little while she rested.

  They did not press her with speech. Her mother returned to the lute, a melody like spring rain, note by limpid note.

  Elian stared at her father’s fingers that held her own. A mage’s fingers, a warrior’s, long and fine but very strong. A thin scar ran across the knuckles, mark of one of his first battles.

  Their family lived long and aged late. But he was no longer young. Odd uncomfortable thought to have when he was so strong and so sure in his power: no grey in the fire of his hair, no weakening of the long lean body, and his daughter newly wedded to the man whom he had made an emperor. He alone, by the working of his will upon the princes of the Hundred Realms.

  Mortality preyed on her mind. It saw Mirain as she had left him, asleep and smiling, looking hardly more than a boy. He was young by any reckoning; and before the moons waned again, he could be dead.

  She did not even know why her eyes blurred, until her father brushed a tear from her cheek. “I love him so much,” she said. “And I’m close—so close—to losing him.”

  The lutestrings stilled. “Sometimes,” the princess said, “a prophecy is its own fulfillment.”

  “Which it need not be.” The prince drew his daughter close. “Elian, if you despair, all that you fear may come to pass. But if you are strong—we are not gods, daughter. But we can oppose fate. Sometimes we can even defeat it.”

  Elian blinked the tears away, scowling. “I know that. You taught it to me in the cradle. It’s only . . . he knows it too. Too well. He doesn’t even care that he might die!”

  “That is why he is what he is. The art of kings and of gods: to venture all on a glimmer of hope, and waste no strength in anguish.”

  “Then a queen’s art—a woman’s, at least—must be to feel the anguish for him. Especially if she’s cursed with the sight.”

  They gave her no pity, and less compassion than she had looked for. “Yes,” her mother said, “there is balance in all things. The king dares; the queen bears. And stands ready to be his prop and his shield.”

  “An ill one I make,” muttered Elian. “He still calls me child and little sister. And I am.”

  “And you are not,” the prince said.

  She took the lute from her mother’s lap, plucked a formless tune. Her fingers were stiff, out of practice. “Everyone is so strong and so sure, so certain that he has the right to work his will on the world. I was; when I made Mirain take me in my good time, and not in his . . . I was. I’ll never forget it. But I’m no longer—I don’t know—” Her voice was breaking. She stopped, mended it. “Nothing will keep him here, short of the god’s own bonds. Not when he knows the danger. It’s a madness in him. Part of his pride. He’s been challenged; he can’t retreat. He won’t. Not even for me.”

  Her fingers stumbled, steadied. She lowered her head over the lute, aware of their eyes, concentrating very hard on the halting music.

  No longer quite so halting. She was remembering her skill.

  A touch like wind brushed her hair. Her father’s hand, her mother’s kiss.

  With a sudden, convulsive movement she flung the lute away. Her face was tight, her throat sore. “I’m going to be strong. I’ll be his strength when all of his is gone. And I’ll save him. I’ll give him life. He’ll never die while I live to defend him.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  The days of the wedding had seen a break in the cold, a melting of the snow, a baring of startlingly bright green. Here on winter’s threshold, spring made a brief and precarious entry.

  The air was soft even in the early morning, the sun rising in mist, casting a silvered light on armor and spearpoints. A hundred of Mirain’s best gathered in the paved square before the palace: the chosen of his Chosen; picked men of the Green Company of Han-Gilen, honor guard of the prince-heir and under his command; and the ten men and women of the Queen’s Guard. They were a fine brave sight in the morning, raising a shout as their king came forth with his foster brother and his queen.

  Others of the army who stood by watched with envy. Those who had not already returned to guard their own realms, or who would not be returning in due time, would garrison Han-Gilen under the regency of the prince. It was a proud duty, but none so proud as this, to ride with that small striking-force into Ashan.

  “Small,” Mirain had said, “for speed, and for a message. I will ride swiftly, I will settle this quarrel, I will return. I will not dignify it with the full strength of my empire.” To which he had added to the Halenani alone, “If a hundred picked troops cannot end this treachery, twenty thousand will not. And will cost me a kingdom’s wealth besides in stores and in time.”

  He seemed fresh and joyous now in scarlet and gold. His Chosen laughed and whooped; one called out, “Aiee, Sunborn! Married life becomes you.”

  Elian swung into Ilhari’s saddle in a shimmer of armor, a swirl of green cloak. “So it should,” she called back, “when it’s me he’s married to.”

  They roared at that, all of them, and Ilhari reared and belled.

  Yes, thought Elian fiercely, laugh. Laugh at death, and watch her shrivel! She knew she was fey; it was blackly wonderful.

  The Mad One whirled close to her. Mirain had something in his hands. Copper-gold helmet, proud green plume, and circling it a golden coronet. Her old bronze helmet he tossed away, setting the new and roy
al one on her head, smiling his brilliant smile.

  “Now we match,” he said. He kissed her, to loud and prolonged applause, and spun his stallion away again, gathering the company.

  oOo

  They left the white city by the north road, as they had come in; as Elian had gone—was it only half a year past? The road was mud and melting snow, the air was luminous; the men sang as they rode. Elian’s women sang the descant; one, burly and black-browed as many a man, had a voice like shaken silver. Elian raised her own to match it, and Ilhari danced, weaving through the ranks, out to the fore and the Mad One’s side.

  The weather held. And held, through Iban, through Kurion, through Sarios and Baian and Shaiar. Sun like spring, moons and stars in a merciful sky.

  They camped in comfort as often as they lodged with the highborn, finding the former to be wiser. A lord, faced with An-Sh’Endor himself, would flutter and scurry; assured that the army would take care of itself, still he would insist that the king and the queen accept his full hospitality.

  And inevitably, once morning came, he would beg the high ones to linger for the merest moment, an hour only; there was a case, a judgment, a quarrel which only the Sunborn’s wisdom could resolve. And there would go a morning, a noon, a full day of marching time without a furlong’s advance toward Ashan; and another night to endure his lordship’s entertainment. By then the cream of the local talent would have gathered, and all the gentry who could crowd themselves into the hall, for a feast that would leave the countryside to face a lean and hungry winter.

  The camps were best. A tent no bigger than a trooper’s, with a cot in it and a stool and one small chest for two; field rations and firelight, and music better than anything in hall.

  This was Mirain’s element. Even as a boy he had fretted within walls; the man, who had learned to be a king, still took to the march and the camp like a hawk to the air. Elian had not even known how cramped he was until she saw him free.

  At first she dreaded the nights and the dreams they would bring. But the power, having wielded her, lay now at rest; and the Exile seemed to have given up the battle, or else to have drawn back beyond the edge of perception.