The Lady of Han-Gilen

by Judith Tarr

  “It’s true what you’ve been told, that there’s no room in Garin for you,” Vadin said. “It’s large enough to hold an army; and an army fills it.”

  “Ashani?” asked Halenan.

  “Ashani,” Vadin answered. “They’re turned on you, Mirain.”

  Mirain smiled. It was not comfortable to see. “Have they?” he asked, almost purring. “Luian alone? Or do his sons have a part in it?”

  “Luian and his heir. The rest run at their heels. I found them marching up from Han-Ashan; I tracked them here. I saw them send out their bait.”

  Vadin glanced at Casien. The lord slumped against one of his escort: a kinsman, perhaps. His eyes were closed. If he was not unconscious, he was perilously close to it. “He’s an innocent; they know that much of hoodwinking mages. They rely on your famous clemency to keep you from inquiring too deeply into his memories and finding any hint that might betray their plotting.”

  “They think I’m soft.” Mirain laughed at the sudden rash of denials. “Of course they do. Look at me. I’m young, I’m a priest, I’m famous for sparing my enemies. And I’m arrogant to idiocy. Even if I caught wind of Luian’s ambush, I’d throw myself into it, because he sent a messenger near death from sickness, and because I am the god’s son; I am not for any man’s slaying.”

  They stared at him. “You wouldn’t,” Elian said.

  “Why not? It’s a pity to waste so lovely a trap.”

  Even Vadin was appalled. Unsurprised, but appalled. “That’s insane even for you.”

  “What’s mad about it? I know what Luian intends. I have my best men with me. And I have you, who know the hidden ways to the castle. I’ll ambush the ambush.”

  “Ah,” said Halenan. “An attack from the rear. For a moment I thought you were going to spring the trap.”

  “I am.” Mirain was on his feet, beating down the outcry. “I must! Else they’ll know that I suspect something.”

  Elian left the protesting to the men. They could as easily have moved the mountain as persuaded Mirain to see sense. More easily. Mere stone would yield to a mage’s will.

  When the flood had ebbed a little, she said, “There’s always an alternative. A ruse. A soldier spelled to look like Mirain.”

  The king rounded on her. “I will not command a man of mine to die in my place.”

  “In your name, often. But never in your place.” She stood, the better to bear the brunt of his anger. “If you go, I go.”

  “You will not.”

  “I will.” She smiled sweetly. “By your hand I swear it.”

  For a mad instant she knew that he would strike her down with that same glittering hand. But it rose only as high as his breast, then fell, trembling. It could not clench.

  The white agony of it pierced her shields. She caught it, held it to her heart, taking the pain as she had taken it since she was a young child.

  He drew himself up. He was as well aware as she of the life that sparked below his hand. “Take back your oath.”

  “You know I can’t.”

  “I must go.” He had forgotten the others; he all centered on her, his hand shifting of itself, cupping the breast beneath the sodden leather of her coat. “No one else can do what I can do: blind Luian, convince him that I come in ignorance, ensure that the castle lies open to my army.”

  “You could retreat. Luian will hang himself soon enough, or be hanged, when his allies turn against him. As they will if you come riding with the whole of Ebros at your back.”

  “But,” he said, “that would take time; and my enemies would call it flight, and proclaim that a clever man can betray me and live.”

  “When have you ever cared what your enemies say of you?”

  “I care that an ally has betrayed me. I mean to win him back; or to have his head.”

  Vadin spoke behind her. He sounded both weary and furious. “A valiant effort, my lady. But useless. He’s bent on killing himself, and on playing the just king while he goes about it.”

  “Have I died yet?” Mirain asked sharply.

  “No,” Vadin replied. “But I have. Who will call you back? I’m no god’s son, to win battles with milady death.”

  “Therefore you need me.” Elian met Mirain’s hot stare. “Unless you have the wits to desist. We can take Garin from the tunnels; we’ve no need to risk our necks by riding in the front gate.”

  “Luian needs it,” Mirain said, obstinate. “If I can win him, there will be no need to fight at all.”

  She sighed deeply. She was not afraid; she was too utterly exasperated. “Very well then. We’d best go, before our enemies become suspicious.”

  “Elian—”

  Her eyes held his; her hand gripped his own. “I keep my promises, Mirain.”

  He pulled free, hand, eyes. He would yield. He must. She set all her will upon him.

  He turned his back on her, raised his voice. “Lord Casien,” he said, “I leave you here in the care of my Chosen.”

  As the man moved to speak, Mirain held up a hand. “You should be abed and under a healer’s care. My company can provide the beginnings of both.”

  “Sire, my prince has commanded me—I am to accompany you wherever—”

  “You will not endanger your life by riding further tonight. Surely your prince will understand that.” Mirain crooked a finger at the man with the cup. “You, sir. See that your master has all he needs. My men will give you whatever you ask for.”

  The servant bowed, still shivering. Not all of it was cold. Elian marked the way his eyes kept sliding round the cavern to the carven wall, then back in a nervous skitter to Mirain’s face.

  If the king saw, he took no notice of it. His eyes ran over his company. Swiftly he named names: twenty altogether, gathering before him, grinning like the valiant idiots they were. None of them was Halenan.

  The prince’s face was dangerously still. “My lord king. It is my right as your general—”

  “It is your duty as my general to command the army in my absence.”

  “The Lord of Geitan is perfectly capable of commanding your troops by himself. And,” said Halenan, “he knows the secret ways to Garin.”

  “You will share the command.” Mirain was immovable; but he held out his hand. “Brother, I need you here, with your wits and your power and a guard on the pass. Whom else may I trust so?”

  Elian suppressed an urge out of childhood, to vanish into a corner. Halenan’s hot eye flashed to her; Mirain’s had no need. “My lady has sworn to come with me,” he said with a touch of irony. “What power has any of us to prevent her?”

  “That’s idiocy!” snapped Halenan. “I have two sons and a daughter, all safe in my city. What have you?”

  Elian started forward, but Mirain’s hand caught her, steel-strong and unyielding. Quietly he said, “My brothers, you know what you must do. If by tomorrow’s nooning I have sent you no signal, nor any word of my victory over Luian, mount the attack.”

  Halenan opened his mouth. Vadin silenced him with a firm hand. The Ianyn lord looked long at Mirain, then pulled him into a swift embrace. “Try to come out of this alive,” he said.

  Mirain grinned up at him. “I’ll do more than try. I’ll be victorious.”

  “Arrogant.” Vadin let him go.

  He turned, facing Halenan. The prince was stiff, angry. Mirain tilted his head, brows up.

  “Farewell,” said Halenan coldly, “sire.”

  “Farewell,” said Mirain, “brother.”

  Halenan unbent a very little. He suffered Mirain’s embrace, and Elian’s after it. He returned the latter somewhat more warmly than he might have, and stepped back, nursing his temper.

  Elian faced Vadin. They did not speak, nor did they touch, save glance to glance.

  She groped for resentment, even for dislike. Neither would come to her hand. He was necessary. He was part of the world as it must be; part of Mirain.

  Protect him, he willed her, until I come.

  Always, she answere
d. And: If your bones tell you to come, don’t linger. Come quickly, and come with all your strength. Else . . . else we lose him.

  He bowed. It was a promise.

  oOo

  The last Elian saw of either of them, they stood in the arch of the great gate. Vadin stood still, arms folded, both haughty and patient. Halenan’s head was bare in the bitter wind; his eyes burned even at the full length of the meadow.

  She faced forward. If there was worse misery than riding from dawn to dusk in a storm of sleet, it was pausing by a fire; beginning to remember warmth and dry feet; and riding out again.

  The escort was silent. Ten of Mirain’s best in scarlet darkened by the wet to the color of drying blood; her own ten in moldy black that had begun as green. It was little mercy that the sleet had thinned almost to nothing: the wind had risen, knife-keen.

  From the vale of the cavern the land fell down into the deep wooded coomb of Garin. The road was narrow, following a stony stream; where trees overhung the track, careful hands had cut back the branches to the height of a rider’s head.

  “That’s not bandits’ custom,” Elian said. Her teeth were chattering; she bit down hard.

  Mirain’s knee brushed hers. With a startling-swift movement he swept her into his own saddle, settling on the crupper, wrapping his cloak about them both. The Mad One was steady beneath them, tolerant of their follies, even amused.

  Warmth crept through Elian’s body. She basked in it, although she knew there were grins behind her. The army took an unholy delight in watching their lord and lady at love-play, however innocent.

  “Of course,” Mirain said in her ear. “It proves we’re actively pursuing our dynastic duty.”

  “Not in this saddle,” she muttered.

  He laughed and kissed the back of her neck. “Later, then. Shall we be scandalous? Bathe together, dispose of our supper and our enemies as quickly as we can, and go to bed sinfully early.”

  “And sin all night.” She leaned back against the living warmth of him, hands laced with his at her waist. He was choosing to forgive her; accepting the inevitable. She was choosing to allow it. “Sometimes I think I’m too happy. Even here, even with what waits for us in Garin . . . it almost isn’t fair.”

  “Of course it’s fair. Eminently so. It’s love, you see; and we’re riding to a war.”

  She smiled a little. “The Grey Monks say that love is the worse of the two. A man can go his life long without once dreaming of battles, but even eunuchs dream of love.”

  “Do they?”

  “I knew one once. He’d been a slave in Asanion. He said he never even thought of women; but I know he dreamed of men.”

  Mirain considered that in his inimitable fashion, both swiftly and thoroughly. She liked to watch the turning of his mind; to fit herself into it, turning with it, losing for a little while her shallow, flighty self.

  She looked out of his eyes. Aware of the differences: the angles of his body, the joining of hip and shoulder, the fullness where she had none; and no need to balance the soft heaviness of breasts. And the sparking awareness of warm woman-body against him—desire as keen as a sword, and half-mirthful suppression, and a wonderfully gratifying rush of blood to his cheeks.

  She was herself, odd-familiar, laughing softly. And he reached, and he was there, sharing her body, searching out its curves and crevices. How strange it was, how marvelous, with its secret places where he was open to the world; its softness where he was hard, and its deep-rooted strength.

  Through her eyes he saw the road’s sharp curve; through her ears he heard what made the Mad One pause, head up, nostrils flared. Metal on metal; hooves on stone.

  Ilhari ventured ahead alone. At the bend of the road, she halted. Mirain, enclosed within his own body once more, sent the stallion to join her.

  From the curve the road ran almost straight into a grey light and the loom of mountain wall. A small company rode there: mounted men surrounding a laden wagon, and foremost, the man whom Lord Casien had sent, spurring his weary mount forward, bowing over his pommel. “Lord Garin of Garin, your majesty—he comes himself to greet you.”

  oOo

  The Wolf fit his name well. He was not an old man, but his hair was iron grey, cut thick and short like a wolf’s mane. The face under it was narrow, long-nosed, and yellow-pale, with eyes narrow and tilted and the same amber-gold as a wolf’s. They glinted, bright and mocking, taking in the man and the woman in man’s dress and the small plain-clad escort. “Your majesty,” he said, bowing low in the saddle, baring long yellow teeth. “My lady—Kalirien, is it not?”

  Even with her back to it, Elian felt the cold brilliance of Mirain’s smile. “Kalirien indeed; and Elian ilOrsan of Han-Gilen; and my queen.”

  “Majesty,” said the Lord Garin, unruffled. “You honor us.” He indicated the wagon with a flick of his hand. “Here I have fuel, and food and drink, and blankets against the cold. Your men will not suffer in your absence.”

  “My lord is generous,” Mirain said.

  “I am a loyal man, your majesty.”

  “You do seem so, my lord Garin,” said Elian, sliding smoothly from the Mad One’s saddle to Ilhari’s. The mare stamped; Elian smiled a slight, edged smile. “Shall we go up to your castle?”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The road, though steep, was smooth, the castle much larger than distance had made it. As large within its grey walls as Han-Ashan itself; and that was no small stronghold.

  Han-Ashan pretended to grace: fine carvings, fine tapestries, and even the slaves well and often elegantly clad. Asan-Garin feigned nothing. It was a fortress, a strong holding. Its men walked in leather or in well-worn armor. Its women kept to their houses or flitted in shadows, heavily veiled. Its barefoot, bare-bodied children stared solemnly at the newcomers and made no sound.

  The silence was eerie. Every other holding—every one—had rung with acclaim for the king. Grudging, some of it, but clearly audible. These people did not cheer, did not call out his name or his titles. They simply stood in the courtyards and the corridors and watched.

  There were too few of them for an army. Elian, seeking with power, found none beyond them; and no love for Mirain, but no hate. He was nothing to them.

  Had Vadin lied? Or had he been deceived? Perhaps he had tricked Mirain into a place of safety, so that he might dispose of his king’s enemies without danger to his king. Perhaps Luian had repented and withdrawn to Sheian. Perhaps—

  The grey walls closed in around her. Instinct struggled and shrieked.

  Brutally she beat it down. She had bound herself to this. She made herself walk coolly onward, now beside Mirain, now ahead or behind as the way narrowed, warded by their escort. They were calm, these chosen of their king, eyes watchful, hands resting lightly on swordhilts.

  Cuthan walked just behind Elian, close as her shadow, relaxed but wary. “Rather like home, this,” he observed pleasantly.

  Lord Garin did not choose to notice him. Nobleman or no, he was a mere guard, and speaking out of turn. But Mirain said, “It does have an air of the north. The stern walls; the stern faces. No southern fripperies here.”

  The lord paused before a guarded door. The sentry opened it crisply but without haste. “I hope this will be to your satisfaction, sire,” Lord Garin said. His eyes were full of wolf-laughter.

  In spite of her determination to be unmoved, Elian stared. It was as if all the luxury of the south and west had drained from the castle into this one tower. A broad chamber with the proportions of a guardroom and the furnishings of a seraglio; an inner room dominated by a huge bed hung and draped with velvet, lush with furs and Asanian carpets; and a bath of lapis and silver, deep and wide enough to swim in.

  Mirain took it all in and laughed, the free and joyous laughter of a boy. “Why, my lord! You’re a voluptuary in disguise.”

  “Not I, sire. My late father.” Lord Garin showed his sharp teeth. “A reiver of repute, was my lord Garin the elder.”

  “Indeed,”
said Mirain unabashed, “that’s clear to see. Not I myself could have done better.”

  That caught the Wolf off guard; for a moment his glance betrayed a hint of admiration. “You flatter my father, sire. No doubt his bones are warmed by it, cold as they have been all these years, naked under the gallows tree.”

  “Ah! Who hanged him?”

  “Why, sire, I did. I am a respectable man, you see.”

  oOo

  With the door shut and barred from within and his own men warding it, Mirain laughed again, long and deeply. He spun still laughing and spread his arms. “Come now, my friends! This is no time for grim faces.”

  “Isn’t it?” Elian muttered. But her lips twitched. “You’re quite mad, you know.”

  “Oh, quite! Milord is more his father’s son than he would wish us to dream; but I find I like him for it. He has wit; he has subtlety. And he has no fear of me at all.”

  “Neither do I,” Elian pointed out.

  “So. But you I do not like.” His eyes danced. “You, I love.” He swept her up, heedless of her struggles, and carried her past the grinning guards; kicked open the door of the inner chamber, and dropped her onto the bed.

  She struggled out of the tangle of bedclothes. He was stripped already and striding toward the bath.

  She plunged in after him. The water was a wonder, a marvel, a long delight: warm, sweet-scented, and swirling gently, bearing all her travel stains away.

  With a shock she realized that the doors were open, the guardroom clear to see. The women had arranged a curtain between themselves and the men, but both could look straight into the pool.

  Mirain’s white grin surfaced beside her. “Ho, guards!” he called. “There’s room here for us all. Quick now, while the water’s hot!”

  The full score of them came in a mob, whooping. The men were shyer than the women; the Ianyn, too dark to show their blushes, looked everywhere but where their minds were. Elian laughed at them, and needled them until they laughed back. But Cuthan led them in a gloriously wet revenge.