The Lady of Han-Gilen
Page 32
The wind sighed upon the stones. Vadin shifted in a creaking of leather and bronze. In the world below, children shouted and a stallion screamed and a tuneless voice bawled a snatch of a drinking song.
Very quietly the king said, “You tell a noble tale, stranger who calls himself my kin. Yet, though I may be mad, I am not yet a dotard. How came a high priestess to bear a son? Did she then lay aside her vows? Did she wed the Red Prince of Han-Gilen?”
“She broke no vows, nor was she ever aught but Avaryan’s bride.”
“You speak in riddles, stranger.”
“I speak the truth, my lord grandsire.”
The king’s eyes glittered. “You are proud for one who by his words is no man’s son.”
“Both of which,” said the other, “I am.”
The king rose. He was very tall even for one of his people; he towered over the boy, who nevertheless betrayed no hint of fear.
That too had been Sanelin, small as her western mother had been small, yet utterly indomitable. “You are the very image of her. How then?” His hand gripped the boy’s shoulder with cruel strength. “How?”
“She was the Bride of the Sun.”
So bright, those eyes were, so bright and so terrible. The king threw up all his shields against them. “That is a title. A symbol. The gods do not walk in the world as once they did. They do not lie with the daughters of men. Not even with the holy ones, their own priestesses. Not in these days.”
The boy said nothing, only raised his hands. The left had bled where the nails had driven into flesh. The right could not. Gold flamed there, the disk of the Sun with its manifold rays, filling the hollow of his palm.
The king slitted his eyes against the brightness. A deep and holy terror had risen to engulf him. But he was strong and he was king; he reckoned his lineage back to the sons of the lesser gods.
“He came,” said this child of the great one, “while she kept vigil in the Temple of Han-Gilen where is his most sacred image. He came, and he loved her. Of that union I was conceived; for it she suffered and came in time to glory. You could say that she died of it, by the envy of those who reckoned themselves holy but could not endure true sanctity.”
“And you? Why did they let you live?”
“My father defended me.”
“Yet he let her die.”
“He took her to himself. She was glad, my lord. If you could have seen—dying, she shone, and she laughed with purest delight. She had her lover at last, wholly and forever.” He shone himself in speaking of it, a radiance touched only lightly now with sorrow.
The king could not partake of it. Nor, for long, could the stranger. He let his hands fall, veiling the brilliance of the god’s sign.
Without it he seemed no more than any other traveler, ragged and footsore, armored with pride that was half defiance. It kept his chin up and his eyes level, but his fists were clenched at his sides. “My lord,” he said, “I make no claim upon you. If you bid me go, I will go.”
“And if I bid you stay?”
The dark eyes kindled. Sanelin’s eyes, set with the sun’s fire. “If you bid me stay, I will stay, for that is the path which the god has marked for me.”
“Not the god alone,” said the king. He raised a hand as if to touch the boy’s shoulder, but the gesture ended before it was well begun. “Go now. Bathe; you need it sorely. Eat. Rest. My squire will see that you have all you desire. I shall speak with you again.” And as they moved to obey: “How are you called, grandchild?”
“Mirain, my lord.”
“Mirain.” The king tested it upon his tongue. “Mirain. She named you well.” He drew himself erect. “What keeps you? Go!”
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