Daughter of Lir (56 page)

“You’ve been in a banked rage since yesterday,” she said.
“I’ve never even seen you in a temper before.”

“I am usually better at hiding it,” he granted her. He
sighed heavily. “For the first time since I was a child, a woman asked for me,
and I refused her.”

Rhian blinked once, slowly. “Etena?”

“Yes.”

“That made you angry?”

“No.” He all but spat the word.

She waited.

He thrust himself upright. “One would expect her to have
little skill in the art of asking a man—after all, where she comes from, men
take women and never ask their leave. She summoned me, which a woman may do,
and received me in a house in the city—a rich house; two of its daughters have
gone into the temple. She was alone there, waiting in the bedchamber, and what
she wanted of me was clear to see.

“But her eyes—those eyes were starving. Not for me; for my
soul. For the power that I carry, as king, as the father of kings. A daughter
was not enough, though she be Mother of Lir. It must be a son, too, to be king;
so that she can rule the world.

“I turned my back on her. I left her there. She cursed me,
but I cared nothing for that. Better her curse than my soul sucked out of me.”

“Anger makes you strong,” Rhian said, “and lets you battle
the memory of her.”

He raked hands through his hair. It was all out of its
plait, tangling on his shoulders. “She has a power,” he said roughly. “Oh,
Goddess, such a power! I hate her; I shudder at her. But I hunger for her. And
that, I cannot endure.”

“If I were not your child,” said Rhian, “I could make you
forget her.”

A gust of laughter shook him—took him by surprise. “So you
could,” he said. “But—”

“But you are my father,” she said regretfully. “Still . . .
surely there is a woman in this city, one who would come willingly, and share
your bed, and keep the spell at bay till she wearies of casting it?”

She had shocked him. “I would never be so importunate as to—”

“I would,” she said, “and could. Tell me who, and I’ll speak
to her. Once she understands, surely she’ll be glad to be your protector.”

Why, she thought, he was blushing. This was nothing a man of
good breeding would think of, but Rhian, for all her lineage, had been raised
in a simple village. People were blunt-spoken there, and yes, men even asked
women to bed them, now and then, when the women were slow to speak.

And here was the king in Lir, blushing like an unbedded boy,
too tongue-tied to speak.

“What,” Rhian said to him, “shall I find you a guardian
myself? That won’t be difficult. I’ve seen how they all look at you.” She
searched his face; then understood, all at once, why he was so very shaken.
“You haven’t—not since—but surely Etena is not the only one who—”

“I was soulbound to the Mother,” he said. “No one dared.”

“Now someone will,” said Rhian, “for that same soul’s sake.
If you won’t find her, then I will.”

“No,” he said. “No, child. What I had with the Mother, it
gave me all my strength, but it laid me open to this woman. No woman but the
Mother can protect me as you think to do. That is the truth, child. There is no
changing it.”

“But—”

“Child,” he said, “your care for me is more than I deserve.
Let be; trust such strength as I have, or if not that, then the strength of my
people who love me. I’m forewarned, as that other king was not. I’ll be safe
from her.”

“Goddess grant,” said Rhian.

He did not need to know everything she did to protect him.
She made certain that servants were with him when she went out, and that his
sons would be up soon to keep him company. Then she sent a message.

o0o

“So,” said the Goddess’ Voice. “You too warn me against
her.”

They met in a corner of the market, where the joining of
stalls made a tiny courtyard, and no one could see them. The Voice had a basket
over her arm like a simple woman, and a staff in her hand to support her steps.
Her eyes could see shadows in this bright sunlight, Rhian suspected. They
regarded her steadily.

“When Minas warned you before,” Rhian said, “you did
nothing. Now she moves to do what he warned of: to destroy the king. It’s a
sickness in her, a desire without reason or measure. She simply must do what
she does.”

“And you think none of us encouraged her to work her spells
on the king?”

Rhian set her teeth. “I’m not that much a fool. But be
certain: the more rein you give her, the freer she is to do as she pleases—even
when it pleases the temple—the closer she brings this country to the end that
you foresee.”

“The same could be said of you,” the Voice said without
expression.

“Oh,” said Rhian, “but you know how dangerous I am. I don’t
think, even yet, that you understand what she is. You think none but one of
your own can be truly deadly.”

“We thank you for the warning,” the Voice said. Her tone was
a dismissal.

Rhian was not to be dismissed. “Tell me. It’s true, isn’t
it? There were no omens of note for the foreigner’s child.”

“Rumors are always rampant,” the Voice said.

“So it is true.” Rhian tilted her head. “No child that woman
bears will come to anything. Only the one she rejected—and he is the king of
the charioteers. When they come, priestess, you should be wary. He won’t kill
his own mother—that ban runs deep in his blood—but his followers are not so
bound.”

“We do know that,” said the Voice.

“She has you, too,” Rhian said in sudden understanding. “All
of you—she has you. She’s a slow poison. Wherever she settles, ruin follows.”

The Voice said nothing. She had nothing to say. Rhian left
her, not without pity, but there was nothing she could do for these priestesses
who had rejected her.

But for the king there was a little she could do, and she
was doing it. She hoped that it would be enough.

The tribes had come to the river. Word came to Lir by
swift messengers, relays of riders that began beyond World’s End. They had
known that the steppe was stirring; that after a hand of years—more time than
they had ever hoped to be given, and the Goddess be thanked—the young king of
the charioteers had brought his many quarrelsome tribes and clans together, and
secured the steppe, and turned his eyes toward the west.

Rhian was with the king of Lir when the message came that
they had all been waiting for. He had asked to see his daughter’s daughter;
Ariana, having been occupied for the past day and more with a new foal, was
most insistent that she visit the king. She seized possession of his lap while
her mother was still passing the door of the king’s workroom.

Rhian smiled to see them. Ariana had been born four springs
past, in no little pain, but she was worth every stroke of it. She was dark
like her mother, tall like her father, and her eyes were green. She could ride
anything on feet, and had been doing it since before she could walk. She was no
mean charioteer, either, when she was allowed to try, which was never often
enough in her estimation.

By the time Rhian had settled on a stool across the table
from the king, Ariana was deep in praises of the new filly—not the white mare’s
own, this year, but a daughter of the mare’s sister, elegant and tall and
fiercely determined to rule the world. “She is mine,” Ariana declared. “Father
said so.”

The king’s brows rose. “Did he? What was it he said? That
you deserve one another?”

“You were listening!” she accused him.

“Maybe I was,” he said. “Maybe I know your father. And you.”

“She is mine,” Ariana said. “She kicked Father. She’ll never
kick me.”

“May that be so,” the king said, gravely amused.

The messenger came then, brought direct to the king as all
messengers from the east were. She was caked with mud, and she was limping: she
had not even paused to wash before she came.

“They’ve come,” she said. “They’re at the river. Hordes of
them—numbers beyond counting.”

They had been waiting for this, all of them, and the king
more than any. And yet it struck with the force of a blow.

The king broke the silence first. “Gerent,” he said to his
youngest son, “call the servants. Have them ready a bath, food, a bed.”

“It’s done,” Gerent said.

He had grown up well, Rhian thought. He looked, in fact,
much as his brother Emry had when she first met him. But there was a lightness about
him that Emry had not had—because he was the youngest, maybe. Because he was
Gerent.

The messenger resisted his hand that would have led her
away. “No, not yet, by your leave, sirs and lady. I’m to tell you that their
king is the one we expected. And that he has a thousand chariots.”

“You counted them?” Rhian asked.

The woman—girl, truly; her breasts were barely budded—answered
solemnly. “Britta the commander did, and her reckoner of troops. Britta said
ten hundreds. The reckoner said ten hundreds and twenty and three.”

“Close enough,” said the king.

“That’s what Britta said,” said the messenger. “She told me
to tell you that she’ll guard the river-crossings as long as she can, but you
know they’ll win through. Be ready, she said. Be as strong as you know how to
be.”

The king’s smile was faint, nearly hidden in the greying
black of his beard. “That is her very voice and her living self. Go now, rest,
be at ease. Your duty is done, and well done.”

She stiffened. “I will rest, my lord, because my body is
weak. But then I beg you, send me back. None of us can be idle now, not with
what is coming.”

“Nor can any of us afford to waste our strength before the
battle comes,” said the king. “Rest well. Be certain that when the time comes,
I will use you to the utmost.”

That pleased her. She was content then to let Gerent take
her away. Rhian sat with the king in silence. Ariana played on the floor,
making finger-shadows in a patch of sunlight from the high window.

At length the king said, “The whole city will know by
sundown.”

“I’ll wager the temple knows already.”

“No wager,” said the king. His voice was flat.

He never spoke Etena’s name, nor would he suffer a
priestess’ presence in his house while Etena inhabited the temple. Her
daughter, no one outside those walls had seen. She was a meek little thing,
Rhian had heard, as little like Ariana as it was possible to be.

Ariana had lived her first year under guard. She had been
watched day and night, so that not even a mouse could escape her guards’
vigilance. Twice Etena’s young men had tried to creep in upon her and been
driven back. Minas had killed the second—sinking his bronze dagger in his own
brother’s heart, and singing a fierce keening song after, half of exultation,
half of grief.

After the prince’s death, Etena seemed to have grown weary
of the game, perhaps even afraid. She contented herself with ruling inside the
temple and raising her daughter to be her creature. She waited as they all
waited, for the chariots to come to the river.

It was like waking from a long and turbulent sleep. Rhian
rose. “I’ll summon the warleaders,” she said, “and the elders of the city.”

The king bowed to her presence of mind. “I’ll see that the
house is ready for them. The king’s messengers—send someone to fetch them. I’ll
see them here, before the warleaders come.”

Rhian was already in motion. She knew what to do—they all
did. They were as ready for this as they could be; as anyone could be, against
a thousand chariots and warriors without number.

o0o

Minas had gone to the far field that morning to gather the
colts for training. They had come up from the south not long before, and been
settled here while the horse-tamers saw to other things; today he had decided
that it was time to bring them in.

Most of them had been obedient to the herdsmen and gathered
at the field’s edge near the road to Lir. But one small herd of bays and greys,
no more than a dozen, had proved recalcitrant.

Ifon thought he had them, but they eluded him and bolted for
the wood that edged the field to the east. Ifon would have gone after them, but
Minas was nearer, and his dun was swifter than Ifon’s stocky bay. Minas called
him off with a shout and a sweep of the arm, and went after the strays himself.

The wood was a thicket. The herdsmen had encouraged brambles
to grow just inside it, till they made a wall higher than a man; in summer they
were laden with ripe berries, but it was still spring. The berries would be
hard and green, the thorns impenetrable.

Minas sent the dun in an arc, aiming to head off the strays
before they came to the wood. They were the wild ones, the young hellions, and
worst was the thickly dappled grey who drove them from behind. Now and then he
rolled an eye at Minas, as if to be sure that he was properly infuriated.

Minas laughed at him, which made him pin ears and fling a
kick, but he was fast and he was unburdened by a rider, and his fellows were
utterly in his power. He could lead a merry chase.

Suddenly, violently, he shied. An instant later, Minas’ dun
veered, snorting. Minas held on with knees and hands. The renegade herd wheeled
and bolted away from the wood, toward the safety of numbers. Even the dapple
had forgotten his defiance.

The dun would have been more than glad to follow, but Minas
held him, though he bucked and plunged. His ears fixed quivering on the shadows
of the wood. His back was like a strung bow.

A wolf sat under an arch of new leaves, red tongue lolling,
yellow eyes laughing. He yawned and stretched and stood up a man, lean and
supple, with a twisted foot and a crooked grin.

He had gone as grey as a wolf, though he was no older than
Minas. His face was still young, and his quickness as he moved. His teeth were
whiter and sharper than Minas remembered, more like a wolf’s than a man’s.