Hall of the Mountain King (23 page)

Pacing slowly, face set and stern, eyes fixed on the throne,
he drew near to the dais.

The circle of knights closed. Before them stood the eldest
priestess of Avaryan in Ianon, ancient yet vigorous, robed all in sun-gold. As
Mirain approached, she spread her arms wide to bar his way.

He halted; she raised her thin old voice, that was strong
still, and penetrating. “Who approaches Ianon’s throne?”

Mirain paused an eyeblink, as if he could not trust his
voice. But when it came it was clear, steady, blessedly deep, the voice of a
man who had never known doubt. “I,” it said. “Ianon’s king.”

“King, say you? By what right?”

“By right of the king who is dead, may the gods rest his
soul, who chose me to be his successor; and by that of my mother, who was his
daughter and who once was heir of Ianon. In the gods’ name, reverend priestess,
and in the name of Avaryan my father, let me pass.”

“So I would,” she said, “but that power remains with the
lords and the people of Ianon. It is they who must grant you leave, not I.”

Mirain lifted his hands, turning slowly. “My lords. My
people. Will you have me for your king?”

They let him turn full circle. When he faced the throne
again, the high ones knelt. Behind and about him the people loosed their voices
in the single word:
“Aye!”

The priestess bowed low and stepped aside. The circle
opened, letting pass a small company of squires.

Vadin led them, trying for dignity, hoping for grace. He
knelt with only the merest hint of wobble and signaled to the rest.

Mirain stood still for a wonder, suffering them to adorn him
like the image of a god. Kilt of white leather cured to the softness of velvet,
and broad belt of gold set with plates of amber, and heavy golden pectoral, and
rings and armlets and earrings all of the sun-metal, and ropes of golden beads
worked into the intricacy of the royal braids—Vadin’s task, that last, and he
kept his curses to himself, only thanking the gods for once that Mirain had no
beard to battle with. Even as he bound off the last rebellious plait, the
others weighted Mirain’s shoulders with the great cloak of leather dyed scarlet
and lined with priceless fur, white, but each hair tipped with a golden glint.

Last of all Vadin bound white sandals on Mirain’s feet, the
thongs edged with gold. He looked up, still on one knee, to find Mirain’s eyes
upon him.

They were warm, almost laughing, but distant too, with the
light of the god waiting to fill them. Without thinking, Vadin caught the hand
that was closer to his face and kissed the flaming palm.

That was not part of the rite, but his words were. “Lord
king, your throne is waiting. Will it please you to take it?”

The way was clear to it now. Mirain’s eyes lifted, and the
god came, turning him all royal.

Slowly, in swelling tumult, he mounted the dais and turned
to face his people. Their shouting rose to a crescendo. They cried his name, proclaiming
him lord, king, Sunborn, god-begotten.

Again he raised his hands. The roaring died. The people
waited, willing him to take his throne.

In the almost-silence, a horn brayed. Hooves clattered on
stone.

Mounted men burst through the open gate. People scattered
before them, crying out in anger and in pain. The seneldi, war-trained,
attacked with horns and teeth and sharpened hooves; the riders broadened
Mirain’s erstwhile path with the flats of their swords.

The cries rose to shrieks. A chariot plunged through the
riders: a scythed war-car, and in it a glittering figure, a warrior in full
armor.

The charioteer brought his team to a foaming halt at the
foot of the dais. Even the knights of Ianon dared not venture against the
deadly blades.

He laughed at them, hollow and booming within his helmet.
“Cowards and children! Indeed you have the king you deserve. There he stands,
exulting in his power, who murdered the king before him. Poisoned, was he not,
your majesty? And quickly too, once he had disposed of your only rival.”

A rumble ran through the crowd, a name they had forbidden
themselves to speak. Moranden.
Moranden
.
“Moranden!”

Mirain’s voice lashed them into silence. “It is not he!” He
addressed the armored man more quietly, but still with the crack of command.
“Take off your helmet.”

He obeyed willingly enough. He was a big man, and young, and
a Marcher by his accent. He looked at Mirain with well-cultivated contempt. “I
have a message for you, boy.”

Mirain waited.

The warrior scowled but could not hold his gaze. “I come to
you from Ianon’s true king, who although he has been cast out unjustly,
nevertheless bows to the will of the king who is gone. He bids me say to you:
‘Not all in Ianon have been led astray by your sorceries. Those who know the
truth will come to me; many indeed have come already and bowed before me.
Acknowledge your lies, priestess’ bastard, and surrender now while yet you may
hope to find mercy.’”

“If my uncle accepts his exile, which was perpetual,” Mirain
said with no hint of anger, “how may he hope to hold Ianon’s throne? How does
he even dare to claim it?”

“He is the true king. When all Ianon bids him, he shall return.”

“And if all Ianon does not?”

“The kingdom is blinded by its grief for its old king, whom
in turn you blinded with your sorceries. Southerner, wizard’s brat, not all
fall into your snares. When the people pause to think, then where will you be?”

“On the throne which my grandfather left me.” Mirain sat in
it with dignity but without ceremony. His eyes never left the messenger’s face.
“My uncle said and did much that could be construed as bitter enmity, and
somewhat that came close to treason. In my predecessor’s mind he richly
deserved his exile. And yet,” he said, sitting straight, and although he did
not raise his voice it penetrated to the edges of the wide court, “I am willing
to recall him.”

The man’s lip curled. “At what price?”

“This,” said Mirain. “That he present himself in true
repentance; that he beg forgiveness of all Ianon for what has been done in his
name; and that he swear fealty to me as his lord and king.”

The envoy laughed. “Should he crawl at your feet, who are
not worthy to stand in his shadow?” He spat in the dust. “You are no king of
his or of ours.”

As the echoes of his words died, the throng began to mutter.
It was a low sound, barely audible, yet blood-chilling. Still no one dared the
scythes, but the press of bodies had tightened about the mounted men, hampering
the seneldi.

Mirain raised his hand. Instinctively the messenger flinched
from it, hauling at the reins.

The chariot backed half a length and stopped short. A solid
wall of people barred his escape. His mares trembled and sweated with eyes
rolling white.

Gently Mirain said, “Give my message to my uncle.”

“He will destroy you.”

“Tell him.” Mirain’s voice rose a very little, speaking now
to his people. “It was my will that these men should come here unmolested, else
the Towers of the Dawn would have forbidden them. Let them go now as they came,
unharmed.”

The mutter turned to a rumble. Anger hung thick in the air,
gathering like a storm.

A senel screamed, rearing. A hundred hands pulled it down
before its rider could free his sword from its scabbard.

“Let them go.” Mirain had not risen, nor had he shouted. Yet
he was heard.

The rumble faltered. For an eternal moment the envoys’ fate
hung in the balance.

Mirain lowered his hands and sat back as if at his ease.
Slowly, with reluctance as palpable as their outrage, the crowd freed their
prisoners. Equally slowly, the invaders backed away from them.

The messenger turned his chariot, gentling his frightened
mares. With a sudden shout he lashed them forward. His escort spurred behind
him.

Even beyond the gate they could hear the full-throated roar,
the acclamation of the king enthroned.

Mirain would gladly have feasted until dawn, and his lords
and commons were minded to do just that, but it was hardly past sunset when
Ymin gave the signal Vadin had been warned to expect. Although Mirain had been
drinking considerably more than he ate, he was far from drunk; warm was the
word, and joyous, and more prodigal than ever with the magic of his presence.
His cloak was cast over the back of the high seat; he leaned across the table,
watching a ring of fire-dancers and parrying the lethal wit of a lord who sat
near the dais.

Even as Vadin moved to touch his shoulder, he saluted a bold
stroke and drank deep. He turned, laughing and glittering, and the simple
nearness of him was enough to weaken Vadin’s knees. “M—my lord,” stammered
Vadin, who had not stammered since he was weaned. “Sire, you must—”

The brilliance did not dim, but Mirain’s eyes focused,
touched with concern. “Trouble, Vadin?”

He laughed at that, shakily. “Gods, no! But it’s time to go,
my lord.”

“Go!” Mirain frowned. “Am I a child, to be put to bed with
the sun?”

Vadin had his self-possession back at last, and he grinned.
“Of course not, my lord. You’re the king, and there’s one more thing you have
to do to put the seal on it, and it’s best you do it soon, before anyone
catches on. Here, leave your cloak; they’ll think you’ve just gone out to the
privy.”

For a moment Vadin knew Mirain would resist. But surely he
knew what he was going to; he was the Sunborn, he knew everything. Except that
he did not act as if he knew anything at all. Was it possible . . . ?

He came slowly, but he came. Maybe he used magic; no one
seemed to care that he was leaving. Vadin led him down the passage behind the
throne, up to the hidden door and the chambers that were now Mirain’s. Some of
his belongings had appeared there, but the touch of his hand was very faint
yet, hardly perceptible over the deep imprint of the one who was gone.

But Vadin had not brought Mirain here to brood on the dead.
He turned toward the bedchamber, opened the door, and stood back. “My lord,” he
said.

If Mirain was beginning to understand, he was far enough
gone in wine not to hesitate. He entered the great room, its austerity soft-lit
now with lamps, scented with flowers.

Others were there before him. Nine, Vadin counted from the
door. Ten with Ymin. Ten women sitting or standing or kneeling, waiting in a
shimmer of jewels. One or two were familiar, maidens of the king’s bath now
adorned as befit their rank; Vadin recognized several more from court and
castle, and one at least of the guests who had come for High Summer and
lingered for a funeral and a kingmaking. There was even one in the collar of a
slave, but she had a fine bold eye, and she was one of the fairest, a daughter
of velvet night.

Mirain stood stock-still under their eyes, almost as he had
stood in the gateway before he claimed his throne. Vadin heard the sharp intake
of his breath, saw the tensing of his back.

Ymin smiled at him. “Yes, my lord. One last test remains in
the making of the king. As sacred singer I have been given authority to free
you from the vow that binds you; as the king’s singer I am sworn to accept the
testimony of the lady you choose. Or ladies,” she added with a touch of
wickedness.

Mirain’s voice was flat. “I do not wish to partake of this
rite.”

“You must, my lord. It is prescribed. Ianon knows that you
are a man and that you bear no blemish which will weaken the land. Now you must
prove your strength. Time was when you would have done so in the fields under
the stars, for any to watch who wished to; and you would have kept a share of
your seed for the earth itself.”

“And now?”

“You need only satisfy your chosen one. Who will satisfy me
that you are fit, and I will bear witness before your people.”

“And . . . if I fail?”

“You will not.” She spoke with assurance, coming forward and
bowing low and holding out her hands. “If you please, my lord. Your torque.”

His hand went to it. “I may not—” He stopped; he stripped
off all his jewels, flinging them at her feet. But not his robe, and almost not
his torque.

At last, with visible reluctance, he unclasped it, held it
up on his flattened palms. The words he spoke were in a tongue Vadin did not
know, chanted softly and swiftly, almost angrily.

Ymin raised her own hands, responding in the same mode, in
the same sonorous tongue. With all reverence she took the torque, kissed it,
bowed over it, and set it again upon him.

As simple as that? Vadin wondered.

It would seem so. Mirain drew a long breath, and the way he
stood spoke of a little regret, and a great deal of fear, but a worldful of
relief; though he would die before he acknowledged any but the first. When he
spoke again he sounded more like himself. “Must I be given so difficult a set
of choices? Nine ladies of such beauty—how can I choose?”

“A king must always choose,” Ymin said with the barest hint
of iron beneath the softness.

He was delaying, that was obvious. Nervous as a virgin, and
probably he was not far from one; and now he had to prove himself for such a
cause, after so long an abstinence, with bitter consequences if his body played
him false. Vadin wished desperately that there were something he could do.
Anything.

He was not even supposed to be here. He bit his tongue and
knotted his fists and made himself stay out of it. Mirain was Mirain, after
all. And Ianon needed a strong king.

Mirain gathered himself all at once, and laughed almost
freely. “I shall choose, then; and may the god guide my hand.”

He made a slow circuit, pausing before each lady, taking her
hand, saying a word or two. He lingered longest for his golden princess of the
bath, whose hands he even kissed, and she looked at him with her heart in her
eyes. But he did not say the word that would seal the choosing.