Hall of the Mountain King (33 page)

When he was older, he taught himself not to weep. But he
faced his mother and demanded of her, “How can it be true? I know how children
are made; Hal told me. How can my father be a spirit of fire?”

“He is a god,” she had answered. “For a god, all things are
possible.”

He set his chin, stubborn. “It takes a man, Mother. He comes
to a woman, and he—”

She laughed and laid a finger on his lips, silencing him. “I
know how it is done. But a god is not like a man. He has no need to be. He can
simply will a thing, and it is so.”

Mirain scowled. “That’s horrible. To give you all the pain
and trouble of bearing me, without any pleasure at all.”

“Oh,” she said, a breath of wonder and delight, “oh, no.
There was pleasure. More than pleasure. Ecstasy. He was there, all about me;
and I was his love, his bride, his chosen one. I knew the very moment you began
in me, a joy so sweet that I wept. Oh, no, Mirain. How could I wish for the
feeble pleasures of the flesh when I have known a god?”

“I don’t know him,” Mirain said sullenly, setting his will
against the strength of her joy.

She gathered him up, great lad that he was, seven summers
old and already making his mark among the boys in training for war. “Of course
you know him. This very morning I saw him in you and you in him, riding your
pony down by the river.”

“That was no god. That was—was—” Words failed him. “I was
happy, that’s all.”

“That was your father. Light and joy and a bright strong
presence. Did you not feel as if the world loved you, and you loved it in
return? As if there were someone with you, taking joy in your joy, bearing you
up when you faltered?”

“I’d rather have someone I can see.”

“You have me. You have Prince Orsan, and Hal, and—”

“I don’t want them. I want a father.”

She laughed. She was full of laughter, was the Priestess of
Han-Gilen. Some people frowned at her, thinking that the god’s own bride should
be grave and austere and visibly saintly; but Sanelin was a creature of light.

And he, being her child, found to his dismay that he could
not be sullen in front of her. Already the laughter was bubbling up in him. How
absurd to cry for a father, when of course he had one already, more than anyone
else had, present always in him and with him. And when he needed a physical
presence he had no less than the Prince of Han-Gilen, that tall man with his
stern face and his merry eyes and his hair like the sun’s own fire.

Sanelin was dead, Prince Orsan long leagues away. But the
god was there when Mirain looked for him, in the core of his own soul: a
presence too intimate to bear either name or face. Nor did he offer comfort in
words. It went far deeper than that.

Deeper still went the fear. “Father, I could die tomorrow. I
probably will. This is an enemy I am ill-equipped to face.”

Should he be afraid of death? It was but a passage; and
after it, joy unspeakable.

“But to die now with my destiny all unfulfilled—to know that
by my death I leave my kingdom open to the servants of our Enemy—how can I
endure it?”

Ah, then it was not death he feared. He feared that he would
not live to hold back the goddess. He had a fine sense of his own worth.

“And who set it in me?”

To make him strong. Not to make him arrogant.

“It makes no difference, then. If Moranden kills me, the
throne is safe; his mother will not rule through him with her wizards and her
priests, turning all Ianon to the worship of the goddess.”

It would make a difference. Perhaps, once Moranden had his
throne, he could hold against his mother; perhaps he would prove too feeble for
her purposes. Or perhaps, and most likely, what Mirain foresaw would come to
pass.

“
Perhaps
is an
alarming word for a god to use.”

A god might choose to think as a man, for his own ends. As
he might choose to lend aid where aid was needed, if it were sought in the
proper fashion.

“Father! You will be with me?”

The god was always with his son.

“You comfort me,” said Mirain with a touch of irony.

But not completely.

“Of course not. I know what this battle is to you. Another
stroke against your sister.” Mirain tossed back his heavy mane, quivering with
sudden, passionate anger. “But why?
Why?
You are a god. She is a goddess. Fight your own battles in your own realm. Let
us be!”

The god’s presence seemed to smile, a smile full of sadness;
his thought took shape clearly as words in a voice soft and deep, like and yet
unlike his son’s.
Again I tell you, again
I bid you remember: When we shaped your world, we swore a truce. War between us
would destroy all we made together. Rather than chance that, we bound ourselves
to this, that all our battles henceforth be waged through the creatures we had
made.

Mirain’s lip curled. “Ah, Father, you are cruel. Say it
clearly. Say that you toy with us as a cat toys with its prey.”

No. We do not.

“If you do not, what of the other? It is annihilation she
craves. Why should she not break the truce and conquer?”

She does not crave annihilation. No more than do I. She
would destroy what is pleasing to me and cloak the world in the night she made,
and rule it, sole queen and sole goddess.

“And you?”

I would have balance. Light and dark divided, each in its
proper place.

“With you as sole king and sole god.”

You say it. Not I.

“Yes,” Mirain said bitterly. “It is always I who say it. I
love you, I cannot help it. But, Father, I am mortal and I am young, and I do
not have your wisdom to see always what I must do.”

Win your battle. The rest will follow in its own time.

“Win my battle,” Mirain repeated. “Win it.” He flung himself
on his bed. “Oh, dear god, I am afraid!”

The lamp flickered; a thin cold wind skittered about the
tent and fled. Vadin found himself standing over Mirain, and he could not stop
shaking, and he could not name what shook him, whether it was terror of the god
who burned and blazed in him, or terror of the king who huddled and trembled on
the cot. A god without face or living voice, a king with the semblance of a
frightened boy.

Paradoxes. Vadin was a simple man, a mountain warrior. He
was not made for this.

He had walked through death into the living light. He was
marked with Mirain’s power, that came from the god.

He lowered himself to one knee. Mirain’s trembling had
eased; he had drawn into a knot, almost pitifully small. Very lightly Vadin
touched his shoulder.

“Get out,” he said. His voice was still and cold.

Vadin did not move. The moment stretched, counted in slow
breaths. Mirain drew tighter still.

Without warning he burst outward and upward, hurling Vadin
onto his back. “Get out, damn you. Get
out
!”

Vadin found his wind where it had fled, blinked away the
sparks of shock and mild pain. “Why?” he asked reasonably.

Mirain hauled him up. The king was stronger than he had any
right to be, and fully as dangerous as a startled leopard; but Vadin could not
remember to be afraid, even when the strong small hands shook him like a bundle
of straw. He kept his body limp and his teeth together, and waited for the
storm to pass.

Mirain let him go. He swayed, steadied. “Why should I get
out?” he asked again. “Because I saw you acting human for once?”

“Have I no right to my solitude?”

Vadin drew a breath. His ribs ached, from the sortie, from
Mirain’s violence. He considered the vivid furious face. “Do you really want to
be alone?”

“I—” It was a rarity indeed: Mirain at a loss for words.
“You were in my mind.”

“Wasn’t I?” And whose fault was it that Vadin could be?

Mirain heard all of it, spoken and unspoken. “You had no
right,” he said.

“Not even the right of a friend?”

The silence sang on a high strange note. Vadin had spoken
without thought, through the fading brilliance of the god. Mirain had heard at
first only through the crackle of his anger.

As the crackle died, his eyes widened; Vadin felt his own do
the same. His heart began to hammer. His fists clenched into pain.

Mirain spoke softly, with great care. “Say it again, Vadin.
Say it yourself, without my father to drive you.”

Vadin’s throat closed. He thought of cursing the god and all
his madness. He said, “A friend. A friend, may your own father damn you, and if
you’re half the mage you claim to be you’ll know I lost my wager cycles ago.
And doesn’t a friend have a right to stay where he’s needed? Especially,” he
added grimly, “when it’s a god who’s possessed him to do it.”

“I need no one.”

Haughty words and most unwise, and a staring lie. Vadin did
not dignify them with his notice. “Friend,” he said. And more awkwardly:
“Brother. I don’t think less of you because you’re afraid. Only fools and
infants, and maybe gods, have never known fear.”

“Gods—gods can be afraid.” Mirain pricked his temper anew,
reared up his pride and made a weapon of it. “Do you think you can do anything
to help me? You who cannot even shape the letters of your name?”

Vadin burst out laughing. Mirain in the depths of terror was
still worthy of all respect, because his fear was the valiant fear of a strong
man and a mage. But that he, so wise, should insult Vadin for what any Ianyn
lord was more proud of than not . . .

“What, my lord, have I had it all wrong? Are you going to
duel with pens and tablets? It’s true I can’t write a word, but I can sharpen
your pen for you; shall I fletch it too and show you how to make a dart of it?”

Mirain’s chin came up. In spite of his reckless mood Vadin
knew a moment’s chill, a flicker of doubt lest he had gone too far. “You mock
me,” the king said, still and cold again.

“Listen to me,” said Vadin in a flare of temper. “You have
to go out there tomorrow and fight all alone, and no one’s holding out much
hope for you, and maybe you’ll die; and you’re so scared you can hardly see,
but you’ll do it because you have to. Because you can’t do anything else. And
you’d rather be eaten by demons than let anyone guess how close your bowels are
to turning to water.”

“They aren’t,” snapped Mirain. “They already have.”

Vadin paused for a heartbeat. He was not sure he dared to
smile. “So of course you wanted to be alone with your shame. You can’t have the
world finding out that you’re a man and not the hero of a song.” He struck his
hands together. “Idiot! How do you think you’ll be by morning if you spend the
night brooding and shaking and hating yourself for being afraid? Do you
want
to lose this fight?”

“Vadin,” Mirain said with elaborate patience, “Vadin my
reluctant brother, I know as well as anyone what chance I have against Ianon’s
great champion. I also know how much brooding is good for me; and I have arts
that will assure my rest. If,” he added acidly, “you will let me practice
them.”

“You’re playing with the truth again.” Vadin eluded a blow
without much force behind it, and seized Mirain. The king stiffened, but he did
not struggle. “You’ve got my soul, Mirain. It’s yours to do whatever you like
with. Even to throw away, if that’s your pleasure.”

“That would be a dire waste.” At half an arm’s length Mirain
had to tilt his head well back to see Vadin’s face. The king did not smile, nor
did his expression soften, but his eyes were clearer and steadier than they had
been in a long while. “You called me by my name.”

“I’m sorry, my lord.”

“Sure you are.” Vadin’s own way of speaking, his very tone.
A thin line grew between Mirain’s brows, counter to the vanishingly faint
upcurve of his lips. “You’ll not ‘my lord’ me in private again, sir. It’s bad
enough that I have to suffer it from everyone else.”

“You should have thought of that before you got yourself
born a royal heir.”

“Sweet hindsight.” Mirain smiled at last, if somewhat
thinly. “You’re good for me, I think. Like one of Ivrin Healer’s more potent
doses.”

“Gods! Am I that bad?”

“Worse.” But Mirain’s mood had shifted, turning from the old
black madness to something almost light. “Bitter I would say, but bracing. Will
you be my witness tomorrow?”

“Is it politic? Prince Mehtar—”

“Damn Prince Mehtar,” Mirain said in a voice so mild it was
alarming. He took Vadin’s hands, held them in a grip the other could not break.
“If I live I’ll be strong enough to deal with him. If I die, it won’t matter.
And,” he said, “I’d much rather have you under my eye than trying to creep
behind.”

Vadin’s ears were hot. “I wouldn’t—”

“Now who’s telling lies?” Mirain let go Vadin’s hands. He
moved closer yet, catching the squire in a sudden tight embrace. “Brother, I
humble myself; I admit it. I need you. Will you be my witness?”

Yes
, thought Vadin,
knowing Mirain would hear. A little stiffly, a little shyly, he closed the
embrace. He did not know why he thought of Ledi. She was his woman. Mirain
was—was—

“Brother,” Mirain said. He drew back, smiling a little.
“Shall I bring her to you?”

Vadin did not doubt that Mirain could do it. But his hand
rose in refusal. “Thank you, no. There’s no need to tire yourself working
magic. I’ll be well enough for a little self-denial.”

Mirain shrugged slightly, as if he would disagree, but he
let Vadin go. “Good night, brother,” he said.

“Good night,” answered Vadin. “Brother.”

oOo

Ymin sat on the ground outside of Mirain’s tent, a grey
shadow on the edge of firelight. But Vadin, coming out under the sky, saw her
as easily as she saw him.

Their eyes met. His, she thought, were not the eyes of a
boy, still less of a simple Ianyn warrior. She had to firm her will to face
them.

He bowed his head a very little. Acknowledgment,
encouragement, a sudden white smile.