The Lady of Han-Gilen (27 page)

Even in moving to summon one, she sank to the floor. Where
could she go? Her old chambers—he knew all the ways to them, both open and
secret. Nor would he hesitate to use them.

She knew this mood of his. Mirain An-Sh’Endor would have
what he meant to have.

Ilarios’ topaz had found its way into her hand. She stared
at it, only half seeing it. She stared for a very long time. Her mind was
utterly empty.

A shadow crossed it. Her eyes turned slowly. Even yet they
could widen.

The perfect lady was never to be seen afoot, only seated on
a throne or in her bower, or for the greatest festivals, in a curtained litter.
If indeed she deigned to touch her delicate sole to the ground, it was to be
cushioned with carpets and shod in the most elegant of sandals. Nor was she
ever to be seen unattended.

The Lady Eleni was alone. Her gown was as practical as a
servant’s; there were boots on her feet. Boots of the finest leather, with
inlaid heels, but boots.

They looked as if they had been in snow, and even, wonder of
wonders, in stable mire. The heavy coils of her hair were glistening with
melting snow; if she had had a veil, she had lost it.

“Mother,” said Elian. “Where are your maids? What are you
doing here?”

The princess sat in the one chair the room afforded, and
settled her skirts. “My maids are in their proper places. I have been searching
for you.”

“Anyone could have told you where I was.”

“Anyone could not. Your father and your brother have other
troubles.”

“And the Sunborn would not.”

“The Sunborn was occupied.” The princess frowned slightly.
“I made a vow that I would let you be. I intend still to keep it. But I will
remind you that our guest is no longer merely our foster kin. He is the emperor.”

“He’s still Mirain.”

“He is Mirain An-Sh’Endor.”

The words, so close to Elian’s own thoughts, cut at old
wounds. “I know who he is! I wait on him day and night. Day,” she repeated,
“and night.”

Her mother betrayed not the least disturbance. “I have not
come to plead for your reputation. I do not even beg you to accept his suit,
mighty though that match would be, the mightiest in our world. I only wish to
know: Why?”

Elian would not answer.

“It may be the Asanian prince,” Eleni mused. “I think not.
Is it then some youth of low degree, a servant or a farmholder, or a soldier in
Mirain’s army? You should not shrink from telling us. Halenani have wedded with
outlanders before. They have even wedded with commoners. Though you have no
look of one who loves without hope. Why then, Elian? Why do you do battle
against every man who asks for you?”

Still, silence, with a hint of obduracy.

“Is it perhaps that you are afraid? You are fiercer than is
maidens’ wont, and you have always been free. You have never met a man as
strong as yourself, or as sure in his strength. Unless it be Mirain.” The
princess folded her hands. “Yet in the end, however feeble the man, his lady
must give of herself. Her body certainly, perhaps her heart if she is
fortunate. The giving is frightening, and the more so the stronger one is. Is
that your reason, daughter? Are you afraid to face your womanhood?”

“No!”
It burst out
of her with no grace at all. “I know what men do with women. I’ve seen it in
the army.” For all her bravado, Elian’s cheeks flushed hotly; her tongue was
thick, unwieldy. “It is not fear. Believe me, Mother, it is not. I’ve always
expected that I would marry. One day. When it was time. I meant my husband to
be Mirain. Because it had to be. Because there could never be another.

“Then I saw Ilarios. And nothing had to be; there was no
such thing as destiny, and if there was, how dared it bind me? My world was
rocking on its foundations. I fled in search of safety.

“To Mirain. Who acted as if I were no more than his sister.
And I found that I was glad of it. I began to think that maybe, after all, my
vows and my destinies had been mere childish fancies: the infatuation of a very
young maid for her splendid elder brother.

“Then Ilarios came after me. When at last Mirain admitted
that he wanted me, he spoke too late and not to me; and my heart was shifting,
turning toward its new freedom. My life was not foreordained. I could choose.
To wed, or not. To wed with any man I fancied, or with none. Ilarios paid court
to me, and I began to think that, yes, I could be his lover, and he mine.
Mirain did nothing to stop us. Maybe I wanted him to do nothing. I think I
wanted him to do something. Claim me. Tell me I belonged to him. And he would
not. And now,” said Elian, “he has, and I don’t know what to do. He says he
loves me. I know—I know—” Her voice broke. Incredulous. Frightened. “I know I
love him. After all, I know . . . I love him. I turned Ilarios
away because of him.” Elian’s fists clenched; her voice rose. “Mother, I can’t!
He’s the king. The Sunborn. The god’s son.”

“He is still Mirain.”

Again, her own words. She flung back her mother’s. “He is
An-Sh’Endor!” Her hair was in her eyes. She scraped it back. “He’s not a tyrant
to be afraid of. But he’s king. Great king. Emperor. How in all the world did I
ever hope to stand beside him?”

“It seems to me,” said the princess, “that you have been
doing just that. Do you know what the army has begun to call you? Kalirien.
Lady who is swift and valiant. I note that, daughter. Lady, and valiant. When
Mirain set out to choose a Guard for you, a thousand men, hearing but the rumor
of it, clamored to be chosen; a thousand more thronged after them. He had to
set a difficult test, and then another more difficult still, and then a third;
and in the end, to ask that each one submit to the probing of his power. The
five who were taken are now the envy of the army, ranked as high as princes.”

“Oh aye, for having an easy path to my famous bed.”

“Such thoughts demean yourself and your Guard. Where is the
truth that we raised you to see? An-Sh’Endor’s soldiers have chosen you for
their lady. So too have the common folk.”

“And the high ones?” Elian rose. “What of them?”

“The high ones know what they see. Some can even understand
it.”

“No,” Elian said. That had been her second word.

The first had been spoken clearly and firmly to the center
of her world. Not the name of mother or father, or even of the nurse who had
raised her.

No. From the very first, she had known who mattered most.

Mirain.

“I’m afraid,” she said. “I’m not valiant at all. I’m
terrified. After all I’ve sworn and done and plotted—I can’t be his queen.”

Very gently the princess said, “You can be his lover. All
the rest will follow.”

It was even more shocking than that she should be here,
alone, speaking freely and even knowing what soldiers thought: that she could
say such a word to her maiden daughter.
Lover
.
And with such tenderness.

Elian looked at her hands and at the bed. Both were empty.
While she spoke, while her mind paid no heed, she had returned each possession
to its place.

Save the jewel. It lay in her hand and glittered, and the
light of it was cruel. She thrust it into her coat.

She could have wept. She could have screamed. She huddled on
the bed, knees to chin, eyes burning dry, and said, “I can’t understand him.
What if he only wants me for my face? And my dowry, and my father’s goodwill.
He never acted like a lover. He hardly seemed to notice me. Was he so sure of
me? Or is it that he didn’t care? He wasn’t even jealous of Ilarios.”

“Was he not?”

“No!” she snapped. With an effort she softened her voice.
“Ilarios wanted me to go away with him. When I told Mirain, he wouldn’t decide
for me. He didn’t try to make me stay.”

“He did not counsel you to leave.” The princess smiled. “Ah,
child, if you saw nothing, still there were others who could see. He would
watch you when you were together with the prince, watch you steadily and
constantly. Or if you were gone, riding or walking, his mind would wander; he
would snap for no reason. Ah, yes, he was jealous. Bitterly so.”

“Then why didn’t he—”

“He was too proud.”

Of course he was too proud. A man had to be humble, to woo a
woman properly. “He can’t love
me
!”
cried Elian.

Her mother laughed softly. “But, daughter, he always has.”
She sobered, though only a little. “I can understand your fear. He is dear to
us all, and he is most human, but he remains Avaryan’s son. And yet, being man
as much as god, he is very easily hurt. Take care lest you wound him too deeply
for any healing.”

“I would never—” Elian broke off. “Oh, Mother, why does it
have to be me?”

“If I knew,” the princess answered, “I would be a goddess myself.”
She slid from her chair to her knees, unwonted as all she had done in the past
hour, and circled her daughter with her arms. “When I bore you, I knew the god
intended great things for you. He has given you many and wondrous blessings.
Now he asks for his payment. You are strong enough to give it. Believe me,
child,” she said, measuring each word, “you are strong enough.”

The night before Midwinter was the Dark of the Year. In
old days it had been the great festival of the goddess; when Avaryan rose to
full and sole power in Han-Gilen, her rites were forbidden, her festival
diminished before the feast of Sunreturn. But the old ways lingered. At the
Dark of the Year, all fires were extinguished. The temple was dark, the priests
silent. Folk huddled together and shivered, and thought on death and dying and
on the cold of the grave.

The palace nourished warmth in its old bones; but as the
sunless day passed, the chill crept closer. With music and song forbidden and
laughter quenched, the halls seemed darker still.

Elian passed a warm delicious time with Anaki, who as a new
mother need not endure the fireless cold. Both guilt and duty drove her forth.
The sky had begun to loose its burden of snow.

She left its grey weight for the icy air of the palace.
Mirain was in the workroom with his clerks; they, needing lamps for their work,
warmed their hands at the small flames.

They had no need of her; no more did he, although he smiled
at her, a swift preoccupied smile. She went to polish his armor. It was a
hideous task, but it warmed her blood wonderfully.

The gold-washed plates gleamed, splendid even in the gloom.
As she rubbed at his helmet, pursing her lips over a dent which the smith had
failed to smooth completely, soft darkness fell over her.

She struggled out of it. It was a cloak, a wonderful thing,
deep green velvet lined with fur as fiery vivid as her hair, light and soft and
warm as down, as beautiful to the touch as to the eye. Her fingers lost
themselves in it; her breath caught in wonder.

“
Hazia
, ” she
said. “This must be
hazia
. ”

Mirain sat at her feet, smiling. “Yes, it is.”

“But it’s as precious as rubies. More precious.”

He gestured assent. “The beast is little larger than a
mouse, and elusive, and shy besides. It took, said the merchant, the better
part of twenty years to gather enough for your cloak.” He tilted his head. “Do
you like it?”

“Don’t be a fool!” The heat flooded to her face; she
scowled. “You can’t buy me, Mirain.”

“May I not give you a Midwinter gift?”

“I have one already. My Guard.”

“And this is another,” he said. His finger stroked the fur
lightly, almost absently. “I’m appallingly wealthy, you know. The tribes of the
north are richer than you would ever believe; and their richest kings have paid
me tribute, every one. After a while it begins to seem like sea-sand. Worthless
with surfeit. Except to give away.”

“Don’t give it
all
away!” she cried, stung to practicality.

He laughed. “No fear of that, my lady. Even if I were so
minded, my clerks would bring me to my senses. Armies have to be paid; and
there’s my city.” His eyes grew bright as they always did when he spoke of
that. “When the spring comes, we’ll begin the building. You’ll help us with it.
There are things you’ll be wanting in the palace and in the city.”

“How can it matter what I want?” she asked. She was cold in
her splendid cloak.

“You matter,” he said. And added very calmly, “I should like
to be wedded after the snows pass. On your birth-feast, in the spring; or on
mine if you would prefer, at High Summer. Or anywhere between.”

She hated him. She hated his cool assurance; she hated his
steady regard. She hated her own heart, that had turned traitor and begun to
beat hard, and her voice, that was weak, half strangled. “What if I won’t
choose?”

He touched her hand, the merest brush of a fingertip, yet
she felt it as a line of flame. “There’s time yet for deciding. And”—he
followed the burning touch with a white-fire kiss—“for loving.”

She choked on bile. Treacherous, treacherous body. It sang
with his nearness. It yearned to be nearer still.

He moved a little away, and her anger was swift, fierce, and
utterly reasonless. His voice had lost its softness, turned crisp: his
brother-voice, with a hint of the king. “Meanwhile, there is the winter. After
tomorrow’s feast I’ll send the bulk of my allies home to rule their lands for
me. The summer will see us on the march again.”

She shuddered.

He clasped her hand. No fire now, only warmth and strength.
“Asanion, if not our ally, is not yet our enemy. For a time. That much Ziad-Ilarios
won from me. But the east is rising. The Nine Cities encroach on the princedoms
of the farthest south, at the desert’s edge. I hear of horrors committed and of
armies strengthened. The Syndics are testing my flanks for weaknesses.”

The cold in her was sudden and soul-deep. “Sooner,” she said
very low. “Cold. North.”

His grasp tightened. “The north is firm, and mine.”