The Lady of Han-Gilen (34 page)

Mirain’s white grin surfaced beside her. “Ho, guards!” he
called. “There’s room here for us all. Quick now, while the water’s hot!”

The full score of them came in a mob, whooping. The men were
shyer than the women; the Ianyn, too dark to show their blushes, looked
everywhere but where their minds were. Elian laughed at them, and needled them
until they laughed back. But Cuthan led them in a gloriously wet revenge.

Mirain was first off the field as he had been the first on
it, leaping out of the battle and snatching the least sodden of the
drying-cloths. “’Varyan!” he said. “I’m dying of your foolishness. Go on then,
drown yourselves in mere water. I’m for mine host’s good wine.”

As Elian watched him saunter away with his cloth flung over
his shoulder, Cuthan spoke beside her, half amused, half somber. “He’s always
like that: looking for a better way to die.” He bent, took up a cloth, wrapped
it calmly and boldly and quite firmly about her. The others had quieted and
begun to scatter, drying one another, sorting out the tangle of clothing.

Elian looked up. She had to crane her neck a little.
Cuthan’s face was unwontedly still; he looked more than ever like his brother.
Quietly, rather slowly, he said, “I have no wizardry, but my nose is keen
enough; and there’s that in the air which I don’t like. This trap is not as it
should be.”

Elian hugged the cloth to her, trying not to shiver. “I
know. I can’t find the army Vadin spoke of. If it’s gone, I yearn to know
where, and why. But if it is not . . . My power is strong,
Cuthan. Any mage who can hide an army from me may prove too much even for
Mirain.”

“Maybe there is no army after all,” Cuthan said. “Maybe Lord
Garin is no more than he seems.”

“Maybe.” Elian sat on the pool’s edge, running her fingers
through her hair, wrestling out the tangles. “This is a strange place. Every
mind is clear enough to me, down to a certain point. Then nothing. Nothing at
all. It’s uncanny. Like looking at a crowd and realizing all at once that none
of them is real; they’re only masks set up on spears.”

“Even the lord?”

“He’s the worst of all. And yet he’s no sorcerer. He has no
power.”

“A lord may be without magic but employ a mage. There are
all too many such in the north: court wizards and tame enchanters, and shamans
of the wilder tribes. Most are foreign-trained, mages from the Nine Cities or
followers of one or several of Asanion’s thousand gods.”

The name of the Nine Cities rang in Elian’s head like a
gong, dizzying her, catching her breath in her throat. It was in Ashan that the
Exile had found her; into the wilds of Ashan that she had vanished. If she was
here, if it was she who raised these walls of nothingness, then Elian had need
of more than fear. She needed all the strength she had, and all the resistance.

She made herself face Cuthan steadily, speak coolly, calmly.
“I’ve heard the songs,” she said. “Mirain and the Insh’u Master; the Sunborn
and the Mage of Arriman; the Ballad of An-Sh’Endor and the Thirty Sorcerers.”

“There were only six,” said Cuthan with a surprising touch
of severity, “and four were apprentices.” He grinned suddenly, and that was
more surprising still. “But what’s a song if it cleaves to the truth? I’m composing
one now. A good one, I’m so presumptuous as to think: the tale of the Sunborn
and the Lady Kalirien.”

For once Elian could not return his lightness. Her power had
been stretching itself, of itself, with no will to compel it. Her fear was
mounting. “Cuthan,” she said very low, “this strangeness has another face. It
hems my power in. I can’t mindspeak to anyone outside of these walls; I dare
not force the barriers. Whoever, whatever wields power here”—
Not the Exile
, her inward self keened,
O Avaryan, may it not be she
—“must not
know what our brothers will do. Which means—”

“Which means,” he said, and she loved him for that quickness
of wit, “that my lord cannot give the signal to attack. And morning may be too
late.”

“Morning will be too late,” she whispered. It was dark
behind her eyes. In the dark was light, grey-cold like a winter dawn; and
Mirain fallen on cold stone.

Cuthan’s hands were warm, gripping her. She let them hold
her to the world of life and love and hope of victory. “I’ll go if I can,” he
said, “as soon as I can. I’ll bring the army to you.”

She smiled. It was not as hard as she had feared it would
be. Cuthan was very easy to smile at. “To me, my captain? Not your king?”

He looked down abashed, but he looked up again swiftly, with
lordly pride. “I am your captain, my lady.”

“Gallant knight.” She rose. “Come. Let us gird ourselves for
the slaughter.”

oOo

With the wine, which was the sweet golden vintage of
Anshan-i-Ormal, Lord Garin had sent robes of honor. White Asanian silk for
Mirain; and for Elian a gown the color of flame, and a golden veil.

The gown might have been made to her measure. The veil she
almost cast away; but she paused. It was a lovely thing, cloud-soft,
cloud-fragile. If it was meant for an insult to the notorious Lady Kalirien,
why then, let it become a badge of honor.

She draped it carefully. Nimble hands aided her: Igani, the
beauty of her Guard. The warrior woman was as deft as a lady’s maid, but no
maid ever wore such a wicked smile, or said as she settled the golden fillet,
“Give ’em hell, my lady.”

Elian met her own mirrored eyes and smiled slowly. Paint and
perfumes she had none, and no jewels but the fillet, yet she was—fair. More
than fair. She would not shame her king.

Nor did he put his own legend to shame. Despite his words,
he had drunk but a sip of wine; the glitter in his eyes was his own, and the
sheen that lay upon him, of danger and daring and of high royalty. She, meeting
that splendid gaze, for a moment was blinded.

He bowed low and kissed her fingertips; her palms; her
throbbing wrists. Whispering with each: “Lady. Queen. Beloved.”

She looked down at his bent head, bent her own, and kissed
it.

He straightened. Her eyes, freed, flicked round. The guards
had drawn together about them, a living shieldwall. Beyond them the door stood
open, with Lord Garin in it.

The ruler of Garin had put off his riding leathers for a
plain brown coat. No jewels, no precious metals; only a belt with a simple
clasp, and a knife hanging sheathed from it, both hilt and clasp of hammered
bronze. Like his people, like all his castle save this tower, he affected no
elegance.

That in itself, perhaps, was an affectation. He regarded the
king and the queen with a careful scrutiny and a bow that conceded very little.
And yet, veiled though his mind was, Elian sensed strong stirrings beneath.
Tension, tight-reined fear, and—elation?

The gloating of the wolf before it pulls down its prey.
But
, Mirain said in her mind,
this victim is armed and ready. It will not
fall as easily as he may hope.

He offered his hand. Elian laid hers upon it. With a smooth
concerted movement, the wall of guards parted.

King and queen paced forth. The guards followed them, save
only those who warded the chambers behind them.

oOo

Whatever splendors the elder Garin had brought to his
hall, his son had long since stripped away. The chamber was long, its grey
stone bare, with no softening of trophy or tapestry. Torches illumined the
walls, thrust into brackets of iron. Its center was a hearth in which roared
and smoked a mighty blaze.

Just within the cavernous door, Elian stopped. The folk of
Asan-Garin stood along the walls or sat on benches or crouched in the rushes.
Faces, eyes—tens, hundreds. Men in brown, men in grey, men in yellow, men in
mottled green.

With all her power she mastered her face. She could have
cried aloud for purest relief, and for purest, most exhilarating terror.

An army, after all. An enemy to face and, the god willing,
to overcome.

As if some will had worked upon it, the hearthfire leaped
up, then died abruptly. Beyond it spread a dais and a high board. People sat
there in state: men, a veiled woman or two. Elian’s eyes, blurred with smoke
and sudden dimness, would not come clear.

They had no need. She knew those handsome black-bronze
faces, those affable smiles. They were all there as they should have been:
Luiani of Ashan, the Prince-Heir Omian foremost and on his feet, and in the
tall canopied chair of the lord, the Prince of Ashan himself.

But those faded and paled before the one who sat at Luian’s
right hand. Tall, gaunt, clad in black, with eyes like flawed pearls. Her
familiar purred in her arms.

Four thin lines of fire seared Elian’s cheek, but she hardly
felt the pain. Prophecy was a keener fire, and cleaner. It burned away her
fear, left her calm, almost content.

So
, her mind
observed, it
has come at last
. And
the sooner come, the sooner gone, for good or for ill.

Behind her the doors boomed shut. Shouts sounded dim beyond,
the outrage of the guards, the mockery of Garin’s men. One only had outrun the
closing of the gates: Cuthan, swift to see and swift to move, and closest to
his lady.

Mirain stood at his royal ease, almost smiling. As Cuthan
halted behind him, he said to the man who had guided him here, “There is no need
of that, my lord Garin. I shall not attempt to escape.”

Coolly he moved forward, Elian at his side, the Ianyn lord a
bulwark behind, down the length of the hall, skirting the fire. His smile was
quite visible and quite amused. “Prince Luian; Prince Omian. This is a pleasant
meeting. Have you settled the matter of Eridan?”

The prince examined him minutely, as if he had been a
stranger. Elian, watching him, for the moment unregarded, reeled with vertigo.
He was not there. He could be seen, he could be heard; he could even be smelled,
a faint musty odor like old rooms long untenanted. But to the mind there was
nothing.

Her power unfolded. Her outward senses cried out to her of
crowding bodies: Luian’s men, Garin’s people, the followers of the woman called
Kiyali. Her mind met only void. Even Mirain—even he—

Wrath drove back her panic. The Exile sat as a queen of
mages, smiling at Elian. Without a word of mind or tongue, she beckoned. She
invited. She offered strength that was infinite beside Mirain’s haughty
weakness, and power that knew no bonds of light or dark.

Elian raised all her barriers and huddled within them.
Immovable, by the god; unassailable. Though bolts of seduction battered the
gates, and temptation sang its sweet song, beckoning her into the deadly air.

Luian spoke, dry and cold. She took refuge in his insolence.
“Eridan shall be dealt with in its proper time. Meanwhile I have other and more
immediate concerns.”

“Such as myself.” Mirain tilted his head to one side, all
bright interest. “You were rather clever, prince. I would have expected you to
trap me in Sheian, or even to wait until we came to Eridan. But this is much
more convenient. A spacious and isolated prison for my army; a strong castle to
lock me in, with ample room for your forces; a lord who is, by his own
admission, a loyal man. You have even managed to tame a sorceress to oppose my
famous wizardry; and that one of all sorceresses . . . has she
ever told you why she is blind?”

The Exile’s smile gained an edge. “I have told him, King of
Ianon. All of it. You took me once by surprise; you can never do so again.”

“No,” said Mirain willingly, “I cannot. You have grown
strong since you betrayed my mother.”

“I executed her by the law of her order. The order you
claim, priestess’ child, no-man’s-son. You have risen high on the strength of
her lies. But every falsehood must be uncovered at last; and the greater the
lie, the more terrible is its revealing.”

Mirain looked about him. “They believe you, I see. Your
skill in mind-twisting is impressive. But then, you build on strong
foundations. My lord Garin, the loyal man; Prince Omian, whom I forced into
close and constant commerce with his ancestral enemy; my royal lord of Ashan,
displaced from first and greatest ally to scarce-regarded vassal. Men were
content with their wars and their petty thieveries before I came to disturb
them, I with my mad conviction that the world is mine to rule.”

“By your own words are you condemned.”

“And quite cheerfully, kinswoman; for some vices make
excellent substitutes for virtue. You know that well, who slew the bride of
Avaryan. I regret that I took such vengeance as I did. I should have killed you
cleanly, or let you go wholly free.”

“You had no such power. You were a child then, untaught,
unrestrained. You are a child still. Else you would never be here before me.”

“I might. I might have decided, kingly-wise, that it is time
you were disposed of. You subvert my people; you disrupt my kingdom. You are,
in short, a nuisance.”

The Exile laughed softly. “Am I not? We are always troublesome,
we defenders of the truth.”

“Can you even tell what is truth and what is a lie?” Mirain
mounted the dais, moving with that swift grace which made him so deadly in
battle.

The Ashani princes drew back from him, their smiles long
gone. Luian, trapped by the proud bulk of the throne, held his ground, though
Mirain leaned on the table and fixed him with a steady, glittering stare. “So,
prince. I have obliged you; I have fallen into your web. I admire art, even in
treachery. But this I cannot forgive: your cruel misuse of your messenger.
Kingslaying may have its excuses. The murder of an ill and innocent man has
none.”

The prince’s eyes hooded; his face was unmoved. “Lord Casien
is an utterly honest man and an utter fool. As for his illness, the songs give
you great powers of healing. Are they lies then?”

“Prince,” said Mirain softly, “you cannot have two truths.
If the tales of me are true, then I am indeed the king, and you are a traitor.
If the tales are false, you are something less foul, perhaps, but more
despicable: a murderer of his own good servants.” He leaned forward slightly,
resting on his hands. “Whichever you are, Luian of Ashan, and whichever I am,
mind you this: You have me. You do not have my empire. And it will avenge me.”