The Lady of Han-Gilen (35 page)

“Will it, King of Ianon?” murmured the sorceress. “Are you
so greatly beloved? With arms and songs you won the north. The Hundred Realms
came to you by gift of the man who fostered you. Fathered you, it might be
thought. But for his power, you could never have come so far; never, with all
your pride and your vaunted wizardry, have laid claim to an empire. It is Orsan
of Han-Gilen who rules in the world’s heart, and who has always ruled there,
whomever he raises as his figurehead.”

Mirain stood straight, still at his ease, unruffled. “That
may well be. You who were of the Halenani know well their greatest pride. Kings
they are not and will not be. They are princes among the princes of the Hundred
Realms; they claim no greater title, and no less. And they accept no king over
them save one of their own choosing.”

“A puppet king. An illusion of power, a pretense of
royalty.” The blind eyes opened wide, fixed on him as if indeed they could see.

Elian’s nape prickled. Power gathered like summer thunder,
swelling in the smoke-dimmed air, filling the emptiness where minds should be.

“Puppet,” whispered the Exile, wind-soft, wind-cold. “Little
bantam cock, dressed to seem a king. Men are slaves to their eyes and to a
clever song. Let them see and hear the truth. You are nothing. You are an empty
thing, a counterfeit, a shape of air and darkness. Long ago I knew you; long
have I suffered for that knowing.”

She raised her hand. Shadow filled it. She cast it outward.
“Down, liar, child of lies, begotten in falsehood. Down, and know your master.”

That voice froze Elian where she stood: low, vibrant,
thrumming with power. Her knees had locked, else she would have fallen. Her
eyes swam with darkness.

Mirain swayed in the heart of it, wrapped in it, helpless,
powerless, lost. It buffeted him; he reeled to his knees. His splendid sheen
was gone, leaving him stripped bare, a smallish unhandsome man in an
extravagance of gold and silk, his face drawn taut with anguish. The little
power he had had been enough to blind simple folk, to erect a semblance of
kingship. Against true magery he had nothing: no strength, no magic, no
god-born splendor.

His head fell back as if he had lost control even of his
body. The skin stretched tight over the proud bones of his face, grey-pale
where they thrust forth, blue-pallid about the lips. A tremor shook him. His
teeth bared, white and sharp and strangely feral.

With an effort so mighty that it seemed to shake the very
stones of the hall, he lurched to his feet. His hands worked convulsively, the
right clawed, trembling in spasms. Light dripped from it, slowly, like blood.

It snapped shut.

The darkness shattered. The sorceress cried out, sharp and
high.

Elian nearly collapsed in the sudden, mind-numbing clamor.
All shields had fallen. The hall thronged with thoughts as with men, throbbed
with astonishment, quivered with hostility. Only at her back was there a
refuge, the strong fierce loyalty of her captain who was her friend, warmed to
burning with the love he bore his king.

Mirain stood upon the dais in a cloak of light, head high,
strong voice ringing from end to end of the long hall. “Now I see. Now I see it
all. As I am called Prince Orsan’s puppet, so does Prince Luian dance to your
piping. I was most skillfully deceived: I looked for naught beyond mere mortal treachery.”

“Not all men are blind to the truth,” the Exile said.

Mirain’s lips stretched, baring teeth. It was not a smile.
“How easily you mouth the words. Truth; falsehood. What would you now? A simple
slaughter? A refinement or ten of torment?”

“Neither,” the Exile answered him. “I am neither murderer
nor torturer.”

His lip curled; she sensed it.

“Nor,” she added, “executioner. No longer. You who were a
half-mad child have become a king; you are renowned for your honor. I would
face you in fair combat. Power against power; mage against mage. Have you the
will to face me?”

Elian could say no word; could not even move. Nor was it the
sorceress who held her.

It was Mirain. Mirain sparking with something appallingly
like delight. “I have the will,” he said. “I have will and to spare. I have
fought body to body against a slave of the dark; I have waged the duel arcane
with demon-masters in the lands of the north. But never have I faced an equal
in wizardry, servant of the goddess as am I of the god. Formal combat by the
ancient laws: to the victor, my empire. To the vanquished, death.”

The Exile turned her eyes toward him, as if to search his
face. “You would set the stakes so high?”

“You have trapped me. I know that I cannot persuade you, of
all women in this world, to let me go; nor will you ever be my ally. I can work
free by painful degrees while my people wage war to win me back, or I can risk
all on a single cast of the dice.” His grin flashed, wide and white and
fearless. “I have never been noted for my prudence.”

Prince Omian jerked forward. “Treachery!” he cried. “I know
the songs. No prison can hold him. He will lull us with false bargains, go
quietly to his chamber, and walk out in the night, to bring all his armies down
upon us.”

The nameless one smiled, undismayed. “Set yourself at ease,
my lord. He knows as well as I that he cannot escape the bonds which I have
set. Only through battle may he win free; and that, have no doubt, only into
death.” She turned her voice and her face upon Mirain. “So let it be. The
battle of true power, by the laws of the masters. We meet at dawn according to
their dictates. Gird yourself well, King of Ianon.”

Elian sat on the bed in the state chamber. Its splendor
dripped with irony, as bitter a symbol as chains of gold. Even, she thought,
without the knowledge that its first master had been hanged by his own son.

Mirain was in the outer room, sharing a late meal with the
guards. Whatever his intent toward his guests, Lord Garin was not minded to
starve them. The food was plain but plentiful and, from the evident relish with
which they consumed it, not ill to the taste.

She had no appetite for it. They were all so calm, and
Mirain calmest of all, passing round the ale and laughing at a jest.

She too was calm, for the matter of that, but it was the
quiet of numbness. Her body was leaden, unwieldy, strange to itself.

She stretched out, pulling veil and fillet from her head,
letting them fall to the floor. Of their own accord her hands went to her
belly. The life there was a Brightmoon-cycle old this very night. Had she been
without power, she would have begun to wonder if indeed she had conceived.

Her fingers tensed. She wanted to rip it away, to cast off
all of it, to be her own self again: Elian, Han-Gilen’s wild lady; Galan,
esquire of the Sunborn. She wanted to cradle it, to brood over it like a great
bird, to rend any who dared to threaten it.

She lay on her face. Laughing, a strangled gasp, for when
she began to swell she would not be able to lie so; choking on tears. And
laughing again, because every tale of bearing women trumpeted their mad shifts
of mood; but she had always been as wild as a weathercock.

A light hand traced the path of her spine. She raised her
head. Mirain sat on the bed’s edge, balancing cup and bowl. “Here,” he said,
“eat.”

Her stomach heaved, then settled abruptly as she turned
about. There was meat in savory stew; warm bread dripping with honey; strong
brown ale. All at once she was hungry.

He watched her eat, smiling, approving.

She brushed crumbs from her rumpled gown and drew up her
knees, turning the heavy ale-cup in her hands. “Mirain,” she asked after a little,
“are you afraid?”

He studied his hands. The one that was like any man’s; the
one that cast a golden light in his face. “Yes,” he answered her, “I am afraid.
I’m terrified.”

“But will you do it?”

His eyes flashed up. “Do I have a choice?”

“Would it matter if you did?”

He followed the curve of her cheek with his fingertip, lightly
but carefully, as if he needed to remember it. “If I fall, my enemy wins my
empire; and I mean you to get it back again. Whatever becomes of me, our child
will rule. It must.” She opened her mouth to speak; he silenced her. “The
nameless one is very, very strong. I too have great power, but wizardry, unlike
the body’s strength, grows with age. In the duties of kingship, in the forging
of my empire, I have had little leisure for the training of my power. She has
spent long years under the tutelage of masters, to one sole end: my destruction.
I mean to defeat her, but it is very likely that I shall not.”

“If you die,” she said calmly, “I’ll die, too.”

He caught her hands in a sudden, fierce grip. The ale-cup,
empty, flew wide. “You must not! What I said to you before you made me wed you,
that if I fell the world was well rid of me—that was folly, and cruelty, too.
That woman has all darkness behind her. She will take my empire and my people,
only to rend them asunder. You must stand against her. You must do as she did:
hide, gather your forces and raise our son, and perfect your power until you
are strong enough to cast her down. Promise me, Elian. Swear that you will do
it.”

Her chin set. “Oh, no, my lord king. You can’t take the easy
road and leave me to finish what you started. Either you win tomorrow, or your
whole dynasty dies with you.”

He shook her hard. She laughed in his face. “Yes rage at me.
The wilder the better. I warned you that your death was waiting; you rode
straight for it. Vadin warned you of the trap; you threw yourself into the
heart of it. Now you have to choose. You win and save all you fought for, or
you lose it all. There are no half-wagers in this game.”

His eyes blazed. “I command you.”

“Do you?” She tossed her hair out of her eyes, lightly,
almost gaily. “We women are different, you know. Even little fools like me, who
try to forget, and play at being boys. Thrones and empires, great matters of
state, the wars of men and gods—they don’t matter. I’d gladly die for you, and
I probably will, if you’re so determined to get yourself killed. But I won’t
fight your battles for you.”

“I can fight my own damned battles!”

With a quick deft twist she freed her hands, to take his
burning face between them. “In that case,” she said, “you had better win this
one.”

His glare was sun-hot, sun-fierce. She met it steadily.

With perfect, suspicious coolness he said, “This is deliberate.
You’re provoking me, to make me fight harder.”

“I am,” she agreed. “I’m also telling the truth. Your death
is my death. If you want your heir to inherit your empire, you’ll have to live
to see the birth.”

“That is—”

“Murder and suicide, all in one. Or your salvation; and the
child’s, and mine, and your empire’s. Until,” she added after a moment, “the
next time.”

His hand flew up. She braced herself for the blow; with a
convulsive movement he struck his own thigh. “Avaryan and Uveryen, woman! Won’t
you let me get through this one first?”

She smiled. “Get through it,” she advised him. “Win it. With
luck, your army will come to stand behind you. I’ve bidden Cuthan take word to
the army. He might elude both men and magery. And I think— I almost think—our
enemy doesn’t know of Vadin. She knows only what she wishes to know. It’s part
of her madness. It may save us yet.”

Muscle by muscle, with skill he had labored long to learn,
Mirain relaxed his body. His eyes smoldered still, but his face was quiet, his
voice calm. “It may. I’m gambling on it.”

“Good,” said Elian. Her hands left his face to travel
downward, working into the hollows of his robe, finding its fastenings.

“You,” he said roughly, “have the instincts of a harlot.”

She laughed, half at his words, half at his garments, which
came apart in a most interesting fashion. He snatched at them; she twitched
them away. “I used to think I should become one. Shall I think of it again? I’ll
be a wonder; men will come from the ends of the earth for a glimpse of my face.
I’ll amass the wealth of empires, and pour it all away. All the world will fall
at my feet.”

“Not while I rule this half of it.”

Her fingers found his most sensitive places and woke the
pleasure there, while her eyes danced on his rigid face. “What will you do?
Lock me in your harem? Chain me naked to a pillar? Flog me thrice a day to keep
me docile?”

“If you touch any other man—if you even look at him—”

Her hands stilled. Her eyes narrowed. “Will you try to stop
me?”

He surged against her, bearing her down. She lay motionless
under him, laughing silently, but with a flicker of warning. He disdained to
heed it. “You are my wife. By law you are my chattel. I can keep you in any
manner I please; I can cast you away. Your very life is mine to take.”

“Would you dare?”

His eyes were very dark. Deep within, a spark leaped. “Would
you dare to test me?”

“Yes.”

He laughed suddenly, glittering-fierce. “I could do worse
than that. I could find another woman.”

“Don’t—you—dare!”

“Someone soft. Sweet. Obedient. Living only to please me.
Dark, I think, like me. And her hair—”

“I’ll kill her!”

His laughter this time was warm, rich, and direly
infectious. She fought it. She struggled; she glared.

Her lips twitched, her eyes danced, her mirth burst forth.
It swept her up, scattering her garments, twining her body with his.

On the bright edge of passion, he paused. “Would you truly
dare?”

She set her lips on his and pulled him down.

oOo

He slept as a child sleeps, deeply and peacefully, all the
knots of care and kingship smoothed away. That was part of his legend: that he
never lay tossing before a battle. Often he had to be awakened lest he be late
to the field.