by Judith Tarr
Daruya’s glance was disgusted. “Of course not. About that man.”
Vanyi opened her mouth to play the idiot again, and to ask if the child meant Esakai; but that would press her temper too far. “What did he do, try to bed you?”
“No!” Daruya snatched up a fruit, hacked it open, scooped a handful of blood-red seeds. She ate them one by one, frowning. “No, he didn’t. We danced, that was all. And I had to carry him home and help his servants put him to bed. He was drunk to insensibility.”
“Mean drunk?”
“Charming,” said Daruya. “Full of delightful nonsense. And never, even once, trying to lay his hands on anything he shouldn’t.”
“Ah,” said Vanyi. “You’re insulted.”
That won her a molten glare, but Daruya’s tone was mild. “From all you said, I thought he’d at least offer a proposal of marriage.”
“Oh, no,” Vanyi said. “That’s not how it’s done. The young man and the young woman keep company, and dance round the festival fires. The families discuss the colder aspects of the arrangement.”
Even through her wine-caused headache, Vanyi was tempted to laugh. Daruya looked suddenly horrified. “You didn’t—they didn’t—”
“As a matter of fact they did,” said Vanyi. “His mother took me back to the house—over my objections, I should add, and in spite of the fact that she was right, the children did need to get to bed. She brought out much too much of that damnable wine, and showed herself for a master negotiator. If their majesties ever send an embassy to your grandfather, I’ll wager they send the Lady Nandi. She’s as deadly as any courtier in the empire.”
“I hope,” said Daruya, thin and tight, “that you told her to take her wine and her fever-dreams and vanish.”
“I thought of it,” Vanyi admitted. “But she’s persuasive. It’s not, as she says, that her son can’t find a wife in Shurakan. Many’s the noble family that would give silk to buy him for their daughter.”
“Then I wish her well of him, whoever she is,” said Daruya.
She sounded defiant. Vanyi, studying her, began inwardly to smile.
She kept the smile from her face. “He wants you,” she said. “It’s peculiar and considerably awkward, her ladyship and I agree, but they have a belief here, a doctrine that rather reminds me of some of our own. You know how their rulers are paired, king and queen, brother and sister; and they shudder at the thought of a single child. In their philosophy, souls are twinned, too, and for each man there is another matched to him. Sometimes it’s a man—did you know they allow that here, and don’t frown on man wedded to man or woman to woman?”
“That is strange,” said Daruya, but not as if she paid much attention.
“It would explain your grandfather,” Vanyi mused, “and his Olenyas with the lion-eyes, all those years ago. And Sarevadin the empress and her Asanian prince. And—” She shook herself fiercely. “In any case, my lord Bundur is convinced that you are the other half of his soul. He insists that he felt it the moment he saw you, and he’s been adamant that he won’t consider any other woman for his wife.”
“He’s out of his mind,” said Daruya. “And if that’s his doctrine, why in the world do women take handfuls of husbands here, and men marry only once but take women to their beds as often as they need to, to get themselves their pair of children?”
“I asked that,” Vanyi said. “Nandi replied that the soul-bond is precious rare, and good sense does dictate that people marry for practicality’s sake.”
“Then let him be sensible,” Daruya said, “and marry one of those nice respectable ladies. Even if I wanted to be his wife, it would be impossible. I’m a foreigner, I’m a mage, I look like a demon’s get—and I’m the heir to an empire he’s barely even heard of. I can’t stay here and be the next matriarch of House Janabundur.”
“He knows all of that,” Vanyi said. “So does his mother. It doesn’t matter.”
“It might matter when my grandfather hears about it. He’ll be livid.”
“I should think that would be an incitement to do it,” Vanyi said dryly.
Daruya bared her teeth. “Shouldn’t it? But this time I think I’ll actually be the obedient granddaughter.” She raised her voice slightly, and the voice of her mind very much indeed. “Grandfather!”
Vanyi should have expected the young chit to do that. The ringing note of the mind-call nearly shattered her skull, but then, paradoxically, mended it. It was like being tempered in a forge.
There was no mercy in Sun-blood. But she had always known that. She felt the call reach the one it sought, felt the shifting of that powerful mind, wheeling like a dance of worlds, fixing itself on this place, this room, the two of them in it.
With an effort of will she brought him into his wonted focus. Not the great mage and emperor on his god-wrought throne; not the terrible warrior at the head of his armies. Simply Estarion, that dark man with his golden eyes, saying to his granddaughter as if they stood in the room together, “Good evening, grandchild. Is this important? If not, you have some explaining to do.”
Daruya did not even blush. “Oh, and is she angry, Grandfather?”
“Rather,” he said. In this meeting of minds he put on a garment, a robe like woven sunlight, and divided himself briefly to soothe the woman in his bed. Quite a lovely woman, and amenable enough once she had had the circumstance explained to her—she was a priestess-mage, and not so young as to be jealous of a man’s grandchild.
“She sends her regards,” he said to Daruya, “and asks if you’re still willing to put your stallion to her Suvieni mare.”
“By all means,” said Daruya with remarkable grace. “My regards to her, too, and, Grandfather, do you know that people here are trying to marry me off?”
He barely reeled with the shift; his eyes widened, and then, to Daruya’s visible outrage, he laughed. “Are they, now? And is he worth it?”
“Is any man worth it?” she shot back.
“Most people would think so,” he said mildly. He sat in a chair as if he were a solid presence in that room, and investigated the remains of breakfast. He pointed to one of the fruits in the basket, the blue-green one with the thorny rind. “What in the hells is that?”
“Fen-apple,” Vanyi answered. “It looks poisonous, doesn’t it? It doesn’t taste bad. A bit tart, is all. They slice it and dip it in honey.”
“They’re going to marry me to a man in this kingdom-in-miniature,” Daruya said sharply, “and you waste your time making faces at fen-apples?”
“I don’t call it time wasted,” he said, “if it gives me time to think. Who is this man, and why is he aspiring to your hand?”
“His name is Bundur,” said Daruya, still with a snap in her voice, “and his mother is the king’s half-sister. He thinks that our souls are mated, or some such nonsense, and he insists that he’ll have no wife but me. He also thinks I’m ugly, but because I’m interesting, it doesn’t matter.”
“How unusual,” said Estarion. He might, for the matter of that, be speaking of the fen-apple, which he was examining from all sides. He had tried to pick it up, but his ghost-presence was not solid enough for that. “Is he ugly by our reckoning?”
“He looks like a Gileni nobleman,” Daruya said. “In a word, no.”
“Ah,” said Estarion. “You have too much nose, then. And are too tall and narrow. And much too oddly colored.”
“And I have a demon’s eyes.” She shut them, drew a breath. “Grandfather, if you forbid it, he’ll leave me alone.”
“I never noticed that that made any difference to a determined lover,” he said. “Particularly if, as I’ve been told, nobody here has the least regard for our lineage or our power.”
“They do have regard for age,” she said, “and for authority in a family. Even if I pretend that I have to send to you for permission—that would take years—”
“You should have thought of it before you summoned me,” he said. “Now you’ll have to lie about
it.”
She gaped at him.
“If Vanyi approves of this man,” he said, “and if he comes of a decent family, and means you well, I can’t see that I have any objection to his marrying you. It would give Kimeri a father, for one thing. For another, it would be useful for the embassy to have one of its members married to the king’s kinsman.”
“But you’ve never even seen him,” she said with growing desperation.
“Vanyi has,” he said. “I trust her judgment.” He slanted a glance at Vanyi. “Do you like him?”
“He’ll do,” Vanyi answered. “He’s good-looking, he’s clever, and he can play politics—but he’s honest about it. And he dotes on your granddaughter. Can’t take his eyes off her.”
“He can’t believe any woman can be so hideous,” Daruya said. She looked as if she would have liked to seize her grandfather and shake him. “Grandfather! You can’t allow this.”
“Granddaughter,” he said, “you won’t take anyone in my empire. If this man will do, then take him with my blessing. It will be a very pretty scandal that you had to marry a barbarian from the other side of the world, and wouldn’t take any man, lord or commoner, in your own realm.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I won’t let you sway me with that. I don’t want to marry anybody.”
“You should,” said Estarion. He stretched, yawned. “Ah me. I’m tired. They’re trying to start a rebellion in Markad again, would you believe it? People are laughing in the rebels’ faces, and the rebels are getting progressively more rebellious. All six of them. Maybe I should marry them off to ladies in Ianon, who will keep them nicely occupied and beat them soundly when they get out of hand.”
“I think you should, at that,” said Vanyi. “Unfortunately I don’t think this man will beat our princess when she needs it. He’s too much in love with her.”
“I’d kill him, of course, if he laid a hand on her,” said Estarion, as amiable as ever. “I wish you joy of the wedding.”
He was gone before Daruya could say a word. Vanyi laughed at her expression. “Well, child. I’d say you were fairly effectively outflanked.”
“You did this,” Daruya said with sudden venom. “You colluded with him. You told him.”
“No, I didn’t,” Vanyi said. “By my honor as a mage. I never said a word to him, or asked him to help. Though I admit I was less confident than you that he’d see your side of it. He wants you well matched, and with a man who will love you as well as keep you sensible.”
“He doesn’t know the first thing about Bundur.”
“But I do,” said Vanyi. “I like him. I think you do, too.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“When it comes to wedding and bedding,” Vanyi said, “rather a great deal.” She levered herself to her feet. “I’ll leave you to think about it. But do bear in mind that this is a prince, and a power in the kingdom—and he favors our embassy. If you refuse him, you’ve insulted him terribly.”
19
Daruya thought best when she was in motion. Motion that, this time, took her to House Janabundur and halted her in front of its gate.
She had not intended to come here, still less to let the porter admit her, but once it was done, it was done. Lady Nandi was not at home, the servant told her with careful courtesy, but the master of the house could be summoned if she wished.
She did not wish. She heard herself say, “I’ll see him.”
“Lady,” the servant said, bowing her into a room she had not seen before, and leaving her there.
It was a receiving-room. She knew the look. Cushions to sit on, a low table, tea in a pot, the inevitable cakes that every house kept on hand for welcoming guests. The walls were hung with figured rugs, some of which looked very old, and all of which were as intricate as everything seemed to be in this country.
Each told a story, sometimes simple, sometimes fantastic. She liked the small purse-mouthed man with the long mustaches, engaging in combat with an extravagantly streamered and barbeled dragon-creature. It was a most peculiar combat: it ended with the man and the dragon in a cavern, drinking tea and eating cakes in delightful amity.
She was smiling when Bundur made his entrance. It took him aback, which made her laugh.
“Lady!” he cried. “You devastate me. No howl of rage at the very least? No rampant display of temper?”
“I’m saving that for a larger audience,” she said.
“Intelligent.” He poured tea, handed her a cup. She sighed and sipped from it. It was the flowery tea of ceremony, of course. He said, watching her face, “You don’t like tea.”
“I’m getting used to it.” She tilted her head toward the dragon tapestry. “What does this mean?”
“Why, whatever you want it to mean.” But before she could frown: “It’s an allegory, or so I’m told, about the folly of war. Personally I prefer the literal interpretation: that a warrior went to destroy a dragon of the heights, and they fought a mighty battle, but in the end, when neither could overcome the other, they declared a truce. Then after they had had a long and satisfying conversation, they decided that enmity was foolish, and became friends.”
“‘Know your enemy, find a friend.’” Daruya shrugged. “We have that story, too, though we don’t put a dragon in it.”
“Wisdom is the same wherever you go.” He emptied his cup and set it down. He looked well, she thought, considering the condition in which he had been put to bed. “So, then. Are you going to say yes?”
“Aren’t you being a little bit precipitous?” she asked him. “You’re supposed to circle all around it, yes? And wait for our elders to conclude the agreement.”
“No,” he said. “Not once everyone’s been told.”
“I’m not going to say yes,” she said.
He betrayed no surprise, and no sign of hurt, either. “Of course you are. You just don’t know it yet.”
“No,” she said.
“Yes,” said Bundur. “What concerns you? That I’m a prince in this kingdom, and you’re a nobody? That you’re a queen in yours, and I’m a nobody? That’s a perfect balance, I should think. Or is it that I’m older than you? Eight years is nothing—or is it nine?”
“Eight,” she said. “Closer to seven. I’m not a child.”
“Of course not. If you were, I wouldn’t be asking for you. So that’s not what troubles you. Your daughter? I balance her with my son. Each has need of a sibling. Marry me and they can be brother and sister forever after.”
“I don’t want to marry anybody,” said Daruya.
“Of course you don’t want to marry just anybody. You want to marry me.”
“You,” she said in mounting incredulity, “are the most arrogant, cocksure, headstrong, stubborn, obstinate—”
He was grinning, and wider, the longer the catalogue grew. “Surely,” he said when she ran out of names to call him. “And you love me for it. I’m exactly the man for you. Else why did you refuse all those men in your own country, which you say is so vast and has so many people? You were waiting for me.”
“Oh!” said Daruya in frustrated rage, flinging the cup at him. He caught it deftly, avoided the spray of tea that came with it, set it down with the care due its fragility.
“You see?” he said. “We match. You fling my mother’s best cup, which is a hundred years old, last work of a master. I catch it. A perfect pairing.”
“Why?” she shouted at him. “Why do you insist on this travesty?”
“No travesty,” he said, as calm as ever. “Destiny. I argued with it too, you know. I had a long discussion with several of the gods. They all told me what I knew already, which was that you were meant for me. I saw that the first time I looked on your face, there in the teahouse, and reflected that ugliness can be its own kind of beauty.”
“I am not ugly,” she gritted.
“No,” he admitted freely. “You aren’t. It was only that first time, before I learned to see you as you are, and not as something o
ut of nature. Now I think you quite beautiful. In your strange way.”
“I’m not flattered,” she said. “I’m not going to marry you.”
“Of course you are.”
He smiled. His eyes were limpid, amiable. He was no more yielding than the mountain he was named for, Shakabundur that was rooted in the deeps of the earth and clove the sky. He did not care what she said or how she said it. He was going to have her.
Why then, she wondered with a shock, did she not feel more truly trapped? She was angry, yes. Furious. She wanted to knock him down and slap the smile from his face. But she felt as she had in the festival, without even the excuse of wine and the dance. As if they were supposed to be here, face to face, bound and in opposition. She had not even the luxury of rebellion. As easily rebel against the color of her eyes, or the shape of her hand.
Her hand. She raised it. There was pain in it, but not as it had been before. The burning was muted, the throbbing dulled almost to painlessness.
The brand was still there, the Kasar with its glitter of gold in the pale honey of her skin. Its power was not gone; she felt it like the weight of the sun in her palm. But the pain that had been with her since her earliest memory, that she had been taught would never leave her, was sunk so low that it might not have been there at all.
Bundur was staring at it. Had he seen it before? She could not recall. She did not flaunt it. A man, seeing flashes of it, might think he imagined them, or she was carrying a coin in her hand, or wearing an odd fashion of ornament.
She answered him before he could ask. “Yes, you see what you think you see. I was born with it. All of my line are. It’s the god’s brand.”
“It’s splendid,” he said.
“Do your kings carry such a thing?” she asked. She meant to mock, but not entirely.
If he caught the mockery, he disregarded it. “No. Our kings and queens are known for what they are, but the god doesn’t mark them, except in the soul.”
“I carry two brands, for my two empires,” she said. “Sun in the hand, for Keruvarion, and eyes of the Lion, for Asanion, which was the Golden Empire. Our gods are given to displays, I suppose. It makes it easy to tell who’s meant to rule and who is not.”