by Tanith Lee
“You’re contravening every conjugal law and tradition of Dorthar,” she eventually said.
“Perhaps.”
“Is it,” she said, “that you cleave only to your fair women, the Queens of Shansar and—”
“I cleave to no women.” He almost smiled. He added, “And no men.”
Without warning she shuddered. She felt herself to have moved beyond her depth, and yet something prompted her to go further.
“You’ll think me impertinent, my lord,” she said, “if I ask you why.”
“You’ve every right to ask. Since all I shall offer you for these hours alone will be conversation, I can at least be honest with you.” He paused. He said, “There is a custom of the lands over the ocean, limited usually to priests, a giving of oneself to the goddess. It entails chastity, and chastity of the emotions. One does not make love, one does not love—anything—save the goddess and the earth which is Her expression. This offering was also demanded of me. I don’t mean that I was asked or instructed to do it. I mean that I knew in myself I belonged to this persuasion. In Vathcri, such men are called Sons of Ashkar. They are considered holy, and can sometimes work sorcery.
“Conversely, the moment I could reason, I grasped I was to leave my homeland and become High King here in the north. I was taught the responsibilities of kingship. To continue the dynasty my father founded was a necessary part of these. But it makes no difference. The voice within is always stronger than any cry without. One has only to listen. Raldnor’s line ends in me.”
“You could,” she said, “never bring yourself—”
“I’ve felt desire,” he said. “At Zastis, I was often tormented by desire. That’s past. I have mastered it, now.”
She could not contain her astonishment.
“This is some riddle, my lord.”
“No. The Vis have no organized cult of celibacy as a source of Power. The Lowland people, the Amanackire, have always had it. To some extent, my people also. To repress the sexual energies of the flesh is not some horrid fruitless penance, such as a Vis priest might set a wrong-doer. Libido is a power that may be transmuted, stored, used as another power. The Amanackire have long been famed for secret carnal temple love. Time out of mind they knew how to structure the act of sex and wield the pleasure-spasm as a lightning bolt of magic energy. Contained and channeled, such energy is equally valuable. Is it so curious that the mechanisms employed in generating life itself are also capable of generating an alternate force of creation?”
The nakedness of his speech, coupled to his impassivity, disturbed her. She said nothing else on the subject and he, surprising her again with his social abilities, guided them into a discussion of Xarabiss. During the two hours he spent with her, he also mentioned the true purpose of their journey to Kuma. She had known there must be something.
When he left she was numbed, but as the numbness wore away Ulis Anet was repelled to find herself aroused and tingling, as if at Zastis. The very sexual power he had described seemed conjured in the tent, a hungering cheated elemental.
• • •
Kuma too had been sacked in the War. Smudges of old conflagrations were bandaged by flowers and streamers. The town was almost as much amazed to see royalty bursting in upon it as Anackyra had been amazed to see her Storm Lord riding out. On the second day, a hunt was arranged in the eastern hills. The guardian protested, distraught. Last year there had been something of a drought in the region. Game was scarce. But the Storm Lord proved adamant in his fancy that game abounded and in his wish to pursue it. A third of the wagons went off with the hunting party, the royal pavilions, even the Queen, with a scatter of her Xarabian guard, and various ladies. If Kuma guessed itself a base for other more important adventures, the guardian remained unenlightened.
High on the heat-burned uplands, the imperial party was split again. Leaving the tents to blossom like flowers beside a shallow river, the King, his bastard brother, and some twenty-five guard, rode full tilt away up the slopes, the racing chariots roaring through the dust. For such ardent hunters, their tactics seemed rather poor.
• • •
From the peak of a brown hill it was possible to look out toward the sea, miles off, the great glitterings of a sleeping snake, under a sky of cobalt. It was also possible to look down into the valley below, and behold another hunting party. There was one dark tent, men and zeebas straying about.
The King gestured, and the banner of Anackyra was unfurled.
The second party answered promptly with their own device. It was not the Lily of Karmiss. Over the black cloth poured a scarlet lizard-beast.
Rarmon who had been Rem felt muscles clasp together all along his spine. He turned a little to Raldanash, but the tent flap was just then pulled aside. A figure came out and stood in the valley looking up at them. It was Kesarh.
The chariots sluiced forward.
“My lord,” Rarmon said decidedly, “this isn’t some counselor. It’s their King.”
“You recognize him?” Raldanash seemed unmoved. “I had a suspicion. He fought with his fleet, apparently, dressed as a common soldier. He likes the heart of things.”
They were over the brink, the vehicles lightly bowling into the valley.
Had Raldanash done more than suspect? Conceivably, he had known.
Rarmon, with no way out, geared his mind grimly to the confrontation.
Twenty yards off, the chariots pulled up. The white banner-bearer advanced, planted his standard and called out:
“Sir, you are in the presence of Raldanash, son of Raldnor son of Rehdon, Storm Lord of Dorthar, Dragon King of all Vis.”
There was no show from the other side. Kesarh walked forward, and rendered the Storm Lord that grave slight inclination of the head which one king owed another.
Eight years had added to the physical power natural to the man Rarmon remembered, and taken nothing of the style away. His build, like Rarmon’s own, remained a fighter’s, the body had stayed slim and lithe, and tough as iron. Between the right cheekbone and the eye there was a little scar, hardly the length of a child’s Fingernail. No other marks were displayed. The eight years had done something to the eyes themselves, to be sure. They seemed more deeply set, blacker, their gaze less penetrable, though the strength in them was flagrant now, and the evaluating watchfulness. Every last scrap of youthful formlessness seemed gone. Kesarh had become only himself.
He wore black, as ever, and unblazoned. Black-haired in the black he faced white-haired Raldanash in his pale leathers. That was almost theater again. They were two pieces of a board game.
Raldanash dismounted from his chariot.
“I hope Karmiss is well-governed in your absence.”
“I see I’m identified,” said Kesarh.
“My brother,” said Raldanash, “recalls you.”
Rarmon, too, had left his chariot. He began to approach them. It seemed one of the game-pieces was using Rarmon himself as a game-piece. Kesarh’s eyes were moving by the Storm Lord, finding Rarmon, fixing on him. Yes, the eyes were truly Kesarh. They could drive you to your knees. Rarmon walked nearer. Kesarh had recognized him now. Rarmon knew there would be no change of expression. As he came up by Raldanash, Kesarh said, with only the merest inflection, “Your brother, my lord?”
Raldanash did not reply, leaving the blade for Rarmon to pick up. Rarmon said, trying to keep from his tone the clichés either of explanation or insult, “Raldnor Am Anackire’s bastard, by his Karmian mistress.”
Kesarh went on looking at him. At Rarmon who had been Rem, who had merited ten lashes from a whip called Biter, who had milked snake poison at Tjis, who had ridden back with the rags of Val Nardia’s death too tardy to be of service, who had taken Kesarh’s daughter aboard Dhol’s ship. And who had not returned.
The black eyes said all this to him. They told him they had forgotten nothing.
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Then the smile came, the brisk charm now and then awarded a servant.
“Yes,” Kesarh said, “I thought Karmiss was in it somewhere.” And to Raldanash, “Shall we go into the tent and talk business, my lord?”
• • •
The front of the tent had been looped aside, and afternoon light fell in on them. Thirty paces off, the guards, white and black, maintained their stations.
Kesarh had brought one aide to the table, and a clerk to take notes. Raldanash’s two men sat or stood beside their lord. Rarmon was left to sit farther up, his role as observer unspokenly stressed.
The wine was Karmian. Rarmon noticed the grapes had improved.
For an hour the discussion maundered. The victory of Kesarh’s ships was examined and approved, even the massacre of Ankabek touched on—“An impious cowardly act. The goddess will be paid in blood,” Kesarh remarked. He did not bother to glance at Rarmon anymore, who knew very well, and had probably detailed to others, the depths of Kesarh’s love of Anackire.
The Storm Lord in turn allowed his aides to name predations of Free Zakoris on Dorthar’s coasts. A system of northern and eastern coastal defenses, out of use since the War, had been re-established. There was no startling revelation in that.
Old Zakoris, for twenty-nine years under Vardish rule, was tossed on the table and regarded. It had of course no bargaining worth at all. Vathcri and Vardath were in firm alliance, and the Vardian claims, staked undeniably in battle, siege and surrender, could not be quashed. Yl Am Zakoris, in any case, was now beyond the appeasement of a returned diadem. All symptoms indicated it was the entire continent he lusted after, when he should be mighty enough to snap at it.
The second hour commenced.
Raldanash’s seated aide, taking a cue from Raldanash, desired of the air how many ships were left to Free Zakoris after the disastrous rout.
“Reports indicate ten ships escaped us,” said the Istrian aide. “These were the devils who destroyed Ankabek. Since the sacred island had been given military defense by King Kesarh, there could have been no less than ten in the offensive.”
Raldanash’s aide said ingenuously, “I’d heard Ankabek had no military defense. Having refused it on religious grounds,” he appended sweetly.
“You’re misinformed. A detachment of soldiery guarded the island, and a naval garrison was situated on a high vantage point of the Karmian mainland, looking across the straits and ready to put out should the goddess’ beacons be lit.”
Kesarh’s resonant voice cut effortlessly through this small under-play.
“Yl did not, besides, spend all his ships in the sea-fight. A quantity were left at Zakoris-In-Thaddra. The Thaddrian forests are prolific. They don’t lack for timber.”
“We’ve picked up word from Thaddrian sources of a second fleet of one hundred vessels,” said Raldanash’s aide.
Kesarh said, “My own sources indicate Yl has two fleets now stashed in deep-water bays along the northwestern shore. One hundred ships is certainly the tally of the smaller of these fleets.”
This was news. Raldanash’s aide scowled, and looked at the Storm Lord.
“Your sources are impeccable,” said Raldanash.
“No source is ever that.”
“What tidings do your sources give you,” said Raldanash, “of the Southern Road?”
Kesarh smiled, and poured wine for the Storm Lord and for himself, flustering the mobile Dortharian aide, who should have seen to it.
“You refer to Yl’s fabled highway being hacked through the jungle toward Vardian Zakoris?”
“And therefore toward the western limits of Dorthar.”
“Ah, yes. Yl uses it as a punishment for malefactors. The jungle resists every inch of the way. In ten years, only ten miles of road were secured. Even then, to keep it open, the slave gangs work day and night, or the forest would swallow it again.”
“Outposts of Vardian Zakoris have sighted smoke and burning forest,” said Raldanash’s aide. He waited to be stopped, was not, continued: “They look for rainy weather, and then fire the trees. The rain prevents it from spreading. But it clears the ground remarkably well.”
Kesarh’s face was blank. Looking at him, Rarmon read the blankness: Prior knowledge, obviously.
Kesarh said, “Your highness understands that Karmiss, one of your nearer neighbors and your devoted vassal, would move instantly to take Dorthar’s part.”
“Dorthar thanks you,” said Raldanash.
“And with Karmiss,” Kesarh said gently, “you may anticipate the support of Lan and Elyr.”
There was a lapse. Raldanash’s aide looked to his lord, then said, rather too loudly, “Lan keeps no army. Elyr is a wilderness.”
“There are, however,” said Kesarh, “young men in Lan and Elyr both able and eager to assume arms. A war-force will be levied.”
“The Lannic King has informed you of this?” said Raldanash.
“The Lannic King has accepted my brotherly advice,” said Kesarh. The stillness in the tent seemed to press hard against its walls of owar hide, even against the open wall of air. Kesarh drank from his cup, then nodded to the Istrian aide.
“The Lannic King,” said the Istrian, “feared incursion from Free Zakoris, and begged succor. Fifty-four days after the route of the Zakorian ships, my Lord Kesarh sent such generous help as he might spare.”
The lapse came again.
Suddenly Raldanash’s seated aide sprang to his feet. He was a mix, darker than his fellow, a good three quarters Dortharian. He glared straight at Kesarh and said hoarsely, “Storm Lord—he’s saying Karmiss has occupied Lan.”
“Sit down,” said Raldanash. He had not changed.
The aide sat. His hands were shaking.
Kesarh offered Raldanash the wine flagon. Raldanash moved his cup aside. He said, “Lord Kesarh, whatever you are saying, we would like it more plainly.”
Kesarh’s profile, as Rarmon studied it, was faultlessly composed. He might have been some merchant-prince debating trade.
“Very well, Storm Lord. I am, patently, your servant.” They all hung in the silence, and he let them hang. He said, “I was asked by Lan, who irrationally possesses no means to defend herself, to provide that defense. My ships now patrol her coastline to protect her from attack by sea. I have deployed men inland in case the naval cordon should founder.”
“How many men, my lord?”
Kesarh smiled at last.
“Enough.”
“Then Lan is invaded,” said Raldanash.
“No, Storm Lord. I was invited to enter. I intend that Lan herself will now form her own army. When she’s secure, Karmiss can withdraw her strengthening arm.”
Nobody laughed.
“It was done,” Kesarh went on, “without subterfuge. Karmian maneuvers might at any time have been observed. Possibly the defensive naval patrols which were inaugurated, following the horror at Ankabek, confused any watchers there were. The onset of the mercy mission to Lan may have been misconstrued as only more of these. Deception is not, however, my aim. Even before rumor reached you, my lord, I’ve rendered the story in person.”
• • •
“Well?” Raldanash said.
Rarmon demurred. “It turns out you hardly need my judgment.”
Chariots moved across the slope. The sun had grown heavier and swung low.
“No, I don’t need your judgment. But perhaps I should be interested.”
“He’s played the game so long, it’s in his blood—acquisition, conquest. He wanted Karmiss and got it. Now he wants more. He enjoys the getting. And he’s good at it.” Rarmon had never spoken so freely of his former master. He had no basic loyalty to Raldanash, and questioned himself, to see it there might still remain some tug toward Raldanash.
“What is it that he wants?” said Raldanash.
“The world, one mouthful at a time. But that’s the future. For now he’s dangerous because he has two roads to choose from.”
“Dorthar and, the Middle Lands,” said Raldanash. “Or Zakoris.”
“Yes, my lord. Exactly. He can ally with you, or send offers to Yl. He has the weight now to tip the balance. Dorthar caught between Free Zakoris and a Karmian Lan could grow uncomfortable. He’s shown you his hand. He concluded you’ll have scanned it correctly and will make a bid for him.”
“Yes.”
“Your advantage is that Zakoris has, at the moment, little to tempt him with.”
“Yl has a new counselor in Thaddra, a manipulator and strategist. They may find something to offer Kesarh. Aside of course from the ultimate partnering force whereby to take the world.”
“Yes, they can always offer that.”
“You reckon him so hungry?”
Rarmon said, “He was hungry all his youth. Suthamun threw him crusts and bones as if to a dog. It’s a disease now, the hunger. It’ll take a world to stop it.”
“You speak of him with great sureness,” said Raldanash. “As I supposed.”
“You knew he’d be here today, and not some minor prince.”
“It had occurred to me.”
“No, my lord,” Rarmon said. “You knew.”
The King’s charioteer shook the reins, and Raldanash’s chariot moved to join a black vehicle which stood against the stormy sun.
There were more of Kesarh’s men about than formerly. They must have been off on the farther hills. Even so, to stay here, negligent and at ease—that was an ominous display. They would not dare lay a finger on the Lord Kesarh, not even poison him at the sumptuous bucolic supper to which he had been invited, regal friend of Dorthar that he was. The very carelessness of his demeanor told them that his plans were properly shored up beyond any haphazard villainy one evening could see to.
The thunder began as they rode over the first hilltop.
It was not until the storm broke and the rain lashed down that Rarmon’s thoughts flung before him one extra facet. He wondered then as the chariot tore through sheets of water, if he should somehow warn Raldanash. There was, he noted, even a fleeting impulse to inform Kesarh.