Arrows of the Sun

by Judith Tarr

  He seemed harmless as any sleeper was. And yet this Tower was his, this light that beat in it, this mighty stillness. Estarion’s power touched the edge of his dreams and leaped back startled, stung as if with fire.

  “Yes,” said Sarevadin. “He’s angry still. It’s been a long night’s sleep for him, and memory as keen as if it were yesterday. I’d wager little on the life of anyone who woke him now.”

  “Can he be waked?”

  Estarion did not mean to ask it, but his tongue was as befuddled as the rest of him. She answered as calmly as ever. “Of course. He’d wake raging, and he’d sear you to ash in doing it, but wake he would. It’s easy enough to do. Just command the spell to break.”

  Estarion bit his tongue. “Is he . . . supposed to . . . calm down while he sleeps?”

  “After an age or two,” she said, “maybe. Mages drove him to the edge before he was brought here. I doubt there’s much left of him by now but anger. The Red Prince hoped that he’d dream his way back to sanity in this place that was built of his own best magics, and then, if there was a world left to wake to, go out to do the god’s will.”

  “So he thought he did,” said Korusan. He had drawn back from the sleeper, swaying on his feet. “Who is to teach him that the god is a lie and a dream?”

  “You can say that here?” Estarion asked him.

  “Here above all.” Korusan stopped swaying and drew himself erect. “Is this not a place for learning the truth?”

  “Such as,” said Sarevadin, “that you are sworn to destroy all that the Sun has made?”

  “My lord knows,” said Korusan. “I told him.”

  “Does he truly, cubling? Truly and surely, in his bones?”

  “I know,” Estarion said.

  They paid no heed to him, standing face to face beside the bier of the Sunborn. Estarion saw a memory, or perhaps a dream: this same two, this same battle of wills, but Sarevadin was young, as young as he, and heavy with the child who would be his grandfather’s father.

  “You are not my lord,” she said, “and yet, young lion, you are. You love as he loved. But your Sunchild can never be yours entirely. We ended that, you and I, when you lived in that other body. We made a new thing. We wrought—”

  “Failure,” said Korusan, too cold for contempt. “And now he has brought me here. Is he a fool, do you think? Or merely eager to die?”

  Estarion would not hear the flatness in those words, the hate that burned beneath them. He would remember the love that had been no lie, the despair that would lighten once he had his power again, his strength, his throne.

  He felt the rising of the power that was in this place. It was part of the sleeper, and yet apart from him. It was all that he was not: coolness in fire, stillness in rage, darkness in light.

  It flowed softly over Estarion’s rent and ruined magic. It soothed like a healer’s touch. It guided him through the intricacies of his self. It began to make him whole, as he was meant to be.

  He would have lain down beside the Sunborn and let the Tower work its healing. But Korusan stood between, and Sarevadin now old, now young, laughing in the boy’s face. “Ask yourself, cubling. Are you the fool? Are you looking to die at your lover’s hand?”

  “Together,” said Korusan. “We die together.”

  “Korusan,” said Estarion through the mist of power. “Koru-Asan. What is this talk of death? You’ll live while I live.”

  “And die when you die.” Korusan drew his swords. They glittered in the strange light, but never as bright as his eyes. “I am dead, my lord. The fire in the cold place—it lodged in me. It consumes me.”

  “You’re raving,” Estarion said. Moving here was like swimming through light. He reached, paused as blades flashed into guard. “Here, stop that. What you’re feeling is that you’re whole. You’ve never known what that is.”

  “No,” said Korusan. “I die.” He slapped the left-hand blade into its sheath, shook back the sleeve. His arm was a patchwork of bruises, wrist and elbow blackened, swollen.

  Estarion caught his breath. He reached again. This time no sword prevented him. He laid his hand on Korusan’s arm.

  Pain rocked him. So much broken, so much mended, and broken, and mended again.

  Korusan smiled, bright and bitter. Bruises had begun to shadow his face. His blood was breaking its bonds. His bones were crumbling.

  “No,” Estarion said.

  “Yes,” said Korusan. He sheathed his right-hand sword and spread his arms. “Come, my love. No need to weep.”

  Estarion’s eyes burned and stung, but not with tears. He stepped into his lover’s embrace.

  Iron hands flung him back. Sarevadin sprang on Korusan: impossible, shifting, young-old creature shouting words in no tongue Estarion knew.

  She had hurled him into a corner of the Sunborn’s bier, knocking the wind from him. He gasped and wheezed, struggling to breathe, to straighten, to stagger to his guardsman’s defense.

  Steel flashed. A knife. The hand that wielded it was black with bruises but ivory-white about them.

  “No,” said Estarion very softly. He knew the trick. Who did not? A sweet word, a proffered embrace, a dagger in the back. It was perfect Asanian.

  Not Korusan. Not his gold-and-ivory princeling, his dancer with swords. He had slept in those arms for nights out of count, stood naked within reach of Olenyai steel, offered his life to it again and yet again. And Korusan had never harmed him.

  They battled like brawlers in a tavern, black robes, dun leathers, long-limbed alike, wily-vicious alike, wielding teeth and nails when steel had failed. Estarion, though still gasping, found that he could move. He waded in.

  They turned on him. But he had fought such battles before Asanion made an emperor of him; memory was swift and clear, here in his own Tower, in his own city, in this half of the empire that was truly his.

  The one who was armed was more immediately dangerous. The one who was not seemed confused that he eluded and would not strike her. He kept the corner of his eye on her, closing in on Korusan.

  Korusan’s eyes did not know Estarion at all. Maybe they were blind. His face was patched blue-black and ivory. His breath rattled as he drew it in. He coughed. Estarion tasted blood on his own tongue.

  His power was slipping its bonds again—even here, where no Sunlord’s power should be aught but mastered.

  Korusan slashed. His hand was clawed with steel. Estarion darted in past it. Too slow, too slow. Burning pain seared his arm.

  The second thrust aimed for the heart. Estarion reeled back. “Korusan. Korusan!”

  No use. There was death in those eyes.

  Sarevadin sprang again between them. She was as mad as the Asanian, and as murderous.

  She at least was unarmed. He clamped arms about her and held grimly.

  She was strong, but not strong enough. She was a shield against the Olenyas: he hesitated, lowering his blade a fraction, seeming to come a little to himself.

  “Put me down,” said Sarevadin. She was breathing hard, but she sounded like herself again.

  Estarion did not loosen his grip. “Give me your word you won’t kill him.”

  “Only if he swears he won’t kill you.”

  “That’s between the two of us,” Estarion said.

  “Not with you it isn’t. You’ve an empire waiting for you. Or have you forgotten?”

  “Would to the gods I could.”

  She twisted in his arms. For a woman so ancient she was wonderfully supple.

  She slid down a handspan. He shifted his grip. She drove an elbow backward into his belly and tumbled free.

  She did nothing at first but stand just out of his reach. While they struggled, Korusan had drawn back to the Sunborn’s bier. He stood over it, knife in hand still, held loose at his side. He seemed rapt in contemplation of the sleeper’s face.

  As they watched, Estarion working pain out of his middle, Sarevadin immobile and seemingly empty of will, Korusan touched the still brow.
r />   Estarion gasped. But the spell did not break. The sleeper did not wake. His dreams quivered with anger, but so had they done since his haven was invaded.

  This Estarion would become, if he did not master his power. He traced in pain the line of the wound in his arm. The Tower had driven Korusan out of his wits. It was no more than that, but no less. And Estarion had brought him here. Estarion bore the guilt of it.

  Korusan bent. His whisper was clear in the stillness. “How like my beloved you are, and how unlike. He is a soft thing, for all his strength. You . . .” He laughed, low and surprisingly deep. “You are steel in the forge. Would you rule again, great king and liar? Would you conquer all that is?”

  “He’ll kill you,” Sarevadin said.

  Korusan set a kiss on the Sunborn’s lips, mocking yet also, in its strange way, reverent. “May every man be given such a death. And maybe,” he said, “I would draw blood before I died.”

  “Maybe not,” she said. “Try it and see.”

  Estarion was beginning to understand.

  She was farther away, and seemed for the moment disinclined to move. Korusan had laid his hand on the Sunborn’s heart. Was it beating stronger? The air had a strange taste, like the moment before thunder. The light had dimmed by a fraction.

  “Yes,” said Korusan. “A son of the Lion stands in your own stronghold. He would set you free, that all may fall. All of it, O bandit king. Sun, dark, Keruvarion, Asanion, lion and black eagle—all that is. And look!” he said. “There is a stranger on your throne. He bears the Lion’s eyes. He was born of the night’s priestess. All that he is, you fought to avert. They have betrayed you, your son and your son’s sons.”

  There was a singing in the air, faint and eerily clear, like shaken crystal.

  Estarion’s bones were glass. One stroke and they would shatter.

  Was this what it was to be Korusan? This exquisite pain, this perfect despair? To know that he would never be more than he was now; that before he could be fully a man, he would die.

  “I am the last,” said Korusan. “No son can be born of my seed. When I am dead, the Lion is gone, and you are victorious.

  “And yet,” he said, “I too shall have my triumph. I take with me the son of your sons. When the Lion falls, so shall the Sun.”

  But, thought Estarion, it would not. Haliya in Pri’nai, walled in guards, made sure of that.

  He almost said it, almost betrayed the one secret that Korusan must not know. Not now. Not until he was sane again. For if he knew—if he found a Gate—

  One could love what one most feared. One could even love what one hated. He had learned that in Asanion.

  He moved softly. He knew better than to hope that he could take an Olenyas by surprise. But that he might come close while that Olenyas was absorbed in rousing what must not be roused—that, he could pray for.

  His power strove to rage out of its bounds. Only the Tower constrained it now. He was as vast as the crag, his body a tiny brittle thing, creeping over the shimmering door toward the man on the bier and the shadow above him. He willed himself down into the feeble flesh, his sight narrowing to the compass of his eyes, his awareness focusing on this one, deadly moment.

  Steel came to his hand. Olenyai dagger. He nearly cast it off in revulsion, but his fingers clenched, holding fast. He thrust it into his belt beside his own sheathed blade.

  The sound did not bring Korusan about. He had spread his hands over the sleeper, tracing the shape of the body.

  “He knows,” Sarevadin said, the shadow of a whisper. “They taught him well.”

  She had not moved, nor would she. She would let it happen. She would watch, and when the time came she would die; and she would have the rest that had eluded her so long.

  Estarion did not want rest. He wanted—he did not know what. But not this.

  He gathered himself and sprang.

  Korusan wheeled. Estarion fell on him. He twisted.

  In the last possible instant, Estarion saw what he did. No need of spells or chanting if they fell full on the body of the Sunborn, and Estarion bleeding power in a spray of molten gold.

  Estarion wrenched, heaved. They crashed to a floor that seemed harder than stone, smoother than glass.

  Light pulsed in it. Korusan lay still. Stunned? Dead?

  Estarion shifted atop him. He surged, hands clawed, springing for the throat.

  Estarion caught them. Pause, again. Blood rimmed the golden eyes. A bruise spread across the curve of the cheekbone, swollen, nigh as dark as Estarion’s own hand.

  “Korusan,” Estarion said. His voice caught, for all that he could do. “Yelloweyes. It’s I. Wake; see. I’ve healing for you.”

  “You do not.” Korusan arched his back. The pain tore at Estarion’s bones. “Let me die,” Korusan said.

  Estarion’s eyes blurred. He was not seeing with them, not truly, nor feeling with the heart that beat in his body.

  No.

  “If you do not kill me,” Korusan said, “I will wake him.”

  Estarion tossed his head from side to side. It ached, ah, it ached. He was breaking, mind, heart, power, all at once. “Wake yourself. You’re dreaming, youngling. Wake and let me heal you.”

  “Will you let me kill you?”

  “Would it comfort you?”

  “No,” Korusan said. He twisted, thrust sidewise, broke free. He had drawn his swords. One flew gleaming from his hand. Estarion caught it unthinking. It was the longer, the right-hand sword.

  He dropped it at his feet. “Come here, Yelloweyes.”

  Korusan lunged.

  Estarion did not believe it, even seeing it, even knowing the track of that blade. Even with the sting of the older wound, even in the face of all that he had seen, heard, suffered, he could not believe that this of all men intended his death.

  Straight to the heart. No pause. No wavering. And worst and most terrible, no regret.

  Unarmed, unable to move, Estarion looked into the face of his death.

  And knew himself a coward. He dropped. The sword flashed over his head. He surged up. His hands locked about Korusan’s throat. “Yield,” he pleaded. “My dear love, give it up.”

  The sword shortened, stabbing. It slid on the toughened leather of Estarion’s coat. He pressed his thumbs against Korusan’s windpipe.

  “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t make me do this.”

  The golden eyes neither wavered nor fell. Korusan was smiling. He let go the sword. It clattered to the floor. His hands fell to his sides. Estarion began to ease his grip.

  A claw raked his side. He gasped.

  Korusan’s smile was wide and sweet and quite empty of reason. He struck again with the dagger that had been hidden in his sleeve. His lips shaped words. Hate you, he said. Love—

  Blood trickled down Estarion’s ribs. If there was poison on that blade . . .

  He was sobbing.

  For breath. Of course. His cheeks were wet. With sweat: naught else.

  “Stop it,” he whispered. “Oh, my love, stop it.”

  Korusan slashed, caught Estarion’s cheek so swift there was no pain at all, stabbed downward. Die with me. Beloved, die— with—

  Estarion’s fingers flexed on the boy’s throat. He could not, oh, merciless goddess, he could not.

  Korusan thrashed. One hand dropped. Estarion felt—could not see, had no need to see—the narrow deadly blade like a needle, angled to pierce his heart.

  And it would. So much Korusan loved, so much he hated, that he would die, and take his lover with him.

  “No,” Estarion wept.

  They were body to body as they had been so often, locked like the lovers they had been, would always be.

  Korusan tensed against Estarion. His smile widened. His blade thrust again for the heart.

  Estarion’s body chose for him. It twisted, arched, took the needle in the meat of the breast—pain no greater than any that had come before, and no less. His thumbs thrust inward with terrible ease. And snapped t
he boy’s neck.

  51

  Vanyi stood alone in the Heart of the World. She was thirsty. That was so small a thing, and so absurd, that she laughed, a bark in her dry throat.

  The Gate that Estarion had made had closed when he passed it. The Heartfire burned like simple fire, with even the illusion of wood beneath it. The worldwalls had returned to their slow cycling, shifting now one, now another, in a stately dance.

  She could walk through any or all of them and find herself anywhere. She was tempted. To forget duty, honor, pain, priesthood, to become nothing and no one in a world empty of humanity . . . there was a dream for a black night.

  She should have been prostrate with exhaustion from the raising of the Gate and the running of the worldroad. In any other place perhaps she might have been. Here, where all power had its center, she felt as she might in the midst of a long day’s working, with much completed, but much still to do.

  The way to the Tower was shut but not barred. It should have been locked against any but Sun-blood. Had the Olenyas done that? Or had Estarion left it so, to let her through?

  Idiot. She called in her power to secure the Gate. It flooded her, nearly drowned her. She gasped and struggled.

  It slowed. She shut herself off from it, willing her heart to stop pounding, her hands to stop trembling. Everything was stronger here, with the Heartfire to feed it. Even a mage sure to arrogance of her own mastery could be taken by surprise.

  She opened a sliver of gate to let the power trickle in. With it came awareness, and widening of senses that had focused on herself and her troubles.

  Watchers. Not the wolves of the worldroad that had proved themselves loyal to the Sunchild. These were wolves of another sort, two-legged, skilled in magery. They were eager, like wolves on the hunt; hungry, yearning toward sweetness. What that sweetness was . . .

  They were swift to shield, but not swift enough. Sealed behind her own strong walls, she studied what she had brought in with her, snatched swift and secret from the mages who watched: a web of greed woven with malice and old ranklings, and in it surety. The emperor had taken the Olenyas with him into the Tower. Through that one they would enter, slay the Sunlord, gain mastery over the one who slept.