by Judith Tarr
“Of course you are exiled, my lord,” Seti-re said. “How else would a god suffer himself to live among mortals?”
“A wastrel god,” Daros said. “A useless prince.”
“Not in this world,” Seti-re said.
Since that was true, and since Daros had made much of it to Estarion, he shut his mouth with a click.
For a man who had no humor, Seti-re had a surprising store of wry wit. “You see, my lord?” he said. “There is no escaping the truth: that you are a god, and worthy to be worshipped.”
The king of Gebtu was a man of middle years, as Daros had expected. He still kept his head shaved in priestly fashion, but covered it with a wig of numerous plaits, and cultivated an odd small beard on the tip of his chin. His court was extravagant, numerous and visibly rich; Daros the setter of fashion easily recognized his like in these languid nobles.
They were not so languid now, for all their pretense. A god among them was a potent threat to their cult of ennui. They found Daros profoundly satisfying, a truly godlike god. He assisted them by drawing sunlight to him, wrapping it about him like a mantle. They blinked, dazzled, and the less bold dropped to their faces.
The king held his ground, only narrowing his eyes against the figure of living light that was his guest. When Daros halted, Seti-re advanced a few steps more and bowed before the king, and said, “My lord of Gebtu, I bring you the son of the Sun, the god Re-Horus.”
Indaros, Daros thought, but he held his tongue. People did odd things here to plain Varyani names. Re-Horus he would be, then, as Estarion was Seramon.
He suffered the king’s scrutiny as he did everyone else’s, standing straight and offering no expression to be judged or found wanting. When he had had enough of it, he let fall his cloak of sunlight. He did not speak. That was for the king to do.
The king seemed inclined to sit still until Daros’ image was graven on his brain—or, as they would have said in Waset, on his liver. Daros shifted slightly, easing his stance. At that, the king blinked and came to himself. “I welcome you to Gebtu, my lord Re-Horus,” he said.
Daros inclined his head slightly. “Lord Kamos,” he said. “I thank you for your hospitality.”
“My lord,” said the king, “if a temple would be more to your liking, or the service of priests—”
“No,” said Daros. “No, my lord king. I’m well content.”
That pleased the king: he lightened visibly. “That is well,” he said. “And my sister queen in Waset—she is well?”
“Very well,” Daros said.
“It is true, then? She has taken a consort?”
Kamos knew it was true, but he was not speaking for himself. For the ears of the court, Daros answered, “She has taken my lord to her heart, my master to whom I am sworn, a great lord and king beyond the horizon.”
A long sigh ran down the hall. Fear sparked in it. The gods had come to Waset. Now one of them stood in their hall, looming over the tallest man in Gebtu, with face of bronze and hair as bright as fire.
Daros softened his voice almost to a croon, and set a little magery in it, too, to soothe their fears. “We came for all this world, not only for Waset—to lead your people against the darkness, and destroy it if we can. The enemy fears you, my lords; fears what you can do when joined in alliance. I have come to ask if you will turn that fear to living truth. Will you ally with us? Will you join against the enemy?”
“The enemy is gone,” the king said.
“For a while,” said Daros, “but he will come back.”
“You are sure of this?”
“I am sure,” Daros said. “This is a gift of greater gods than we, this breathing space. I don’t doubt you’ve heard that I’ve gathered an army in Waset—or that you’ve wondered whether that army is meant to invade Waset’s neighbors. I swear to you, it is not. I’ve gathered it against the common enemy of us all; and I come now to ask if you will join your army to it, and be willing to make alliance with others of your neighbor kings.”
“There are no alliances,” Kamos said. “There have not been since my father’s day. Alliances break; kings fall apart from one another. Only one’s own kin and kind may be trusted.”
“So the enemy has taught you,” Daros said. “He separated you, kingdom by kingdom, the more easily to conquer you. If you gather together, if you unite yourselves, you may have strength to oppose him.”
“How can one oppose the dark itself?”
“With light,” said Daros.
“Firelight? Torchlight?”
“Sunlight,” Daros said, “and strength of will.”
“The sun cannot shine at night,” said Kamos.
“No,” said Daros, “but the light of the gods can—the light of magic.”
“We do not have that power,” Kamos said.
“If I give it to you,” said Daros, “will you swear alliance with Waset, and help me unite your neighbors to the north?”
“With Waset,” Kamos said slowly, “we were friends and kin once, when that was possible. We might be so again. But to unite the rest … my lord, your power is great, but can you truly hope to bring together all the kingdoms of the river?”
“I can try,” said Daros. “With your help, I might succeed.”
“Will you make me a god?”
Daros found that his mouth was open. He shut it.
“Gods stand beside the throne of Waset,” Kamos said. “How much stronger would Gebtu be if its king was a very god. Can you do that, my lord?”
“That is not within my power,” said Daros. “I can give you the light. You have the capacity for that.” And that was true. This man was as much a mage as any in this world. It was the feeblest of powers, but enough, just, for the simplest of all arts, the summoning of light.
A thought was waking in Daros’ heart. He could not speak of it, not yet; it was not clear enough for words. But soon. He chose silence now, waiting on the king’s response.
Kamos answered him after a long and reflective pause. “I will consider what you have said, my lord. Will you rest a while with us?”
“I will remain for three days,” Daros said, “before my duty bids me go.”
“That will have to be enough,” said Kamos, not willingly; he was a king, and kings were not accustomed to observing any strictures but their own. But a god stood higher in rank than a king.
The king withdrew to ponder his choices. Daros, after three days on a boat, was restless; he refused to be kept mewed in his rooms, however richly ornamented they might be.
The guards at the gate tried to keep him in. They were terrified of their captain and in great fear of the king, but Daros’ presumed divinity won him passage. He hardly even needed to fling the gate open with a gust of mage-wind.
He was not alone on his ramble through the city. A man had followed him from the palace: not a tall man but sturdy and strong for one of these light-boned people. He was young, younger than Daros; boys grew to manhood early here.
Daros did not confront him, not yet. He was a comfortable enough presence, silent and observant, as a guard should be. He left Daros free to think his own thoughts as he walked those streets, broad and clean close by the palace, but narrow and reeking as he moved outward toward the walls. It was as if, whatever the king could see, he kept in excellent order, but once it was out of sight, it vanished from his awareness.
Kamos was not a weak king. As kings went in this world, he ruled well. But Daros had hoped for better. His fault and his folly: he was his father’s son in spite of everything, and had seen the rule of Sun and Lion in the great cities of another empire, on the other side of the sky.
Daros had not come here to teach a king how to rule. Nor was there time if he had intended such a thing. But the temptation to do something, say something, was overwhelming.
There was a thing he could do. He did not know that it had been done before, but the part of him that knew his magic was sure that it was possible. He would have preferred another place, an
d another king—or better yet a queen—but maybe, once the gift was given, this king would wake to the failings of his rule.
Or maybe he would close his eyes to them altogether and become a tyrant.
Daros must hope, and trust in his magic, which had led him here. He walked the circle of the walls, then back through squalor to wide avenues and noble houses. He was aware on the edge of his mind that people followed him, stared at him, tried to touch him—but his companion held them off with a hard eye and a raised spear.
He halted by a cistern, one of many in the city. Its lid was off, and jars abandoned by it: the women who had come to draw water had fled at the sight of him. He was sorry for that, but he did not think it would be wise to call them back.
He sat on the rim. The water was not far below; it shimmered darkly, reflecting the sky. It made him think of darkmages, how soft and deep their power could be.
He was not a darkmage. He was not sure that he was a lightmage, either. He seemed to partake of both. Or maybe he was something different.
The sun, even so close to the horizon, fed him its strength. The water, born of the river that was the lifeblood of this land, made him stronger. Even the stones and the beaten earth had become part of him, though this was never the world to which he was born.
He looked up from the water. The young man from the palace was watching him steadily, wary but not afraid. There was a brightness in him, a spark even stronger than that in the king. “You’re the king’s son,” Daros said, for it was clear to see. “What is your name?”
“Menkare,” the prince said, “my lord.”
“Did your father bid you watch me?” Daros asked, though he could have had the answer for the looking.
“No, my lord,” said Menkare. “You’re full of light. Even after your spell ended in the hall, it stayed, under your skin. Is that because you are a god?”
“It’s because I am a mage,” Daros said. “Come here.”
The boy came, light on his feet, alert, but obedient to the god’s will. When Daros took his hand, he barely stiffened. He had a bright clean spirit, and a mind that thought in lines like shafts of sunlight in a dark hall. He was little like his father, except in the magnitude of his gift.
Daros was not devout, but he knew the gods existed—and not only mages who were thought to be gods. Looking at this son of the king, he knew why he had come here, and what he had been brought to do. He opened the gate of his magic and let it flow through their joined hands, into the brightness at the heart of this prince. It was headlong, eager; it took the full force of his will to keep it flowing slowly, lest it burn away the boy’s mind.
Menkare’s eyes were wide. “What—my lord—”
“The gods’ gift,” Daros said. “I give it to you.”
“But—”
“There are greater gods than I,” said Daros, “and this is their will. They ask that you not speak of it until they give you leave. Can you do that?”
“Yes, my lord,” Menkare said. “But—”
“Come,” said Daros.
Menkare followed slowly, stumbling a little. He was full of light, brimming with it. It streamed through his veins and flooded his brain, his heart, his lungs and liver.
He could not wield it yet. Daros had not given him that. He must grow into it, become accustomed to it. But when the shadow came back, if the gods were kind, there would be a new mage in this world.
Daros had been walking perfectly steadily and thinking perfectly clearly. He was astonished to find himself on his back and Menkare standing over him, and the gate-guards lifting him. He could not move at all.
His magery was intact. He had done it no harm. But every scrap of bodily strength that he had had was gone.
They carried him in and put him to bed. Menkare’s glance swore the guards to silence. He stayed with Daros, as quietly watchful as ever.
Daros had a voice if he would use it, and words enough, too, but he elected to be silent. Sleep came swiftly, sweeping over him like a tide of night.
TWENTY-THREE
SLEEP RESTORED DAROS’ STRENGTH AND BROUGHT HIM BACK TO himself. He woke to find Menkare asleep beside his bed, curled on the floor like a hound pup. The magic in him had settled more deeply: he looked to Daros’ eye like a mage indeed, albeit young and unschooled.
Was this how Daros looked to the mages of Gates and temples?
Daros lay for a long while, feeling out the channels of his body, assuring himself that they were all as they should be. His power was fully itself. He had surrendered none of it. The price, then, was the body’s strength—which could be inconvenient if he was to bring magery to this world without magic.
At length he rose carefully, relieved to discover that his knees would hold him up. His hair had not gone white; he had not poured away his youth. He was still his young and potent self.
Such vanity: his knees nearly gave way, but only with relief. He did love to be young and strong and beautiful.
He stooped over Menkare. The prince woke slowly, blinking, frowning up at Daros’ face. “You changed me,” he said. “My dreams—”
“You were a seed. I made you grow.”
“What … am I a god?”
“If by that you mean a mage,” Daros said, “yes. You are.”
“That’s not what I wanted,” Menkare said. “You should have given it to my father.”
“This gift was not for him,” said Daros.
“He wants it.”
“I’ll give him what he can bear,” Daros said, “and ask him for a thing in return. Will you come with me? Will you help me make these kingdoms one?”
Menkare sparked at that, very much in spite of himself. Yet he said, “I’m not sure I trust you.”
“Or your brothers, once you’re away and the field is clear for them to claim your place?”
Menkare laughed without mirth. “No, I don’t trust them at all—but I’m not afraid of them, either. You, I think I fear.”
“I am strong,” said Daros, “and I am not of this world. It’s wise to be wary of me. But I mean you no harm.”
“You’ll have to prove that.”
“Then you will have to come with me, so that I can do it.”
This time Menkare’s laughter was genuine, if somewhat painful. “I’ll go with you. How can I not?”
“How indeed?” said Daros.
Kamos took most of the three days to make the choice he could not help but make. In that time, Daros made himself familiar with the court, learned the names of the lords both greater and lesser, and became acquainted with each of Menkare’s dozen brothers. Some were older, some younger. Two others were sons of the king’s foremost wife.
She summoned him late on the second day, with her eldest son as her messenger. The summons was no great secret, but neither was it trumpeted aloud in court.
Women here did not live apart from men, nor were they kept in seclusion as they still were among the higher nobility of Asanion. But they kept to their own places, ruled their own realm of the house, the nursery, the ladies’ court. He had met none of the queens, who had their own palace and their own court; he was sure that that was deliberate on the king’s part. Kings, unless they were Estarion, had a certain predilection for keeping their women away from excessively attractive men.
That did not prevent the queen from sending her son to fetch the god from beyond the sky. She received him in a cool and airy room, seated on a throne much like her husband’s, attended by a guard of women whom, for an instant, Daros took for northerners of his own world.
He had seen people from the south of this world: large, strong, very dark, though not the true blue-black as Estarion was. Their faces were broad and blunt, their lips full, their hair as tightly curled as a woolbeast’s fleece.
These women were of like blood, but they were leaner, even taller, and their features were carved clean; and once his eyes had found their range, he saw that they were not so dark. They were deep brown with an almost reddish cas
t. He could not tell if their hair was straight or curled: it was shaved to the elegant skull. They wore kilts like guardsmen, and carried spears.
They were glorious. He smiled for the pure joy of seeing them, even as he bowed before the queen.
She was a woman of this country, as he would have expected. She looked a great deal like her son. He would not have called her beautiful, but she was pleasing to look at; her eyes were clear, with a keen intelligence. “You like my guards?” she asked. Her voice was warm and rich, much lovelier than her face.
“Your guards are splendid, lady,” Daros said. “Where do they come from?”
“From a tribe far to the south,” she answered him.
“There are tribes far to the north of my world,” he said, “who are quite like these. Their women are warriors, too.”
“Would those be my guards’ gods, perhaps?”
“Anything is possible,” said Daros.
The queen smiled. “And you? Do you belong to a tribe?”
“My people live in cities,” he said. “My father is a ruling prince—I suppose you would reckon him a king, but my family takes a certain ancient pride in eschewing that name and rank.”
“A prince among gods,” said the queen. “We are honored.”
Daros bowed to the compliment.
“You come bearing gifts,” she said. “My husband is in great confusion of mind over that which you offer him. He hopes to be a god, but fears to be denied it.”
“I can only give him what he is able to accept,” Daros said.
“Is he as mortal as that?”
“All men are mortal,” Daros said. “Some are … less so than others. He has a considerable gift, for a man of this world, but I can give him only a little more.”