Hall of the Mountain King

by Tarr, Judith

  One mercy: the Suveieni charger was a mare likewise, a fine tall roan. No need to fear a goring from this one.

  Nor, on trial, was the rider so very much to be afraid of. He was good enough and he was fast, but he lost his temper easily, and with it much of his skill. Vadin let him flail and curse himself into exhaustion, and when his temper had robbed him of defenses, struck him down neatly, almost regretfully, with a flat-bladed blow.

  On the other side of the field, Kav had put up a valiant fight, but Pathan had not only skill, he had brilliance. It was Pathan who remained to face Vadin when the vanquished left the battleground, Kav on his own feet and the Suveieni on his shield.

  As Vadin paused to breathe his mount, to lave his streaming face, to swallow a mouthful of water, he stared at the paragon of squires. The king would knight him tonight, that was an open secret. And here was Vadin alVadin, raw recruit two years at least from knighthood, daring to challenge him.

  Pathan did not look as if he feared the outcome. He even smiled and saluted when he sensed Vadin’s eye on him. Hard though Kav had fought him, his armor shone unmarred, his handsome face unbloodied, his plume unruffled. His cream-pale stallion looked newly groomed; he sat the saddle as if he had been born there, light, easy, breathing without effort.

  Rami was still fresh enough, but Vadin was dusty and his shield had a dent in it and he knew he reeked royally. He drew a deep breath. Mirain was a flame of gold on the field’s edge; Vadin could have sworn he felt those eyes on him, daring him to turn tail.

  As if Rami would have allowed it. He tightened his grip on spears and shield, bowed his head to the herald’s glance. He was as ready as he would ever be.

  The horn sang. Rami was already moving. A spear left his hand, aimed for the center of the prince’s shield.

  Wind gusted, struck it awry. A blow like a hammer sent Vadin reeling back.

  He wrenched the spear from his own shield, flung the second—fool, fool, Adjan would have raged at him, he had not aimed before he loosed. But neither had Pathan, or perhaps the wind was doubly traitor.

  Vadin swept out his sword. At which Pathan had defeated him before. But not mounted, not with Rami fighting with him. The stallion was trained and he was swift and he had his wicked ivory horns; but Rami had learned about stallions and their weapons.

  So too had Vadin. And these were sharpened, he could see. It was allowed. His folly that he had given his heart to a bare-browed mare, his loss that he would not burden her with horns of bronze set in her headstall.

  They were playing, Pathan and the stallion. Teasing, feinting, pretending that neither could land a blow. Vadin astounded himself; he landed one, and it rocked Pathan in the saddle. How could the perfect swordsman have failed to see it coming?

  Maybe he was not perfect. His mount shied infinitesimally from the clash of blade on shield or helm or blade; he did not always seem to know it, and when he did, the touch of his heel brought the senel in too close, or not close enough. Vadin could not match his speed, could not quite match his skill, but maybe—

  It had to be soon. Vadin’s strength was waning, his skill failing even in defense. He held Rami steady between his knees, raised his aching shield arm a degree, parried a wicked slashing blow.

  Pathan’s blade flicked back, flicked aside in a feint, darted into the gap in Vadin’s parry. By a miracle Vadin was there, and the force of the meeting nearly felled him.

  Nearly. The stallion veered just visibly. Pathan kicked him inward. He skittered a fraction of a step.

  Pathan’s new assault left an opening, a breath’s pause, the thickness of a good bronze blade. Vadin filled it. Evaded the shield, turned the point of his sword, and disarmed and dismounted Pathan in the same swift serpentine movement.

  There was a stunned silence. Pathan lay on his back, eyes open and glazed, and for an instant Vadin knew that he was dead. Then he stirred and groaned and sat up cradling a hand that stung without mercy.

  Vadin knew; he had learned his trick the hard way from the arms master in Geitan. He sprang from Rami’s back, reaching to help Pathan to his feet, babbling like a fool. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, it was only—”

  “You idiot of a child,” growled Pathan, striking away the hand that stretched to him, rising stiffly but without visible pain.

  Vadin opened his mouth and shut it again. Gods help him, he had made a fool of this proud prince before all Ianon, ruined the day of his knighthood, turned his lofty goodwill to bitter enmity.

  Pathan’s laughter stopped Vadin short. “Idiot child,” the prince repeated, and this time his wry amusement was clear to see, “don’t you ever know when you’ve won?”

  Vadin blinked. One of those last fierce blows must have addled his brain.

  He turned slowly. Rami was cropping grass like the veriest plowbeast. Beyond her the folk of Ianon were going wild.

  Pathan struck him, not gently. “Mount up, infant. Go and get your prize.”

  The heralds were there and saying much the same, and one had Rami’s reins, and now that Vadin was aware of it the roar of the crowd was deafening. He took a moment to gather himself; as lightly as he could, he mounted, gathering the reins as Rami began to dance.

  She knew what was expected of her. He straightened his weary shoulders, raised his chin, and set his eyes firmly forward.

  Mirain was not on the dais. The Mad One was coming, Mirain astride bearing the crown of gold and copper that a quick eye and a clever trick had won Vadin.

  Rami champed the bit and bucked lightly. “Just so,” Vadin replied, and let her go.

  They met at a gallop, black senel and silver, and wheeled about one another, manes flying, and halted in the same breath.

  Mirain said nothing, but his eyes said everything. Vadin’s cheeks were hot, and only partly with exertion; he ducked his head like a child praised too lavishly.

  A cool weight settled on his brows. He looked up in mild startlement as Mirain’s hands lowered, empty. “

  Go on,” the prince said. And when he hesitated: “Rami, of your courtesy, salvage your lord’s honor.”

  She tossed her head, clamped the bit in her teeth, and began the victor’s circuit of the field. The Mad One did not follow, and for this splendidly mortifying moment no one was even aware of him or of the one who rode him.

  Vadin looked back once. Mirain did not mind at all. “Sweet modesty,” his voice said soft and clear in Vadin’s ear, with laughter in it, and pride, and deep affection.

  Damn it, why did they all have to be so indulgent? Was he a braidless boy to be smiled at and clucked over and made allowances for? Demons take them, he was a man grown; and he had proved it.

  Anger did what nothing yet had been able to do. Awakened him to the truth. He had won. He was Younger Champion. He was the best of the squires in Ianon.

  He flung his sword up and caught it to a roar of approval, and wheeled Rami full about, and sent her plunging madly round that wide and glorious field.

  FOURTEEN

  As the sun began to sink, the games ended in splendor. Moranden had won the crown that was elder brother to Vadin’s, as he had done at every High Summer since he won his knighthood. By custom the two champions met on the field in a dance of war, a crossing of blades and a matching of their mounts’ paces; rode side by side to the throne and bowed; and clasped hands in the amity of brothers and warriors.

  Moranden was not gentle, and his dance was swift enough to strain Vadin’s lesser strength and speed, and his handclasp was painfully tight; but that was the custom: amicable as the Elder Champion might be, he neither forgot nor let the other forget that one day they would contest for his title.

  “You fought well,” Moranden said as if he meant it, and he smiled his famous smile. “That last stroke—I don’t suppose you’d teach it to me? Unless”—his smile widened to a grin—“you’re planning to use it on me next High Summer.”

  “Not next year,” Vadin said, “or for a good count of years after, I don’t t
hink, my lord. I’ll need more than a trick and a stroke of luck to overcome the best fighting man in Ianon.”

  Moranden’s brows rose. “Don’t be so certain, sir. The mount lacked something in training, but the rider lacked somewhat in skill; and you had the eyes to see it. That’s a rare gift.” He clasped Vadin’s hand again. “We ride to the castle together. I for one won’t be ashamed of my company.”

  Nor was Vadin, but he was not at ease. He could not revel in the adulation that beat upon him. His eyes were on Mirain, who rode just ahead of him with the king.

  The younger prince had his share of the glory back again, and he rode on it, shining with it, borne as on wings. For that hour at least his people loved him utterly; even the fear of the Mad One had no power to hold them back. They reached for him, slowing him, doing battle for the touch of his hand or the glimmer of his smile.

  The king’s guards thrust forward, armed for his defense. The king stopped them with a glance. See, it said; Mirain could take no hurt. Not here, not now. All Han-Ianon lay in the hollow of his hand.

  oOo

  The great hall lay open to the long summer dusk, ablaze with torches, filled to bursting with the people of Ianon. Those who could not crowd themselves into the hall itself filled the court without and spread into the side courts, even the lowest of them feasting like lords on the bounty of the king.

  Mirain sat on the dais under a canopy of white silk edged with gold. His hall robe was startling in its simplicity, all white but for the torque of his priesthood; his head was bare, his hair in its single braid, and no jewel glittered at brow or throat or finger. Yet he shone, as brilliant in himself as any of the gold-decked princes of Ianon.

  Moranden had taken the Elder Champion’s place down the table on the king’s right, flanked by glittering princelings, himself in black and vivid scarlet with a ruby like a drop of blood between his brows. His companions paid Mirain little heed, drinking more than they ate, waxing hilarious as the light died from the sky. They quieted but little for the dancers or the players, little more for Pathan’s solemn knighting at the king’s hands, and not at all for the singers led by Ymin and chanting the praises of the god.

  Although Moranden roistered with them, even from his own place of honor on the king’s left Vadin could perceive that the prince’s cup was seldom refilled; that he watched Mirain without seeming to watch: a steady, sidelong, unreadable stare.

  But Mirain was far beyond notice of aught but his own elation. He was young, he was beloved, he would be king. His mood left no room for either hate or fear, let alone for simple caution. And Vadin, trapped among his own exuberant admirers, could not get close enough to beat him to his senses.

  A very young singer came forth, a child with a voice like a flute, who sang of Mirain’s birth at sunrise in the center of the god’s great rite. The princelings paused in their revelry, caught in spite of themselves by the unnerving purity of that voice.

  Save one; tone-deaf or deaf with drink, he drawled, “Sunborn indeed. Prophecies, forsooth. How they do make up these tales!”

  Every word was distinct, loud and dissonant against the chanting. Vadin tensed to surge up, subsided slowly. He could do nothing but make matters worse.

  Mirain stirred. His eyes, that had been shining, lost in contemplation of wonders, focused slowly. Yet he was still half in his dream.

  “Who knows what really happened?” growled another young lord. “He walks in here, he tells a pretty tale, he gets it all: throne, castle, and kingdom. Good work, says I, and mortal fast.”

  The singer did not falter, but he looked toward Ymin with frightened eyes. She did not move, perhaps could not. Mirain had roused all at once.

  The king’s hand gripped his arm, thin and iron-hard yet trembling visibly. The prince spared him not even a glance. “Guards,” he said softly and clearly, “remove these men.”

  A third lordling leaped up, sending his winecup flying. “Yes! Remove them, he says, before they betray too much of the truth.”

  He spoke to the hall, but his eyes rested on Moranden. The elder prince sat at his ease, lifting no hand as the guards seized his followers, although they strained toward him and shouted his name. He was watching Mirain.

  The song ended unnoticed. The singer fled behind Ymin’s skirts, too terrified for tears.

  The third man fought against his captors, crying out, “Liar! He lies! He is no son of the god. His mother lay with the Prince of Han-Gilen; the high priestess of the temple would have put her to death for it; her lover cast down the priestess and set up the stranger in her place. But the priestess had her just revenge. She killed the liar with her own hand. I know it. My kinsman was there; he saw, he heard. This is no son of Avaryan. You give your worship to a lie.”

  A guard raised his fist as if to club the man into silence.

  “No,” Mirain said. His eyes were very wide and very bright. “Let him say what he has been taught to say.”

  For an instant the young man was nonplussed. Even his fellows were still, staring. He filled his lungs to shout, “No one taught me. This is an adventurer, a no-man’s-son, sent up from the south to seize a kingdom. When he has it, the Prince of Han-Gilen will claim it and him.”

  Mirain laughed in genuine amusement. “There, sir, you betray yourself. What could Prince Orsan possibly want with a kingdom as remote, as barbaric, and as isolated as Ianon? Already he rules the richest of the Hundred Realms.”

  “No realm is too rich!” the man cried. “Tell the truth now, priestess’ bastard. Your mother lied to save her lover and herself. But you betrayed her. For bearing you she died. You were her death.”

  Mirain was on his feet. The lordling struck again, struck deep. “You are accursed, matricide, destroyer of all you touch. ‘Go to Ianon,’ they begged you in Han-Gilen. ‘Go, take your curse with you. The king is old; he is mad; soon he will die. Ianon is yours for the taking.’” He raised his arms in a grand gesture. “One thing they forgot. Ianon is not only an aged king and a pack of coward lords. One man is strong. One man remembers his honor and the honor of the kingdom. While the Prince Moranden lives, you shall not rule in Ianon.”

  Mirain’s head tilted. “I suppose you have consulted him.” He turned his eyes upon Moranden. “Mine uncle? Does this mockingbird belong to you?”

  “He speaks out of turn,” Moranden replied coolly, “but as for the truth of what he says, you know better than I.”

  “We all know it.” Ymin’s trained voice cut across the growing uproar, stilling it. “I have seen it and I have sung it. This is the one foretold. This is the king who comes from the Sun. Ill befall you, Moranden of Ianon, if you dare to oppose him. For he is gentle and he is merciful, but I have no such virtues; and I will wield against you all the power of my office.”

  Moranden laughed. “Such power, too, milady singer! You’ve always been his loyal lapdog. A gleam of gold, a well-told tale, and he had your heart in his hand. Look at him now! Gasping like a fish, with all his plots laid bare.”

  “What could he say to such monstrous words as yours?”

  “What’s monstrous in the truth? He knows it. He gags at it. And hides behind the skirts of whoever has the gall to defend him.” Moranden’s lip curled. “Some king he’ll be, who needs a woman to fight his battles for him.”

  “Better that than a king who needs a woman to think his thoughts for him.”

  Moranden surged up. Mirain faced him, icy calm. “Be silent henceforth, kinsman, and perhaps I shall forgive you for what your puppet has said of my mother. But I shall never forget it.”

  “Liar. Foreigner. Priestess’ bastard. Because my father loved you and because you have a look of my sister, whom I also loved, I suffered you. But too much is too much. Before my father and my sister, there was Ianon; and Ianon groans at the thought of such a king.”

  “Ianon,” said Mirain, “no. Only Moranden, whose soul gnaws itself in rage that he cannot have a throne.”

  The hall was deathly silent.

/>   Mirain met the black and burning eyes of his mother’s brother. “And if you won it, my lord—if you won it, could you hope to hold it?”

  “Child.” Moranden’s voice was different, softer, more deadly. “Not you alone are beloved of the high ones. Nor is this Han-Gilen, that casts out all gods but one and rears up in its pride and fancies itself blessed of Avaryan. The gods are shut out, but the gods remain. She remains, who alone is Avaryan’s equal. Is, child. Is, was, and will be.”

  Mirain spoke as through a choking fog. Proud words, but muffled, bereft of their force. “I will chain her.”

  His kinsman laughed. “Will you, little man? Try it then. Try it now, Sunborn, child of the morning.”

  “I am—not—” Mirain reeled. His hand flew up, but its fire was dim.

  The laughter did not falter. Mirain cried out against it. “Moranden! Can you not see? You too are a puppet. You are being used, you are being wielded. Another voice is speaking through you.”

  “I am no man’s toy!”

  “No man’s indeed, but a goddess’ and a woman’s.”

  Moranden fell upon him, mad-enraged, possessed, it did not matter. Vadin saw Mirain go down, and a wall of bodies between, and no weapon in all that hall of festival; and it was a nightmare, Umijan come again, with Mirain beaten before he began.

  Darkness swept between scarlet and fallen white, severing them, hurling the scarlet against the wall. A deep voice spoke with softness more devastating than any bellow of rage. “Get out.”

  Moranden staggered, face slack with shock, and crumpled to his knees. The king looked down at him. Old and strong and terrible, he met his son’s eyes; the younger man flinched visibly. “Get out,” he said again.

  Moranden’s mouth worked. Words rent themselves from him. “Father! I—”

  Hands like iron smote him to the ground. Stronger than they and more cruel, the harsh voice held him pinioned where he lay. “If the sun’s rising finds you within reach of my castle, I will hunt you like a beast. Exile, accursed, let no man raise a hand to aid you. Let no woman take you into her house. Let no dweller in Ianon feed you or clothe you or give you to drink, lest by so doing he share your fate.” The king turned away from him. “Moranden of Ianon is dead. Begone, nameless one, or die like the hound you are.”