Mortal Suns

by Tanith Lee

  “What’s the trouble?”

  The fat captain, who was pallid under his tan, said, “By the gods—by the Sun—”

  It was the messenger who spoke. “Sir, the King is dead.”

  Klyton felt something fall from him in a wave. It was not water. Perhaps it was all his days, until this instant.

  “The King. You mean Glardor, the Great Sun.”

  “Yes, prince.”

  Klyton said, reasonably, “The Heart still beats.”

  “Yes, sir. It took some while for the news to reach Oceaxis. The Heart will pause at Sunset tonight.”

  Klyton experienced a ringing in his head. But it went off at once. He stretched out his right hand over the marble, an antique gesture. As the blonde Queen had done, he said, “Thon, receive well and with honor, a mighty King.”

  Glardor had sent Klyton to Melmia with a few hundred men, part of the battle command which had belonged to Amdysos. In this there seemed some muddle-headed patriachal hope to find them all something to do to take their minds off what had happened at Airis. But Melmia, with its pleasure gardens and hot springs, lay against Sirma, from which, as elsewhere, notions of unrest floated like the geyser smokes.

  Klyton had had the men drawn up for him. He addressed them from horseback, smartly but not showily attired, his cloak a washed-out grey for mourning.

  He told them they had lost with Amdysos what could not be replaced, and he had lost that too, a peerless battle leader and a true friend. He now would do his best for them if they would do as much for him. They were his brothers, and he knew they would understand his pain was also great, for Amdysos had been his brother in blood.

  What they had been watching for he was not sure, but they cheered him, rapping spear-butts on the earth and clacking on their shields.

  Klyton did not predict much for Sirma, and in Melmia, which also had wineshops and prostitutes, whose high standards were matched only by their numbers, the difficulty would be in not letting his loaned troops go soft.

  The garrison there proved the point. The last big skirmish, in which Klyton had participated, his first war, was long over. The garrison captain bulged with food. And by night, the stairs were busy with boys and girls going up to his apartment. Klyton organized drills, parades, hunts. Once or twice, Amdysos’s men came to him, as he had told them to, with their worries. They liked him, as Amdysos had always said, and as he himself had seen. Now, they began to be proud of him. Klyton had wondered if Glardor would have the sense to gift him, at last, a command, preferably this one. But he did not think about Amdysos, save in a ritualistic way. The soldier who visited Klyton, detailing a dream of Amdysos, a golden prince in the Lands Below, Klyton rewarded with a golden coin. But in Klyton’s heart, now, it was all a blank. Too much hurt, the too-swift passing of guilt—and that other omission—which he would not think of either, his sister. As if, by the sin of lusting after Calistra, he had betrayed them all and brought down the death of flaming feathers. He bolted the door of his thoughts against them both.

  The morning the messenger arrived had been nothing special. Klyton swam every day, for the bathing arrangements were primitive and the pool electric. Sometimes after it you wanted a girl, and now and then he let himself have one. He selected black-haired girls currently, tall and laughing, with strong, sandaled feet.

  When he had dressed, he called the captain in. A combination of the overly sophisticated and the superstitious, the man declaimed at length.

  “… It’s a catastrophe. Is the God trying to destroy us? The mighty Akreon—then all his sons—”

  “Not quite,” interrupted Klyton.

  “Excuse me, sir. Pardon me. I meant, of course, by her Majesty Udrombis, the Consort. There are countless others.”

  “Yes, we’re like a plague of rats, aren’t we.”

  The captain again apologized, and bit his nails.

  “The awkward thing is,” said Klyton, “they must go to the God now, to elect the King’s successor.”

  “Indeed,” said the captain. “Will you wish to hurry back?”

  “Hardly, Captain. You seem to miss the mark.”

  The captain looked at him uncertainly. He admired, perhaps fancied Klyton, but did not like him. Klyton was not of the same breed. Having some royal blood, the captain would have favored being familiar, but a Sun was a Sun, and in these circumstances, who knew what he might ascend to.

  “You see,” said Klyton, “those places which are somewhat unquiet may grow boisterous after this. For a while there’ll be no Great King in Akhemony. Some may try to—grab.”

  “Sirma,” said the captain, intelligently at last. “Or—Charchis— Ipyra—everywhere, by God’s Knife.”

  “Everywhere perhaps,” said Klyton. “But I am here.”

  “You’ll take your troops, make a show of force, the crush of conquest,” declared the captain, happy now to have the turn of things.

  Klyton smiled. It was the first time anything had amused him since Airis.

  “Less a conqueror than a bridegroom.”

  He took, nevertheless, all of his command out of the town. They were on the road south by midday. When the sky started to flush, they had already made camp among the dry woods.

  Klyton walked round the tent lanes. He spoke to the soldiers. They were tense as bow-strings. He had wanted them out of the town when the Heart stopped.

  The west deepened beyond the hill slopes. The older, wiser ones planted their spears and leaned on them. Some knelt. It was so quiet, the sound of a bird in the trees, oblivious to the themes and duties of men, shrilled loud as a bugle.

  Klyton could hear the Heart. It was faint, almost supernatural, as he recalled from other journeys away from Akhemony. Some, he knew, could not hear it now, with their ears. It was in the bones.

  The sky was like wine mixed with sulphur from the springs. Then a darkening came, like a veil across the land. And the Heart— was gone.

  Klyton leaned a little to one side. That was all. Righted himself. Some of the soldiers sent up a noise, and their officers quietened them, like babies, these courageous and war-heeled men. The bird called again in the wood, and someone cursed it, then wept.

  Klyton thought, I wonder what she—and pulled himself back from the thought as he had from the leaning of his balance.

  His sister, forewarned, would be well enough. It was Ermias, doubtless, who would palpitate and swoon. But he would not think of any of that.

  Up from the void that was death, the beating suddenly came again. For a moment, you were not sure. But it always came back, as nothing else could be relied on to do.

  Red shadows crept down from the hills.

  He thought abruptly of Amdysos by the stream, the first time they went to war, in Sirma. How they had jeered at Pherox, who had died. Klyton turned the eye of his mind away.

  He went round the camp again, congratulating the men. The Heart beat, life went on.

  It was afternoon, when they reached the Sirmian town. When he looked at it, it did not seem as he recalled, but that had been in heavy rain and the onslaught of battle. And they had repaired the walls.

  He had brought only forty men with him, polished up, with a few fall flowers tucked into helmets and bridles. The rest were left above, where the town scouts could see them quite clearly, if they chose.

  Sirma shared a union, in a half civilized way. What one town did, the rest would concur with. They had no high king, but called a council of their chiefs, when necessary. Their fealty, any way, was supposed to lie with Akhemony.

  Glardor had not let the army raze these towns. Klyton acknowledged now that had been a fine and useful thing.

  Nevertheless, it was nearly seven years ago. He would have to hope his luck was in. But when he thought this, it was as if he only played a part. Luck was not his to question.

  The Sirmians let in the little force from Akhemony, the polished, apparently jaunty men, who acted well. The Sirmians looked sullen, and maybe disturbed.

  A
t the house of the chief, Klyton and his officer were welcomed by a steward. Without a word said, the, steward brought forward a boy to taste the wine.

  “That’s all right,” said Klyton. “I know you wouldn’t so offend the Great King.”

  The steward’s eyes flickered. They had heard here the stopping of the Heart, or been told of it. But nothing else was said, until the chief walked in with his sons.

  The former chief had died seven years back, along with that son whom Klyton had sliced, almost his first kill.

  Klyton made sure they knew his title and worth. As the officer recited, he stood, looking the Sirmians over. The men wore embroidered tunics, and were barelegged for the heat. ‘The young ones had their long hair braided in side-plaits and twined with silver wire and ribbons.

  The seven-year chief was about forty, lean and grisled, and with a moustache. He let the officer finish and then said, “Are you here to make war?”

  “Nothing like that.”

  “I remember you from the last war,” said the chief. Klyton had learned, these outland places reckoned a hundred years ago like yesterday. Ipyra was the same.

  “You do me honor to remember.”

  “You killed the chief’s Spear Tall Son.”

  “I regret that, but it was in the fight. He died nobly.” And Klyton had a vision of the man, his cheek off, falling down to be trodden to death in the mud.

  But the chief only grunted. “Akhemony rules us. Say what you wish.”

  “I am a Sun,” reminded Klyton, “my father was the Great King, Akreon.”

  The chief said stiffly, “You shine brightly upon us.”

  “When I was here before, I was a youth. Now, as you see.” He held out his right arm, showing the old white scar. “Your women washed my wound clean. I recall a little maid. She was about six or seven then. My heart warmed to her, her gentleness.”

  The dog-grey brows of the chief went slowly up. He pursed his mouth.

  “My brother had many daughters.”

  “She was, as I say, very young. She’d be about thirteen, fourteen, now …” Klyton waited. It was a gamble for he did not remember any such thing, some dear little veiled female child. There might almost certainly have been one, however. Or one near enough in age they could fob off on him.

  The biggest of the chief’s sons spoke.

  “Father, Bachis was in the house after the battle. She was a child then.”

  “Is she unwed?” asked Klyton, looking radiantly at them. If she was, his luck—the luck he played he must hope for—was in. For they married them early here, earlier even than Akhemony.

  They were not beyond, maybe, disposing of another husband, presented instead with a prince from Oceaxis. Or they might refuse. If they refused, then they had war very much on their minds. Marriage was surely better. A tie like this did not come their way every hour —a free asking, not a war-taking. And if they wanted it, they were bound. They would be his kin, and their daughter a princess. They could not, under any ordinary provocation, raise swords any more against Akhemony, which meant that probably neither would any other town of the region.

  Glardor had not properly seen to it. The wife he took, though from Sirma, had been from another town. Unbedded, so disgraced, she had any way died inside a year of homesickness or overindulgence, in which a lover may have played some part. No new alliance with Sirma had been fashioned. But then, who would ever have thought a season like this would occur, without a Great Sun.

  “Unwed. Yes. She’s timid,” said the chief.

  “I’m charmed. I shall be very gentle. But, also I must have her today. I’m sorry the wedding has to be so canteringly done. That’s possible?”

  The chief gnawed his moustache.

  “Customs are to be observed.”

  “Of course. Everything. But I must ask, quickly.”

  They were all scowling. But they knew what was offered. Besides, perhaps they were sick of skirmishes they could not win, the flower of their men cut down, their women weeping.

  “Let me present a handful of tokens, poor things,” said Klyton. He nodded to the two slaves, who undid the saddle-chests. Some attractive silks from Melmia were got out, some carved boxes, and a jewel or two. He explained there were wine casks outside, leathers, some weapons they could delight him by accepting. It seemed quite lavish, on the spur of the moment. Klyton had ransacked the captain’s hoard, much to his distress.

  As they picked over the barter, the chief moved close to Klyton. He looked long into Klyton’s face, and one had the impression of a dog again, which sniffs to scent the vigor and nature of a man.

  “You have to come to our temple. We worship Perpi here, the marriage-maker. And someone must go to the womens side and tell the girl.”

  Klyton felt sorry for her. But not very much. He would not harm her, and she would have a glorious time in Oceaxis, out of this dung-hill.

  The temple of Perpi seemed made of dung, its color, and slight tang, overlaid by the incense.

  Once the offerings had been seen to, and they had garlanded him, and requested he utter various religious sentences, the bride was brought. She was small and slight, reaching only to his breastbone. Under the veil, he glimpsed a darkish fall of hair. Her hand trembled when they put it in his, but she had been staring at him, off and on. Perhaps it was not from fear.

  It was a proper up-country marriage. After the wedding, he must go around the town with her, in a rickety chariot drawn by two white oxen with gilded horns. The crowd gaped and gurgled, and threw flowers, looking astonished. They wanted their money’s worth of him. It was their right. He stayed good-humored, and when one stone dropped in the cart with the half-dead flowers, only drew in his escort a little.

  He refused to spend his honey-night in the town. He sorrowfully explained he had business elsewhere and had indulged his whim too long. They had some tradition of a bride being carried off to her husband’s house, so allowed him to do so.

  She brought with her an entourage of one thin slave girl, and the slightest baggage. They had not bothered with a dowry, for peace with Sirma was that, and they had no reticence about showing him they guessed.

  Klyton did not see her unveiled, his wife, until they had rejoined the camp. Then in his tent, when he suggested it, she instantly put off the covering. She was not pretty, but neither displeasing, with a white skin and pale tawny eyes. Her hair was brown, and had been washed and braided with mauve beads. Around her neck was a necklace of rough silver discs, and these were all the riches she brought.

  He had had them bring some things from Melmia he thought she would like, some decent fruit, and a cake in the shape of a ring. She picked at the food, and gazed about her and at him, in rushes, then looking down at the floor. In the coppery lamplight, he began to note she was very frightened, worse than he had suspected.

  Klyton saw it might be difficult to reassure her. She was not one of the free girls who yielded to him from desire. They had said she was timid.

  Eventually, he lowered the lamp, and led her to the bed of rugs. He could not spare her, because to have her was all part of the treaty he had made. Not to penetrate her would be the worst insult of all, and could leave the union invalid.

  He made love to her as tenderly as if he had genuinely yearned for her all those seven years. But in the end, finding she would not or could not soften her nerves, he parted her body and sought her out. Then he found what the impediment was—or rather, that there was none. She was not a virgin. She had been properly deflowered, and in Sirma, it seemed, they knew none of the herbal arts of court women.

  At once, she burst into tears. He stroked her hair, tried to recall her name, recalled it.

  “Bachis, it’s all right. I’m not angry.”

  “Yes, yes, you’ll strangle me now.”

  “Why would I? Only you must tell me when it happened. Does your father know of it?”

  “No—no—oh, no—he would have strangled me.”

  So much strangling for su
ch a little matter. Despite what he had said, however, he was raging, and held the rage away from her, as he would a feral beast. If the Sirmians had thought to cheat him—make a laughing-stock of him—for what pact could hold on this?

  “Calmly, Bachis. See. I won’t hurt you. Tell me who knows.”

  “Nursey,” said Bachis, childishly, clasping her hands, “but she died.”

  “No one else?” Of course, they had not bothered to check her virginity, there had been no time for such age-old barbarisms. And he had made no demands.

  “No one else.”

  “But the man? Bachis, that I do insist on knowing.”

  “He died, too.”

  “How?”

  “There were bandits and he fought and his horse threw him down.”

  “And who was he, Bachis?”

  She buried her face in her hands. Then, through her fingers, told him. “Arpon.”

  Klyton sat back from her. “Who was Arpon?”

  She said, only a rustle in her throat, “My brother.”

  After a time, when he did not speak, the bride sprinkled her story on the air, in quick, tiny drops. She was a simple girl, not much above a child, even in her fifteenth year. If she had been given to Klyton in the expected condition, she would have lain here wild with joy. His beauty daunted her, but then all men were meant to daunt her, and he was like the god.

  Since she was ten, Arpon had discovered a way of sneaking in to her. At first, he had only caressed, invading her mouth with his tongue. When she was twelve, he commenced to use her as a woman. She had stretched in fear beneath him. She had wished him dead. But when the death-spell she and Nursey had, years before, concocted, seemed at last to work, Bachis was stricken by fresh terrors. Would the gods punish her?

  “No. Your virginity was sacred to Phaidix. You were raped. She’ll protect you.”

  Bachis relaxed somewhat. All at once she sank back on the rugs and drew up her skirt with an awful, sly, placating, false lasciviousness, just what she must have employed for her brother.

  “It’s all right, Bachis. I won’t bother you tonight. We’ll pretend we have, shall we.”