by Dave Duncan
“You told me that she would learn to love him. That unless a man was a real horror, a woman could learn to live with him and be happy, and often love had to come later.”
A sickly little smile appeared on Kade’s lips and vanished like a melting snowflake. “I may have said something like that. But—”
“And in this case, the God told me to trust in love. What Azak did for me—has been doing for me . . . he is doing for me. For love.” She had seen Azak only twice, and briefly, in the past week. Both meetings had been very public and formal, and the two of them had hardly spoken to each other. His face had been unreadable, stern and wooden. The sacrifice he was making for her was a strange and cruel one, but no less a sacrifice for that. “No man enjoys losing, Aunt. Abject surrender is hard for anyone. From a proud man like Azak it almost ranks as a miracle! It proves his love, don’t you see? We must trust in love.”
Inos had been repeating that sentiment for a week now—to Kade by day and to herself by night—so she must really believe it. Mustn’t she?
Kade nodded, slightly pink. “I wish you both all happiness, my dear.” She meant it; she did not expect it.
At the height of their quarrel, Kade had said some very painful things, but Inos would forgive them and forget them. Today she could not hold a grievance against anyone, for today was her wedding day. Today she was to be happy. Wasn’t she?
Every girl must feel nervous on her wedding day. Every bride must know this feeling of a lump of ice in her belly.
She had not told Kade about the sculleries. Rasha had been serious in her threats, and only Azak’s surrender had stopped her from carrying them out. The sculleries alone made the marriage inevitable, to save Kade from being worked to a quick death scrubbing out acres of stone floors.
Unthinkable.
Ladylike banter? “A rather brief betrothal, Aunt.”
“Yes, dear?”
“But longer than my last one, I believe.”
“A great improvement. As I recall, we hadn’t opened the wine to toast your engagement before you were lining up in front of the bishop.”
“And then Rap—” Inos shrugged. The conversation wasn’t going anywhere. But if Rap had not burst in and stopped the wedding, what would have happened then?
“I still feel that perhaps there has been too much haste in . . .” Kade trailed into silence, and in that hall of mirrors it was impossible to tell whether she had stopped because of Inos’s expression, or because what she was about to say was much too late now, or because a dozen black-clad Zanas had suddenly appeared. Zana had mysteriously returned to the palace the day after Inos did, and had again taken charge of the royal guests’ comforts. Without Zana, today would have collapsed into chaos long since.
“His Largeness is here?” Inos moved hands expansively. Zana nodded, eyes atwinkle. With deft fingers she pulled down the veils to make Inos respectable. Inos peered out at the world through a mist of fine lace, seeing icebergs in all directions.
Suddenly the mirrors had a new reflection to play with as the massive green form of grizzled Prince Gutturaz filled the doorway, swaying stiffly forward in a bow. He advanced three paces and bowed again. Then two lines of excited young pages came sweeping into sight from behind his eclipsing bulk.
Chattering and giggling, the boys headed for Inos and their allotted places. Most of them were very small, but all twelve were princes, clad in green, come to bear the bride’s train to their father’s wedding.
3
God of Fools!
Running, running, he kept running. Hills were steep, and stairs were steeper. Not like home, where both were covered—open here, but steep and winding.
Lith’rian . . . The Evil take him. Must have known it! “Let me by, please! ”
Too close to call, that’s how he’d put it. Maybe. Maybe. Just romantic? Just keep running. Sweat romantic, smell romantic? Dodge round corners . . . Push past donkeys, keep on running. Sword kept bouncing, people looking. Royal wedding, flags and banners. Inosolan getting married? Inosolan leave her homeland? Didn’t sound like Inosolan!
God of Fools, he should have waited, just a moment. Should have stayed for just a moment, stayed to tell the other two. Then they’d both have started running, running up the hill like him. He could run a great deal faster; the way he ran would surely kill them, they would burst their hearts for sure. Trouble was, he should have told them, told them he was going to Inos, not just dashed off like a crazy, leaving them to mind the boat. Sword kept bouncing, people looking. No one else was armed at all. If he didn’t get to Inos; then he’d quickly be arrested, and the others wouldn’t know. Gathmor, Darad couldn’t help him, even so he should have told them; maybe now they’d come to find him—and that wouldn’t help at all. He’d be dead by then for certain and that wouldn’t help at all.
“Let me by, please!”
Worst of all was indecision just what could he hope to do? Even if he got to Inos, what in heaven could he do? Tell her maybe that he loved her, put it into words just once? If that was all, he’d better hurry—get there while she still was single, even if she was engaged. Talk of love to married women likely made their men enraged.
Royal wedding in the palace, palace at the very crest. Palace didn’t show on farsight! Sorceress was there for certain, hidden in that palace—blank. If a man climbed in a window, then the guards would surely kill him—all intruders in a palace were most surely put to death.
What a warren! It kept winding. Steeper, steeper grew the stairs. Heart was straining, breath was labored, and it didn’t feel romantic. If he hadn’t had his farsight, he’d have never found a way.
Now the palace loomed above him, but the gate was leagues ahead, and the scrimmage in the forecourt was the local population, being feasted by the sultan in a wedding celebrationthere were thousands in the courtyard at the wedding jubilee. So the gates were being guarded, extra-guarded from the crowd. If a stranger with a saber tried to enter by the forecourt, then the guards would want to argue and provide some entertainment for the wedding jubilee.
The wall that ran beside him . . . it was high but it was old, and the mortar in the stonework had been weathered very deep. A criminal like Thinal could just scramble up the stonework, could just clamber like a fly; and an adept could do anything that anyone could do.
Stop!
Heart . . . lungs . . . legs shaking . . . head swimming . . .
Don’t know . . . what’s on other side . . . was that a whinny?
What have I got to lose?
4
The trumpets blared. Through the white mist of lace, Inos watched the great doors swing open before her. With one hand resting on the well-padded arm of Prince Gutturaz, she floated forward very slowly, mindful always of the stumpy legs of the tiny trainbearers behind her . . . mindful also of icebergs drifting through the pack, visible sometimes from the castle windows in Krasnegar. Never again.
She entered the Great Hall. She had not seen—had not even heard mention of—the Great Hall until the rehearsals began. She would believe anyone who told her it was the largest covered space in Pandemia.
Head up. No need to smile. No one could see.
On either hand stood the massed commonfolk worthies of Arakkaran in their finest finery; up ahead were the princes, from very young to very old, in green. The young outnumbered the old. All held their eyes forward, not turning around to gape at her. There was nothing to see but an iceberg.
The sun’s sharp glare stabbed in through windows high overhead, to be diverted by filigree of marble and reflected from rib and pier and slab until it floated down upon the congregation like a mist of milk. All men. Kade would be on the platform, being official mother of the bride, and a side section had been reserved for Azak’s sisters, few of whom Inos had ever met. Women played little part in even domestic affairs here, and the marriage of a sultan was not a domestic affair, it was state business. Kar had explained that. By rights this should be a political marriage—Azak should be
wedding the daughter of some neighbor state, to cement an alliance. He was breaking a tradition and taking a risk by marrying an outsider, a homeless nobody. The official proclamation had named her as a queen, but who had been deceived?
Citherns and other instruments of torment twanged and whined faintly in an alien dirge . . . walk slowly . . .
Behind her, distant already, the great doors thumped shut with a reverberating impact like the end of the world, like the final reckoning of the Good and the Evil—The End! It rolled from arch to arch and pillar to pillar, raining echoes, fading away above the distant dais that was her destination.
Ahead of her white marble stretched, flat as a frozen canal, all the way to that dais where the rest of the wedding party waited. Back and center was the throne, and on the throne sat Rasha, victorious. She was even wearing royal green, although a very dark, lustrous green. Already Inos could see the hot red eyes above the filmy yashmak, the circlet of emeralds and pearls that was Rasha’s only ornamentation, the crimson nails idly picking at the arms of the throne. She was girt in her illusions of youth and beauty. Inos had those, also, and by right.
Zarkian custom made one strange concession to womanhood, or motherhood—at weddings a woman presided from the throne. Had Azak’s grandfather’s wife been alive, she would have sat there until her replacement was installed. There being no true sultana at present, that throne should by rights stay empty until Azak led his bride to it at the end of the ceremony. But Rasha had insisted and Azak had consented without dispute. Her triumph complete, an ancient strumpet sat upon the throne of Arakkaran. What bitter satisfaction did it give her?
At least she had not tried to claim the royal sash, which still glittered green across the sultan’s chest, and now he came in from one side; to stand and wait for his approaching bride. Tall and fierce and handsome, showing his eagle profile. Dear Azak?
Poor Azak! His long humiliation was over now, surely? He had served his seven days and nights of penance. Rasha would bait and harry him no more. Or would she? Inos had no guarantee of that; she had heard no promise. Must she share her husband with the twisted old harlot as well as with all the sonbreeding women of his harem?
And tonight? What sort of replacement would Inos be? She had offered prayers that she would not disappoint him on his wedding night. She wanted to please him. She must trust him—he was certainly experienced.
He was handsome and virile and royal; and loved her. What more could a maiden’s dreams require? This was a much richer land than Krasnegar. The God had promised her a happy ending.
She was almost at the steps. There was the iman, ancient and inclined to spray spittle. There was the ever-smiling, baby-face Kar, best man and vigilant bodyguard. There was young Prince Quarazak, proudly holding a green cushion, tall for his age. On the cushion lay the slender golden necklace that symbolized marriage in Zark. Inos had made a halfhearted effort to substitute a ring, Imperial style, but in Zark they preferred a necklace. Kade had been very upset when she heard of the necklace. Inos had tried to make a joke of it, claiming that a chain was merely less subtle than a ring, but they both meant much the same.
The whole Zarkian ceremony was less subtle. She mounted the two steps to the dais. She turned to face Azak, and Gutturaz steadied her as she knelt on the waiting cushion, awkward in her massive gown.
The music died and was buried in the sea-sound of the audience being seated.
The iman tottered forward, clutching a book. Azak advanced a few paces, flanked by Kar and shiny-eyed little Quarazak. He couldn’t see her face, but surely he could give her a smile? Kar was smiling.
It was amazing the sultan could move under all the jewels encrusting him. Even the fabulous emerald sash was dulled by their glory. He was absolute monarch of a rich kingdom.
And Inos was a nobody. She had explained that over and over to Kade.
Silence settled like the dust of the ages. Coughing and rustling faded. The last chair leg scraped harshly and alone.
The iman cleared his throat. He began.
Azak’s responses rang out like the royal edicts they were. He promised many things: care, protection. Love.
Then it was her turn. Inos tried to make her voice carry, but she tried also not to shout.
She promised everything.
And Quarazak held out the cushion so the iman could bless the chain. He offered it then to his father and Azak reached for it, every link gleaming in the evening sunlight.
It slid out of reach again as the boy turned slightly to glance at the distant doors, puzzled. Then Azak heard what younger ears had heard first and looked that way, also. Kar . . . turbans in the audience were twisting around. A strange noise outside the hall?
Faint but coming closer? Shouting? Thuds? Swords?
Azak turned his head to look at Rasha, and Rasha was frowning above the green gauze silk of her yashmak.
Rasha sprang to her feet. Then the doors opened.
The ornate bar shattered in a cloud of flying splinters. The doors were hurled open, blasted open as if struck by a tidal wave or a thunderbolt. They flew back on their hinges and their impact with the walls battered every ear a second time. Echoes rolled unending.
The golden chain slid unnoticed from the cushion to the floor. Every eye was turned on the tumult in the entrance.
And in through the doorway came . . . the hindquarters of an enormous black horse.
Out of the West.
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none,
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
— Scott, Lochinvar
FOURTEEN
Tumult, and shouting
1
For a long, breathless moment the whole congregation was frozen in place, from Rasha and Azak down to the tiniest princeling, fascinated spectators of the battle raging in the doorway.
If that horse was not Evil himself, it was one of his brothers, yet the man on his back was handling him with the precision of an artist’s brush—Azak himself could not control a mount like that. Whole cohorts of family men were striking and slashing at the intruder, but man and horse together held them off. The rider’s sword danced like a silver mist, first on one side, then the other. Blades clamoring in unbroken carillon; the stallion whirled and clattered on slippery marble, but his hooves and teeth and bulk were part of the fight, and if he really was Evil, then the family men would be treating him with much greater care than they were trying to extend to the stranger.
The audience leaped to its feet in a crash of falling chairs, and those nearest the doors began to push away.
One guard stopped a full rear kick, and reacted much as the doors had. A chakram whined through the air like a deadly sunbeam, but the intended victim flicked it aside with his sword, parried a thrust on his right, slashed down an assailant on his left, deflected a lance. Bodies lay in disarray outside the room and were starting to pile up inside, as well. Another man screamed and dropped his sword, then toppled over, even as the horse slammed into two more, spilling them aside. The rider ducked a second chakram, and airborne death flashed across the hall over the heads of hundreds of people. Horseshoes screeched on marble . . .
“Hold!” Rasha’s voice rang out with the power of a bugle. The battle stopped. The spectators froze again. So did the combatants.
Cautiously the rider backed his horse out from the petrified forest of his assailants. Satisfied that they were no longer dangerous, he turned the stallion and let him prance forward, highstepping up the aisle. His passage dragged a ripple through the congregation, as heads turned to watch—Inos could see only faces beyond him, only turbans in front. More faces emerged from behind pillars.
The newcomer slid his sword back into its scabbard still bloody; he pul
led an arm across his forehead.
The horse was indeed Evil, greatest of the midnight stallions that only Azak might ride, the pride of the royal stables. He was shivering and foaming, rolling eyes and baring teeth. His hooves clicked and skittered on the slippery stone, yet the shabbylooking rider had him in perfect control. He reached the space before the dais. Now all the audience was behind him, all faces.
Inos did not even dare look at Azak to see how he was reacting to this sacrilege, and she was staring in growing disbelief at the intruder. This was sorcery.
Then she saw that Evil bore no harness, no saddle. Bareback! She had only ever known one man who—Not again!
She surged to her feet, hindered and unbalanced by the weight of lace. She staggered, steadied, stared at the bashful little half smile, the ludicrous raccoon tattoos, the unkempt tangle of brown hair soaked with sweat. No! Impossible! He was dead! She swayed, the hall darkened. Again? The sun had not set yet; wraiths did not haunt in daylight. She had gone mad. She was hallucinating.
Then the intruder leaned forward, swung his leg, and dropped to the floor at Evil’s side. He staggered, steadying himself against the steaming, heaving black flank. His clothes were filthy and soaked and blood-spattered. He was convulsed by his efforts to breathe, pumping air in and out in harsh gasps as loud as those of his horse. Sweat trickled down his face, and every few seconds he would wipe it with a brawny bare forearm. Nevertheless he squared his shoulders and straightened. He bowed unsteadily to Inos. His glance wandered between Azak and Rasha a couple of times. He stretched his tattoos slightly at the sight of Azak’s finery, then chose Rasha and bowed to her. And finally to Azak.
The hall was filled with a silent, staring multitude, and still no one had spoken a word. The loudest noise in the room was the intruder’s breathing.
“The faun!” said Rasha. “How interesting.”
Again Rap smiled faintly, his usual diffident little smile that . . .