I was sitting at the high table, of course, as befitted my rank as a prince of Keltia and matebrother to its King; my dinner partner was one of the Jamadarin's officers of state, who did her best to keep me entertained. I was grateful for the effort, but as the evening wore on and my mood soured, I found myself wishing fervently to be just about anywhere save where I now was; by preference, in the Well of Ashes that lies seven miles below the seventh hell…
I started violently, as someone took my hand and drew a finger over my palm; and started yet again to see that it was Majanah herself. She had in the lull between courses left her Place beside Arthur several seats away, and sat now where my previous companion had yielded place to her.
"Your hand is full of stars," she said smiling.
I must have been staring open-mouthed at her, for she laughed out loud, and it was one of the most delightful sounds I had ever heard: not some silvery tinkling giggle, but a clear arpeggio of real amusement, and it won me over then and there.
"Do you not have the art in Keltia?" she asked. "Dar Arithor has been telling me of your skills of sorcery—"
I recovered myself. "We do," I said, adding hastily "madam." For such, I had been told, was the respectful address used here in conversation… "But it has been long and long since my hand was read for me."
"Then allow me to do so now. I am not so skilled as once I was, but—" She bent my fingers back, turned the palm first one way and then another so that the light fell on the fine lines and the clear ones alike. "You are a thousand years old, Prince Taliesin… You have always been of the priesthood—you have been a priestess also, the mark is here of the Goddess's daughters"—the polished oval nail traced stars and triangles, the great irregular M that crossed the whole of my right palm—"you are wedded to one who is your true mate from all time, and who will ever be so."
I must have shown my skepticism—she could have had that from Arthur over dinner, or from any of the three officers who had been aboard Prydwen—for she smiled again.
"And as proof I have read it here, I tell you a thing only you and she do know: She has crowned you with ancient silver, and you bear that crown upon your brow."
I pulled my hand sharply out of hers, but she was not in the least offended as I stared blankly at her. How had she seen that? The cathbarr of Nia, that sacred fillet Morgan had bestowed upon me, was hidden away on Prydwen, in its place of concealment where none save me could come at it or, indeed, even knew of it. Involuntarily I glanced at my hand; where was it written in those lines I knew so well? And how could this foreign woman know a secret that was purely of Keltia and things Keltic?
As if she knew my confusion and unsettlement, Majanah reached out again, and I flinched a little. But her fingers only touched the back of my hand, with gentleness; then she made me a salute with cupped crossed palms, and slipped back to her seat beside Arthur.
I have little recollection of what followed—my mind was whirling with questions and fears—so it came as a considerable shock to me when I noticed all eyes turn my way with expectation. I glanced at Arthur, found him smiling and beaming with the rest, and deduced from my dinner companion's subsequent delighted questions that Arthur had apparently promised them all a song from his brother who was Pen-bardd of Keltia.
I leaned across my partner, rudely, and muttered something savage to Arthur in Vallican, our old Arvon dialect. I half-expected Majanah to intervene, but she only smiled again.
"What tongue is that? It sounds like the bones of the mountains."
I would gladly have enlightened her; but Arthur at once engaged her again in intimate converse, ignoring my outburst, and I resigned myself to my performing stint to come. At least there was a bit of respite first…
As is the custom among most civilized peoples, the visiting poet was entertained first, before being required to perform; that way, he could decline gracefully if he did not feel up to following the resident talent. But considerable face would have been lost tonight had I done so, and, cross as I was with my fostern, I could not in good conscience back away from the challenge. Nor did I particularly wish to: So after some remarkably fierce atonal drumming chants from Majanah's court poetess, a dark-skinned wonder named Tamikka, I rose obediently at Arthur's nod and began to tune Frame of Harmony—brought to the hall against just such need—to its liking in this new clime.
Then I heard Arthur call to me, "And let it be something we have not heard twenty times over since we left home, Talyn!"
I shot him a glance full of venom. He was a few parts drunk, to be sure, and more than a few parts intoxicated with Majanah, but even so… We have a saying on Gwynedd that it is death to mock a bard (the other two parts—of course it's a triad!—tell us it is death to love a bard and death to be a bard); well, not death for my King and brother, obviously, however he might mock me, but certainly a pointed little stinging ...
For a half-buried memory had stirred just now; a song heard once and never forgotten had come rushing to harp and hand and tongue. A bard of the ancient Scotic house of Douglas had made it for his lady, upon her teasing complaint that he never wrote lovesongs for her, could compose only obscure poetry and impenetrable, if haunting, chaunts. She had wagered him that he could not produce for her a ballad in the graightrai mode, with simple words and many verses and a turn to the refrain. He took up his wife's wager, and wrote her this song I now recalled to mind. I do not know what was her forfeit—she had been an Aoibhell, of all people, another redhaired scion princess of the House of the Wolf—but I know she must have paid it with joy.
For all his lady's loving chaffing, he had been an elegant and accomplished songsmith and poet. For this song, though, he had deliberately chosen to write in a primitive vernacular; and I hastily translated as I went, to make his carefully casual idiom sing in the Common Tongue we used tonight among us, for I would for no sake lose the lovely melody, nor yet the poignant chimes the Douglas bard had made.
"'My love in green came down the meadowLet it follow, let it followMy love in green came down the meadowLong time ago.She hear my song, she come to find meLet it follow, let it followShe hear my song, she come to find meLong time ago.First she smile and then she touch meLet it follow, let it followFirst she smile and then she touch meLong time ago.She shake her hair, she jar the riverLet it follow, let it followShe shake her hair, she jar the riverLong time ago.She steal my heart, I let her take itLet it follow, bound to followShe steal my heart, I let her take itLong time ago.She save my truth, she heal my laughterLet it follow, come and followShe save my truth, she heal my laughterLong time ago.She put a ring upon my fingerLet it follow, time to followShe put a ring upon my fingerLong time ago.She lay with me, she give me kingdomsLet it follow, love will followShe lay with me, she give me empireLong time ago.My love in green is mine foreverLet it follow, I will followMy love in green is mine foreverAll time from now."
When the song ended, and I had played out the little musical flourish that rounds off the mood, making bearable that sometimes jarring transition from entrancement back to reality, I looked up, and saw through suddenly blurred vision the upturned wondering faces, heard the rapt quality of the silence before the applause began to roll from wall to wall.
For my part, I preferred the deep rapt instant of silence; I too had been unexpectedly shaken by the words and the burden of the song. Not a great song, as songs go; but a loving one, and a moving and honest one, and it had called up my beloved so vividly to my inner eye that I wondered now had it summoned such a picture for its maker, of his own lady. Surely it must have done, for her portrait is in the song itself. But he had died young, that maker, slain not many months after the song had been made. His wife, herself a bard, had lived on long years alone. She never wed again, or loved another, even; yet with such songs I think she can never have been without him.
Perhaps I myself would share her state in years to come I mused, as I put Frame of Harmony carefully away in its leather-lined case. It was not something I could honestly
say I had ever before considered, and the thought had a strange and sobering touch. Did I die first, Morgan would be the one to bear the loss, to grieve and mourn and suffer, and that I could not bear to contemplate—to leave her so! But if she went before me to the Goddess, I should be the one left grieving, as alone as that long-dead Douglas's mate had been. If such should be my dan, I knew I could comport myself as she had done,—there would be no other love for me as there had been none for her, and how could it be otherwise, for we say in our marriage rite itself that death shall not part us… But such pain—still, better I to suffer it than Morgan, I would spare her if I had the smallest choice in the thing. Which was worst, to die first or to follow? And do we ever really choose?
"Oh, follow, to be sure," said Majanah, when, prompted by her quizzical questioning look, I had finished telling her of my reaction to the song. "And sometimes, perhaps, I think it can come to be in our power to choose… But though it is a most selfish wish, if choice should be given, I should ever choose to die before my mate."
But Arthur, when the Jamadarin taxed him, shrugged the question off, and I wondered belatedly if I myself had chosen aright here, to sing these two a lovesong, and one with such a weight behind it… Shortly thereafter, or so it seemed to me, Arthur excused himself, and retired rather abruptly to his rooms. Majanah did not seem offended, and sent some of her courtiers to escort us—for of course we went with him. When I knocked gingerly upon the door of his chambers, having given him a quarter hour to settle himself, his voice from within curtly bade me enter; and then he said no other word to me for a full two minutes.
"She never listened to his songs again, you know," he said without preamble. "That bard's wife—"
"I know," I said softly, for it was true: She never did.
"Because she did not love his songs, or him, enough?"
"Because she loved them, and him, too much," I said, softly, and closed the door behind me.
Alone in my own suite of rooms on the other side of the wide sconce-lit corridor, I flung myself upon the huge bed fully clad and stared up at the ceiling. Arthur was not a stupid man; though he often did stupid things, just as often there were quite good reasons for his doing them, and those reasons made his actions come right in the end. My bard's ear had called up that ancient music tonight for a reason, and that troubled me; there was something deep here, I had not sung that song just for that the lady it sang of had worn green for her lord and love—green as Majanah had worn tonight.
Nor, at heart, was I even sure of the message I had wished to convey. Arthur and Majanah were already well smitten: that much had been plain to half the hall. And what if they were? Who were any of us so pure or perfect as to toss cal-traps?
All unbidden, my mind sent up a picture of Gweniver. Well, she had Keils, did she not; no disgrace to her or to Arthur, and none here. It was no great matter in Keltia for a king or queen, or anyone else, to take a sanctioned lover in addition to a duly wedded husband or wife. So long as the thing was amenable to all parties, and the brehon marriage laws observed with respect to rank and property, and the permutations spelled out so there can be no misunderstanding… And somehow I very much doubted that Gweniver, when she came to hear of it, would mind overmuch; and besides, she might not ever hear of it at all.
And too, I thought drowsily, as I pulled off my boots and prepared to fall asleep in my trews, this one is a queen herself. Even Gweni can take no slight at that. And if she does, that is, after all, why honor-prices were invented. Though that for a queen would be, well, queenly indeed…
"They have a union here not unlike to our ceile-charach partnerings," explained Arthur. "My daughter could be Janiadarin of the Yamazai herself one day."
"Daughter?"
He had the grace to blush. "Not yet… But only daughters can succeed, as you know, and an heiress is needed."
I was furious, and oddly hurt. "And you just the one to supply such."
Arthur would not look at me, and perhaps it was best that he should not. We had been on Aojun eight months now, and the companionship between Arthur and Majanah was by this time widely known; and just as widely approved of, at least to judge by what our Aojunese friends did tell us.
"Tell me again how that works," I said, rather sulkily when the silence had grown obstinate behind me—how well I knew that silence from of old… And spun on my heel when the voice that began at once to tell me was by no stretch of any imagination Arthur's.
"Aojun was settled by several humanoid races," said Majanah, who was standing in the doorway, and now came forward to dispose herself upon one of the low soft couches. And again I was reminded of a lioness, draping herself in the crotch of a tree to watch for prey…
"We call ourselves all Aojunni, but the Yamazai people are pre-eminent, and the Jamadarin is always one of our daughters. It is not unknown for a Yamazai heiress to wed a man of different race, but although it has happened often enough, it is not encouraged. Men who are not of our blood cannot always understand the—necessities of union with one of us."
Was it my imagination, or did she so carefully refrain from even the tiniest glance at Arthur as she told me this? I was not prepared to let her off just yet.
"How is it that the women of the Yamazai became the fighters? Are the men so soft and coddled that the War-Goddess favored them not?"
The golden gaze met mine equably. "They are tough enough, when such toughness matters most. Nay, the women are simply better at it than are the men. Surely it must be the same on your worlds, in certain things?"
Before I could sink further into the pit that had been slowly opening up beneath my feet, Arthur stepped in to save us both.
"In more ways than it likes me to think on… But I doubt you came here to lecture my brother on Aojunese history?"
Majanah laughed and uncoiled onto her feet again in one sinuous movement.
"Not so—I came to tell you that my officers have finished drafting the treaty we have been working on. It waits your inspection."
Arthur smiled. "That is good news—with luck, it can be sent back to Keltia before the spring is out, so that our two nations will stand in formal alliance."
I was unimpressed. "And what do you think Gweniver Ard-rian will make of it when she sees it?"
"She will accept it, as I would do with any treaty arrangement of her making. You know this well, Talyn," said Arthur crossly. "That was, after all, our agreement."
"Oh aye," I agreed. "That was the agreement…"
Majanah, no slothel when it came to nuance and mood, was already moving toward the door.
"Artho, I will leave you to speak of this with your brother—it seems you have somewhat to discuss with him, and with the rest of your folk."
She was gone, and Arthur turned roundly on me before the door had closed behind her.
"And just what was that all about? You know how hard we have worked on that treaty, how do you dare misdoubt it in front of her to my face? And when you know how it stands with Aojun and Fomor, why the Aloyu was attacked—
"I dare because that is my job, braud," I said with coolness. "That is what I am here to do—what I have always done for you, if you care to think back on it."
The very air twangled for several exceedingly long and discomfortable moments; then all at once it broke, and Arthur began to laugh.
"And so well you do it, too… Ah, Talyn, what is it you would truly say to me?"
"Only this." I fixed him with a very level look. "Do not let this treaty become more of an alliance than is strictly required. What of your bond with Gwennach? You are a married man, Artos, lest you have forgotten."
"And married folk, even in Keltia, are not forbidden lesser unions, the which I am sure you have not forgotten, from your days in bard-school those many hundreds of years ago…" He was silent for a time, and I did not press him. "I love her, Tal-bach, and she loves me; it is not a mere matter of princes or power, or even plain desire. Any of those could have been dealt with in other wise…
Besides, you like her better than you liked Gwenwynbar?"
That last sly dig caught me like a well-placed foot to the ribcage; I stuttered and fumphered, for once bereft of words. Which of course was his intent…
"That was most unfair," I said when I was again capable of speech. "And, since you ask, aye, I like her very much indeed, she is not difficult to like or respect—But does that mean you must—ally yourself with her so far beyond a treaty?"
Arthur laughed again. "Nay. But it means I want to. That is fair, surely."
And with that I could not dispute.
* * *
* * *
Chapter Twenty-three
MAJANAH BORE ARTHUR A daughter in the time of winter Sunstanding. In accordance with the custom of Aojun, they had had a ritual of joining some months before, when the Jamadarin first knew she went with child, and from all my best information the people were well pleased at the news.
For myself, I was not so sure: It seemed to me, when first they told me of the coming birth, that they were asking more of the Aojunni than perhaps either of them realized, to give Majanah's people a future ruler who was half-outworlder, though the thought of a Jamadarin with Keltic blood not without a tremendous appeal, at least to me and to the rest of us who had come to Aojun a year since, I could not seem to rid myself of this faint far unease at the prospect.
"Truly, Talyn, the folk rejoice for Artos and Janjan." That was Daronwy, who herself had astounded us by taking up with a Yamazai warlord named Roric. Still more astounding, the union appeared to be a serious one.
Janjan… I began to laugh at the incongruity, and Daronwy looked her question. "Oh, nay, not at you, that is, not truly—it is just that it takes a very forceful person to dare call another very forceful person by such a byname and not get swatted for it. 'Janjan' is not how I think of her, I promise you!"
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