The Lady of Han-Gilen

by Judith Tarr

  Their riding had been marked. A line of men had formed on the camp’s edge, arrows nocked to bows. Beyond them others crowded, a manifold glitter of eyes. Mirain’s banner was clear for them to see, whipped wide as the wind swept down from the north. Ebros’ and Ashan’s unfurled on either side of it but slightly behind, in token of subjection.

  Behind the archers a horn rang. As one the bows lowered, Elian loosed a faint and involuntary sigh of relief.

  A company made its way from the camp’s center, mounted and apparently unarmored. Every man was clad as for a procession, adorned with jewels that dazzled in the sunlight, but the only metal was the gold and silver and copper worked into the embroideries of coats and trousers, the heels of the riders’ boots, the saddles and bridles of their seneldi. Elian saw no weapon anywhere.

  No banner floated over them, but they needed none. The man who rode foremost, tall on a tall grey stallion, shone in green and flame-gold; his head was bare, his hair and beard red as fire.

  Without Elian’s urging, Ilhari advanced to the very edge of the water.

  The Mad One had reached the middle of the ford. Like Halenan, Mirain wore no armor and no weapon; only a light kilt and his scarlet war-cloak and a glitter of ornaments, gold and ruby, and the heavy torque of his priesthood about his throat. Any man of the southern army could have shot him down as he waited there.

  Free at last of the press of men, Halenan’s senel stretched into a gallop. The prince’s eyes were fixed on Mirain, his face as stem and still as ever his father’s could be.

  The grey left the escort behind, leaping down the long slope of the bank, plunging into the river. The Mad One stood his ground, horns lowered slightly, but his ears pricked.

  In a shower of spray the grey stallion halted. Miraculously Halenan was dry, even to the high golden heels of his boots. His gaze never left Mirain’s face, searching it keenly, suffering no secrets.

  It seemed that Mirain yielded none. Abruptly Halenan said, “It has been a long while. Brother.” He spoke the word as if in challenge, daring Mirain to remember.

  “Long years, my brother,” Mirain answered.

  From the sudden light in Halenan’s face, Elian knew that Mirain smiled. The air between them warmed and softened; Halenan essayed a smile in return. “Will it please my lord to enter into Poros with me?”

  Mirain did not move. “What if I do not enter as a friend?”

  “You are my enemy, then?” asked Halenan amid a terrible stillness.

  “That depends on your own intent.”

  There was a pause. At length Halenan backed his stallion and turned, leaving the way open for Mirain to pass. “Let us judge that on dry land, under my word of honor.”

  Mirain bowed his head slightly. He raised his hand to his escort; the Mad One moved forward. One by one the company followed in his wake.

  oOo

  North and south faced one another on the riverbank, wary, forbearing to mingle. Elian, hanging well back, saw faces she knew, noblemen all, all intent on the two who faced one another in their center.

  Neither had dismounted; neither had touched, or ventured it, despite the growing amity between them. Perhaps it was only that their stallions would not allow it.

  Again it was Halenan who broke the lengthening silence. “I see that you have won Ebros.”

  “Yesterday,” said Mirain without either gloating or humility.

  “Some might say that you should no longer be called king. That you should name yourself emperor.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Perhaps. You have only lessened the Hundred Realms by two. It could be a very long conquest, brother.”

  “Or very short,” said Mirain. “I count a score of banners yonder. If it’s battle you look for, I may win the north of the Realms at a stroke.”

  Halenan laughed suddenly. “Ah, kinsman! Your arrogance is as splendid as ever.”

  “It is not arrogance. It’s certainty.”

  Halenan’s grin lingered, bright and fierce. “Test your foresight here, King of Ianon. We have read your intent in your conquest of the north; we have seen its proof in the taking of Ashan and Ebros. This is our answer. The Great Alliance: all the Hundred Realms gathered together before you under the command of Han-Gilen. Yonder sits its vanguard, the tithe of its full strength. Is it not a fine brave number?”

  “I have more, honed in my wars. But yes, it is fair to see. Have you brought it here to challenge me?”

  “To challenge you?” Halenan looked back at his men with such a sheen of joy and pride and sheer boyish mischief that Elian dared at last to understand. He leaped from the saddle, kneeling in the road, eyes shining. “No, my lord An-Sh’Endor. To lay at your feet.”

  For a long moment Mirain sat still, gazing down. All his life he had waited for this. Now that it had come, he seemed stunned, shaken to the heart of him. There before him in the hands of this bright-maned prince lay the empire he had been born to rule.

  Slowly he swung his leg over the pommel and slid to the ground. “Brother,” he said. “Halenan. Do you know what you have done?”

  “The god’s will,” Halenan answered promptly. “And my father’s, if it comes to that. It was easier than we thought it might be. The Realms were ready for you.”

  Mirain tried to speak, but no words came. He drew Halenan up and embraced him long and hard, putting into it all his love and his wonder and his joy, and even his awe of these princes who, in the purity of their pride, would choose the king whom they wished to rule over them.

  Halenan’s awe was deeper, but tempered with mirth. “Just for once,” he said laughing, “I’ve rendered you speechless. Who’ll ever believe I did it?”

  Mirain smiled, grinned, laughed aloud. “Who will believe you did any of this? Hal—Hal, you madman, without a blow struck or a drop of blood shed, you’ve changed the shape of the world.”

  oOo

  Elian had seen Mirain exalted in battle, or before his men, or in the face of victory; but now, as he rode through this army that had come to follow him, he was more than exalted. He was touched with the high and shining splendor of a god.

  Elian could be glad of his gladness, but she could not share in it. Anonymous in surcoat and helmet, well hidden between Cuthan and his silent and unreadable brother, she veiled herself from the mind as well as from the eye. But she felt Halenan’s searching, passing and passing again.

  His tent stood in an open circle kept clear by his guards. There were seats under a canopy, and servants with wine and ices, and grooms to tend the escort’s seneldi. Halenan welcomed Mirain to it with a flourish; but still he hunted with eyes and power.

  It was Vadin who betrayed her. As the two companies mingled in the tumult of dismounting, Ilhari jostled his mare. The tall grey laid back her ears. Ilhari skittered, bucked, threatened with heels and teeth.

  Vadin laughed, sharp in a sudden pause. “What, little firemane! Menace your own mother, would you?”

  Ilhari thought better of it. On her back, Elian sat stiff and still.

  Halenan had heard. He turned. His eyes met hers.

  She left the saddle. All at once, her brother was there. “Elian,” he said.

  People were staring. Whispering. Someone laughed. Damn them! she thought.

  And then: Damn all of it! Halenan was holding her, shaking her, shouting at her; and she knew how deeply, terribly, endlessly he had feared for her. Damning himself more fiercely than she ever could, not only for letting her go, but for helping her to do it.

  There were tears on her cheeks. She dashed them away. He held her, taking her in, helmet and livery and all.

  “Sister,” he said roughly. “Little sister. I’ve had hell to pay in Han-Gilen.”

  “Were they fearfully angry?” She sounded plaintive; she scowled to make up for it.

  “Not angry,” he said. “Not after a while. You left Father to make some very difficult explanations.”

  She swallowed. “I—I thought—”

  “
You didn’t think at all, infant. But you seem to be thriving.”

  That was a refuge. She snatched at it. “I am. I’m Mirain’s squire. I have a new sword; it’s steel. It’s a marvel. You see my mare—Ilhari. Her sire is the Mad One. We’ve fought our first battle together. The household gave me a trophy. You’ll see it—when—”

  She broke off. He was no longer looking at her but beyond her, with an expression that she labored to decipher. Greeting; respect; apprehension. And a touch—the merest inexplicable touch—of compassion.

  She turned in his hands. A man stood there. A man no taller than she, clad in golden silk, regarding her with a steady golden stare.

  If Halenan had not held her, she would have staggered. Of all the people she had ever thought to see, this was the last. “But,” she said stupidly, “you were supposed to go back to Asanion.”

  “But,” he answered her, “I chose to come here.”

  “For me?” She flushed, twisting out of her brother’s grip. “No. Of course not. You wanted to see the Sunborn. To know what, in the end, cost you the alliance with my father. You were not very wise, my lord. The High Prince of Asanion is a hostage of very great value indeed.”

  “Should you be the only one to gamble fate and fame and fortune on the wind from the north?”

  He was more handsome even than she remembered, more witty and more gentle. She pulled off her helmet, shaking out the shorn bright hair, turning her torn cheek to the sun.

  He winced at the marred loveliness, yet he smiled, finding in her a greater beauty still: that not of the hound chained in hall but of the she-wolf running wild in the wood.

  “My lord,” she said to him, “your father can be no more pleased with your choice than is mine.”

  He shrugged. “So, lady, we pay. But the game is well worth the price.”

  Her eyes found Mirain. He stood near the tent in a circle of taller men, yet he stood taller than any of them. One of them was Halenan; and she had not even seen him go.

  “There,” said Ziad-Ilarios, “is an emperor. I was bred to rule and not to serve, but with that one . . . oh, indeed, I could be tempted.”

  “You mock him, surely.”

  “No. Not now. Not in his living presence.”

  “He is not a god,” she said sharply.

  “Only the son of one.”

  She turned to him. “You know what must be. The world will not suffer two emperors. And Mirain will not yield what he has gained to any mortal man.”

  “Then the gods be thanked that I am not my father.”

  Some demon made her catch at his hand. It was warm and strong, and yet it trembled. Her own was little more steady, her voice breathless, pitched a shade too high. “Come. Come and speak to him.”

  oOo

  They were much alike, the dark man and the golden. High lords both, emperors born, each measuring the other with a long level stare. Here could be great love, or a great and lasting hate.

  For a long moment the balance hung suspended. The silence spread.

  Even the seneldi stilled. Ilhari was watching. Thinking of stallions: horns lowered, poised, choosing whether to suffer one another or to kill.

  They moved in the same instant, to a handclasp that was like a battle. Mirain was taller, but Ilarios was broader; they were well matched.

  As they had begun, they ended, within a single moment. Ilarios’ smile showed his clenched teeth. Mirain’s was freer, if no warmer. “Well met, my lord high prince. My esquire has told me of you.”

  “Of you, lord king,” said Ilarios, “my lady of Han-Gilen has had much to say. It was she who first whetted my appetite for a sight of you, if only to see at first hand what sort of creature you were.”

  “And what am I?” asked Mirain with a glint in his eye.

  “A barbarian,” Ilarios answered, “and a king. But not now, and not ever, emperor in Asanion.”

  Elian sucked her breath in sharply. Some even of Halenan’s men had reached for their swordhilts; Mirain’s escort drew together, narroweyed.

  Mirain laughed and pulled Ilarios into a swift half-embrace, as if he were delighted with the jest.

  That, by every law and custom of the Golden Empire, was lèse-majesté. An upstart foreigner had dared to lay hands on the sacred person of the high prince.

  Ilarios stood rigid, outraged. Mirain grinned at him, white, fierce, and splendidly unrepentant. Ah, his eyes said, you are high prince, but I am Sunborn. Hate me if you please, but never dare to despise me.

  Asanion’s heir flashed back with all the pride of a thousand years of emperors. And laughed. Unwillingly, unable to help himself, caught up in the sheer absurdity of their rivalry. Laughing, he reached, completing the half-embrace, meeting the bright dark eyes.

  “And yet, Sunborn,” he said, granting that much to Mirain’s pride, “whatever comes hereafter, we are well met.”

  TWELVE

  Before Mirain turned southward, he rested his troops where they had won this last victory: where Ashan and Ebros and Poros met, an hour’s ride from the ford. It was a great and splendid festival, and a wonder to all the lands about. People came three days’ journey merely to look at the city of tents around Isebros’ walled town, and at the high king over them all.

  Both were well worth looking at. The mingled armies of north and south had put on their finery to enter into the revelry. Mirain had a love of splendor and the flair to carry it off, whether it might be the kilt and the clashing ornaments of the north or the boots and trousers and richly embroidered coat of the south; or even and often the stark simplicity of his priesthood, the golden torque and the long white robe girdled with gold.

  But then, thought Elian, he could put on his worn riding kilt and stroll through the camp and still draw every eye to himself. It was the light of him; the splendor of his eyes and his face, and the royalty of his bearing.

  The army knew now who and what she was. An easy camaraderie had begun between the king’s squire and his men, in particular the knights of his household. This was gone. No one denounced her; no one avoided her openly; but the ease had turned to a guarded courtesy. Even Mirain—even he was turned to a stranger.

  No, she told herself when she was calmest. It was only that, all at once, he had become lord of an empire. Kingship was not all silk and jewels and state processions; there was a great deal of drudgery in it, long hours buried in councils or in clerkery, and innumerable and interminable audiences.

  He seemed to thrive on it, but he had little leisure, and none it seemed for his squire. There were servants now in plenty to bathe him and dress him and tend to his needs. She slept at his bed’s foot as before, and served him at table, but more of him she did not have.

  Halenan could not help. From their first meeting at the ford, king and prince had settled together as if they had never been parted. Odd brothers they made, Halenan tall and graceful and dark golden, with his fiery hair, and Mirain Ianyn-dark, Asanian-small.

  And there was always a third. Halenan had faced Vadin much as Ilarios had faced Mirain, but the sparks had flown less fiercely and settled more swiftly. Vadin sneered at Halenan’s trousers but applauded his beard; Halenan raised his brows at the barbarian’s kilt and braids and superfluity of ornaments, and admired his long-legged grey mare.

  Out of scorn they had forged respect, and out of respect a strong bond of amity. Now they were inseparable, the right and left hands of the king, and where Vadin saw to the ordering of the army and its festival, Halenan scaled the mountain of scribework. He kept the king’s seal, and wore it on a chain of gold about his neck. That was burden enough; Elian would not add her own to it.

  There was one who had time for her. Ziad-Ilarios was known as the king’s friend, but he held himself somewhat aloof. He was a guest, and royal; there was little that he could do and less that he must.

  When Elian rode Ilhari as long and as far as they both could go, his golden stallion valiantly kept pace; when she hung about the castle or the camp, he found occ
asion to hang about with her, coaxing her into smiles and even into laughter. Even when she was as close to tears as she would ever let herself come, he knew precisely how to make her forget her troubles.

  Somehow, somewhere between Han-Gilen and the marches of Ashan, she had lost all her fear of him. Yet she had more reason than ever to be afraid. It was clear in his eyes, indeed in everything he did and said: he had not come so far against his father’s will and command, endangering himself and his empire, only to look on the Sunborn. He had come because he loved her.

  She knew it. She did not try to stop it. Perhaps she had begun to love him, a little. She found herself looking for him when he was not immediately in evidence. Sometimes she even sought him out, for the pure pleasure of seeing his face, or hearing his beautiful voice that could make a song of plain Gileni words.

  “Why are you always guarded?” she asked him once as they rode in the sun. She glanced over her shoulder at the men who followed at a careful distance, unobtrusive as shadows, clad in shadow-black, who never spoke even when she spoke to them. She had never seen their faces: they went veiled, only their eyes visible, cold yellow falcon-eyes that saw everything and judged nothing. “Do they follow you even into the harem?”

  For some little time she thought he would not answer. He did not glance at his twin shadows; he busied himself with a tangle in his stallion’s mane.

  At last he said, “My guards are part of me. It is necessary.”

  “Who would dare to threaten you?”

  He looked up, startled, almost laughing with it. “Why, lady, who would not? I am the heir of the Golden Throne.”

  She frowned. “No one would try to kill Mirain outside of battle. Or Hal; or Father.”

  “Some at least have ventured against the Sunborn.”

  “Years ago. People learn. The king is the king.”

  “The king is a mage. That matters, my lady. In Asanion we are confined to our own poor wits, and to our guards’ loyalty.”

  “Your court is very decadent, Father says. Death is a game. The subtler the poison, the greater the prize. Lives are taken as easily as we would pluck a blossom, and one’s own life is a counter like any other, to be cast away when the game commands.”