The Lady of Han-Gilen

by Judith Tarr

  Thrones and temples meant nothing to the mare. She contemplated the heap of sweet hay that Elian spread for her, and began to nibble it.

  “He’ll take it in the end,” Elian went on, mostly to herself. The Exile’s presence was all but banished; but not quite. “It will be that, or leave the order without a leader. After all, they can’t take a mere mortal, however wise and holy, with Avaryan’s own son building his city half a day’s ride away.”

  Cities were uncomfortable. So were stables. Open air was better, and an open plain.

  “It’s snowing.”

  The mare nudged her aside and trotted to the stable door. It swung open at a touch. Cold air swirled in, clothed in snow. Ilhari snorted at it and plunged into it, dancing and tossing her head.

  Elian trudged in her wake, feeling irredeemably earthbound. The shouts of children rang in her ears. New though the storm was, they were all out in it, urchin and lordling alike.

  Nor were all of them so very small. She saw youths—men—in the garb of Mirain’s army: southerners in particular, to whom a snowfall before Midwinter was a rare and precious thing, but great tall Ianyn soldiers too, fighting snow battles that began and ended in laughter.

  White softness showered over her, blinding her. She gasped and wheeled.

  Mirain’s grin was as wide and wicked as a child’s. A bright-haired boychild clung to his legs and crowed at her: Halenan’s eldest, Korhalion.

  As she spluttered and glared, Mirain swung the child onto his shoulders and filled his hands with snow.

  “Throw it!” Korhalion cried. “Throw it!”

  The last assault was melting into icy runnels down her back. With a smothered cry, half of wrath, half of mirth, she wheeled and bolted.

  She was as swift as a golden deer, darting through the great court. But Mirain was a panther, ridden by a laughing demon.

  Everyone was cheering, some in Mirain’s name, some in her own. Shapes flew past her: faces, bodies, a bright gleam of eyes.

  The cold and the race and the shouting came together like strong wine, filling her with a sweet wild delight. She eeled round a man like a tall pillar—Cuthan’s white grin atop it—and stopped short behind, and laughed in Mirain’s startled face; and slid beneath his snatching hands. Snatching herself, great glistening armfuls, and wheeling, and flinging them on him.

  Revenge had a taste like wild honey. She danced about him, taunting, showering him with snow.

  He lunged. Korhalion’s weight overbalanced him; he slipped and fell, bearing her down in a tangle of limbs, full into a drift of snow.

  He lay winded, trying to laugh. Elian, whose fierce twist had brought her down between child and king, set Korhalion on his feet and brushed the snow from his face.

  His tongue quested after it; his eyes danced on her. “Do it again?” he begged.

  Mirain struggled up and cuffed him lightly. “Not quite yet, imp. Every racer needs a brief rest between courses.”

  Korhalion’s face fell, but brightened again in an instant. “So then, I don’t need you. I’ve got my new pony. Lia, did you see him? Mirain gave him to me. He’s black, just like the Mad One.”

  “His grandsire was my first pony,” Mirain added. “Do you remember him?”

  “I should,” said Elian. “I inherited him.”

  Mirain’s hair was full of snow, his brows and his thick lashes starred with it. Swallowing new and perilous mirth, she brushed it away.

  He laughed unabashed and reached to serve her likewise. His hand was light and deft and fire-warm.

  Korhalion danced between them, sparking with impatience. “Come and see!”

  oOo

  The pony occupied a stall in the corner of Halenan’s stable. It was black indeed, clean-limbed as a stag beneath its heavy coat, with a mad green eye and a swift slash of horns.

  “He’s Demon’s get,” Elian said with assurance as the black head snaked over the stall door, lips rolled back, teeth gleaming. Deftly she evaded the snap of them to seize the woolly ear. “Nurse must be appalled.”

  “Nurse doesn’t know about him yet,” said Korhalion. “Mirain’s going to teach me to ride. He said you’d help. He says you can ride anything he can. Can you, Lia?”

  “Yes,” she answered swiftly, with a glance at Mirain. He was all innocence, feeding a bit of fruit to Anaki’s placid gelding. “I can do better than he can. Demon never bucked me off.”

  “I calmed him down before I passed him on to you,” Mirain said.

  “Calmed him? Passed him on? He was as wild as he ever was when I got away from Nurse and the grooms and put a saddle on him. But I taught him to mind me. He was like the Mad One. All bluster.” She smiled at Mirain, sweetly. “As they say: Like master, like mount.”

  He laughed aloud. “As they also say: Was never a woman born but yearned to rule her man. And all his chattels.”

  “Her man?” She tossed her head. Her heart was leaping strangely. “Not quite yet, brother.”

  “Perhaps not, little sister. And,” added Mirain, “perhaps so.” He cocked an eye at Korhalion. “Shall we give her her gift now? Or make her wait for it?”

  “Now!” cried Korhalion.

  They were bursting with a great secret, the man as much as the child. But neither would be his own betrayer. Elian let herself be led unresisting, with Korhalion tugging eagerly at her hand.

  In the quiet of her mind, she tested Mirain’s mood. Strong though his shields always were, more than eagerness crept through: a thrumming tension, strong almost as fear.

  They left Halenan’s house, passing through the snow-clad streets to the palace. In the wing that Mirain had taken was a wide roofed court.

  He had filled the chambers around it with his own picked men. Already they called themselves the Chosen of An-Sh’Endor, the Company of the Sun. The open space served them as gathering hall and training ground, full always with men and voices and the clash of weapons.

  On this day of snow it was unwontedly quiet. The men of the company stood around the edges, drawn up in loose ranks, armed as for inspection.

  In the center by the winter-dry fountain, ten waited alone. Their cloaks were somber green; they bore no device.

  One was Cuthan, head up, wearing torque of greened bronze. Five were women. Tall or short, plump or reed-slender, every one looked strong and capable, and held herself like one trained to arms.

  The scarlet company saluted their king with a ringing clash of spear on shield. But those in green stood erect and still.

  Elian turned on Mirain. “I never knew there were warrior women in your army.”

  “I have a few,” he answered her, and smiled. “The whole company would have been of women, but I reckoned without my men. They protested vehemently; they came close to rioting. You see their ringleader yonder: the one I’ve punished with the captain’s torque. For him I had to give way, and settle it with a mixed company, half of each. For both of us I cry your pardon that there are only ten to greet you; we’ve not had time to raise the full hundred.”

  “A thousand would vie for the honor, my lady,” Cuthan said, clear and proud. His eye was steady, laughing a little, but grave, too. It seemed that he had forgiven her for lacking the sense to come out of the rain.

  She looked at him and at his command. It was a careful scrutiny, missing no small detail: the excellence of their arms and armor, the pride in their faces.

  One of the women was as lovely as a flower of bronze. Another must surely have been born of the red earth of Han-Gilen, a broad, sturdy, strong-handed peasant woman. She had a level eye and a touch of a smile, as if to mock all this display.

  Last of all, Elian looked at the giver of the gift. Very quietly, very carefully, she said, “My lord forgets. I am not to be pensioned off. If he will dismiss me, then let him do so outright, without pretense.”

  Equally quietly he responded, “It is not a dismissal.”

  “Shall a squire boast her own Guard? And one of them a high nobleman?”

&n
bsp; “A squire, no. But a queen well may.”

  It did not strike her all at once. Her tongue spoke of its own accord. “I am no queen. I am but a princess.”

  “A queen is one who weds a king,” he said as patiently as to a child.

  “But the only king here is—” At last, mind and mouth met. Her limbs went cold. Her voice went high and wild. “You can’t!”

  “Why not?” he asked reasonably.

  How could he be reasonable? He had trapped her. No word at all but what she had beaten out of him, and suddenly this, in front of his whole household. Where she could not refuse. When she could not accept.

  He reached. If he had not been Mirain, she might have said that he moved with diffidence. But he was Mirain, and his eyes were steady, black-brilliant. “You are my queen,” he said.

  Her hands rested cold and limp in his burning-strong ones. Her mind was a hundredfold. It laughed, or wept, or howled in rage, or gibbered in stark terror.

  How dared he trap her? How dared he be so sure of her? She was no man’s possession. She was herself.

  She did not want him.

  She did.

  She did not.

  She did.

  “My lady.” He spoke to mind and ears alike, a murmur as soft as sleep. “My queen. My heart’s love.”

  She struggled in blind panic. It was not that he had said it. It was not that he had said it here, for his army to hear. The worst of it, the very worst, was her own inner singing.

  It mattered nothing that he was king and emperor, that the god’s blood flamed in his veins, that he had chosen her of all living women, that he had half the world to lay at her feet. It mattered only that he was himself. Mirain.

  She had lost Ilarios for her tongue’s slowness, and he was gone. Mirain would go nowhere until he had made her his own. As if she had no choice but that; as if she could have none.

  Fate. Prophecy. Inevitability.

  She tore her hands from his. “My thanks to my lord king,” she said with venomous softness, “but I am not the stuff of which queens are made.”

  He said nothing, made no move. She remembered with a stab of pain how he had looked when she spoke of loving Ilarios. Precisely the same. Cold and still and royal, offering nothing, taking nothing.

  Her teeth bared. “This company I will take, because it is a free gift, theirs as much as yours. I think I can command a force of ten in my king’s service. The rest”—she swallowed round bile—“O son of the Sun, do you keep for your proper empress.”

  “There can be none but you.”

  Had they been alone, she would have struck him. She bit down on her fist until her tongue tasted the iron sweetness of blood. “Oh, you men! Why do you always fix upon the worst?”

  “That,” he asked gently, “always being you?”

  “Yes, damn you! You hound me, you haunt me. You moon after my so-called beauty, make allowances for my notorious wildness, and calculate my lineage and my dowry down to the last half-cousin and quarter-star. Can’t you understand that I want none of you? None!”

  His tension had turned to amusement. He even had the gall to smile. Worse—he dared to say nothing of all he might have said, of the true and of the cruel and of what was both together.

  It was the smile of a great king or of a carven god: calm, assured, and infinitely wise. And giving not a hair’s breadth to her will.

  She did the worst thing, the craven thing, the thing she always did. She ran away from him.

  oOo

  She did not run far. That great impulse which had sent her northward had long since faded. But she gathered her belongings on the bed she still kept near Mirain’s own: an untidy heap, surprisingly high. And there was her armor, and her trophies. She would need a servant to help her with it all.

  Even in moving to summon one, she sank to the floor. Where could she go? Her old chambers—he knew all the ways to them, both open and secret. Nor would he hesitate to use them.

  She knew this mood of his. Mirain An-Sh’Endor would have what he meant to have.

  Ilarios’ topaz had found its way into her hand. She stared at it, only half seeing it. She stared for a very long time. Her mind was utterly empty.

  A shadow crossed it. Her eyes turned slowly. Even yet they could widen.

  The perfect lady was never to be seen afoot, only seated on a throne or in her bower, or for the greatest festivals, in a curtained litter. If indeed she deigned to touch her delicate sole to the ground, it was to be cushioned with carpets and shod in the most elegant of sandals. Nor was she ever to be seen unattended.

  The Lady Eleni was alone. Her gown was as practical as a servant’s; there were boots on her feet. Boots of the finest leather, with inlaid heels, but boots.

  They looked as if they had been in snow, and even, wonder of wonders, in stable mire. The heavy coils of her hair were glistening with melting snow; if she had had a veil, she had lost it.

  “Mother,” said Elian. “Where are your maids? What are you doing here?”

  The princess sat in the one chair the room afforded, and settled her skirts. “My maids are in their proper places. I have been searching for you.”

  “Anyone could have told you where I was.”

  “Anyone could not. Your father and your brother have other troubles.”

  “And the Sunborn would not.”

  “The Sunborn was occupied.” The princess frowned slightly. “I made a vow that I would let you be. I intend still to keep it. But I will remind you that our guest is no longer merely our foster kin. He is the emperor.”

  “He’s still Mirain.”

  “He is Mirain An-Sh’Endor.”

  The words, so close to Elian’s own thoughts, cut at old wounds. “I know who he is! I wait on him day and night. Day,” she repeated, “and night.”

  Her mother betrayed not the least disturbance. “I have not come to plead for your reputation. I do not even beg you to accept his suit, mighty though that match would be, the mightiest in our world. I only wish to know: Why?”

  Elian would not answer.

  “It may be the Asanian prince,” Eleni mused. “I think not. Is it then some youth of low degree, a servant or a farmholder, or a soldier in Mirain’s army? You should not shrink from telling us. Halenani have wedded with outlanders before. They have even wedded with commoners. Though you have no look of one who loves without hope. Why then, Elian? Why do you do battle against every man who asks for you?”

  Still, silence, with a hint of obduracy.

  “Is it perhaps that you are afraid? You are fiercer than is maidens’ wont, and you have always been free. You have never met a man as strong as yourself, or as sure in his strength. Unless it be Mirain.” The princess folded her hands. “Yet in the end, however feeble the man, his lady must give of herself. Her body certainly, perhaps her heart if she is fortunate. The giving is frightening, and the more so the stronger one is. Is that your reason, daughter? Are you afraid to face your womanhood?”

  “No!” It burst out of her with no grace at all. “I know what men do with women. I’ve seen it in the army.” For all her bravado, Elian’s cheeks flushed hotly; her tongue was thick, unwieldy. “It is not fear. Believe me, Mother, it is not. I’ve always expected that I would marry. One day. When it was time. I meant my husband to be Mirain. Because it had to be. Because there could never be another.

  “Then I saw Ilarios. And nothing had to be; there was no such thing as destiny, and if there was, how dared it bind me? My world was rocking on its foundations. I fled in search of safety.

  “To Mirain. Who acted as if I were no more than his sister. And I found that I was glad of it. I began to think that maybe, after all, my vows and my destinies had been mere childish fancies: the infatuation of a very young maid for her splendid elder brother.

  “Then Ilarios came after me. When at last Mirain admitted that he wanted me, he spoke too late and not to me; and my heart was shifting, turning toward its new freedom. My life was not foreordained.
I could choose. To wed, or not. To wed with any man I fancied, or with none. Ilarios paid court to me, and I began to think that, yes, I could be his lover, and he mine. Mirain did nothing to stop us. Maybe I wanted him to do nothing. I think I wanted him to do something. Claim me. Tell me I belonged to him. And he would not. And now,” said Elian, “he has, and I don’t know what to do. He says he loves me. I know—I know—” Her voice broke. Incredulous. Frightened. “I know I love him. After all, I know . . . I love him. I turned Ilarios away because of him.” Elian’s fists clenched; her voice rose. “Mother, I can’t! He’s the king. The Sunborn. The god’s son.”

  “He is still Mirain.”

  Again, her own words. She flung back her mother’s. “He is An-Sh’Endor!” Her hair was in her eyes. She scraped it back. “He’s not a tyrant to be afraid of. But he’s king. Great king. Emperor. How in all the world did I ever hope to stand beside him?”

  “It seems to me,” said the princess, “that you have been doing just that. Do you know what the army has begun to call you? Kalirien. Lady who is swift and valiant. I note that, daughter. Lady, and valiant. When Mirain set out to choose a Guard for you, a thousand men, hearing but the rumor of it, clamored to be chosen; a thousand more thronged after them. He had to set a difficult test, and then another more difficult still, and then a third; and in the end, to ask that each one submit to the probing of his power. The five who were taken are now the envy of the army, ranked as high as princes.”

  “Oh aye, for having an easy path to my famous bed.”

  “Such thoughts demean yourself and your Guard. Where is the truth that we raised you to see? An-Sh’Endor’s soldiers have chosen you for their lady. So too have the common folk.”

  “And the high ones?” Elian rose. “What of them?”

  “The high ones know what they see. Some can even understand it.”

  “No,” Elian said. That had been her second word.

  The first had been spoken clearly and firmly to the center of her world. Not the name of mother or father, or even of the nurse who had raised her.

  No. From the very first, she had known who mattered most.

  Mirain.

  “I’m afraid,” she said. “I’m not valiant at all. I’m terrified. After all I’ve sworn and done and plotted—I can’t be his queen.”