The Lady of Han-Gilen

by Judith Tarr

  They dressed her as if she had been a carven image, women who came from she knew not where, with faces she might have known. They suppressed sighs over her cropped hair, though that had grown out a little, binding it with a jeweled fillet, painting her eyes and her cheeks and her cold lips.

  When they were done they held up a silver mirror, but she did not need it. Her beauty shone in Mirain’s still face. He bowed over her hands, and kissed the palms one by one. “You are the fairest lady in the world,” he said.

  She was empty of words. Over his royal finery, death lay like a cloak.

  His touch was warm and living, his arm strong, his smile luminous. The small child in her wanted to cling to him and never let him go. The newborn prophet held herself aloof, suffering him to lead her, but offering nothing of speech or of gesture.

  They walked from his chambers, maids and manservants falling in behind. Two guards stood at the door: one of his men in scarlet, one of her women in green. Mirain smiled at them. Elian could muster nothing but a bare inclination of the head.

  Haughty lady, her mind mocked her. How can they endure you?

  “Because they love you,” Mirain said softly, for her alone to hear.

  A deep shudder racked her. The coldness fled. She stopped short, tangling the retinue behind her.

  “You will go,” she said. “So be it. But first you shall make me your queen.”

  He glanced at their followers, who were careful to be oblivious. His brow, raised, conceded the justice of her assault now, all unlooked for, in front of a full company of servants. But she had had no thought at all of revenge.

  “Is that your seeing?” he asked her.

  “It is my will.”

  He looked hard at her. She stared back. His lips tightened. “Why? Why now, after so much resistance?”

  “Because,” she said. Fire came and went in her face; her fists knotted. “Because—after all—I see—I love you.”

  “Because your power tells you I will die.” That was brutal, but he struck harder still. “I will not marry for pity, Elian.”

  She stiffened at the blow, yet she answered calm with flawless calm. “Even for the sake of the dynasty that will be?”

  His breath hissed between his teeth. “When I return from Ashan,” he said with great precision, “then we shall be wedded. If that is still your will.”

  She tossed her head, her fear bursting forth in a flare of temper. “No! I want it now. Tonight. The feast is ready. We’re both arrayed for it. And afterward . . .”

  “Child,” said Mirain with utmost gentleness, “whatever you wish for, you wish for with all that is in you.”

  “You want it as much as I.”

  “Not this way. When I take you, I shall take you as a queen, not as a battle-bride. Without haste, and without regret.”

  “I would never regret it.”

  “No?” He smiled and set her hand on his, and began again to walk. “After Ashan,” he promised her.

  He was immovable. He would have her, but not until it suited his whim. She could not even touch his mind, let alone sway it to her will.

  oOo

  It was a wondrous feast, the most magnificent she could remember. Half the royalty of the Hundred Realms adorned the hall: princes and close kin of princes, high lords and their ladies, chieftains of the north in kilts and mountain copper, even the ambassador of Asanion with his perpetually pained expression, as if it irked him to be cast among all these savages.

  Mirain sat not as lord but as high-honored guest, and she beside him, stared at and wondered at. That, she had been born to, and she had made herself a legend beyond her lineage. Many of the songs sung that night were of her, or spoke of her.

  oOo

  For the third time her cup was empty. A page came forward to fill it. But Mirain’s hand stopped his. “Eat first,” he said to her.

  “Are you my nursemaid?” she flared at him.

  He laughed, lifted a morsel from his plate, proffered it with a flourish. For all his merriment, he knew well what he did. Should she accept, she would accept his suit: the first movement of the formal betrothal.

  She considered it minutely, through a haze of wine. Considered him more minutely still. “Tonight?” she asked.

  “After Ashan.”

  Her eyes narrowed. Slowly she took what he offered. A bit of honey-cake, heavy with sweetness.

  From her own plate she took another. He was not as slow as she.

  When he had taken it, he rose. The singers faltered. Scattered voices cheered him. But he turned away from them to the prince and the princess, and bowed the bow of king to king. “My lord,” he said clearly, “my lady. You have given me gifts beyond the desire of emperors. Yet in my great presumption I ask you for yet another. It shall be the last, I promise you.”

  The prince stood to face him. How young he looked, thought Elian. Scarcely older than Halenan, whose smile flashed white beyond him.

  Prince Orsan seldom smiled, and did not smile now, but his eyes on Mirain were warm, his voice likewise. “You who are my lord and my foster son know that all I have to give is too paltry a gift for you. Only ask what you desire and it shall be yours.”

  Mirain’s eyes glinted. “Take care, my lord! I may seek no less than the greatest jewel in your princedom.”

  “It is yours,” Orsan said unwavering, “with all else that is mine.”

  “Even your daughter?”

  A murmur ran through the hall. Prince Orsan looked down from his great height at the man who was his king. “Even my daughter,” he replied. “If she is willing.”

  “She is,” said Elian. “She asks that you bless the union, now, tonight.” She paused, and added with tight-leashed passion, “No, she does not ask. She begs.”

  Mirain turned, outflanked but unsurprised. It was not easy to surprise Mirain.

  Nor was it easy to face him as she faced him now, before the cream of the Hundred Realms. She smiled her sweetest smile and rose, only to sink down in a deep curtsey. Softly, demurely, she said, “The choice lies with the lady, my lords. And the lady, having tarried so long for her folly, would wed without delay. Will you say the words, Father?”

  “I will not,” gritted Mirain, but not for all to hear.

  She met his glare and laughed. “I shall be your luck and your talisman. Am I not fair to see?”

  “You are wondrous fair.” His voice deepened with warning. “Elian—”

  “Father,” she said, pressing.

  The prince regarded them for a long moment. One could never tell what moved him, whether mirth or grim anger.

  Suddenly the mask cracked. He smiled, he grinned, he laughed aloud.

  His people gaped. His peers and his allies stared nonplussed. He stretched out his hands. “Come, my son, my daughter. Be wedded with my blessing.”

  oOo

  The hall cleared for them, the joy of festival turned to something brighter and stronger. There could be no garlands in winter; for flower-clad maidens there were the women of Elian’s Guard; the feast was consumed, its remnants swept away to make room for the rite. It was never the wedding Elian had looked to have; yet she would have chosen no other.

  She stood in the circle of her guards and tried not to tremble. Not all was fear. Some was wine, and much was plain weariness.

  Her mother’s perfume sweetened the air; the firm gentle touch startled her. For a moment she rested upon it.

  “Child,” said the princess. “Ah, child, how would the singers live without you?”

  Elian stood straight and lifted her chin. “This may be precipitous, Mother, but I think it is wise.”

  The Lady Eleni glanced across the hall, where a knot of young men marked Mirain’s place. The king himself was not to be seen, but Halenan’s hair was like a beacon; Cuthan towered over him, flashing with copper and gold. From the sound of it, they were more than pleased with the turn the feast had taken.

  “It is wise,” the lady said, “and utterly like you.”


  Elian laughed shakily. “Oh, no, I know what a fool I am. But this folly is so extreme that it can only be wisdom.”

  Her mother stroked her hair smooth, settling the fillet more becomingly over it. “You have always followed your heart, even when you seemed most to oppose it. Follow it now, and be strong. Has it not chosen the greatest of all kings to be its lord?”

  “It has. I have.” Elian drew a shuddering breath. “I don’t know whether to be glad or terrified.”

  “Both,” said the princess. She kissed Elian’s brow and turned her about. “Come. The men are ready.”

  The tables were gone, the folk in the hall arrayed in twin ranks with a passage between. A single pure voice soared up in the silence, the song of the bride brought to her wedding.

  The circle of young men tightened to a wedge and began to advance. Elian’s women faced outward.

  Wedge met half-circle. By custom the maids should shriek and scatter and leave their lady undefended. But these were warriors, and Elian’s warriors at that. Each laughing man found himself confronting a cold-eyed woman. The advance halted in confusion.

  Halenan, at the point of the wedge, swept a deep bow. “Greetings, fair ladies,” he said with perfect courtesy. “We come in search of your queen. Will you help us to bring her to our king?”

  “I shall,” said the princess, coming forward to take her son’s hand. “Come, ladies. Let the king look on our queen.”

  Glances flickered round the circle. Smiles followed it. Hand met hand; men and maids linked in a ring.

  Elian stood in its center, face to face with Mirain. He had his grim and royal look. A corner of her mouth curved upward. His eye answered it with a brief, reluctant spark. She sank down in a pool of shimmering skirts, bowing to the floor.

  He raised her. Beyond that first glance he would give her nothing. His eyes fixed on the dais and the prince; his mind walled against her.

  Anger warred with amusement. The hunter hunted, the pursuer pursued.

  It’s a mercy for us all that you always win your battles, she said to the fortress of his mind: even this small loss is too much for you.

  He stiffened but did not turn or respond. Side by side, pace and pace, they approached the prince. Their followers spread behind them.

  Drums joined the lone marvelous voice, beating in time to their hearts; harps and pipes wove through them. The lamps blazed sun-bright, dazzling.

  “Lady of Han-Gilen,” intoned the prince beneath the complex melody, “son of the Sun. Elian and Mirain, child of my body and child of my heart, before Avaryan and before the people of this empire he has forged, I bring you together, body and body, soul and soul, matched and mated in the god’s name. Is it your will that I speak the words of binding?”

  “Yes,” said Elian with only the slightest quaver, and that not for herself. Mirain could still refuse. Could still shame her. He was fully as proud as she, and he could be no less perfect an idiot.

  “Yes,” he said distinctly, without a moment’s hesitation. “I so will it.”

  The tension fled from her body. Almost her knees buckled.

  She stiffened them; his hands clasped hers, holding fast. Her father’s settled over them. “Hear then and take heed. On this night of the goddess’ binding, between two who stand so high in the world’s ways, we forge not only a bond of earthly marriage but one of mighty magic. As the goddess is bound below, let these two be bound above; as the god strides free through the heavens, so shall they be free within their loving: two who are one, greater together than ever alone.” He raised his arms and his voice. “Sing now, people of the Sun. Sing the binding that is their freeing.”

  oOo

  Mirain shut the door of his chamber upon the throng of revelers and shot the bolts. Their shouts and laughter echoed dimly through the panel, punctuated with snatches of song and the drumming of fists and feet.

  Elian sat where her attendants had left her, in a chair made into a wedding throne. Cloth of gold covered it; rare spices scented it, lingering in the air about her. She herself wore a white gown, simple to starkness, clasped at the throat with a single green jewel.

  The king turned his back to the door and the tumult and folded his arms. “Well, my lady? Shall we let them in?”

  The shouts had come together into a song reckoned bawdy even in Prince Orsan’s guardrooms. Elian, who had been known to sing it without a tremor, felt the blood rise to scald her face.

  Mirain seemed quite frankly amused, as if he had surrendered wholeheartedly to her will; but however complete her triumph might be, she had never known him to yield without a battle. And Mirain was one who laughed as he fought.

  She swallowed. Her mouth was dry. “It is for my lord to choose,” she said.

  Since my lady has chosen all the rest of it? He smiled with a wry twist. “By custom we should let them look on you and sing to you, and in the end put you to bed with me. In Ianon a chosen pair, man and woman, would remain to see that the rite was performed in full.”

  Her blush fled.

  “But,” he added after a pause, “neither of us is a great follower of custom.”

  He left the door. Involuntarily she stiffened. He passed her with scarcely a glance, stripping off his ornaments, casting them into their casket. His cloak followed, flung over a chest. Again he passed her, again with eyes forward, striding toward the bathing-room. He loosened his braids as he went.

  She hissed in sudden, furious comprehension, and sprang to bar his way, forgetting the peculiarity of the bridal robe. Its clasp gave way; the heavy fabric fell free. She wore nothing beneath it but a chain of gold and emeralds, riding just above the swell of her hips.

  Mirain halted as if he had struck a wall. Had she been less angry, she might have laughed.

  His face disciplined itself. His eyes hooded. “You may bathe first,” he said, “and take my bed. I shall sleep well enough in your old one.”

  Elian did laugh then, sharp and high. “Oh, no, Mirain. You wanted me, now that you have me, you can’t cast me off.”

  “I wanted you in the full and proper time.”

  “Don’t be afraid,” she said acidly. “My father has no intention of withholding my dowry.”

  “I don’t want your damned—” He broke off and spun away from her, tearing at his plaits. A cord snapped; pearls flew wide.

  “You’re angry,” she said. “You wanted me on your terms, and yours only. So then, I tricked you. I trapped you. I admit it. Can you forgive me? Or have you been king too long to remember how?”

  He wheeled with blazing eyes. “You self-centered little fool! You see what will be; have you no comprehension of what is? I will go to Ashan. I will not be encumbered with a wife—one who is all too likely to be carrying my child.”

  “All the more reason for us to be wedded now. Then, if you—die—”

  “If I die, the world is well rid of me. If I live, I swear by my father’s power that I shall give you such a wedding night as never a woman knew before.”

  She approached him, stepping softly, to lay her hands upon his shoulders. “Give it to me now.”

  “A choice,” he said, “and a bargain. I shall give you what you ask for. More: the full three days of the wedding festival. Afterward I shall go to Ashan. You will remain here in safety.”

  “Or?”

  “Or I ride to Ashan in the morning, and you ride with me, wedded in name only.”

  “I would go with you no matter which you made me choose.”

  “Not if I laid a binding on you.”

  “Could you?”

  Under her hands his shoulders flexed; he breathed deep. Power sang in her mind’s ears.

  She smiled. Like an eel, like a golden fish, she slipped through all his shields, deep into the bright waters of his mind.

  They roared; they seethed. She rode at her ease in the depths where no storms could come, in halls of pearl and fire, wrapped about in the protection of his inmost will. Bind me, she said. I welcome it. For if y
ou do it, you too will be bound; and that will keep you from Ashan.

  Nothing will keep me from Ashan. His voice was a distant booming, like waves upon stone.

  And nothing will keep me apart from you, she said.

  Not even this surety? Our union will bring forth an heir. And our enemies will know it. They will strike at you then, at the life new-waked within you, and through you both they will destroy me.

  Or be destroyed, said Elian.

  No. I will not allow it.

  I will do it whether you allow it or no. Elian drifted closer to his voice, swelling with her own strong power. Listen to me, Sunborn. Alone you may defeat your mortal enemies, but never the dark that stands behind them. It is too strong, and too well aware of your strength. But with me you may have hope. More than hope. Victory.

  Waves of denial bore her back. She struggled against them, twisting, leaping, up and out.

  His braids had unraveled, falling over his shoulder. There in the hollow where bone met bone lay a deep and pitted scar, mark of a northern dart.

  It had been poisoned; he had almost died. She set her lips to it.

  “I know that I am mortal!” he cried.

  Her hands slid between his hair and his skin, stroking, kneading the knotted muscles. They hardened against her. He stared stonily ahead, his nostrils pinched tight, his mouth a thin line.

  “Is that what I’ve been looking like?” she asked, bemused. “No wonder I made everyone so angry.”

  He pulled free, leaving his kilt in her hands, and spun away. But she saw enough to blush hotly, and to smile in spite of herself. “You’re not all in agreement, are you?”

  He opened the inner door. She let the garment fall and came after him.

  The bathing-room was warm, walls and floor both, from the hypocaust beneath; water steamed in the deep gilded basin.

  That too was custom. The viewing of the bride; the singing; the disrobing and the bathing. Men and maids would try to keep the lovers apart while taunting each with the other’s manifold beauties. Sometimes the guardianship would fail and the marriage be consummated then and there.

  Mirain halted on the far side of the basin and faced her across it. “Yes,” he said, “I want you. But if you come to me, you must swear that you will remain in Han-Gilen.”