The Lady of Han-Gilen

by Judith Tarr

  For whole days Elian even forgot to what she rode. The forgetting turned the long advance into a wedding journey.

  As for the nights . . .

  “So it’s true,” she said in the midst of one, fitting her body to Mirain’s on the narrow bed, “the best lovers are . . . small men.”

  “Small?” It came from the depths of his chest.

  “Well, middling,” she conceded wickedly, twining her legs with his. “How nicely we fit. If you were as big as Cuthan, or even Hal, we’d never get both of us into this bed.”

  “Have you been proving it?”

  Her laughter lost itself in his hair.

  Deftly, and with no effort at all, he tossed her out of bed. She grunted in surprise, and a little in pain. Even carpeted, the ground was hard.

  He stood over her with fists on hips, brows knit over the arch of his nose. Her mirth flooded through the tent. “Oh, you are a fine figure of a man!”

  “A small man.”

  “A very well endowed, just tall enough, perfect, wonderful—”

  “Don’t strain your ingenuity,” he said dryly.

  She hooked his ankles and overset him, perching on his chest. “— splendid, beautiful, royal husband,” she finished triumphantly.

  He raised a brow. After a moment the other went up to join it. He weighed her breast in his hand. “They’re growing,” he said. “You’re growing all over.”

  She looked down at herself in real dismay. “I am not!” she cried. “I won’t even start to show for—I wouldn’t even know, if I weren’t—”

  His eyes mocked her. She pulled his hair until he yelped; and they rolled on the carpets in battle that was all love.

  The tent wall brought them up short. Elian tossed back her hair, breathing hard. “The whole camp can hear us,” she said.

  “And who began it?” He ran his fingers down her side. “In Ianon the kingdom lives by the manhood of its king. I caused my people no end of worry, so few lovers as I took, and so seldom. And not a single bastard to prove my strength.”

  “I should hope not!”

  He laughed softly. “Lady, you have fire enough for three. For you, for me, and for him.” His hand rested on her belly. It was as flat and firm as ever, the life within waxing invisibly yet surely. “When he grows big enough to see, he’ll have to have a name.”

  “What if he’s a she?”

  “Is he?”

  Elian looked at his hand, suddenly finding it fascinating. And a little, a very little, frightening: as any miracle can frighten, for its simple strangeness. She shook herself. “It’s . . . he. Maybe. Or she. Does it matter?”

  “It’s ours. Our firstborn. My heir.”

  “Even if it’s a daughter?”

  He hesitated only a fraction. “Even then.”

  Her joy leaped, startling a grin out of him. She laughed and kissed the comer of his mouth. “It will be dark like you.”

  “And red-haired like you.”

  “With your Ianyn nose.”

  “Ah, poor child. And your Halenani height, and your beauty, and a Sun in his hand. Or hers.”

  “Imagine,” she said softly. “We made this, you and I. Son or daughter, it will be a child even the god can be proud of.”

  “It will be.” Mirain kissed the place where his hand had been lying. “Truly and certainly, it will be.”

  oOo

  On the Marches of Ebros at last the weather broke, and with a vengeance. They waded into Ashan through torrents of icy rain, in a wind that howled straight out of the north.

  Even in armor, even in oiled leather, the riders were wet to the skin. Their mounts plodded with heads down, ears plastered back. The Mad One was vicious in misery; not even Ilhari dared to come within reach of his heels.

  Where the rain turned to sleet, the hills turned to mountains: the steep cruel ridges of Ashan. There the northerners might have burst into song, for this was a shadow of their own country; but even they trudged and cursed, forced afoot by the icy paths.

  The southerners were long since emptied of oaths. Elian, struggling up and down the line, heard little more than harsh breathing, and the clatter and slide of hooves on ice, and the wailing of the wind.

  Wrapped in the leather coat of a trooper, with a scarf wound around her head, she was blessedly anonymous; men who would never accept aid from a woman, and least of all from their queen, availed themselves willingly enough of her steadying hand. Some, young Gileni dandies, suffered cruelly in their handsome boots, narrow and high of heel as those were, and never meant for walking, let alone scrambling over mountain passes in the sleet.

  Mirain’s tribesmen sneered at them, making no secret of their scorn. “Fancy-boy have hurtings in his little feet?” they sang in mincing voices. “Oh, be careful, sweetling; don’t tear your pretty trousers.” One, with the aid of liberal swallows from his belt flask, mocked the Gileni’s painful gait with much swaying of his hips and a comical display of not quite losing his balance.

  Elian’s temper flared. She sprang; and as he laughed, thinking her one of the sufferers, she kicked his feet from under him. He toppled like a tree.

  She set her foot on his throat, with the merest hint of pressure. “One more move,” she said, her voice hoarse with damp, “only one more, and I’ll pitch you into the next valley.”

  He gasped and gaped. With a snort of disgust she hauled him up. “Here. You dance so lightly over these mountains; lend the rest of us a hand.”

  Ilhari appeared out of the storm to snap wicked teeth in his face. It went slack; he dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead to Elian’s sodden boot. A moment later, with conspicuous enthusiasm if with little grace, he offered his shoulder to a stumbling Gileni.

  A shout rang out ahead. Elian clawed the ice from her eyelids and strained to see.

  The mare nudged her. The way was not too hard for the Mad One’s daughter, whatever the foolish two-legs might think.

  Elian peeled away the saddle’s covering and swung astride. Ilhari strode forth, sure-footed as a cat, and proud with it. Even half-frozen as she was, Elian managed to smile.

  The vanguard had halted above, just below the summit of the pass. But its numbers had doubled; beside the dripping Sun-banner flapped one of water-darkened yellow, its staff wound with the grey streamers of a messenger.

  Mirain was on the ground under a canopy of leather, a tent upheld by a handful of his Chosen. Halenan shared the shelter with him, and a stranger, a man of middle years with a cough that woke Elian’s anger. What right had anyone, even a prince, to send a man so ill on an errand so grueling, in such a storm?

  His glance caught her as she slid between the king and the prince, but he did not break off his speech. It was hoarse and painful yet clear enough. “Yes, sire, my lord prince has left Han-Ashan, hoping by his living presence to restrain the combatants. He left word that, should you deign to come to his aid, I should ride to meet you, and direct you to him.”

  “Where is he now?” asked Halenan.

  “He rode first to sojourn with his kin in Asan-Sheian, though I fear that by this time his son will have led the young bloods to attack Eridan. I am bidden to conduct you to Sheian, and thence, if my lord is gone, to Eridan.”

  The prince’s glance met Elian’s. He’s telling the truth, she said in her mind. Or the truth as he’s been allowed to see it. She addressed the messenger herself, a little sharply. “How far is Sheian from here?”

  She watched his courteous efforts to place her, muffled as she was, her voice gone sexless with the cold. But, though dizzy with fever, he was no fool. He could guess who would be here between these two men, and speaking as freely as they. “Two days’ ride in good weather,” he answered her, “my lady. Longer in this; but there is a castle in the valley yonder, and its lord is loyal to my prince. He begs you to accept his hospitality.”

  Elian ran her tongue over her cracked lips. She did not like the feel of this. Yet the man was honest. Transparently so; and so feeble that,
for all his strength of will, he could barely keep his feet.

  Her eyes flicked to Mirain. He had his king-look: weighing, pondering. He could press on with those of his company who could manage, leaving the rest behind; and if there was a trap, spring it before it was well set.

  Or was that the trap itself, to separate him from the main body of his men? Or was there after all no trap and no treachery?

  The messenger had no falsehood in him. Conflict rumbled in the earth of Ashan: troops gathering, fear mounting. Mirain knew the taste of civil war. It burst on Elian’s tongue, hot and foul; she gagged on it.

  The messenger swayed. She caught him, to his surprise, not least at her strength. Though he was tall, he had no more flesh than a bird. “I think,” she said, “that we should try to sleep dry tonight at least. The men need rest, and some will need healing. It’s been a cruel march.”

  Yet, having spoken, she felt no better. There was a wrongness in it. But if Mirain tried to go on . . .

  The king’s chin lifted; his brows met. “It has been bitter,” he said, “and I for one would welcome dry feet. Lord Casien, will yonder castle hold my full company?”

  The man coughed, deep and racking, battling to master himself. Elian’s power uncoiled. His voice, freed, came almost clear. “I fear not, majesty. But there is a place on the mountain’s knees close to the pass, an arm of the vale and a great cavern. Your men would be at ease there, and out of the rain.”

  And neatly closed in like rats in a trap.

  So would they be if they were shut up within a castle wall. Elian set her teeth. She was letting her fears master her.

  Briskly Mirain gestured: assent, command. “Very well. Lead us, then; and send a man ahead to the lord of—?”

  “Asan-Garin, sire.”

  “I shall accept his offer, with thanks. My men have food, but would be glad of fuel, and any other aid he may provide.”

  “It shall be done, majesty.”

  oOo

  As Elian mounted to the top of the pass, the lashing of sleet eased. The clouds boiled and broke, laying bare a deep cleft of valley amid mountain walls.

  Beyond the pass it divided like a stream flowing past a stone, one arm thrusting deep into the east, the other, shorter and higher, slanting into a treeless upland and a steep loom of cliff. The east way was the way to Asan-Garin, the Fortress of the Wolf: black trees and black stones, and at its head where the mountains met, a spur of the peaks. Men had built upon it, erecting walls and keep far above the floor of the vale.

  “Impressive,” Hal muttered beside her. “But what’s the use of a castle there if there’s none here, where anyone can come in?”

  Elian worked her numb fingers within her gloves, and settled deeper into the saddle. “Maybe people are supposed to come in. Have you ever seen a spider’s parlor?”

  “Cheerful child.” He grinned through the ice in his beard. “Race you down.”

  “In this?”

  He laughed and sent his grey over the edge at a pace just short of lethal. After an instant’s gathering pause, Ilhari launched herself after him.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “There’s why his lordship doesn’t need a castle here,” Elian said when she had got her breath back. She had won the race, plunging ahead even of the Mad One, skidding to a halt at the edge of the western meadow.

  It was high, and sloped higher, almost to the level of the pass; there the mountains opened. Man’s hand had touched it, or perhaps the hands of giants; as she drew closer she saw the vast stone gates open wide, seeming almost to be a part of the peak, save that no mountain wall boasted hinges of grey and rustless metal.

  The cavern was both broad and deep, smooth-floored, with hearths built at intervals along its walls and its center; from the air’s movement she thought there would be vents far above. There was ample room here for a hundred men, indeed for ten times as many.

  Hooves clattered behind her; voices woke echoes. “Magnificent,” breathed Mirain, halting by her side, springing from the Mad One’s back. “Look, there were lamps here once, set in the stone. And a stair— there. I wonder where—”

  “Sire!”

  He turned. Elian realized that the company could not see them. They were lost in the darkness beyond the cavern’s center, seeing with witch-eyes where mortal sight was useless.

  Light blazed. Mirain had stripped the glove from his right hand. The shadows fled from a mighty vault of smoothed stone, a hall of giants.

  And giants there were, marching upon the far wall. An army, deep carven: men like the tribesmen of the north, tall and high-nosed and proud; chariots drawn by strange beasts, cats and broad-horned bulls and winged direwolves; women riding on huge birds. Above them all rode a man in armor in a burning chariot, and drawing it yoked lions, their manes fanning like flames.

  Mirain’s mirth was light and free. “See! Even the giants of the old time knew my father.”

  Elian tilted her head back to study the carven god. His armor was strange, ornate, covering his whole body like a skin of jointed metal; over it he wore a long loose surcoat and a flowing cloak. But his head was bare, the hair blown into rays about it. “He has your face,” she said to Mirain.

  To the life; even to the slight curl at the corner of the mouth. Mirain had it now, examining his portrait that had been made long ages before he was born. “What an eagle’s beak I have!”

  “You,” she said severely, “are unspeakably vain.”

  “Isn’t he, now?”

  Elian almost laughed. As she leaped to set herself between Mirain and the voice, Mirain leaped to set himself before her. They ended shoulder to shoulder, swords drawn, points meeting at a throat some few handbreaths above their own.

  Their captive grinned white in a face as dark as any in Ianon, and lounged against the cavern’s wall. Torches, set alight, struck fire in his northern finery.

  “Vadin!” Mirain’s sword flashed into its sheath; his joy leaped with him into his oathbrother’s embrace.

  And died, thrusting him back, chilling his voice. “I sent you to hold the north. I remember no word of your meeting me here.”

  Vadin glanced at Elian. She stared back, refusing to flinch.

  Mirain looked from one to the other. His brows drew together. “Elian,” he said, soft and still.

  She sheathed her sword, taking her time about it. She did not think either of them could see her hand shake.

  She inclined her head to Vadin. “My lord. I trust you had a pleasant journey.”

  “Pleasant enough,” he answered, “considering. And you?”

  “The same.”

  “I see he finally got up the nerve to declare himself to you.”

  She tossed her head. “Nerve! He had nerve. He did it in front of his whole household. And even then I had to trick him into marrying me.”

  “That’s Mirain,” Vadin said, sighing. “With armies and kingdoms he puts an Asanian courtesan to shame. With women he goes all tongue-tied.”

  “Only at the beginning,” said Elian. “Once he had warmed to it . . .”

  “Elian.” Mirain’s tone was ominous in its gentleness. “What have you done?”

  She faced him. He was not angry. He was determined not to be. Because if he let go, even for a moment, he would flay her alive.

  She lifted her chin to its most maddening angle. “What do you think I’ve done?”

  There were words for it. One or two might have been acceptable outside of a guardroom.

  Vadin spared Mirain the trouble of uttering them. “I had a summons from my lady empress. It was concise. She had need of me. Would I meet her in Ashan?”

  Mirain’s breath left him in a hiss. His eyes glittered on Elian. “You don’t even like him.”

  “What does that have to do with it? My power says we need him. Therefore we have him. If nothing else,” she said, “he can give us a proper burial.”

  “They burn Ianyn kings,” Vadin informed her. And as they both glared: “Now see here
, children. This is a very clever trap, enticingly baited. I’ve had a day or two to sniff around it.” He stepped aside. His shadow bred men: great bearded Ianyn warriors who poured out of the mountain to overwhelm their king, drowning what more Vadin would have said, sweeping them all toward the hall’s hearth.

  Mirain’s own company was in and dismounted, settled well within where wind and sleet could not reach, tending their seneldi, freeing the packbeasts of their burdens. Adjan had found fuel, only he knew where or how, and built a fire in the central hearthpit. They all leaped up from it in the face of the invasion.

  “Peace,” said Mirain. “These are friends.”

  They settled slowly. Vadin’s barbarians eyed the southerners in open contempt, and took care to crouch well away from them, but as close to their king as they might come.

  Mirain’s barbarians, Elian noticed, had taken umbrage. They mingled conspicuously with their trousered comrades; they glowered at their kinsmen.

  She swallowed a smile as she sat between Mirain and Vadin. It boded well for the empire, that mingling and that outrage.

  And now they were three tight circles: the warriors of Ianon and the soldiers of the empire and the followers of the Lord Casien.

  The last huddled apart, surrounding their lord. Here in the mountain, with a hundred king’s men hemming them in, lounging about with hands never far from hilts, they had a taut and wary look. One, though shivering convulsively, tried to press a steaming cup on his master.

  Mirain beckoned to Halenan and Cuthan and a captain or two. They withdrew somewhat from the rest, leaning forward as Vadin finished what he had begun. “Yes,” he said, “this is a trap. The whole of Ashan is a trap, for the matter of that. The center of it is here.”

  “How do you know that?” Mirain asked. Curious; completely unafraid.

  “I feel it in my bones.” Vadin grinned, a baring of sharp teeth. “I’ve been exploring. This cavern is only an antechamber. The mountain behind it is a maze of tunnels. Most of them lead to nothing but blank walls. Some are traps; I lost a man learning it. One winds up to the Wolf’s castle. Its side ways are . . . interesting. And rather well guarded.