by Dave Duncan
She entered the Great Hall. She had not seen—had not even heard mention of—the Great Hall until the rehearsals began. She would believe anyone who told her it was the largest covered space in Pandemia.
Head up. No need to smile. No one could see.
On either hand stood the massed commonfolk worthies of Arakkaran in their finest finery; up ahead were the princes, from very young to very old, in green. The young outnumbered the old. All held their eyes forward, not turning around to gape at her. There was nothing to see but an iceberg.
The sun's sharp glare stabbed in through windows high overhead, to be diverted by filigree of marble and reflected from rib and pier and slab until it floated down upon the congregation like a mist of milk. All men. Kade would be on the platform, being official mother of the bride, and a side section had been reserved for Azak's sisters, few of whom Inos had ever met. Women played little part in even domestic affairs here, and the marriage of a sultan was not a domestic affair, it was state business. Kar had explained that. By rights this should be a political marriage—Azak should be wedding the daughter of some neighbor state, to cement an alliance. He was breaking a tradition and taking a risk by marrying an outsider, a homeless nobody. The official proclamation had named her as a queen, but who had been deceived?
Citherns and other instruments of torment twanged and whined faintly in an alien dirge . . . walk slowly . . .
Behind her, distant already, the great doors thumped shut with a reverberating impact like the end of the world, like the final reckoning of the Good and the Evil—The End! It rolled from arch to arch and pillar to pillar, raining echoes, fading away above the distant dais that was her destination.
Ahead of her white marble stretched, flat as a frozen canal, all the way to that dais where the rest of the wedding party waited. Back and center was the throne, and on the throne sat Rasha, victorious. She was even wearing royal green, although a very dark, lustrous green. Already Inos could see the hot red eyes above the filmy yashmak, the circlet of emeralds and pearls that was Rasha's only ornamentation, the crimson nails idly picking at the arms of the throne. She was girt in her illusions of youth and beauty. Inos had those, also, and by right.
Zarkian custom made one strange concession to womanhood, or motherhood—at weddings a woman presided from the throne. Had Azak's grandfather's wife been alive, she would have sat there until her replacement was installed. There being no true sultana at present, that throne should by rights stay empty until Azak led his bride to it at the end of the ceremony. But Rasha had insisted and Azak had consented without dispute. Her triumph complete, an ancient strumpet sat upon the throne of Arakkaran. What bitter satisfaction did it give her?
At least she had not tried to claim the royal sash, which still glittered green across the sultan's chest, and now he came in from one side, to stand and wait for his approaching bride. Tall and fierce and handsome, showing his eagle profile. Dear Azak?
Poor Azak! His long humiliation was over now, surely? He had served his seven days and nights of penance. Rasha would bait and harry him no more. Or would she? Inos had no guarantee of that; she had heard no promise. Must she share her husband with the twisted old harlot as well as with all the son-breeding women of his harem?
And tonight? What sort of replacement would Inos be? She had offered prayers that she would not disappoint him on his wedding night. She wanted to please him. She must trust him—he was certainly experienced.
He was handsome and virile and royal; and loved her. What more could a maiden's dreams require? This was a much richer land than Krasnegar. The God had promised her a happy ending.
She was almost at the steps. There was the iman, ancient and inclined to spray spittle. There was the ever-smiling, baby-face Kar, best man and vigilant bodyguard. There was young Prince Quarazak, proudly holding a green cushion, tall for his age. On the cushion lay the slender golden necklace that symbolized marriage in Zark. Inos had made a halfhearted effort to substitute a ring, Imperial style, but in Zark they preferred a necklace. Kade had been very upset when she heard of the necklace. Inos had tried to make a joke of it, claiming that a chain was merely less subtle than a ring, but they both meant much the same.
The whole Zarkian ceremony was less subtle. She mounted the two steps to the dais. She turned to face Azak, and Gutturaz steadied her as she knelt on the waiting cushion, awkward in her massive gown.
The music died and was buried in the sea-sound of the audience being seated.
The iman tottered forward, clutching a book. Azak advanced a few paces, flanked by Kar and shiny-eyed little Quarazak.
He couldn't see her face, but surely he could give her a smile? Kar was smiling.
It was amazing the sultan could move under all the jewels encrusting him. Even the fabulous emerald sash was dulled by their glory. He was absolute monarch of a rich kingdom.
And Inos was a nobody. She had explained that over and over to Kade.
Silence settled like the dust of the ages. Coughing and rustling faded. The last chair leg scraped harshly and alone.
The iman cleared his throat. He began.
Azak's responses rang out like the royal edicts they were. He promised many things: care, protection. Love.
Then it was her turn. Inos tried to make her voice carry, but she tried also not to shout.
She promised everything.
And Quarazak held out the cushion so the iman could bless the chain. He offered it then to his father and Azak reached for it, every link gleaming in the evening sunlight.
It slid out of reach again as the boy turned slightly to glance at the distant doors, puzzled. Then Azak heard what younger ears had heard first and looked that way, also. Kar . . . turbans in the audience were twisting around. A strange noise outside the hall?
Faint but coming closer? Shouting? Thuds?
Swords?
Azak turned his head to look at Rasha, and Rasha was frowning above the green gauze silk of her yashmak.
Rasha sprang to her feet.
Then the doors opened.
The ornate bar shattered in a cloud of flying splinters. The doors were hurled open, blasted open as if struck by a tidal wave or a thunderbolt. They flew back on their hinges and their impact with the walls battered every ear a second time. Echoes rolled unending.
The golden chain slid unnoticed from the cushion to the floor. Every eye was turned on the tumult in the entrance.
And in through the doorway came . . . the hindquarters of an enormous black horse.
Out of the West:
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And, save his good broadsword, he weapon had none,
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
Scott, Lochinvar
FOURTEEN
Tumult, and shouting
1
For a long, breathless moment the whole congregation was frozen in place, from Rasha and Azak down to the tiniest princeling, fascinated spectators of the battle raging in the doorway.
If that horse was not Evil himself, it was one of his brothers, yet the man on his back was handling him with the precision of an artist's brush—Azak himself could not control a mount like that. Whole cohorts of family men were striking and slashing at the intruder, but man and horse together held them off. The rider's sword danced like a silver mist, first on one side, then the other. Blades clamoring in unbroken carillon; the stallion whirled and clattered on slippery marble, but his hooves and teeth and bulk were part of the fight, and if he really was Evil, then the family men would be treating him with much greater care than they were trying to extend to the stranger.
The audience leaped to its feet in a crash of falling chairs, and those nearest the doors began to push away.
One guard stopped a full rear kick, and reacted
much as the doors had. A chakram whined through the air like a deadly sunbeam, but the intended victim flicked it aside with his sword, parried a thrust on his right, slashed down an assailant on his left, deflected a lance. Bodies lay in disarray outside the room and were starting to pile up inside, as well. Another man screamed and dropped his sword, then toppled over, even as the horse slammed into two more, spilling them aside. The rider ducked a second chakram, and airborne death flashed across the hall over the heads of hundreds of people. Horseshoes screeched on marble . . .
"Hold!" Rasha's voice rang out with the power of a bugle.
The battle stopped. The spectators froze again. So did the combatants.
Cautiously the rider backed his horse out from the petrified forest of his assailants. Satisfied that they were no longer dangerous, he turned the stallion and let him prance forward, high-stepping up the aisle. His passage dragged a ripple through the congregation, as heads turned to watch—Inos could see only faces beyond him, only turbans in front. More faces emerged from behind pillars.
The newcomer slid his sword back into its scabbard still bloody; he pulled an arm across his forehead.
The horse was indeed Evil, greatest of the midnight stallions that only Azak might ride, the pride of the royal stables. He was shivering and foaming, rolling eyes and baring teeth. His hooves clicked and skittered on the slippery stone, yet the shabby-looking rider had him in perfect control. He reached the space before the dais. Now all the audience was behind him, all faces.
Inos did not even dare look at Azak to see how he was reacting to this sacrilege, and she was staring in growing disbelief at the intruder. This was sorcery.
Then she saw that Evil bore no harness, no saddle.
Bareback! She had only ever known one man who—
Not again!
She surged to her feet, hindered and unbalanced by the weight of lace. She staggered, steadied, stared at the bashful little half smile, the ludicrous raccoon tattoos, the unkempt tangle of brown hair soaked with sweat. No! Impossible! He was dead! She swayed, the hall darkened. Again? The sun had not set yet; wraiths did not haunt in daylight. She had gone mad. She was hallucinating.
Then the intruder leaned forward, swung his leg, and dropped to the floor at Evil's side. He staggered, steadying himself against the steaming, heaving black flank. His clothes were filthy and soaked and blood-spattered. He was convulsed by his efforts to breathe, pumping air in and out in harsh gasps as loud as those of his horse. Sweat trickled down his face, and every few seconds he would wipe it with a brawny bare forearm.
Nevertheless he squared his shoulders and straightened. He bowed unsteadily to Inos. His glance wandered between Azak and Rasha a couple of times. He stretched his tattoos slightly at the sight of Azak's finery, then chose Rasha and bowed to her. And finally to Azak.
The hall was filled with a silent, staring multitude, and still no one had spoken a word. The loudest noise in the room was the intruder's breathing.
"The faun!" said Rasha. "How interesting."
Again Rap smiled faintly, his usual diffident little smile that . . .
No! No! No!
"That faun is dead!" Inos shouted. "This is foul, cruel sorcery. Queen Rasha? Is this your doing?"
The green-shrouded sorceress shook her head, and Inos could not tell if that was anger or amusement glinting in those ruby eyes. And Azak . . . Inos quailed. Never had she seen such fury. Veins bulged on a scarlet face. He quivered, holding himself in by precarious power of will. The state wedding was a shambles, pomp had become farce, and no sultan of Arakkaran had ever been so shamed before his court.
"It is sorcery," Rasha said. "But not mine. Who are you?"
"I'm Rap, ma'am." He panted, then continued. "There are some wounded men out there. I may even have killed a couple. I hope I didn't—"
"Leave them!" Azak roared. "It will be a kindness."
Rasha shrugged. The petrified guards at the door thawed back to life. Seeing the orderly discussion in progress at the dais, they began shamedly sheathing their swords and stooped to tend their wounded.
The audience seemed to shimmer in doubt and uncertainty. Then chairs scraped and clattered as the guests resumed their seats.
"Rap is dead!" Inos shouted . . . screamed? "You can't be Rap!"
He smiled up at her wistfully, then patted the mighty foam-spattered shoulder beside him. "Master-of-horse and sergeant-at-arms both?"
Oh, Gods! Inos felt her knees start to buckle, and then Kade was at her side, holding her. Oh, blessed Kade! She clung tight. Rap? Not dead? Really Rap?
Idiot Rap! Maniac Rap! He'd fallen into the power of some sorcerer, and was being used to disrupt Azak's wedding, and, and . . . Except that this whole monstrous disaster had a horribly Rappian sort of feel to it. Just the sort of thing . . .
"Whose work is this?" Azak asked hoarsely, of Rasha.
She shrugged again. "Speak, boy."
Rap was gazing witlessly at Inos. "Are you married?" he asked in a very small voice.
"Yes," she said. "No. I mean—"
"Oh."
Was that all he could say? Returning from the dead? Disrupting a solemn occasion of state? Turning her whole world upside—Oh, that was nonsense! It couldn't be Rap. Not the same Rap. Not all the way from Krasnegar in less than half a year.
Azak reached for his scimitar, but Rasha held out a hand, warning him not to draw.
Rap licked his lips. "I bring a message to Queen Inosolan."
"From whom?" Azak roared.
"From . . . from . . . I don't seem able to be answer that, your Majesty."
A handsbreadth of blade emerged before Azak was again stopped by Rasha. "He's been blocked, but it's very shallow. There . . ."
"Thank you!" Rap said politely. "From Warlock Lith'rian, your Majesty. Majesties."
Azak hissed in surprise.
"Let us hear this message, then," Rasha said.
Why was she so poised? Her eyes were gleaming, but her fingers were relaxed, and there was no air of anger or alarm. Her calm was astonishing. She was behaving like . . . like Kade, or someone.
Inos hugged Kade a little tighter, and felt the hug returned. She could not take her eyes off Rap. Her cheeks felt wet and she had no idea what her face looked like, so it was fortunate that no one could see it anyway. Except Rasha, of course.
And Rap. Oh, damn!
He was deeper, broader than he had been. And more confident. Manly. Not big like Azak, or a jotunn, but bigger than an imp. Or a pixie. Why did she think of pixies? Ugly flat noses?
Rap on a white horse in her dream. When had she dreamed that? Several times, maybe.
"His Omnipotence said I should come and tell Queen Inos—"
"Silence!" Azak drew his sword all the way.
"Put that back," Rasha said brusquely, "If you go against the faun, he'll cut you to confetti. In fact . . ."
Azak's scimitar vanished, and Rap's sword, and Kar's, also. The whole hall was disarmed then, for the wedding guests bore no weapons. The horse shivered into motion, clattering around and heading for the door, where the platoon of the family men fidgeted in baffled rage—and likely in fear, knowing that Azak's vengeance would be bloody. They parted to let Evil leave. In a moment the doors closed as the last of the shamed and discredited guards followed the horse out.
By now the ceremony should have been long over, the guests on their way to the wedding feast. The light from the high windows was fading, and blushing, spreading blood on the vaults and pillars. Shadows drifted in like vultures coming to a massacre.
The departure of the horse left Rap looking small and lonely. He stood on the floor; the others were all on the dais, two steps up.
"Better," Rasha said.
"He wants a good rubdown," Rap agreed, folding his arms as if relieved of a worry.
"I meant . . . Well, speak up, Master Rap. The message?"
"That message will be delivered in private!" Azak snapped. "And messages to my wife come to me fi
rst."
Rap stretched his tattoos again at that and looked quizzically up at Inos. "Are you truly married, your Majesty, and did you do this of your own free will?"
Her mouth was full of sand. "Yes. And yes." Of course her choices had been limited, but she would not admit that now. A stableboy would not understand politics, of course. All Rap would see in Azak at the moment would be glittering riches. And big male animal.
What Rap thought did not matter at all.
Azak growled in fury. He took two strides back to the middle of the dais, snatched up the gold chain where it had fallen, and stamped over to Inos. She bowed her head in acceptance and he dropped the necklace over it. Then he marched back to the edge of the platform. "She is certainly married now, and if you address one more word to her, I will have you broken on the wheel."
Rap pursed his lips and shrugged. He had almost stopped panting and he seemed to be accepting the situation, accepting that he had arrived too late.
Too late for what!
"The warlock's message?" Rasha said calmly.
"He told me to tell Queen Inosolan to . . . to trust in love."
Inos recoiled as if she had been struck, and again Kade's arms steadied her. She pushed them away angrily. How dare he burst into her wedding like this! How dare he throw such vicious slurs! Yes, she had kissed him when they were children together; now he had turned her wedding into a circus and a bloodbath, and he wanted to lecture her about love?
Recklessly she threw up her veil and turned to face Azak, fearing she might be as pale as the lace enshrouding her. For her he had groveled before the hateful sorceress. Why else, if not for love?
"I have always trusted in love," she declared loudly. "And I still do."