For the second time in her life, Mirana said, her voice calm and steady, “I accept you, sire, and pray that you will know happiness with me. I will be your queen and the mother of your sons. I, Mirana, daughter of Audun, swear it before all our gods and all our people.”
He leaned down and kissed her mouth. His lips were cold and dry. His breath was hot and smelled of his frailty, musty and strangely dry. She made no move, merely stood there, pliant, silent. It seemed to please him, this utter submissiveness of hers.
He whispered against her left temple, “You are shy and that pleases me. You are a virgin, you know nothing of men and what they demand. I will show you, Mirana, and then you will please me, and all will know that you have succeeded, for your belly will swell with my son. Hormuze has promised it. Ah, and when you awaken on the morrow, it will not be this old man’s body beside you, but a young man, strong and hale. I will be as I used to be and you will be greatly pleased for it is you who will have renewed me.”
She heard his words but she didn’t understand. He believed by tomorrow he would again be a young man? Surely this was madness. Such a thing wasn’t possible, not in this world, not with these gods overseeing the affairs of men.
“Aye,” he said, his voice still low and soft, “this is why you are my bride, Mirana. Only you. It is you who will restore my youth and my strength. Only you. Hormuze has promised and he is never wrong. He is a mystic, a priest of an alien religion, and he comes from a faraway land where such things are understood, where such things are common occurrences. He has promised and you will believe him as I do.”
She looked at Hormuze then. She’d never seen a man more contained, so held within himself. She knew he’d overheard the king’s words. Was he frightened of his mad promise? Surely he couldn’t possibly believe it. None of it made any sense. Surely upon the morrow, the king would be as he was now, and he would see that nothing had changed. Would he not then kill Hormuze?
Einar said loudly to all those assembled in the longhouse, “We will have wine and ale and mead now. The women have prepared a feast, sire, and we will eat now until you wish to take my sister away.”
The king smiled at Einar. “You have done well. You are now my brother and you will gain by it, as I have promised you. Once I have regained my vigor, you and I will crush the Irish chieftains who still threaten our lands and our trade.
“But now, I have no wish to befoul my body with drink. I will take your sister—and my wife—away. Hormuze has constructed a boat from his homeland, a royal conveyance that sails upon the Nile. There is a sumptuous chamber on this barge that is furnished with silks and pillows and precious carpets. It is covered as if a fine chamber from the chill of the night and from any rain. It is there I will take my bride now.”
The king was holding her hand as if he feared that to release it would cause his death. The bones hurt from the strength of his grip. Einar came to her then, leaned down, and kissed her cheek. He said quietly against her left temple, “You will survive, Mirana. Pretend to a virgin’s pain and all will be well. Do not forget or we will both know death.”
Hormuze said nothing, merely nodded to the king, stepping back and walking away, an old man who was bowed with weariness, his feet shuffling, his shoulders stooped.
“There will be a feast served us on board the barge,” Sitric said to her as he led her from the longhouse. “Then I will dismiss the servants and you will be able to come to me as I bid you to.”
She nodded. If he believed her shy, so be it. She felt so deep a pain, a helplessness so profound, she didn’t know if she even wanted to survive it. But she would, she had to.
She wanted Rorik. She wanted her husband. She had to hold to that else she would go mad, perhaps reach the depth of madness that possessed this old man. She would not allow the thought to intrude that Rorik didn’t want her, that he had rejoiced when she had disappeared. No, he had come after her. She clung to that belief even as she thought of ways to escape this old man with his too hot breath and his age-spotted hands.
“Ah, Hormuze, you are here. I am glad. Is she not beautiful, this new queen of mine?”
“Aye, sire, she is beyond beautiful. She holds a spiritual beauty, nearly a rebirth of a beauty, so incandescent that it overflows the soul.”
“What you say is poetic, my friend, but not to the point. She is my wife now. It is done just as you said it must be done. It matters not that I wanted her sooner. Once I’ve taken her maidenhead, once I’ve spilled my seed in her, I will be young again, and on the morrow, and all will see me as I was once, as I am now, and as I will be in the future. You have planned this, have you not, Hormuze? All my men will be awaiting my appearance in the morning? They are eager and ready for my transformation?”
“Aye, sire, they are ready. Excitement runs high. All are praying for this. Despite my warnings to you of the misalignment and confusion of the relevant signs and the position of the stars and their houses, I know all will go well. You are a great king; the gods will heed you and not spin things awry.”
“I pray that you speak true,” Sitric said. His eyes narrowed. “Truth, my friend, the ultimate value to a man and to a king. Without it, there would be chaos. Without it, you would be dead. Do you understand me, Hormuze?”
“Aye, sire, I understand you very well.”
Mirana said nothing. She stared from one old man to the other. Hormuze was a priest of some sort, mayhap more likely a wizard, and he’d promised the king his youth. It was amazing. It was also more real to her now than it had been before, for now she was a part of it, an integral part. She felt a spurt of cold, felt the hair on her neck bristle at the strangeness of this. It wasn’t customary or expected, therefore it must have come from the gods or from the nether demons. She was to be the agent by which all this came about. She looked again at Hormuze. He was staring at her, his eyes blacker than the night, deep and expectant, and there was something else there, a tenderness, a light of possessiveness, but no, that couldn’t be right. How odd that she would think that. No, there was nothing there, nothing save prayer in an old man’s eyes that his hide would remain on his aged body when the king remained a frail old man on the morrow.
The king nodded to Hormuze and the old man seated himself at their table. He clapped his hands. Young boys, all clad in white and silver, their hair braided in a dozen slender ropes, their feet bare, brought in silver and gold trays. There was wine from the land south of Kiev, the king told her, as he himself filled her silver goblet. There were grapes as green as her eyes, the king told her, as he insisted on feeding some to her.
The boys were well trained, silent, and all of them looked very foreign.
Hormuze dismissed them, finally. He seemed content to sit back in his chair, watch the king act like an old besotted fool with his young bride, and sip at his wine. Hormuze rose finally and poured the king another glass from a bottle beside him.
“I bid you drink this potion, sire. It will aid you in your dealings with this woman. It will begin your ascension.”
The king laughed. He was giddy with his power, with the anticipation of what would soon be his. He looked at Mirana, then grabbed her, pulling her onto his lap. His hands found her breasts and began to knead them furiously. His mouth found hers, and again, it pleased him that she was quiescent. In truth, she wanted to kill him, but she knew she had to bide her time. She had to wait until they were alone. Then she would act. What she would do, she as yet had no idea. But it would be something. She wouldn’t lie under this old fool like a lump, whimpering away her courage. She would kill him if she had to.
“Sire, you must drink.”
Hormuze sounded to Mirana’s ear to be impatient, nearly angry, but that was surely odd. She waited until the king was finished with her. She gave him a scared look that pleased him, she could see that it did, for he looked as proud as a new father.
He set her back into her chair. His hand skimmed over her breasts to her belly. She drew back, but he said, “Nay, stay
still.” He massaged her belly through her gown, then lowered his hand to cup over her. She wanted to scream at him, she wanted to fling herself at him, for she was the stronger, she knew it, and she could kill him with her own hands, but she held herself perfectly still. Not yet, not yet. Then the king raised the goblet and lifted it to her and then to Hormuze. “My old friend, all will continue. Your rewards will exceed your dreams.”
“I pray it will be so, sire. Indeed, I am certain that it will be so.”
He drank deep, his throat working, the flaccid skin folding and pleating with each swallow. When he finished the potion, he wiped his hand across his mouth and slammed the goblet onto the table.
“You said you had to prepare her, Hormuze. Do it now, for I do not wish to wait longer.”
He turned to Mirana. “Go with him, my beautiful child. He will tell you what you will do. I wish you to wear the white gown, for it is pure, like you. Pure like you will render me. Hormuze, the gown is beyond, lying on the pillows. I put it there myself, just as you told me to.”
Hormuze merely nodded. He stretched out his hand to Mirana. She looked at that hand, looked closely. There was an odd sort of smear all across the back of his right hand. He followed the line of her vision. He jerked back his hand, but said nothing.
“Come,” he said, his left hand still there, waiting for her to take.
“Hurry,” the king said. “Hurry.”
Mirana didn’t touch him. She rose quickly, and looked up. Hormuze was frowning at her. She quickly dropped her gaze. She followed him through a doorway hung with silk draperies. She stopped dead in her tracks.
The small chamber was like nothing she’d ever seen in her life, or imagined. All the walls were lined with red silk. The floor was covered with thick wool carpets, all patterned with deep reds and blues and creams. And there were thick soft pillows upon which to recline, all of vibrant colors. Upon which she would recline with the king, who believed he was her husband, but he wasn’t.
Hormuze picked up the white gown and handed it to her. “Take off your clothes and put this on,” he said.
She stared at him, then at the sheer white silk gown. “I will but you must leave.”
He smiled, and not an old man’s sour smile. No, there was a flair of triumph in his black eyes.
“I won’t look at you, but I won’t leave,” he said. He sat down on one of the thick pillows. His motion was graceful and quick.
Mirana picked up the white gown and stepped as far away from him as she could.
“While you change, I will tell you what will happen,” he said. Did his voice sound somehow deeper? She shook her head and quickly stripped off her clothes. The silk slithered over her head and down her body. It felt obscene against her cold flesh.
He turned and fell silent staring at her. “Loosen your hair,” he said.
She unbraided the thick coils and smoothed her fingers through her hair, but the deep ripples remained.
“Aye,” he said. “Just a bit of kohl at your eyes and you will look just like her. She was as soft and gentle as a summer rain that dampened the earth of the Lufta Valley. She gave me all I ever wanted.”
“What are you talking about?”
He rose gracefully to his feet. She knew then as sure as she knew herself. This was no old man who faced her, triumph gleaming in his black eyes.
“The king expects me to instruct you, to teach you how to arouse his old manhood, but I won’t. He will never touch you, I swear it.”
Suddenly there was a loud crash from the outer chamber.
“It is about time,” Hormuze said, not moving. “He took long enough.”
But then the silk hanging was ripped aside. The king stood there, weaving on his feet, his face red as blood, his eyes covered with an opaque white film, his throat working wildly for he couldn’t breathe. “You,” he said, staring toward Hormuze.
“Aye, sire,” Hormuze said. “You are still standing. I gave you enough poison to send you on your way in but a moment. You have more strength than I thought you would. The years bred a strong will in you.”
The king hovered between death and bafflement, and he knew it. “I trusted you. I took you in, listened to you, and made you powerful. Why do you kill me?”
“Kill you, sire? Ah, surely not. On the morrow, all will occur just as I told you it would, just as you told all your warriors it would. You will indeed appear before all your men, transformed into a young man as you once were. Behold yourself, sire.”
Hormuze pulled off his beard, ripped open his tunic and unstrapped the padding from his waist. He stripped off all his clothes, then he rubbed at the cosmetics on his face.
Then he smiled, a beautiful smile, a foreign smile, for he had the look of a man not of the north. Ah, but he was a beautiful man. Lean, his body whipcord strong, his muscles strong within his man’s prime.
“I resemble the man you once were, do I not? At least that is what I was told before I came to you, and when I came, sire, I knew even then what I would do, for I had seen her. She was very young, only fifteen as I recall, and she didn’t see me. And I knew then what must be. Aye, look upon my man’s body, young and vigorous, aye, sire, and I will breed sons off her, sons who will rule Ireland and beyond and into the future, just as I told you. Aye, look at me, for soon you will be dead. Since I was never a spoiled little princeling as you were, granted all I wanted with no restraint, no rules, I have no fat on my body, no arrogant moods to make those about me fear me, no belief in how I am more clever than any other man in the land. But I do look enough like you, sire. On the morrow, all will cheer and all will bless Hormuze, the advisor, truly a wizard, who, once he had accomplished your rebirth, he disappeared, perhaps to reappear again in the centuries to come in some other strange land where he will once again work his wondrous magic.”
Sitric stared at him, at the young man who stood naked and proud before him. “I will kill you,” he said, “I will whip you until you are naught but bone and blood at my feet.” He worked his mouth, but there were no more words and no more breath. He fell to the floor, his hands clutching his neck, then his arms were falling away, curling at his sides.
Hormuze walked to him and knelt down. “He is dead. By all the gods, the old fool is finally dead.”
He rose and turned to Mirana. “I know this shocks you. I know you don’t as yet understand. Trust me, that is all I ask. You are pale and afraid, for all this is strange. I am sorry, I had hoped he would die silently, in the other chamber, alone, without you to see him.”
Mirana looked at Hormuze and said calmly, “I am pale, it is true, but I am not frightened. The king is dead, not I. You have played a drama before me and now I understand some of it. But I ask you, Hormuze, why did you select me of all women? You say you saw me when I was very young and began your plans. Why me?”
He smiled at her, and the smile was filled with longing, soft and sweet, but it wasn’t a smile that belonged to her, that belonged with her, in this chamber. It was a smile of long ago.
He said simply, “Because you are the image of my dead wife. Her name was Naphta and she served a great lady of our country. Aye, I speak of Egypt—” He said a word whose sound was utterly foreign to her ears. “She died because this lady was jealous of her, hated her because her lord husband wanted Naphta. She was sly, very sly. She stuck a huza knife—’tis a very small pointed blade—into the base of Naphta’s neck, beneath her thick black hair, knowing no one would discover it. But I did. When I had my beautiful wife in my arms, I examined her and found the small prick and felt the stiff strands of bloody hair. Aye, the lady killed her, just as she had killed others who surpassed her in beauty. She killed my beautiful Naphta. I let it be known that I knew what she had done, even spoke of how she’d done it. I knew then that she would kill me too. I escaped just before her assassins came to kill me and my small daughter, Eze. I came here to the north to seek my fortune. And I found it.”
Mirana just stared at him, unable to believe him,
to comprehend his motives. “I look like your dead wife? All this planning, this elaborate scheme and the king’s murder just because I look like another woman? By the gods, this is madness.”
He looked at her with less softness now. “You do not sound like her, but you will soon enough with my tutelage. She never questioned me, never considered any wishes but mine. Her tongue was never sharp in disagreement with me, and you will change, Mirana, doubt it not.
“Aye, her image is preserved in my mind and before mine eyes every day of my life, for our daughter will grow into her image as well. There is already a great resemblance between you and my little Eze, not really in her physical features, but in moments when she is silent and looking off into her dreams. And when she smiles. Then I will have both of you to look upon. I will have my Naphta back with me. I will also have a kingdom and power and wealth. And I will share it with you, Mirana. You did wed with the king. I am now he. Behold your husband and your king. I am now Sitric.”
30
SO MUCH WAS happening, too much, and she was reeling with all that he’d said, all that the king had said. She stared at him now, unable to accept his utter confidence in himself at what he’d done and what he expected others to do. He saw nothing save what he wanted to see, would accept nothing beyond what he had commanded.
“Surely you cannot believe that the people will affirm that you are the king. They would wish to believe it, for it is a magical thing, this rebirth you convinced the king to believe, but the people won’t accept it, not once they look at you, not once they are standing close to you. You look foreign, different from us.”
“Do you forget so quickly that you believed me an old man, that all those—including the king—have believed me an ancient relic, an advisor, some even saw me as some sort of priest? They will see and accept, for I will continue to disguise myself and each day I will use less and less disguise. Only you will see me as I truly am, each night, when we come together. Aye, they will become familiar with me, you will see. Soon, very soon, they will be shouting their enthusiasm that I am reborn and given back to them by that magician, Hormuze.”
Lord of Hawkfell Island Page 28