The Nonborn King

by Julian May

  Mind-smiling, holding up a hand in welcome, Moreyn came riding around the saline monolith on the landward side, saw the raft, and finally recognized the guild-brother with the shielded mind who had summoned him.

  "Lord Battlemaster!" he gasped, dumfounded. The chalikos slipped out of his uncertain coercive grip and began to shy from the glowing body that lay on the white sand. "Steady, damn you!" Moreyn shrilled.

  Nodonn opened his eyes. The two animals seemed to turn to stone. Moreyn struggled down out of the tall saddle and knelt beside the supine form.

  "Let me cover you with my cloak! Are you thirsty? Here—my flask! Goddess—what happened to your hand?"

  "It's ... a long tale, Psychokinetic Brother. Thanks for coming. I'm nearly used up." He took a long pull from the water flask and sank back upon the sand. Moreyn fussed about, tucking his cloak under the Battlemaster's legs and torso. Nodonn wore his suit of armor padding, now salt-stained and torn. His exposed skin was badly sunburnt.

  "We thought you were dead! This is wonderful!" Moreyn's face fell. "I mean—it's terrible! The Lowlife usurper, Aiken Drum, has forced us to accept him as King. He went from one city to another with his army, threatening us. No one could stand up to him and survive. In Var-Mesk, I blush to admit that we were all craven before the Shining One save Miakonn Healerson alone. Oh, how proud you would have been to see his defiance, Battlemaster! It was hopeless, of course, but magnificently true to the traditions of the battle-company. Miakonn waited until the usurper was far gone in drink, and then called him to account! It was a bold ploy and might have succeeded had not the treacherous Interrogator—" The Glasscrafter broke off.

  "Peace, Brother," Nodonn reassured him. "I am well aware that Culluket has betrayed the Host. I know what he did to Miakonn, and why you are now city-lord in his place."

  Moreyn bit his lower lip, his mind veiled in shamed misery.

  Nodonn reached out. "Never mind, Brother. You have always been an excellent glass technician." He nodded toward the raft with its crude sail of stitched skins. There was a bundle lashed to one of the crossbraces. "See there? It's the armor you fashioned for me three hundred long years ago. I've managed to lose one gauntlet. You'll have to make me another before I take to the field."

  "You'll defy the usurper?" Moreyn was transfigured.

  "Today, I'm a sorry excuse for a Battlemaster. But I'll mend. For more than six months I was cast away on Kersic, bereft of my senses and beyond reach of any farsightful knowledge. Now only two Tanu know of my existence: Lady Mercy-Rosmar and you."

  "She is married to the Lowlife King," Moreyn lamented, "and crowned his Queen."

  "Peace," said Nodonn again, easing the city-lord's mental turmoil. "Mercy bides with the usurper because I have instructed her to make no move until the time is ripe. She remains faithful to me in her secret heart and eventually we will be reunited. I plan to reclaim all that is mine. Will you assist me to that end, Moreyn?"

  "I would give my life for you, Battlemaster—poor thing that it is. But you know how pitiful my aggressive faculties are. Aiken Drum would not even have me accompany his Quest to Koneyn ..."

  "I know he's after the Spear. And fresh gold tores to decorate his puny-minded rabble-in-arms—much good may they do him!"

  Moreyn's glance kept straying to the wooden hand, which he regarded with singular apprehension. "We don't have a healer in Var-Mesk qualified to tend your wound, Battlemaster. So many redactors perished in the Flood. The nearest practitioner with the competence—the nearest trustworthy Skin artisan—is Boduragol of Afaliah."

  "He who has charge of my Host Brother, Kuhal. Yes, I know of him." Nodonn flexed the fingers of the prosthesis, smiling slightly. "But don't worry, Moreyn. This makeshift works well enough. If I go into Skin, I'd be nine months growing another. Too long to he idle when my metapsychic powers are fast returning and destiny cads. I think that my hand's full healing may have to be postponed until I settle the hash of that Lord of Misrule over in Goriah!"

  Moreyn's mouth dropped open. He projected sheer calamity. "Oh, no, Battlemaster! You mustn't delay the healing! Why—no one would rally to you!"

  "You think not?" The Battlemaster was puzzled.

  "My Lord, perhaps you have forgotten ..."

  "Pull yourself together, man," Nodonn snapped. "Explain—or at least open your damn mind so I can see for myself what you cavil at."

  The timid screening lifted and Nodonn read plainly the tenet of the battle-religion that had not been invoked for thousands of years on lost Duat—and never since the Tanu had come to the Many-Colored Land: No one who was not perfect in shape might aspire to the kingship.

  Nodonn laughed. "This is your objection? This piece of antiquated flummery? When our throne is profaned by a Lowlife upstart?"

  "It is the law," whispered Moreyn, with the stubbornness of the meek. "Aiken-Lugonn is lawfully elected by the plenary session of vassals, and he was the chosen of Mayvar Kingmaker—exotic though his blood may be. And as to that it has been said that he was not of human woman born, but engendered through some miracle of Elder Earth."

  "A test-tube baby nurtured in an artificial womb," scoffed the Battlemaster. "No miracle. There are many such among the humans."

  But Moreyn pushed on. "My Lady Glanluil, who attended the Grand Loving in my place when I was taken ill, says that even stranger things were hinted at by the Interrogator at the wedding feast. He said—he said that both the King—I mean, Aiken-Lugonn—and Queen Mercy-Rosmar have true Tanu genes in their germ plasm!"

  "Aiken Drum, kin to us? Chaliko flop!" But the Battlemaster felt his spine freeze. He knew for a fact that Mercy's heritage was more Tanu than human. The prodigy had been proven by Greg-Donnet Genetics Master long before the latter's defection.

  "The Interrogator is a life-scientist," Moreyn said, "and he has gained great knowledge of these arcane matters after consultation with human specialists. He said that recent genetic assays have shown that virtually all of the humans here in the Many-Colored Land who possess metapsychic traits also have a preponderance of Tanu or Firvulag genes. There is some mysterious power at work, linking our race with that of the Lowlives."

  "Impossible! Humanity's direct evolutionary ancestor is the small ramapithecine ape that we use as a servant. Would we foul our blood by mating with animals? Never! And these lowly hominids will not even begin to approach rationality for more than five million years. Long before that, we will have vanished from this melancholy planet"

  "Can you be certain?" asked Moreyn.

  Struck silent Nodonn beheld in memory a pathetic pair of elderly humans—the rebel general Angélique Guderian and her consort Claude, held captive in the moments before he permitted them to pass back through the time-gate to death. The old man had dared to defy him. Upon hearing the Battlemaster's command, "Go back where you came from," Claude had uttered a baffling reply that now hung vivid and shorn of paradox:

  You fool. We came from here.

  "Madness!" said Nodonn angrily.

  Moreyn went on. "These humans have legends. Myths about races of Old Ones who existed on Earth for long aeons before mankind arose—and who persisted as a pitiful and despised remnant even into the years immediately preceding the Galactic Milieu. Humans gave many names to these Old Ones: demons, faeries, gods, giants, elves. But all over the precoadunate Earth, primitive humans were convinced that the Old Ones existed. And that they mated, from time to time, with humanity."

  "Madness!" Nodonn repeated. "I forbid you to speak of it further." He climbed unsteadily to his feet, kicking aside Moreyn's cloak. "Lead the spare chaliko to that lump of salt so that I may use it as a mounting block."

  Moreyn hastened to bring up the animal; but he was constrained to finish his speech. "I think that all of this is an unlikely tale, Battlemaster. But other Tanu do not, and most especially, neither do the hybrids. The legend, the rationale of our kinship with humanity, makes the bitter pill of Lowlife ascendancy easier to swallow."

  "I'll gi
ve them another kind of medicine," Nodonn declared. "Get that armor bundle and lash it to my saddle. Do you know what's inside? The holy Sword! The weapon I wielded in my first confrontation with the usurper—and intend to wield again, victoriously! Then we'll see who dares prate of lost hands and Nonborn Kings and bastard descendants of the Tanu returning through the length of time to mate with their own forebears!"

  The hapless Moreyn cringed. Nodonn's body glowed a raging solar gold, its brilliance on the threshold of pain. "Oh, take care lest the Foe detect you, Battlemaster! Take care!"

  The aura was instantly extinguished. "You're right, old friend. My vehemence is rash. Stupid. Mercy warned me that the usurper's spies are everywhere. From now on, I'll guard myself well. I would not put you in jeopardy."

  "Oh, who cares about me?" the Glasscrafter moaned. "My life means nothing. Yours means everything!" He fumbled ineffectively with the stirrup of his own chaliko, tried to mount as the beast danced, then gave up and wafted himself ignominiously into the saddle with his PK and made haste to fasten the dicky strap. Nodonn was careful not to smile.

  "You are my charge, Battlemaster," Moreyn said. "I have a sacred obligation to shelter you until Lord Celadeyr and Queen Mercy-Rosmar can come for you and take you to safety in Afaliah." He sent a plea for forbearance toward the flawed titan, whose face was now lost in the moonlight's shadow. "I have prepared a secret hiding place for you where I can minister to your needs myself. I'm afraid that you'd find your confinement tedious, for the chamber is small, in a deep subbasement of the glassworks. But if you can restrain your battle ardor for a little longer, be patient—"

  "Recently, I have had much experience practicing patience."

  "—then, the Good Goddess willing, your body as well as your metapsychic strength will be restored, and you will fulfill your great destiny."

  Nodonn bowed his head. "I'm in your hands, Moreyn. From now on, command me and I obey."

  The Glasscrafter heaved a relieved sigh. "Oh, that's fine. We'd head for home right away. You direct both chalikos, if you don't mind."

  "Of course," said the Battlemaster.

  Side by side, their gaits perfectly synchronized, the two huge animals began to trot along the strand toward Var-Mesk.

  6

  "THEY'RE COMING! They're coming!" Calistro the goatboy shouted as he dashed up the length of Hidden Springs Canyon, his charges forgotten. "Sister Amerie and the Chief and a lot of others!"

  People swarmed from the cottages and huts, calling out to one another in excitement. A long train of riders was wending its way into the village outskirts.

  Old Man Kawai heard the commotion and stuck his head from the door of Madame Guderian's rose-covered house beneath the pines. He sucked air through his teeth.

  "She comes!"

  A small cat came running from the box under the table, nearly tripping him when he spun about to snatch up a paring knife. "I must cut flowers and hurry to greet her!" He pointed a stern finger at the cat. "And you—see that your kittens are groomed so that you do not disgrace both of us!"

  The gauze-screened door slammed. Muttering to himself, the old man chopped off an armful of the heavy June rose clusters, then rushed down the path scattering pink and scarlet petals behind him.

  ***

  There were sentimental reunions with old friends for Peopeo Moxmox Burke, Basil Wimborne, and Amerie Roccaro, who were hailed as heroes of the Lowlife liberation; and a fervent welcome was extended to the thirty daredevil pilots, technicians, and specialists of whom there were such great expectations. This group was instandy dubbed "Basil's Bastards" by Denny Johnson, commander of the Lowlife defensive forces, much to the flusteration of the alpinist ex-don.

  After a gratifying interlude at the community bathhouse, the new arrivals were honored at a gala fish fry and strawberry shortcake feast that was hastily contrived by Marialena Torrejon. Perkin the vintner hauled out demijohns of Riesling and fragrant vinho verde and sweet white muscatel to fuel the never-ending round of toasts, with the result that quite a few of the villagers, as well as Pongo Warburton and Ookpik and Seumas Mac Suibhne of the Bastards, were in no condition to join in the Mass of Thanksgiving that Amerie celebrated to bring the grand day to a close.

  Finally Old Man Kawai led exhausted Amerie to Madame's cottage, over her protests that the place was his home now and should remain so. "We will speak of this later," said the former electronics manufacturer. "For now, you must take Madame's bedchamber. Her spirit would wish it, and I will perish of vexation if you refuse the honor. I will be quite comfortable on a pallet in the kitchen with the cats for company."

  He opened the screen door and held it for the nun. She stopped short, sank down, and cried, "Dejah!" A slender little animal with a sandy coat and a black-tipped tail came running and leaped into her arms. Except for its large eyes and ears, it resembled a miniature puma. It was a female of the species Felis zitteli, one of the earliest of the true cats.

  Amerie cradled the purring creature, her eyes brimming. "I never thought I'd see her again, Kawai-san. Do you think she missed me?"

  "She had certain distractions," the Japanese remarked drily. He pointed to the box under the table. Three tiny heads peeped over its edge. "They are all males. Nine weeks of age. I have not named them. I waited, hoping that you ... that my vow to the Nagasaki martyrs ..."

  He hung his head. Suspicious drops of moisture spotted his happi coat. Amerie put down the cat and embraced him. "Crazy old Buddhist." Then she let him go and played with the kittens while he unrolled a tatami and futon in front of the hearth, then made sure that everything was ready for Amerie in the bedroom.

  "I've decided to name them Tars Tarkas, Carthoris, and Edgar," the nun said, tucking the kittens back into the box with their mother. "They'll grow up to be the patriarchs of domestic felinity."

  She rose from the floor, stiff in every joint and woozy with fatigue and reaction. But the discomforts faded as she looked about the little room, the combination kitchen and parlor that was the only real home she had ever known in the Pliocene Exile. She had lived in the cottage for a few short weeks during the time Madame and Felice and Richard and Claude and the others undertook their expedition to the Ship's Grave; but every feature seemed precious and familiar. There were Madame's handwoven curtains, her cherished lace tablecloth, the braided skin rugs. Beside the fireplace were the brass poker and shovel and trivet that Khalid Khan had made, and one of Miz CherylAnn's baskets with kindling. Her own library of medical references and devotional works was safe in a cupboard, together with her nun's habit neatly folded, with little packets of herbs to keep it fresh. The wooden rosary Claude Majewski had carved for her was beside it in a beechwood box.

  Kawai emerged from the bedroom. "All is ready."

  "It's so good," she said in a broken voice, "to be back."

  Solemnly, the old man bowed. "O-kaeri nasai, Amerie-chan. Welcome home, dearest daughter."

  ***

  Burke and Basil were too wound up to sleep, and there were matters that needed discussing.

  "Come on over to the old wigwam," the big Native American said to Denny Johnson. "You ought to meet the thirty-first member of Basil's Bastards."

  "He still feels rather shy with crowds of humans," the alpinist said. "When he declined to attend the party, we tucked him away in Peo's house with plenty of food and drink. Let's hope he hasn't OD'ed on strawberry shortcake. The Little People are quite irrationally fond of it"

  The Chief's bark-slab hut was close to the southern wad of the canyon, a few meters away from a rill born of the merging of a hot and cold spring. A thin filament of smoke rose from the hut's nonaboriginal chimney and vanished among the lower branches of the sequoias.

  "Kalipin?" Burke called softly. He pushed aside the leather curtain and stooped to enter, with Denny and Basil following. The interior of the wigwam was almost pitch-black. A squatty shape faintly limned in scarlet stirred near the stone hearth.

  "So you come at last Peopeo Mo
xmox."

  "I hope you haven't been too bored waiting. Would you mind if I lit a candle or two?"

  "I shall have to shapeshift then," the voice said querulously. "But go ahead. It's your house."

  "Please don't put yourself out" Basil protested.

  "I have my orders. There, I'm ready."

  Burke thumbed his permamatch and lit two tapers in a reflecting lantern that stood on the table. The light revealed a middle-aged dwarf surrounded by a litter of dirty dishes, drinking beer from a big pottery schooner.

  "This is our Lowlife defense coordinator, Denny Johnson," Burke said. "Denny—meet Kalipin, assigned by Lord Sugoll to guide Basil's Bastards to the Ship's Grave."

  Denny extended his hand. The mutant evincing some hesitation, finally shook it "You humans are always so eager to touch each other," Kalipin complained. "I do my best to go along with your customs, but it's hard. Téah knows it's hard." He gave a lugubrious sigh and drank deeply.

  "How come none of us noticed you earlier, friend Kalipin?" asked Denny.

  "I went invisible." The dwarf shuddered. "All those clamoring Lowlife minds! There are many of my people who accommodate themselves readily to humankind. And my Master is convinced that we must ally ourselves with you in order to survive. But it is hard. Hard."

  "There's a little cave in the hillside back of the wigwam that I use for storage," Burke said gently. "Would you be more comfortable there?"

  The mutant brightened. "A cave! How I've missed the security of earth's bosom since we quit Meadow Mountain for Nionel! Oh—the city is very grand and progressive and nonmutagenic, I'll grant you. But there's nothing like the shelter of a cosy cave for making one feel safe, and snug, and ready for sweet fast sleep."

  Burke helped Kalipin gather up his things and led the little Howler out of the hut.

  Basil poked up the fire and put on a pot of coffee. "You'll want to take a look in that skin bag that our little friend was guarding so closely," he said to Johnson.