Hall of the Mountain King (20 page)

Moranden was not gentle, and his dance was swift enough to
strain Vadin’s lesser strength and speed, and his handclasp was painfully
tight; but that was the custom: amicable as the Elder Champion might be, he
neither forgot nor let the other forget that one day they would contest for his
title.

“You fought well,” Moranden said as if he meant it, and he
smiled his famous smile. “That last stroke—I don’t suppose you’d teach it to
me? Unless”—his smile widened to a grin—“you’re planning to use it on me next
High Summer.”

“Not next year,” Vadin said, “or for a good count of years
after, I don’t think, my lord. I’ll need more than a trick and a stroke of luck
to overcome the best fighting man in Ianon.”

Moranden’s brows rose. “Don’t be so certain, sir. The mount
lacked something in training, but the rider lacked somewhat in skill; and you
had the eyes to see it. That’s a rare gift.” He clasped Vadin’s hand again. “We
ride to the castle together. I for one won’t be ashamed of my company.”

Nor was Vadin, but he was not at ease. He could not revel in
the adulation that beat upon him. His eyes were on Mirain, who rode just ahead
of him with the king.

The younger prince had his share of the glory back again,
and he rode on it, shining with it, borne as on wings. For that hour at least
his people loved him utterly; even the fear of the Mad One had no power to hold
them back. They reached for him, slowing him, doing battle for the touch of his
hand or the glimmer of his smile.

The king’s guards thrust forward, armed for his defense. The
king stopped them with a glance. See, it said; Mirain could take no hurt. Not
here, not now. All Han-Ianon lay in the hollow of his hand.

oOo

The great hall lay open to the long summer dusk, ablaze with
torches, filled to bursting with the people of Ianon. Those who could not crowd
themselves into the hall itself filled the court without and spread into the
side courts, even the lowest of them feasting like lords on the bounty of the
king.

Mirain sat on the dais under a canopy of white silk edged
with gold. His hall robe was startling in its simplicity, all white but for the
torque of his priesthood; his head was bare, his hair in its single braid, and
no jewel glittered at brow or throat or finger. Yet he shone, as brilliant in
himself as any of the gold-decked princes of Ianon.

Moranden had taken the Elder Champion’s place down the table
on the king’s right, flanked by glittering princelings, himself in black and
vivid scarlet with a ruby like a drop of blood between his brows. His
companions paid Mirain little heed, drinking more than they ate, waxing
hilarious as the light died from the sky. They quieted but little for the
dancers or the players, little more for Pathan’s solemn knighting at the king’s
hands, and not at all for the singers led by Ymin and chanting the praises of
the god.

Although Moranden roistered with them, even from his own
place of honor on the king’s left Vadin could perceive that the prince’s cup
was seldom refilled; that he watched Mirain without seeming to watch: a steady,
sidelong, unreadable stare.

But Mirain was far beyond notice of aught but his own
elation. He was young, he was beloved, he would be king. His mood left no room
for either hate or fear, let alone for simple caution. And Vadin, trapped among
his own exuberant admirers, could not get close enough to beat him to his
senses.

A very young singer came forth, a child with a voice like a
flute, who sang of Mirain’s birth at sunrise in the center of the god’s great
rite. The princelings paused in their revelry, caught in spite of themselves by
the unnerving purity of that voice.

Save one; tone-deaf or deaf with drink, he drawled, “Sunborn
indeed. Prophecies, forsooth. How they do make up these tales!”

Every word was distinct, loud and dissonant against the
chanting. Vadin tensed to surge up, subsided slowly. He could do nothing but
make matters worse.

Mirain stirred. His eyes, that had been shining, lost in
contemplation of wonders, focused slowly. Yet he was still half in his dream.

“Who knows what really happened?” growled another young
lord. “He walks in here, he tells a pretty tale, he gets it all: throne,
castle, and kingdom. Good work, says I, and mortal fast.”

The singer did not falter, but he looked toward Ymin with
frightened eyes. She did not move, perhaps could not. Mirain had roused all at
once.

The king’s hand gripped his arm, thin and iron-hard yet
trembling visibly. The prince spared him not even a glance. “Guards,” he said
softly and clearly, “remove these men.”

A third lordling leaped up, sending his winecup flying.
“Yes! Remove them, he says, before they betray too much of the truth.”

He spoke to the hall, but his eyes rested on Moranden. The
elder prince sat at his ease, lifting no hand as the guards seized his
followers, although they strained toward him and shouted his name. He was
watching Mirain.

The song ended unnoticed. The singer fled behind Ymin’s
skirts, too terrified for tears.

The third man fought against his captors, crying out, “Liar!
He lies! He is no son of the god. His mother lay with the Prince of Han-Gilen;
the high priestess of the temple would have put her to death for it; her lover
cast down the priestess and set up the stranger in her place. But the priestess
had her just revenge. She killed the liar with her own hand. I know it. My
kinsman was there; he saw, he heard. This is no son of Avaryan. You give your
worship to a lie.”

A guard raised his fist as if to club the man into silence.

“No,” Mirain said. His eyes were very wide and very bright.
“Let him say what he has been taught to say.”

For an instant the young man was nonplussed. Even his
fellows were still, staring. He filled his lungs to shout, “No one taught me.
This is an adventurer, a no-man’s-son, sent up from the south to seize a
kingdom. When he has it, the Prince of Han-Gilen will claim it and him.”

Mirain laughed in genuine amusement. “There, sir, you betray
yourself. What could Prince Orsan possibly want with a kingdom as remote, as
barbaric, and as isolated as Ianon? Already he rules the richest of the Hundred
Realms.”

“No realm is too rich!” the man cried. “Tell the truth now,
priestess’ bastard. Your mother lied to save her lover and herself. But you
betrayed her. For bearing you she died. You were her death.”

Mirain was on his feet. The lordling struck again, struck
deep. “You are accursed, matricide, destroyer of all you touch. ‘Go to Ianon,’
they begged you in Han-Gilen. ‘Go, take your curse with you. The king is old;
he is mad; soon he will die. Ianon is yours for the taking.’” He raised his
arms in a grand gesture. “One thing they forgot. Ianon is not only an aged king
and a pack of coward lords. One man is strong. One man remembers his honor and
the honor of the kingdom. While the Prince Moranden lives, you shall not rule
in Ianon.”

Mirain’s head tilted. “I suppose you have consulted him.” He
turned his eyes upon Moranden. “Mine uncle? Does this mockingbird belong to
you?”

“He speaks out of turn,” Moranden replied coolly, “but as
for the truth of what he says, you know better than I.”

“We all know it.” Ymin’s trained voice cut across the
growing uproar, stilling it. “I have seen it and I have sung it. This is the
one foretold. This is the king who comes from the Sun. Ill befall you, Moranden
of Ianon, if you dare to oppose him. For he is gentle and he is merciful, but I
have no such virtues; and I will wield against you all the power of my office.”

Moranden laughed. “Such power, too, milady singer! You’ve
always been his loyal lapdog. A gleam of gold, a well-told tale, and he had
your heart in his hand. Look at him now! Gasping like a fish, with all his plots
laid bare.”

“What could he say to such monstrous words as yours?”

“What’s monstrous in the truth? He knows it. He gags at it.
And hides behind the skirts of whoever has the gall to defend him.” Moranden’s
lip curled. “Some king he’ll be, who needs a woman to fight his battles for
him.”

“Better that than a king who needs a woman to think his
thoughts for him.”

Moranden surged up. Mirain faced him, icy calm. “Be silent
henceforth, kinsman, and perhaps I shall forgive you for what your puppet has
said of my mother. But I shall never forget it.”

“Liar. Foreigner. Priestess’ bastard. Because my father
loved you and because you have a look of my sister, whom I also loved, I
suffered you. But too much is too much. Before my father and my sister, there
was Ianon; and Ianon groans at the thought of such a king.”

“Ianon,” said Mirain, “no. Only Moranden, whose soul gnaws
itself in rage that he cannot have a throne.”

The hall was deathly silent.

Mirain met the black and burning eyes of his mother’s
brother. “And if you won it, my lord—if you won it, could you hope to hold it?”

“Child.” Moranden’s voice was different, softer, more
deadly. “Not you alone are beloved of the high ones. Nor is this Han-Gilen,
that casts out all gods but one and rears up in its pride and fancies itself
blessed of Avaryan. The gods are shut out, but the gods remain. She remains,
who alone is Avaryan’s equal.
Is
,
child. Is, was, and will be.”

Mirain spoke as through a choking fog. Proud words, but
muffled, bereft of their force. “I will chain her.”

His kinsman laughed. “Will you, little man? Try it then. Try
it now, Sunborn, child of the morning.”

“I am—not—” Mirain reeled. His hand flew up, but its fire
was dim.

The laughter did not falter. Mirain cried out against it.
“Moranden! Can you not see? You too are a puppet. You are being used, you are
being wielded. Another voice is speaking through you.”

“I am no man’s toy!”

“No man’s indeed, but a goddess’ and a woman’s.”

Moranden fell upon him, mad-enraged, possessed, it did not
matter. Vadin saw Mirain go down, and a wall of bodies between, and no weapon
in all that hall of festival; and it was a nightmare, Umijan come again, with
Mirain beaten before he began.

Darkness swept between scarlet and fallen white, severing
them, hurling the scarlet against the wall. A deep voice spoke with softness
more devastating than any bellow of rage. “Get out.”

Moranden staggered, face slack with shock, and crumpled to
his knees. The king looked down at him. Old and strong and terrible, he met his
son’s eyes; the younger man flinched visibly. “Get out,” he said again.

Moranden’s mouth worked. Words rent themselves from him.
“Father! I—”

Hands like iron smote him to the ground. Stronger than they
and more cruel, the harsh voice held him pinioned where he lay. “If the sun’s
rising finds you within reach of my castle, I will hunt you like a beast.
Exile, accursed, let no man raise a hand to aid you. Let no woman take you into
her house. Let no dweller in Ianon feed you or clothe you or give you to drink,
lest by so doing he share your fate.” The king turned away from him. “Moranden
of Ianon is dead. Begone, nameless one, or die like the hound you are.”

Moranden looked about. Every back was turned to him. Even
his boldest followers had turned with the rest, sealing his exile.

Laughter escaped him. It was sharp, wild, edged like blades.
“Such is the justice of Ianon. So am I condemned, without defense, without
recourse. Alas for our kingdom!”

No one turned. The king stood most still and most
implacable.

Mirain and Moranden between them had forced him to choose.
He had chosen. It was bitter, bitter. But Moranden saw only the motionless
back, knew only what he had always known: that he was not the one his father
loved.

A black rage swept over him, mastered him. He whirled to his
feet. “A curse!” he cried. “A curse upon you all!”

Mirain stood once more, disarrayed but uncowed; he alone
would meet Moranden’s eyes.

The light the elder prince saw there was bitter. “You,” he
said, almost purring. “You have Ianon now. I wish you joy of it.”

He bowed deeply, mockingly, and spun in a flare of scarlet.
Past the king, past Mirain, past the lords and commons of Ianon he strode ever
more swiftly. A torch caught a last blood-red gleam, and he was gone, into the
outer darkness.

“Grandfather.” Mirain’s voice was loud in the silence.
“Grandfather, call him back.”

The king wheeled upon him. He gasped. The old lord’s face
was like a skull. Yet, “Call him back,” Mirain repeated.

“He sought your throne and your life.”

Mirain did what he had never done to anyone but his father:
knelt at the king’s feet and bowed his head. “Sire, I beg you.”

Within the skull, puzzlement mingled with wrath. “Why?”

“It is not finished. It must be finished, or Ianon will be
rent asunder.”

“No,” the king said, flat and hard.

Mirain’s eyes glittered. “He must come back. We must fight
now, while the battle is new, and the god must choose between us.”

“I choose,” grated the king. “You shall not fight.”

“That is not for you to ordain, my lord of Ianon.”

The king was immovable even before the enormity of that
insolence. “I will not call him back.”

Mirain looked up at the great and royal height of him. “Then
I too must leave you.”

A tremor racked the king’s body. “Leave?” he repeated, as if
the word had no meaning.

“It is war now between my kinsman and myself. A war which
you, my lord, have made certain. Whatever befalls, whether battle or, by some
mighty chance, reconcilement, I will not shatter this kingdom with the force of
our enmity.” Mirain’s chin lifted still higher. “Since Moranden has gone into
exile, so too must I.”

In the hall and in the courtyards beyond, no one breathed.
The king had the look of a man who has suffered a mortal blow. His daughter was
dead. His son had turned openly upon his chosen heir. His daughter’s son stood
before him and cast his kingdom in his face.