Hall of the Mountain King (21 page)

“But,” he demanded harshly, “when I am dead, who will rule
in Ianon?”

“There are lords and princes enough. And every one knows his
father.” Mirain bowed low, even to the floor. “Farewell, my lord. May the god
keep you.”

He turned as Moranden had, white to the other’s scarlet. Yet
as he strode forth, the king seized his arm. He halted, eyes blazing.

“Mirain,” the king said. His fingers tightened. “Sunborn. By
your father’s hand—”

Mirain tensed to pull free, and froze. The king swayed.
Mirain caught at a body turned all to bone and thin skin, yet massive still,
overwhelming his slightness. Slowly he sank beneath the weight of it.

Death unfolded in the king’s face, death held at bay and now
let in for the kill.

“No!” Mirain cried, clutching his grandfather’s body as if
his hands alone could hold it to life. “Not now. Not for me!”

“For you,” the king whispered, “no.” All his life and
strength gathered in his eyes, that opened wide, fixed upon Mirain’s face. “Summon
my servants. I will not lie on the floor of my hall like one of the hounds.”

oOo

Lamps guttered in the king’s chamber, casting long shadows on
the great bed. The healers’ chants had faded; the priests were silent.

Alone in a comer, Ymin sat with her harp. Her fingers had
fallen from the strings, her voice sunk to a murmur and died. Tears glistened on
her cheeks.

Mirain knelt beside the bed. He had not moved since the king
was laid there, not for Vadin, not for the healers or the priests, not even for
those high lords whose rank had won them past the guards. One hand gripped the
king’s; the other, the right, lay on the still brow.

The king had slid from waking into a dim dream, and into
light again. Even closed, his eyes turned toward Mirain.

Far away a cock crowed, calling forth the dawn. The king
stirred. His eyes opened; his fingers tightened. His lips softened, almost a
smile. “Yes,” he said very low. “Curse me. Curse the oath you swore me.”

“I swore not to die and leave you alone.”

“You cannot abandon me now.”

“No,” Mirain said, yet wearily, without anger. “You have
seen to it that I cannot.”

“I? Not entirely, child. I had aid. Call it fate. Call it—”

“Poison. Subtle, sorcerous, and beyond my power to heal.”
The weariness was gone, the wrath returned. Although no spoken word had passed
between them since they left the hall, it seemed that this battle of wills had
been waging for long hours. Mirain bent forward. “She will pay for it.”

“She will not.” This too had an air of use, of resistance
that would not be shaken.

“She has always been your weakness. She has been your
death.”

“That has been my great gift. To choose my death, and to
choose its instrument; and to know that she was beautiful. But she has won no
victory. My heir and not hers shall hold my throne.” A breath, a cough: all the
laughter he could muster. “Admit it, Sunborn. Beneath all the seemly and filial
grief, you are glad of it.”

“No. Never.”

“Liar,” the king said, amused still, almost tender. “I leave
you no sage advice; even if your courtesy would bid you listen, you would not
heed it. This only I command you: Rule in joy.”

Mirain’s eyes were hot and dry, his voice rough. “I shall
see you to your pyre. What then if I simply walk away?”

“You will not.”

“I can call Moranden back.”

“Will you?” With the last of his strength the king drew
Mirain’s hand to his heart. “From the moment I saw you, I knew you. Avaryan’s
son . . . you are worthy of your father.”

“You believe that?”

“I know.” The king’s eyelids drooped; his heart labored.
With a deep sigh he loosed his will’s hold upon it.

Beat by beat it slowed. Mirain snatched at it with a cry,
calling forth all the power he had from his father. The king’s heart throbbed,
briefly strong; slipped free; quivered; stilled.

Ianon’s king was dead.

Ianon’s king rose and settled the still hands on the still
breast, and turned. At the sight of his face, lords and healers and priests
sank down, bowing to the floor.

“He willed this,” Mirain said to them in a tight still
voice. “Even unto death, to bind me here. He willed it!”

“Hail, king.” Ymin’s voice, silencing him; and Vadin’s
hoarse with weeping, and the rest in ragged chorus: “Hail, Mirain, king in
Ianon.”

Vadin, watching him even through the tears, saw the change
begin in his eyes. Grief, anger, reluctance, none grew less. Yet at the name of
king a light kindled. There was nothing of triumph in it. Only, and purely,
acceptance.

And yet, accepting, at last he could weep.

 
“Precipitous
fool.”

Odiya had no patience to spare for the son she had borne. “If
you had curbed your hounds, if you had seen fit to rest upon your victories—”

Moranden whirled upon her. “Curb my hounds? They were not
mine!”

“They followed you. You made no effort to silence them.”

“And who encouraged them to speak?” He stood over her. “No
masks now, Mother. No pretenses. I know whose mind conceived that web of
deception in Umijan. I know who stands behind tonight’s madness. And so, madam,
does the king.”

“So did the king.”

His hand gripped her throat. “What have you done? What have
you done to him?”

“I,” she said, “nothing. He wished to die. That gift was
given him. When she chooses, the goddess can be merciful.”

“The goddess!” He spat. “And who asked her? Who danced the
spells? Who brewed the poison? It was poison, wasn’t it? My lordlings, my
anger, my exile—diversions, no more. The little bastard was right. You were
using me!”

“Of course I used you,” she said coolly. “You are an apt
tool. Attractive, malleable, only intermittently clever. Yon interloper is a
hundredfold the king that you will ever be.”

“You are no mother to me, you daughter of tigers.”

“I am giving you the throne you lust after.”

His eyes narrowed. His grief was deep and rending, but his
mind was clear, doing its cold duty. In that much he was his mother’s son; and
perhaps his father’s. “The throne,” he muttered. “It’s empty now. And the boy—I
heard him plead for me. He’ll revoke my sentence. I’ll challenge him; he’ll
fall. By tomorrow’s dawn I’ll be king.”

“By tomorrow’s dawn you will be riding to the Marches.”

“Are you mad? I should leave now that you’ve thrown all
Ianon in my face?”

“You will go into exile as the lord your father has
commanded. You grieve, you are justly angered, but you are a man of honor; you
do as your king has bidden. If the new king calls you back, why then, is he any
king of yours? You have sworn no oaths to him, nor will you, slayer of your
father that he is.”

“
You
slew my—”

She slapped him. He stood with his mouth open, staring.

“Fool,” she said to him. “Idiot child. It is no man you
face. It is a mage, the son of a god. All Ianon’s Vale lies under his spell.
Every man he meets learns swiftly to worship him. Remember the ride to the
west; remember how he was, effacing himself among your men, subverting them
with a look or a smile, winning their souls with his magic. And he was the
great victor in the war that never was. He conceived the race to Umijan; he ran
it and won it while you tarried for dull duty. You were but the lord commander;
he was the great hero.

“And you would stand up in hall before the king’s body and
dare to contend with him for the throne.” Her lip curled. “Think! You were
loved by some, respected by all, looked on as king to be. Outside of the Vale
in great measure you are still. Go there; show yourself; keep yourself before the
people while the foreigner learns that a throne can bind its claimant to it as
with chains. And when at last he has gained the strength to break them, when he
comes forth from the Vale to claim the whole of his kingdom, let him find that
he is king only of the inmost lands. The rest shall be yours, an army at your
back, sworn to you as rightful king. Then may you challenge the usurper. Then
shall you rule in Ianon.”

Moranden had stilled as she spoke, had gathered his wits,
had mastered his temper. He heard her out almost calmly, toying with the
copper-woven braids of his beard. When she ended, he paced from end to end of
the long bare chamber, paused, turned to face her. “Wait—I can wait. I’ve
waited a score of years already. But even my poor wit can see the flaw in your
plotting. If the little bastard is a mage—and I don’t doubt it’s possible; I
saw him in Umijan—if he’s a master of magic, how can I ever challenge him? I’m
a warrior, not a sorcerer.”

“He fancies himself a man of war. Challenged as he will be
challenged if you heed me, he will lay aside his power to come against you. And
I can see to it that he holds to his vow.”

“You. Always you.”

“And where would you be if it were not for me?” She held out
her hand. “Bid me farewell, my son. Your mount and your baggage are ready; your
escort waits. Be swift, or the dawn will catch you.”

He came as if he could not help it, but his bow was stiff
and his lips did not touch her palm. “You’ll stay here? After what you’ve
done?”

“I will see my old enemy laid on his pyre.” She gestured
imperiously. “Go. I will send word to you in the Marches.”

With a last sharp inclination of the head, he turned on his
heel and left her.

oOo

She was still there as the sun rose, alone by the eastward
window, her mantle wrapped about her and her veil drawn over her head.

The light step on her threshold, the presence at her back,
did not at once bring her about. “Strangers do not often come here,” she said
to the flaming sky.

“I do not think,” said a dark soft voice, “that we are strangers
to one another.”

She turned then. For all her wisdom and all her spies, he
surprised her a little. He was so small, and yet he stood so far above her. And
he looked so very much like his mother’s father.

With a swift gesture she averted his spell. He dwindled.
Somewhat. He was still in his white robe, rumpled now and stained, and his face
was drawn with exhaustion. But he was calm; she could find no anger in him.

“The king is dead,” he said.

She astounded herself. She sank down under the weight of
those simple words; she lay on her face, and she wept like a woman whose dearest
love has been slain.

The pain was real. It tore at her vitals.

“Hate,” Mirain said, “is womb-kin to love. Uveryen and
Avaryan were born at one birthing.”

She raised herself on her hands. He knelt by her, not
touching her, watching her as one would watch a beast engaged in some strange
rite of its kind. But it was not a cold regard. It burned with subtle fire.

He shifted slightly, sitting on his heels, setting his fists
on his thighs. The right hand could not close fully; the tension in it was the
tautness of pain. “You belong to me now,” he said, “you and all my
grandfather’s chattels. Did you consider that when you dared to linger here?”

She came erect all in a motion, like the lynx she was named
for. “I belong to no one. His death loosed my bonds; I am free.”

His gesture of denial flashed sudden gold. “If you had been
a slave, that would have been so; so likewise if you had been but a concubine.
But he took you in clan-marriage, and clan-wives pass to the heir. To be used
by him, or bestowed by him, as he sees fit.”

“No,” she said, “He never—”

“It is written in the book of his reign. It is recorded in
the annals of his singer. Surely you knew.”

Odiya’s arms locked about her throbbing middle. Her grief
was gone. Her hate was a crimson fire.

Lies, black lies. She knew the form of clan-marriage, which
in the west they called the mating of the sword. She had never undergone it.
She had been taken from her chamber, she had been thrown down in her father’s
hall before his high seat, she had been—

“He never raped you in front of his men, nor ever in your
father’s blood.” The voice was neither young nor gentle. It smote her with its
likeness to the old king’s. “He passed the sword over you. He spoke the words
that mated you. He gave his name to the child you carried.”

“Moranden is his son!” So far had she fallen; she fought her
way back to the heart of this battle. “We were not sword-mated. We were
not
.”

“Because you would not say the words? That matters nothing
under the blade.” Mirain stood, head tilted back, regarding her down the long
curve of his nose.

It was a feat, that; she should have laughed at him, to
break his spell again, to restore her strength. But she could only stare,
raging within, and know that he was stronger than ever she had dreamed of.

She knew now. She would not underrate him again. She let her
head bow, her body droop as if in defeat. “What will you do with me?”

“What should I do?” He said it so lightly that she nearly betrayed
herself. “I don’t want you for my bed. I don’t trust you in my castle, and I
don’t trust you outside of it. I’m not even sure I trust you dead.”

Her dread ran only as deep as her face. “Would you slay a
helpless woman?”

He laughed in purest mirth. “Why, lady! Have you forgotten
your daily hour with the sword? Or the potion you distilled yourself, which so
sweetened my grandsire’s wine?” His laughter vanished; he went cold. “Enough.
You tempt me; you lure me into your darkness. Living or dead you are my enemy.
Living or dead you will strive to cast me down.”

She waited in grim patience. She was not so strong in power,
perhaps, but she was older and her hate was purer, unalloyed by childish
fancies of compassion. For he was dreaming of that, even through his cruel
words. If he had meant to kill her, he would not have tarried so long.

He spread his hands, the dark and the golden. “You may see
the king to his pyre. But if you do that, be aware that you have chosen, that
you must follow him into the fire. If you would live, depart this day from the
castle and swear never again to raise your hand against the throne or its lord.
Though if it is life you choose, I do not think your goddess will be long in
taking it.”