The Lady of Han-Gilen Page 4

  Through the spell’s glamour pierced a dart of rage. Gods and demons—how dared they torment her?

  She bent, and with her eyes tightly shut, drank long and deeply. Almost she had expected the water to taste of blood and iron, but it was pure and icy cold; it quenched her terrible thirst.

  Cautiously she opened her eyes. No visions beset them. There was only the glint of sun on water, and through its ripples the pattern of stones on the bottom of the pool.

  She sat on her heels. The sun was high in a clear sky, the air warm and richly scented. Her mare grazed calmly, pausing as Elian watched, nipping a fly on her flank. Whatever power of light or darkness had led her to this hidden meadow, it had left her unperturbed.

  A small portion of Elian’s mind gibbered at her to mount, ride, escape. But cold sanity held her still. Even at this distance from the city, any Gileni peasant would know both mare and rider for royal, and any pursuit would mark them. They were well hidden here where no one ever came; when darkness fell, they could ride.

  Elian prowled the glade. Its beauty now seemed a mockery, its shelter a trap. Like Han-Gilen itself, enclosed and beset; like herself.

  She made herself sit down, crouching on the grass well away from the pool. The sun crawled across the sky. “I cannot go back,” she said over and over. “Let Father see visions, or Hal. I cannot go back!”

  The water laughed at her. Prophet, it said. Prince’s prophet. You have the gift. You cannot refuse it.

  “I can!” She scrambled to her feet, fumbling for bridle and saddle.

  Han-Gilen has had no prophet since the priestess died. Her mantle lies upon the Altar of Seeing over the living water. Go back. Forsake this child’s folly. Take what is yours.

  The mare skittered away from Elian’s hands, eyeing the bridle in mock alarm. It was an old game, but Elian had no patience to spare for it. She snapped a thought like the lash of a whip. The mare stopped as if struck.

  So too must you. The soft voice was a water-voice no longer. Deep, quiet, hauntingly familiar. You play at duty. Yet what is it but flight from the path ordained for you?

  Elian slipped the bridle over the mare’s ears, smoothing the long forelock. Her hands were trembling, but her smile mocked them all. “It is not,” she said. “It is anything but that.”

  Is it?

  She knew that voice. Oh, yes, she knew it. She hated it.

  Hated? Or loved?

  She flung pad and saddle over the mare’s back, and after them the bags of her belongings, and last of all herself.

  Elian.

  The voice crept through all her barriers, throbbing to the heart of her.

  Elian.

  She struck at it. “You sent the vision. You tried to trap me. But I won’t be held. Not by a lie.”

  It is no lie, and well you know it. The god has stretched out his hand to you and laid you open to me.

  Hands reached for her. She kicked her senel into a jolting trot. The shadows were black under the trees, the sky blood-red beyond the branches.

  Elian, come. Come back. Behind her eyelids a figure stood, tall, dark, crowned with fire. Daughter, it is madness, this that you do. Come back to us.

  “To my oath’s betrayal.”

  To those who love you.

  “I cannot.”

  His thought had borne a hint of sorrow and a promise of forgiveness. Now it hardened.

  Whatever her mother might say, Prince Orsan of Han-Gilen was far from besotted with his daughter. He had raised her as she wished, as a boy, not only in the freedom but in the punishments, meted out to her precisely as to her brothers. Elian. She trembled in the saddle, but urged her mare onward. This is no child’s game. Will you come back, or must I compel you?

  Walls closed in upon her mind. There was but one escape, and her father filled it. Even yet, his eyes held more sorrow than wrath. He held out his hands. Daughter. Come home.

  With a soft wordless cry she backed away. Her body rode at breakneck pace through a darkening wood. But in her mind she huddled within a fortress made of defiance, and her father towered over her, clothed in the red-golden fire of his magery. He was far stronger than she.

  You are of Han-Gilen, blood and bone. This venture is a bitter mockery of both your lineage and your power. So might a child do, or a coward. Not the Lady of Han-Gilen.

  “No.” There was no force in the word. Yet somewhere deep within her, a spark kindled. “No. I have sworn an oath. I will keep it, or die in the trying.”

  You will come home.

  His will was as strong as a chain, its links of tempered steel, drawing her to him. In a madness of resistance she clung to the stronghold of her mind. Earth; three walls of will; her father. But above her the open sky. She hurled herself into it.

  The mare shied. Elian clutched blindly at the saddle. Her body ached; her fingers could barely unclench from the pommel to take up the reins, to guide her mount.

  She could not see. For an instant she wavered on the edge of panic; but her eyes, straining, found the shadowy shapes of trees, and through the woven branches a twilit sky.

  The mare had settled into a running walk, smooth and swift as water. The footing was good, soft leafmold on the level surface of a road. Without guidance, the mare had found the northward way through the wood.

  Elian tensed to quicken the senel’s pace, but did not complete the movement. Her father knew surely where she was and where she went. The forest should have been alive with searchers, the realm with pursuit. But none followed her. Han-Gilen was quiescent about her.

  As if, she thought when at last she took time to think, as if, after all, her father was minded to let her go.

  She had a brief, striking vision: a hawk, freed to hunt for its master or to escape his will. And far beneath it in its flight, her father, watching, waiting for it to return to his hand.

  Anger blurred the image and scattered it. He was so certain; so splendidly, utterly confident that in the end she would yield.

  “I’ll die first!” she cried.

  FOUR

  The northern border of Han-Gilen was called the Rampart of the North, its pass the Eye of the Realm. There the hills rose to lofty ridge and fell sheer, down and down to the rolling green levels of Iban.

  Because Iban’s lord was tributary and kinsman to the Prince of Han-Gilen, the fortress that guarded the Eye was lightly manned, watchful but not suspicious even of one who rode alone by night. Although Elian’s neck prickled and her heart thudded, certain that her father had laid his trap here where she had no escape, no challenge rang from the gate; no armed company barred her way. She was free to go or to stay.

  In the high center of the Eye, she halted the mare. Han-Gilen lay behind her. Iban was a shadow ahead, moonlit and starlit, deep in its midnight sleep.

  Above her loomed the tower, dark and silent. If she called out, named herself, demanded lodging, she would have it, and in the morning an armed escort to bring her to her father.

  Her back stiffened. Had she come so far, to turn back now? With high head and set face, she sent her mare down into Iban.

  oOo

  When Elian was young, she had learned by rote the names of all the Hundred Realms. Some were tiny, little more than a walled town and its fields; some were kingdom-wide. Most owed friendship or tribute to the Red Prince of Han-Gilen.

  As she rode across sleeping Iban, she called to mind the realms between Han-Gilen and the wild north. Green Iban; Kurion with its singing forests; Sarios where ruled her mother’s father; Baian, Emari; Halion and Irion whose princes were always blood brothers; Ebros and Poros and stony Ashan. And beyond the fortress walls of Ashan, the wild lands and the wilder tribes that called Mirain king.

  So close to mighty Han-Gilen and so far still from the outlands, her father’s peace held firm. But there was a strangeness in the air. Mirain An-Sh’Endor: men dreaded the rumor of him with his barbarian hordes. Had not imperial Asanion itself begun to arm against him?

  No, she thought, pa
using before dawn to lever a stone from her mare’s hoof. It was not all fear. Some of it was anticipation, some even joy at the coming of the Sun-king.

  No hiding place offered itself to her with the dawn, only the open fields and a village clustered around an ancient shrine. Elian might have pressed on past, but the mare, unused to steady traveling, was stumbling with weariness. And no temple, however small, would deny a traveler shelter, whoever that traveler might be.

  This shrine was small indeed, made of stone but shaped like the villagers’ huts, round and peak-roofed with a door-curtain of leather. Its altar stood where the hearth should be, with the Sun’s fire on it in a battered bowl, and a clutter of holy things.

  Behind the shrine stood the priest-house, a simple wattle hut with a pen for an odd assortment of animals: a lame woolbeast, a white hind, a one-eyed hound. The woolbeast blatted at mare and rider, the hound yawned, the hind watched from a far corner with eyes like blood rubies.

  Elian dismounted stiffly. The village seemed asleep or deserted, but she felt the pressure of eyes upon her. Her hand went unconsciously to her head, to the cap that hid her hair, drawing it down over the bright sweep of her brows.

  Someone moved within the hut. Tired though she was, the senel lifted her head, ears pricked.

  This village had a priestess, a woman in late middle years, square and solid, red-brown as the earth her fathers had sprung from. Her robe was shabby but clean, her torque of red gold dimmed with age, as if it had passed through many hands, over many years, to this latest bearer. Over her shoulders she bore a yoke and a pair of buckets.

  She regarded Elian with a calm unquestioning stare. “Your senel may share the pen,” she said, “but you will have to cut her fodder yourself.”

  For an instant Elian stood stiff, outraged. That was servants’ work. And she—

  She was a rankless vagabond, by her own free choice. She made herself bow her head and say the proper words. “For the hospitality of your house, my thanks.”

  The priestess bowed in return, as courteous as any lady in hall. “The house is open to you. Take what you will and be welcome.”

  oOo

  First Elian saw to the mare. There was grass not far away, and her knife was sharp; she cut an ample armful. As she brought it back to the pen, she found she had companions: a handful of children, some too young for breeches, others almost old enough to be men or women. There were one or two in the enclosure itself, coaxing the mare with bits of grass.

  At Elian’s coming they scattered, but not far, less afraid of her in her strange splendid gear than fascinated by her mount. One was even bold enough to speak to her. The priestess’ dialect had been thick but clear enough, but this was like an alien tongue.

  “He asks, ‘Is this a real battle charger?’”

  Elian started. The priestess stepped past her to dip water into the beasts’ trough, saying to the children in her deep soft voice, “Yes, it is a war-mare, and a fine one too; and isn’t that your father calling you to the fields?”

  The children fled, with many glances over their shoulders. The priestess laid down her yoke and straightened. “Very fine indeed,” she repeated, “and worn to a rag, from the look of her. Will you rest in the temple or in my house?”

  “Wherever you like,” Elian answered her, suddenly weary beyond telling.

  “In my house, then,” said the woman. “Come.”

  oOo

  This sleep was deep, untouched by visions. Elian woke from it to firelit darkness and a scent of herbs and a deep sense of peace. Slowly she realized that she lay on a hard pallet; that there was a blanket over her; and that she wore only her shirt beneath it.

  She sat up in alarm. The firelight fell on metal and cloth: her clothing, her weapons, all together, all laid neatly at the foot of her bed. Beyond them knelt the priestess, tending a pot that simmered over the hearth.

  She looked up calmly. “Good evening,” she said.

  Elian clutched the blanket to her breast. “Why did you—how dared you—”

  The priestess’ gaze silenced her. “My name is Ani. Yours I need not know unless you choose. Here, eat.”

  Elian took the fragrant bowl but did not move to eat, although her stomach knotted with sudden fierce hunger. “My name is Elian,” she said almost defiantly.

  Ani gestured assent. Her mind was dark and impenetrable, like deep water. “Eat,” she repeated. And when Elian had obeyed: “Sleep.”

  Power, Elian thought, even as she sank back. This is power. A witch . . . I must . . .

  oOo

  “. . . go.” Elian’s own voice startled her. The hut was deserted, the fire quenched. Sunlight slanted through the open door-curtain.

  Her clothes lay as she remembered, her weapons beside them, and close to her hand a covered bowl. In it lay bread, still faintly warm from the baking, and a bit of hard yellow cheese.

  She found that she was hungry. She ate; found a bucket filled with clean water to wash in; dressed and combed her hair and pulled on her cap, and ventured into the light. She felt better than she had since she left Han-Gilen; and the day matched it, a clear day of early summer, warm and bright and wild with birdsong.

  The mare seemed to have sworn friendship with her odd penmates, sharing with them a mound of fresh-cut grass. For her mistress she had a glance and a flick of one ear, but no more.

  She was clean and well brushed, her mane and the tassel of her tail combed like silk. After a moment Elian left her, seeking the shrine.

  Ani was there, sweeping the worn stone floor, brisk as any goodwife in her house. Like the mare, she greeted Elian with a glance, but she added, “Wait a bit for me.”

  The temple was oddly peaceful even in the midst of its cleaning. Elian sat on the altar step and watched the priestess, remembering the great temple in Han-Gilen. This place could barely have encompassed one of its lesser altars, let alone the high one with its armies of priests and priestesses devoted entirely to its tending.

  Someone had brought a garland of flowers to lay beside the Sun-fire. It was fresh still, with a sweet scent: a lovers’ garland, seeking the god’s favor for two who were soon to wed.

  Elian set her teeth. Let them have each other. She had her oath and her flight.

  “Maybe I should become a priestess.”

  She did not know that she had spoken aloud until Ani said, “No. That, you were never made to be.”

  “How can you know?” demanded Elian.

  The woman set her broom tidily in its niche behind the altar. “If the god had wanted you, he would have called you.”

  “Maybe he has.”

  Ani filled the nightlamp with oil from a jar and trimmed its wick carefully, without haste. “Not to that, Lady of Han-Gilen.” Elian was silent, struck dumb. “No; he has another task for you. Are you strong enough to bear his burden?”

  “I am not returning to my father. I am riding north. A geas binds me. You cannot stop me.”

  “Should I want to?” The priestess seemed honestly surprised.

  “You are a witch.”

  Ani considered that. “Maybe,” she conceded, “I am. When I was a novice they said I might make a saint, if I didn’t go over to the darkness first. I know I’m far from saintly, but I like to think I’ve evaded the other as well. So too should you.” Her eyes changed. Though no less calm, they were harder, sterner. “It lays its snares for you. Walk carefully, child.”

  “I try to.” Elian made no effort to keep the sullenness out of her voice.

  “And well you might. There is more than the Sun’s son waiting across your path.”

  In spite of herself Elian shivered. “The—the goddess?”

  The priestess brushed the altar with her fingertips, as if to gain its protection. “Not she. Not yet. But one who serves her and grows strong in her service. One who hates in love’s name, and calls envy obedience, and binds her soul to an outworn law. Guard yourself against her.”

  Against her will, Elian saw again what she
had seen in the glade by the pool: the exile who was of her own blood. But what danger could dwell in the woman, outlaw that she was, without eyes to see?

  “Much,” Ani said, “with the goddess beside her, and maybe other, more earthly allies.”

  “But who—”

  “Asanion. Any prince in the Hundred Realms. The north.”

  “Not Mirain. Mirain would never—”

  “People aren’t likely to know that. And the goddess is strong among the tribes.”

  “No. He would never allow it. But Asanion—Asanion serves itself. If it could conquer us all . . .”

  Ziad-Ilarios’ face gleamed ivory-pale behind her eyes. She had dealt his pride a crippling blow. If another alliance offered itself, a means to defeat Mirain, even if by treachery, would he not take it? Or if not he, then surely his father, the one they called the Spider Emperor, who spun his webs to trap all not yet bound to his empire.

  Her father’s peace was hard won through a long and bitter war. Mirain had fought in it, been knighted in it, he and Halenan together. Would he remember that? Or would his hordes roll over the Hundred Realms to clash with those of Asanion, crushing the princedoms between them?

  She covered her face with her hands. But that only strengthened the vision. Han-Gilen’s banner, flameflower burning on shadow green; Asanion’s imperial gold; and one both strange and familiar, scarlet field, golden sun.

  With the ease of a dream they shimmered and melted, revealing faces. Hal and her father side by side, more alike than she had ever thought they could be, and Ziad-Ilarios with an old man who held a mask of gold before his face, and the exile with her terrible blind eyes. But the sun remained and seemed to blaze up like Avaryan itself, surrounding her, overwhelming her, bringing blessed blindness.

  Ani’s voice was strong and quiet in her ear. “Go where you will to go. The god will guide you.”

  Away from it all. Away.

  She lowered her hands. They were shaking; she made them be still. Ani looked down at her without either awe or pity. “I . . . I will go,” she said. “For your welcome, for your help—”