Hall of the Mountain King (7 page)

The bird pecked him very, very lightly a hair’s breadth from
his eye. His head jerked; his hand flew up.

“Man,” said the bird, arresting the hand in midflight, “you
would be king. What would you give to gain the throne?”

“Anything,” gritted Moranden. “Anything at all. Except—”

The beak poised like a dagger. “Except, man?”

“Except my honor. My soul,” he said, “you may have. My life
even, if you must.”

“The goddess asks none of these. Yet. She asks only this.
Give her your sister’s son.”

Moranden must have known what the creature would ask. Yet he
stood as if stunned, bereft of speech.

His mother spoke softly, almost gently. “Give her the boy.
Give her the being you hate most in this world, the one who has snatched your
throne and your kingdom and given you naught but his scorn. Let him usurp your
place but once more; let him die for you. Then you shall be king.”

Moranden’s eyes clenched shut; his mouth opened, half gasp,
half cry. “No!”

The bird tightened its claws until blood welled, vivid on
the bare shoulder. He paid no heed to the pain. “I will have the throne, and
very likely I’ll have to kill the little bastard to get it. But not this way.
Not creeping about in the dark.”

Odiya had drawn herself to her full height. “Creeping,
Moranden? Is it so you see me? Is it so you have looked on all your life of
worship? Have I borne an apostate to destroy us all?”

“I’m a warrior, not a woman or a priest. I do my killing in
the daylight where men can see it.”

“He is a priest!” cried the queen who was not. “He is a
sorcerer, a mage born. While you prate of honor and of war, he will witch you
into the shadows you despise, and destroy you.”

But Moranden was not to be swayed. “So be it. At least I’ll
die with my honor intact.”

“Honor, Moranden? Is it honor to bow to him? Will you die his
slave, you who are the only son of Ianon’s king? Will you let him set his foot
upon your neck?”

“I cannot—” Moranden’s breath caught, almost a sob. “It’s
infamy. To sell—even—that—to betray my own blood.”

“Even,” the bird said, “to be king?”

“I was meant to be king! I was born—”

“So too was he.”

Moranden’s lips clamped upon wrath.

“He is mightier than you,” said the bird. “He is the one
foretold: the Sunborn, the god-king who shall bring all the world beneath his
sway and turn all men to the worship of Avaryan. Beside him you are but a
shadow, an empty posturer who dares to fancy himself worthy of a throne.”

“He is a bastard child,” Moranden spat with sudden venom.

“He is the son of the Sun.”

Moranden ground his teeth.

“Foreigner and interloper though he is, all Ianon pays him
homage. Its people are learning to love him; its beasts fawn before him; its
very stones bow beneath his feet. Lord, they call him; king and emperor, god-begotten,
prince of the morning.”

“I hate him,” grated Moranden. “I—hate—”

The bird’s beak clashed; its wings stretched. “When we have
him,” it said, “you shall be king.”

Moranden raised his fists. “No. You want him, you fetch him
yourself. But be quick, or I’ll have him. My way. None other. Or die. And be
damned to all your treacheries!”

Sharply, viciously, the bird stabbed his cheek, driving deep
through flesh into bone. Moranden’s head snapped back. The bird sprang into the
air. “Damned!” it shrieked. “Lost and damned!”

The wood was a tumult of wings and voices, sharp talons and
cold mocking eyes. And beneath it, a sound as beautiful as it was horrible: the
ripple of a woman’s laughter.

oOo

Vadin staggered erect. Vast shapes loomed about him, trees
both immense and ancient, cloaked in the presence of the goddess. Branches
clawed at him, roots surged up against his feet; twigs thrust into his face,
beating him back. He struck against them, wildly yet with a fixed, half-mad
purpose.

His arms flailed at nothing. He stumbled painfully against
stone. Flower-sweetness filled his brain, stronger than wine, stronger than
dreamsmoke. He flung himself away.

By slow degrees his mind cleared. The space about the altar
was empty of birds, of robed priests, of the goddess embodied in the mortal
woman. Close by him, almost at his feet, lay what they had discarded. Its face
was a mask of blood.

He dropped to his knees beside Moranden. With the hem of his
cloak he wiped away the blood.

Moranden neither moved nor uttered a sound. One eye stared
blindly at the sky; the other was lost in a rush of scarlet.

Vadin might have wept had there been time, or had this been
the place for it. Setting his jaw, he stooped and drew the slack arm around his
shoulders. With all his half-grown strength, with curses and prayers, he
dragged Moranden up. Grimly, step by step, he began to walk.

The wood was deathly silent. The only sound was the rasp of
his breath and the hiss of Moranden’s in his ear; the shuffling of their feet
in the mould; and the hammering of his heart.

There were eyes upon him. They watched; they waited. He
could taste their hatred, cold and cruel, like blood and iron.

He shut it out with all his will, flooding the levels of his
mind with every frivolity he could remember. Love songs, lovemaking, wine and
mirth and bawdy jests. And he walked, dragging his senseless burden. Slowly,
carefully, to the tune of a drunkard’s dirge, while the wood closed in about
him. In stillness was death, in surrender destruction; in terror, damnation.

Light glimmered. Surely it was illusion. This wood had no
end. He was trapped within it until he went mad or died.

The light grew. And suddenly it was all about him, the clear
light of day upon a long slope, and Rami tethered at a safe distance from
Moranden’s stallion, and the Vale below him.

With a long sigh he let Moranden slide to the ground. His
own body followed, suddenly boneless. A red mist thickened about him.

A shadow loomed in it, darkness edged with fire. It stooped
over him, spreading vast wings, crying out in words of power and terror. He
cried back and fought, drawing strength from the depths of his will.

The shadow gripped him. A hand lifted, all dark, but in its
center a sun.

Vadin gasped and went slack. The shadow was Mirain with the
Mad One behind him, the hands Mirain’s, holding Vadin up with ease that belied
his body’s smallness. There was blood on his face, on his kilt.

“Not mine,” he said in his own familiar voice. “It covers
you.”

He shifted Vadin’s weight to his shoulder, raised his hand
again. Involuntarily Vadin flinched. The god’s brand flamed even yet, like
molten gold.

It was warm, not hot; flesh-warm. It eased him down, drew
forth a cloth from he knew not where, began gently to cleanse his face.

He struck it aside. “Let me be. I need nothing. Help me look
after the prince.”

Mirain’s expression had been grave, intent. Now it darkened.
“You should have left him where he lay.”

Vadin was as weak as a child, yet he dragged himself up,
away from Mirain, toward Moranden. The elder prince lay slack and somehow
shrunken, as if the goddess had taken life with his blood, draining away his
soul.

As he had done by the altar, Vadin strove to stanch the
flood. He could not see Moranden’s eye. It was all blood. If it was pierced—

“It is no more than he deserves.”

Vadin whirled in a white rage. Mirain, even proud Mirain, fell
back a step.

But he came forward again and looked down at his mother’s
brother and said in that calm, young, royal voice, “He plots treason. He
deserves to lose much more than an eye.”

“He is your kin.”

“He is my enemy.”

Vadin struck him. But the blow was feeble. Worse were the
words he flung without measure or mercy. “Who are you to judge this man? You,
you haughty prince, so firm in your righteousness, with the god’s blood in your
veins and your empire in front of you, what do you know of right or power or
deserving?” His wrath had brought him to his feet; it held him there, towering
over Mirain. “From the moment of your birth you were destined to be king. So
you say. So the songs say. So even I was beginning to believe, in spite of all
I could do.

“But now.” His voice lowered almost to a whisper. “Now I see
you for what you are. Go back to your grandfather and leave me to remember who
is truly my lord!”

He was far beyond any care for his own safety. But when his
voice had stilled, his heart beat hard, and not only with anger. All expression
had vanished from Mirain’s face, but the black eyes were blazing. He could
strike Vadin down with the merest flick of his hand, blind him as he had
blinded his mother’s betrayer, turn all his high words to the croaking of
carrion birds.

Vadin raised his chin and made himself meet that unmeetable
gaze. “Or,” he said quite calmly, “you can help me. He needs a healer, and
quickly. Will your lordship deign to fetch one?”

Mirain’s fist clenched. Vadin waited for him to strike. He
said, “It would take too long to bring anyone from the castle.”

Vadin turned his back on him. Moranden had changed even
while they spoke. His face was grey beneath the lurid scarlet of the wound; his
eyes were glazed, his breath rattling in his throat.

“But,” Vadin said to the heedless air, “his hurt is so
small, and he so strong.”

“The goddess is stronger than he.”

Mirain knelt on the other side of Moranden’s body. Vadin
regarded him with a flat, empty stare. He was neither prince nor enemy now, only
a weary annoyance.

“Yes,” Vadin said without inflection, “she is strong. Will
you kill him now? He’s at your mercy.”

Mirain looked at Vadin in something close to horror. Later,
maybe, he would find some small comfort in that.

“You are strong,” Vadin went on. He cradled Moranden’s head
in his lap. “Now, god’s son. Destroy this priest of the Dark.”

Mirain tossed his head from side to side as if in pain. “I
cannot. Not this way. Not . . .”

“Then,” Vadin said, “heal him.”

Mirain stared. He had never looked younger or less royal.

“Heal him,” Vadin repeated without compunction. “You’re a
mage, you told me yourself. You’re full to bursting with your father’s power.
It can destroy this man, or it can save him. Choose!”

“And if I choose neither?” Mirain could hardly speak; his
voice cracked on the final word, to his bitter and visible shame.

“If you won’t choose, you’re no king. Now or ever.”

Mirain moved convulsively, flinging up his hand: defense,
protest, royal outrage. Vadin held fast, although he averted his eyes from the
flame of gold. “Choose,” he said again.

Mirain’s hand lowered. Slowly it settled on Moranden’s
cheek. The elder prince trembled under it, and twisted as if in pain.

Death
, Vadin
thought dully.
He chooses death.
As
in his own way Moranden had chosen, for the sake of the kingship. They were kin
indeed, these two, closer than either could bear to know.

Mirain’s eyes closed. His face tightened with strain; his
breath came harsh. Someone cried out—Moranden, Mirain, Vadin, perhaps all
three.

Mirain sank back on his heels. Vadin looked down; his eyes
stretched wide.

Moranden lay still, eyes closed as if in sleep, breathing
easily. Where the wound had been, on the high arch of cheekbone at the very
edge of his eye, was a scar in the shape of a spearhead. It faded even as Vadin
watched, and greyed as if with age.

A stir drew his glance upward again. Mirain stood erect,
cradling his golden hand. “I am mad,” he said. “Someday I may be king. But I am
not a murderer. Not even when I can see—” A shudder racked him. “May the god
preserve us all.”

Vadin stood once more in the shadows. Clean shadows,
fire-cast, dancing around the edges of the king’s chamber, seeming to keep time
to the music of Ymin’s harp. She played no melody that he could discern, simply
a pattern of single notes, random and beautiful as rain upon a pool.

The king sat at a table near the fire. A lamp shed a steady
yellow glow on the book before him.

He was a great rarity in a Ianyn lord: he could read. And
did so as often as he could, and savored it enough to want to learn the
intricate letters of Han-Gilen.

Or maybe that was only an excuse to keep his grandson near
him, standing as he stood now with his arm around the old man’s shoulders,
reading in a low clear voice. By all accounts the king had never been a man for
touching, walking apart in the armor of his royalty; but Mirain had pierced
those strong defenses. Strangely enough, the king seemed to accept that, even
to take pleasure in it, although any other who dared such familiarity would
have paid in pain.

They laughed, the old man and the young one, at a sudden
turn of wit. So close together in the lamp’s light, their faces were strikingly
alike: proud, high-nosed, deep-eyed. When Mirain was old he would look just so,
like a carven king.

Vadin shivered in a sudden chill. Mirain’s face, gaining
years in his mind’s eye, blurred suddenly and faded. As if Mirain would never
grow old. As if—

The squire shook himself hard. This whole hideous day had
bereft him of his wits. Moondark fancies to begin it, and the horror in the
wood, and the rest lost in a fog. When he tried to think he could not, or else
saw nightmare visions. And Mirain had said no word to him since they left
Moranden to recover his senses in the sunlight with words of guard upon him;
since they rode back to the castle together, the prince half a length ahead and
the squire behind as was eminently proper.

With each of Rami’s long smooth strides, Vadin had sunk
deeper into silence. But Mirain had conducted himself as if nothing had happened,
except that he made no effort to pierce his servant’s new-forged armor.