Wings of Flame (14 page)

Kyrem snorted and gestured his dismissal, turning away toward Omber's stall. “We Devans do not believe such nonsense,” he said. “Go, priest, play with your poor excuse of a horse. Just stay far from me.”

Nasr Yamut drew himself up to his full height and raised his arms. “I will curse you in the name of Suth!” he shouted, and Kyrem stopped where he was, glancing back in annoyance. Where he came from, priests did not fail to obey his command. But this one was beginning to glisten all over with a glow like small fire, and Kyrem saw that Nasr Yamut was quite serious and an antagonist to be reckoned with. There would be a combat of power, perhaps to the death.

Prowess of power. Kyrem had heard tales of such duels between sorcerers, tales mostly told to children by firelight. Devans did not believe in such things, or did not approve; not believing meant that as well.… But if he was to meet this priest on his own magical terms, Kyrem thought, he had better believe for the time. He would fight with his Devan magic, which had made the curses of the horse-birds but words to him, merest meaningless words; that was comforting—and it was comforting to know that Nasr Yamut feared him. Perhaps there was a sorcerer's power in him after all, somehow. There would have to be.

Kyrem turned back and strode up to the priest, facing him squarely, his scowl of vexation turning into a grin that hid his misgivings. “Go ahead and curse me, Vashtin priest,” he said. “Just try it.”

“Kyrem son of Kyrillos—” Nasr Yamut spat out the name.

Kyrem felt the words, actually felt them, as a faint physical shock, as he had never felt the words of the cursing horse-birds, and for a moment panic seized him. What good was his body magic to do him? He had hardly ever used it except to guide his horse.
Auron, help
, he thought hazily; then,
I am a Devan
, but being a Devan no longer seemed of such importance.
I am Kyrem
, he thought;
I am myself, I will live. I shall not be destroyed
. And on the instant a great surge of will flowed through him, turning him rock hard and as pure as gold in his defiance. Words washed against him to no avail.

“—may all your dreams elude you. May you be cursed with a thousand failures and see your friends and followers turn against you. May the curse of Suth send you into exile in a bleak and dangerous land.…”

Nasr Yamut stopped with a choking sound as his own words came flying back at him, stabbing him like so many knives.

For Kyrem was all talisman; nothing could touch him, and all such darts of enmity were turned back against the sender. He stood with a faint sheen on him like the surge or pulse of heat, blood heat, and he seemed bigger than he had been before; those who watched thought of a mountain or a standing stone, a menhir. He had not even needed to close his eyes. They shone jewel hard, jewel bright and black as jet, and they faced Nasr Yamut fixedly. The priest bore that stare and that unmoving presence only a moment more, then turned and hurried, almost running, from the stable yard. No one followed him. The onlookers stood like wood, not knowing what to think.

After a moment Kyrem stirred and let go of the conflict with a sigh, seeming to settle back into self. “Avedon has been good to me,” he muttered.

And instantly all backs were turned on him as priests and boys and novices busied themselves with their work, half afraid and whispering among themselves.

“Have you heard the news from the stable, Ky?” Seda asked him that evening, and he stared at her.

“If you mean my bout with Nasr Yamut—”

“Of course not, blockhead. You know all about that. I mean have you heard the news of Omber?”

He came half out of his chair. “If they have attempted to harm Omber—”

“If they had, do you think I would be standing here so sweetly? But they did put him in a smaller bay, it seems. One of the sort wherein they tie the head to the manger.”

“They—the scum—have they tied him?” Kyrem came to his feet, his face dark with anger.

“From what I hear. Not without difficulties. The epopts attempted it first, by Nasr Yamut's order.”

“And?” Kyrem sat down again to hear, looking grim.

“They discovered that even the untamed frolickings of a pampered Vashtin oracle-bred are as nothing compared to the teeth and hooves of a determined Devan stallion.” For the moment Seda sounded very much like a Devan herself.

“Damn them, I hope they have not upset him.”

“Far less than he upset them. A broken jaw, a broken wrist—”

“Serves them right,” Kyrem muttered. “I told them never to touch him.”

“Then Nasr Yamut approached.”

“I hope Omber kicked him in the head.”

“Alas, no. Omber obeyed him. Nasr Yamut led Omber to the smallest stall in the stable and tied him there.”

Kyrem slumped back where he sat, for the first time comprehending the full measure of his shame and Nasr Yamut's cleverness. Rage flushed his face, rage as much at himself as at the priest.

“Seda,” he said, “I am an utter fool.”

“You gave him that power.” She had guessed.

“Yes. I am glad it was you who told me, and no enemy.” He stood up, suddenly icily calm. “I had better go check on Omber.”

“Not now. It is after dark. And it will not hurt him to be tied, not really. Do not let them think that you care overmuch.”

He nodded, after considering, for she had a sense of things Vashtin.

“The king wants to see you,” she added. “A late supper.”

“Oh.” He softened somewhat, even the hard set of his shoulders eased, and Seda looked at him curiously.

“It seems you think better of King Auron these days,” she said, and Kyrem grinned at her.

“So servants do not know everything!” he teased. “Great Suth, Seda.” He strode out of the door and out of earshot.

In the days that followed he spent much of his time with Auron and learned much and wondered much. And he exercised Omber for hours daily. When he and Nasr Yamut met at the stable, they ignored each other, the priest warily, Kyrem with scarcely veiled anger and scorn. The attempt to humiliate him through his horse seemed to him contemptible. The other priests avoided him when they could. They knew their master.

Because he had no one to talk with at the stable, Kyrem tried once again to persuade Seda to come with him. “You never see Omber any more,” he argued.

She was greasing his latest pair of new boots at the time—Auron was forever giving him gifts of clothing and footgear, taking vicarious pleasure, perhaps, in Kyrem's tall and youthful form with its heels that met the ground. Seda cared for each gift assiduously.

“You work too hard,” Kyrem added.

She kept her eyes on the boots. “I do what the other servants do,” she said, and Kyrem scoffed.

“Servant, my foot. You order me around half the time. Humor me for once and come with me. Omber will bounce about with gladness to see you.”

“I can't,” she said.

“Why not?” He sat down on his swinging bed and stared at her. Such a stubborn lad she could be in her own silent way. She sat silent for a long time, not meeting the demand of his gaze.

“I am a shuntali,” she said finally in a very small voice, so soft he could scarcely hear her, and he whacked his hand on the pillows in annoyance.

“So? What of it?”

“The stable is a sacred place. Even lords and wealthy merchants are not allowed to go there. If I did, the priests would tear me apart.” That last, even softer, and Kyrem's mood swung from vexation to amusement. He laughed out loud.

“Just let them try!”

She looked straight at him, and the look on her face stopped his laughter. “You don't understand,” she said.

He decided to reason with her. “Seda,” he wheedled, “you know Auron says there is no such thing as shuntali.”

“King Auron is kind. The priests scoff at his kindness and do as they wish.”

“After the way I saw him cow Nasr Yamut,” Kyrem protested, “you can say he does not rule the priests?”

“This is Vashti and the king stays in his palace.” She met his stare. “Outside of it, things go on much as ever. And I am a shuntali everywhere but here.”

“Nonsense. You are my friend, and I am the Devan guest.”

“Have you ever faced a mob, Ky?” She held his gaze, letting pathos show in her eyes, using her own past misfortunes for leverage on him. He saw what she was doing, but it did not matter, for a chill, irrational comprehension had crept in with her words. To be small, and to face the flung shafts of nine spearmen.…

“They used to throw stones at me, back in the mountains,” she added. “Those were humble folk. But the priests are mightier, and crueler.”

“Do you never even go out on the streets then?” he asked, his voice almost as soft as hers.

She shook her head, took her pot of grease and went away.

So on that day Kyrem went to the stable alone. But the next day Auron surprised him by offering to go with him. Auron, the king, who was in his exalted way nearly as solitary and circumscribed as the shuntali.

“I have never seen that mighty stallion of yours,” he explained, “of which I hear so much.”

“What if something touches those sacred heels of yours?” Kyrem was smiling broadly with delight.

“I will just have to be careful, that is all. Even a king has a right to go out once in a while, to my way of thinking. So let us be off.”

People in the street scattered before them, nearly hugging the house walls in their anxiety not to profane the sacred presence with a touch. Auron paid no attention, walking even more slowly than usual in order to safely traverse the tiles and bricks and cobbles with his buskins. He chatted easily the while, as if he went for such a walk every day of his life, but from the whispered comments and exclamations around him, Kyrem confirmed what he already suspected, that such an event was quite unheard-of. Never since his coronation had Auron been seen out strolling the street.

When he and Kyrem reached the stable at last, the priests took one look and busied themselves at the farthest corners of the place. Nasr Yamut was nowhere to be seen.

“Ah, the beauty,” Auron murmured.

Omber stood still and splendid under no restraint but the light pressure of Kyrem's hand. “So they do not all jump about with such frenzy,” Auron mused.

Kyrem shook his head.

“And the ears too,” remarked Auron. “I am not used to them unclipped, but they are attractive, pricked forward so prettily. And he has a kind eye. May I touch him?”

“If I will it.” Kyrem gave the silent command, and Omber stood quietly as Auron ran a hand along his smooth blue-black neck and shoulder.

“There, there, such a beauty,” Auron murmured. “Walk him about a bit, Kyrem, or what you will, while I greet the others.”

He went to each of the enclosed horse-bays in turn, chirruping to bring the horses over to him and patting them on their cheeks, rubbing their foreheads and the itchy places above the eyes. Kyrem watched this ordinary scene with an odd feeling of discomfort, wondering what seemed wrong or out of place until, with a small shock, he remembered that he was in Vashti and these were sacred steeds.

“You are allowed to touch them then?” he asked Auron. “Because you are king?”

“Because they belong to me.” He summoned the nearest cluster of whispering priests with a shout. “Bring some of the other ones out, you fellows,” he told them.

“Oh.” Kyrem wondered why he was surprised. “I had assumed that they belonged to the priests or to the temple.”

“In a very real sense they belong to all Vashtins, or to no one.” Auron stroked the curve of a glossy neck. “Horses are of all things in Vashti most precious, most sacred. So the priests take charge of them from birth, bring them to human mothers for suckling—”

“I was raised on mare's milk,” Kyrem said with some amusement, “and you Vashtins raise horses on yours.”

“Yes.” Auron smiled at him, a warm, contented smile. “It is odd. Well, when they have been accustomed to halter somewhat, they are let to run with the deer and the wild goats on the slopes of Mount Kimiel until they are past being yearlings, when the pick of the stallions are brought here. The rest remain, except for the foaling mares.”

He hobbled carefully the few feet to where the flamens held several cavorting horses, and he gentled each in turn with a caress and a murmur. Kyrem followed him.

“And they are all yours?”

“No, not really. These, the oracles, are given to me as king and as the priesthood finds me worthy. But in any ordinary way they cannot be owned or bought or sold; they can only be given as the highest form of gift.”

Kyrem listened in floundering amazement. He had often found it hard to fathom Vashtin ways, but never so much as now. He shook his head, thinking intently.

“So the giving of a horse to an individual is a mark of honor?” he said at last.

“Yes. I have given three in my lifetime. One to a servant of extraordinary integrity and loyalty, one to a long-time steward, and one to a woman whom I loved when I was younger and not so set in my ways. None,” he added significantly, “to courtiers. The horse is a gift of the heart.”

Kyrem could well believe it, for a gripping spasm had taken hold of his own heart, subject to a thought he could not avoid as his hand rested on Omber's silky neck. In a moment he had managed to calm the beating organ and go on.

“Such a gift must automatically raise the recipient to the highest station in life.”

“The concept of station,” Auron replied dryly, “is not a legal formulation within the code of Vashtin law under my rule.”

“I know, I know. But in effect.…”

“Well, in effect, yes. Those whom I mentioned are now persons of power and rank within their clans and guilds because they have that same honor to bestow. That is all to the good—they are worthy people. And the keeping of the horses is no burden to them; the priests see to it.” Auron turned to scan the array of stalls. “Those three on the end there, chestnut, gray and rose roan. Those I may not touch.”