The foremost archer spurred upon his heels. The mare,
thrashing, caught the foreleg of the rebel’s mount. It screamed and toppled and
spun slowly over the rim.
The Mad One hurled himself up the steep ledge. Jeran lagged,
his lovely golden mare dying as she ran, he weeping and cursing and beseeching
her forgiveness as he lashed her on. But it was the Mad One who gave her
strength, who gored her flank with cruel horns, driving her upward.
Vadin burst into quiet, and for an eternal instant he knew
that it was death. Until he saw walls and a paved court and people thronging,
and the Mad One plunging through the gates with Jeran’s mare before him, and
the gates swinging shut. Slowly, slowly, the golden mare crumpled to the
stones. Jeran lay beside her and wept.
The race was won. They had come to Umijan.
Vadin was on the ground. It was cold, and he did not
remember falling.
He dragged himself up, inch by tortured inch, knowing all
the while that when he was on his feet he would go mad. He must tend Rami, or
she would die; he must tend Mirain, or his honor as a squire would die.
They had Rami, people who insisted that they knew how to
care for her. More gathered around Jeran’s mare, and a valiant few tended the
Mad One. Mirain—
Mirain stood in a circle of giants, eye to eye with the
tallest of them all, who stood to Vadin as Vadin stood to Mirain. Even in his
fog of exhaustion Vadin knew who this must be; the likeness to Moranden was
uncanny.
Mirain’s voice came clear and proud and indomitable. “Good
day, lord baron, and greetings in the name of the Prince Moranden. He bids you
make ready for his coming; he requests that his resting place be free of
vermin.”
Vadin sucked in his breath. The people about looked as
shocked as he felt, and some were stiff with outrage. But Baron Ustaren looked
at his kinsman’s ambassador and laughed. “What! Shall I leave no rats for my
cousin to hunt at his leisure?”
“Only if you are prepared to be counted among the quarry.”
Vadin edged toward Mirain. Not that he had much hope of
being useful; some of the onlookers had throwing spears and some had strung
bows. And men in Umijan were large even for northerners. He was the merest
stripling here, with barely strength to stand, let alone fight.
They let him stand at his lord’s back, which proved the
sublimity of their contempt. Mirain was oblivious to him. The prince was
staring the baron down, and succeeding in it.
Ustaren had less pride than Moranden had, or more guile; he
yielded with all appearance of goodwill. “The rats shall be disposed of. How
may I name the bearer of his lordship’s command?”
“As Prince Moranden himself names me,” Mirain answered.
“Messenger.”
“So then, sir messenger, shall I house you among the
warriors? Or would I be wiser to treat you as my guest? or as a priest? or
perhaps as the heir of Ianon?”
“Wherever I am placed, I remain myself.” Mirain’s chin
lifted a degree. “Lord baron, you have vermin to hunt, and my companions stand
in sore need of tending. Have I your leave?”
Ustaren bowed low and shaped a sign that Vadin almost knew.
Others repeated it as he said, “All shall be done as the Sun’s son commands.”
His voice raised to a roar. “Ho, Umijan! We ride to fight.”
oOo
Vadin lay in a bed that should have been celestially soft,
and ached in each separate muscle and bone. He had slept as much as he was
going to, but his body could not heal itself as quickly as that. Even his ears
throbbed dully.
Someone was snoring, or more likely some two, Jeran and Tuan
abed in the guard’s niche of Umijan’s great chamber. Mirain, who never snored,
held the other half of that vast bed, long enough and broad enough to dwarf
even the Lord of Umijan.
Someone must have laid them all in their places, undressed
them and cleaned them. Vadin remembered coming here, and knowing whose chamber
it was, but no more than that.
The two soldiers had been carried unconscious. Vadin had
walked, and been inordinately proud of it.
Mirain had not only walked, he had been giving orders. He
would have put himself to bed, simply to prove that he could do it.
With some effort and no little pain, Vadin raised himself on
his elbow. Mirain slept like a child, lying on his stomach with his face turned
toward Vadin and his hand fisted beside it. Maybe, had he been younger, his
thumb would have been in his mouth. But the face was no child’s. Even in sleep
it was furrowed with exhaustion.
Vadin’s teeth clicked together. Mirain did not sleep on his
face. He slept sprawled on his back or curled neatly on his side. And not
weariness alone had graven that deep line between his brows.
Very carefully Vadin folded back the blankets. Mirain’s back
was clear, smooth, unhurt. No arrow had found its way there.
He was wearing a kilt, clearly not his own; it was overlong
and wrapped twice around him. As if that could have deceived Vadin, who knew
that Mirain slept as bare as any other man in Ianon.
The kilt, pathetic subterfuge that it was, had slipped
upward as he slept, baring what it was meant to hide. Vadin wanted to howl like
a beast.
Soft, Mirain was not, he had proved it beyond all
questioning, but he had not ridden all his life in the poor protection of kilt
or battle tunic. And he had ridden the greatest of all Great Races, half a day
and a night and nigh a full day again, and never once, never for an instant,
had he let slip that he was being flayed alive.
Vadin should have known. He should have thought. He should
have—
“Nonsense.” Mirain was awake. He looked no less haggard, but
his eyes were clear. “You will say no word of this.”
Vadin understood. Not that anyone would think the less of
Mirain for it, but that damnable pride of his—
“That has nothing to do with it!” Mirain snapped. “Can’t you
taste the danger here? If it’s known that I’m hurt, they’ll hover over us day
and night, not merely keep a watch on the door.”
The part about danger was true enough. Vadin started to
unwind the kilt; Mirain glared but did not try to stop him.
It was not as bad as he had feared. The wounds were clean,
though not pleasant to see. They had not festered.
Vadin covered them with care and rose. Not till he reached
the door did he realize that he had forgotten how much he hurt. He drew the
bolt and called out, “Redroot salve and the softest bandages you can find, and
something to eat. Be quick!” He was slow in closing the door, and he was
careful to move stiffly.
The salve came in a covered jar, and it was redroot indeed;
its pungency made his eyes water. The bandages were fine and soft, the food
substantial and steaming, and there was a pitcher of ale.
They were sparing no trouble here. For Mirain’s sake, Vadin
wondered briefly, or for Moranden’s? He bolted the door in curious faces and
advanced on Mirain.
The prince was sitting up, which was admirable for
appearances but appalling for his hurts. “Lie down,” Vadin ordered him.
For a miracle he obeyed. Once he was flat again, he loosed a
faint sigh and closed his eyes.
Vadin’s own were wide and burning dry. He remembered his
mother the day the brindled stallion had gored his father; she had looked the
way he felt now. Stiff and quiet, and very, very angry.
The anger tainted his voice, made the words cruel. “Brace
yourself. This will sting.”
Vadin’s hands were gentler than his tongue. Mirain was
quiet, all but unflinching. But of course; he lived with a fire in his hand to
which this was a mere flush of warmth.
Not that the pain itself was any less, or the shame. Vadin
said, “You’re an initiate now. You’ve blooded your saddle; you’ve been anointed
with redroot.”
“What makes you think I need the reassurance?”
“So you don’t,” said Vadin, beginning the slow task of
covering salved flesh with bandages. “So you’re snapping at me because it
amuses you. How do you think I got this leathered hide? Days in the saddle and
nights on my face with redroot burning me to the bone, and half a dozen stints
of wearing bandages wrapped like trousers.”
“You should wear trousers to start with, and spare yourself
suffering.”
“That would be too easy. Or you’d have done it yourself.”
Mirain stood for Vadin to finish, moving with care, looking
as grim as his grandfather. “Easy. That’s the heart of it. Trousers reek of
ease and comfort and southern effeminacy. I can’t wear them here and be looked
on as either a man or a prince. Whereas my shaven face, now that is scandalous,
but it’s endurable: it’s difficult, it’s troublesome, it often draws blood. Men
in Ianon will sacrifice their beards gladly for a fashion or a flattery, but
they’ll die before they wrap their legs in trousers.”
“I’ll die before I do either.” Vadin bound off the last bandage,
but he remained on his knees. It was strange to look up at Mirain and to know
that it had nothing to do with wizardry. He sat on his heels. “I’ve earned my
comfort in a kilt; I’m not about to atone for it with a razor.”
“You are a philosopher.” Mirain grinned so suddenly that
Vadin blinked, and ran a finger down the squire’s cheek. It was a gesture just
short of insult, and just short of a caress. “Also much handsomer than I, and
charmingly blind to the fact. It’s not only your fine character that endears
you to Ledi.”
“Of course not. She loves my fine copper, and my occasional
silver.”
“Not to mention your splendid smile. And that cleft in your
chin . . . ah!”
Vadin locked his hands together before they hit something.
“You had better dress,” he said, “my lord. Before the others wake and see.”
“They won’t.”
But Mirain went in search of clothing and found a tunic that
made him a rather handsome robe, and Vadin found his temper again. As the
prince approached the food, he was able to follow suit, even to keep from
glowering. Even, in time, to muster a smile, albeit with a touch of a snarl.
oOo
When Moranden rode in at last, Mirain was there in his own
kilt and cloak, now clean and mended. The elder prince had for escort his
kinsman of Umijan; and every Umijeni behind them carried on his spear the head
of a rebel. So too did a number of Ianyn, and they were singing as they came.
The women of Umijan raised their own shrill paean, the chant
that was half of exultation for the victory, half of grief for the fallen. Amid
the tumult Mirain stood alone with the three who were left of his companions,
and there was a circle of stillness about them, a flicker of fingers in the
sign Vadin had seen before.
Again its familiarity pricked, again he had no time to
remember. They were all coming toward Mirain, Moranden leading, handing the
reins to one who reached for them, facing his sister’s son.
He was full of victory, magnanimous with it; he embraced his
rival, and Mirain grinned at him as if they had never been aught but friends.
Vadin could not understand why he was so little minded to join in the cheer
that went up. It was not a feeble cheer. The army clashed spear on shield,
roaring their names.
Mirain! Moranden!
Moranden! Mirain!
When some semblance of quiet had fallen, Moranden said,
“Well done, kinsman. Splendidly done. If you weren’t a knight of Han-Gilen, I’d
make you one of Ianon.”
Mirain smiled up into the glad and lordly face, so amiable
to see, and responded with all sweetness, “I take your words as they are meant,
my uncle.”
Moranden laughed and clapped him on the back, staggering
him, and turned to the baron. “I trust you’ve housed and looked after my
kinsman as he deserves. He’s no less than Ianon’s heir.”
“I’ve set him in my own chamber,” Ustaren said, “and given
him my own slaves to command as he wills.”
“With which,” said Mirain, “I am well content.”
Such a love-feast. It was making Vadin ill. Mercifully they
cut it short; there were wounded to see to, and trophies to hang, and women to
be bedded in the rites of triumph.
oOo
Mirain was encouraged to rest, with much solicitude for the
toll his ride must have taken. Not that they knew the truth of it, or could
guess; he refused to walk lame, and two days out of the saddle had smoothed the
furrows of exhaustion from his face. He was being pampered like a royal maiden,
nor could he help but know it, yet he left the courtyard with good grace.
Jeran went to see his mare, who was expected to live; Mirain
had had something to do with that. Tuan followed with an eye on the hayloft and
one of the serving maids. Mirain trailed at some distance.
They had had to set the Mad One apart in a stable of his
own. He endured strange hands upon him, provided that they presumed only to
tend him, but he would not suffer the stallion who ruled as king here.
The beast, a splendid young bay, would bear the scars until
he died, although the Mad One had forborne to slay him. For scorn, Vadin
suspected.
The black demon seemed content in his exile, with Rami near
him and Jeran’s mare coming slowly back to life within his sight. He accepted
the delicacies Mirain had saved for him, submitted to the prince’s scrutiny,
snorted when Vadin observed, “Not a mark on him. You’d think he’d done nothing
more strenuous than march on parade.”
Mirain fondled Rami’s head. The gap in the wall through
which it had appeared had not been there before the Mad One came. “This beauty,
too,” he said; “already she frets to be idle.”
“You can talk to her,” Vadin said more sullenly than he had
meant.
“Seneldi don’t use words.” Mirain inspected the Mad One’s
hoof, bending with care, speaking as to it. “To Rami I’m a great one who shines
in the night, a master of magic. I can speak clearly to her and know what she
wishes me to know, and maybe she thinks well of me. But you are the one she
loves.”