The Lady of Han-Gilen (32 page)

Elian ran her tongue over her cracked lips. She did not like
the feel of this. Yet the man was honest. Transparently so; and so feeble that,
for all his strength of will, he could barely keep his feet.

Her eyes flicked to Mirain. He had his king-look: weighing,
pondering. He could press on with those of his company who could manage,
leaving the rest behind; and if there was a trap, spring it before it was well
set.

Or was that the trap itself, to separate him from the main
body of his men? Or was there after all no trap and no treachery?

The messenger had no falsehood in him. Conflict rumbled in
the earth of Ashan: troops gathering, fear mounting. Mirain knew the taste of
civil war. It burst on Elian’s tongue, hot and foul; she gagged on it.

The messenger swayed. She caught him, to his surprise, not
least at her strength. Though he was tall, he had no more flesh than a bird. “I
think,” she said, “that we should try to sleep dry tonight at least. The men
need rest, and some will need healing. It’s been a cruel march.”

Yet, having spoken, she felt no better. There was a
wrongness in it. But if Mirain tried to go on . . .

The king’s chin lifted; his brows met. “It has been bitter,”
he said, “and I for one would welcome dry feet. Lord Casien, will yonder castle
hold my full company?”

The man coughed, deep and racking, battling to master
himself. Elian’s power uncoiled. His voice, freed, came almost clear. “I fear
not, majesty. But there is a place on the mountain’s knees close to the pass,
an arm of the vale and a great cavern. Your men would be at ease there, and out
of the rain.”

And neatly closed in like rats in a trap.

So would they be if they were shut up within a castle wall.
Elian set her teeth. She was letting her fears master her.

Briskly Mirain gestured: assent, command. “Very well. Lead
us, then; and send a man ahead to the lord of—?”

“Asan-Garin, sire.”

“I shall accept his offer, with thanks. My men have food,
but would be glad of fuel, and any other aid he may provide.”

“It shall be done, majesty.”

oOo

As Elian mounted to the top of the pass, the lashing of
sleet eased. The clouds boiled and broke, laying bare a deep cleft of valley
amid mountain walls.

Beyond the pass it divided like a stream flowing past a
stone, one arm thrusting deep into the east, the other, shorter and higher,
slanting into a treeless upland and a steep loom of cliff. The east way was the
way to Asan-Garin, the Fortress of the Wolf: black trees and black stones, and
at its head where the mountains met, a spur of the peaks. Men had built upon it,
erecting walls and keep far above the floor of the vale.

“Impressive,” Hal muttered beside her. “But what’s the use
of a castle there if there’s none here, where anyone can come in?”

Elian worked her numb fingers within her gloves, and settled
deeper into the saddle. “Maybe people are supposed to come in. Have you ever
seen a spider’s parlor?”

“Cheerful child.” He grinned through the ice in his beard.
“Race you down.”

“In this?”

He laughed and sent his grey over the edge at a pace just
short of lethal. After an instant’s gathering pause, Ilhari launched herself
after him.

 
“
There’s
why his lordship doesn’t need a
castle here,” Elian said when she had got her breath back. She had won the
race, plunging ahead even of the Mad One, skidding to a halt at the edge of the
western meadow.

It was high, and sloped higher, almost to the level of the
pass; there the mountains opened. Man’s hand had touched it, or perhaps the
hands of giants; as she drew closer she saw the vast stone gates open wide,
seeming almost to be a part of the peak, save that no mountain wall boasted
hinges of grey and rustless metal.

The cavern was both broad and deep, smooth-floored, with
hearths built at intervals along its walls and its center; from the air’s
movement she thought there would be vents far above. There was ample room here
for a hundred men, indeed for ten times as many.

Hooves clattered behind her; voices woke echoes.
“Magnificent,” breathed Mirain, halting by her side, springing from the Mad
One’s back. “Look, there were lamps here once, set in the stone. And a stair—
there. I wonder where—”

“Sire!”

He turned. Elian realized that the company could not see
them. They were lost in the darkness beyond the cavern’s center, seeing with witch-eyes
where mortal sight was useless.

Light blazed. Mirain had stripped the glove from his right
hand. The shadows fled from a mighty vault of smoothed stone, a hall of giants.

And giants there were, marching upon the far wall. An army,
deep carven: men like the tribesmen of the north, tall and high-nosed and
proud; chariots drawn by strange beasts, cats and broad-horned bulls and winged
direwolves; women riding on huge birds. Above them all rode a man in armor in a
burning chariot, and drawing it yoked lions, their manes fanning like flames.

Mirain’s mirth was light and free. “See! Even the giants of
the old time knew my father.”

Elian tilted her head back to study the carven god. His
armor was strange, ornate, covering his whole body like a skin of jointed
metal; over it he wore a long loose surcoat and a flowing cloak. But his head
was bare, the hair blown into rays about it. “He has your face,” she said to
Mirain.

To the life; even to the slight curl at the corner of the
mouth. Mirain had it now, examining his portrait that had been made long ages
before he was born. “What an eagle’s beak I have!”

“You,” she said severely, “are unspeakably vain.”

“Isn’t he, now?”

Elian almost laughed. As she leaped to set herself between
Mirain and the voice, Mirain leaped to set himself before her. They ended
shoulder to shoulder, swords drawn, points meeting at a throat some few
handbreaths above their own.

Their captive grinned white in a face as dark as any in
Ianon, and lounged against the cavern’s wall. Torches, set alight, struck fire
in his northern finery.

“Vadin!” Mirain’s sword flashed into its sheath; his joy
leaped with him into his oathbrother’s embrace.

And died, thrusting him back, chilling his voice. “I sent
you to hold the north. I remember no word of your meeting me here.”

Vadin glanced at Elian. She stared back, refusing to flinch.

Mirain looked from one to the other. His brows drew
together. “Elian,” he said, soft and still.

She sheathed her sword, taking her time about it. She did
not think either of them could see her hand shake.

She inclined her head to Vadin. “My lord. I trust you had a
pleasant journey.”

“Pleasant enough,” he answered, “considering. And you?”

“The same.”

“I see he finally got up the nerve to declare himself to
you.”

She tossed her head. “Nerve! He had nerve. He did it in
front of his whole household. And even then I had to trick him into marrying
me.”

“That’s Mirain,” Vadin said, sighing. “With armies and
kingdoms he puts an Asanian courtesan to shame. With women he goes all
tongue-tied.”

“Only at the beginning,” said Elian. “Once he had warmed to it . . .”

“Elian.” Mirain’s tone was ominous in its gentleness. “What
have you done?”

She faced him. He was not angry. He was determined not to
be. Because if he let go, even for a moment, he would flay her alive.

She lifted her chin to its most maddening angle. “What do
you think I’ve done?”

There were words for it. One or two might have been
acceptable outside of a guardroom.

Vadin spared Mirain the trouble of uttering them. “I had a
summons from my lady empress. It was concise. She had need of me. Would I meet
her in Ashan?”

Mirain’s breath left him in a hiss. His eyes glittered on
Elian. “You don’t even
like
him.”

“What does that have to do with it? My power says we need
him. Therefore we have him. If nothing else,” she said, “he can give us a
proper burial.”

“They burn Ianyn kings,” Vadin informed her. And as they
both glared: “Now see here, children. This is a very clever trap, enticingly
baited. I’ve had a day or two to sniff around it.” He stepped aside. His shadow
bred men: great bearded Ianyn warriors who poured out of the mountain to
overwhelm their king, drowning what more Vadin would have said, sweeping them
all toward the hall’s hearth.

Mirain’s own company was in and dismounted, settled well
within where wind and sleet could not reach, tending their seneldi, freeing the
packbeasts of their burdens. Adjan had found fuel, only he knew where or how,
and built a fire in the central hearthpit. They all leaped up from it in the
face of the invasion.

“Peace,” said Mirain. “These are friends.”

They settled slowly. Vadin’s barbarians eyed the southerners
in open contempt, and took care to crouch well away from them, but as close to
their king as they might come.

Mirain’s barbarians, Elian noticed, had taken umbrage. They
mingled conspicuously with their trousered comrades; they glowered at their
kinsmen.

She swallowed a smile as she sat between Mirain and Vadin.
It boded well for the empire, that mingling and that outrage.

And now they were three tight circles: the warriors of Ianon
and the soldiers of the empire and the followers of the Lord Casien.

The last huddled apart, surrounding their lord. Here in the
mountain, with a hundred king’s men hemming them in, lounging about with hands
never far from hilts, they had a taut and wary look. One, though shivering
convulsively, tried to press a steaming cup on his master.

Mirain beckoned to Halenan and Cuthan and a captain or two.
They withdrew somewhat from the rest, leaning forward as Vadin finished what he
had begun. “Yes,” he said, “this is a trap. The whole of Ashan is a trap, for
the matter of that. The center of it is here.”

“How do you know that?” Mirain asked. Curious; completely
unafraid.

“I feel it in my bones.” Vadin grinned, a baring of sharp
teeth. “I’ve been exploring. This cavern is only an antechamber. The mountain
behind it is a maze of tunnels. Most of them lead to nothing but blank walls.
Some are traps; I lost a man learning it. One winds up to the Wolf’s castle.
Its side ways are . . . interesting. And rather well guarded.

“It’s true what you’ve been told, that there’s no room in
Garin for you,” Vadin said. “It’s large enough to hold an army; and an army
fills it.”

“Ashani?” asked Halenan.

“Ashani,” Vadin answered. “They’re turned on you, Mirain.”

Mirain smiled. It was not comfortable to see. “Have they?”
he asked, almost purring. “Luian alone? Or do his sons have a part in it?”

“Luian and his heir. The rest run at their heels. I found
them marching up from Han-Ashan; I tracked them here. I saw them send out their
bait.”

Vadin glanced at Casien. The lord slumped against one of his
escort: a kinsman, perhaps. His eyes were closed. If he was not unconscious, he
was perilously close to it. “He’s an innocent; they know that much of
hoodwinking mages. They rely on your famous clemency to keep you from inquiring
too deeply into his memories and finding any hint that might betray their
plotting.”

“They think I’m soft.” Mirain laughed at the sudden rash of
denials. “Of course they do. Look at me. I’m young, I’m a priest, I’m famous
for sparing my enemies. And I’m arrogant to idiocy. Even if I caught wind of
Luian’s ambush, I’d throw myself into it, because he sent a messenger near
death from sickness, and because I am the god’s son; I am not for any man’s
slaying.”

They stared at him. “You wouldn’t,” Elian said.

“Why not? It’s a pity to waste so lovely a trap.”

Even Vadin was appalled. Unsurprised, but appalled. “That’s
insane even for you.”

“What’s mad about it? I know what Luian intends. I have my
best men with me. And I have you, who know the hidden ways to the castle. I’ll
ambush the ambush.”

“Ah,” said Halenan. “An attack from the rear. For a moment I
thought you were going to spring the trap.”

“I am.” Mirain was on his feet, beating down the outcry. “I
must! Else they’ll know that I suspect something.”

Elian left the protesting to the men. They could as easily
have moved the mountain as persuaded Mirain to see sense. More easily. Mere
stone would yield to a mage’s will.

When the flood had ebbed a little, she said, “There’s always
an alternative. A ruse. A soldier spelled to look like Mirain.”

The king rounded on her. “I will not command a man of mine
to die in my place.”

“In your name, often. But never in your place.” She stood,
the better to bear the brunt of his anger. “If you go, I go.”

“You will not.”

“I will.” She smiled sweetly. “By your hand I swear it.”

For a mad instant she knew that he would strike her down
with that same glittering hand. But it rose only as high as his breast, then
fell, trembling. It could not clench.

The white agony of it pierced her shields. She caught it,
held it to her heart, taking the pain as she had taken it since she was a young
child.

He drew himself up. He was as well aware as she of the life
that sparked below his hand. “Take back your oath.”

“You know I can’t.”

“I must go.” He had forgotten the others; he all centered on
her, his hand shifting of itself, cupping the breast beneath the sodden leather
of her coat. “No one else can do what I can do: blind Luian, convince him that
I come in ignorance, ensure that the castle lies open to my army.”

“You could retreat. Luian will hang himself soon enough, or
be hanged, when his allies turn against him. As they will if you come riding
with the whole of Ebros at your back.”

“But,” he said, “that would take time; and my enemies would
call it flight, and proclaim that a clever man can betray me and live.”