Arrows of the Sun (39 page)

“I shall not see twenty,” Korusan said.

“Nonsense,” said Estarion, flat and hurting-hard. “It’s hard
enough to tell with only eyes to go by, but the rest of your Olenyai aren’t
children. All the others are men grown.”

“Not I,” said Korusan. “Not my line. I am the last of it.
After me there are no others.”

“Then why—” Estarion stopped himself before he came too
close to the truth. “Never mind. You’re still sick, aren’t you? You’re seeing
death in every shadow. You won’t die. I’m not going to let you.”

“No one has such power,” Korusan said.

“I do.”

Korusan laughed, because he always laughed at death and
folly. He who had no magic still had eyes within, half of training, half of his
own nature. He saw the death that slept in him, blood and bone.

It was waking. Years and training, medicine and magic, had
lulled it, but even the Sun’s power could not drive it out. It was sunk too
deep.

Estarion’s hands on him were burning cold, both pain and
exquisite pleasure. “You’ll live,” said Estarion. “My word on it.”

“Great lord,” said Korusan. “Bright emperor.” His mockery
was bitter. “Will you swear not to outlive me?”

“That’s in the god’s hands,” Estarion said a shade too
quickly.

“Spoken like a priest,” said Korusan, “and like a king.” He
smiled. He felt Estarion shiver. “If I am not clad and veiled very soon,” he
said, “every servant in the palace will know my face.”

Estarion let him go. Korusan paused, considering wisdom and
unwisdom, and prices, and velvet over steel. Abruptly he spun, seeking the
refuge of his veils.

o0o

It had all come upon Estarion at once: Toruan’s message,
Korusan’s fever, his mother and Iburan proving him a fool beyond fools, then
Korusan again, with death lodged in his bones. He did not pause to think. He
had paused too long, thought far too much, until there was no reflection left
in him at all.

It had taken what magic was left him. He found none, though
he delved deep. He was empty, ringing hollow. There was not even pain to mark
where it had been.

What stirred in him, he told himself, was relief. An emperor
did not need to be a mage, still less the poor maimed thing that he had been
for so long. He had wealth to hire the greatest of masters, power to compel
obedience even from the likes of the Lord Iburan of Endros, who danced the
dance of dark and light with the empress mother of Keruvarion.

His servants were there to bathe and robe him, as they were
every morning. He allowed the bath. He forbade the robes. When he received the
Regent of Asanion, it was in royal richness, but such as it was reckoned in the
princedoms of the east: embroidered coat, silken trousers, boots heeled with
bronze and inlaid with gold. His hair was tidily plaited, his beard cut short.

Firaz seemed undismayed to see his emperor gone back to outland
habits. “I shall see to the Court this morning,” he said, “and assure them that
your majesty is well.”

“No need,” said Estarion. “I’ll tell them myself. Some of
them will be needing to muster forces, armed and otherwise. It’s time we dealt
with this little matter of rebellion.”

“Majesty,” said Firaz, “there is no need to vex yourself.
All that need be done, your servants shall do.”

“I vex myself,” said Estarion, “sitting in this silk-lined
cage, hearing nothing but what my servants judge fit for me to hear.”

“Ah,” said Firaz. “That one shall be dealt with also, and
swiftly.”

Estarion’s smile widened. “He already has, my lord. I saw to
it last night. I trust there will be no additions to my undertaking.”

The Regent inclined his head a fraction. Estarion watched
him narrowly, but he did not look like a man startled in guilt.

Firaz had waged long war to make an Asanian emperor of an
outland savage, but he was an honest man. God and goddess knew, if he was
either traitor or enemy, it was much too late to escape.

Even in Asanion an emperor had to place his trust in
something. Well indeed: Estarion would trust his loyal adversary. “When I came
to Kundri’j,” he said, “I rode at speed, and I kept the company of princes. In
that, I think, I was mistaken. Tomorrow when I ride out, I ride as I was used
to ride in Keruvarion, among my people, teaching them to know my face.”

Firaz drew a sharp breath: a great betrayal, for an Asanian.
“Majesty! That is deadly dangerous.”

“So,” said Estarion, “it is.” He sat back, stroking his new-clipped
beard. That was tension, but maybe the Regent would not know it. “I will go,
Firaz. You will go with me or remain, as you will. But Kundri’j has held me
long enough. It’s time I saw the rest of Asanion again, and reminded it that it
needs no dreams or prophets.”

“In the teeth of winter, my lord? Will you not wait until
the spring comes round again?”

“Will the siege in Ansavaar wait for a prettier season? I’m
going to break it, my lord. I’d like to find a living city when I go in, and
not a hill of starveling corpses.”

“My lord, you cannot do that.”

Estarion almost laughed. “Am I the emperor, my lord Firaz?”

Firaz bowed to that, but his back was stiff. “You are the
emperor, my lord Estarion. And the emperor docs not ride to battle.”

“Then that tale is a lie which tells of Ziad-Ilarios at the
battle of Induverran, and he not only emperor but Son of the Lion, of the pure
and ancient blood.”

“His heir was gone,” said Firaz. “His empire was overrun. He
had no choice.”

“He had other sons—half a hundred of them, or so they say.
And he put on armor and rode to war.”

“You have no son,” Firaz said, “nor any hope of one, if you
are killed in pursuit of this folly.”

“If I die,” said Estarion, “I’ll die free and sane, and not
mewling like a beast. Which I shall be, good my lord, if I am pent much longer
in this palace.”

Firaz opened his mouth as if to reply, but shut it again. He
bowed low. Perhaps it was contempt that held his face so woodenly still; but
Estarion thought that it was not. He was afraid for his emperor.

His emperor was touched, but he was not going to yield for
that. “Now,” he said. “The Court.”

o0o

The Court astonished him. It was barely shocked to be
addressed direct, and it received his commands with aplomb. It seemed like
Firaz to have been expecting something of the sort, though maybe not so soon.

Estarion could not tell among the bland faces, who was
pleased to see him abandon the safety of walls and guards. Some, maybe,
wondered if he were being subtle, to lure out his assassins. Others would be
certain that he courted his death.

So he did. If Asanion killed him, he wanted to die under the
sky, not smothered in silks.

And maybe he would live. Maybe the rumors were all lies, and
the rebellion a falsehood, a distillation of discontent that had not come yet
to open battle.

If Asanion had a war-council to match that in Keruvarion, no
one would admit to it. The emperor spoke, he issued commands, they were obeyed.

It was convenient, in its way. No one but Firaz dared to
tell the emperor what he could not do.

“It will of course be done,” Estarion said, smiling sweetly.
“Yes, my lords?”

None of them protested. None even met his eyes.

o0o

“Will they do it, do you think?” Estarion wondered when he
had gone back to his lair again. “Or will they conveniently forget?”

“They will not forget,” said Korusan.

Estarion slanted an eye at the Olenyas. He was robed and
veiled and armed as always, no difference in him that Estarion could detect,
but his nearness was warm on Estarion’s skin. And only yesterday he had been a
stranger, a voice without a face, cool and remote.

“What,” Estarion mocked him, but gently, “will you hunt the
laggards down yourself, and make them obey or die?”

“Yes,” said Korusan.

“Do you ever laugh?” Estarion asked him. “Or dance for the
simple joy of being alive?”

There was a difference after all: Korusan would meet his
eyes and not slide away. “I dance,” he said, “with swords.”

“Everything you do is about killing,” Estarion said.

“I am Olenyas,” said Korusan.

Estarion sighed. He knew every inch of that body, and every
scar on it; and he had enough of his own to know what weapons had caused most
of them. He did not know Korusan at all. Except that he was doomed to die
young. And that he danced with swords.

He would ride with Estarion, he and a company of his
fellows. The Olenyai had not questioned their emperor’s command, or even rolled
an eye at it. They did flaunt it a little in the faces of his Varyani Guard,
which marked them human after all, and which made the Guardsmen snarl. If
Estarion could persuade those warring warriors to mingle freely and in
friendship, he would have no difficulty with the rest of his twofold empire.

The servants had left Estarion with his shadow and a
tableful of delicacies, none of which Estarion was minded to taste. He would
not rest before the sun went down, or sleep tonight. There was too much to do.
But for an hour, because the emperor did not eat in company, he was granted a
respite.

He held out his hand. “Come here,” he said.

He knew a moment of exquisite uncertainty, mounting to
terror. Korusan was Asanian, and Olenyas, and incalculable. He might have meant
not love at all, in the night, but something like war, and conquest: Asanion
conquering Keruvarion in the bed and body of its emperor. If that was so, then
he would refuse to be commanded; he would spurn Estarion, laugh, call him a
lovestruck fool.

So he was; so he could not help but be. He was besotted with
a pair of golden eyes, an ivory face, a heart as gentle as it was
prickly-fierce.

Then the Olenyas came. He did not laugh; he did not cast
Estarion’s weakness in his face. He was less savage than he had been in the
night, and yet more hungry, as if he had been starving and here was his feast.
It was wonderful and terrible, like riding a storm-wind, or dancing with
swords.

He could dance. Naked first in Estarion’s arms, clad in
nothing but the stone that had been Estarion’s gift; robed again after with
swords in hand, whirling from shaft of sunlight to shaft of shadow. Estarion
found swords of his own and the slight protection of trousers, and waited in
the light. Korusan spun out of the dark, swirl of robes, flash of steel.

Estarion laughed. Korusan was silent, but his eyes were
burning gold. They danced the dance of steel and blood, swift, swifter,
swiftest, and never a pause or a shrinking, though the blades were deadly keen
and the dance in bright earnest.

They both knew it. One false move, one misstep, and blood
would flow. Now Estarion pressed harder; now Korusan.

Korusan was a fraction the quicker. Estarion was a shade the
stronger. He had the advantage in reach. Korusan could slide in beneath it if
he let slip his guard, and slide away again.

Estarion was tiring. He had moldered in the palace too long;
he had lost his edge. Sweat dripped into his eyes, blinding him. Korusan seemed
as cool as ever, but Estarion heard his breath coming fast.

Without warning Estarion dropped both swords and sprang
under and round the wall of steel, sweeping up the startled boy, whirling him
about.

He could have cloven Estarion asunder. Maybe he considered
it, but then he let fall his own swords.

Estarion set him down. The boy was furious—spitting with it.
“Idiot! Lunatic! You could have been killed.”

Estarion grinned, gulping air. “Oh, come. Don’t sulk. It’s
no sin to be caught by surprise.”

“I was not,” said Korusan. From the sound of it, his teeth
were clenched. “Had I been, you would have died.”

“Not likely,” said Estarion. He was gasping, running with
sweat, beautifully content. “Gods! I’ve gone soft. We’ll dance again,
Yelloweyes. Every morning and every night, until I’ve got my wind back. Then
we’ll dance at noon, too, and whenever else there’s time for it. And when we
come to fight—”

Korusan was blushing. It could be nothing else. Head down,
eyes down, and heat coming off him in waves.

Estarion took pity on him. “Here, eat, while I wash the
stink off. You’re too thin by half.”

“
You
are a rack of
bones,” said Korusan. But he did not try to hold Estarion back. When Estarion
looked again, the feast was somewhat diminished, and Korusan had a cup in his
hand, sipping something that smelled of thornfruit and spices.

Vanyi was at great pains not to betray her honest opinion,
which was that the two in front of her looked like children caught in mischief.
That one was Avaryan’s high priest in Endros and the other the empress mother,
only made it worse.

She made herself speak calmly. “You should have told him.”

“Certainly we should have,” said Iburan. He seemed torn
between rage and laughter.

“One could argue that he should have been less blind,” said
the empress. She was pacing while the others watched, a restless panther-stride
so like her son’s that Vanyi’s throat closed. “Whatever our failing, its result
is interesting to say the least. I wondered if he would ever stir, once the
palace had him in its net.”

“More blindness?” Vanyi asked.

The empress spun on her heel. Her glance was sharp. “No, I
did not know that it would do this to him. I hoped that it would heal his
scars; that I had raised him man enough to rule as he was born to rule.”

“Maybe,” said Iburan, “it only needed time. He rides in the
morning to settle the rebellion in the south.”

That had the smoothness of long repetition; and the empress’
reply, the harshness of long resistance. “He is not riding. He is running, as
he always runs. Will he never learn that he cannot escape himself?”

“You do him an injustice, I think,” Iburan said mildly.