Mortal Suns (48 page)

I recollect I puzzled over an Arteptan book that evening. I found the language difficult, and the substance of it has disappeared from my memory. Quite early, exhausted as I often was from boredom, I went to bed, without a single warning. And slept without one portentous dream. Not until my black Maiden came to wake me did I feel alarm. So the sacrifice only guesses, when its nostrils widen to the altar’s previous blood.

Many years longer than Klyton, my brother, lover and husband, I knew the Battle-Prince Shajhima. His last heir, now that Prince Shajhima whom I sometimes see, was born in the Battle-Prince’s sixtieth year.

At twenty-seven,
he was strong and tall, and handsome in a way unusual to me, and at the time unseen. His hair was blue-black, and his eyes also blue-black. His smoldered skin had been clad in the azure of the Pesh sky, and ornaments of gold and silver, as he sat at the table of the kings of Artepta. Besides this he wore the great sword, made of the white steel that the Pesh call Immortal Moon, and which can cut through any other metal. This steel is feminine, and represents, as we know, the moon goddess of the Pesh, who they put away centuries ago, in order to seek the Ultimate God. Decades after this time, I said to Shajhima that the Pesh stood therefore behind a woman when they slew their enemies. He answered nothing, but later told me I had been correct. For the Pesh—then, women were so much less, that no blame could attach to them for obedience to a man in war.

But the steel of the Sun Lands was pherom, which also descended to us from Phaidix, a moon goddess.

He had sat quietly through winter, Shajhima, his warriors about him, only a handful in the kings’ hall. In the city were more. And south beyond Artepta, the fleet of the Pesh covered the sea as gulls cover a pool.

At the marriage rite that was no rite, when the pot of oil was handed to Netaru, I recall Shajhima frowned.

But he remained dumb. For Pesh had allied with Artepta, great power lying down beside great power, claws sheathed. And any way, the triumvirate had given one sanctified oath, which mattered very much.

That night when Klyton was curious, thinking to see the wild-men from Kloa and her Isles, was the night this oath was to be honored.

It was not Islers who walked into the hall, where the three walls of draperies were drawn up and the gardens were visible, black on the black sky, fountain-starred below with singing waters, silently starred above with stars.

Klyton was sitting, as was normal, among Artepta’s princes, but tonight he had been given a chair beside King Rhes. Adargon was on Klyton’s other side, and there were three of his captains, nobles from Akhemony. They had been talking since morning, trying to learn more about the Islers and their coming. But had learned very little, it seems.

Netartu had gone to the women’s place, and sat with her sisters, playing with a lion-cub.

The hall was
built to face east, for moonrise, and Sunrise at dawn. Centuries before the Arteptans had considered Sunset ominous, and avoided, where possible, looking at it, marking its passage with raucous cries and blown trumpets. So the blind side of the hall was to the west. East, north and south, the drapes were raised, and Shajhima, the Peshan, had he been remarked, was on the north side, quite near to the Pehraa.

There was no preliminary for Klyton.

The silver horns sounded, and through the gardens, from east, north and south, came a long wide band of men. They were dressed in indigo and bronze, helmed in the Pesh helmets that cover the cheeks and are topped by spikes, which can, in battle, offer another weapon. They carried their ceremonial spears, chased with silver, and bound with white ribbon, which demonstrate they come in friendship not hostility.

Anyone could see at once now, these men, walking measuredly into the hall, were not Arteptans. And as Shajhima rose, they saluted him, raising their arms and tamping down with the spears. It was evident that he was their master.

The elder of the three kings also got up. He nodded to the phalanx, and then looking to Shajhima, he inclined his head.

Then the Peshan warriors drew back to the sides of the hall, and up the central floor was walking an old man heavily bearded, in a robe of dark silk, an embroidered cap upon his head.

The king spoke to the old man, in Arteptan, which Klyton understood by now reasonably well.

“You are very welcome, Teacher. Will you sit by me, here?”

The old man glanced aside at the royal women, and he drew his brows together, then loosened them. He gazed at the three Pehraa with hot and inky eyes. Then came up among them, and was sat down there between Rhes and the eldest king.

Rhes turned to Klyton. “This gentleman has traveled from Pesh Sandu across the Endless Sea, to teach us how to worship the True God.”

Klyton had no expression, though he had watched everything unblinking. He said quietly, “Did you not know how, sir?”

“It seems, not quite,” said Rhes.

Then turning back to the Peshan priest, he spoke to him in the Peshan language, which Klyton had never heard.

Adargon said, “Klyton, I think—they are Outlanders.”

“From the
fabled continent beyond all the seas,” said Klyton. “Yes.”

He had meant to go there, if it existed, and grip hold of it. It took no great effort to reason that something like this had happened in reverse.

Rhes returned to Klyton and said, with the utmost politeness, “Pesh Sandu makes a holy war. Artepta does not war at all. So we have agreed to learn about God, and to reshape ourselves somewhat, in order to display to him our reverence. The Teacher will assist us.”

“And these armed men,” said Klyton, “will they also assist?”

“Some. But the bulk of their army, of which there are many, many thousands, will press on through the countries of the mainland, towards Akhemony.”

Klyton did not speak.

It was Adargon who said, “You mean, king, to make
war
on Akhemony?”

“To conquer Akhemony.”

And Rhes smiled. The smile was not villainous, nor sorry. Events came and went around Artepta as the sea did, and like their carved statues that stood in the sea, Artepta would remain.

Adargon swore and surged up. A slave, coming with wine for the old teacher, skipped back, and the drink was spilled.

“A bad omen for your friends,” said Klyton.

“They don’t believe in omens quite in that way.

“Then do they believe in swords?”

As a prince, and kinsman, he was permitted to feast with the kings, armed. Now he touched the red hilt of the sword, where the eagle poised.

“Please calm yourself, prince,” said Rhes, unruffled. “Nothing can be done. You need fear no insult. You are son to the Pehraa now, and your other wife is our daughter, as Netaru is. Your household, your half brothers, are held within our own safety.”

“Insult, and safety,” said Klyton, still in Arteptan. “You might,” he added casually, “have warned me. In the anteroom, say, before we came in, and looked so foolish.”

They had trusted probably he would not make a fuss. To how many had he said, as to me, he was a fire burned out?

But they had forgotten burned ground keeps heat a long while, and sometimes plants grow there, like the memories of flames.

Klyton drew the sword, but when Adargon also moved, Klyton put him mildly back. Klyton said to Adargon, “I see now I was brought down to this, for the moment that the gods have sent me, here.” And then he pointed with the sword, barbarously, across the elegant tables, the crystal bowls of lilies, the alabaster lamps, the glimmering of women’s gowns and skin, and all the shining of the angerless, acquiescent night. Pointed at the Peshan who was Shajhima. “Is that one their commander?”

And Shajhima, who could
speak Arteptan better than Klyton, said in a carrying voice, “I am the commander of the force of Pesh Sandu. What you are doing means you wish a combat with me. Or have I mistaken your rudeness?”

“No,” said Klyton. “No mistake. I mean, very rudely, to cut your flyblown heart out of your stinking body. Will that do?”

Shajhima shrugged. He said, “Tomorrow, then.”

“Now,” said Klyton.

Rhes stood up—

And Klyton snatched a wine cup from the table and hurled it into the open floor, where the dancers, acrobats, and magicians had worked their lovely patterns all winter.

“I’ll meet you there,” said Klyton. “Now, before all this wondrous people, who have no word in their language for honor.”

Shajhima said, “I’d heard Akhemonians are savages, with kings who act like slaves.”

Klyton said nothing. He had been recognized, that was all it meant. He went down to the floor and kicked the thrown cup out of the way. But for its rolling, there was no other sound

Shajhima bowed to the Pehraa, and made a salute to the old teacher. “With your indulgence.”

He, too, had sat armed. But for ceremony, the sword of the metal named Immortal Moon, was curved, like Phaidix’s crescent. Shajhima drew it from the scabbard, and offered the blade to his god. Then he went to meet Klyton.

Klyton had said, for Adargon remembered and wrote it in his own chamber, wrote it on the white wall in his own last blood: I was brought down to this, for the moment that the gods have sent me, here.

Klyton. What is in his mind—only the words that have left his lips?

Does he see the lamp-glow on their cool faces, on the face of Netaru, who has not left her seat, while the jewels move slowly over her breasts that he has kissed. Does he see the Arteptan night of fountains and stars? Or does he see only the past?

Not Shajhima.
He does not see Shajhima. Nor does that count, for the moment sent is not for the hero, but for the sacrifice.

I cannot, even from the air, gaze down into their fight. Will not, perhaps, see it. Refuse.

The swords, curved and straight, ply to and fro. Light slides and drips from the blades. It is easy to become mesmerized, missing the instant, after all.

Klyton. He had grown old, in Artepta, this young god. He had lost his skill. Does he stumble? Does he hear that noise in his head he has complained of occasionally, the sound the thunderbolts made, bursting on Oceaxis?

Perhaps a glint from some jewel interferes with vision. Or he is only weary. Or simply knows what the moment is, and consents. The King must go first for his land, to slay—or be slain. If he will not, he is no king.

And, he has been dead some while.

No, never can I say it. Cannot have written the words. Let it not be said or written, then.

Only the spinning of steel, the sudden flash of goldenness, then of scarlet. Stars going out, not eyes. Smoke moving, not life, away, away, and into the darkness for ever.

Oh, my beloved, says the song of Pesh that the women sing under my tower, when they wash garments at the lower pool. Oh, my beloved, my mouth is stopped with emotion. My heart has been stolen and hidden under a stone.

I had become a shadow with him, and to regain myself, must lose him. But losing him, only the shadow remained of me.

I was a shadow. But, early in the morning or late in the night, the black Maiden woke me, to tell me so.

The words
spoken, at a distance,

when the dance is ended

H
E DID NOT RAPE ME
. I had expected it of him. I did not then know the customs of the Pesh and Shajhima had claimed me as a battle prize—that also was a custom. Netaru, of course, he did not have, for he was the ally of Artepta.

I see Nimi standing before me, saying valiantly she must go with me. But she was afraid—since the giant insect on the Sun’s Isle she had mislaid her care, her bravery. I said I was no longer a Queen, and needed no attendants. Now I was a slave.

Choras stayed with Nimi, both absorbed, I have no doubt with ease, into the Arteptan court which would patronize their whiteness, but not with cruelty. The white dog had forgotten me entirely, and quietly padded away with them. The inlaid doors close upon them all.

Guarded and ministered to by Shajhima’s own people, I lived in the house on the north shore until full spring. There were only two or three women slaves to tend me. They were from the Benighted Isles, and barely spoke my tongue. But I needed their assistance. Shajhima had at once taken away my silver feet. So I could not walk, and was returned to childhood, a cripple, helpless.

Will any ask why I did not pick up a fruit-knife, or a strong silk girdle, and conclude all this. What can I say to you. I seemed to myself, as he had been, already dead. What happened therefore did not matter. Also I partly believe I thought, if I should die, the priests were wrong and I should not find him there. At least in the world I was allowed my thoughts, my dreadful searching dreams.

Klyton, the
Arteptans put into a tomb. They did not burn even their own kings. In Akhemony, he would have ended as Akreon had done, on the great altar, in fire. Here, he went into a box, with his image painted on the lid. It was like him, for I saw it. And it smelled of myrrh, as he had sometimes done in life. The priests who mummified his body wrote that it was, excepting its war scars, completely perfect in all but the brain. How could they see such a thing? But there.