gods?
Perhaps it had been a dream.
The earth was solid beneath him, cool, a little damp. The
air bore a scent of sunlight and of wilderness. The weight across his thighs
was considerable, and inescapable.
Sarevan. Sarevan Is’kelion, Sarevan Stormborn, Sa’van
lo’ndros who could not be what he could not but be. Sa’van lo’ndros, Sarevadin
li Endros in the high Gileni tongue that Hirel’s father had commanded he learn:
Sarevadin the prince.
Hirel had some excuse for idiocy. When a high prince of
Asanion was born, all menchildren born that day and for a Greatmoon-cycle round
about were given his name. It confused the demons, people said, and spread the
gods’ blessing abroad upon the empire. And some of the Sunborn’s Ianyn savages
had taken wives among the women of the Hundred Realms, and many more had not
troubled with such niceties, with mongrels enough to show for it. And surely
the heir of a very god would not be walking the highroad of his own free will
with all his worldly goods in a battered bag.
Sarevadin the prince, son of the Sunborn.
What a hostage.
What an irony.
But there was one wild tale at least—
Hirel lifted one long limp hand. The right, that one that
had shown itself to be Sarevan’s great weakness.
A shaft of sun caught in its palm and flamed. Ilu’Kasar , the brand of the god, that he
had from his father.
Suddenly Hirel was whitely, gloriously angry. Sarevan had
said no word, not even one; had taken a wicked delight in Hirel’s stupidity.
Letting Hirel look on him as lowborn, driving Hirel wild with his arrogance,
laughing all the while at the blind and witless child. Hoping very likely to
play the game clear to Kundri’j Asan, and melt away unknown, and rise up in
Keruvarion and tell the tale to all who would hear. How the High Prince of
Keruvarion saved the life of the High Prince of Asanion, and took him back to
his safe nest and his doting father, and won scarcely a civil word in return.
“Why,” Sarevan would say as he quaffed ale with his father’s
bearded chieftains, “the poor infant could hardly recall his own name, let
alone mine, he was so prostrated by the shock of having to do up his own
trousers.”
Hirel bit down on the back of his hand. He was going to howl.
With rage, with laughter, what matter? He had been a prisoner in the dungeon of
one of his own lords, with a sorcery on his tongue whenever he tried to speak
his name, and the son of An-Sh’Endor had set him free. Casting them both here,
wherever here might be, in a welter of magic and a flood of words that,
uncomprehended, roused nothing but dread.
Hirel’s eyes flinched from the dazzle of the Kasar . It was true gold, bright metal in
the shape of the sun’s disk, many-rayed, born there, bred in the flesh by a
god’s power.
It burned, the tales said, like living fire. Small wonder
Sarevan had nearly fainted when Hirel sank his teeth into it.
Hirel laid the hand on Sarevan’s breast. “Consider,” he said
to it, "what I know and what I surmise. Your god is being driven from
Asanion as quietly as may be, and as completely. The Order of Mages has
withdrawn from the Nine Cities and reappeared in Kundri’j Asan under the open
protection of the Charlatans’ Guild and the secret sanction of the emperor my
father. He wields them as he wields every weapon, as a counter to the power of
the emperor your father.
“And here we lie, you and I, only your god knows where. Is
that the heart of your plot, High Prince of Keruvarion? To bewitch and abduct
the High Prince of Asanion?”
Sarevan did not move.
“Sarevadin Halenan Kurelian Miranion iVaryan. See, I know
you. I have you wholly in my power. Shall I slay you while you lie helpless?
Shall I bear you away to be my slave in Kundri’j?”
Not a sound, not a flicker. Sarevan was alive, but little
more; somehow he had thwarted the surgeon’s close stitching, and he was ghastly
grey, and perhaps there was more amiss that Hirel could not
Perhaps it had been a dream.
The earth was solid beneath him, cool, a little damp. The
air bore a scent of sunlight and of wilderness. The weight across his thighs
was considerable, and inescapable.
Sarevan. Sarevan Is’kelion, Sarevan Stormborn, Sa’van
lo’ndros who could not be what he could not but be. Sa’van lo’ndros, Sarevadin
li Endros in the high Gileni tongue that Hirel’s father had commanded he learn:
Sarevadin the prince.
Hirel had some excuse for idiocy. When a high prince of
Asanion was born, all menchildren born that day and for a Greatmoon-cycle round
about were given his name. It confused the demons, people said, and spread the
gods’ blessing abroad upon the empire. And some of the Sunborn’s Ianyn savages
had taken wives among the women of the Hundred Realms, and many more had not
troubled with such niceties, with mongrels enough to show for it. And surely
the heir of a very god would not be walking the highroad of his own free will
with all his worldly goods in a battered bag.
Sarevadin the prince, son of the Sunborn.
What a hostage.
What an irony.
But there was one wild tale at least—
Hirel lifted one long limp hand. The right, that one that
had shown itself to be Sarevan’s great weakness.
A shaft of sun caught in its palm and flamed. Ilu’Kasar , the brand of the god, that he
had from his father.
Suddenly Hirel was whitely, gloriously angry. Sarevan had
said no word, not even one; had taken a wicked delight in Hirel’s stupidity.
Letting Hirel look on him as lowborn, driving Hirel wild with his arrogance,
laughing all the while at the blind and witless child. Hoping very likely to
play the game clear to Kundri’j Asan, and melt away unknown, and rise up in
Keruvarion and tell the tale to all who would hear. How the High Prince of
Keruvarion saved the life of the High Prince of Asanion, and took him back to
his safe nest and his doting father, and won scarcely a civil word in return.
“Why,” Sarevan would say as he quaffed ale with his father’s
bearded chieftains, “the poor infant could hardly recall his own name, let
alone mine, he was so prostrated by the shock of having to do up his own
trousers.”
Hirel bit down on the back of his hand. He was going to howl.
With rage, with laughter, what matter? He had been a prisoner in the dungeon of
one of his own lords, with a sorcery on his tongue whenever he tried to speak
his name, and the son of An-Sh’Endor had set him free. Casting them both here,
wherever here might be, in a welter of magic and a flood of words that,
uncomprehended, roused nothing but dread.
Hirel’s eyes flinched from the dazzle of the Kasar . It was true gold, bright metal in
the shape of the sun’s disk, many-rayed, born there, bred in the flesh by a
god’s power.
It burned, the tales said, like living fire. Small wonder
Sarevan had nearly fainted when Hirel sank his teeth into it.
Hirel laid the hand on Sarevan’s breast. “Consider,” he said
to it, "what I know and what I surmise. Your god is being driven from
Asanion as quietly as may be, and as completely. The Order of Mages has
withdrawn from the Nine Cities and reappeared in Kundri’j Asan under the open
protection of the Charlatans’ Guild and the secret sanction of the emperor my
father. He wields them as he wields every weapon, as a counter to the power of
the emperor your father.
“And here we lie, you and I, only your god knows where. Is
that the heart of your plot, High Prince of Keruvarion? To bewitch and abduct
the High Prince of Asanion?”
Sarevan did not move.
“Sarevadin Halenan Kurelian Miranion iVaryan. See, I know
you. I have you wholly in my power. Shall I slay you while you lie helpless?
Shall I bear you away to be my slave in Kundri’j?”
Not a sound, not a flicker. Sarevan was alive, but little
more; somehow he had thwarted the surgeon’s close stitching, and he was ghastly
grey, and perhaps there was more amiss that Hirel could not