Танит Ли: Anackire

“But you can,” said Rarnammon, “do precisely otherwise.”

“Yes, you would have got that from Kesarh, no doubt. Yl’s pirates fed the fish with him, I gather.”

Rarnammon did nothing, waited. After a time, Rarnammon said, “Do I assume Raldanash informed you of all his plan?”

“I take it he informed you , my lord.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

Rarnammon shrugged, deliberately. He said. “I thought that in Vathcri mind speech between brothers was not unusual.”

Vencrek paled under his pale skin’s tan. One could not ascertain why; it could be from many reactions.

“Yes, then,” he said, “you and I both know that Raldanash means to give up the crown of Dorthar. Means to abdicate and wander the backhills of Vathcri instead, as some starveling priest.”

“If he can find solace that way,” said Rarnammon, “why not? He never wanted this.”

“While you, of course,” Vencrek said, “always wanted it.”

“Maybe. I won’t deny I may have done. I am, after all, Raldnor’s son. What was he? Priest and King. I’m the part of him that coveted glory in the gaze of men, perhaps. And Raldanash is the priest—meditation, and the hills of home. What do you want to do, Vencrek? Raldanash gives me his voice. If you can’t stomach it, you must go.”

“I’ll stomach it,” Vencrek said. “I don’t want the backhills any more than you do. You’ll see how well I’ll stomach it. I can earn your favor, my lord.” The blond head lifted, the Vathcrian smiled. “Let’s see, my lord, if you can earn mine.”

Later, when the council was done with, the shouting and dissension—had not Raldnor himself cast away this very kingship in the wake of victory?—the paid gossips were sent out to ply their trade through the city, just as in Istris all those short years ago. The people would be manipulated. The council would be manipulated. The customary bribes were negotiable here, as anywhere. Rarnammon who had been Rem knew the business, and dealt ably. He had besides Raldanash’s decree to back him.

One considered Raldanash, picked up almost dead on the deck of that ship, lying dreaming the Dream of the goddess in the Lowland port of Moiyah. And the vessels of Vathcri evolving on sunset water, like an omen.

And Rarnammon wanted Dorthar. Yes, it was sure.

When the correct amount of days and nights were judged past, he rode through the city in procession and a gem-encrusted chariot. Standing in the Imperial Square on a dais beneath the giant statue of his namesake, he addressed the crowds, employing every gambit Kesarh had ever shown him, and won them, and heard them roar for him, the huge cry going up like birds. Kingship was more than triumph, more than a shout. But the King’s blood that had come down to him, from Raldnor and Rehdon, remembered the sound a people make for their King, and welcomed it, as a right.

“The coronation’s for the last quarter of Zastis. You must wed all his wives,” said Vencrek. If there was a cutting edge in that, it was softly gloved. “Every king in Vis is obliged to send his representative or be present in person. Apparently, Yl himself will arrive. The kingdom of Zakoris-In-Thaddra is no longer building war-galleys. He’s promising to give you slaves and palutorvus tusks.”

“Is there any news of a man named Kathus, an Alisaarian?”

“Yl put his counselors to death on his return. He said they’d gone against the edict of the gods, advising him to unholy conflict. One man evaded the sentence. An Alisaarian.”

(So, he was landless again, Kathaos the Fox, running, and too tired to run, Kathus-Kathaos, who despised all religion and disbelieved all gods, saddled with a continent run amok with piety. Once he had ridden for the only break of light in the sky. But the light was an illusion. Or else illusion was a reality he had not bargained on.)

“And Kesarh Am Karmiss feeds the fish,” said Rarnammon quietly.

“Pirates,” said Vencrek. “They unswore allegiance to Yl when he capitulated, did for Kesarh, and now roam the sea in packs again. The oceans north and east may need some cleaning up before the snow. We note, even the miracle,” said Vencrek, “didn’t conclude every battle, my lord.”

There were no longer Amanackire about the court. They had gone away into the hills above Koramvis. Ashni was there, men said. But it did not seem to Rarnammon that she was. The glints of the psychic beacons had died down in his mind. He no longer kept unconscious track of Yannul’s son, or Amrek’s daughter in the Zor. Raldanash had retreated on an inner tide. Ashni, like some all-pervasive light, seemed to surround them, and yet was nowhere in particular.

“There was a priestess the Amanackire may have followed,” Vencrek said, shadowing Rarnammon’s thoughts in the endless way of telepaths. One grew accustomed to it. “There’s also a priestess on Ankabek again.”

“Yes,” Rarnammon said, not listening. Music rippled somewhere. The trees beside the colonnade were sinuous with Zastis, when sex invaded everything. And there had seemed to be no time. . . .

“Astaris, according to some.”

“Astaris no longer exists.”

“Do you recall the Xarabian princess, Xa’ath’s daughter?”

In Karmiss, it was the Festival of Masks. In the east, where Istris was rebuilding, lamps strung the scaffolding, and banners dripped from gutted houses. When Free Zakoris came, the volume of smoke had blown to smear Ioli, but there was only torch-smoke now. The beer and wine flowed as it had always done. And on this occasion of war, the wines had been spared. Next year would be a fine one for the vintage they called now Salamander . It seemed one wine merchant, at least, still loved him.

Karmiss had much to talk of, between the drinking and the kisses. The Warden had fled the island. There was a Shansarian regent from over-the-ocean. A King-Elect was found among the rubble of Suthamun’s house. Something clever was managed. The boy had been got on a Karmian woman and had coppery skin to set off his fairness. Nor was he a eunuch.

There was a Storm Lord elect in Dorthar. His mother was a Vis-Karmian. Istris toasted him on the bell-ringing carts and by the fire-scorched harbor, choosing to forget, even if they knew, he had been also Kesarh’s henchman. Gossip detailed a magnificent progress, by land and river, through Dorthar. Now the Dortharian ships lay off Tjis. The Shansarian regent had gone there and clasped hands with Rarnammon son of Raldnor. A pledge had been made to raise up Ankabek of the goddess, that the Leopard had destroyed.

That isle, they said, was held by specters. But there were specters at Istris and Ioli, too, for the festival—in fancy-dress and drunk.

The royal biremes rested a mile out from Ankabek. Their emblems were the goddess and the Dragon of Dorthar. As yet, the man who was to be Storm Lord, had not selected a personal device. From the landing of the island, they looked merely charming toys. Not that any came to see. Those who had chosen Ankabek as a refuge had long since received happier news and returned across the straits to mainland Karmiss. Only seabirds were left now. Wading in the ringed shallows, they took flight, when an oared boat ran out at them from the ocean.

Presently a pavilion went up on the beach of shale. A party of Vathcrians and Dortharians, laughing and sporting or theosophically serious, strode to investigate the twice-deserted village. One man climbed away from it. He passed into the fire-blackened groves above and was lost to sight.

They were not all finished, the trees of Ankabek. Here a twig, a branch, there a whole young sapling, was bladed with the ruby leaves of summer. And from some, the quick and the dead boughs, metal discs hung quivering and unsounding, smirched or bright, in the windless air.