her belly.
Taking the reins, he mounted his own tall stallion. Sarevan
was astride, waiting. They turned again toward the east.
SIX
It was not hurting in the proper places.
Hirel steeled himself to endure his bonds. He had earned
them; he bore them as brands of pride, that he was neither coward nor traitor
to ride tamely into his enemy’s stronghold. After the first grueling hours his
captors relented, securing him by his hands only, and those in front of him.
He could suffer the constant watch by day and by night. He
could face his guards without rancor, the more for that they bore him none of
their own.
Indeed, they looked on him with something close to respect.
They saw that he was fed, that he was clean, that his needs were looked after.
“You tried,” Zha’dan said once. “That’s the act of a man.”
No, it was not his captivity that hurt. It was the chief of
his captors. Only Sarevan never spoke to him or went near him or deigned to take
notice of him.
The others would be enemies if war compelled it, but they
bore Hirel himself no ill-will. Sarevan did not merely hate Hirel; he despised
him.
And what had Hirel done, that Sarevan himself had not
equaled or surpassed? He was a fool and a child to be so outraged; and Hirel
was mad to be so troubled by it. It should not matter. They had been born to be
enemies, the sons of two emperors in a world wide enough only for one. Their
meeting and their companionship had been scarred with contention. They would
come together inevitably in war, that last battle which would raise one throne
where now were two.
Yet it did matter. Hirel did not like Sarevan, had never
liked him. Nothing so harmless or so simple.
This estrangement, this cold distance, with Sarevan riding
always ahead, growing thinner and frailer, fighting harder with each hour to
remain erect and astride—Hirel wanted to burst his damnable bonds and kick his
mare to the red stallion’s side and rail at the fool until he smiled his white smile
and bowed his haughty head and let himself be carried.
Or at least until he acknowledged Hirel’s existence. And let
someone, anyone, bolster his waning strength.
o0o
Sarevan entered the Hundred Realms like a shadow of death,
but he entered them alive and breathing and guiding his own senel. In one thing
only he had yielded to necessity: he had bidden his Zhil’ari to tie him to the
saddle.
They did not like it, but they obeyed. They understood that
kind of pride.
Hirel had it. It had held him aloof and silent, royalty
imprisoned but never diminished. It brought him at last to a crux. If he must
go in bonds to Endros Avaryan, he would not go with Sarevan’s contempt on his
head.
Fool or madman or no, Sarevan was a prince. That much, Hirel
would grant him. Princes could be enemies, could hate one another with just and
proper passion, but scorn diminished them both.
Greatmoon, waning, still filled the sky. Though this was a
richly peopled country, the company had camped at a distance from the last
town.
Sarevan had no wish to be slowed by the duties of a prince.
He wore again his paints and his finery, and such a welter of gauds in his hair
and beard that their color was scarcely distinguishable.
Riding in the midst of his savages, with Ulan wandering
where he would, even on the highroad the prince was scarcely remarked. Hirel
won far more stares, with his High Asanian face and his Zhil’ari fripperies and
his bound hands. People ogled the wild barbarians; they spat on the yellow spy.
Sarevan they did not know at all.
o0o
Even so, he did not test his disguise in inn or hall. This
night they had fish from the swift icy stream, and bread which they had had of
a farmwife going to market; and Zha’dan made a broth of herbs and grain and the
long-eared kimouri that Ulan brought
from his hunting, and coaxed it into Sarevan.
Hirel watched from across the firepit. Sarevan could not
feed himself; he could barely swallow.
He was no more than skin stretched
Taking the reins, he mounted his own tall stallion. Sarevan
was astride, waiting. They turned again toward the east.
SIX
It was not hurting in the proper places.
Hirel steeled himself to endure his bonds. He had earned
them; he bore them as brands of pride, that he was neither coward nor traitor
to ride tamely into his enemy’s stronghold. After the first grueling hours his
captors relented, securing him by his hands only, and those in front of him.
He could suffer the constant watch by day and by night. He
could face his guards without rancor, the more for that they bore him none of
their own.
Indeed, they looked on him with something close to respect.
They saw that he was fed, that he was clean, that his needs were looked after.
“You tried,” Zha’dan said once. “That’s the act of a man.”
No, it was not his captivity that hurt. It was the chief of
his captors. Only Sarevan never spoke to him or went near him or deigned to take
notice of him.
The others would be enemies if war compelled it, but they
bore Hirel himself no ill-will. Sarevan did not merely hate Hirel; he despised
him.
And what had Hirel done, that Sarevan himself had not
equaled or surpassed? He was a fool and a child to be so outraged; and Hirel
was mad to be so troubled by it. It should not matter. They had been born to be
enemies, the sons of two emperors in a world wide enough only for one. Their
meeting and their companionship had been scarred with contention. They would
come together inevitably in war, that last battle which would raise one throne
where now were two.
Yet it did matter. Hirel did not like Sarevan, had never
liked him. Nothing so harmless or so simple.
This estrangement, this cold distance, with Sarevan riding
always ahead, growing thinner and frailer, fighting harder with each hour to
remain erect and astride—Hirel wanted to burst his damnable bonds and kick his
mare to the red stallion’s side and rail at the fool until he smiled his white smile
and bowed his haughty head and let himself be carried.
Or at least until he acknowledged Hirel’s existence. And let
someone, anyone, bolster his waning strength.
o0o
Sarevan entered the Hundred Realms like a shadow of death,
but he entered them alive and breathing and guiding his own senel. In one thing
only he had yielded to necessity: he had bidden his Zhil’ari to tie him to the
saddle.
They did not like it, but they obeyed. They understood that
kind of pride.
Hirel had it. It had held him aloof and silent, royalty
imprisoned but never diminished. It brought him at last to a crux. If he must
go in bonds to Endros Avaryan, he would not go with Sarevan’s contempt on his
head.
Fool or madman or no, Sarevan was a prince. That much, Hirel
would grant him. Princes could be enemies, could hate one another with just and
proper passion, but scorn diminished them both.
Greatmoon, waning, still filled the sky. Though this was a
richly peopled country, the company had camped at a distance from the last
town.
Sarevan had no wish to be slowed by the duties of a prince.
He wore again his paints and his finery, and such a welter of gauds in his hair
and beard that their color was scarcely distinguishable.
Riding in the midst of his savages, with Ulan wandering
where he would, even on the highroad the prince was scarcely remarked. Hirel
won far more stares, with his High Asanian face and his Zhil’ari fripperies and
his bound hands. People ogled the wild barbarians; they spat on the yellow spy.
Sarevan they did not know at all.
o0o
Even so, he did not test his disguise in inn or hall. This
night they had fish from the swift icy stream, and bread which they had had of
a farmwife going to market; and Zha’dan made a broth of herbs and grain and the
long-eared kimouri that Ulan brought
from his hunting, and coaxed it into Sarevan.
Hirel watched from across the firepit. Sarevan could not
feed himself; he could barely swallow.
He was no more than skin stretched
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