his conception.”
“Did you try to change it? You never let him forget who was
your favorite. You made it obvious who would have the throne. Sanelin, or no
one. It’s a wonder he didn’t slit your throat as soon as he knew how.”
“He tried. Several times. I forgave him. I love him. I will
not give my throne to him.”
“What if Mirain had never come?”
“I knew that he would. Not only was it foretold. Not only
had the god promised me in dreams that the great one would come. I knew that my
daughter would be no more willing than I to let her heritage fall into the
hands of Odiya of Umijan.”
Vadin marveled that he was here, sitting while the king
stood, talking to him as if he were—why, as if he were Mirain. “I don’t
understand. I’ve known men who were never properly weaned. Prince Moranden is
nothing like them. He’s strong. He’s Ianon’s champion. He has no equal on the
field, and few enough off it.”
“There is more to the world than the wielding of a sword.”
The king turned his hands, much calloused with it, and half smiled. “Moranden
is his mother’s creature. When she commands, he obeys. Where she hates, he
detests. She is the shape and he the shadow. Were he king on the throne of
Ianon, she would rule. She rules already wherever he is lord.”
“But—” Vadin began. He stopped. What use? The king knew what
he knew. No Imeheni yokel could teach him otherwise.
If there was anything to teach him. Vadin shifted
uncomfortably. Moranden was no monster. He had been kind to a lad from the outlands
who was no threat to his power. He could be charming if it suited his purposes.
But he was honorable even when it did not serve him. He was a mortal man; of
course he was flawed. Even Mirain was far from perfect.
The servants fought to wait on Mirain. Moranden’s name met
with a shrug, a sigh, an acceptance of one’s duty. Sometimes, they conceded, it
was pleasant to serve him. Sometimes it was perilous. He was a lord. What could
one expect?
He was not cruel. He was no more capricious than any other
prince. Mirain was infinitely less predictable.
Mirain was Mirain. Even Vadin could not envision him as
anything but what he was; nor was it conceivable that he would let anyone
command him, let alone do his ruling for him.
Moranden—yes, Moranden was a bit of a weathercock. Everyone
knew it. A man could win his favor, not with copper, nothing so venal, but his
friends were often the ones who flattered him most cleverly. He had no patience
with the drudgeries of kingship: councils, audiences, endless and innumerable
ceremonies. He had sunk low in the market, when he accused Mirain of shirking
those duties and let people think that he himself had been laboring long hours
over them. Probably he had been dicing with his lordlings until the king called
him to defend the Marches.
Vadin snorted softly to himself. Next he would be
exonerating Mirain for idling in the market while the kingdom went to war.
Mirain had not been idling, after all. Not exactly. He had been acquainting
himself with his people.
“If Moranden is Odiya’s puppet,” Vadin said at last, “why
did you give him a princedom?”
“I gave his mother a princedom, for a price. She would not
set her son on me; I would leave them free to govern as they chose. Within the
limits of the law.”
“Which you had made.”
“Just so,” said the king.
Vadin sat back. “What are you telling me, my lord? What am I
supposed to do?”
“Keep them from killing one another.”
“Keep—” Vadin laughed. His voice came within a hair of
cracking. “My lord, I don’t know what Adjan told you about me, but I’m only
human. I can’t come between the thunder and the lightning.”
The king seized him as if he had been a weanling pup,
dragging him to his feet, shaking him until his eyes blurred. “You will do it.
You will stand between them. You will not let them die at one another’s hands.”
“This time.”
The king wound his
“Did you try to change it? You never let him forget who was
your favorite. You made it obvious who would have the throne. Sanelin, or no
one. It’s a wonder he didn’t slit your throat as soon as he knew how.”
“He tried. Several times. I forgave him. I love him. I will
not give my throne to him.”
“What if Mirain had never come?”
“I knew that he would. Not only was it foretold. Not only
had the god promised me in dreams that the great one would come. I knew that my
daughter would be no more willing than I to let her heritage fall into the
hands of Odiya of Umijan.”
Vadin marveled that he was here, sitting while the king
stood, talking to him as if he were—why, as if he were Mirain. “I don’t
understand. I’ve known men who were never properly weaned. Prince Moranden is
nothing like them. He’s strong. He’s Ianon’s champion. He has no equal on the
field, and few enough off it.”
“There is more to the world than the wielding of a sword.”
The king turned his hands, much calloused with it, and half smiled. “Moranden
is his mother’s creature. When she commands, he obeys. Where she hates, he
detests. She is the shape and he the shadow. Were he king on the throne of
Ianon, she would rule. She rules already wherever he is lord.”
“But—” Vadin began. He stopped. What use? The king knew what
he knew. No Imeheni yokel could teach him otherwise.
If there was anything to teach him. Vadin shifted
uncomfortably. Moranden was no monster. He had been kind to a lad from the outlands
who was no threat to his power. He could be charming if it suited his purposes.
But he was honorable even when it did not serve him. He was a mortal man; of
course he was flawed. Even Mirain was far from perfect.
The servants fought to wait on Mirain. Moranden’s name met
with a shrug, a sigh, an acceptance of one’s duty. Sometimes, they conceded, it
was pleasant to serve him. Sometimes it was perilous. He was a lord. What could
one expect?
He was not cruel. He was no more capricious than any other
prince. Mirain was infinitely less predictable.
Mirain was Mirain. Even Vadin could not envision him as
anything but what he was; nor was it conceivable that he would let anyone
command him, let alone do his ruling for him.
Moranden—yes, Moranden was a bit of a weathercock. Everyone
knew it. A man could win his favor, not with copper, nothing so venal, but his
friends were often the ones who flattered him most cleverly. He had no patience
with the drudgeries of kingship: councils, audiences, endless and innumerable
ceremonies. He had sunk low in the market, when he accused Mirain of shirking
those duties and let people think that he himself had been laboring long hours
over them. Probably he had been dicing with his lordlings until the king called
him to defend the Marches.
Vadin snorted softly to himself. Next he would be
exonerating Mirain for idling in the market while the kingdom went to war.
Mirain had not been idling, after all. Not exactly. He had been acquainting
himself with his people.
“If Moranden is Odiya’s puppet,” Vadin said at last, “why
did you give him a princedom?”
“I gave his mother a princedom, for a price. She would not
set her son on me; I would leave them free to govern as they chose. Within the
limits of the law.”
“Which you had made.”
“Just so,” said the king.
Vadin sat back. “What are you telling me, my lord? What am I
supposed to do?”
“Keep them from killing one another.”
“Keep—” Vadin laughed. His voice came within a hair of
cracking. “My lord, I don’t know what Adjan told you about me, but I’m only
human. I can’t come between the thunder and the lightning.”
The king seized him as if he had been a weanling pup,
dragging him to his feet, shaking him until his eyes blurred. “You will do it.
You will stand between them. You will not let them die at one another’s hands.”
“This time.”
The king wound his
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