The Lady of Han-Gilen Read Online Free PDF Page A
Author: Judith Tarr
face, garb,
and bearing he was a commoner, a farmholder of Han-Gilen with the earth of his
steading on his feet.
“Lady,” he gasped. “Lady, great sickness—my woman, my
sons—all at once, out of blue heaven—”
All laughter fled from the priestess’ face. She drew taut,
as one who listens to a voice on the edge of hearing.
Her face twisted, smoothed. Its calm, where a moment before
it had been so mobile, was terrible to see.
She looked down. “Do you command me, freeman?”
The man clutched her knees. “Lady, they say you are a
healer. They say—”
She raised her hand. He stiffened. For a moment he was
different, a subtle difference, gone before it won a name.
The priestess bowed her head. “Lead me,” she said.
He leaped up. “Oh, lady! Thank all the gods I found you here
with none to keep me from you. Come now, come quickly!”
But her son held her back with all his young strength. She
turned in his grip. For a moment she was herself, brows meeting, warning.
“Mirain—”
He held her more tightly, his eyes wide and wild. “Don’t go,
Mother.”
“Lady,” the man said. “For the gods’ sake.”
She stood between them, her eyes steady upon her son. “I
must go.”
“No.” He strove to drag her back. “It’s dark. All dark.”
Gently but firmly she freed herself. “You will stay here,
Mirain. I am called; I cannot refuse. You will see me again. I promise you.”
She held out her hand to the man. “Show me where I must go.”
oOo
For a long while after she was gone, Mirain stood frozen.
Only his eyes could move, and they blazed.
But the priestess summoned her bay stallion and a mount for
the messenger, and rode from the temple. No one took undue notice of her
leaving. The lady of the temple often rode out so to work her healing about the
princedom, led or followed by a desperate wife or husband, kinsman or kinswoman,
village priest or headman. Her miracles were famous, and justly so, gifts of
the god who had taken her as his bride.
At last her son broke free from the binding. Running with
unwonted awkwardness, stumbling, seeing nothing and no one, he passed the door
of the prince’s stable. The prince himself was there, that dark man with his
bright hair, intent still on Fleetfoot’s foal. Mirain nearly fell against him;
stared at him with eyes that saw him not at all; fumbled with the latch of a
stall door.
A black muzzle thrust through the opening; a body followed
it, a wicked, dagger-horned, swift-heeled demon of a pony.
The prince braved hooves and horns to catch Mirain’s
shoulders. “Mirain!” The name took shape in more than voice. “Mirain, what
haunts you?”
Mirain stood very still. “Mother,” he said distinctly.
“Treachery. She knows it. She rides to it. They will kill her.”
Prince Orsan let him go. He mounted and clapped heels to the
sleek sides. Even as he burst into the sunlight, a red stallion thundered
after, likewise bridleless and saddleless; but his rider bore a drawn sword.
oOo
The farmer’s holding lay at a great distance from the
city; so he told the priestess, disjointedly, driving his borrowed mount with
brutal urgency. Her own stallion, better bred and more lightly ridden, kept a
steady pace up from the level land into the hills. They followed the wide North
Road; those who passed gave way swiftly before them. Some, knowing the
priestess, bowed in her wake.
The road lost itself in trees. The man slowed not at all. He
rode well and skillfully for one who could not often have spared time or coin
for the art. She let her stallion fall back a little, for the trees were thick,
raising root and branch to catch the unwary.
Her guide veered from the track up a steep narrow path
treacherous with stones. His mount slid, stumbled, recovered; the priestess
heard its laboring breath. “Wait!” she cried. “Will you slay your poor beast?”
His only answer was to lash it with the reins, sending it
plunging up the slope. There was light beyond;
and bearing he was a commoner, a farmholder of Han-Gilen with the earth of his
steading on his feet.
“Lady,” he gasped. “Lady, great sickness—my woman, my
sons—all at once, out of blue heaven—”
All laughter fled from the priestess’ face. She drew taut,
as one who listens to a voice on the edge of hearing.
Her face twisted, smoothed. Its calm, where a moment before
it had been so mobile, was terrible to see.
She looked down. “Do you command me, freeman?”
The man clutched her knees. “Lady, they say you are a
healer. They say—”
She raised her hand. He stiffened. For a moment he was
different, a subtle difference, gone before it won a name.
The priestess bowed her head. “Lead me,” she said.
He leaped up. “Oh, lady! Thank all the gods I found you here
with none to keep me from you. Come now, come quickly!”
But her son held her back with all his young strength. She
turned in his grip. For a moment she was herself, brows meeting, warning.
“Mirain—”
He held her more tightly, his eyes wide and wild. “Don’t go,
Mother.”
“Lady,” the man said. “For the gods’ sake.”
She stood between them, her eyes steady upon her son. “I
must go.”
“No.” He strove to drag her back. “It’s dark. All dark.”
Gently but firmly she freed herself. “You will stay here,
Mirain. I am called; I cannot refuse. You will see me again. I promise you.”
She held out her hand to the man. “Show me where I must go.”
oOo
For a long while after she was gone, Mirain stood frozen.
Only his eyes could move, and they blazed.
But the priestess summoned her bay stallion and a mount for
the messenger, and rode from the temple. No one took undue notice of her
leaving. The lady of the temple often rode out so to work her healing about the
princedom, led or followed by a desperate wife or husband, kinsman or kinswoman,
village priest or headman. Her miracles were famous, and justly so, gifts of
the god who had taken her as his bride.
At last her son broke free from the binding. Running with
unwonted awkwardness, stumbling, seeing nothing and no one, he passed the door
of the prince’s stable. The prince himself was there, that dark man with his
bright hair, intent still on Fleetfoot’s foal. Mirain nearly fell against him;
stared at him with eyes that saw him not at all; fumbled with the latch of a
stall door.
A black muzzle thrust through the opening; a body followed
it, a wicked, dagger-horned, swift-heeled demon of a pony.
The prince braved hooves and horns to catch Mirain’s
shoulders. “Mirain!” The name took shape in more than voice. “Mirain, what
haunts you?”
Mirain stood very still. “Mother,” he said distinctly.
“Treachery. She knows it. She rides to it. They will kill her.”
Prince Orsan let him go. He mounted and clapped heels to the
sleek sides. Even as he burst into the sunlight, a red stallion thundered
after, likewise bridleless and saddleless; but his rider bore a drawn sword.
oOo
The farmer’s holding lay at a great distance from the
city; so he told the priestess, disjointedly, driving his borrowed mount with
brutal urgency. Her own stallion, better bred and more lightly ridden, kept a
steady pace up from the level land into the hills. They followed the wide North
Road; those who passed gave way swiftly before them. Some, knowing the
priestess, bowed in her wake.
The road lost itself in trees. The man slowed not at all. He
rode well and skillfully for one who could not often have spared time or coin
for the art. She let her stallion fall back a little, for the trees were thick,
raising root and branch to catch the unwary.
Her guide veered from the track up a steep narrow path
treacherous with stones. His mount slid, stumbled, recovered; the priestess
heard its laboring breath. “Wait!” she cried. “Will you slay your poor beast?”
His only answer was to lash it with the reins, sending it
plunging up the slope. There was light beyond;