The city had been alerted to their approach by Engessa’s messengers, and the royal party was met at the gate by a deputation of towering Atans in formal attire, which in their culture meant the donning of unadorned, ankle-length cloaks of dark wool. In the midst of those giants stood a short, golden-robed Tamul. The Tamul had silver-streaked hair and an urbane expression.
‘What are we supposed to do?’ Kalten whispered to Oscagne.
‘Act formal,’ Oscagne advised. ‘Atans adore formality. Ah, Norkan,’ he said to the Tamul in the golden robe, ‘so good to see you again. Fontan sends his best.’
‘How is the old rascal?’ Oscagne’s colleague replied.
‘Wrinkled, but he still hasn’t lost his edge.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Why are we speaking in Elenic?’
‘So that you can brief us all on local circumstances. How are things here?’
‘Tense. Our children are a bit discontent. There’s turmoil afoot. We send them to stamp it out, but it refuses to stay stamped. They resent that. You know how they are.’
‘Oh my, yes. Has the emperor’s sister forgiven you yet?’
Norkan sighed. ‘Afraid not, old boy. I’m quite resigned to spending the rest of my career here.’
‘You know how the people at court like to carry tales. Whatever possessed you to make that remark? I’ll grant you that her Highness’ feet are a bit oversized, but “big-footed cow” was sort of indiscreet, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I was drunk and a little out of sorts. Better to be here in Atan than in Matherion trying to evade her attentions. I have no desire to become a member of the imperial family if it means that I’d have to trudge along behind her as she clumps about the palace.’
‘Ah, well. What’s on the agenda here?’
‘Formality. Official greetings. Speeches. Ceremonies. The usual nonsense.’
‘Good. Our friends from the west are a bit unbridled at times. They’re good at formality, though. It’s when things become informal that they get into trouble. May I present the Queen of Elenia?’
‘I thought you’d never ask.’
‘Your Majesty,’ Oscagne said, ‘this is my old friend, Norkan. He’s the imperial representative here in Atan, an able man who’s fallen on hard times.’
Norkan bowed. ‘Your Majesty,’ he greeted Ehlana.
‘Your Excellency,’ she responded. Then she smiled. ‘Are her Highness’ feet really that big?’ she asked him slyly.
‘She skis with only the equipment God gave her, your Majesty. I could bear that, I suppose, but she’s given to temper tantrums when she doesn’t get her own way, and that sort of grates on my nerves.’ He glanced at the huge, dark-cloaked Atans surrounding the carriage. ‘Might I suggest that we proceed to what my children here refer to as the palace? The king and queen await us there. Is your Majesty comfortable speaking in public? A few remarks might be in order.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t speak Tamul, your Excellency.’
‘Perfectly all right, your Majesty. I’ll translate for you. You can say anything that pops into your head. I’ll tidy it up for you as we go along.’
‘How very kind of you.’ There was only the faintest edge to her voice.
‘I live but to serve, your Majesty.’
‘Remarkable, Norkan,’ Oscagne murmured. ‘How do you manage to put both feet in your mouth at the same time?’
‘It’s a gift,’ Norkan shrugged.
King Androl of Atan was seven feet tall, and his wife, Queen Betuana was only slightly shorter. They were very imposing. They wore golden helmets instead of crowns, and their deep blue silk robes were open at the front, revealing the fact that they were both heavily armed. They met the Queen of Elenia and her entourage in the square outside the royal palace of Atan, which was in actuality nothing more than their private dwelling. Atan ceremonies, it appeared, were conducted out of doors.
With the queen’s carriage in the lead and her armed escort formed up behind, the visitors rode at a slow and stately pace into the square. There were no cheers, no fanfares, none of the artificial enthusiasm normally contrived for state visitors. Atans showed respect by silence and immobility. Stragen skilfully wheeled the carriage to a spot in front of the slightly raised stone platform before the royal dwelling, and Sparhawk dismounted to offer his queen a steel-encased forearm. Ehlana’s face was radiantly regal, and her pleasure was clearly unfeigned. Though she occasionally spoke slightingly of ceremonial functions, pretending to view them as tedious, she truly loved ceremony. She took a deep satisfaction in formality.
Ambassador Oscagne approached the royal family of Atan, bowed and spoke at some length in the flowing, musical language of all Tamuls. Mirtai stood behind Ehlana, murmuring a running translation of his Excellency’s words. Ehlana’s eyes were very bright, and there were two spots of heightened colour on her alabaster cheeks, signs that said louder than words that she was composing a speech.
King Androl then spoke a rather brief greeting, and Queen Betuana added her somewhat lengthier agreement. Sparhawk could not hear Mirtai’s translation, so for all he knew the Atan king and queen were discussing weather-conditions on the moon.
Then Ehlana stepped forward, paused for dramatic effect, and began to speak in a clear voice that could be heard throughout the square. Ambassador Norkan stood at the side of the stone platform and translated her words.
‘My dear brother and sister of Atan,’ she began, ‘words cannot express my heartfelt joy at this meeting.’ Sparhawk knew his wife, and he knew that disclaimer to be fraudulent. Words could express her feelings, and she would tell everybody in the square all about them. ‘I come to this happy meeting from the world’s far end,’ she went on, ‘and my heart was filled with anxiety as I sailed across the wine-dark sea toward a foreign land peopled with strangers, but your gracious words of friendly – even affectionate – greeting have erased my childish fears, and I have learned here a lesson which I will carry all the days of my life. There are no strangers in this world, my dear brother and sister. There are only friends we have not yet met.’
‘She’s plagiarising,’ Stragen murmured to Sparhawk.
‘She does that now and then. When she finds a phrase she really likes, she sees no reason not to expropriate it.’
‘My journey to Atan has been, of course, for state reasons. We of the royal houses of the world are not free to do things for personal reasons as others are.’ She gave the Atan king and queen a rueful little smile. ‘We cannot even yawn without its being subjected to extensive diplomatic analysis. No one ever considers the possibility that we might just be sleepy.’
After Norkan translated that, King Androl actually smiled.
‘My visit to Atan, however, does have a personal reason as well as an official one,’ Ehlana continued. ‘I chanced some time ago upon a precious thing which belongs to the Atan people, and I have come half-round the world to return this treasure to you, though it is more dear to me than I can ever say. Many, many years ago, an Atan child was lost. That child is the treasure of which I spoke.’ She reached out and took Mirtai’s hand. ‘She is my dear, dear friend, and I love her. The journey I have made here is as nothing. Gladly would I have travelled twice as far – ten times as far – for the joy I now feel in re-uniting this precious Atan child with her people.’
Stragen wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘She does it to me every time, Sparhawk,’ he laughed, ‘every single time. I think she could make rocks cry if she wanted to, and it always seems so simple.’
‘That’s part of her secret, Stragen.’
Ehlana was moving right along. ‘As many of you may know, the Elene people have some faults – many faults, though I blush to confess it. We have not treated your dear child well. An Elene bought her from the soulless Arjuni who had stolen her from you. The Elene bought her in order to satisfy his unwholesome desires. This child of ours – for she is now as much my child as she is yours – taught him that an Atana may not be used so. I
t was a hard lesson for him. He died in the learning of it.’
A rumble of approval greeted the translation of that.
‘Our child has passed through the hands of several Elenes – most with the worst of motives – and came at last to me. At first she frightened me.’ Ehlana smiled her most winsome smile. ‘You may have noticed that I am not a very tall person.’
A small chuckle ran through the crowd.
‘I thought you might have noticed that,’ she said, joining in their laughter. ‘It’s one of the failings of our culture that our menfolk are stubborn and short-sighted. I am not permitted to be trained in the use of weapons. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I’ve not even been allowed to kill my enemies personally. I was not accustomed to women who could see to their own defence, and so I was foolishly afraid of my Atan child. That has passed, however. I have found her to be steadfast and true, gentle and affectionate and very, very wise. We have come to Atan so that this dear child of ours may lay aside the silver of childhood and assume the gold that is her just due in the Rite of Passage. Let us join our hands and our hearts, Elene and Atan, Styric and Tamul, in the ceremony which will raise our child to adulthood, and in that ceremony, may our hearts be united, for in this child, we are all made as one.’
As Norkan translated, an approving murmur went through the crowd of Atans, a murmur that swelled to a roar, and Queen Betuana, her eyes filled with tears, stepped down from the dais and embraced the pale blonde queen of Elenia. Then she spoke very briefly to the crowd.
‘What did she say?’ Stragen asked Oscagne.
‘She advised her people that anyone who offered your queen any impertinence would answer to her personally. It’s no idle threat, either. Queen Betuana’s one of the finest warriors in all of Atan. I hope you appreciate your wife, Sparhawk. She’s just scored a diplomatic coup of the highest order. How the deuce did she learn that the Atans are sentimentalists? If she’d talked for another three minutes, the whole square would have been awash with tears.’
‘Our queen’s a perceptive young woman,’ Stragen said rather proudly. ‘A good speech is always drawn on a community of interest. Our Ehlana’s a genius when it comes to finding things she has in common with her audience.’
‘So it would seem. She’s ensured one thing, let me tell you.’
‘Oh?’
‘The Atans will give Atana Mirtai a Rite of Passage such as comes along only once or twice in a generation. She’ll be a national heroine after an introduction like that. The singing will be tumultuous.’
‘That’s probably more or less what my wife had in mind,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘She loves to do nice things for her friends.’
‘And not so nice things to her enemies,’ Stragen added. ‘I remember some of the plans she had for Primate Annias.’
‘That’s as it should be, Milord Stragen,’ Oscagne smiled. ‘The only real reason for accepting the inconveniences of power is to reward our friends and punish our enemies.’
‘I couldn’t agree more, your Excellency.’
Engessa conferred with King Androl, and Ehlana with Queen Betuana. No one was particularly surprised when Sephrenia served as translator for the queens. The small Styric woman, it appeared, spoke most of the languages in the known world. Norkan explained to Sparhawk and the others that the child’s parents were much involved in the Rite of Passage. Engessa would serve as Mirtai’s father, and Mirtai had rather shyly asked Ehlana to be her mother. The request had occasioned an emotional display of affection between the two of them. ‘It’s a rather touching ceremony, actually,’ Norkan told them. ‘The parents are obliged to assert that their child is fit and ready to assume the responsibilities of adulthood. They then offer to fight anyone who disagrees. Not to worry Sparhawk,’ he added with a chuckle. ‘It’s a formality. The challenge is almost never taken up.’
‘Almost never?’
‘I’m teasing, of course. No one’s going to fight your wife. That speech of hers totally disarmed them. They adore her. I hope she’s quick of study, however. She’ll have to speak in Tamul.’
‘Learning a foreign language takes a long time,’ Kalten said dubiously. ‘I studied Styric for ten years and never did get the hang of it.’
‘You have no aptitude for languages, Kalten,’ Vanion told him. ‘Even Elenic confuses you sometimes.’
‘You don’t have to be insulting, Lord Vanion.’
‘I imagine Sephrenia will cheat a little,’ Sparhawk added. ‘She and Aphrael taught me to speak Troll in about five seconds in Ghwerig’s cave.’ He looked at Norkan. ‘When will the ceremony take place?’ he asked.
‘At midnight. The child passes into adulthood as one day passes into the next.’
‘There’s an exquisite kind of logic there,’ Stragen noted.
‘The hand of God,’ Bevier murmured piously.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Even the heathen responds to that gentle inner voice, Milord Stragen.’
‘I’m afraid I’m still missing the point, Sir Bevier.’
‘Logic is what sets our God apart,’ Bevier explained patiently. ‘It’s His special gift to the Elene people, and He reaches out with it to all others, freely offering its blessing to the unenlightened.’
‘Is that really a part of Elene doctrine, your Grace?’ Stragen asked the Patriarch of Ucera.
‘Tentatively,’ Emban replied. ‘The view is more widelyheld in Arcium than elsewhere. The Arcian clergy has been trying to have it included in the articles of the faith for the last thousand years or so, but the Deirans have been resisting. The Hierocracy takes up the question when we have nothing else to do.’
‘Do you think it will ever be resolved, your Grace?’ Norkan asked him.
‘Good God no, your Excellency. If we ever settled the issue, we wouldn’t have anything to argue about.’
Oscagne approached from the far side of the square. He took Sparhawk and Vanion aside, his expression concerned. ‘How well do you gentlemen know Zalasta?’ he asked them.
‘I only met him once before we reached Sarsos,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘Lord Vanion here knows him much better than I.’
‘I’m starting to have some doubts about this legendary wisdom of his,’ Oscagne said to them. ‘The Styric enclave in eastern Astel abuts Atan, so he should know more about these people than he seems to. I just caught him suggesting a demonstration of prowess to the Peloi and some of the younger Church Knights.’
‘It’s not unusual, your Excellency,’ Vanion shrugged. ‘Young men like to show off.’
‘That’s exactly my point, Lord Vanion.’ Oscagne’s expression was worried. ‘That’s not done here in Atan. Demonstrations of that kind lead to bloodshed. The Atans look upon that sort of thing as a challenge. I got there just in time to avert a disaster. What was the man thinking of?’
‘Styrics sometimes grow a bit vague,’ Vanion explained. ‘They can be profoundly absent-minded sometimes. I’ll have Sephrenia speak with him and remind him to pay attention.’
‘Oh, there’s something else, gentlemen,’ Oscagne smiled. ‘Don’t let Sir Berit wander around alone in the city. There are whole platoons of unmarried Atan girls lusting after him.’
‘Berit?’ Vanion looked startled.
‘It’s happened before, Vanion,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘There’s something about our young friend that drives young women wild. It has to do with his eyelashes, I think. Ehlana and Melidere tried to explain it to me in Darsas. I didn’t understand what they were saying, but I took their word for it.’
‘What an astonishing thing,’ Vanion said.
There were torches everywhere, and the faint, fragrant night breeze tossed their sooty orange flames like a field of fiery wheat. The Rite of Passage took place in a broad meadow outside the city. An ancient stone altar adorned with wild-flowers stood between two broad oaks at the centre of the meadow, and two bronze, basin-like oil-lamps flared, one on each end of the altar.
A lone Atan with snowy hair stood atop
the city wall, intently watching the light of the moon passing through a narrow horizontal aperture in one of the battlements and down the face of a nearby wall, which was marked at regular intervals with deeply-scored lines. It was not the most precise way to determine the time, but if everyone agreed that the line of moonlight would reach a certain one of those scorings at midnight, precision was unimportant. As long as there was general agreement, it was midnight.
The night was silent except for the guttering of the torches and the sighing of the breeze in the dark forest surrounding the meadow.
They waited as the silvery line of moonlight crept down the wall.
Then the ancient Atan gave a signal, and a dozen trumpeters raised brazen horns to greet the new day and to signal the beginning of the Rite which would end Mirtai’s childhood.
The Atans sang. There were no words, for this rite was too sacred for words. Their song began with a single deep rumbling male voice, swelling and rising as other voices joined it in soaring and complex harmonies.
King Androl and Queen Betuana moved with slow and stately pace along a broad, torchlit avenue toward the ageless trees and the flower-decked altar. Their bronze faces were serene, and their golden helmets gleamed in the torchlight. When they reached the altar, they turned, expectant.
There was a pause while the torches flared and the organ-song of the Atans rose and swelled. Then the melody subsided into a tightly controlled hum, scarcely more than a whisper.
Engessa and Ehlana, both in deep blue robes, escorted Mirtai out of the shadows near the city wall. Mirtai was all in white, and her raven hair was unadorned. Her eyes were modestly down-cast as her parents led her toward the altar.
The song swelled again with a different melody and a different counterpoint.
‘The approach of the child,’ Norkan murmured to Sparhawk and the others. The sophisticated, even cynical Tamul’s voice was respectful, almost awed, and his world-weary eyes glistened. Sparhawk felt a small tug on his hand, and he lifted his daughter so that she might better see.
Mirtai and her family reached the altar and bowed to Androl and Betuana. The song sank to a whisper.