The Lady of Han-Gilen Read Online Free Page B

her
brother was gone, lost in the shadows of the tunnel.

THREE
    Once Elian had begun, she did not look back. With
Brightmoon on her right hand, she turned her face toward the north.
    She kept to the road, riding swiftly, trusting to the dark
and to her mare’s sure feet. Lone riders were common enough in peaceful Han-Gilen:
travelers, messengers, post-riders of the prince. Nor yet did she look for
pursuit. Halenan would see to that.
    The first light of dawn found her in the wooded hills,
looking down from afar upon her father’s city. The night flame burned low on
the topmost tower of the temple of the Sun. She fancied that she could hear the
dawn bells, and the high pure voices of the priestesses calling to the god.
    She swallowed hard. Suddenly the world was very wide and the
road was very narrow, and there was only captivity at either end of it. East,
west, south—any of them would take her, set her free.
    The mare fretted against a sudden tightening of the reins.
Abruptly Elian wheeled her about, startling her into a canter.
    Northward, away from the Asanian. Northward to her oath’s
fulfilment.
    oOo
    By sunrise the mare had slowed to a walk. Hill and wood
lay between Elian’s eyes and the city; she drowsed in the saddle.
    The mare stumbled. Elian jolted into wakefulness. For an
instant, memory failed her; she looked about wildly. The senel had halted in a glade,
and finding no resistance, begun to graze.
    Elian slid to the ground. A high rock reared above her, with
a stream leaping down the face of it and a pool at its foot.
    The mare stepped delicately into the water, ruffled it with
her breath, and drank. After a moment Elian followed her. First she took off
the mare’s bit and bridle, then the saddle; then she lay on her face by the
pool, drinking deep.
    The mare nibbled her hair. She batted the dripping muzzle
aside, and laughed as water ran down her neck.
    With sudden recklessness she plunged her head into the pool,
rising in an icy spray. All thought of sleep had fled; hunger filled its place.
    Her saddle pouches were full, every one. She found wine,
cheese, new bread and journey-bread, fruit and meat and a packet of honey
sweets.
    At the last she laughed, but with a catch at the end of it.
Who but Hal would have remembered that gluttonous passion of hers?
    “He knows me better than I know myself.”
    The mare, rolling in the ferns, took no notice of her. She
ate sparingly and drank a little of the wine. The sun was warm on her damp
head. She lay back in the sweet-scented grass and closed her eyes.
    The dream at first was sunlit, harmless. A woman walked in a
garden under the sun. She wore the plain white robe of a priestess in the
temple of Han-Gilen, her hair braided down her back, a torque gleaming golden
at her throat. There was a flower in her hair, white upon raven.
    She turned, bending with rare grace to pluck a second
blossom, and Elian saw her face. It was a striking, foreign face, eagle-keen
and very dark, the face of a woman from the north. On her breast lay the golden
disk of the High Priestess of Avaryan.
    A child ran down the path, a boy in shirt and breeches that
sorely needed a washing, his hair a riot of unshorn curls. “Mother, come and
see! Fleetfoot had her colt, and he’s all white, and his eyes are blue, and
Herdmaster says he’s demon-gotten but Foster-father says nonsense. I say
nonsense too. There’s no dark in him, only colt-thoughts. Herdmaster wants to
give him to the temple. Come and see him!”
    The priestess laughed and smoothed his tangled hair. He was
as dark as she, with the same striking face and the same great black eyes set
level in it. “Come and claim him, you mean to say. Is it a white war-stallion
you’re wanting, then?”
    “Not for me,” he said. “For you. For the best rider in the
world.”
    “Flatterer.” Still laughing, she let him pull her to the
garden’s gate.
    It flew open. Mother and son halted.
    A man flung himself at the priestess’ feet. In