before I die, I will have
our blood-price. The blood of the Sun is more robust than mine, but it too
resides in one man, and one man alone. And he has no son.”
“That we know of,” said the cold one.
“There is none.” A new voice, that. It spoke with surety,
from an unveiled face. Korusan regarded the man in grey who emerged from the
circle. He was not afraid, though he saw the man’s shadow, a woman in black, as
barefaced as he, and as deadly keen of eye. Lightmage, darkmage.
He raised a brow. The lightmage met his stare blandly and
said, “He has no son. No daughter, either.”
“I hope,” said Korusan, “that he refrains from women, then,
until I hold his life in my hands.” He smiled at the mages. “You will see to
that.”
They were affronted. He watched them remember who he was.
The knife shifted on his nape. He spun. The world ran slow,
slow. Still, almost it failed to slow enough. He lost a lock of his hair, a
drop of blood. He won the knife.
The one who had held it now held a length of uncut gold.
Korusan grinned at him and finished what he had begun: set blade to the uncut
mane of his youth and cut it away, lock by heavy lock, and stood up a man. The
air was cold on his unprotected neck. His head was light. He ran fingers
through cropped curls, tugging lightly at them, but never letting down his
guard or his weapon.
“No,” he said, “I am not of your blood. No bred warrior, I.
I was bred to be your master. Bow then, Olenyas. Bow to your lord.”
He did not think that he had appalled them. They knew what
they had raised. But knowing in the head and knowing in the belly—there, he
thought, was a distinction they had not made. There were no eyes to read, to
uncover resentment or regret, or even fear, until the one whose knife he had
won lowered the outer veil. And then—and this he had not looked for—the inner.
It was a younger face than he had suspected, and more like
his own than he could have imagined, even knowing the women and the barefaced
children. The Master of the Olenyai regarded him with eyes well-nigh as pure a gold
as his, but white-bordered in simple human fashion, and no fear in them, nor
overmuch regret. Then they lowered, and he went down, down to the floor, in the
full prostration. “You are my lord,” he said, “and my emperor.”
“I am not the emperor,” said Korusan.
“Then there is none,” the Master said. He rose. His eyes
came up. That was permitted of Olenyai, to look in the face of royalty.
“I do not wish to be emperor,” said Korusan. “I would be
Olenyas.”
“May you not be both?” the Master said.
Korusan was silent. He had spoken enough foolishness, and
far beyond the limits of the rite. He reversed the knife in his hand and bowed
as initiate to Master, and returned the knife to its owner.
The Master accepted it. Korusan drew a slow breath. If it
had been refused, then so likewise would he; and he would be emperor without a
throne and Olenyas without the veil, rejected and found unworthy.
The fine steel flashed toward him. He stood his ground even
as it neared his eyes. Even as it licked down, once, twice, and the pain came
stinging. He kept his eyes steady on the Master’s face. Ninefold, the scars on
that cheek: from cheekbone to jaw, thinly parallel like the marks of claws. One
for each rank of his ascent.
Korusan said, “I will not take second rank for my blood
alone.”
“Nor do you,” said the Master. He wiped the knife clean of
Korusan’s blood and sheathed it. “You could be swifter in defense.”
“I was swifter than you.”
The Master’s hand was a blur, but Korusan caught it. The
Master smiled. “Better,” he said, then snapped free and slapped Korusan lightly
on the unwounded cheek. “That for your insolence. And this,” he said, “for your
wit.” He set hands on Korusan’s shoulders and leaned forward, and set a kiss
where his hand had stung. “Now you are Olenyas. Be proud, but never too proud.
Be