Exile's Gate (51 page)

Morgaine was silent a moment. It was an affront she was paid, by Skarrin's order. She reined close and recovered the pyx.

"He bids us," Chei said, "come to Mante."

"On his mercy," Vanye murmured. "Among the stones out there."

"It is Shein's enemies," Chei said in a ragged voice.
"My
enemies—in
court—who killed all my Society. They have made a fatal mistake,
thinking this was my doing—that you were my prisoners. They thought to
kill us three—that is what they are about; and gain credit for it—like
the lord Warden. Only he had to ask his masters what to do. And now his
own head will be on the block. They will disavow him, or try to. They
will not attack us. Not now."

"They
could only lose by it," Hesiyyn said. "Either the Overlord will destroy
us out there—or you have favor with him. in either case, lady, we are
in
Skarrin s
hand, for good or ill."

"We came," Morgaine said, "knowing there was no other way in."

She turned Siptah's head toward the light, and rode in the shadow toward the doors.

Vanye
put his heels to Arrhan, and sent her forward, jolting hard at the
horse at lead. Cut it free, he thought, laying a hand on his
Honor-blade, and then thought again—seeing the expanse before them, and
the ride there was yet to make as they passed the second set of doors:
distant cliffs in a glare of sun—distant and with the threat of the
standing stones to dominate all this plain of patchy grass and sere
dust, this well of stone open to the sky; and heat that hit like a
hammer-blow after the coolth of the building.

For
a moment Vanye felt the giddiness—for a moment Arrhan ran uncertainly,
waiting direction, until he took the reins in and swung alongside
Morgaine. Chei and the others overtook them on the left. He bore over
again, to have it clear to them how close they dared come to Morgaine's
side.

"Let
be," Morgaine said, "let be—If Skarrin will kill us he will do so." She
looked behind her, turning in the saddle. "No one is following us, that
is sure. If he is in control of the gate—"

"He
is always in control of the gate," Chei said in a faint voice. "There
are men in Mante counting the hours of their lives now, and others
hastening to desert them. That is the way one lives in Mante. That is
the
law
in Mante."

Chei's face was pale. In Hesiyyn was no vestige of humor.

Rhanin said: "We have kin who have managed to survive in Mante. And whether they will survive this day, we do not know."

Morgaine
made them no answer. Possibly she did not even hear them. She set
Siptah to an even, ground-devouring run, which the most of their horses
were taxed to maintain. She gazed ahead of them, where their course
lay—no road to follow, except the aisle of standing stones that paced
widely separated toward the cliffs—marker-stones only, carriers of the
gate-force, not the deadly ones, not the ones which, at his whim, the
lord of Mante might use against them.

Those stones stood—Vanye could see one in the distance—far taller, and over against the cliffs that formed this well of stone.

The
way of exiles. Death-gate. Mante's enemies who breached Seiyyin Neith
found themselves here, in a plain utterly dominated by those three
stones.

So
Mante's exiles rode to their dismissal from Seiyyin Neith, during all
the crossing of the plain knowing that that ride was on sufferance,
that they lived or died as Mante and Skarrin pleased.

Like
crossing the very palm of God, he thought; and went cold at the
blasphemy, while the sun heated the armor and the sweat ran on him and
the pounding of the horse's gait drove knives into his gut.

The
stones measured the course: a hundred fifty and two. Chei knew their
number. They all knew. It was the number of lords admitted to council.
They stood for silent accusers to the damned; eyeless, watched them;
mouthless, cursed them—stood waiting, finally, to welcome the exile
home, who wished once to see Mante, and surrender body or life, as the
high lords pleased.

A
man had to think of such things, somberly, as surely Hesiyyn and Rhanin
thought of them; and thought of kindred and friends, who by now might
know that their kinsman had made the choice to return.

And
their enemies would know—as they would know the lady had gained
Skarrin's ear, and quickly after, as the lord Warden sent all he dared
send—that the South-warden had been taken for a playing piece in this
game.

There would be those rushing to exert influence where they could, to save what they could.

Blood—would
flow; might be flowing even now, of remotest and humblest connections
Shein Society might have had, from the moment certain powers in Mante
knew that Qhiverin Asfelles was returning. But all his dead company was
avenged, as he had said—a revenge as perfect as he could have
contrived, his enemies done to death by their own power to rule the
doings at court.

There
were the few lords who had supported Shein, whose mark Qhiverin's
natural body had worn tattooed above the heart, whose sole survivor he
was. But the high lords had their bodyguards and their own sources of
rumors, and if they were taken by surprise, they were fools—the more so
if his messengers had gotten to them from Morund-gate and Tejhos.

He had done well, he thought. Live or die—he had done well, and he aimed for the unthinkable.

But
there was still within him a small bewildered voice, of a boy further
and further from home and missing one who should have ridden with him—

Well, lad,
he told it sorrowfully,
so
do I. Pyverrn should have seen this day, damn us all. He would have
laughed to think of the lord Warden back there, scrambling to save his
neck.

The
boy did not understand what he saw, except that they rode through the
region of a gate which could drink them down at any moment, at the
Overlord's pleasure, and that the lady had a name that she trusted
Skarrin knew.

The boy feared now, that the lady he had once followed and the man who had betrayed him—had lied to him from the beginning.

So do I fear it,
he told the boy.
But we have no choice, do we?

Never speak to it
—the wisdom ran, advising against such accommodation.

But it did not go away. It was there. It watched everything, it wanted to learn of him—

Most of all it wanted not to die.

You gave me to the wolves,
the boy wept.
You killed my lord.

So I did. You were trying to kill me, at the time. As for Ichandren
—
I tried to spare him. It was Arunden stirred that pot—for Arunden'
s
gain.
Now Arunden is raven-bait. Stop sniveling, boy. It is death we both
face. The world is like that. And better the company around us than
some I have known. Gault was a liar and Ichandren a conniver and
Arunden a bloody-handed traitor. Wake up and see, boy. Wake up and
know
the world you were born to, Mante's refuse-heap. . . .

More
of sun and heat, of glare on dusty ground, and a cloud which rose
behind and around them, a long effort for weary horses, jolting which
brought the taste of blood.

The
longer they delayed in this place, Vanye thought, the longer the lord
in Mante had to hear other advice, change his mind, come to other
conclusions—or some other power snatch its opportunity and bring the
power of the World-gate at Mante to bear on the standing stones of
Neisyrrn Neith.

Then
the last thing they might know would be a sudden rending of the sky and
ground, and the howl of winds fleeing into that rift, taking them with
it—aware of their deaths, Heaven knew how long or how keenly.

That
thought kept him in the saddle, though it was hard to breathe. He
coughed, and wiped his mouth, and saw blood smearing the dust on his
hand.

A
cold feeling came on him then, a chill dizziness as if truth had been
waiting for him to find it, before it sprang on him and shook him and
all but took his wits away.

O Heaven, not here, not now, not yet, not in this place.

He
spat blood, wiped his stubbled mouth, and wiped the hand on his dusty
breeches. Morgaine was ahead of him. She had not seen. He measured the
distance yet to go—they had come halfway, now, halfway along the aisle
of stones that led to Mante, and that far again was all he might be
able to do—

—at
least not slow her in this place. At least cross this plain and know
that she had gotten safely to its far side, where she had a chance: to
draw
Changeling
here was impossible, for loosed within a gate, it would take the very world asunder.

It
was too cursed late for Chei's medicines, not by the tightness in his
chest, by the lack of breath; but he found the folded paper, a red haze
in the dust and the darkness that threatened his vision. He pinched up
what he hoped for one pellet in his fingers, but he thought was more
than that—he was not sure. He almost dropped it entirely, and put the
medicine into his mouth and held it through a cough that brought up
more blood. He swallowed, wiped his mouth with a bright smear of
scarlet across the back of his hand; and hung on and waited for the
strength he hoped would come to him.

It
did come. He was aware of his heart pounding, of his vision dark-edged,
of a cessation of the pain, at least—but he could not get his breath.
He felt his balance going, and was aware of Morgaine looking back and
reining around. The strength left in a rush of heat and cold, and he
knew in one terrible moment he was leaving the saddle, the ground
coming up at him—

He
hit, and twisted sideways, stunned, in a second impact, lost in dust
and pain that lanced through the drug-haze, skull shaken, spine
rattled, limbs twisted, pain like a dull knife driven through his side.

Through the dust, Morgaine's dark figure, running toward him, sliding down to her knees.

"Vanye!"

The
others had stopped. Chei—behind her, on the red roan, Rhanin and
Hesiyyn like ghosts in the dust. He tried to get up, knowing it was
necessary, and the pain was in abeyance for the moment. He tried to get
his arm under him.

And heard the wind howl, saw Morgaine whirl and rise and reach for
Changeling's
hilt
as the sky tore in two above them, showing the dark beyond, her hair
and cloak streaming, dust pouring skyward like water pouring over a
brink.

The world ripped. And there was only the cold and the dark between.

—He saw her hand on the hilt, that would bring the Gate in upon itself.

"No," he cried to her, because they were still alive, and the time was not yet—

*

The rift came full circle, and blue swallowed up the black, leaving only a rush of wind and chill.

Then
he lay on his back on stone, and rolled onto his arm, to see Morgaine
with the sword half-drawn, the blade shimmering crystal, its runes
running with opal fires.

She
slammed it home again, seeing him, and he got to his knees, dazed,
disentangled himself of his bow that had come awry of his shoulder and
shed it. He saw Siptah and Arrhan riderless and confused, Chei and the
others fighting for control of their frightened mounts—standing stones
all about them, stones like a forest of such slabs, all about the
walled court of blond stone in which they had suddenly found themselves.

There
was no pain. There was no ache anywhere about the bandages bound too
tightly about his ribs, no hindrance in his limbs. He might have come
from a morning's easy ride.

Gate-passage.
The gate had flung them here, unscathed and whole except the dust and
the dirt that turned Morgaine's dark armor pale and made her face a
porcelain mask.

God in Heaven,
he
thought, remembering the fall, then, and the blood in his mouth; and
then thought it might be blasphemous to thank Heaven for qhalur gifts.
He had no idea. He only knew he could stand, and Morgaine was throwing
an arm about him and embracing him, the dragon-sword in her other hand,
the scarred and battered longbow in his. "We are alive," she said, and
said something else urgently in a tongue he could not understand,
telling him, he reckoned in his dazed state, that they were none of
them dead, that they were somewhere of Skarrin's choosing—

She
held him tight. He held to her as if he were drowning, and then
remembered there were enemies. He scanned round about the stones which
rose in a five-fold stagger between them and the walls; and looked up,
at the rim of the masonry walls against the cloudless sky.

There
was no one, no one but Chei and Rhanin and Hesiyyn, on horses exhausted
and head-hanging, themselves hardly fit to climb from their saddles and
stand.

But they, themselves—and the white horse and the gray—

"There
is
sorcery,"
Vanye murmured, misgiving of everything, most of all his memory, which
insisted there should be pain, and broken bones, and not this unnatural
strength, recovered flesh, that made the buckles and bandaging all too
tight. He trembled, and wished he could shake everything from his head
and begin again. "Mother of God, there
is
—you cannot tell me else—"