The Complete Morgaine (131 page)

There was no answer. There was only the dark mass of the shelter; and neither horse seemed shy of it, which was the best indication nothing had
sheltered there. Only some small creature skittered away in the brush, at which his weary horse hardly reacted, a little jerk at the reins.

“Hai-ay,” Bron called out again, and with no answer and no answering hail, led his horse into the lee of the hut.

It was enough. Chei reached the place, leaned against his horse and managed the girth; and had him half unsaddled before Vanye and Morgaine had ridden in.

He dried off his horse vigorously with the blanket and rubbed down its legs, such care as he could give to ease it and protect it from soreness; and looked and saw Bron's horse unattended, which carelessness his brother would not countenance on a night like this and after such a ride.

Then he spied Bron sitting on the ground, and went to him quietly. “Bron?” he whispered, dropping down to face him, and laid a hand on Bron's shoulder.

“It is hurting,” Bron said. Chei could not see his face in the dark, could hardly make out the pallor of skin and hair in the dark, but he gripped Bron's shoulder in a brotherly way and felt a cold about his heart.

“How bad is it?”

A whisper of leather and metal, a shrug beneath his hand. “Hurting,” Bron said, and drew a breath. “I will make it tomorrow. They will not leave me. They will not. I will not slow you down.”

He embraced Bron, hugged him tight a moment as he reckoned Vanye and the lady were paying no attention to them. “Give me your cloak,” he said; and unfastened it from Bron's neck, slung it on and rose to tend Bron's horse, trying not to think of the fear, only of necessity—not turning his head, only doing his work and praying neither Vanye nor the lady would notice in the deep shadow beside the hut and the confusion of two bay geldings and two blond men and a borrowed cloak, that it was the same man on his feet.

But Vanye walked near him, leading the two pale horses into that shadow, and behind him; and stopped.

Chei dropped down and rubbed at the gelding's legs, head tucked. But he heard the step in the wet mold, heard the light ring of metal as Vanye went past him and knelt down by Bron.

He got up then and went over to him. “I am all right,” Bron was saying, where he sat against the wall in the wet and the decaying leaves. And Chei, desperately: “He is all right. I will tend the horses, the gray too if he will stand—”

“We cannot go much more of this,” Vanye said, and touched Bron's shoulder and rose and laid a hand on his, gently shaking at him. “My lady has her reasons. How much farther?”

“Tomorrow,” Chei said. His heart was beating hard. He found himself short of breath, not knowing what was in Vanye's mind. “We will get there tomorrow.”

“My lady is grateful. Truly.”

“What does she want of us?” he asked desperately; and did not believe that the lady had said it at all: the lady was angry with them, had been angry since they had broken camp, and everything seemed the wrong thing with her. Now Vanye came to them, on his own, for Vanye's reasons, catching them in another deception, and fear swept over him—irrational, for they could go no faster and no further, and the lady on that iron-winded gray could not so much as find the road without them.

But honor meant very much, when there was neither clan nor kin; and the lady cursed them and shamed them, even Bron: he had brought his brother to this, and the lady cursed them for mistakes he himself had made, and shamed Bron for things not Bron's doing—

“We will make it,” Vanye said. “Chei—”

“Aye,” he said, and jerked his shoulder free, turning his face to his work again.

“Chei. Listen to me.” Vanye put his hand on the other side of the horse's neck, stood close against its shoulder, close beside him. “She has one manner with everyone. With me as well. She is thinking, that is what she is doing, she is thinking, and what talks to us is not herself when this mood is on her. That is all I can tell you.”

Chei listened in anger, down to the last, that a tendril of cold slipped into his heart. Then he recalled that they were pacted not only with a
qhal
, but with a witch. He gave a twitch of his shoulders, less angry, and more afraid, and no more certain where honor was in anything.

“She never remembers her tempers,” Vanye said. “Do the best you can do. When she knows what you have done she will be grateful.
I
thank you. She would want me to. She would want me to tell you—get us as far as the Road, and if you have changed your minds, go aside: we will see to Gault.”

“Mante,” Chei said. “We are going to Mante.”

“Do you know what is there? Do you know what we face?”

He shook his head. He had no wish to know. “The gate,” he said. “Somewhere else.”

“Maybe a worse place.”

“It could not be. For us it could not be.” He seized Vanye by the arm and drew him well aside, over by the trees, into the dark and the wind. “Vanye, my brother—he is a great man, he
is
, Vanye: he
will
be; Ichandren himself used to say that in his life he had never seen any man promise so much—”

“For whose sake are you doing this? For his? Then leave us at the road.”

“That is not what I am saying!”

“There is nothing to be had from us. There is nothing we can give you. You mistake us. We have no place to go to. You are chasing after what does not exist.”

“We will not go back to live like bandits! We will not find another clan! We will make a name for ourselves—we—Bron and I. Do not shame us like this.”

Vanye was silent a moment. “I only try to warn you. You cannot ask too much of her. I will not let you.”

“You are her lover.”

An intake of breath. “What I am is my concern.”

“I only mean that I know. We know you are her right hand. We do not dispute you. Only do not let her speak like that to my brother.”

“My lady will speak how she chooses, to me, to Bron, or to you!—But I will talk to him.”

“Do that,” Chei said. The wind touched him. He shivered, having gotten less than he wanted. But he had pushed too far; he saw that.

Vanye walked away from him. Chei stood with his arms and Bron's cloak about him, waiting, while Vanye found Bron looking after the horses himself, cloakless and stubborn.

They had words together. It did not last long, but they parted with a mutual touch at shoulders, and Vanye took their own two horses in charge, while the lady stayed in shelter.

“Here,” Chei said to Bron, when he had walked back to the arbor. He slung the cloak about Bron's shoulders. “Get out of the wind.” And: “Did he say anything?”

Bron shrugged. “Only courtesy,” Bron said. “He offered
qhalur
medicines. I said I was well enough. Do not trouble him, Chei.”

 • • • 

The morning brought fog again, a general murk that made it uncertain exactly when it ceased to be night and began being daylight; but Vanye levered his aching bones up when there was light enough to see by, in a watch he judged by his own time-sense. “Stay and rest,” he said to Morgaine: it was his watch last—they were the better by Chei and Bron having their turn at waking, in the small part of the night they had had left—and he left her and the brothers to drowse away the last few moments while he sought after their gear and carried it up to saddle up.

But Chei was up as quickly, moving about in the gray and the damp, seeing to his horse and his brother's.

“I meant to let you sleep,” Vanye said, attempting to mend matters.

“We will manage,” Chei said shortly.

So a company grew irritable, weary as they were, friends more quickly at odds than utter strangers. His face still burned when he recollected Chei's remark of last evening, and how Chei thought he knew more of their affairs than he knew.

Ilin
and liege—and he was not sure whose doing it was, after all this time. He tried to protect their honor; but Chei—

Chei, being Chei, trod straight in on a matter that would have gotten challenge outright and unexplained, if Chei were of his own people.

But Chei, being Chei, had not understood, no more than he himself understood more than the surface of Chei's thinking. Bron had seemed dismayed when he went to ask his pardon, had seemed embarrassed, if nothing else. “Chei ought not to have done that,” Bron had said. “Forgive him.”

Now Bron came out into the daylight, limping pronouncedly in the first few steps; and concealed that with a grasp after one of the support poles of the shelter.

Vanye paid it no attention and offered no help. He wanted no more misunderstandings. He flung Siptah's saddle up and tightened the girth.

“We will break our fast on the trail,” he said as Chei passed him; Chei nodded and said no word to him. Perhaps it was only the reaction of a man with his jaw clamped against the chill.

Or it was the reaction of a man who felt betrayed.

Morgaine came out, wrapped in her cloak, gray side out, her pale coloring one tone with the fog.

“Tonight for the open road,” she said in a quiet voice, taking Siptah's reins. “So we dare not push the horses today.”

“Aye,” Vanye agreed, thanking Heaven one of them at least had come back to reason.

They rode out, with breakfast in hand, a little waybread and water from their flasks, ducking water-laden branches, but with the sun bringing a little warmth through the mist, and the wind having stopped. There was that for comfort.

 • • • 

“Here,” Jestryn said, and urged his horse down a trail hardly worthy of the name, a narrow slot of stone and dirt among pines that clung desperately to a crumbling slope. Some of the men murmured dismay, but Gault followed, nothing loath, for the Road passed near a village hereabouts, a straight bare track below the truncate hill: the ancients had carved mountains, disdaining to divert their Road for any cause; and yet bent it sharply west in open ground, for reasons that no
qhal
living knew.

Now the descendants of the builders rode quietly as they could, making better time than they had been able to make in the fog, reliant on Jestryn-Pyverrn's human memory and on Arunden's thoroughly human one, under the threat of Jestryn's knife.

“I swear to you,” Arunden had cried, “I swear to you—I will guide you! I am your friend—”

“Impudent Man,” Jestryn had said, and laughed, as Pyverrn would, with his human, guttural laughter. “You are not
my
friend before or
after
I was human; and God knows you were never Gault's—”

Jestryn kept such human affectations, and swore and used human oaths
qhal
did not. But the sparkle in his eye was Pyverrn—past the sword-cut that raked one handsome cheek. It did not distract from his looks. Next to him, Arunden was a clumsy, shambling brute; and Arunden's wit matched his outward look.

“You will lose a finger,” Jestryn had said, “for every annoyance on this trail; I counsel you,
tell
me where the warders are, and what the signals are, or you will find out what pain is—my lord Arunden.”

They had taken three of the watchposts. Arunden snuffled and wept about it and protested they were disgracing him and ruining his usefulness.

But a flash of Jestryn's knife stopped the snuffling.

“You either serve us,” Gault had said then, “or not. Decide now. We
can
do without you.”

“My lord,” Arunden had said.

Now they rode quietly as they could, with bows strung and arrows ready.

Jestryn gave a quiet call, a kind of lilting whistle, and a like signal answered it from down the slope.

The horses picked their way down with steady, small paces, to a place where the trail widened. A Man waited there, whose eyes betrayed shock the moment before Gault's arrow took him. Perhaps it had been the sight of Jestryn, back from the dead. Perhaps it had been the sight of Arunden himself, who was their own lord, beside Gault, who had been lord over the human south, not six years gone: Men to the outward sight, and armored like Men, he and Jestryn, Qhiverin and Pyverrn—both archers of Mante's warrior Societies and both deadly.

Jestryn grinned at him, an expression light and pleasant as ever Jestryn-the-Man could have used, past Arunden, who sat his horse in apparent shock.

“Let us go,” Gault said, and motioned to the men who followed.

They rode forward, closer to the human camp, with the stench of its midden all too evident. It was that garrison which guarded the road; and there was dangerous work at hand—We must take them, Jestryn had said, and reach the Road there: that is the quickest way.

If only, Gault thought, they did not bog down in some day-long siege; but Jestryn promised not: Arunden would hail them out once their archers were positioned.

Gault chose three arrows as he rode quietly at Jestryn's back: he did not ride the roan, which was too well known—but on a borrowed sorrel. The rest of the column overtook them on this flat ground as the shapes of huts appeared among the pines. Gray smoke drifted up as haze in that clearing, from fires about which humans pursued domestic business, the weaving of cloth, the grinding of grain doubtless bartered or plundered from Gault's own storehouses.

There was hardly reason at first that these humans should take alarm at human riders arriving in their camp, since those riders had had to pass their sentries, even if the riders carried bows at their sides.

They could only be mildly alarmed when their own lord Arunden rode forward of the three, and in a ringing voice ordered everyone to the center of the village.

Only when those bows lifted and bent and the shafts went winging to drop those who obeyed, then the cries went up and humans rushed to the attack of two solitary archers.

Then the rest of Gault's troop appeared from the brush around the camp, and arrows came from every direction.