The Complete Morgaine (37 page)

Her lips trembled, and she gazed at him with clearing sense in her dark eyes. “Yes,” she said at last. “You are different; I see that you are.”

“Where is Roh?” Morgaine asked.

The threat in Morgaine's voice drew the girl's attention. She tried to move, but Vanye did not loose her hand. Her eyes turned back to him.

“Who are you?” she asked. “Who are you?”

“Nhi Vanye,” he answered in Morgaine's silence, for he had struck her down, and she was due at least his name for it: “Nhi Vanye i Chya. Who are you?”

“Jhirun Ela's-daughter,” she said, and added: “I am going north, to Shiuan—” as if this and herself were inseparable.

“And Roh?” Morgaine dropped to her knee and seized her by the arm. Jhirun's hand left his. For a moment the girl stared into Morgaine's face, her lips trembling.

“Let be,” Vanye asked of his liege. “
Liyo
—let be.”

Morgaine thrust the girl's arm free and arose, walked back to the fireside.
For some little time the girl Jhirun stared in that direction, her face set in shock. “
Dai-khal
,” she murmured finally.

Dai-khal
: high-clan
qujal
, Vanye understood that much. He followed Jhirun's glance back to Morgaine, who sat by the fire, slim, clad in black leather, her hair a shining pallor in the firelight. Here too the Old Ones were known, and feared.

He touched the girl's shoulder. She jerked from his fingers. “If you know where Roh is,” he said, “tell us.”

“I do not.”

He withdrew his hand, unease growing in him. Her accents were strange; he hated the place, the ruins—all this haunted land. It was a dream, in which he had entrapped himself; yet he had struck flesh when he rode against her, and she bled, and he did not doubt that he could, that it was well possible to die here, beneath this insane and lowering sky. In the first night, lost, looking about him at the world, he had prayed; increasingly he feared that it was blasphemy to do so in this land, that these barren, drowning hills were Hell, in which all lost souls recognized each other.

“When you took me for him,” he said to her, “you said you came to find me. Then he is on this road.”

She shut her eyes and turned her face away, dismissing him, weak as she was and with the sweat of shock beading her brow. He was forced to respect such courage—she a peasant and himself once a warrior of clan Nhi. For fear, for very terror in this Hell, he had ridden against her and her little pony with the force he would have used against an armed warrior; and it was only good fortune that her skull was not shattered, that she had fallen on soft earth and not on stone.

“Vanye,” said Morgaine from behind him.

He left the girl and went to the side of his liege—sat down, arms folded on his knees, next to the fire's warmth. She was frowning at him, displeased, whether at him or at something else, he was not sure. She held in her hand a small object, a gold ornament.

“She has dealt with him,” Morgaine said, thin-lipped. “He is somewhere about—with ambush laid, it may well be.”

“We cannot go on pushing the horses.
Liyo
, there is no knowing what we may meet.”

“She may know. Doubtless she knows.”

“She is afraid of you,” he objected softly. “
Liyo
, let me try to ask her. We must rest the horses; there is time, there is time.”

“What Roh has touched,” she said, “is not trustworthy. Remember it. Here. A keepsake.”

He held out his hand, thinking she meant the ornament. A blade flashed
into her hand, and to his, sending a chill to his heart, for it was an Honor-blade, one for suicide. At first he thought it hers, for it was, like hers, Koris-work. Then he realized it was not.

It was Roh's.

“Keep it,” she said, “in place of your own.”

He took it unwillingly, slipped it into the long-empty sheath at his belt. “Avert,” he murmured, crossing himself.

“Avert,” she echoed, paying homage to beliefs he was never sure she shared, and made the pious gesture that sealed it, wishing the omen from him, the ill-luck of such a blade. “Return it to him, if you will. That pure-faced child was carrying it. Remember that when you are moved to gentility with her.”

Vanye sank down from his crouch to sit crosslegged by her, oppressed by foreboding. The unaccustomed weight of the blade at his belt was cruel mockery, unintended, surely unintended. He was weaponless; Morgaine thought of practicalities—and of other things.

Kill him
, her meaning was:
it is yours to do.
He had taken the blade, lacking the will to object. He had abandoned all right to object. Suddenly he felt everything tightly woven about him: Roh, a strange girl, a lost dagger—a net of ugly complexities.

Morgaine held out her hand a second time, dropped into his the small gold object, a bird on the wing, exquisitely wrought. He closed his hand on it, slipped it into his belt.
Return that to her
, he understood, and consented.
She is yours to deal with.

Morgaine leaned forward and fed bits of wood into the fire, small pieces that charred rapidly into red-edged black. Firelight gleamed on the edge of silver mail at her shoulder, bathed her tanned face and pale eyes and pale hair in one unnatural light in the gathering dark.
Qujal
-fair she was, although she disclaimed that unhuman blood. He himself was of the distant mountains of Andur-Kursh, of a canton called Morija; but that was not her heritage. Perhaps her birthplace was here, where she had brought him. He did not ask. He smelled the salt wind and the pervading reek of decay, and knew that he was lost, as lost as ever a man could be. His beloved mountains, those walls of his world, were gone. It was as if some power had hurled down the limits of the world and shown him the ugliness beyond. The sun was pale and distant from this land, the stars had shifted in their places, and the moons—the moons defied all reason.

The fire grew higher as Morgaine fed it. “Is that not enough?” he asked, forcing that silence that the alien ruins held, full of age and evil. He felt naked because of that light, exposed to every enemy that might be abroad this night; but Morgaine simply shrugged and tossed a final and larger stick onto the blaze.

She had weapons enough. Perhaps it was her enemies' lives she risked by that bright fire. She was arrogant in her power, madly arrogant at times—
though there were moments when he suspected she did such things not to tempt her enemies, but it some darker contest, to tempt fate.

The heat touched him painfully as a slight breeze stirred, the first hint they had had of any wind that might disperse the mist; but the breeze died and the warmth flowed away again. Vanye shivered and stretched out his hand to the fire until the heat grew unbearable, then clasped that hand to his ribs and warmed the other.

There was a hill beyond the flood, and a Gate among Standing Stones, and this was the way that they had ridden, a dark, unnatural path. Vanye did not like to remember it, that moment of dark dreaming in which he had passed from
there
to
here,
like the fall at the edge of sleep: he steadied himself even in thinking of it.

Likewise Morgaine had come, and Chya Roh before them, into a land that lay at the side of a vast river, under a sky that never appeared over Andur-Kursh.

Morgaine unwrapped their supplies, and they shared food in silence. It was almost the last they had, after which they must somehow live off this bleak land. Vanye ate sparingly, wondering whether he should offer to Jhirun, or whether it was not kinder to let her rest. Most of all he doubted Morgaine would favor it, and at last he decided to let matters be. He washed down the last mouthful with a meager sip of the good wine of Baien, saving some back; and sat staring into the fire, turning over and over in his mind what they were to do with the girl Jhirun. He dreaded knowing. No good name had Morgaine among men; and some of it was deserved.

“Vanye. Is thee regretting?”

He looked up, saw that Morgaine had been staring at him in the ruddy light, eyes that were in daylight sea-gray, world-gray,
qujal
-gray. That gentle, ancient accent had power more than the wind to chill him, reminding him that she had known more Gates than one, that she had learned his tongue of men long dead; she forgot, sometimes, what age she lived in.

He shrugged.

“Roh,” she said, “is no longer kin to you. Do not brood on it.”

“When I find him,” he said, “I will kill him. I have sworn that.”

“Was it for that,” she asked him finally, “that you came?”

He gazed into the fire, unable to speak aloud the unease that in him when she began to encircle him with such questions. She was not of his blood. He had left his own land, abandoned everything to follow her. There were some things that he did not let himself reason to their logical end.

She left the silence on him, a stifling weight; and he opened his hand, twice scarred across the palm with the Claiming by blood and ash. By that, he was
ilin
to her, bound in service, without conscience, honorless save for her honor,
which he served. This parting-gift his clan had bestowed on him, like the shorn hair that marked him felon and outlaw, a man fit only for hanging. Brother-slayer, bastard-born: no other liege would have wanted such a man, only Morgaine, whose name was a curse wherever she was known. It was irony that
ilin
-service, penance for murder, had left him far more blood-guilty than ever he had come to her.

And Roh remained yet to deal with.

“I came,” he said, “because I swore it to you.”

She thrust at the fire with a stick, sending sparks aloft like stars on the wind. “Mad,” she judged bitterly. “I set thee free, told thee plainly thee had no possible place outside Kursh, outside the law and the folk thee knows. I wish thee had believed it.”

He acknowledged this truth with a shrug. He knew the workings of Morgaine's mind better than any living; and he knew the Claim she had set on him, that had nothing to do with his scarred hand; and the Claim that someone else had set on her, crueller than any oath. Her necessity lay sheathed at her side, that dragon-hilted sword that was no true sword, but a weapon all the same. It was the only bond that had ever truly claimed her, and she hated it above all other evils,
qujal
or human.

I have no honor,
she had warned him once.
It is unconscionable that I should take risks with the burden I carry. I have no luxury left for virtues.

Another thing she had told him that he had never doubted:
I would kill you too if it were necessary.

She hunted
qujal
, she and the named-blade
Changeling.
The
qujal
she hunted now wore the shape of Chya Roh i Chya. She sought Gates, and followed therein a compulsion more than half madness, that gave her neither peace nor happiness. He could understand this in some part: he had held
Changeling
in his own hands, had wielded its alien evil, and there had come such a weight on his soul afterward that no penance of
ilin
-service could ever cleanse him of remembering.

“The law is,” he said, “that you may bid me leave your service, but you cannot order it. If I stay, I remain
ilin
, but that is my choice and not yours.”

“No one ever refused to leave service.”

“Surely,” he said, “there have been
ilinin
before me that found no choice. A man is maimed in service, for instance; he might starve elsewhere, but while he stays
ilin
, his
liyo
must at least feed him and his horse, however foul the treatment he may receive in other matters. You cannot make me leave you, and your charity was always more generous than my brother's.”

“You are neither halt nor blind,” Morgaine retorted; she was not accustomed to being answered with levities.

He made a gesture of dismissal, knowing for once he had touched through
her guard. He caught something bewildered in her expression in that instant, something terrified. It destroyed his satisfaction. He would have said something further, but she glanced aside from him with a sudden scowl, removing his opportunity.

“There was at least a time you chose for yourself,” she said at last. “I gave you that, Nhi Vanye. Remember it someday.”

“Aye,” he said carefully. “Only so you give me the same grace,
liyo
, and remember that I chose what I wanted.”

She frowned the more deeply. “As you will,” she said. “Well enough.” And for a time she gazed into the fire, and then the frown grew pensive, and she was gazing toward their prisoner, a look that betrayed some inner war. Vanye began to suspect something ugly in her mind, that was somehow entangled with her questions to him; he wished that he knew what it was.

“
Liyo
,” he said, “Likely the girl is harmless.”

“Thee knows so?”

She mocked him in his ignorance. He shrugged, made a helpless gesture. “I do not think,” he said, “that Roh would have had time to prepare any ambush.”

“The time of Gates is not world-time.” She hurled a bit of bark into the flames, dusted her hands. “Go, go, we have time now that one of us could be sleeping, and we are wasting it. Go to sleep.”

“She?” he asked, with a nod toward Jhirun.

“I will speak with her.”

“You rest,” he urged her after a moment, inwardly braced against some irrational anger. Morgaine was distraught this night, exhausted—they both were. Her slim hands were tightly laced about her knee, clenched until the strain was evident. Tired as he was, he sensed something greatly amiss. “
Liyo
, let me have first watch.”

She sighed, as if at that offer all the weariness came over her at once, the weight of mail that could make a strong man's bones ache, days of riding that wore even upon him, Kurshin and born to the saddle. She bowed her head upon her knee, then flung it back and straightened her shoulders. “Aye,” she said hoarsely, “aye, that I will agree to gladly enough.”