“Go back to sleep,” she said, confounding him. “The servants are out and the door is bolted on our side. There is no need for either of us to stay awake, unless thee is overnice. I am not.”
And in her hand was Changeling, that always slept with her; she laid it atop the coverlet, a thing fell and dangerous, in the valley that would be between them. Vanye rested very still, felt the mattress give as she settled beside him and drew the covers over her, heard the gentle sigh of her breath.
And felt the weight of Changeling, that rested between.
He held no more urge to sleep, his heart still beating rapidly. It was that she had startled him, he told himself at first—he found it disturbing that for that single instant he had not known her—frost-fair, frost-fair, an old ballad sang of her, and like frost, burning to the touch. It was kindness that she had not displaced him to the hearthside; it was like her that she was considerate in small things. Perhaps she would not have rested, having sent him to a pallet on the hard stone. Perhaps it was amends for the harsh words she had used earlier.
But it was not the same as campfires they had shared, when they had shared warmth, both armored, companions in the dark, one always waking in dread of ambush. He listened to her breathing, felt the small movements that she made, and tried to distract his mind to other thoughts, staring at the dark rafters. He cursed silently, half a pious prayer, wondering how she would understand it if he did withdraw to the hearthside.
Woman that she was, she might not have thought overmuch of the gesture; perhaps she did not understand.
Or perhaps, he thought in misery, she wished him inclined to defy that barrier, and tormented him deliberately.
She had asked him why he came with her. Your charity, he had told her lightly, was always more generous than my brother’s. The remark had stung her; he wished to this day that he had asked why, that he understood why it had angered her, or why in all that bitter day it had seemed to set her at odds with him.
He was human; he was not sure that she was. He had been a godfearing man; and he was not sure what she was. Logic did not avail, thus close to her. All Roh’s arguments collapsed, thus close to her; and he knew clearly what had drawn him this side of Gates, although he still shuddered to look into her gray and alien eyes, or to lie thus close to her; the shudder melded into quite another feeling, and he was horrified at himself, who could be moved by her, his liege, and thousandfold murderer, and qujal, at least to the eye.
He was lost, he thought, and possessed only this resolve, that he tried to remember that he was Kurshin, and Nhi, and that she was cursed in his land. Half that men told of her were lies; but much that was as terrible he had seen himself.
And that logic likewise was powerless.
He knew finally that it was neither reason nor virtue that stood in his way, but that did he once attempt that cold barrier between, she might lose all trust for him. Ilin, she had said once, hurtfully, thee has a place—Ilin, she had said this night, I have given thee an order.
Pride forbade. He could not be treated thus; he dreaded to think what torment he could create for them, she trying to deal with him as a man, he trying to be both man and servant. She had a companion older than he, a demanding thing, and evil, that lay as a weight against his side; no other could be closer than that.
And if she had regard for him, he thought, she surely sensed the misery that she could cause him, and kept him at a distance, until this night, that she, over-practical, over-kindly, omitted to send him to his place.
He wondered for whose sake she had placed the sword between, for her peace of mind or for his.
Chapter 12
Something fell, a weight upon the floor.
Vanye wakened, flung an arm wide, to the realization that Morgaine’s place beside him was vacant and cold. White daylight shone in the next room.
He sprang up, still half-blind, fighting clear of the sheets, and stumbled to the doorway. He blinked at Morgaine, who was dressed in her accustomed black armor and standing by the open outer door. A mass of gear—armor—rested on the hearthside; it had not been there the night before. Books and charts were heaped on the floor in a flood of daylight from the window, most of them open and in disorder. Servants were even then bringing in food, dishes steaming and savory, setting gold plates and cups on the long table.
And just outside the door, in conversation with Morgaine, stood a different set of guards: taller, slimmer men than the run of marshlanders. She was speaking with them quietly, giving orders or receiving reports.
Vanye ran a hand through his hair, let go his breath, deciding that there was nothing amiss. He ached; his lacerated wrists hurt to bend after a night’s rest, and his feet—he looked down, grimacing at the ugly sores. He limped back into the bedroom and sought a fresh shirt from the supply in the wardrobe, and found a pair of boots that he had set aside the night before, likewise from the wardrobe. He sat in the shadow, on the bed, working the overly tight boots onto his sore feet, and listened to Morgaine’s voice in the next room, and those of the men with whom she spoke. He did not make sense of it; the distance was too great and their accent was difficult for him. It seemed awkward to go into the other room, breaking in upon her business. He waited until he had heard Morgaine dismiss them, and heard the servants finish their arranging of breakfast and leave. Only then he arose and ventured out to see what matters were between them in cold daylight.
“Sit,” she offered him, bidding him to the table; and with a downcast expression and a shrug: “It is noon; it is still raining occasionally, and the scouts report that there is no abating of the flood at the crossing. They give some hope that matters will improve tonight, or perhaps tomorrow. This they have from the Shiua themselves.”
Vanye began to take the chair that she offered, but when he drew it back to sit down, he saw the stain on the carpet and stopped. She looked at him. He pushed the chair in again, then walked round the table and took the opposite one, not looking down, trying to forget the memory of the night. Quietly he moved his plate across the narrow table.
She was seated. He helped himself after her, spooned food onto gold plates and sipped at the hot and unfamiliar drink that eased his sore throat. He ate without a word, finding it wildly incongruous to be sharing table with Morgaine, stranger than to have shared a bed. He felt it improper to sit at table in her presence: to do so belonged to another life, when he had been a lord’s son, and knew hall manners and not the ashes of the hearthside or the campfire of an outlaw.
She also maintained silence. She was not given to much conversation, but there was too much strangeness about them in Ohtij-in that he could find that silence comfortable.
“They do not seem to have fed you well,” she remarked, when he had disposed of a third helping, and she had only then finished her first plate.
“No,” he said, “they did not.”
“You slept more soundly than ever I have seen you.”
“You might have waked me,” he said, “when you wakened.”
“You seemed to need the rest.”
He shrugged. “I am grateful,” he said.
“I understand that your lodging here was not altogether comfortable.”
“No,” he agreed, and took up his cup, pushing the plate away. He was uneasy in this strange humor of hers, that discussed him with such persistence.
“I understand,” Morgaine said, “that you killed two men—one of them lord of Ohtij-in.”
He set the cup down in startlement, held it in his fingers and turned it, swirling the amber liquid inside, his heart beat as if he had been running. “No,” he said. “That is not so. One man I killed, yes. But the lord Bydarra—Hetharu murdered him, his own son—murdered him, alone in that room with me; and I would have been hanged for it last night, that at the least. The other son, Kithan—he may know the truth or not; I am not sure. But it was very neatly done, liyo. Ther
e is none but Hetharu and myself that know for certain what happened in that room.”
She pushed her chair back, turning it so that she faced him at the corner of the table; and she leaned back, regarding him with a frowning speculation that made him the more uncomfortable. “Then,” she said, “Hetharu left in Roh’s company, and took with him the main strength of Ohtij-in. Why? Why such a force?”
“I do not know.”
“This time must have been terrible for you.”
“Yes,” he said at last, because she left a silence to be filled.
“I did not find Jhirun Ela’s-daughter. But while I searched for her, Vanye, I heard a strange thing.”
He thought that the color must long since have fled his face. He took a drink to ease the tightness in his throat. “Ask,” he said.
“It is said,” she continued, “that she, like yourself, was under Roh’s personal protection. That his orders kept you both in fair comfort and safety until Bydarra was murdered.”
He set the cup down again and looked at her, remembering that any suspicion for her was sufficient motive to kill. But she sat at breakfast with him, sharing food and drink, while she had known these things perhaps as early as last night, before she lay down to sleep beside him.
“If you thought that you could not trust me,” he said, “you would be rid of me at once. You would not have waited.”
“Is thee going to answer, Vanye? Or is thee going to go on evading me? Thee has omitted many things in the telling. On thy oath—on thy oath, Nhi Vanye, no more of it.”
“He—Roh—found welcome here, at least with one faction of the house. He saw to it that I was safe, yes; but not so comfortable, not so comfortable as you imagine, liyo. And later—when Hetharu seized power—then, too—Roh intervened.”
“Do you know why?”
He shook his head and said nothing. Suppositions led in many directions that he did not want to explore with her.
“Did you speak with him directly?”
“Yes.” There was long silence. He felt out of place even to be sitting in a chair, staring at her eye to eye, when that was not the situation between them and never had been.
“Then thee has some idea.”
“He said—it was for kinship’s sake.”
She said nothing.
“He said,” he continued with difficulty, “that if you—if you were lost, then—I think he would have sought a Claiming . . .”
“Did you suggest it?” she asked; and perhaps the revulsion showed on his face, for her look softened at once to pity. “No,” she judged. “No, thee would not.” And for a moment she gazed on him with fearsome intentness, as if she prepared something from which she had long refrained. “Thee is ignorant,” she said, “and in that ignorance, valuable to him.”
“I would not help him against you.”
“You are without defense. You are ignorant, and without defense.”
Heat rose to his face, anger. “Doubtless,” he said.
“I could remedy that, Vanye.”
Become what I am, accept what I serve, bear what I bear . . .
The heat fled, leaving chill behind. “No,” he said. “No.”
“Vanye—for your own sake, listen to me.”
Hope was in her eyes, utterly intense: never before had she pleaded with him for anything. He had come with her: perhaps then she had begun to hope for this thing that she had never won of him. He remembered then what he had for a time forgotten, the difference there was between Morgaine and what possessed Chya Roh: that Morgaine, having the right to order, had always refrained.
It was the thing she wanted most, that alone might give her some measure of peace; and she refrained.
“Liyo,” he whispered, “I would do anything, anything you set me to do. Ask me things that I can do.”
“Except this,” she concluded, in a tone that pierced his heart.
“Liyo—anything else.”
She lowered her eyes, like a curtain drawn finally between them, lifted them again. There was no bitterness, only a deep sorrow.
“Be honest with me,” he said, stung. “You nearly died in the flood. You nearly died, with whatever you seek to do left undone; and this preys on your mind. It is not for my sake that you want this. It is for yourself.”
Again the lowering of the eyes; and she looked up again. “Yes,” she said, without a trace of shame. “But know too, Vanye, that my enemies will never leave you in peace. Ignorance cannot save you from that. So long as you are accessible to them, you will never be safe.”
“It is what you said: that one grace you always gave me, that you never burdened me with your qujalin arts; and for that, for that I gave you more than ever my oath demanded of me. Do you want everything now? You can order. I am only ilin. Order, and I will do what you say.”
There was warfare in the depths of her eyes, yea and nay equally balanced, desperately poised. “O Vanye,” she said softly, “thee is asking me for virtue, which thee well knows I lack.”
“Then order,” he said.
She frowned darkly, and stared elsewhere.
“I tried,” he said in that long silence, “to reach Abarais, to wait for you. And if I could have used Roh to set me there—I would have gone with him—to stop him.”
“With what?” she asked, a derisive laugh; but she turned toward him again, and even yet her look pleaded with him. “If I were lost, what could you have done?”
He shrugged, searched up the most terrible thing that he could envision. “Casting Changeling within a Gate: that would suffice, would it not?”
“If you could set hands on it. And that would destroy you; and destroy only one Gate.” She took Changeling from her side and laid it across the arms of her chair. “It was made for other use.”
“Let be,” he asked of her, for she eased the blade fractionally from its sheath. He edged back, for he trusted her mind, but not that witch-blade; and it was not her habit to draw it ever unless she must. She stopped; it lay half-exposed, no metal, but very like a shard of crystal, its magics restrained until it should be wholly unsheathed.
She held it so, the blade’s face toward him, while opal fires swirled softly in the qujalin runes on its surface. “For anyone who can read this,” she said, “here is the making and unmaking of Gates. And I think thee begins to know what this is worth, and what there is to fear should Roh take it. To bring this within his reach would be the most dangerous thing you could do.”
“Put it away,” he asked of her.
“Vanye: to read the runes—would thee learn simply that? Only that much—simply to read the qujalin tongue and speak it. Is that too much to ask?”
“Do you ask it for yourself?”
“Yes,” she said.
He averted his eyes from it, and nodded consent.
“It is necessary,” she said. “Vanye, I will show you; and take up Changeling if ever I am lost. Knowing what you will know, the sword will teach you after—until you have no choice, as I have none.” And after a moment: “If I am lost. I do not mean that it should happen.”
“I will do this,” he answered, and thereafter sat a cold hardness in him, like a stone where his heart had been. It was the end of what he had begun when he had followed her; he realized that he had always known it.
She rammed the dragon sword back into its sheath and took it in the curve of her arm—nodded toward the fireside, where armor lay, bundled in a cloak. “Yours,” she said. “Some of the servants worked through the night on it. Go dress. I do not trust this place. We will settle the other matter later. We will talk of it.”
“Aye,” he agreed, glad of that priority in things, for as she was, she might win yet more of him, piece by piece: perhaps she knew it.
And there was an ease in her manner that had not been there in many a day, something that had settle
d at peace with her. He was glad for that, at least. He took it for enough; and arose from the table and went to the fireside—heard her rise and knew her standing near him as he knelt and unfolded the cloak that wrapped his recovered belongings.
His armor, familiar helm that had been in her keeping: he was surprised and pleased that she had kept it, as if sentiment had moved her, as if she had hoped to find him again. There was his mail, cleaned and saved from rust, leather replaced: he received that back with great relief, for it was all he owned in the world save the black horse and his saddle. He gathered it up, knowing the weight of it as he knew that of his own body.
And out of it fell a bone-handled dagger: Roh’s—an ill dream recurring. It lay on the stones, accusing him. For one terrible instant he wondered how much in truth she knew of what had passed.
“Next time,” she said from behind him, “resolve to use it.”
His hand went to his brow, to bless himself in dismay; he hesitated, then sketchily completed the gesture, and was the more disquieted afterward. He gathered up the bundle, dagger and all, and carried it into the other room where he might have privacy, where he might both dress and breathe in peace.
He would die in this forsaken land the other side of Gates, he thought, jerking with trembling fingers at the laces of his clothing; that much had been certain from the beginning—but that became less terrible than what prospect opened before him, that little by little he would lose himself, that she would have all. Murder had sent him to her, brother-killing; ilin-service was just condemnation. But he reckoned himself, what he had been, and what he had become; and the man that he was now was no longer capable of the crime that he had done. It was not just, what lay before him.
He set himself into his armor, leather and metal links in which he had lived the most part of his youth; and though it was newly fitted and most of the leather replaced, it settled about his body familiar as his own skin, a weight that surrounded him with safety, with habits that had kept him alive where his living had not been likely. It no longer seemed protection.
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