“Anj—”
Morgaine spelled it. “Be precise. Be very precise, my lord. Do you understand? Your safety and his are in question.”
“I—have no direct contact with the high lord. I can gain it. It will take time. I beg you—step down, rest your horses, let us offer you food and drink—”
“We will wait here.”
“A drink, at least—”
“We have our own supplies, my lord. We trust your hospitality includes haste.”
“My lady.” The Warden looked profoundly offended, and worried. “It will be some little time. I beg you understand. Stand down and rest. Take it or no, my people will offer you what hospitality we have. Your leave, my lady.”
He inclined his head and walked away into the shadows.
They were alone then, and not alone, in this chill place where the smallest move echoed, and the stamp of an iron-shod hoof rang like doom.
“We have disquieted him,” Morgaine said quietly, in her most obscure Kurshin accents. “That may be good or ill. Vanye—give me the stone.”
He gave it. His heart hammered against his ribs.
“Come,” she said, and sent Siptah suddenly forward, down the vacant aisle, toward the sealed doors.
There were running footsteps beyond the columns behind him, a quick spurt that died away in the direction the Warden had gone.
Someone had sped to advise him.
And Morgaine veered off into shadow, the other side of a vast column three quarters of the way down the long aisle, drew in and wheeled Siptah about as Vanye arrived, as Chei and Hesiyyn and Rhanin clattered in close behind him.
“What are you doing?” Chei asked, a young voice, which rose incongruously in pitch.
Light flared, white and terrible as she opened the case of the gate-jewel. It touched columns, faces, the wild eyes of the shying horses—and damped as suddenly as she closed her hand about it, veiling it in flesh, awful as it was.
“Give it to me!” Vanye exclaimed, knowing the feel of it, imagining the pain of handling it this close to Mante. But she held it fast, letting a little of its flickering light escape to strike the stone pillar beside them.
“Watch the surrounds!” she ordered. “Chei—what is our host saying?”
There was no word for a moment, in which Vanye loosed his bow from his shoulder, set its heel in his stirrup and strung it in the strength fear lent.
“He is reporting our presence—our breach of his orders—” Chei said.
“To whom?”
“To whoever is watching—I do not know—I do not know who that would be.—He reports himself in danger. He is going to open the doors. He hopes we will leave—”
“—into their reach,” Morgaine said. There was pain in her voice. “Has he sent what I bade him?”
“No—or we have not seen it—”
“Take it. Do it.”
“Send what? Who are you, that he should know you—curse you, woman, have you lied to me?”
“Believe everything you heard me tell the Warden—Send the cursed message, man, send it exactly as I gave it and keep sending till we have answer, or take your chances with the lord Warden’s archers! Or with that thing outside! Make your choice!”
Chei reached. For a second the stone flared bright between them, blinding, light glistening on Morgaine’s pale face, on his, which grimaced as he took it, and the red roan and the gray horse shied apart, both fighting the rein.
Engines began to clank and chain to rattle at the other entrance. A seam of daylight lanced through the hall, blinding bright. The horses sidestepped and fretted, more and more panicked, doubtful between the gate-force in the air, and the racket and that view of escape.
“It is more powerful than his,” Chei said between his teeth. He used the shuttering of the lid to send, less sure in his use of it than the dimmer, rapid flickers of the Warden’s sending, which came through as weak pulses in his intervals. “We are drowning his sending—Rhanin! are the warders moving?”
“No, my lord,” the bowman said.
“If the gate at Mante should open,” Hesiyyn said, “my lord, and you are holding that thing—”
“Send and wait for an answer,” Morgaine bade Chei harshly. “Again and again—the same message. Watch around us! They have only to get one gate-jewel positioned—”
“My lady!” a voice called down the aisles. “My lady, cease! You are free to go!”
“Ignore it,” Morgaine said under her breath. “I take it that the lord Warden is lying.”
“He is lying,” Chei said, reading the silence of the stone in the intervals. “He has never reached—Ah!”
Opal shimmer flared, rapid pulses. Chei cupped his hand about it, and the muscles of his face tensed with pain. “Skarrin,” he said hoarsely. “Skarrin himself—has just discovered treachery—has bidden silence. He—knows your presence. And your name. He—tells the Warden—let us pass—not to—oppose us.—He asks who wields this st-stone, my lady.”
“Answer him. Tell him it is ours. And we have come to talk with him.”
It needed a moment. Chei’s face stood out in taut-jawed relief in the flashes, that came brighter from the stone, brighter than the glare from the open door.
Then: “He will hear us,” Chei said, hoarsely. And shut the case, letting his arm fall. “He forbids—more use of the stone.”
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—