“What are the writings on it?”
“Enough that could give any able to read them more knowledge of Gates than I would wish to have known. That is why I carry it so close. It is indestructible save by Gates. I dare not leave it. I dare not destroy it. Chan was mad to have made such a thing. It was too great a chance. We all warned him that qujalin knowledge was not for us to use. But it is made, and it cannot be unmade.”
“Save by the Witchfires themselves.”
“Save by that.”
And after they had ridden a distance: “Vanye. Thee is a brave man. I owe it to thee to tell thee plainly: if thee uses Changeling, as I have told thee to do, thee will die.”
The cold seeped inward, self-knowledge. “I am not a brave man, liyo.”
“I think otherwise. Can thee hold the oath?”
He gathered the threads of his thoughts, scattered and snarled for a moment with the knowledge she had given him. He was strangely calm-then, what he had known from the beginning settling into place as it ought to be.
“I will hold to it,” he said.
• • •
“He is coming,” said Vanye with relief. Snow crunched underfoot beyond the place where they had stopped to wait, around the bend of the trees and the hillside. It was dark. Snow lit by the stars was all about them, bright save in the shadow of the pines. They had lost sight of Roh for a time. “Let me ride back to him.”
“Hold where you are,” she said. “If it is Roh, he will arrive all the same.”
And eventually, a mere shadow among the barred shadows of the pines on the lower slope, there trudged Roh, stumbling with weariness.
“Ride down to him,” said Morgaine then, the only grace she had shown the bowman for his efforts.
Vanye did so gladly, met Roh halfway down the hill and drew his horse to a halt, offering stirrup and hand.
Roh’s face was drawn, his lips parted and the frosted air coming in great raw gasps. For a moment Vanye did not think that Roh would accept any kindness of him now: there was anger there. But he dismounted and helped his cousin up, and rose into the saddle after. Roh slumped against him. He urged the horse uphill at a walk, for the air grew thin here, and hurt the lungs.
“This is a proper place for a camp,” said Morgaine when they joined her. “It is defensible.” She indicated a place of rocks and brush, and it was true: however acquired, Morgaine had an eye to such things.
“Surely,” said Vanye, “we had better do without the fire tonight.”
“I think it would be wise,” she agreed. She slid down, shouldered the strap of Changeling, and began to undo her saddle. Siptah pawed disconsolately at the frozen earth. There was still grain left from the supply the Brothers had given them; there was food left too. It would not be a bitter camp, compared to others they had spent near Aenor-Pyvvn.
Vanye let Roh slide to the ground, and slid down after. The bowman fell, began at once to try to gather himself up, but Vanye knelt beside him and offered him drink, unfrozen, the flask carried next the horse’s warmth. Then he began to chafe warmth into the man. There was danger of freezing in his extremities, particularly in his feet. Roh was not dressed for this.
Morgaine silently bent and exchanged her cloak for Roh’s, and the bowman nodded gratitude, his eyes fixed on her with thanks and anger so mingled in him that it was hard to know which prevailed.
They fed the horses and ate, which warmed them. There was little spoken. Perhaps there would have been, had Roh not been there; but Morgaine was not in the mood for speech.
“Why?” Roh asked, his voice almost inaudible from cold. “Why do you insist to go to this place?”
“That is the same question you asked before,” she said.
“I have not yet had it answered.”
“Then I cannot answer it to your satisfaction,” she said.
And she held out Roh’s cloak to him, and took her own again, and went over to a rock where there was shelter from the wind. There she slept, Changeling in her arms as always.
“Sleep,” said Vanye then to Roh.
“I am too cold,” said Roh; which complaint Vanye felt with a pang of conscience, and looked at him apologetically. Roh was silent a time, his face drawn in misery and fatigue, his limbs huddled within his thin cloak. “I think—” Roh’s voice was hoarse, hardly audible. “I think that I shall die on this road.”
“It is only another day more,” Vanye tried to encourage him. “Only one day, Roh. You can last that.”
“It may be.” Roh let his arms fall forward on his knees and bowed his head upon them, lifting his head after a moment, his eyes sunk in shadow. “Cousin. Vanye, for kinship’s sake answer me. What is it she is after, so terrible she cannot have me know it?”
“It is nothing that threatens Chya or Koris.”
“Are you sure enough to take oath on that?”
“Roh,” Vanye pleaded, “do not keep pressing me. I cannot keep answering question and question and question. I know what you would do, to have me defend my way step by step into answering you as you wish, and I will not, Roh. Enough. Leave the matter.”
“I think that you yourself do not know,” said Roh.
“Enough. Roh, if things go amiss at Ivrel, then I will tell you all that I do know. But until that time, I am bound to remain silent. Go to sleep, Roh. Go to sleep.”
Roh sat a time with his arms folded again about him and his knees drawn up, plunged in thought, and at last shook his head. “I cannot sleep. My bones are still frozen through. I will stay awake a little while. Go and sleep yourself. My oath I will see you take no harm.”
“I have an oath of my own,” said Vanye, though he was bone-weary and his eyes were heavy. “She did not give me leave to trade my watch to you.”
“Must she give you leave in everything, kinsman?” Roh’s eyes were kind, his voice gentle as a brother’s ought to be. It recalled a night in Ra-koris, when they had sat together at the hearth, and Roh had bidden him return someday to Chya.
“That is the way of the thing I swore to her.”
But after an hour or more, the forest still, the weight of the long ride and days of riding and sleeplessness before began to settle heavily upon him. He had a dark moment, jerked awake to find a shadow by him, Roh’s hand on his shoulder. He almost cried out, stifled that outcry as he realized in the same instant that it was only Roh, waking him.
“Cousin, you are spent. I tell you that I will take your watch.”
It was reasonable. It was sensible.
He heard in his mind what Morgaine would say to such a thing. “No,” he said wearily. “It is her time to watch. Rest. I will move about a while. If that will not wake me, then she will wake and take the watch. I have no leave to do otherwise.”
He rose, stumbled a little in the action, his legs that numb with exhaustion and cold. He thought Roh meant to help him.
Then pain crashed through his skull. He reached out hands to keep himself from falling, hit, lost most senses; then the weight hit his skull a second and third time, and he went down into dark.
• • •
Cords bound him. He was chilled and numb along his body, where he had been lying on his face. It was almost all that he could do to struggle to his knees, and he did so blindly, fearing another assault upon the instant. He turned upon one knee, saw a heap of white that was Morgaine—Roh, standing over her with Changeling, sheathed, in his hands.
“Roh!” Vanye called aloud, breaking the stillness. Morgaine did not stir at the sound, which sent a chill of fear through him, sent him stumbling to his feet. Roh held the sword as if he would draw it, threatening him.
“Roh,” Vanye pleaded hoarsely. “Roh, what have you done?”
“She?” Roh looked down, standing as he was above Morgaine’s prostrate form. “She is well enough, the same as you. An aching head when she wakes.
But you will not treat me as you have, Chya Vanye—as she has. I have the right to know what I sheltered in my hall, and this time you will give me answer. If I am satisfied, I will let you both go and cast myself on your forgiveness, and if I am not, I do swear it, cousin, I will take these cursed things and cast them where they cannot be found, and leave you for Hjemur and the wolves to deal with.”
“Roh, you are vain and a madman. And honorless to do this thing.”
“If you are honest,” said Roh, “and if she is, then you have your right to outrage. I will admit it. But this is not for pride’s sake. Thiye is enough. I want no more Irien, no more wars of qujal, no more of the like of Hjemur. And I do think that we are safer with Thiye alone than with Thiye and an enemy let loose to our north. We are the ones who die in their wars. I gave her help, would have defended her at Kath Svejur had she needed it. I would have helped her, kinsman. But she has treated me as an enemy, as a cast-off servant. I think that is all we in Koris will ever be in her mind. She treats free men as she treats you, who have to be content; and maybe you are content with that, maybe you enjoy your station with her, but I do not.”
“You are mad,” Vanye said, came forward a step nearer than Roh wished: Roh’s hands drew Changeling partway from the sheath.
“Put it down!” Vanye hissed urgently. “No, do not draw that thing.”
Then Roh saw the nature of the thing he held, and looked apt to drop it upon the instant: but he rammed it safely into its sheath again, and cast it in abhorrence across the snow.
“Qujalin weapons and qujalin wars,” Roh exclaimed in disgust. “Koris has suffered enough of them, kinsman.”
Morgaine was stirring to wakefulness. She came up of a sudden, hands bound, nearly fell. Roh caught her, and had he been rough with her, Vanye would have hurled himself on Roh as he was. But Roh adjusted her cloak about her and helped her sit, albeit he looked far from glad to touch her.
Morgaine for her part looked dazed, cast a glance at Vanye that did not even accuse: she seemed bewildered, and no little frightened. That struck him to the heart, that he had served her no better than this.
“Liyo,” Vanye said to her, “this kinsman of mine took me from behind; and I do not think he is an evil man, but he is a great idiot.”
“Get apart,” said Roh to him. “I have had what words I will have with you. Now I will ask her.”
“Let me go,” said Morgaine, “and I will not remember this against you.”
But there was a sound intruding upon them, soft at first, under the limit of hearing, then from all sides, the soft crunch of snow underfoot. It came with increasing frequency about them.
“Roh!” Vanye cried in anguish, hurled himself across the snow toward the place where Changeling lay.
Then dark bodies were upon them, men that snarled like beasts, and Roh went down beneath them, mauled under a black flood of them, and the tide rushed over Vanye, hands closed upon his legs. He twisted over onto his back, kicked one of them into writhing pain, and was pinned, held about his knees. Cord bit into his ankles, ending all hope of struggle.
They let him alone then, to try to wrench himself up to his knees, laughing when he failed twice and fell. On his third effort he succeeded, gasping for air, and glowered into their bearded faces.
They were not Hjemurn, or of Chya.
Men of Leth, the bandits from the back of the hall: he recognized the roughest of them.
There was quiet for a moment. He had had most of the wind knocked from him, and bent over a little to try to breathe, lifted his head again to keep a wary eye upon their captors.
They were prodding at Roh, trying to force him to consciousness. Morgaine they let alone, she with ankles bound the same as he, and now with her back to a rock, glaring at them with the warmth of a she-wolf.
One of the bandits had Changeling in hand, drew it partway, Morgaine watching with interest, as if in her heart she urged the man on in ignorance.
But riders were coming up the hill. The sword slammed into its sheath, in guilty hands. The bandits stood and waited, while men on horses came onto the hill into the clearing, horses blowing frost in the starlight.
“Well done,” said Chya Liell.
He dismounted and looked about the clearing, and one presented to him the things that had been taken, all of Morgaine’s gear; and Changeling, which Liell received into respectful and eager hands.
“Chan’s,” he said, and to Morgaine paid an ironic bow. He considered Roh, half-conscious now, laughed in pleasure, for he and the young lord of Chya were old enemies.
And then he came to Vanye, and while Vanye shuddered with disgust knelt down by him and smiled a faithless smile, lordly-wise, placed a hand upon his shoulder like some old friend, and all too possessively. “Ilin Nhi Vanye i Chya,” he said softly. “Are you well, Nhi Vanye?”
Vanye would have spit at him: it was the only recourse he had left; but his mouth was too dry. He had a Lethen’s hand in his collar behind, holding him so that he was half-choking; he could not even flinch, and Liell’s gentle fingers touched and brushed at a sore place on his temple.
“Be careful with him,” said Liell then to the Lethen. “Any damage or discomfort he suffers will be mine shortly, and I will repay it.”
And to those about them:
“Set them on horses. We have a ride to make.”
• • •
The day sank toward dark again, reddening the snows that stretched unmarred in front of them. They moved slowly, because of those on foot, and because of the thinner air. Liell rode first. He had taken back his own black horse and his gear. Changeling hung from his saddle, beneath his knee.
Several Lethen riders were between him and Morgaine, and two men afoot led Siptah, as two led also the horse they had borrowed for Roh, who had no strength to walk; and the black mare that Vanye rode was Liell’s grace, personal, offered with cynical courtesy—exchange of the mare for the one he had stolen.
And bound as he was, hands behind, even feet bound securely by ropes under the mare’s ribs, he could not even stretch his legs against the torment of the long ride, much less be aid to Morgaine. She and Roh were in no better case. Roh hung in the saddle much of the time, giving the appearance of a man who would as likely collapse and fall if the cords let him. Morgaine at least seemed unhurt, though he could guess the torment there was in her mind.
Liell was qujal and knew the ancient science. Perhaps he could even read the runes of Changeling, and then Thiye, whom Morgaine had called ignorant, a meddler in sciences, would have a rival he could not withstand.
They came among trees again, pines, rough brush, sometime outcroppings of black rock. And the trees began to be twisted and stunted things, writhing out of all true shape for their kind. Bare limbs held tufts of sickly needles, bare trunks described horrid, frozen evolutions.
And in the snow they saw a dead dragon.
At least so it seemed to be—an object leathery and twisted, and the horses shied from it. It was monstrous, frozen in its death throes so that it was yet less lovely. One membranous wing was half unfolded, stiff and stark. The other side was bare bone, taken by other beasts.
The Lethen described a wide path about that corpse. Vanye stared back at the thing as they passed and the bile rose in his throat.
Other things they saw dead too. Most were small. One resembled a man, but the wolves had had it.
The light faded in this place of evil. They moved among the twisted pines in twilight, and went carefully. Men had bows ready, eyes constantly scanning the forest.
Then the trees thinned out, quite abruptly. Upon the great shoulder of the mountain was a lesser rise, and upon that were broken pillars, fair-colored, rune-graven, out of place among the black rocks of Ivrel’s cone.
And the Gate.
It was vast, unlike that of Aenor-Pyvvn or Leth at Domen: metal uncorroded by
the years, casting a web of shimmer that had depth, stars winking in a black arch against the twilit white side of Ivrel. The air here worked at the nerves. The horses fought to shy off—men that rode dismounted, and prepared to wait.
Morgaine was helped down first, her ankles freed, and she was made fast against one of the few twisted pines that grew this near the Gate. Next Roh was similarly treated, though he strove to fight them. Finally Vanye was lifted down, and he thought that they would do the same with him, but instead Liell ordered him brought forward in the line.
He kicked a man, threw him to the ground writhing in pain, and a Lethen hit him, kicked him down and laid a quirt to him: Vanye tucked down against the blows, unhurt by reason of the mail, save where the quirt hit neck or hands.
And of a sudden Liell was by him, cursing the man, other Lethen hauling Vanye up, and the man that had struck him cringed away.
“No hand on him!” Liell said. “No harm to him. I will kill the man that puts a mark on him.” And carefully he unlaced the cloak from Vanye, and gave it to a man, walked all about him, full circle. Then he made to lay hands on him and Vanye flinched back, constrained to bear it in patience while Liell gently probed bones, as if to see whether they were sound or no. In bitter humor he cherished the ache in his skull, the worse pain in his legs and joints where the ride bound to the saddle had bruised him—his only revenge on Liell. It was a sorry, sad thing, he thought of a sudden, that he had been taken so easily, and it was no comfort at all that Roh was about to pay dearly for his idiocy.
And by that time, there would be nothing left of Nhi Vanye, though his body would continue to move and live, housing for Liell-Zri, which would take revenge upon Roh, upon Morgaine.
That image struck him as Liell began to climb that last distance, and they began to force him up the long barren slope. It took from him what courage he had left, such that he would have fallen if not for the men on either side of him. He stumbled on the loose rocks, Liell striding surefootedly beside him, up in that clear place where air cut at the lungs like the edge of ice. There was only the Gate above them, and the stars within, and wind that gently sucked at them, aiming into that gulf.