Morgaine received the elders of Mirrind—embraced old Bythein, who had been their staunchest friend, and there was a chorus of invitations to hall and meal.
“Some of the men are still in Mirrind,” Bytheis explained when Morgaine asked after their welfare. “They will keep the fields. Someone must. And the arrhendim are watching over them. But we know that our children are safest here. Welcome, welcome among us, lady Morgaine, khemeis Vanye.”
And perhaps the Mirrindim were no less pleased to find them now in the company of their own legitimate lords, assurance that they had not given their hospitality amiss.
“See to the horses,” Morgaine said, when all the turmoil was past; and Vanye took Siptah’s reins and Sin followed on Mai, the proudest lad in Carrhend.
Sezar walked with him to show him the way, while a cloud of children walked about them, Carrhendim and Mirrindim, male and female. They crowded in behind as they put the horses in the pen, and there was no lack of willing hands to bring them food or curry them. “Have care of the gray,” Sin was quick to tell them, lord over all where it concerned the horses. “He kicks what surprises him,” which was good advice, for they crowded too close, disrespecting the warhorse’s iron-shod heels; but Siptah as well as Mai had surprising patience in this tumult, having learned that children meant treats and curryings. Vanye surveyed all that was done and clapped Sin on the shoulder.
“I will take care of them as always,” Sin assured him; he had no doubt this would be so.
“I will see you in hall at dinner; sit by me,” Vanye said, and Sin glowed.
He started back to the hall then, and Sezar waited for him at the gate, leaning on the rail of the pen. “Have a care. You may not know what you do.”
Vanye looked at him sharply.
“Do not tempt the boy,” said Sezar, “to seek outside. You may be cruel without knowing.”
“And if he wishes to go outside?” Anger heated him, but it was the way of Andur-Kursh itself, that a man was what he was born . . . save himself, who had always fought his own fate. “No, I understand you,” he admitted.
Sezar looked back, and a thoughtful look was in his eyes. “Come,” he said then, and they walked back to the hall with a few of the children at their heels, trying to imitate the soft-footed stride of the khemeis. “Look behind us and understand me fully,” Sezar said, and he looked, and did. “We are a dream they dream, all of them. But when they grow past a certain age—” Sezar laughed softly, “they come to better sense, all but a few of us . . . and when the call comes, we follow, and that is the way of it. If it comes to that boy, let it come; but do not tempt him so young. He may try too early, and come to grief for it.”
“You mean that he will walk off into the forest and seek the qhal.”
“It is never said, never suggested . . . forbidden to say. But those who will come, grow desperate and come, and there is no forbidding them, then, if they do not die in the woods. It is never said . . . but it is a legend among the children; and they say it. At about twelve, they may come, or a little after; and then there is a time that it is too late . . . and they have chosen, simply by staying. We would not refuse them . . . no child dies on his journey that we can ever help. But neither do we lure them. The villages have their happiness. We arrhendim have ours. You are bewildered by us.”
“Sometimes.”
“You are a different kind of khemeis.”
He looked down. “I am ilin. That—is different.”
They walked in silence, almost to the hall. “There is a strangeness in you,” said Sezar then, which frightened him. He looked up into Sezar’s pitying eyes. “A sadness . . . beyond your kinsman’s fate, I think. It is about both of you. And different, for each. Your lady—”
Whatever Sezar would have said, he seemed to think better of saying, and Vanye stared at him resentfully, no easier in his mind for Sezar’s intimate observations.
“Lellin and I—” Sezar made a helpless gesture. “Khemeis, we suspect things in you that have not been told us, that you—Well, something weighs on you both. And we would offer help if we knew how.”
Prying after information? Vanye wondered, and looked on the man narrowly; the words still afflicted him. He tried to smile, but it was effort, and did not come convincingly. “I shall mend my manner,” he said. “I did not know that I was such unpleasant company.”
He turned and climbed the wooden stairs into the hall, where dinner was being prepared, and heard Sezar on the treads behind him.
• • •
The village had already begun the cooking before they came, but there was enough for guests and to spare . . . a prosperous place, Carrhend, and the Mirrindim in their well-ordered fashion took a share of the work as well as of food. Cooks laughed together and children made friends, and old ones smiled and talked by the fireside, sewing. There seemed no strife from the mixing: the elders could lay down stern edicts when they must, and the qhalur law was clearly set forth and respected.
“We have so much to exchange,” said Serseis. “We long for Mirrind already, but we feel safer here.” Others agreed, though clan Melzen still mourned for Eth, and they were very few here: most of the younger folk of Melzen, male and female, had elected to stay in Mirrind, a determination for Eth’s sake, and showing a tough-mindedness that lay deep within the Men of Shathan.
“If any of these evil strangers pass through,” Melzein said, “they will not pass back out again.”
“May it not happen,” Morgaine said earnestly. To that, Melzein inclined her head in agreement.
“Come to the tables,” called Saleis of Carrhend then, desperate effort to restore cheer. Folk moved in eagerly, and the benches filled.
Sin scurried in and wedged himself into his promised place. The lad had no words during the meal, contenting himself with quick looks and much listening. He was there; that was enough for Sin; and Sezar caught Vanye’s eye during the meal and flicked a glance at the boy, strangely complacent—as if he had seen something clear to be seen.
“It will come,” Sezar said then, which Vanye understood and none else might. A weight lifted from him. He saw Morgaine puzzled by that exchange, and felt strange to have one single thought in which she had no part, a single concern that did not touch her affairs—to that extent their lives were bound together.
Then a chill came on him. He remembered what he was, and that no good had ever come of friendship with those along their way; most that they touched—died of it.
“Vanye,” Morgaine said, and caught his wrist, for he laid down his spoon of a sudden and it clattered even amid the noise of voices. “Vanye?”
“It is nothing, liyo.”
He calmed himself, tried not to think of it, and tried not to let himself go grim with the boy, who had no thought of what fear passed in him. Food went down with difficulty for a time, and then more easily; and he put it from his mind, almost.
A harp silenced the talk after dinner, announcing the accustomed round of singing. The girl Sirn, who had sung in Mirrind, sang here; then a boy of Carrhend sang a song for Lellin, who was their own qhal: they teased Lellin for it, fondly.
“My turn,” said Lellin afterward, took the harp and sang for them a human song.
Then, still holding the harp, he struck a chord to silence them, looked round at them all, strangely fair as all his folk, pale in that dim hall, among their faces. “Take care,” he wished them. “With all my heart, Carrhendim, take care in these days. The Mirrindim can have told you only a part of your danger. You are guarded, but your guards are few and Shathan is wide.” His fingers touched the strings nervously, and the strings sighed in that silence. “‘The Wars of the Arrhend’ . . . I could harp you that, but you have heard it many times . . . how the sirrindim and the qhal warred, until we could drive the sirrindim from the forest. In those days Men fought against Men, and they fought us with fire and axe and ruin. B
e on your guard. There are such sirrindim at Azeroth, and renegade qhal are with them. It is the old war again.”
There was frightened murmuring in the hall.
“Ill news,” Lellin said. “I grieve to bear it. But be alert and be ready to walk away even from Carrhend if it comes to you. Possessions are nothing. Your children are precious. The arrhend will help you rebuild with stone and wood, with our own hands and of all that we have; so must you be ready to aid any village that should be in need. Trust at least that we are moving to deal with it; the arrhendim are not always there to be seen, and so they serve you best. Let us do what may be done in the way we know; it may suffice. If not, then it will be your arrows that defend us.” The strings sighed softly into a qhalur song, and folk listened as if it cast some spell over them. There was neither outcry nor debate. When it was done, the hush remained. “Go to your homes, Carrhendim, and Mirrindim to your sheltering; we four guests will leave early in the morning. Do not disturb yourselves to see us go.”
“Lord,” said one of the young Carrhendim. “We will fight now if we can help.”
“Help by defending Carrhend and Mirrind. Your help in that is much needed.”
That one bowed, and joined his friends. The Carrhendim left, each bowing to their guests; but the Mirrindim stayed, for they were bedded down in the wings of the hall.
Only Sin departed. “I shall sleep by the horses,” he declared, and Vanye did not deny him that.
“Lellin,” said Sezar, and Lellin nodded. Sezar left, likely to his kinfolk for the night, or perhaps to some young woman.
• • •
The hall was long in settling. There were fretful children and restless young folk. Blankets hung on cords curtained the wings, making a sort of privacy, and leaving the area nearest the fire for their guests.
At last there was quiet, and they settled comfortably, without armor, sharing with Lellin a few sips of a flask that Merir had sent with him.
“Things are well done here,” Morgaine said, in the whisper the hour and the sleeping children demanded. “Your folk are very well organized to have lived so long at peace.”
The qhal’s eyes flickered, and he cast off the sober mood that had lain on him like a mantle. “Indeed, we have had fifteen hundred years to meditate on the errors we made in the wars. So long ago we settled on what we would do if the time came; it has, and we will do it swiftly.”
“Is it,” asked Vanye, “that long since a war in the land?”
“Aye,” answered Lellin, compassing with that more than the known history of Andur-Kursh, where strife was frequent. “And may it be longer still.”
Vanye thought on that long after they had taken to their pallets, with the qhal-lord resting beside him.
Fifteen hundred years of peace. In some measure the thought distressed him, who was born to warfare. To be locked within such long and changeless tranquility, in Shathan’s green shadow—the thought distressed him; and yet the pleasantness of the villages, the safety, the order—had their appeal.
He turned his head and looked on Morgaine, who slept. Theirs was a heavy doom, endlessly to travel . . . and they had seen enough of war for any lifetime. Might we not stay here? he wondered, brief traitor thought: and pushed it aside, trying not to think of their existence and Mirrind side by side.
• • •
Morning was not yet sprung where there came a sound of horses in Carrhend. Vanye rose, and Morgaine, sword in hand; Lellin padded after them to the windows.
Riders had come in, with two saddled horses in tow; they tied them to the rail of an empty pen and rode away.
“Well,” said Lellin, “they came in time. They have ridden in from the fields of Almarrhane, not far from here, and I hope they have care riding home.”
At the doorstep of one of the nearest houses Sezar appeared, lingering to kiss his parents and his sister, and then, slinging his bow and his gear to his shoulder, he walked across the commons, waved back at his family and then came toward the hall.
They went back to the fireside and armed, quietly gathering their belongings, trying not to disturb the sleeping Mirrindim. Vanye slipped out to saddle the horses and found Sin awake, already beginning that task.
“Are you going to Azeroth to fight sirrindim?” Sin asked, and while they both worked . . . no longer innocent, the Mirrindim: they had seen Eth’s fate, and had been driven from their homes.
“Where I go next I can never say. Sin, seek the qhal when you are old enough; I should not tell you that, but I do.”
“I would go with you. Now.”
“You know better. But someday you will go into Shathan.”
The fever burned in the dark young eyes. The Men of Shathan were all smallish. Even so, Sin would never be tall among them, but there was a fire in him that began already to burn away his childhood. “I will find you there, then.”
“I do not think so,” Vanye said; sorrow settled deep in Sin’s eyes, and all at once a pain stabbed him to the heart. Shathan will not be the same for him, he thought. We will go, and destroy the Gates; and it is his hope we are going to kill. It will all change, in his lifetime . . . either at our enemies’ hand—or ours. He gripped Sin’s shoulder then, gave him his hand.
He did not look back.
• • •
They were not quiet enough for the village; despite their wish to depart quickly and quietly, there was no preventing the Mirrindim, who rose to bid them farewell; or Sezar’s mother, who brought them bread hot from the ovens—she had risen long before dawn, baking for them; and Sezar’s father, who offered them some of his finest fruit wine for their journey; and the brothers and sister who turned out to bid Sezar farewell. They laughed gently when Lellin planted a kiss on the sister’s cheek, picking her up and setting her down again, for though she was a budding woman, she was tiny next to a qhal. She laughed at the kiss, but glanced down shyly and up again with a look that held her heart in her eyes.
Then they mounted up and rode out quietly among the trees, past sentries who were themselves little more than shadows in the trees. Leaves curtained them from Carrhend, and they soon had only the sound of the forest about them.
Sezar was downhearted after the leavetaking, and Lellin looked at him in frowning concern. His mood needed no inquiry, for surely Sezar and perhaps Lellin would have been glad to stay for Carrhend’s protection, and the duty which drew them off lay heavy on them at the moment.
Finally Lellin gave a low whistle . . . and in time there came an answer, slow and placid. At that Sezar looked somewhat cheered, and they all felt better for his sake.
Chapter 6
They kept to the streamcourse for a road after Carrhend and made good time. The horses that the two arrhendim had acquired . . . both bays, Lellin’s with three white stockings . . . kept well from Siptah’s vicinity, so that Lellin and Sezar generally kept the lead by some small space.
The two talked together in soft voices which they, who rode behind, could not quite hear, but they had no distrust for it, and sometimes conversed themselves in private, though usually in the qhalur tongue. Morgaine was never inclined to conversation, not in all the time he had known her, but she spoke idly and often since they had come to this land . . . teaching, at first, deliberately making him speak, correcting him often. Then she seemed to have fallen into the habit of talking more than she once would. He was glad of it, and though she never spoke of her own self beyond Andur-Kursh, he found himself speaking of home, and of the better moments of his youth in Morija.
They could speak of Andur-Kursh now, as one finally could speak of the dead, when the pain was gone. He knew his own age; she knew that of a hundred years before his birth; and grim as some of the tales they passed back and forth might be, there was pleasure in it. Time-wanderer she was; and now he was of her kind, and they could speak of it.
But once she mentioned Myya Seijaine i Myya, cl
an-lord of the Myya when she had led the armies of Andur-Kursh . . . and then her eyes clouded and she fell silent, overcome by memory—for that was one of the scatterings in time which had begun what sat at Azeroth, clan Myya, clan Yla, clan Chya—men who had served her once, and who had become lost in Gates and time. Myya survived. Their children’s children a thousand years removed had dwelt in Shiuan, recalling her only as an evil-legend, confounding her with myth . . . until Roh came to rouse them.
“Seijaine was a fell sort,” she said after a moment, “but good and generous to his friends. So are his children, but I am not among their friends.”
“It looks,” he said with desperate irrelevance, “as if it might rain.”
She looked perplexed by his bent of thought, then looked up at the clouds that were only slightly gray-edged, and at him again. She laughed. “Aye. Thee’s good for me, Vanye. Thee is—very good.”
She went sober after, and found something to look at which did not necessitate meeting his eyes. Something swelled up in him that was bitter and sweet at once. He savored it briefly, but then, his eyes on Lellin’s back—Lellin, whose pale, spidery grace was the very like of Morgaine’s—he despaired, and put a different interpretation on what she had said to him . . . recovered the good sense which had long saved him from making a mistake with her which would sever them.
He laughed aloud at himself, which drew from her a strange look. “An odd fancy,” he explained, and quickly led the talk to stopping for noon rest; she did not probe more deeply.
• • •
The rain proved an empty threat. They had feared a wet camp and a hard night, but the clouds passed over with only a slight sprinkling at evenfall, and they lay down on the stream-side haying made good progress during the day, well-fed, and under a clear sky on dry ground. It was as if all the wretchedness that had attended their other rides were a bad dream, in this land too kindly to do them harshness.