“There was a khal with you besides your mistress,” Shien said to him, riding close to him that afternoon. “Who?”
He did not look up or give indication that he had heard.
“Well, you will find time to think of it,” Shien said, and spurred disdainfully ahead, giving up the question with an ease curious in his kind.
And that who seemed to desire a name in answer, as if they had taken Lellin to be one of their own, renegade to them. As if—he thought, hope stirring in him—as if they had not yet realized the existence of the arrhend, or realized a presence in this land besides that of Men. Perhaps Eth had held back more than seemed likely; or perhaps his killers had not left Shathan alive.
He lifted his head despite himself, and looked at the horizon before him, which was grassy and flat as far as the eye could see, an expanse unbroken save for a few bushes or thorn-thickets randomly scattered. The unnatural shape of Azeroth was not evident to the man who stood amid it: it was too vast to grasp at once. Perhaps there was much still secret from the Shiua . . . indicating that as yet none of Lellin’s folk had fallen into their hands, and that the Mirrindim might yet be safe.
He hoped so with a fearful hope, although he held out little for himself.
• • •
They camped in the open that night, and this time they yielded to practicality and freed his hands briefly, standing over him with swords and pikes as if he could run, lame as he was. He ate a little, and one of them condescended to pour a little water into his hands that he might drink, thus saving the purity of his waterflask. But they restored the bonds for the night, hand and foot, securing him to one of their heavy saddles on the ground, so that he could not slip off into the dark. Lastly they threw a cloak over him, that he not freeze, for he had no clothing on his upper body.
Then they slept, insolently secure, posting no guard. He fretted long, trying his bonds, with an eye to stealing a horse and running for it; but the knots were out of his reach and the cords were too tight. Exhausted, he slept too, and woke in the morning with a kick in the ribs and a khal’s curse in his ears.
It was more of the same the next day: no food nor water until the evening, enough to keep him alive, but little more. He nursed his anger, for it kept him fed the same as the food did; but he kept his senses too, and bore their arrogance without resistance. Only once it failed him, when a guard seized him by the hair; he rounded on the halfling . . . and the guard stepped back at what he saw in him. They struck him to the ground then, for no more than that—that he had dared look one of them in the eyes. Their treatment of him worsened thereafter. They began to torment him with mindful spite when they must handle him, and began to talk among themselves, for they knew that he could understand, of what might befall him at their hands.
“You have the grace of your Barrows-ancestors,” he said to them finally, and in their own tongue. One of them struck him for this. But Shien frowned, and curtly bade his own men to silence, and to let him be.
• • •
That night, when they made camp by a new tributary of the Narn, Shien stared at him long and thoughtfully after the others had begun to settle to sleep, stared with a concentration which began to disturb him . . . the more so when Shien roused his men and dismissed them out of hearing.
Then Shien came and settled at his side.
“Man.” It was an inflection that only a khal could give that word. “Man, it is said that you are close kin to the halfling Chya Roh.”
“Cousin,” he answered, unnerved by this approach. No word before this had they drawn from him in questions. He resolved to say nothing more. But Shien stared at him in pensive curiosity.
“Fwar’s handiwork has disturbed the resemblance, but it is there; I see it. And this Morgen-Angharan . . .” he used the name by which Morgaine was known to them, and laughed. “Can Death die?” he asked, for Angharan was a deity among the marshlanders of Shiuan, and that was her nature, the white queen.
He knew khalur humor, which believed in nothing and reverenced no gods, and he shut his ears to this pointless baiting. But Shien drew his dagger and laid it along his cheek, turning his face back with that, lest he soil his hands. “What a prize you are, Man . . . if you know what Roh knows. Do you realize that you could become both free and comfortable if you hold what I think you may, man who speaks our language. And I would not disdain to seat you at my table and give you—other—privileges. Gods, you have some grace of bearing, more than some who go boasting their tiny portion of khalur blood. You are not of the Hiua’s kind. Do you know how to be reasonable?”
He stared into Shien’s eyes . . . pale gray they were by daylight, as so few of the halflings’ were: near full-blood, this prince. He was shaken to reckon that he could be what Shien said, a prize among khal, a commodity of value among the powerful: he had knowledge of Gates, the lore which they had lost, knowledge by which Roh himself had gained power among these folk.
“What of Roh?” he asked.
“Chya Roh has made mistakes, which may well prove fatal to him. You might avoid those same mistakes. You might even expect that Hetharu could be persuaded to forget his vexation with you.”
“And you will present that solution to Hetharu, is that it? I work at your orders, give what I know to you, and you regain what power Hetharu has taken from you.”
The blade turned, and bit slightly. “Who are you to talk of our affairs?”
“Hetharu brought all the Shiua lords to their knees because he had Roh to give him power. Do you love him for it?”
He thought for an instant that Shien would kill him outright. His expression was ugly. Then Shien flipped the knife back into sheath at his belt. “You have need of a patron, Man. I could help you. But you want to play games with me.”
“If there is a way out of my situation, make it clear to me.”
“It is very clear. Give me the knowledge that you have, and I will be able to help you. Otherwise not.”
He stared into Shien’s eyes and read it for half-truth. “And if I give you knowledge enough to contest with Hetharu and Roh, then my usefulness is ended there, is it not? Give you knowledge so that you can politic with it and trade influence with your brother-lords? Not in Hetharu’s game. Be braver than that, Shiua lord, or do not think that you can use me for a weapon. Break with them both and I will serve you and give you the power that you want, but not otherwise.”
“The khal who rode with you . . . who?”
“I will not tell you.”
“You think that you are in a position to refuse?”
“Those men of yours . . . how well can you trust them? You think there is not one among them who would bear information to Hetharu for reward? How you killed me out here, trying for knowledge Hetharu would not approve you having . . . why else did you send them out of hearing? No. If you are going to break with Hetharu, you need me alive and healthy. I will tell you nothing; but I will help you get what you want.”
Shien sat on his heels and stared at him, arms folded. He knew that he had gone very far with this khalur prince. He saw a veil come over Shien’s eyes, and hope failed him.
“It is said,” Shien murmured, “that you killed Hetharu’s father. And do you hope to deal with him after that?”
“A lie. Hetharu killed his father, and blamed me for it to save his reputation.”
Shien laughed wolfishly. “Aye, so do we all think. But that is the kind of lord Hetharu is, and so he dealt with you once when you trifled with him . . . so he dealt with his own lord and father; and now do you propose that if I refuse your mad scheme you will throw yourself on his mercy again? You do not learn readily, Man.”
A chill came on him, remembering, but he shook his head nevertheless. “Then you also know him well enough to know that you will never profit by serving him. Take my way, lord of Sotharrn, and have what you want—or have nothing. I learn too readily to ha
nd any khal the only thing that makes my life valuable.”
Shien’s white brows knit into a frown. For a moment thoughts passed visibly through his eyes, none of them good to behold. “You assume that you know how to deal with us, and how I must deal with the other lords. You do not know us, Man.”
“I know that I am dead when you have what you want.”
Shien’s frown bent slowly into a smile, “Ah, Man, you are too unsubtle. One does not accuse his possible benefactor of lying. I might even have kept my word.”
“No,” he said, though the doubt was planted in him.
“Think of it, tomorrow, when we deliver you to Hetharu.”
And Shien rose then and settled some distance away. Vanye turned his head to stare at him, but Shien poured himself a cup from his flask and sat with his face averted, drinking delicately.
Beyond him sat the others, halflings aping khal, with bleached hair and coarse arrogance, and a hate for Men that was the greater because of their own human blood.
Shien turned his head and smiled at him thinly, lifting the cup in mockery.
“Tomorrow,” Shien promised him.
• • •
They forded two shallow rivers, one at dawn and one at noon. Vanye reckoned well now where they were, nearing the Gate that stood in Azeroth. He grew afraid, as it was impossible not to fear contemplating that power, which could drink in substance and ravel it.
But no sign of the Gate was yet visible, not in the long ride they made that afternoon. There were few rests; Shien had promised that they would come to Hetharu’s camp in this day and seemed determined on it if it exhausted them. Vanye said nothing to Shien as the distance wore away under the horses’ hooves. Shien had nothing more to say to him, save now and again to gaze at him brooding speculation. He reckoned again what his chances were if he yielded on the Shiua lord’s terms, and averted his face from temptation.
They did not stop at dusk, even to rest, and the night turned bitterly cold. He asked them for a cloak, but they refused it, though the guard who had lent it before would not wear it himself; they took pleasure in refusing. After that he bowed his head, trying to ignore them. They taunted him with threats which this time Shien did not silence, but he said nothing, cared nothing for them.
Then there appeared a glow on the horizon . . . cold, like the moon; but the moon was aloft, and the light was far brighter.
The Gate of Azeroth, that Men called the Fires.
He lifted his face, staring at that terrible presence, seeing now where they were bound, for nearer at hand were the dimmer red lights of woodfires, and ungainly shapes: tents and shelters.
They passed sentries who sat their posts concealed in shelters of grass; and rode past picket lines, where horses stood . . . few in proportion to the vast sprawl of the Shiua camp . . . the camp of a nation spread over the vast plains under the Gate; of more than a nation: of the remnant of a world.
And it aimed at the heart of Shathan.
Morgaine and I have done this thing, he could not forbear thinking. My doing as much as hers. Heaven forgive us.
They passed the fringes of the camp. Suddenly Shien put the company to a gallop, passing the sprawling shelters of grass and cloth which hemmed them about on all sides.
Men stared at their passage . . . dark shapes, small: true Men, of Shiuan’s marshes. Vanye saw the stares and went cold as someone sent up a thin, hysterical cry.
“Her man. Hers!”
Men rushed out to bar their way, scattered from the hooves of the horses when the khal kept coming. The marshlanders knew him, and would gladly tear him limb from limb if he fell among them. The khal whipped their horses and thundered through, reckless of human lives, and into a quieter portion of the camp, where demon-helms quickly parted and shut a barricade of brush and sharpened stakes, and backed it with a row of barbed pikes.
The mob no longer pursued; the gate sufficed. They slowed, the horses blowing and panting in exhaustion, stretching at the reins and seeking air. They rode slowly up to a sprawling shelter, the largest in the compound.
The structure was patched, cobbled together of various bits of cloth and bundles of reeds and grass, and part of it was a tent. Light blazed within, showing through the canvas; and there was music, but not such as the arrhendim had played. They halted there, and guards came to take the horses.
They lifted him down from the saddle. “Be careful,” said Shien when one of them jerked at him. “This is a very valuable Man.”
And Shien himself took him by the elbow and brought him toward the door of the tent. “You were not wise,” Shien said.
He shook his head, uncertain whether he had rejected a trap that would have killed him or whether he had rejected the only hope he had. It was impossible. A khal would scarcely keep faith with khal. That one would keep faith with a Man was not to be believed.
He blinked, suddenly thrust into the light and warmth within.
Chapter 8
Hetharu.
Vanye stopped, with Shien at his back, steadied himself on his wounded leg; and of all in that gathering, he recognized that tall, black-clad lord. The music died away with a hiss of strings, and noble lords and ladies of Shiuan stopped what half-clad diversions they were practicing and came to slow, studied attention where they lounged on sacks and cushions within the tent, against walls of bound reeds.
Of sacks and brocade cloaks was the throne to which Hetharu settled. A cluster of halfling guards was about him, some far gone in stupor, others alert, armored and armed. A naked Woman shrank into the shadows of the corner. Hetharu stared at the intrusion, blank with amazement for the instant, and then pleasure grew on his countenance . . . thin and shadow-eyed that face, the more startling for the human eyes which looked darkly out from what were otherwise pure qhalur features. His white hair lay lank and silken on his shoulders. His black brocade was somewhat worn, the lace frayed; the ornate sword that he wore still looked serviceable. Hetharu smiled, and about him settled the miasma of all that was Shiuan, drowning and rotting at once.
“Nhi Vanye,” Hetharu murmured. “And Morgaine?”
“That matter must be cared for by now,” said Shien. Vanye clenched his jaw and stared through all of them, trying to use his wits; but that callous reckoning of Morgaine’s life hit him suddenly with more force than he had yet felt.
Kill Hetharu? That was one of the thoughts that he had entertained over recent days; and suddenly it seemed useless, for here were thousands like him. Gain power among them? Suddenly it seemed impossible; he was a Man, and what else was here of humankind crouched naked and ashamed and weeping in the corner.
He took a step forward. Though his hands were bound, the guards were uneasy; pikes inclined marginally toward him. He stopped, sure that they would not be careless with him.
“I hear,” he said to Hetharu, “that you and Roh have quarreled.”
That set them back. There was an instant’s silence, and Hetharu’s face was whiter than usual.
“Out!” Hetharu said suddenly. “All of you who have no business here, out.”
That included many: the Woman, the majority of the khal who had disported themselves about the fringes of the gathering. One half-conscious lordling reclined at Hetharu’s side, leaning against the sacks and the brocade with unfocused gray eyes and a dreaming smile that mocked all reality. A middle-aged khalur woman remained; and a handful of lords; and all the guards, although some of them were far-departed in dreams, and knelt near Hetharu and about the other lords with their eyes distant and their hands loose on their weapons. Enough still remained who had all their wits about them. Hetharu leaned back in his makeshift throne and regarded him with old and familiar hate.
“Shien, what have you been telling this Man?”
Shien shrugged. “I have been pointing out his situation, and his possible value.”
Hetharu’s da
rk eyes swept over Shien narrowly. “Knowledge such as Roh has? Is that your meaning?”
“It is possible that he has it. He is reticent.”
“He,” said the woman suddenly, “might be more reasonable than Roh has been. After all, the human rabble hates him bitterly, and he cannot gain any followers among them. That is one sure advantage over Roh.”
“There are personal issues,” Hetharu said, and the lady laughed unpleasantly.
“We know the truth of those. Do not waste a valuable resource, my lord Hetharu. Who here cares about the past . . . things done and not done? Shiuan is behind us. Here is important. You have an opportunity to rid us of the so-named halfling and his followers. Use it.”
Hetharu was not pleased by that, but the lady spoke as one who was accustomed to be heard, and she was of the old blood, gray-eyed and white-haired, with guards about her none of whom were hazy in their look. One of the hold-lords, Vanye reckoned her: not Sotharra like Shien, but perhaps of Domen or Marcom or Arisith. The Shiua lords were not firmly held in Hetharu’s hand.
“You are too credulous, lady Halah,” said Hetharu. “This Man is quite capable of turning in the hand that holds him. He surprised Roh, who should know him; and my lamented brother Kithan. And would you not attempt to surprise us in the same way, Man?”
Vanye said nothing. Debate with Hetharu could win nothing. The hope was rather in playing one and the other of his subordinates against him.
“Of course you would,” Hetharu answered for him, and laughed. “And you plan to. You are not the sort who will ever thank us for the handling you have had . . . at my hands and now at Shien’s.—Beware this one, Shien. He is not hand-broken, though he may try to let you think so. His cousin says that he does not know how to lie; but he does know how to keep secrets, do you not, Vanye of the Chya? Morgen-Angharan’s—” and he used a word that Vanye did not know; but he suspected, and set his jaw the harder, looking through Hetharu. “Ah, glare at me. We are better acquaintances than the others, you and I. So this Morgen is missing. Where?”