“I suppose that I am.”
“But not qhal.”
“No. Not qhal.”
“You are my friend,” Chei said, and reached and pressed his arm.
He could not look at Chei. It hurt too much. He gave a sigh, and ripped out his braiding.
From the men beyond there was a burst of laughter, muted; Bron turned himself about to see what they did and looked back again, frowning, as if he were thoroughly remiss not to forbid that.
But he was not, at present, in any mind to fight with men who, whatever their lord was, brigands or no, were cheerful again, after sullenness all day.
“They will sleep the better for it,” Vanye said. “And if their heads ache in the morning, that is their misfortune.”
They neither one said more than that. How their thoughts ran now he could not say. They sat together, leaned together. Bron touched his brother’s hair as no man would touch another, casually, even were they kinsmen, but he reckoned this was only affection, and foreign ways. They understood hospitality; their fire seemed sacred enough, and the passing of food and drink; and there were priests to confess them; and yet a lord could claim a wounded man who came to him for protection, and not let him go again. He had met men far more strange to him, whose customs troubled him less, because they were utterly strange.
Yet he reckoned they might trust two watches tonight to these brothers, and know their throats would stay uncut, and their backs defended, if it came to that. If these two were not arrhendim and did not have Kurshin ways, still they were decent men, and he felt his supper uneasy at his stomach, somewhere between regret for having them along and the fear that they would go, and the sorrow that he had finally found a friend staunch enough to stay by them—
—and it was not a man he could trust.
That Chei could lie and never know he was lying—that was a flaw he did not know how to mend. Chei simply did not know what truth was.
And he himself was Nhi as well as Kurshin, wherefore a man who deceived and twisted and turned with the agility that seemed native to this land, set his teeth on edge, in an anger at once familiar and terrifying—and he remembered suddenly why.
It was only his brothers had evoked that peculiar ambivalence in him.
And he had killed one and all but killed the other: clan Myya was his legitimate half-brothers’ clan—hill bandits turned noblemen, who did not know a straight way through any door, that was Nhi’s proverb for them; and again: thicker than feuds in Myya.
He opened his eyes again. It was only pale-haired Chei, and Bron, whose faces showed hurt and whose eyes sought some answer of Morgaine, since he had shut them out.
“I will take first watch,” Morgaine said, rescuing him from the chance that they would go on with him. “Go to sleep. We will be on our way before light; best you all take what you can.”
“Aye.” He reached at his side and loosed his armor buckles, and found a place the rock fit his shoulders. He unhooked his sword from his side and laid it across his lap, considering Eoghar’s company yonder. “Quiet,” he shouted at those three, making a small shocked silence, astonishing himself profoundly that they looked so daunted. “Men are going to sleep here.”
The trouble was in himself, he thought in the quiet that continued, who invented worries and conjured up calamities—you think too much, his brother Erij had told him once upon a time, chiding him for cowardice.
It was truth. He fell into old habits. It was fear which did that to him, fear not of enemies, but of friends. His brothers had taught him that lesson—beaten it into him, flesh and bone and nerve.
He clasped his sword to him, nevertheless, in both arms, so that Eoghar and his cousins would go on understanding their situation, if there remained any doubt.
• • •
The rain subsided to a light patter on the ground outside, an occasional gust carrying it into the shelter, but there was enough heat from the two fires and the presence of seven bodies to keep the chill away. It would have been a good night under other circumstances, Chei thought glumly, lying curled toward the fire warmth, back to back with Bron, but a different kind of cold had crept in among them, and Chei could not reason why, except somehow the lady, always cold and obscure, turned kind to them; while Vanye suddenly refused to look him in the eyes, for reasons which Chei did not, after thinking and thinking on the matter, understand. . . .
What do you want of me? A prisoner, a slave, someone to be grateful for whatever crusts you will give me?
Why could he not say once that he was glad for me, that Bron is alive?
Could not he manage anything but that scowl for it?
The thoughts turned over and over in him like pebbles in a current, one abrading the next; and one atop and then the other. He ached inside. It angered him that the man he admired turned away from him, and it mattered in a personal way—when he ought to worry only for the consequences of being cast out masterless, as a sane man ought.
He might, he thought, appeal to the lady who sat there in the glow of the coals, beautiful and terrible in her fire-stained pallor, herself embodying every fear he had had from childhood; and every mercy he had found in extremity. She leaned on the sword that she bore, which had a fantastical beast for hilt and quillons. Her eyes gazed toward the glow of the coals, and her face was pensive, even gentle—it tempted a man to think she might listen to him.
He was mad, perhaps: a man who began to hope against the general ebb of human fortunes in the world, and who began to believe in miracles—was he not mad?
But he would not have believed at all, till he looked up from the wolf-pack snarling about him and saw first the swordsman bearing down on him and then the silver-haired woman—demons out of Hell he had thought them first, that the ordinary world had rent in twain and death had come for him. He thought of that in bleak moments of terror which intervened in his other thoughts: but he was not dead, his delirium had left him, and it was a familiar woods he rode, with Bron back from the dead and in company with these two who moved out of pattern with the world and promised him humankind need not, after all, perish.
He had ridden a knife’s-edge of hope and terror thus far; and that it all should unravel on the spite of a man he had begun to rely on in ways he had only relied on Bron—he could not accept that. He could not believe that Morgaine would in truth send them off to die. He could not believe, now he thought about it, that Vanye, who had dealt kindly with him when it had not been necessary—could turn so vindictive. He must, he thought, have done something or said something—or it was Arunden’s offense against the lady; or things had not gone well between Vanye and the lady when he had walked in upon them—
He built a score of desperate structures in the blink of an eye, each more and more fantastical, until he found his hands clenched and his heart thumping against his ribs, and at last rose up on his elbow.
“My lady,” he whispered, very softly, not to disturb the others. His hands were sweating as she gazed at him, a figure of shadows in the light of the coals; his arm shook under him, which might have been the chill and the hour. He had everything prepared to say.
Then there came a sound from outside, the low mutter of a stallion that might be bickering with the other horses, but it was the gray: he knew the timbre of it, and where that horse was, just outside the woven wall.
So Morgaine’s eyes shifted, and she became still as stone. So he was, till the horse complained a second time and one of the others, further toward the falls, made a complaint of its own that was echoed farther away.
Of a sudden, with her the only one waking, cipher that she was, he was afraid. “Something is out there,” he said; and by now Vanye was rising and putting the blanket aside, and Bron had waked, all the while Morgaine sat very still, with the ornate sword against her, her long fingers curving about the hilt as her eyes shifted from him to Vanye.
Vanye gathered himself to h
is knees and tightened the buckles of his armor. There was no sound now but the roar of the falls and the rain-swollen waters, no light but the afterglow of the coals. Chei trembled and cursed his own cowardice in the uncertainty of the hour; but he was lost, he did not know what was on them, whether it was Arunden’s treachery or some hapless hunter of the clan they would have to deal with as the lady had said, more murder they had to commit, this time on innocent men; and his tongue seemed paralyzed.
“I will go out there,” Bron said, and moved. “If it is human they are late on the trail—or if they are Arunden’s—”
But Eoghar and the others still slept, none of them stirring.
“I will go with you,” Chei said. No one prevented him. Eoghar and his cousins snored on, lost to every sense. He walked out into the drizzling rain and stood there blind to the dark and with himself and then Bron silhouetted against the fire-glow, however faint.
A rock turned, click of stone on stone, and the horses close at hand snorted in alarm.
“Arunden!” a voice called out, hoarse above the roar of water. “Eoghar!”
It was sure then that Eoghar had led them along the route where Eoghar had been told, and Chei dived back inside. “My lady—” He found himself facing the black weapon and froze in mid-motion. “It is Arunden’s men,” he said then, against the risk of her fire and Vanye’s half-drawn sword.
But outside someone was coming, and Bron was left to meet that advance. He risked a move to escape and joined Bron out in the drifting mist, out in the dark in which some rider came down the streamside and toward them in haste.
“Who are you?” Bron called out sharply.
“Sagyn,” the voice called back. “Ep Ardris.”
“I know him,” Bron said to Chei as the rider stopped just short of the ledge that was their shelter and slid down off his horse to lead it. “Stop there,” Bron said, but the man did not.
“Riders,” the man gasped out, staggering to them over the gravel. “Gault’s.”
“Where?” Bron asked, and drew his sword about the time Chei reached after his own knife, misliking this approach. “No closer, man, take my warning!”
“Truth,” ep Ardris said, a thin and shaken voice, and stood there holding the reins of a rain-drenched and head-drooping horse. “It was Gault came on us—Gault, in the woods—”
Chei felt a sense of things slipping away. He heard the movement behind him, he heard the curses of Eoghar and his men, awakened to news like this and by now standing outside; he knew the lady’s anger, and the uncertainties in everything, all their estimations thrown in disorder.
Except the lady had fired the lowland woods and begun a war as surely as Gault had come to answer it.
In Chei’s hearing ep Ardris was babbling other things, how their sentries had alerted them too late, and Arunden had attempted to attack from the cover of the woods, but Gault’s men had been too many and too well armed. The clan had scattered. Arunden himself was taken. Ep Ardris did not know where the others were or how many had survived.
“What of my father?” Eoghar came from the shelter with his two cousins, and laid hands on the man—and if there was a man of the lot not dissembling, it was Eoghar, whose grip bid fair to break the man’s shoulders. “Did you see him? Do you know?”—to which ep Ardris swore in a trembling voice that he did not know, no more than for his own kin.
And at Chei’s side, all sound of her coming drowned in the roar of the falls, the lady walked up and doubtless Vanye was behind her. “So Eoghar told his lord the places we might camp.”
“He would know,” Chei protested, “lady, any man of his would know—”
“So, now, might our enemies,” Morgaine said darkly. “We have no way of knowing what they know. Saddle up. Now.”
Chei stood frozen a moment, lost in the water-sound and the nightmare. Others moved. A hand closed hard on his arm.
“Come on,” Vanye said harshly, as he had spoken when they had been enemies; and in his muddled sense he heard ep Ardris protesting that Gault’s riders might be anywhere—Arunden was innocent, he thought, of the worst things; but if any of Arunden’s folk was in Gault’s hands, there was very much that they knew.
“They do not know the forest,” Chei protested, the least frail hope he could think of, but no one listened, in the haste to break camp. Gault and his men had gotten into the forest, plainly enough.
He could not account for all of Ichandren’s men. He had not thought of that for very long, since he had sat waiting for the wolves—that there were worse fates than Gault had meted out to him, and that it was Gault’s spite of his own Overlord that chained healthy and fair-haired prisoners to die within reach of Morund-gate—when there might be someone in Mante with use for them. It was defiance Gault made of his master.
But he had no idea who had died on the field, who in the prison, and who might not have been taken to Morund’s cellars at all.
Or who—as the lady had said—of their hunters and scouts of whatever clan might not have strayed into Gault’s hands. For that reason a man never went alone to the border; for that reason they left no wounded, and carried poison among their simples and their medicines.
Someone had betrayed them, either living or dead. Someone who knew the ways in.
• • •
The roan horse picked a narrow path among the rocks, a course that others followed in the dark. They made no night camp, only took such rests as they had to have, and few of those.
There was fear in Gault ep Mesyrun, and therefore he drove them. At times thoughts surfaced in him which Gault himself would have had, and not Qhiverin—to that extent he was disturbed; and he knew that Jestryn-Pyverrn who rode near him was much more than that, to the extent that he feared for Pyverrn’s self. A profound shock could affect a mind newly settled in a body, and old memories might surface, like bubbles out of dark water, from no knowing which self of the many bodies a man might have occupied, no knowing whether it might not be the latest and strongest self reorganizing itself, disastrous in a mind distracted by doubts.
Therefore Jestryn-Pyverrn himself had laughed, when first the priest had told them what they had to deal with—had looked into Gault’s face with a laugh and a desperation in his eyes that quickly died, more quickly than Arunden’s priest, who been all too willing to talk, for hate, it seemed, a genuine hatred of a qhalur woman and a man for whose sake he had suffered some slight; and thought that he had something to trade to them for his life. “That might be,” Jestryn had said, “except we have no need of a priest—”
At which the priest had called out Arunden’s name, pleading with him as a Man—wherefore Gault asked Arunden, the quisling they had set over the borderlands: “Dealings with Mante, now, is it?”
“They are from outside,” Arunden protested, as the Man had protested everything, disavowed the fire-setting, wept and sobbed and swore he had never betrayed them, only the woman was a witch and might read everything he did.
Therefore Arunden had been compelled to entertain them, therefore he had dealt with them and had sent men with them—this woman who proposed to attack Mante.
“From outside,” Gault had said then, beginning to believe this lunacy, though they had long thought there was no outside, and the very thought that there might be, implied a tottering of the world—challenging the power in Mante, of Skarrin himself, over whose death neither he nor the men of his company would shed tears.
But an incursion from outside—
But a threat, babbled in a human witness’s confused terms, against the very gates—and a qhal counseling humans about things which humans did not well guess—
The priest went on babbling, pleading his usefulness and his sacrosanctity. “Silence that,” Gault said, and had meant that one of the others should do it.
Quick as the drawing of a sword, Jestryn cut the priest’s throat and stepped back, h
is face all flecked with blood: Gault had seen that moment’s horror, and well knew the reason the Pyverrn-self had desired that particular execution.
Exorcism, the humans would say.
They had come in the space of an hour from anger at human attack to suspect a far greater danger. “We cannot get a message south,” Jestryn had said, meaning one that should pass the southern gate and speed north with the speed of thought. “There is Tejhos-gate.”
“They will know that,” Gault had said, and had dispatched one small part of his forces back toward the road to sweep north, under a man he trusted—which would have been Jestryn, had he thought Jestryn reliable at the moment.
Perhaps, he thought now, Jestryn had mustered anger enough to overcome his confusion. Perhaps luck would be with them and Jestryn could guide them on these trails, now they knew where their enemy had gone.
But he did not trust to Jestryn’s sanity.
“Take him with us,” he had said of Arunden. “Kill the rest.” And headed for his horse at a run.
There was a Weapon loose. What the priest and Arunden had described could only be that. It was that which had lent absolute credence to a tale otherwise incredible.
Skarrin himself was challenged. The trouble had passed Morund with only a trifling attack. It was possible that the high lord had stirred up some trouble which bade fair to destroy him and to take the world down to chaos—it answered to things which in qhalur lore were only dimmest legend, that there had been such visitations once, and time itself might shift, and all reality alter.
He did not count himself a virtuous man. He did not know one—Skarrin being Skarrin and only the favored few of his lords profiting from Skarrin’s rule; but Gault found himself with no choice and no one but himself to look to.
He rode without heed of the night or the rain that should keep them prudently camped. He trusted himself and his men to the guidance of a traitor and a bloodstained man struggling for sanity, because there was no time for anything else.
The war he had started out to fight was for a woods, a handful of deer and rabbits and revenge on a quisling human he thought had betrayed him.