The Complete Morgaine

by C. J. Cherryh

  He shuddered at the vision and saw her bow to Kasedre, and performed his own obeisance without looking into the mad, pale face: he retreated to his place, and when they were served, he examined carefully and sniffed at the wine they were offered.

  Morgaine drank; he wondered could her arts make her proof against drugs and poisons, or save him, who was not. For his part he drank sparingly, and waited long between drafts, toying with it merely, waiting for the least dizziness to follow: none did. If they were being poisoned, it was to be more subtle.

  The dishes were various: they both ate the simple ones, and slowly. There was an endless flow of wine, of which they both drank sparingly; and at last, at long last, Morgaine and Kasedre still smiling at each other, the last dish was carried out and servants pressed yet more wine on them.

  “Lady Morgaine,” begged Kasedre then, “you gave us a puzzle and promised us answers tonight.”

  “Of Witchfires?”

  Kasedre bustled about the table to sit near her, and waved an energetic hand at the harried, patch-robed scribe who had hovered constantly at his elbow this evening. “Write, write,” he said to the scribe, for in every hall of note there was an archivist who kept records properly and made an account of hall business.

  “How interesting your Book would be to me,” murmured Morgaine, “with all the time I have missed of the affairs of men. Do give me this grace, my lord Kasedre—to borrow your Book for a moment.”

  Oh mercy, Vanye thought, are we doomed to stay here a time more? He had hoped that they could retreat, and he looked at the thickness of the book and at all the bored lordlings sitting about them flushed with wine, looking like beasts thirsting for the kill, and reckoned uneasily how long their patience would last.

  “We would be honored,” replied Kasedre. It was probably the first time in years that anyone had bothered with the musty tome of Leth, replete as it must be with murderings and incest. The rumors were dark enough, though little news came out of Leth.

  “Here,” said Morgaine, and took into her lap the moldering book of the scribe, while the poor old scholar—a most wretched old man and reeking of drink—sat at her brocaded knee and looked up at her, wrinkle browed and squinting. His eyes and nose ran. He blotted at both with his sleeve. She cracked the book, disturbing pages moldered together, handling the old pages reverently, separating them with her nail, folding them down properly as she sought the years she wanted.

  Somewhere at the back of the hall some of the less erudite members of the banquet were engaged in riotous conversation. It sounded as if a gambling game were in progress. She ignored it entirely, although Kasedre seemed irritated by it; the lord Leth himself squatted down to hear her, hanging upon her long silence in awe. Her forefinger traced words. Vanye’s view over her shoulder showed yellowed parchment and ink that had turned red-brown and faint. It was a wonder that one who lisped the language as uncertainly as she did could manage that ancient scrawl, but her lips moved as she thought the words.

  “My dear old friend Edjnel,” she said softly. “Here is his death—what, murdered?” Kasedre craned his neck to see the word. “And his daughter—ah, little Linna—drowned upon the lakeshore. This is sad news. But Tohme did rule, surely—”

  “My father,” interjected Kasedre, “was Tohme’s son.” His eyes kept darting to her face anxiously, as if he found fear of her condemnation.

  “When I remember Tohme,” she said, “he was playing at his mother’s knee: the lady Aromwel, a most gracious, most lovely person. She was Chya. I rode to this hall upon a night . . .” She eased the fragile pages backward. “Yes, here, you see:

  “. . . came She even to Halle, bearing sad Tidings from the Road. Lorde Aralde . . .—brother to Edjnel and to my friend Lrie, who went with me to Irien, and died there—Lorde Aralde had met with Mischance upon his faring in her Companie that attempted the Saving of Leth against the Darke, which advanceth out of . . . Well, well, this was another sad business, that of lord Aralde. He was a good man. Unlucky. An arrow out of the forest had him; and the wolves were on my trail by then . . . herein she feared the Border were lost, that there would none rallye to the Saving of the Middle Realms, save only Chya and Leth, and they strippt of Men and sorely hurt. So gave she Farewell to Leth and left the Halle, much mourned . . . Well, that is neither here nor there. It touches me to think that I am missed at least in Leth.” Her fingers sought further pages. “Ah, here is news. My old friend Zri—he was counselor to Tiffwy, you know. Or do you not? Well . . . Chye Zri has come to Leth, he being friend to the Kings of Koris.” A feral grin was on her face, as if that mightily amused her. “Friend,”—she laughed softly—“aye, friend to Tiffwy’s wife, and thereon hung a tale.”

  Kasedre twisted with both hands at his sleeve, his poor fevered eyes shifting nervously from here to the book and back again. “Zri was highly honored here,” he said. “But he died.”

  “Zri was a fox,” said Morgaine. “Ah, clever, that man. It was surely like him not to have been at Irien after all, although he rode out with us. Zri had an ear to the ground constantly: he could smell disaster, Tiffwy always said. And Edjnel never trusted him. But unfortunately Tiffwy did. And I wonder indeed that Edjnel took him in when he appeared at the gates of Leth. . . . he has honored us by his Presence, tutor . . . to the younge Prince Leth Tohme . . . to guide in all divers manner of Statecraft and Publick Affaires, being Guardian also of the Lady Chya Aromwel and her daughter Linna, at the lamented Decease of Leth Edjnel . . .”

  “Zri taught my grandfather,” said Kasedre when Morgaine remained sunk in thought. He prattled on, nervous, eager to please. “And my father for a time too. He was old, but he had many children—”

  One of the uyin tittered behind his hand. It was injudicious. Leth Kasedre turned and glared, and that uyo bowed himself to his face and begged pardon quickly, claiming some action in the back of the hall as the source of his amusement.

  “What sort was Tohme?” asked Morgaine.

  “I do not know,” said Kasedre. “He drowned. Like aunt Linna.”

  “Who was your father?”

  “Leth Hes.” Kasedre puffed a bit with pride, insisted to turn the pages of the book himself, to show her. “He was a great lord.”

  “Tutored by Zri.”

  “And he had a great deal of gold.” Kasedre refused to be distracted. But then his face fell. “But I never saw him. He died. He drowned too.”

  “Most unfortunate. I should stay clear of water, my lord Leth. Where did it happen? The lake?”

  “They think”—Kasedre lowered his voice—“that my father was a suicide. He was always morose. He brooded about the lake. Especially after Zri was gone. Zri—”

  “—drowned?”

  “No. He rode out and never came back. It was a bad night. He was an old man anyway.” His face assumed a pout. “I have answered every one of your questions, and you promised my answer and you have not answered it. Where were you, all these years. What became of you, if you did not die?”

  “If a man,” she said, continuing to read while she answered him, “rode into the Witchfires of Aenor-Pyvvn, then he could know. It is possible for anyone. However, it has certain—costs.”

  “The Witchfires of Leth,” he said, licking moisture from the corners of his mouth. “Would they suffice?”

  “Most probably,” she said. “However, it is chancy. The fires have certain potential for harm. I know the safety of Aenor-Pyvvn. It could do no bodily harm. But I should not chance Leth’s fires unless I had seen them. They are by the lake, which seems to take so much toll of Leth. I should rather other aid than that, lord Leth. Seek Aenon-Pyvvn.” She still gave him only a part of her attention, continuing to push the great moldering pages back one after another. Then her eyes darted to the aged scholar. “Thee looks almost old enough to remember me.”

  The poor old man, trembling, tried the major obeisance at being
directly noticed by Morgaine, and could not make it gracefully. “Lady, I was not yet born.”

  She looked at him curiously, and then laughed softly. “Ah, then I have no friends left in Leth at all. There are none so old.” She thumbed more pages, more and more rapidly. “. . . This sad day was funeral for Leth Tohme, aged seventeen yeares, and his Consort . . . lady Leth Jeme . . . Indeed, indeed—at one burying.”

  “My grandmother hanged herself for grief,” said Kasedre.

  “Ah, then your father must have become the Leth when he was very young. And Zri must have had much power.”

  “Zri. Zri. Zri. Tutors are boring.”

  “Had you one?”

  “Liell. Chya Liell. He is my counselor now.”

  “I have not met Liell,” she said.

  Kasedre bit at his lips. “He would not come tonight. He said he was indisposed. I”—he lowered his voice—“have never known Liell indisposed before.”

  “. . . Liell of the Chya . . . has given splendid entertainments . . . on the occasion of the birthday of the Leth, Kasedre, most honorable of lords . . . two maidens of the . . . Indeed.” Morgaine blinked, scanned the page. “Most unique. And I have seen a great many entertainments.”

  “Liell is very clever,” said Kasedre. “He devises ways to amuse us. He would not come tonight. That is why things are so quiet. He will think of something for tomorrow.”

  Morgaine continued to scan the pages. “This is interesting,” she assured Kasedre. “I must apologize. I am surely wearying you and interfering with your scribe’s recording of my visit, but this does intrigue me. I shall try to repay your hospitality and your patience.”

  Kasedre bowed very low, thoughtlessly necessitating obeisance by all at the immediate table. “We have kept in every detail the records of your dealings with us in this visit. It is a great honor to our hall.”

  “Leth has always been very kind to me.”

  Kasedre reached out his hand, altogether against propriety—it was the action of a child fascinated by glitter—and his trembling fingers touched the arm of Morgaine, and the hilt of Changeling.

  She ceased to move, every muscle frozen for an instant; then gently she moved her arm and removed his fingers from the dragon blade’s hilt.

  Vanye’s muscles were rock-hard, his left hand already feeling after the release of his nameless sword. They could perhaps reach the midpoint of the hall before fifty swords cut them down.

  And he must guard her back.

  Kasedre drew back his hand. “Draw the blade,” he urged her. “Draw it. I want to see it.”

  “No,” she said. “Not in a friendly hall.”

  “It was forged here in Leth,” said Kasedre, his dark eyes glittering. “They say that the magic of the Witchfires themselves went into its forging. A Leth smith aided in the making of its hilt. I want to see it.”

  “I never part with it,” said Morgaine softly. “I treasure it greatly. It was made by Chan, who was the dearest of my own companions, and by Leth Omry, as you say. Chan carried it a time, but he gave it to me before he died in Irien. It never leaves me, but I think kindly of friends in Leth when I remember its making.”

  “Let us see it,” he said.

  “It brings disaster wherever it is drawn,” she said, “and I do not draw it.”

  “We ask this.”

  “I would not”—the painted smile resumed, adamant—“chance any misfortune to the house of Leth. Do believe me.”

  A pout was on Leth Kasedre’s features, a flush upon his sweating cheeks. His breathing grew quick and there was a sudden hush in the hall.

  “We ask this,” he repeated.

  “No,” said Morgaine. “This I will not.”

  He snatched at it, and when she avoided his grasp, he spitefully snatched the book instead, whirled to his feet and cast it into the hearth, scattering embers.

  The old scholar scuttled crabwise and sobbing after the book, spilling ink that dyed his robes. He rescued it and sat there brushing the little charring fire from its edges. His old lips moved as if he were speaking to it.

  And Kasedre shrieked, railing upon his guests until the froth gathered at the corners of his mouth and he turned a most alarming purple. Ingratitude seemed the main burden of his accusations. He wept. He cursed.

  “Qujalin witch,” he began to cry then. “Witch! Witch! Witch!”

  Vanye was on his feet, not yet drawing, but sure he must.

  Morgaine took a final sip of wine and gathered herself up also. Kasedre was still shouting. He raised his hand to her, trembled as if he did not quite have the courage to strike. Morgaine did not flinch; and Vanye began to ease his blade from the sheath.

  Tumult had risen in the hall again: it died a sudden death, beginning at the door. There had appeared there a tall, thin man of great dignity, perhaps forty, fifty years in age. The silence spread. Kasedre began instead to whimper, to utter his complaints under his breath and petulantly.

  And incredibly this apparition, this new authority, walked forward to kneel and do Kasedre proper reverence.

  “Liell,” said Kasedre in a trembling voice.

  “Clear the hall,” said Liell. His voice was sane and still and terrible.

  There was no noise at all, even from the bandits at the rear; the uyin began to slink away. Kasedre managed to put up an act of defiance for a moment. Liell stared at him. Then Kasedre turned and fled, running, into the shadows behind the curtains.

  Liell bowed a formal and slight courtesy to them both.

  “The well-renowned Morgaine of the Chya,” he said softly. Here was sanity. Vanye breathed a soft sigh of relief and let his sword slip back. “You are not the most welcome visitor ever to come to this hall,” Liell was saying, “but I will warn you all the same, Morgaine: whatever brought you back will send you hence again if you bait Kasedre. He is a child, but he commands others.”

  “I believe we share clan,” she said, cold rebuff to his discourtesy. “I am adopted, kri Chya; but of one clan, you and I.”

  He bowed again, seemed then to offer true respect. “Your pardon. You are a surprise to me. When the rumor came to me, I did not believe it. I thought perhaps it was some charlatan with a game to play. But you are quite the real thing, I see that. And who is this, this fellow?”

  “It is all family,” Vanye said, a touch of insolence, that Liell had not been courteous with Morgaine. “I am Chya on my mother’s side.”

  Liell bowed to him. For a moment those strangely frank eyes rested directly upon him, draining him of anger. “Your name, sir?”

  “Vanye,” he said, shaken by that sudden attention.

  “Vanye,” said Liell softly. “Vanye. Aye, that is a Chya name. But I have little to do with clan Chya here. I have other work. . . . Lady Morgaine, let me see you to your rooms. You have stirred up quite a nest of troubles. I heard the shouting. I descended—to your rescue, if you will pardon me.”

  Morgaine nodded him thanks and began to walk with him. Vanye, ignored now, fell in a few paces behind them and kept watch on the doors and corridors.

  “I truly did not believe it at first,” said Liell. “I thought Kasedre’s humors were at work again, or that someone was taking advantage of him. His fantasies are elaborate. May I ask why—?”

  Morgaine used that dazzling and false smile on Liell. “No,” she said. “I discuss my business with no one I chance to leave behind me. I will be on my way soon. I wish no help. Therefore what I do is of no moment here.”

  “Are you bound for the territory of Chya?”

  “I am clan-welcome there,” she said, “but I doubt it would be the same warmth of welcome I knew if I were to go there now. Tell me of yourself, Chya Liell. How does Leth fare these days?”

  Liell waved an elegant hand at their surroundings. He was a graceful man, handsome and silver-haired; his dress was mode
st, night-blue. His shoulders lifted in a sigh. “You see how things are, lady, I am well sure. I manage to keep Leth whole, against the tide of events. As long as Kasedre keeps to his entertainments, Leth thrives. But its thin blood will not breed another generation. The sons and grandsons of Chya Zri—who, I know, found no favor in your eyes—still are the bulwark of Leth in its old age. They serve me well. That in hall—that is the get of Leth, such as remains.”

  Morgaine refrained from comment. They began to mount the stairs. A pinched little face peered at them from the turning, withdrew quickly.

  “The twins,” said Vanye.

  “Ah,” said Liell. “Hshi and Tlim. Nasty characters, those.”

  “Clever with their hands,” said Vanye sourly.

  “They are Leth. Hshi is the harpist in hall. Tlin sings. They also steal. Do not let them in your rooms. I suspect it was Tlin who is responsible for your being here. The report was very like her misbehaviors.”

  “Hardly necessary that she trouble herself,” said Morgaine. “My path necessarily led to Ra-leth. I had the mood to come this way. The girl could prove a noisome pest.”

  “Please,” said Liell. “Leave the twins to me. They will not trouble you. . . . What set Kasedre off tonight?”

  “He became overexcited,” said Morgaine. “I take it that he does not often meet outsiders.”

  “Not of quality, and not under these circumstances.”

  They wound up the remaining stairs and came into the hall where their apartments were. The servants were busy at their tasks, lighting the lamps. They made great bows as Liell and Morgaine swept past them.

  “Did you eat well?” Liell asked.

  “We had sufficient,” she said.

  “Sleep soundly, lady. Nothing will trouble you.” He made a formal bow as Morgaine went inside her own door, but as Vanye would have followed her, Liell prevented him with an outthrust arm.

  Vanye stopped, hand upon hilt, but Liell’s purpose seemed speech, not violence. He leaned close, set a hand upon Vanye’s shoulder, a familiarity a man might use with a servant, talking to him quickly in whispers.