One of the khemi brought a chain of flowers, and bound it in the mane of the white horse; and came others, bringing such flower chains for each of the departing arrhendim.
But it was Ellur who brought a white one for Roh’s horse, and Sin came bearing a chain of bright blue. The boy reached high to bind it into the black mane, so that they swung there like a chain of tiny bells. And then Sin looked up at him.
Premonition came on him that he was looking on the boy for the last time, that there would be—one way or another—no return for him from this ride. Sin seemed to believe it too this time. Tears brimmed in his eyes, but he held them; he had been through Shathan: he was no longer the boy in Mirrind.
“I have no parting-gift,” Vanye said, searching his memory for something left that he owned but his weapons: and never had he felt his poverty as much as in that moment, that he had nothing left to spare. “Among our people we give something when we know the parting will be long.”
“I made this for you,” said Sin, and drew forth from his shirt a carving of a horse’s head. It was made of wood, small, of surpassing skill, as there were so many talents in Sin’s hands. Vanye took it, and thrust it within his collar. Then in desperation he cut a ring from his belt, plain steel and blue-black; it had once held spare leather, but he had none of that left either. He pressed it into Sin’s hand and closed his brown fingers over it. “It is a plain thing, the only thing I have to give that I brought from home, from Morija of Andur-Kursh. Do not curse my memory when you are grown, Sin. My name was Nhi Vanye i Chya; and if ever I do you harm, it is not from wanting it. May there always be arrhendim in Shathan, and Mirrindim too. And when you are arrhendim yourselves, you and Ellur, see that it is so.”
Sin hugged him, and Ellur came and took his hand. He chanced to look up at Roh, then, and Roh’s face was sad. “Ra-koris was such a place,” Roh said, naming his own hall in forested Andur. “If I had no reason to oppose the Shiua for my own sake, I would have now, having seen this place. But for my part I would save it, not take from it the only thing that might defend it.”
The boys’ hands were clenched in either of his; he stared at Roh and felt defenseless, without any argument but his oath.
“If she is dead,” Roh said, “respecting your grief, cousin, I shall not even say evil of her—but you would be free then, and would you still carry out what she purposed? Would you take that from them? I think there is some conscience in you. They surely think so.”
“Keep silent. Save your shafts for me, not them.”
“Aye,” Roh murmured. “No more of it.” He laid his hand on his horse’s neck, and looked about him, at the great trees that towered so incredibly above the tents. “But think on it, cousin.”
There was a sudden murmuring in the crowd; it parted, and Merir passed through—a different Merir from the one they had seen, for the old lord wore robes made for riding; a horn bound in silver was at his side, and he bore a kit which he hung from the saddle of the white horse. The beautiful animal turned its head, lipped familiarly at his shoulder, and he caressed the offered nose and took up the reins. He needed no help to climb into the saddle.
“Be careful, Father,” said one of the qhal. “Aye,” others echoed. “Be careful.”
Arrhel came. Merir took the lady’s hand from horseback. “Lead in my absence,” he bade her, and pressed her hand before he let it go. The others were beginning to mount up.
A last time Vanye bade the boys farewell, and let them go, and climbed into the saddle. The bay started to move of his own accord as the other horses started away; and before he had ridden far he was drawn to look back. Sin and Ellur were running after him, to stay with him while they could. He waved at them, and they reached the edge of the camp. Trees began to come between. His last sight of them was of the two stopped forlornly at the forest margin, fair-haired qhalur lad and small, dark boy, alike in stance. Then the green leaves curtained them, and he turned in the saddle.
• • •
The company rode mostly in silence, with the two young arrhendim in the lead and the eldest riding close by Merir. Vanye and Roh rode after them, and the two arrheindim rode last . . . no swords did they bear, unlike the arrhendim, but bows longer than the men’s, and their slim hands were leathered with half-glove and bracer, old and well-worn. The khemein of that pair often lagged behind and out of sight, serving apparently as rearguard and scout as the khemeis of the pair in front tended to disappear ahead of them to probe the way.
Sharrn and Dev were the names of the old arrhendim; Vanye asked of the arrhen Perrin, the qhalur woman, who rode nearest them. Her khemein was Vis; and the young pair were Larrel and Kessun, cheerful fellows, who reminded him with a pang of Lellin and Sezar whenever he looked on them together.
They rested briefly halfway to dark. Kessun had vanished some time before that stop, and did not reappear when he ought; and Larrel paced and fretted. But the khemeis came in just as they were setting themselves ahorse again, and bowed apology, whispering something to lord Merir in private.
Then from somewhere in the far distance came the whistled signal of an arrhen, thin and clear as birdsong, advising them that all was well.
That was comforting to hear, for it was the first signal they had heard in all that ride, as if those who ranged the woods hereabouts were few or frightened. Lightness came on the arrhendim then, and a smile to Merir’s eyes for a moment, though they had been sad before.
Thereafter Larrel and Kessun both parted company with them, and rode somewhere ahead.
Nor did they appear at night, when they could no longer see their way and stopped to set up camp.
They were settled near a stream, and brazenly dared a fire . . . Merir decided that it was safe enough. They sat down together in that warmth and shared food. Vanye ate, although he had small appetite: he felt the fever on him after the day’s riding, and drank some of Arrhel’s medicine.
He would gladly have sought his blanket then and gone to sleep, for his wounds pained him and he was exhausted from even so short a journey; but he refused to leave the fireside with Roh able to say what he would, to use his cleverness alone with the arrhendim. Chances were that Roh would keep his word; but he did not think it well to put overmuch temptation in Roh’s way, so he rested where he was, bowed his head against his arms and sat savoring at least the fire’s warmth.
Merir gave some whispered instruction to the arrhendim, which was not unusual in the day; quietly the arrhendim moved, and Vanye lifted his head to see what was happening.
It was Perrin and Vis who had withdrawn, and they gathered up their bows where they stood, deftly strung them.
“Trouble, lord?” Roh asked, frowning and tense. But the arrheindim made no move to depart on any business.
Merir sat unmoved, wrapped in his cloak, his old face gaunt and seamed in the firelight. All pure qhal had a delicate look, almost fragile; but Merir was like something carved in bone, hard and keen. “No,” Merir said softly. “I have simply told them to watch.”
The old arrhendim still sat at the fire, beside Merir; and something in the manner of all of them betokened no outside enemies. The arrheindim quietly put arrows to their strings and faced inward, not outward, though no bow was drawn.
“It is ourselves,” Vanye said in a still voice, and a tremor of anger went through him. “I believed you, my lord.”
“So have I believed you,” Merir said. “Put off your weapons for the moment. I would have no misunderstanding—Do so, or forfeit our good will.”
Vanye unbuckled the belts and shed the sword and the dagger, laid them to one side; and Roh did likewise, frowning. Dev came and gathered them all up, returned to Merir’s side and laid them down on that side of the fire.
“Forgive us,” said Merir. “A very few questions.” He arose, Sharrn and Dev with him. He gestured to Roh. “Come, stranger. Come with me.”
Roh g
athered himself to his feet, and Vanye started to do the same. “No,” said Merir. “Be wise and do not. I would not have you harmed.”
The bows had drawn.
“Their manners are marginally better than Hetharu’s,” Roh said quietly. “I do not mind their questions, cousin.”
And Roh went with them willingly enough, possessed of knowledge enough to betray them thoroughly. They withdrew along the bank of the stream, where trees screened them from view. Vanye stayed as he was, on one knee.
“Please,” said Perrin, her bow still bent. “Please do not do anything, sirren. Vis and I, we seldom miss even small targets separately. Together, we could not miss you at all. They will not harm your kinsman. Please sit down so that we may all relax.”
He did so. The bows relaxed; the arrheindim’s vigilance did not. He bowed his head against his hands and waited, with fever throbbing in his brain and desperation seething in him.
The arrhendim led Roh back finally, and settled him under the watchful eye of the archers. Vanye looked at Roh; Roh met his eyes but once, and his look said nothing at all.
“Come,” Sharrn said, and Vanye rose up and went with them, into the dark, down where the trees overhung and the brook splashed among the stones.
Merir waited, sitting on a fallen log, a pale figure in the moonlight, wrapped in his cloak. The arrhendim stopped him at a few paces’ distance, and he stood, offering no respect: respect had been betrayed. Merir offered him to sit on the ground, but he would not.
“Ah,” said Merir. “So you feel misused. And yet have you been misused, khemeis, reckoning all things into the account? Are we not here, pursuing a course you asked of us—and in spite of the fact that you have not yet been honest with us?”
“You are not my sworn lord,” Vanye said, his heart sinking in him, for he was sure now that Roh had done his worst. “I never lied to you. But some things I would not say, no. The Shiua,” he added bitterly, “used akil, and force. Doubtless you would too. I thought you different.”
“Then why did you not deal with us differently?”
“What did Roh say to you?”
“Ah, you fear that.”
“Roh does not lie . . . at least not in most things. But half of him is not Roh; and half of him would cut my throat and I know it. I have told you how that is. I have told you. I do not think anything he would have told you would have been friendly to me or to my lady.”
“Is it so, khemeis, that your lady bears a thing of power?”
Had it been daylight, Merir must have seen the color wash from his face; he felt it go, and fear gathered cold and small in his belly. He said nothing.
“But it is so,” said Merir. “She could have told me. She would not. She left me and sought her own way. She was anxious to reach Nehmin. But she has not done so . . . I know that much.”
Vanye’s heart beat rapidly. Some men claimed Sight; it was so in Shiuan . . . but something there was in Merir’s hardness which minded him less of those dreamers than of Morgaine herself.
“Where is she?” he demanded of Merir.
“And do you threaten? Would you?”
He sprang to seize the old qhal to hostage before the arrhendim could intervene; and all at once he felt that thickness of sense that a Gate could cause. He caught at the qhal-lord, and as he did so his senses swam; he yet held to the robes, determined with all that was in him. Merir cried out; the dizziness increased; for a moment there was darkness, utter and cold.
Then earth. He lay on dew-slick leaves, and Merir with him. The arrhendim seized him—he hardly felt the grip—and drew him back. Weakly Merir stirred.
“No,” Merir said. “No. Do not harm him.” Steel slid back into sheath then, and Sharrn moved to help Merir, lifted him gently, set him on the log; but Vanye rested still on his knees, lacking any feeling in hands or feet. The void still gaped within his mind, dazing him, as it surely must Merir.
Gate-force. An area about the qhal-lord—charged with the terror of the Gates. I know, Merir had claimed; and know he must, for the Gates were still alive, and Morgaine had not stilled their power.
“So,” Merir breathed at last, “you are brave . . . to have fought that; braver surely than to sink to violence against one as old as I.”
Vanye bowed his head, tossed the hair from his eyes and met the old lord’s angry stare. “Honor I left long and far from here, my lord. I only wish I could have held you.”
“You know such forces. You have passed the Fires at least twice, and I could not frighten you.” Merir drew from his robes a tiny case and carefully opened it. Again that shimmering grew about his hand and his person, although what rested inside was a very tiny jewel, swirling with opal colors. Vanye flinched from it, for he knew the danger.
“Yes,” said Merir, “your lady is not the only one who holds power in this land. I am one. And I knew that such a thing was loose in Shathan . . . and I sought to know what it was. It was a long search. The power remained hidden. You fit well into Mirrind, invisibly well, to your credit. I was dismayed to know that you were among us. I sent for you, and heard you out . . . and knew even then that there was such a thing unaccounted for in Shathan. I loosed you, hoping that you would go against your enemies; I did believe you, you see. Yet she would seek Nehmin . . . against all my advice. And Nehmin had defenders more powerful than I. Some of them she passed, and that amazes me; but she never passed the others. Perhaps she is dead. I might not know that. Lellin should have returned to me, and he has not. I think Lellin trusted you somewhat, else he would have returned quickly . . . but I do not even know for certain that he lived much past Carrhend, I have only your word. Nehmin stands. Perhaps the Shiua you speak of have prevented her . . . or others might. You cast yourself back into our hands as if we were your own kindred—in some trust, I do think; and yet you admit with your silence what it was she wished in coming here . . . to destroy what defends this land. And she is the bearer of the power I have sensed; I know that now, beyond doubt. I asked Chya Roh why she would destroy Nehmin. He said that such destruction was her function and that he himself did not understand; I asked him why then he sought to go to her, and he said that after all he has done, there is no one else who will have him. You say he rarely lies. Are these lies?”
A tremor went through him. He shook his head and swallowed the bile in his throat. “Lord, he believes it.”
“I put to you the same questions, then. What do you believe?”
“I—do not know. All these things Roh claims to know for truth . . . I do not; and I have served her. I told her once that I did not want to know; she gave me that—and now I cannot answer you, and I would that I could. I only know her, better than Roh knows—and she does not wish to harm you. She does not want that.”
“That is truth,” Merir judged. “At least—you believe that it is so.”
“I have never lied to you. Nor has she.” He strove to gain his feet; the arrhendim put their hands on him to prevent him, but Merir gestured to them to let him be. He stood, yet sick and dizzied, looking down on the frail lord. “It was Morgaine who tried to keep the Shiua out of your land. Blame me, blame Roh that they came here; she foresaw this and tried to prevent it. And this I know, lord, that there is evil in the power that you use, and that it will take you sooner or later, as it took the Shiua . . . this thing you hold in your hand. To touch that—hurts; I know that; and she knows best of all . . . she hates that thing she carries; hates above everything the evil that it does.”
Merir’s eyes searched over him, his face eerily lit in the opal fires. Then he closed the tiny case, and the light faded, reddening his flesh for a moment before it went. “One who bears what Roh describes would feel it most. It would eat into the very bones. The Fires we wield are gentler; hers consumes. It does not belong here. I would she had never come.”
“What she brought is here, lord. If it must be in other hands than
hers—if she is lost—then I had rather your hand on it than the Shiua’s.”
“And yours rather than mine?”
He did not answer.
“It is the sword—is it not? The weapon that she would not yield up. It is the only thing she bore of such size.”
He nodded reluctantly.
“I will tell you this, Nhi Vanye, servant of Morgaine . . . that last night that power was unmasked, and I felt it as I have not felt it since first you came into Shathan. What would it have been, do you think?”
“The sword was drawn,” he said, and hope and dread surged up in him—hope that she lived, and agony to think that she might have been in extremity enough to draw it.
“Aye, so do I judge. I shall take you to that place. You stand little chance of reaching it alone, so bear in mind, khemeis, that you still ride under my law. Ride free if you will; attempt Shathan against my will. Or stay and accept it.”
“I shall stay,” he said.
“Let him walk free,” Merir said to the arrhendim, and they did so, although they trailed him back to the fire.
Roh was there, still under the archers’ guard; the arrhendim signalled them, and the arrows were replaced in their quivers.
Vanye went to Roh, anger hazing his vision so that Roh was all the center of it. “Get up,” he said, and when Roh would not, he seized him and swung. Roh broke the force with his arm and struck back, but he took the blow and drove one through. Roh staggered sidewise to the ground.
The arrhendim intervened with drawn swords; one drew blood, and he reeled back from that warning, sense returning to him. Roh tried to rise to the attack, but the arrhendim stopped that too.
Roh straightened and rose more slowly, wiped the blood from his mouth with a dark look. He spat blood, and wiped his mouth a second time.
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