The Complete Morgaine

by C. J. Cherryh

  He reached that conclusion in his own reckoning, that it was very strong, that his stomach had been empty, but it was well enough: he thought that he would not fall if he rose, nor sleep if he sat, but that if he sat still a little while his head might not spin and his judgment might come back.

  Chei’s hand rested on his shoulder then, heavily, a friendly gesture, offering him the cup in the next round. Every detail seemed to stand out with unnatural clarity—like the effects of akil, very like that, but milder. There were more and more cups offered about, bowls passed hand to hand, drink poured from skins, blurred voices murmuring words indistinct to him. More than one bowl came his way. He drank only a little and passed them on.

  It was mad. There seemed no hostility in it, but it was all balanced on the knife’s edge, a peculiar sort of intimacy in this passing of drink round and round. Yet another bowl came his way, and he only pretended to drink now, and gave it on to Morgaine, who likewise feigned drinking, and passed it on again.

  “Say on now,” Arunden said, whose mustache glistened with beads of liquid in the firelight. “Now we talk. My lady qhal, fine lady, who shares my drink and shares my fire—what is it you want in my land?”

  “Passage through.”

  “Through, through, where through? To what—to Mante?”

  “It is the gates,” Chei said unbidden. “My lady—tell him.”

  “Chei means to say,” Morgaine said quietly, in a silence that had grown so sudden and so hushed there was only the wind in the leaves about them, among a hundred, perhaps a hundred fifty men, and words rang in the air like a hammer on iron: “that Vanye and I came through the southern gate and we are going out the northern one, against the interests of the qhal in this world. We will pass it, we will seal it, and there will be no more taking of men and changing them, there will be no more coming and going out the southern gate, with Gault bringing whatever he likes at your backs while the north brings war against you. There will be no more gate-force. Once I am done with them, they cannot bring them back to life.”

  A great murmuring grew in the silence she left. “Ha,” Arunden cried, and gestured to one of the women, who filled a bowl. He drank deeply, and wiped his mouth. “Who will do this?”

  “No great band of men will do it,” Morgaine said. “No force of arms. A Gate is far too dangerous to assault head-on.”

  “Aye, there you say!” He took another deep draft. “So who will do it?”

  “I am enough.”

  “Ha!” He waved his hand. “Drink for our guests! You are enough! Woman, m’lady qhal, how do you propose to do that? Seduce Skarrin?”

  “Liyo,” Vanye said, but her hand rested on his arm, and she slid her hand to his and pressed it hard.

  “Gate-force,” she said. “I am qhal—am I not? The most they have to fear—is one of their own with hostile intent.”

  “Who says there has never been? Qhal feud and fight. And what has it ever done? You are lying or you are mad, woman.”

  “Feud and fight they may. But they will not go that far. I will. They have no chance against you then. Do you see? I will give you the only chance you will ever have.”

  “And the fires—the fires—in the valley!”

  “The only chance,” Morgaine repeated, “you will ever have. Else Gault will widen his territory and yours will grow less and less. I set that fire—else Gault would be warned and warn his lord, and after that, my lord, you would see a hunt through these hills you would not wish to see. I will advise you: shelter me and mine tonight, and pass us through these woods in the morning as quietly and quickly as you can. Beyond that I can assure you the qhal will have other concerns; and beyond that you can do what you have never, I would surmise, been able to do: to come at Gault from the wooded south. That gate south of Morund will cease to be active. There will be no power there. Begin to think in those terms. Places you have not dared to go. Enemies you will not have when these present shapes age and fade—it is that which can make a qhalur enemy a most deadly threat, do you understand? It is the experience of a half a score lifespans fighting in the same land, against human folk who know only what they can learn in twenty years. That will cease. You will see them die. You will find their successors fewer and fewer. They do not bear half so frequently. That is what I offer you.”

  Arunden wiped a hand across his mouth. The bowl tilted perilously in his hand. From time to time as Morgaine spoke the gathering murmured almost enough to drown her voice, but it was quiet now.

  Arunden was entirely drunk, Vanye thought. He was drunk and half numb and the visitor he had tried to ply with drink and drug had spun a spell enough to muddle a man’s mind—that was the witchery Morgaine practiced. He had seen her work it on more than one man with his wits about him; and he watched now a desperate and inebriate man trying to break the strands of that web, with sweating face and glittering eyes and quickened breath.

  “Lies,” Arunden said.

  “Wherein?”

  “Because you will never do it! Because no one can get through.”

  “That is my worry. I have said: shelter for the night. Safe passage through to the Road. That is all.”

  “That is easy done,” Arunden said, wiping his mouth again. He held out the bowl which had come to him. “It is empty!”

  A woman hastened to fill it. There were a great number of bowls filled, and a general and rising commotion among the onlookers. Chei’s hand a second time rested on Vanye’s shoulder.

  “Quiet!” Arunden shouted, and took another deep draft of the bowl. “Quiet!”

  There was a slow ebb of noise. Wind sighed in the leaves, and bodies shifted anxiously.

  “Gault will move against us,” Arunden said, and motioned violently toward her with the bowl, spilling the liquor. “That is what you have done!”

  “He may,” Morgaine said.

  “What does a woman know about strategy?” Arunden cried then, and seized by the shoulder one of the women who rested near with the skin of drink, and shook at her. “Eleis here—a fair shot and a fair cook, till she comes to bearing, eh, pretty?—a good many of our girls come down to the marches for a few years, but lead? Carry a sword? This arm here and mine—d’ you want to go a pass with me, Eleis?”

  There was rude laughter.

  “What do you say?” Arunden asked then, and jutted his chin and waved the bowl toward Vanye.

  Morgaine laid her hand on his arm again. “Patience,” she said, and the laughter sank away a little.

  “Go a pass with you?” Vanye asked in measured tones. “Aye, my lord. Gladly. When you are sober.”

  There was a moment quieter still. Then Arunden broke out in laughter, and others laughed. He pushed the young woman roughly aside, and the woman caught her balance and got up and left the circle.

  “Are you human?” Arunden asked him.

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “Your speech is strange as hers.”

  “That may be, my lord. I learned it of her. My own I much doubt you would understand.”

  “What clan are you from?”

  “Nhi. I am Kurshin. You would not know that land either, my lord. It had gates—which my liege sealed. There have been others. There have been those who attacked my liege. Many of them. She is here with you.”

  That, perhaps, took some thinking for some of them. It evidently did, for Arunden, who sat frowning in a sudden quiet and perhaps wondering whether there was an affront somewhere mixed in it.

  “Ha,” Arunden said then. “Ha.” He lifted the bowl and drained it. “So. Hospitality.”

  “That is what we ask,” Morgaine repeated patiently.

  “Weapons.”

  “That we have, my lord.”

  “Men. You need—three thousand men to storm Mante. Four thousand!”

  “I need one. I have him. That is all, my lord. You will reap the
benefit of it—here. You will need those three thousand men, here, in the hills, to wait till the qhal grow desperate. That is what you have to do.”

  “You tell me strategy?”

  “I could not possibly, my lord. No one could.”

  “Ha!” Arunden said. And: “Ha! Wise woman. Witch! Is that a witch?” He elbowed the priest with his bowl. “That is a witch, is she not?”

  “That is a qhal,” the priest muttered, “my lord.”

  “That is the way out of these hills. That is the way of winning against the whole cursed breed! Qhal against qhal! Qhalur witch—that, they send, slip into Skarrin’s own bed, hey—is that how you will do it?”

  “My liege is very tired,” Vanye said. “We have been days on the road. She thanks you for your hospitality; and I thank you. I would like to find her a place to rest, by your leave, my lord.”

  “Too much to drink, eh?”

  “Travel and drink, my lord.” Vanye gathered himself to his feet in one smooth motion: such as the drug had done, rage had dispelled. He reached down his hand and assisted Morgaine to stand, taking matters beyond Arunden’s muddled ability to manage. “Good night to you—gracious lord.”

  “See to it,” Arunden said, waving his bowl, and women leapt up and hurried as seated men edged aside, opening a path in their circle for the course they were about to take. Shouts went up. More drink splashed into bowls.

  But Chei was on his feet too, and Bron. Vanye escorted Morgaine through the press, toward the horses, with Chei at his heels; and young women intercepted them, managing to come not at either of them, but at Chei: “This way,” one said, “come, tell them come—”

  “Our horses,” Vanye said, and ignored the summons, he and Morgaine, walking back to where Siptah and Arrhan stood, while the crowd behind them muttered with drunken dismay. “Liyo, let me tend them,” Vanye said. “They should not see you do such a thing.”

  “One of them can tend them,” Morgaine said shortly. “But not with our belongings.”

  “Aye,” he said, understanding the order to stay close by her; and caught his breath and went hurrying ahead of her, between the horses, snatched thongs loose and retrieved their saddlebags and their blankets, finding female hands all too ready to take anything he would not hold back from them, and Siptah bothered enough to be dangerous. “Take them,” he said, and threw the reins at Chei’s brother, who limped within range. “Get someone to rub them down—both, else you call me.” This last because Siptah was on the edge of his temper, and he was not sure whether any man in camp was sober enough to trust with a twenty year old packhorse, let alone the Baien gray.

  “They have vacated a shelter for the lady,” Chei said, at his elbow.

  O Heaven, he thought, get us clear of this. And aloud: “See the horses picketed near us, Chei, Bron, I trust you for that. And have our gear near us.”

  “Aye,” Chei agreed.

  He turned away, after Morgaine and the women, as they tended out of the firelight and toward the shadow of the woods, as the uproar around the fire grew wilder and more frivolous.

  There was more to-do as they came to the ill-smelling little shelter of woven mats and bent saplings. Women offered blankets, offered water, offered bread and a skin of liquor. “Go,” he said shortly, and pushed the ragged wool flap aside to enter the shelter where Morgaine waited. Firelight entered through the gaps in the reed walls. After a breath or two his eyes found it enough light to make out more than shadow, the glow of her pale hair, the glimmer of silver at her shoulders as she dropped the cloak, the shape of her face and her eyes as she looked at him.

  “I would kill him,” he said. He had done very well up till now. He found himself shaking.

  She came then and embraced him, her cheek against his for a moment, her arms about his ribs; then she took his face solemnly between her hands. “You were marvelous,” she said, laughing somewhat; and touched her lips to his, the whole of which confounded him in that way she could do. Perhaps it was the drug which still muddled him. It seemed only courteous not merely to stand there, but to hold to her and to return that gesture, and perhaps it was she who pressed further, he was not sure—only that he did not want to let her go now she had gotten this close and she did not let him go, but held to him and returned him measure for measure till the world spun.

  “Vanye,” Chei’s voice came from outside the shelter, and he caught his breath and his balance and broke apart from her with a whispered curse; at which a second touch of Morgaine’s hands, lightly this time, on his arm, sliding to trail over his fingers—

  “What?” he asked, far too harshly, flinging back the door-flap.

  Perhaps there was murder in his look; perhaps his rapid breaths said something; or perhaps the firelight struck his face amiss, for Chei’s expression went from startlement to thorough dismay.

  “I was about to say,” Chei said, above the uproar from about the fire, “I have told them where to picket the horses, yonder. I am going to go back to the fire, if you—I think I should—Bron and I. . . . Your pardon,” Chei said suddenly, and backed and made a hasty retreat, not without a backward look; and a second, and a third, before he suddenly had to dodge a tree and vanished around it.

  Vanye caught his breath and, muddled somewhere between outrage and embarrassment, let the door-flap fall again.

  Morgaine’s hands rested on his shoulders, and her head against the back of his neck. “We had best take the sleep,” she whispered, her breath disturbing the fine hairs there.

  “Aye,” he said with difficulty, thinking that sleep was not going to come easily despite the liquor and the drug and the exhaustion. “They are fools out there. At least ninety and nine of them. I cannot credit that Chei is a fool with the lot of them—”

  “I do not think he is,” she said. “I think he has found his brother, that is all. Let him be.”

  Fire and clangor of arms, one brother lying dead at his hand, the other lying under the knife in hall—and after that, after that was exile, ilin-ban, and every kinsman’s hand against him. The old nightmare came tumbling back again, of bastardy and years of torment before he reacted, once, frightened—no, angry—cornered in a practice match.

  Kandrys had not intended his death. He had reasoned his way to that understanding: it would have been only another baiting—except it was the wrong day, the wrong moment, Kandrys’ bastard brother grown better and more desperate than Kandrys knew.

  And he had always wanted most that Kandrys would forgive him his existence and his parentage.

  He drew a sudden, gasping breath, as if a cold wind had blown out of that dream, and brought the grave-chill with it.

  “Vanye?”

  “It is that cursed drink,” he murmured. “Likely Chei has his ear to matters out there—my mind is wandering. I am hungry, but I think I am too tired to get into the packs. Did you drink anything of it?”

  “No more than I must.”

  “They have left us more of the stuff. What kind of fools raise such a noise, living as they do? That is a priest out there—”

  She leaned her head against him. “This is not Andur-Kursh. And they are fools who have fought their war too long,” she said. “Fools who are losing it, year by year, and see a hope. If they are not thinking how to betray us and do Gault harm. How far can we trust Chei, do you think? For a few leagues still?”

  “I do not know,” he said. He slipped her grasp, turning to look at her, as laughter and shrieks rose from the gathering at the fire. “He may. There is no honor for a man here. He is too good for this. This is a sink, liyo, a man who could not hold his folk, except he binds them with that—out there. That is the game this hedge-lord plays. Only he is gone in it himself. Heaven knows about Chei’s brother.”

  “Heaven knows when Chei knew about his brother,” Morgaine said. “Curse him, he forced this, he has gotten us into this tangle; I do not say
he was not taken by surprise, I do not know whether he wanted this from the beginning, but there is disaster everywhere about this place. They have left us bread yonder; and meat; likely it is safe enough; and we will take what food we can and prevail on Chei and his brother at least to see us to the Road. That is all we need of him, and there is an end of it.”

  “Aye,” he said forlornly, and with a sense of anger: “It is a waste, liyo, this whole place is a waste. Heaven knows we could do better for him.”

  “Or far worse,” she said.

  “Aye.”

  She caught him by the arm and held him so. Perhaps her eyes could see him in the dark. She was faceless to him. “If he ties himself too closely to us—will they ever forget? If he stays then, is he or his brother safe, when once the gates die, and powers start to topple? Or if we take them with us—where are they then? Can you promise them better? Best, I say, we let him go. The eight down in the valley are only an earnest of what we shall do here. When power falls here, it will fall hard.”

  “Lord in Heaven, liyo—”

  “Truth, Nhi Vanye, bitter truth. That is the ciphering I do: thee knows, thee knows I have no happier choices—except we leave him, here, near a great fool, who will vaunt his way to calamity with the power he imagines he has; and Chei, being Chei, will know when to quit this hedge-lord—or supplant him. That is the best gift we can give him. To leave him among his own kind and kin.”

  He drew several large and quietening breaths. “Aye,” he said again, reasoning his way through that. “In my heart I know that.”

  “Then be his friend. And let him go.”

  “Is it that clear?”

  “Vanye, Vanye—” But what else she would have said, she did not say, not for some little moment. Then: “Did I not tell thee, thee could leave me? I warned thee. Why did thee not listen?”

  He said nothing for a moment, in confusion, a sudden hurt, and deep. He traced it several times, trying to understand how she had gotten to that, or what he had said or done to bring her to that offer again.