The Complete Morgaine

by C. J. Cherryh

  But when they had come up and dismounted beside the shelter:

  “One cannot hear in this place,” Morgaine objected, the last of them still ahorse, her voice thinned by the roar of the water pouring down and running over rock. “I do not like this.”

  Vanye looked up at her from across Arrhan’s rain-wet saddle. “Aye,” he said hoarsely, knowing a second time she was right, but he felt the weight of the mail on his back and the cold of water down his neck and soaking his boots and breeches. It was her second quibble with this place. He respected her instincts; but there was in him a heart-deep vexation—Heaven save us, liyo, you have three men you can trust, he thought to shout at her.

  But there were Arunden’s three, and those men large and strong, and if they would not mutiny in the night, they were bound to if she bade them go on now.

  And he, God help them, had to enforce her orders, or she had to do murder on them; and he was not sure he had a fight left in him—

  “Do we ride on, liyo?” he asked with a deep and weary breath.

  She glanced back, a shifting of her eyes toward Chei and Bron, who were already taking gear off their horses in the lightning-flashes and the mist, Chei trying in vain to keep the sodden blanket from flying in the wind, his cloth breeches wet through in places where it had blown as he rode. They were spent, man and youth both thin and worn, both recent from wounds, both vulnerable to chill and staggering with exhaustion.

  “No,” she said, then, in a voice weary as his own. She slid down from Siptah’s back, and led him toward the shelter. “We will have a fire if we can find wood enough. At least the rain will drown the smoke. If anyone disturbs us tonight it will be his own misfortune.”

  • • •

  It was dead branches broken off the trees back along the rocks, that they had for their fire; and the black weapon’s power to set it burning, for which Vanye was earnestly grateful, for nothing but sweat and all a woodsman’s skill could have gotten such a fire alight tonight, even considering the heart of the wood was dry. A quick touch of that red light into a little fibrous tinder pulled from the underbark of the nether side of the branches, a little encouragement with dead leaves pulled from the inside of the woven shelter, and there was instantly a cheerful if smoky little flame that grew with twigs and grew with kindling and branches and quickly underlit her face and the fearful countenances of their companions.

  A man grew to rely on such comforts.

  “It has other uses,” Morgaine said to the men who watched in horror. One—Patryn, it was, signed himself. None of the three looked reassured.

  To the good, Vanye thought. Chei was not troubled; he tucked his wet blanket about him and huddled close to the qhal-made fire, whereat Bron relaxed and even gave a shy grin between his own shivers as he pulled his boots off to dry them.

  With Eoghar and his kin it was another matter—but so was their situation, men passed off by their lord into a witch’s keeping, despite their priest’s objections. They huddled together a little separate, and hugged themselves against the cold. The cousin named Tars sneezed mightily, and buried his head a moment in his arm, and sneezed again.

  If they had begun the day with aching heads, Vanye reflected, their misery was surely complete by now. He was even moved to pity for them—not enough that he turned his back on them, but he brought them some of the wood, and brought them burning tinder in a wedge between two sticks, and left them to nurse it along and to go out in the rain if they wanted more firewood in the night: “My charity,” he said dourly, “stops at the shelter’s edge.”

  Thereafter Eoghar and Patryn took their turn out in the driving mist, wood-gathering, and he went back to Morgaine and the brothers, loosed his armor buckles and his belts, tucked himself up in his wet cloak next the fire, and rested with Chei and Bron, close by Morgaine as she boiled up tea, his back against the rock and his left shoulder next the dry leaves of the woven branches which made one wall of their shelter.

  Outside, the horses complained of the rain, and Siptah snorted his displeasure either at two wet strangers wandering about outside or at the geldings picketed apart from him and the mare.

  The wood-gatherers returned with their arms full, before their fire died. Inside, under the shelter of the stone overhang and the woven walls, the warmth increased. By the time there were a few coals and the first pannikin of tea had boiled, there was a closer, less peevish feeling in the air and Chei had unfolded himself somewhat and ceased to shiver.

  There was smoked meat, fowl, venison, and the bread they had taken from the camp: they did not use their carefully prepared trail rations while there was that choice, and with food that would not last there was no stinting. There was tea to warm them; and by their own fire at the opposite and shallower end of the shelter, Eoghar and his cousins saw to their own supper with the supplies they had brought.

  “Ah,” Chei said with a little wince when he had drunk his cup, and he sighed as he leaned back against the rock wall by his brother. Bron pushed at him with an elbow, grinned, and Chei pushed back, then clapped Bron on the shoulder in a brief embrace, a glance, a quick and tender look passed between them such as brothers might exchange, who found each other alive against all expectation.

  Then Chei burst into tears, and turned his face into Bron’s shoulder, and the two of them held each other fast, at which Vanye found himself the fire to look at, and then Morgaine’s face—as she looked distressedly toward him, and then found occupation for her hands with repacking.

  There was no cursed place for privacy, except the rain. And Chei fought hard for his dignity, who was, Heaven knew and events had witnessed, not prone to tears.

  After, Chei bent and rested his forehead on his knee, his braids covering his face, for a long time in which he met no one’s eyes. Only Bron’s hand rested on his back, until he wiped fiercely at his eyes.

  It was safety did that to a man. That was all. The lifting of some terrible burden. The knowledge of trial passed. As if this place, with the rain beating down and the wind whipping outside, offered what the secure camp had not.

  Freedom, perhaps. Or a brother’s life.

  “I am all right,” Chei declared, and wiped his eyes and drew a breath and clasped his hands on the back of his neck, taking his wind.

  Bron held him by the shoulder and rocked at him. There was a sheen on Bron’s eyes too, as he rubbed Chei’s back and wound his fingers in Chei’s hair and tugged at it with a familiarity from which Vanye averted his eyes in embarrassment.

  But perhaps they felt they had found kin.

  “You did not know,” Morgaine said, “that your brother was there. Truly.”

  “No,” Chei said, a small, quick breath. And looked up, as if he then understood that question. “I swear I did not.”

  “But took us to land you knew—to friends’ territory.”

  A frightened shift of Chei’s eyes mistrusted the listeners. But there was the waterfall to cover their voices. “Ichandren’s. My own lord’s.”

  “Ah,” Morgaine said, and did not glance at Eoghar herself; and Vanye dared not, putting it together, how Arunden who held a sick man in debt, had moved right gladly into a dead ally’s lands.

  “This Arunden seems quick to gain,” he muttered.

  “From everything,” Chei said fiercely. “He is known for it.”

  “I had wondered,” Morgaine said in a low voice, “how we happened to find Bron. Coincidence is the most remote chance in all the world—good coincidence even rarer. I do not trust men who seem to have it all about them. And strokes of luck are worst of all.”

  It was honesty. When Morgaine became obscure it was an offered confidence. Honesty with her was one thing and the other. It was Chei she meant, and Chei she looked at, and Chei looked confused as a man might. “I—do not think I have had luck, lady, except you brought it.”

  “Any man might have been there, a
t the gate. Luckier for your friends if we had been a fortnight earlier. It is finding Bron I mean.”

  “I had no hope of it,” Chei said earnestly. “I only went home. I wanted no more mistakes. I thought—I thought—there was no way to get through without meeting ambush. When you told me—what you told me—I knew there was hope in talking. So I did not try to slip around the long way. I brought you up the short way, and took no pains to be quiet, you were right, lady. But we were dead, the other way. It was all I could do.”

  “And did not tell me.”

  There was long silence. Chei looked at her, only at her, and his face was pale in the firelight.

  “But you did not know,” Morgaine said, “that Bron was there.”

  “No, lady. On my soul, I did not know.”

  “He could not have known,” Bron said. The fire snapped, wet wood; and scattered sparks.

  “Arunden took you up,” Morgaine said.

  “I fell in the fighting,” Bron said. “Arunden’s folk came down to collect the gear. To steal anything they could. That is what they are.”

  “Gault’s men leave their enemies’ gear?” Vanye asked. “For others to take up?”

  “This time they did,” Bron said, and drew a long and shaken breath. “I do not know why. Probably they had wind of Arunden’s folk close by. They took up prisoners—I saw them. I fainted then. I thought they would gather up weapons and they would find me alive and finish me. When I woke up it was one of Arunden’s men had found me, that is all I know. And Gault’s men had taken none of my gear.”

  “You were fortunate,” Morgaine said. “Did I not just say how I abhor good fortune?”

  Bron looked anxiously at Chei, last at Vanye, a worried look, a pleading look.

  “It is truth,” Bron said. “That is all I know.”

  Vanye shifted position, having found his arm cold from the wind gusting through the woven-work. He found his heart beating uncomfortably hard. “Arunden was an ally of your lord’s?”

  “We were ambushed on our way to join with him. The qhal may have known he was there—” The thought seemed to come to Bron then. His mouth stayed open a moment. His eyes darted and locked.

  “And withdrew,” Morgaine said.

  Bron had nothing to say. He darted a look of his own Eoghar’s way and back again. Chei’s breath was rapid.

  “No one would—” Bron said.

  “You say yourself, changelings are not uncommon. A man too close to qhalur lands, a scout, a hunter—”

  “We are not that careless!”

  Heaven save us, Vanye thought. And aloud: “Is your enemy without guile? Or luck?”

  Both the brothers were silent. At their own fire, Eoghar and his cousins talked among themselves, voices that did not carry over the water sound.

  “It would be easy, then,” Morgaine said, “for messengers of all sorts to come and go. From the camp, for instance.”

  “We do not know it is so!” Chei said.

  “No,” Morgaine said. “It might be coincidence. Everything might be coincidence.”

  Bron exhaled a long slow breath. “A treaty with Gault?”

  “Possibly,” Morgaine said, “you were only fortunate. There is chance in the world. It is only very rare—where profit is concerned.”

  Bron ran his fingers back through his hair and rested, his hands clenching his braids. Then he looked at Vanye and at Morgaine. “Are you, after all, from Mante? Is this something you know? Are you having games with us?”

  “We are strangers,” Morgaine said. “We are not from Gault and not from Skarrin. We do not know this land. But of treachery and of greed we have seen altogether too much. Perhaps it has occurred to you—that there is profit to be had. We do not withhold it. Anything you can gain from us, take. We will have no need of power in this world. Do you want Gault’s place? Or any other—take it.”

  Bron caught a breath. “Everything,” he said in a faint voice, “that Chei has told me about you I believe. I never—in all my life—In all my life, I never—never knew I would—come to—to owe—”

  “A qhal?” Morgaine asked.

  Bron swallowed the rest of that speech. His face was bone-white, his pain-bruised eyes set on her as if he could not find a way to move. “But,” he said after, “it is you I will follow. I do not think we will live long. I do not think we will live to see Mante. But for what you did for my brother I will go with you; for what you did for both of us, I will do everything I can for you. I do not deny I am afraid of you. There is a cost—to serving qhal—and I do not know what you would choose, between us and others. But what you say you will do—if you seal the Gates—is a chance for every man alive; and we never had one till this. It is worth a life. And mine is spun out longer than I expected, since Gyllin-brook. Chei’s, too. Where else shall we find a place for us?”

  Morgaine looked at him long; and turned then and began to pack away their belongings. “I do not know. But I would you could find one.” She looked up at them. “When we reach the road, turn back. Go somewhere far, and safe. Two more humans will be a hazard to me—only that much more likelihood that someone will know me for a stranger.”

  Chei had opened his mouth to protest. He shut it as she spoke and he caught a breath. “But,” he said then, “they would take us for the Changed, that is all. There is no reason not.”

  “It is that common.”

  “Half the qhal in Morund—have human shape.”

  “So,” she said softly, and her frown deepened and darkened. She put a last packet into the saddlebags and wrapped the ties tight. “They are using the gates that often.”

  “I do not know,” Bron said, looking as bewildered as his brother. “I do not know how often they come and go.”

  “No one knows,” Chei said. “None of us go south. When they want to come and go—they use Morund-gate. They do not need to ride through our land.”

  “Frequently?”

  “Maybe—several times a year. I do not know. No one—”

  “So a message has already gone to Mante.”

  “I think that it would have,” Chei said. “When the woods burned. I think they would send for that. Gault is not friendly with Mante. With his lord. So they say.”

  “Rumor says,” Bron amended. “Men who come and go off Gault’s land. Some do, still.”

  “Too much here is tangled,” Morgaine said; and Vanye shifted his mailed and weary shoulders back against the rock and picked up the thongs that depended from his belt, beginning to braid three of them.

  “As to changelings,” Vanye said, “we do not do that, with friend or enemy. You are safe with us, as safe, at least, as we are. And we intend to reach Mante, and go beyond it. But that—that, has no return. You should understand that. My lady advises you turn back. There is reason. You should listen to her.”

  There was silence after, except a discordant muttering from Eoghar and his cousins, about their separate fire. A little laughter drifted from them, about their own business. Doubtless Chei and Bron were distressed. He did not look up.

  “Lady,” Chei said.

  “For your sake and ours,” Morgaine said firmly.

  Again there was silence, long silence, with only the noise from the other fire where, Vanye saw with a shift of his eye, the three clansmen had unstopped what he reckoned was not a water-skin, and began to pass it about. He did not like it. He did not want the quarrel now, either, with unhappiness enough in their camp. “Liyo,” he said in a low voice and when he had her attention, shifted his eyes to indicate the matter.

  She frowned, but she said nothing. They were not boisterous at the other fire, only men taking their ease of the dark and the rain in a way as old as men on any earth.

  And finally: “I do not understand you,” Chei said.

  Vanye jerked the braiding loose and looked up at him, frowning. “T
here is Hell between the gates, Chei, and we will ride through it. There is a new earth the other side, but fairer or fouler than this one, neither of us knows. Heaven knows how the worlds are ordered, but the gates bind them together in ways dangerous for all life. When we are gone it will not be the same sun that rises over us. That is all I understand of it. But that is where we will be—as if we were dead, Chei, and the other side of Hell, and you cannot go back or change your minds then, and nothing you knew will be true. That is what will become of you. This land is your home. And fair or foul, it is what you understand. Think on that. And you still will not know the extent of what will happen to you. Nothing you know will be true.”

  “But you go. And you are a Man. Are you not?”

  Vanye shrugged. The question went deep, troubling him. “It will not matter,” he said. “I cannot even reckon how old I am. The stars are not the same. I do not know where I am. I do not know how long ago my cousin died. And it was only a handful of days ago I left him. Now only my liege speaks my language. All the rest are gone.” He looked up at two bewildered, sobered faces. “That is the plainest I know to tell you. There is nowhere we come from. There is nowhere we are going. We only go. Come with us if you will. Leave us, the other side of the gate. It may be you will find peace there. It may be we will fall straight into Hell, and die there. We have no way to know. If it is to glory you hope to follow us—or wealth—there is none to offer you. And whether we are right or wrong in anything we do, I do not know. I cannot offer you that either. My liege cannot. So you would be wisest to stay here. Truly you would.”

  “I do not understand you,” Chei said.

  “I know. But I am telling you the truth. Go with us as far as Tejhos, that is all. Then ride west. Lose yourselves in the hills, hide and wait. There will be wars. In that time—you will find a lord worth following. That is my advice to you.”

  “Are you a witch?” Chei asked.