The Complete Morgaine

by C. J. Cherryh

  “That which seems to make you prudent, my lord. Justifiably so. I see you have talked to my enemies.”

  “And is your report of me so foul?” Again Gault paced the horse the other direction, weaving a slow, distracting course in the deepening dusk, which Morgaine’s hand followed constantly.

  “It is your death, my lord. My patience is lessening with every step you take. Do you want to discover which is the fatal one?”

  Another three paces. “He is delaying,” Vanye muttered, scanning the hills with constant attention. “There is something else out there, and he is waiting for the dark.”

  “My lady,” Gault called out. “You and I might have more to speak of than you think likely. And perhaps more in common than you think.” Gault’s voice grew gentler, and he curbed his horse’s straying. “I take it that it is you I deal with and not this gentleman by you.”

  “It is myself,” she said. “Have no doubt of that.”

  “What is he?”

  “This is delay,” Vanye said. “Liyo, seek no more of him. Let us be out of here.”

  “My companion,” Morgaine answered Gault. “So—you do not know everything about me.”

  “Should I?” Again the horse surged forward and Gault reined it back. “You are no visitor out of Mante. Your name is Morgaine. So the humans say. Mine is Qhiverin—among others.”

  “Liyo. Break away—now! Do not listen to this serpent.”

  “You are a stranger here,” Gault said. “A wayfarer of the gates. You see I am not deceived. You have threatened Mante. Now you will kill me and all my men, lest I reach Tejhos. You think that you have no choice. But here am I, come to parley with you when I might have stayed safe in Morund—or turned prudently south to Morund-gate, once I learned what you are. I did not. I have risked my life and my lord’s favor to find you. Is this the action of an implacable enemy?”

  “Do not believe him,” Bron said. “My lady, do not listen!”

  Gault held up one hand, took his sword from its hangings and dropped it ringing to the ground. “There. Does that relieve your suspicions?”

  “Withdraw your men,” Morgaine said.

  Gault hesitated, seeming uncertain, then lifted his hand to the darkened sky.

  A black and moving hedge crested the hill eastward.

  “Riders on our left!” Vanye cried, and ripped Changeling from its sheath.

  The air went numb and Arrhan shied under him as that the blade came free, an opal blaze till its tip cleared the sheath and whirled free.

  Then a darkness greater than the night formed at Changeling’s point, and drew in the air all about them. Wind shrieked and keened; men cried out in panic, and the dark lines went to chaos, some breaking forward to meet him, some turning to flee.

  “Gate,” he heard cry throughout the enemy ranks, “Gate!”—for gate it was, leading to Hell itself. He swung it and a horse and rider together went whirling away into dark, screaming with one terror. Others collided with each other in their attempt to escape his attack, and them he took in one stroke and the next, merciless, for there was no stopping it, there was no delicacy in it—it ate substance and spun it out again, streaming forms of living men away into Hell and cold—

  —one and the next and the next as Arrhan cut a curving swath through attackers who trampled each other trying to flee it.

  “Archers!” he heard cry. It was for his liege and his comrades he had concern. He reined aside to bring the hell-thing to the defense of his own—taking missiles askew with the wind, trying to shield his liege if he could find her in the unnatural light and the blinding wind.

  “Liyo!” he shouted, desperate, fighting when he must, when some rider rushed him. The gate-force quivered through his arm and his shoulder and deafened him with its screaming; his eyes grew full of the hell-light and the sights and the faces till he was numb and blinded.

  “Liyo!”

  “Vanye!” he heard, and went to that thin sound, turning Arrhan, forcing her with his heels as the mare faltered in blind confusion.

  Riders swept toward him. He swung the sword up at the nearest and saw the horrified face in the light of the blade, saw the mouth open in a cry of disbelief.

  “Bron!” he cried, wrenching the blade aside, veering so that Arrhan skidded and fought wildly for balance.

  Bron was gone. The bartered horse thundered past riderless.

  He guided Arrhan about in a stumbling turn, and saw Morgaine beyond, silver and black, and Siptah’s eyes wild in the opal fire.

  “Follow!” she ordered him, and reined about and rode for the dark and the road.

  He did not even think then; he followed. He drove his heels into Arrhan’s flanks and swept to her right and behind, to keep Morgaine safe from what he did not know and could not see for the shock to his soul and the blinding of his eyes. If there were enemies still behind he did not know. He held Changeling naked to his right, protecting them both, for in that howling wind no arrow could reach them.

  Up, up and up the steep slope, until horses faltered on the wet grass, and Siptah came about and Arrhan slowed, blowing froth back from her bit.

  “Sheathe it,” Morgaine cried. “Sheathe it!”

  He discovered the sheath safe in its place at his side: he had done that much before he lost himself, reflexive and unremembered act. He took the sheath in a trembling hand and turned the other numbed and aching wrist to wobble the point toward safety, the only thing that would contain Changeling’s fire.

  That small aperture was a goal he suddenly feared he could not make without calamity. His hand began to shake.

  “Give over!” Morgaine said in alarm.

  He made it. He slid the point home and the fire dimmed and died, so that he was truly blind. His right arm ached from fingers to spine. He had no strength in it nor feeling in his fingers. “I killed Bron,” he said with what voice he could manage, quite calmly. “Where is Chei?”

  “I do not know,” Morgaine said, reining Siptah close to him. There was hardness in her voice, was very steel. He could not have borne any softer thing. “We did not take them all. Some escaped. I do not know which ones.”

  “Forgive—” His breath seemed dammed up in him.

  “We are near Tejhos. There is a chance that Mante will mistake one gate-fire for the other. At least for the hour.” She turned Siptah on the slope and rode, Arrhan followed by her own will, dazed and blind as he.

  “Too near the gate,” he heard her say. “Too cursed near. We must be nearly on Tejhos-gate. I should never have given it to you.”

  “Bron is dead,” he said again, in the vague thought that she might not have understood him. He had to say it again to believe it. The fabric of the world seemed thinned and perilously strained about him and what he had done seemed done half within some other place, unlinked and without effect here. Things that Were could not be mended piece to piece if he did not say it till it took hold of him. “Chei may have gone with him—O God. O God!”

  He began to weep, a leakage from his eyes that became a spasm bowing him over his saddle.

  “Is thee hurt?” Morgaine asked him sharply, grasping Arrhan’s rein. They had stopped somehow. He did not recall. “Is thee hurt?”

  “No,” he managed to say. “No.” He felt Siptah brush hard against his leg and felt Morgaine touch him, a grip on his shoulder which he could hardly feel through the armor. He was alone inside, half deaf with the winds, blinded by the light which still swung as a red bar passing continually in his vision. He was drowning in it, could not breathe, and he was obliged to say: “No. Not hurt,” when next he could draw a breath, because she had no time for a fool and a weakling who killed a comrade and then could not find his wits again. He pushed himself up by the saddlebow and groped after the reins.

  “Give me the sword,” she said. “Give it!”

  He managed to wind the r
eins about his numbed right hand and to pass Changeling back to her with his left.

  “Brighter,” he remembered, competent in this at least, that his mind recollected something so difficult amid the chaos. He indicated with a lifting of his left hand toward the northeast, as the road ran. “There. There will be Tejhos-gate.”

  She stared in that direction; she hooked Changeling to her belt and they rode again at all the pace the horses could bear. His right arm ached in pulses that confused themselves with the rhythm of the horses or with his heartbeats, he could not tell which. He worked the fingers desperately, knowing the likelihood of enemies. He scanned darkened hills the crests of which swam with the blurring of his eyes.

  “Gate-force,” Morgaine said in time. “We are very near. Vanye, is thee feeling it?”

  “Aye,” he murmured. “Aye, liyo.” It was inside the armor with him, was coiled about his nerves and his sinew, it crept within his skull and corrupted sight and reason. They must go near that thing. Perhaps ambush waited for them.

  We will lose everything we have done, he thought, everything she has suffered this far—lost, for a fool who mishandled the sword. I should have sheathed it when it went amiss. I should have ridden back. I should have—

  —should have—known what I struck—

  O God, it could as well have been her.

  “Vanye!”

  He caught himself before he pitched. He braced himself against the saddlehorn and felt Siptah’s body hit his right leg, Morgaine holding him by the straps of his armor, though he was upright now without that.

  “Can thee stay the saddle? Shall I take the reins?”

  “I am well enough,” he murmured, and took the reins in his left hand and let his numbed right rest braced between him and the saddlebow. If he could do one thing right this cursed night it was to dispose himself where he could not fall off and compound his liege’s troubles.

  Siptah took to the lead then; and the mare lengthened her stride to match him, struggling now, on heart alone.

  Where are we going? he wondered. Is it enemies she fears? Or do we go toward the gate, to hold it?

  His very teeth ached now with the emanations, and he felt a pain like knives driven into every joint of his right arm, an ache that crept across his chest and into his vitals. He wished he had respite to faint away or to rest; and dutifully fought not to, for what use he was. The pain reached his spine and his skull, one with the pounding of the mare’s gait, the jolts which threatened to take him from the saddle.

  Hold on, he told himself, slumped over the saddle when other thought had ceased, hold on, hold on.

  • • •

  The roan horse came to a slow halt where the battle had been, and Gault clutched after its ties and its stirrup, letting himself down by painful degrees to stand amid the field. He did not know the weapon that had struck him, which had pierced through his left arm and burned across his back. But here he had fallen in the battle, here his ranks had broken in terror of the gate-weapon, and there were appallingly few corpses remaining.

  Here he had flung himself at the roan horse as the slaughter started and managed to get back astride—when the gate-force broke loose and sane men quit the field as quickly as they could.

  Such of them as survived had rallied again—qhal, and a scattering of terrified humans—most of all, that the squad he had sent wide before they came to Arunden’s camp, had overtaken them now, having swept up the deserters; and had found him on the road.

  Now they walked as he did, probing among the dead that were thickest here, where only the red fire had come, where the woman had wielded what they had mistakenly thought the chiefest of weapons they faced.

  That was the fire that had touched him. He understood that much. He stumbled among cooling bodies and found one living, who hoarsely called his name—“Rythys!” Gault called out. “Your cousin!”—and Rythys left his desperate searching and came in haste, one of the few fortunate.

  But Gault sought Jestryn on the field, and found him finally—Pyverrn the wit, Pyverrn the prankster, Pyverrn who had done an unhumorous thing at the last, and flung himself and his horse between Gault and the killing fire.

  “Pyverrn,” Gault-Qhiverin said, feeling after a heartbeat, and finding none, finding Jestryn’s face already cold in the night wind. “Pyverrn!” he cried, for that was the oldest name, the name by which they had been friends in Mante, and fought the Overlord’s battles and intrigued in the Overlord’s court through their last life. “Pyverrn!”

  He hugged the body to him, but it was only cooling human clay against his own borrowed flesh, a body Pyverrn had worn, but never truly mastered.

  This was the last death, the irrecoverable one: not Tejhos-gate nor any other could save a life, once the life was gone; and Gault would have murdered one of his own men to have hosted Pyverrn’s self again—he would have taken one of his own kind; his other and dearest friends.

  He would have—such was the bond between them—accepted what only a few had dared to save a fading life: he would have gone into the gate with his friend and taken him into his own self, risking madness, or obliteration.

  That was his love for Pyverrn.

  But there was nothing left to love. There was only the cold flesh that Pyverrn had wrested from its previous owner, and no way to restore it.

  His men came round him where he knelt and wept. None ventured a word to him, until he himself let the body go and stood up.

  “Tejhos-gate,” he said. “We are going after them!”

  Doubtless there were some few who would have fled, had they had a choice. He knew the cowardice of some of them, that had had to be herded back. But in the southern lands there was nothing to hide them should they fail him—and now they knew he was alive.

  “Two of you will go to Mante,” he said when they were mounted again. “The rest of us will ride after these invaders. We will have them. I will have them, him and her, and they will wish they had been stillborn.”

  • • •

  “Better?” Morgaine asked; and Vanye, sitting with his back against a standing stone, leaned his head against that unforgiving surface and nodded with his eyes shut. He did not remember much of the ride that had brought them this far. He knew that he had been upright in the saddle, but so much of it had been that kind of pain which the mind would not believe could last so keenly, so long. All that time seemed compressed; yet he knew it was leagues beyond that place where he had almost fallen. Tejhos-gate was far behind them.

  And the cessation of that force left him drained, void, as if he had been gutted.

  Beside them the horses caught their breath and began to show a little interest in the grass under their feet, now they had drunk of the little creek and had their legs rubbed down. He had done that much for his horse, while Morgaine saw to the Baien gray. He was a horseman from his birth: he would have done that for the brave mare with his heart’s blood, after the course she had run; and Morgaine—whatever she was—had no less care for the gray.

  Now she leaned against another such stone facing him—not stones of power, mere markers along the roadside. One knee propped the sword on which she leaned, the sight of which he could hardly bear and the weight of which he remembered in his bones: not balanced like an ordinary blade, the crystal length within that sheath rune-written with the secrets of the gates—for the sake of a successor, she had told him once. She had taught him writing and ciphering more than a lord’s bastard needed—for what purpose he knew, and loathed, and thought about no more than he had to.

  But he could read those runes. They were burned into his soul like the light into his eyes.

  “Water?” she asked him.

  He drank from the flask she gave him, struggled with his left hand and his right to hold it without shaking. The pain was still there, but only a dull ache, against the memory of the living blade in his hand. He gave t
he flask back, drew a breath and looked about him at the rolling hills, the stones, the road pale in the starlight.

  “We should have gone over to Tejhos,” he murmured.

  “Thee could not,” she said.

  It was bitter truth. He would have left her to hold the place alone, would have fallen—Heaven knew where he would have fallen, or how long the fire would run in his bones if he lay within that influence.

  The drawing of the sword was a dice-throw, a power either felt in Mante, if they were wary; or was mistaken for ordinary—O Heaven—ordinary use of the gate, in which case Mante would do nothing, until their enemies reached it and passed it and told Mante otherwise—which they would, assuredly.

  Therefore they ran. Therefore they paced themselves to last now, with all the speed they could make, while they might make it.

  He had a cold lump of fear at his gut. Coward, he had heard from his brothers, and from his father, and most of Morija—You think too much, his brother had told him. He had never been like them. In all too many respects.

  If a man thought—if a man let himself think—backward or forward—

  “It is not the first friend the sword has taken,” she said finally. “Vanye, it was not your fault.”

  “I know,” he said, and saw in his mind the harper-lad of Ra-morij, who had thrown himself between that blade in her hand and his threatened kin—had flung himself there to be a hero, and discovered Hell in the unstoppable swing of Morgaine’s hand.

  “They rode to your right,” she said, “against all our warnings.”

  The excuses she made for him were doubtless those which armored her, the only and best wisdom she had to give him. He sensed the pain it cost her to expose that. And there was nothing to say against those excuses that she did not, beneath those reasonings, know—

  —except the harper had known the report of the sword: who in Morija had not?

  But Bron had not known, had not guessed how far its danger extended. They had never told him.

  He shut his eyes, clenched them shut, as if it could banish the terrified face that was burned across his vision; or bring back the sun, and end this terrible night where visions were all too easy. The priest, he thought, had cursed him, cursed Bron, cursed Chei. He did not say that to Morgaine. But he feared it. Heaven had answered that creature, and he did not know why, except Heaven judged them worse—