She made it all cease, as quick as a move of her hand, and leaned against the counter, head bowed, like one who had suffered some mortal blow.
Then she turned and lifted her head, her eyes fixed earnestly on Vanye’s.
“You and your brother must quit this place as quickly as you can,” she said. “Liell spoke the truth in one thing: it will be destroyed. The machine is locked in such a way I cannot free it, and Ra-hjemur will be rubble in the time a rider could reach Ivrel. You are free of your oath. You have paid it all. Good-bye.”
And with that she brushed past him and walked quickly down the long aisle alone, headed for the stairs.
“ Liyo!” he cried, stopping her. “Where are you going?”
“He has locked the Gate open on a place of his choosing, and I am going after him. I have not much time: he has a good start on me, and surely he has allowed only what he thinks enough time for himself. But he is timid, this Liell: I am hoping that he has given himself too much grace, too much margin.”
And with that she turned again, and began to walk and more quickly, and at last to run.
Vanye started forward a pace. “Brother,” Erij reminded him. He stopped. She vanished down the stairs.
When the last sound of her footsteps was gone he turned again, of necessity, to face the anger in his brother’s face. He went down upon the chill floor and pressed his forehead to it, making the obeisance his oath made due Erij.
“Your humility is a little late,” said Erij. “Get up. I like to see your eyes when you answer questions.”
He did so.
“Did she tell the truth?” Erij asked then.
“Yes,” said Vanye. “I think it was the truth. Or if you doubt it, at least doubt it from a day’s-ride distance from here. If you see it still standing after that, then it was not the truth.”
“What is this of Gates?”
“I do not know,” he said, “only that sometimes there is another side to the Witchfires and sometimes not, and that once she goes, she will be nowhere we can reach. I am sorry. It was not a thing she explained clearly. But she will not be back. Ivrel is a Gate that will close when this place dies, and after that there will be no more Witchfires, no more Thiyes, no more magics in the world.”
He looked around him at the place, for that complexity was like the living inside of some great beast, though its veins were conduits of lights and its heart and pulse glowed and faded slowly.
“If you do not want to die, Erij,” he said, “I suggest we take her advice and be as far from here as possible when it happens.”
The horses were where they had left them, patiently waiting in the gray dawn, cropping the sparse grass as if there were nothing unusual in the day. Vanye checked the girths and heaved himself up, and Erij did the same. They rode the open and faster road this time, pausing for a view of the great cube of Ra-hjemur, which looked, with its breached gate, like a creature with a mortal wound.
Then they set out together for Morija.
“There is no more lord of Hjemur,” said Vanye at last “You and Baien are all the clan-lords left of any stature at all. It is within your reach to gain the High Kingship without Hjemurn magics after all, and perhaps that will be better for human folk.”
“Baien’s lord is old,” said Erij, “and has a daughter. I do not think that he will want a war to cloud his old age and ruin his land. I will perhaps be able to make an alliance with him. And Chya Roh left no heirs. His people will be less trouble to us. Pyven’s lady is Chya, and with Chya in Koris in our hands, Pyven will submit.” Erij sounded almost cheerful, counting his prospects and reckoning lightly of a few wars.
But Vanye gazed to the road ahead, where it wound out of sight and into view again toward the south, hoping earnestly to see her, seeing her in his mind, at least, as she had ridden that evening out of Aenor-Pyven’s Gate.
“You are not listening,” Erij accused him.
“Aye,” he said, bunking and breaking the spell, and looking again toward Erij.
And ever and again after that, he saw Erij look curiously at him, and there was a growing sourness on Erij’s face, as if whatever alliance there had been to make them brothers this dawn in Ra-hjemur were fast shredding asunder. He held out little hope for his peace as he saw that sullen estimation grow more and more grim.
“There is none of the high-clan blood in Morija left, but us,” said Erij that noon, when the sun was almost warm, and they rode still knee to knee.
Oh Heaven, Vanye thought, looking out upon the sunlight and the hills with regret, now it comes; for he had long since come to the conclusion he was sure would occur to Erij: that, enemies as they were, Erij was mad to flaunt a high-clan prisoner in Morija. Without Ra-hjemur from which to rule, he had not power enough to bear a taint of dishonor—or a rival. Politics and ambitions would swarm about a bastard Chya like flies to honey. Such conclusions as Erij had no doubt reached were dishonorable, better meditated in the dark of night than in such a fair day.
“Bastard that you are,” said Erij, “you could make yourself a threat to me, if you were minded to do so. There is no lord in Chya. It comes to me, bastard brother, that you are heir to Chya, if you were to claim it, and that no lord can be claimed as ilin.”
“I have not laid any claim to Chya,” said Vanye. “I do not think I could, and I do not intend to.”
“They had rather own you than me, I do not doubt it at all,” said Erij. “And you are still the most dangerous man to me in all of Andur-Kursh, so long as you live.”
“I am not,” said Vanye, “because I regard my oath. But you do not regard your own honor enough to trust mine.”
“You did not regard your oath in Ra-hjemur.”
“You were not in danger from Morgaine. I did not have to.”
Erij gazed long at him, then reached across. “Give me your hand,” he said, and Vanye, puzzling, yielded it to his left-handed handclasp. His brother pressed it in almost friendly fashion.
“Leave,” said Erij. “If I hear of you after this I will hunt you down ... or if you come to Morija, I will set Claim on you and let you work off that year you owe me. But I do not think you will come to Morija.”
And he gestured with a nod to the road ahead.
“If she will have you—go.”
Vanye stared at him, then gripped his brother’s strong, dry hand the more tightly before he broke the clasp.
Then he set heels to the horse, dismissing from his mind every thought that he was weaponless and that Morgaine would have opened a wide lead on them during the morning.
He would gain that distance back. He would find her. He realized much later to his grief that he had not even looked back once at his brother, that he had severed that tangled tie without half the pain he thought it must have cost Erij to let him go.
In that loosing, he thought, Erij had paid for everything; he wished that he had spoken some word of thanks.
Erij would have sneered at it.
He did not find her on the road. In the second day, he cut off the track the two had used, and took the one on which Liell had come from Ivrel, the one he thought Morgaine would surely choose. Ivrel was close and there was no more time left for stopping, though he was aching from the ride and the horse’s breath came in great gasps, such that he must dismount and half pull the beast up the steeper places of the trail. The delay tormented him and he began to fear that he had lost the way, that he would lose her once for all.
And yet finally, finally, when he came out upon the height, there stood Ivrel’s great side to be seen, and the barren shoulder of the mountain where the Gate would be. He urged the black to what speed the horse could bear and climbed, sometimes losing sight of his goal, sometimes finding it again, until he entered the forest of twisted pines and lost it altogether.
In the snow were footprints, the old ones of many men, and some of animals, and some of those not good to imagine what had made them; but now and again he could sort out new ones.
Roh-Liell-Zri, upon the black mare, most likely, and Morgaine upon his trail.
Breath hung frozen in the sunlight, and air cut the lungs. He had at last to walk the horse, out of mercy, and scanned the black sickly pines about him, remembering all too keenly that he had no weapons at all, and was too bone weary for headlong flight.
Then through those pines he caught a glimmer of movement, a white movement amid the blaze of sun on snow, and he whipped up his horse and made what speed he could on the trail.
“Wait!” he cried.
She waited for him. He came in beside her breathless with relief, and she leaned from the saddle and reached for his hand.
“Vanye, Vanye, you ought not to have followed me.”
“Are you going through?” he asked.
She looked up at the Gate, shimmering dark again, stars and blackness above them in the daylight. “ Yes,” she said, and then looked down at him. “Do not delay me further. This following me is nonsense. I do not know how the Gate is behaving, whether that will bring me through to the same place that Zri has fled or whether it will fling me out elsewhere. And you do not belong. You were useful for a time. You with your ilin–codes and your holds and your kinships... this is your world, and I needed a man who could maneuver things as I needed them. You have served your purpose. Now there is an end of the matter. You are free, and be glad of it.”
He did not speak. He supposed finally that he merely stared at her, until he felt her hand slip from his arm, and she moved away. He watched her begin the long slope, Siptah refusing it at first. She took firm grip on the reins and began to force the animal against his will, driving him brutally until he decided to go, gathering himself in a long climb into the dark.
And was gone.
We are not brave, we that play this game with Gates; there is too much we can lose, to have the luxury to be virtuous, and to be brave.
He sat still a moment looked about the slope, and considered the tormented trees and the cold, and the long ride to Morija, cast off by her, begging Erij to bear his presence in Andur-Kursh.
And there was pain in every direction but one: as the sword had known the way to its own source, his senses did.
Of a sudden he laid heels to his horse and began to drive the beast upslope. There was only a token refusing. Siptah had gone: the black understood what was expected of him.
The gulf yawned before him, black and starry, without the wind that had howled there before. There was only enough breeze to let him know it was there.
And dark, utter dark, and falling. The horse heaved and twisted under him, clawing for support.
And found it.
They were running again, on a grassy shore, and the air was warm. The horse snorted in surprise, then extended himself to run.
A pale shape was on the hill before them, under a double moon.
“ Liyo!” he shouted. “Wait for me!”
She paused, looking back, then slid off to stand upon the hillside.
He rode in alongside and slid down from his exhausted horse even before the animal had quite stopped moving. Then he hesitated, not knowing whether he would meet joy or rage from her.
But she laughed and flung her arms about him, and he about her, pressing her tightly until she flung back her head and looked at him.
It was the second time he had ever seen her cry.
FB2 document info
Document ID: 12c1cda6-fa2a-489c-bbcc-af426f1f6ae3
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 2002-07-29
Created using: FB Tools, VIM, Haali Reader, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
OCR Source: #bookz
Document authors :
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Gate of Ivrel com-1 Page 22
