Gate of Ivrel

man seemed likely wanting too. His hair hung in twining ringlets. His eyes were hunted, darting from this to that; his mouth was like that of a sick man, loose, moist at the edges. He exuded heat and chill at once, like fever.

And his clothing was splendor itself, cloth-of-gold, his narrow chest adorned with brooches and clasps and chains of gold. A jeweled Honor blade was at his belt, and a jeweled longsword, which added decoration useless and pathetic. The air about him was thick with the reek of perfumes that masked decay. As they came near him there was no doubt. It was a sickroom smell

Kasedre arose, extended a thin hand to offer place to Morgaine, who tucked up her feet and settled on the low bench courtiers had vacated for her, a place of honor; she wore Changeling high at her back and released the hook mat secured the shoulderstrap at her waist, letting strap and blade slide to her hip for comfort, sitting. She bowed gracefully; Kasedre returned the courtesy.

Vanye must perforce kneel at the Leth’s feet and touch brow to floor, respect which the Leth hardly deigned to acknowledge, intent as he was on Morgaine. Vanye crept aside to his place behind her. It was bitter: he was a warrior—had been, at least; he had been proud, though bastard, and certainly Nhi Rijan’s bastard ranked higher than this most notorious of hedge-lords. But he had seen ilinin at Ra-morij forced to such humiliation, refused Claiming, forgotten, ignored, no one reckoning what the man might have been before he became ilin and nameless. It was not worth protest now: the Leth was supremely dangerous.

“I am intrigued to have the likes of you among us,” said Leth Kasedre. “Are you truly that Morgaine of Irien?”

“I never claimed to be,” said Morgaine.

The Leth blinked, leaned back a little, licked the corners of his mouth in perplexity. “But you are, truly,” he said. “There was never the like of you in this world.”

Morgaine’s lips suddenly acquired a smile as feral as Kasedre’s could be. “I am Morgaine,” she said. “You are right.”

Kasedre let his breath go in a long sigh. He performed another obeisance that had to be answered, rare honor for a guest in hall. “How are you among us? Do you come back to ride to other wars?”

He sounded eager, even delighted at the prospect.

“I am seeing what there is to be seen,” said Morgaine. “I am interested in Leth. You seem an interesting beginning to my travels. And,” a modest lowering of eyes, “you have been most charitable in the matter of my ilin–if it were not for the twins.”

Kasedre licked his lips and looked suddenly nervous. ‘Twins? Ah, wicked, wicked, those children. They will be disciplined.”

“Indeed they should be,” said Morgaine.

“Will you share dinner with us this evening?”

Morgaine’s precise and delighted smile did not vary. “Most gladly, most honored, Leth Kasedre. My ilin and I will attend.”

“Ah, but ill as he is—”

“My ilin will attend,” she said. Her tone was delicate ice, still smiling. Kasedre flinched from that and smiled also, chanced in the same moment to look toward Vanye, who glared back, sullen and well sure of the murder resident in Kasedre’s heart: hate not directed at Morgaine—he was in awe of her—but of the sight of a man who was not his to order.

Of a sudden, wildly, he feared Morgaine’s own capabilities. She slipped so easily into mad Kasedre’s vein, well able to play the games he played and tread the maze of his insanities.

Vanye reckoned again his worth to his liyo, and wondered whether she would yield him up to Kasedre if need be to escape this mad hall, a bit of human coin strewn along her way and forgotten.

But so far she defended her rights with authoritative persistence, whether for his sake or in her own simple arrogance.

“Have you been dead?” asked Kasedre.

“Hardly,” she said. “I took a shortcut. I was only here a month ago. Edjnel was ruling then.”

Kasedre’s mad eyes glittered and blinked when she casually named a lord his ancestor, dead a hundred years. He looked angry, as if he suspected some humor at his expense.

“A shortcut,” she said, unruffled, “across the years you folk have lived, from yesterday to now, straightwise. The world went wide, around the bending of the path. I went through. I am here now, all the same. You look a great deal like Edjnel.”

Kasedre’s face underwent a rapid series of expressions, ending in delight as he was compared to his famous ancestor. He puffed and swelled so far as his narrow chest permitted, then seemed again to return to the perplexities of the things she posed.

“How?” he asked. “How did you do it?”

“By the fires of Aenor above Pyven. It is not hard to use the fires to this purpose—but one must be very brave. It is a fearful journey.”

It was too much for Kasedre. He drew a series of deep breaths like a man about to faint, and leaned back, resting his hands upon that great sword, staring about at his gape-mouthed uyin, half of whom looked puzzled and the other part too muddled to do anything.

“You will tell us more of this,” said Kasedre.

“Gladly, at dinner,” she said.

“Ah, sit, stay, have wine with us,” begged Kasedre.

Morgaine gave forth that chill smile again, dazzling and false. “By your leave, lord Kasedre, we are still weary from our travels and we win need a time to rest or I fear we shall not last a late banquet. We will go to our room and rest a time, and then come down at whatever hour you send for us.”

Kasedre pouted. In such as he the moment was dangerous, but Morgaine continued to smile, bright and deadly, and full of promises. Kasedre bowed. Morgaine rose and bowed.

Vanye inclined himself again at Kasedre’s feet, had a moment to see the look that Kasedre cast at Morgaine’s back. It was, he was glad to see, still awestruck.

Vanye was shaking with exhaustion when they reached the security of their upstairs room. He himself moved the chair before the door again, and sat down on the bed. Morgaine’s cold hand touched his brow, seeking fever.

“Are you well?” she asked.

“Well enough. Lady, you are mad to sample anything of his at table tonight.”

“It is not a pleasant prospect, I grant you that.” She took off the dragon sword and set it against the wall.

“You are playing with him,” said Vanye, “and he is mad.”

“He is accustomed to having his way,” said Morgaine. “The novelty of this experience may intrigue him utterly.”

And she sat down in the other plain chair and folded her arms. “Rest,” she said. “I think we may both need it.”

He eased back on the bed, leaning his shoulder against the wall, and brooded over matters. “I am glad,” he said out of those thoughts, “that you did not ride on and leave me here senseless with fever as I was. I am grateful, liyo.”

She looked at him, gray eyes catwise and comfortable. “Then thee admits,” she said, “that there are some places worse to be ilin than in my service?”

The thought chilled him. “I do admit it,” he said. “This place being chief among them.”

She propped her feet upon her belongings: he lay down and shut his eyes and tried to rest. The hand throbbed. It was still slightly swollen. He would have gladly gone outside and packed snow about it, reckoning that of more value than Flis’s poultices and compresses or Morgaine’s qujalin treatments.

“The imp’s knife was plague-ridden,” he said.

Then, remembering: “Did you see them?”

“Who?”

“The boy—the girl—”