Gate of Ivrel

eyes were the same—insolent and mocking.

Vanye thrust himself to his feet, seeing at once that they were alone in the room and that the door was shut. There would be men outside. He had no illusions of safety. He put up a brave face against Erij and ignored him for the moment, going about the necessary business of getting his boots on. Then he went over to the leavings of last night’s wine and had a sip of the wretched stuff, returning to the fireside to drink it, for the chill crept quickly into his bones. All this Erij let him do without troubling him.

And then while he knelt feeding the fire to life he heard Erij’s tread behind him, and felt the gentle touch of Erij’s long fingers gather back his hair, which hung loose about his shoulders. It was long enough to gather in the hand, not yet long enough to resume the braid that marked a warrior. Erij tugged at it gently, as a man might a child’s.

He lifted his head perforce. He did not try to turn, but braced himself for the cruel wrench he was sure would come. It did not.

“I would have thought,” said Erij, “that the honors bestowed on you at your leaving would have counseled you against coming back.”

Erij let go his hair. Vanye seized the chance to turn and rise. Erij was taller than he: he could not help looking up at his elder brother, close as he stood to him. His back was to the hearth. The heat was unpleasant. Erij did not back a pace to let him away from it.

And then he saw that Erij had no right hand: the member that he kept thrust within the breast of his tunic was a stump. He stared, horrified, and Erij held it up the better for him to see.

“Your doing,” said Erij. “Like much else.”

He did not offer his sorrow for it; he could not say at the moment that he felt it, or anything else save shock. Erij had been the vain one, the skilled one, his hands clever with the sword, with the harp, with the bow.

The pain of the fire in his legs was intense. He pushed free of Erij. The wine cup spilled on the floor and rolled a trail of red droplets darkly across the thirsty dust.

“You come in strange company,” said Erij. “Is she real?”

“Yes,” said Vanye.

Erij considered that. He was Myya and coldly practical; Myya doubted much and believed little: they were not notoriously religious. It was doubtful which side in him would win, god-fearing Nhi or cynical Myya. “I have had a look at some of the things she carried,” he said. “And that would seem to support it. But she bleeds like any mortal.”

“There are enemies on her trail and mine,” he said hoarsely, “that will be no boon to Morija. Let us be on our way as soon as she can ride, and we will be no trouble to you and neither will they. Hjemur will be far too busy with the both of us to trouble with Morija. If you try to hold her here, it may well be otherwise.”

“And if she dies here?”

He stared at Erij, gauging him, and began to reckon with the two years and what they had wrought: the boy was dead, and the man would kill, cold-bloodedly. Erij had been a creature of tempers, of vanities, of sometime kindness—different than Handrys. Erij’s features now seemed those of a man who never smiled. A new scar marred one cheek. There had come to be lines about the eyes.

“Let her pass,” said Vanye. “They will want her and all that ever was hers; you cannot deal with Hjemur. There is no dealing with them at all, and you know it.”

“Is that where she is going?” he asked.

“The less Morija has to do with her the better. She has bloodfeud with them, and she is more danger to them than to you. I am telling you the truth.”

Erij thought upon that a moment, leaned upon the fireplace and thrust the maimed limb within his tunic once more. His dark eyes rested upon Vanye, hard and calculating. “The last I heard of you was through Myya Gervaine, the matter of a killing and a horse-theft in Erd.”

“It took the better part of two years to pass the land of your cousins of Myya,” Vance acknowledged. “I lived off them; and took the horse in trade for mine.”

Erij’s lips tightened in grim mirth at the insolence. “Before you acquired a service, I take it?”

“Before that, yes.”

“And how was it that you acquired that service?”

Vanye shrugged. He was cold. He returned to the fire, folding his arms against the chill. “Carelessness,” he said. “I sheltered where I ought not—too intent on the woman to remember that she had lord-right. It was fair Claiming.”

“Do you sleep with her?”

He looked up at his brother in shock. “ Ilin with liyo, and the like of her? No, I do not. Did not.”

“She is beautiful. She is also qujal. I do not like having her under roof. She claims no hearth-right here, and I do not intend she should obtain it.”

“She does not wish it,” said Vanye. “Only send us on our way.”

“What is the term of your service to her? What does she claim of you?”

“I do not think I am at liberty to say that. But it has nothing to do with Morija. We only turned here after we were harried in this direction by Hjemur.”

“And if released, she will go—where?”

“Out of your lands, by the quickest means.” He looked his brother in the face, dropping all arrogance: Erij was due his revenge, had had it in the hospitality he gave them. “I swear it, Erij; and I hold nothing against you for this welcome of yours. If you let us go I will take every care that it brings no trouble on the land—on my life, Erij.”

“What do you ask of me, what help?”

“Only return to us the gear you took from us. Give us provisions, if you would. We are scant of everything. And we will go as soon as she can ride.”

Erij stared into the fire, sidelong; his eyes flicked back again, frowning. “There is a charge on that charity.”

“What charge?”

“You.” And when Vanye only stared at him, blank and hardly comprehending: “I will release her,” said Erij, “today, with provisions, with horses, with all your gear; and she may go where she will. But you I will not release. That is the charge on my hospitality.”

Bargain us a refuge, she had ordered him before she sank into delirium, however you can. He knew that it dishonored her, to abandon him, but he knew the compulsion there was in Morgaine: she lived for that, and for nothing else, her face set toward Hjemur. She would gladly spend his life if it would set her safe at Hjemur’s border: she had said that in her own words.

“When I have fulfilled my service with her,” he offered, trying that, “I will come back to Morija.”

“No,” said Erij.

“Then,” he said at last, “for such a bargain you owe me fair payment: swear that she will go from here with all that is ours, horses and weapons and provisions adequate to see her to any of our borders she chooses: and let her ride free away from the very gate—no double-dealing.”

“And for your part?” asked Erij. “If I grant this, I will have no curse from you or from her?”

“None,” said Vanye; and Erij named his oath and swore: it was one that even a half-Myya ought to respect.

And Erij left. Vanye was overcome with cold thereafter and knelt on the hearth, feeding the wood in slowly, until the blaze grew intense. The room was still. He looked into the shadows beyond the light and saw only Handrys’s things. He had never much credited the beliefs that the unhappy dead hovered close about the living, though he served one who should have been dead a century ago; but there remained a chill about the room, a biding discomfort that might be guilt, or fear, or some power of Handrys’s soul that lingered here.

Eventually there was a clatter in the courtyard. He went to the slit of a window and looked out, and saw the black and Siptah saddled, saw men about them.

And, aided by two men, Morgaine was brought down and set upon her horse. She scarcely had the strength to stay the saddle, and caught the reins with an awkward gesture that showed she had almost dropped them.

Anger churned in him, that she was being turned out in such condition. Erij meant for her to die.

He forced his shoulder through the narrow opening, shouted down at her. “ Liyo!”