Gate of Ivrel

have seen her, while others said that she slept, waiting to draw a new generation of men to their ruin, as she had ruined Andur once at Irien.

Fair was she, and fatal as fair,

and cursed who gave her ear;

now men are few and wolves are more,

and the Winter drawing near.

If in fact the mound did hold Morgaine’s bones, it was fitting burial for one of her old, inhuman blood. Even the trees hereabouts grew crooked: so did they wherever there were Stones of Power, as though even the nature of the patient trees was warped by the near presence of the Stones; like souls twisted and stunted by living in the continual presence of evil. The top of the hill was barren: no trees grew there at all.

He was glad when he had passed the narrow stream-channel between the hills and left the vicinity of the Stones. And suddenly he had before him as it were a sign that he had run into better fortunes, and that heaven and the land of his cousins of Aenor-Pyven promised him safety.

A small band of deer wandered belly-deep in the snows by the little brook, hungrily stripping the red howan berries from the thicket

It was a land blessedly unlike that of the harsh Cedur Maje, or Gervaine’s Morij Erd, where even the wolves often went hungry, for Aenor-Pyven lay far southward from Hjemur, still untouched by the troubles that had so long lain over the Middle Realms.

He feverishly unslung his bow and strung it, his hands shaking with weakness, and he launched one of the gray-feathered Nhi shafts at the nearest buck. But the mare chose that moment to shift weight, and he cursed in frustration and aching hunger: the shaft sped amiss and hit the buck in the flank, scattered the others.

The wounded buck lunged and stumbled and began to run, crazed with pain and splashing the white snow with great gouts of blood. Vanye had no time for a second arrow. It ran back into Morgaine’s valley, and there he would not follow it He saw it climb—insane, as if the queerness in that valley had taken its fear-hazed wits and driven it against nature, killing itself in its exertions, driving it toward that shimmering web which even insects and growing things avoided.

It struck between the pillars and vanished.

So did the tracks and the blood.

The deer grazed, on the other side of the stream.

He gazed at the valley of the Stones, where there was no doubt that qujalin hands had reared such monoliths. It was Morgaine’s vale: he knew it. The sight stirred something, a sense of deja vu so strong it dazed him for a moment, and he passed the back of his hand over his eyes, rubbing things into focus. The sun was sinking quickly toward dark, with another bank of cloud rolling in off the ridge of the mountains, shadowing most of the sky at his back.

He looked up between the pillars that crowned the conical hill called Morgaine’s Tomb, and the declining sun shimmered there like a puddle of gold just disturbed by a plunging stone.

In that shimmer appeared the head of a horse, and its forequarters, and a rider, and the whole animal: white rider on a gray horse, and the whole was limned against the brilliant amber sun so that he blinked and rubbed his eyes.

The rider descended the snowy hill into the shadows across his path—substantial. A pelt of white anomen was the cloak, and the stranger’s breath and that of the gray horse made puffs on the frosty air.

He knew that he should set spurs to the mare, yet he felt curiously numb, as though he had been wakened from one dream and plunged into the midst of another.

He looked into the tanned woman’s face within the fur hood and met hair and brows like the winter sun at noon, and eyes as gray as the clouds in the east

“Good day,” she gave him, in a quaint and gentle accent, and he saw that beneath her knee upon the gray’s saddle was a great blade with a golden hilt in the fashion of a dragon, and that it was Korish-work upon her horse’s gear. He was sure then, for such details were in the songs they sang of her and in the book of Yla.

“My way lies north,” she said in that low, accented voice. “Thee seems to go otherwise. But the sun is setting soon. I will ride with thee a ways.”

“I know you,” he said then.

The pale brows lifted. “Has thee come hunting me?”

“No,” he said, and the ice crept downward from heart to belly so that he was no longer sure what words he answered, or why he answered at all.

“How is thee called?”

“Nhi Vanye, ep Morija.”

“Vanye—no Morij name.”

Old pride stung him. The name was Korish, mother’s-clan, reminder of his illegitimacy. Then to speak or dispute with her at all seemed madness. What he had seen happen upon the hilltop refused to take shape in his memory, and he began to insist to himself that the hunger that had made him weak had begun to twist his senses as well, and that he had encountered some strange high-clan woman upon the forsaken road, and that his weakness stole his senses and made him forget how she had come.

Yet however she had come, she was at least half– qujal, eyes and hair bore witness to that: she was qujal and soulless and well at home in this blighted place of dead trees and snow.

“I know a place,” she said, “where the wind does not reach. Come.”

She turned the gray’s head toward the south, as he had been headed, so that he did not know where else to go. He went as in a dream. Dusk was gathering, hurried on by the veil of cloud that was rolling across the sky. The wraithlike pallor of Morgaine drifted before him, but the gray’s hooves cracked substantially into the crusted snow, leaving tracks.

They rounded the turning of the hill and startled a small band of deer that fed upon howan by the streamside. It was the first game he had seen in days. Despite his circumstance, he reached for his bow.

Before he could string it, a light blazed from Morgaine’s outstretched hand and a buck fell dead. The others scattered.

Morgaine pointed to the hillside on their right. “There is a cave for shelter. I have used it before. Take what venison we need: the rest is due smaller hunters.”

She rode away up the slope. He took his skinning-knife and prepared to do her bidding, though he liked it little. He found no wound upon the body, only a little blood from its nostrils to spot the snow, and all at once the red on the snow brought back the dream, and made him shiver. He had no stomach for a thing killed in such a way, and the wide-eyed horned head seemed as spellbound as he—unwilling dreamer too.

He glanced over his shoulder. Morgaine stood upon the shoulder of the hill holding the gray’s reins, watching him. The first flakes of snow drifted across the wind.

He set his knife to the carcass and did not look it in the eye.

CHAPTER II

A FIRE blazed in the shallow cave’s mouth, putting a wall of warmth between them and the driving snow. He did not want the meat, but he was many days weak with hunger, so that his joints ached and the least exertion put a tremor in his muscles. He must sit and smell it cooking, and when she had cooked and offered a bit to him, it looked no different than other meat, and smelled so achingly good that his empty belly ruled his other scruples. A man would not lose his soul for a little bit of venison, however the beast had been slain.

The night was beyond. Occasional snowflakes pelted past the barrier of the fire’s heat, driven on a fierce gust. Outside, the horses, witch-horse and ordinary bay, stood together against the unfriendly wind; and when hot venison had taken the shaking from Vanye’s limbs and put strength into him, he took a portion of what grain he had left and went outside, fed half to each. The gray—of that famous breed of Baien, so men sang—nuzzled his hands