Wall of Shiuan

and began to bark frantically, sending mad echoes rolling through the halls, drowning the music that had begun again next door, until one of the guards whipped her yelping into silence. Vanye stared at the act, jarred by that mistreatment of a beast, and looked about him, at wealth, luxury, carved woods, carpets, bronze lamps—and the qujal–lords gathered by the door, resplendent in brocades and jewels, talking together in soft, astonished accents.

Three moved to the fore, to seat themselves at the chairs of the long table: an old man, in green and silver, he it was who had come first to look at them—and because he was first and because of his years, Vanye reckoned him for lord in the hall. At his right sat a youth in black and silver; at his left, another youth in blue and green of fantastical design, whose eyes were vague and strange, and rested in distant speculation on Vanye’s when he looked him in the face. Vanye flinched from that one, and felt Jhirun step back. His impulse even now was to run, deserting her, though guards and chains and double gates lay between him and freedom: nothing that could befall Jhirun in this place seemed half so terrible as the chance that they would realize what he was, and how he had come.

Morgaine’s enemies: he had come her road, and set himself against her enemies, and this was the end of it. They stood studying him, talking together in whispers, in a language he could not understand. A black-robed figure edged through that pale and glittering company, past the scale-armored guards, and deferentially whispered to the seated lords: the priest, who deferred to qujalin powers.

They have lost their gods, Morgaine had told him once; yet here was a priest among them. Vanye stood still, listening to that whispered debate, watching: a priest of demons, of qujal–this he had trusted, and delivered himself into their hands. The room grew distant from him, and the buzz of their soft voices as they discussed him was like that of bees over a Kurshin meadow, the hum of flies above corruption, the persistent rush of rain against the shuttered windows. He grew dizzy, lost in the sound, struggling only to keep his senses from sliding away.

“Who are you?” the old man asked sharply, looking directly at him; he realized then it was the second asking.

And had it been a human lord in his own hall, he would have felt obliged to bow in reverence: ilin that he was, he should bow upon his face, offering respect to a clan lord.

He stood still and hardened his face. “Lord,” he said in the whisper that remained of his voice, “I am Nhi Vanye i Chya.” He touched the hand of Jhirun, which rested on his arm. “She is Myya Jhirun i Myya Ela’s-daughter, of a hold in Hiuaj. She calls this an honorable hold, and says,” he added in grim insolence, “that your honor will compel you to give us a night’s shelter and send us on our way in the morning with provisions.”

There was a silence after that, and the lesser lords looked at each other, and the old lord smiled a wolf- smile, his eyes pale and cold as Morgaine’s.

“I am Bydarra,” said the old lord, “master of Ohtij-in.” A gesture of his hand to left and right indicated the youth in black and him in blue, whose vague, chill eyes were those of one dreaming awake. “My sons,” said Bydarra, “Hetharu and Kithan.” He drew a long breath and let it go again, a smile frozen upon his face. “Out of Hiuaj,” he murmured at last. “Does the quake and the flood scour out more lostlings to plague us? You are of the Barrow- hills,” he said to Jhirun; and to Vanye, “and you are not.”

“No,” Vanye agreed, having nothing else to say; his very accent betrayed him.

“From the far south,” said Bydarra.

There was a hush in the room. Vanye knew what the lord implied, for in the far south were only waters, and a great hill crowned with a ring of Standing Stones.

He said nothing.

“What is he?” Bydarra asked suddenly of Jhirun. Vanye felt her hand clench: a peasant girl, barefoot, among these glittering unhuman lords.

And then it occurred to him that she was, though human, of them: of their priest, their gods, their sovereignty.

“He is a great lord,” she answered in a faint, breathless voice, with a touch of witlessness that for a moment seemed dangerous irony; but he knew her, and they did not. Bydarra looked on her a moment longer, distastefully, and Vanye inwardly blessed her subtlety.

“Stranger,” said Hetharu suddenly, he in black brocade: Vanye looked toward him, realizing something that had troubled him—that this one’s eyes were human-dark, despite the frost-white hair, but there was no gentleness in voice or look. “You mentioned a woman,” Hetharu said, “on a gray horse or a black, or afoot, it might be. And who is she?”

His heart constricted; he sought an answer, cursing his rashness, and at last simply shrugged, refusing the question, hoping that Jhirun too would refuse it; but she did not owe them the courage it would take to keep up her pretense of ignorance. There would come a time, and quickly, when they would not ask with words. And Jhirun— Jhirun knew enough to ruin them.

“Why are you here?” asked Hetharu.

For shelter from the rain, he almost answered, insolent and unwise; but that might advise them how Jhirun had subtly mocked them. He held his peace.

“You are not khal,” said Kithan from the other side, his dreaming eyes half-lidded, his voice soft as a woman’s. “You are not even halfling. You style yourself like the southern kings. This is a charade. Some find it impressive. But if you are expert with the Wells, O traveller—then why are you at our gate, begging charity? Power ought to be better fed and better clothed.”

“My lord,” the priest objected.

“Out,” said Kithan, in that same soft tone. “Go impress the rabble in the courtyard... man.”

Bydarra stirred, rose stiffly to his feet, leaning on one arm of the chair. He looked at the priest, pursed his lips as if he would speak, and refrained. His gaze swept the other lords, and the guards, and lastly returned to Kithan and Hetharu.

Hetharu glowered; Kithan leaned back, eyes distant, moved a languid hand in a gesture of inconsequence.

The priest remained, silent and unhappy, and slowly Bydarra turned to Vanye, an old man in his movements, the seams of years and bitterness outlining his pale eyes and making hard his mouth. “Nhi Vanye,” he said quietly. “Do you wish to answer any of the questions my sons have posed you?”

“No,” said Vanye, conscious of the men at his back, the demon-helms that doubtless masked more of their folk. In Andur-Kursh, qujal had been fugitives, fearing to be known; but here qujal ruled. He recalled the courtyard where men lived, true men, who had cried out and reached for them, and instead they had trusted to qujal.

“If it is shelter you seek,” said Bydarra, “you shall have it. Food, clothing—whatever your needs be. Ohtij-in will give you your night’s hospitality.”

“And an open gate in the morning?”

Bydarra’s lined face was impassive, neither appreciating the barb nor angered by it. “We are perplexed,” said Bydarra. “While we are thus perplexed, our gates remain closed. Doubtless these matters can be quickly resolved. We will watch the roads for the lady you mention, and for you—a night’s hospitality.”

Vanye bowed the least degree. “My lord Bydarra,” he said, the words almost soundless.

They walked the winding corridor again, still ascending. Vanye kept Jhirun against his side, lest the guards think to separate them without resistance; and Jhirun hung her head dispiritedly, seeming undone, hardly caring where they were taken. About them a flurry of brown-clad servants bore trays and linens, some racing ahead, others rushing back again, shrinking against the walls motionless as they and their armored escort passed, averting their faces in terror unheard of in the worst bandit holds of Andur-Kursh.

Each bore a dark scar on the right cheek; Vanye noticed it on servant after servant they passed in the dim light, realized at last that it was a mark burned into the flesh, distinguishing the house servants from the horde outside. Outrage struck him, that the lords of Ohtij-in should mark men, to know their faces, as if this were the sole distinguishing of those who served them in their own hall.

And that men accepted this—to escape, perhaps, the misery outside—frightened him, as nothing human in this land had yet done.

The spiral branched, and they turned down that corridor, entered yet another spiral that wound upward yet a little distance, so that they seemed to have entered one of the outer towers. An open door welcomed them, and