Wall of Shiuan

And with Jhirun’s mare saddled, he returned to his own horse, and to Siptah—took meticulous pains with their own gear, that might have to stand a hard ride and few rests: he appropriated a coil of harness leather, and a braided leather rope as well; and at last he closed the stalls and prepared to leave.

“I have to go advise my lady,” he told Jhirun, who waited by her mare. “We will come as quickly as possible. Something might delay us a little time, but not for long.”

Anguish crossed her face: he frowned at it, turned all the same to leave, reckoning at least that the horses were safe while Jhirun had some gain from aiding them.

“No,” Jhirun whispered after him, ran suddenly and caught his arm; he looked back, chilled at the terror in her face: a sense of ambush prickled about him.

“Lord,” she whispered, “there is a man hiding here. Do not leave, do not leave me here.”

He seized her arm so hard that she winced. “How many more? What have you arranged for me?”

“No,” she breathed. “One. He—” With her head she gestured far off across the stalls, into the dark. “He is there. Do not leave me with him, not now, with the horses—Kithan. It is Kithan.”

She stifled a cry; he opened his hand, realizing he had wrenched her arm, and she rubbed the injured wrist, making no attempt to run.

“When the attack came,” she said, “he came here and could not get out. He has slept—I took a hayfork, and I came on him to kill him, but I was afraid. Now he will have heard us moving—he will come here when he thinks it safe, when you are gone.”

He slipped the ring of his sword, drew it carefully from sheath. “You show me where,” he said. “And if you are mistaken, Myya Jhirun i Myya—”

She shook her head. “I thought we were leaving,” she whispered, through tears. “I thought it would be all right, no need, no need for killing—I do not want to—”

“Quiet,” he said, and seized her wrist, pushing her forward. She began to lead him, as silently as possible, into the dark.

Small, square windows gave light within the stable, shafts of dusty light, and a maze of aisles and stalls, sheaves of straw, empty racks for harness. The building curved, irregularly, following the keep wall, and the aisles were likewise crooked, row upon row of box stalls, empty—a hay loft, a nesting-place for birds that fluttered wings and stirred restlessly.

Jhirun’s hand touched his, cautioning. She pointed down a row of stalls, where the shadow was darkest He began to go that way, drawing her with him, watching the stalls on either side of him, aware how easily it could prove ambush.

A white shape bolted at the end of the stalls, running. Vanye jerked at Jhirun’s wrist, darted into a cross- aisle, into the next row.

The man raced—white hair flying—for a farther aisle, Vanye let Jhirun go, and ran, pursuing him, in time to see him scale a rail barrier and scramble for open windows. The lead was too great. The qujal disappeared outside, hurling himself through, as Vanye reached the stall railing.

He stood, cursing inwardly, whirled about on guard as a sound reached his ears; Jhirun came running to him. He let fall his sword arm.

And outside he heard the hue and cry, human hounds a-hunt, and Kithan loose for their quarry, the whole of Ohtij-in astir: they would not be long in taking him.

He swore, an oath that he had never used, and shook Jhirun’s fingers roughly from his arm and started back toward the front of the stable, she struggling along beside him, hard-breathing.

“Stay here,” he said. “Mind the horses. I am going to Morgaine. We are leaving here as quickly as may be.”

Chapter Thirteen

Then was chaos in the courtyard, men raced from doorways. Vanye walked through it, shouldered his way through a press that was coming out of the keep, folk giving back from him in fright when they saw him. He kept his sword, sheathed, in his left hand, and entered the halls of the keep, moving as quickly as he could without running. He would not run: there was panic enough ready to break loose, and he was known as Morgaine’s servant.

He reached the lords’ halls, high in the tower, crossed through to the inner chambers and startled the guards that were on watch there, who snatched at weapons and then confusedly moved out of his path, recognizing his right to pass. He flung the door open and slammed it behind him, for the first time daring draw the breath he needed.

Morgaine faced him—she standing by the window, her hand upon the sill. Distress was in her look. Distantly the cries of men could be heard from the courtyard below.

“Thee’s stirred something?” she asked him.

“Kithan,” he said. “ Liyo, the horses are saddled, and we only need go—now, quickly. Someone will come into that stable and see things prepared if we wait overlong, and I do not think long farewells are fit for this place.”

A cry went up, outside. She turned and leaned upon the sill, gazing down into the yard. “They have taken him,” she said quietly.

“Let us go, liyo. Let us go from here, while there is time.”

She turned toward him a second time, and there was a curious expression in her eyes: doubt. Panic rose in him. In one thing he had lied to her, and the lie gathered force, troubling all the peace that had grown between them.

“I do not think that it would be graceful of us,” she said, “to try to pass them in the hall. They are bringing him into the hold. Doubtless they are bringing him here. So short a time from my sight, Vanye, and so much difficulty... Was it a chance meeting?”

He drew breath, let it go quickly. “I swear to you. Listen to me. There are things the lord Kithan can say that do not bear saying, not before these men of yours. Do not question him. Be rid of him, and quickly.”

“What should I not ask him?”

He felt the edge in that question, and shook his head. “No. Liyo, listen to me. Unless you would have all that Roh said made common knowledge in Ohtij-in—avoid this. There can be questions raised that you do not want asked. There is a priest down the hall... and Shiua out in the court, and servants, and whatever qujal are still alive... that would raise questions if they lost all care of their lives. Kithan will do you no good. There is nothing he can say that you want to hear.”

“And was it a chance meeting, Vanye?”

“Yes,” he cried, in a tone that shocked the silence after.

“That may be,” she said after a moment. “But if you are correct—then it would be well to know what he has said already.”

“Are you ready,” he asked her, “to leave upon the instant?”

“Yes,” she said, and indicated the fireside, where her belongings were neatly placed; he had none.

Outside, in the halls, there was commotion. It was not long in reaching them—the sounds of shouting, the heavy sound of steps approaching.

A heavy hand rapped at the door. “Lady?” one asked from outside.

“Let them in,” Morgaine said.

Vanye opened it, and in his other hand only his thumb held the sheath upon the longsword: a shake would free it.

Men were massed outside, a few of the marshlanders; but chief among them was the scarred Barrows-man, Fwar, with his kinsmen. Vanye met that sullen face with utter coldness, and stepped back because Morgaine had bidden it, because they were hers—violent men unlike the Aren-folk: he surmised seeing them now who had done most of the slaughter in Ohtij-in, that were murder to be ordered, they would enjoy it.

And among them, from their midst, they thrust the disheveled figure of the qujal– lord, thin and fragile-seeming in their rough hands. Blood dabbled the satin front of Kithan’s brocade garment, and