Wall of Shiuan

“Aye,” he said at last; and in his bitterness: “I must.”

“Take Kithan and Jhirun; make some tale that Roh will believe, how Ohtij-in has fallen, of your release by Kithan—omitting my part in it. Let him believe you desperate. Bow at his feet and beg shelter of him. Do whatever you must but stay alive, and pass the Gate, and carry out my orders—to the end of your life, Nhi Vanye, and beyond if thee can contrive it.”

For a long moment he said nothing; he would have wept if he had tried to speak, and in his anger he did not want that further shame. Then he saw a trail of moisture shine on her cheek, and it shook him more than all else that she had said.

“Be rid of the Honor-blade,” she said. “It will raise a question with him you cannot answer.”

He drew it and gave it to her. “Avert,” he murmured, the word almost catching in his throat; she echoed the wish, and slipped it through her belt.

“Beware your companions,” she said.

“Aye,” he answered.

“Go. Make haste.”

He would have bowed himself at her feet, an ilin taking final, unwilling leave; but she prevented him with a hand on his arm. The touch numbed: for a moment he hesitated with a thing spilling over in him that wanted saying, and she, all unexpected, leaned forward and touched her lips to his, a light touch, quickly gone. It robbed him of speech; the moment passed, and she turned to take up the reins of her horse. What he would have said seemed suddenly a plea for himself, and she would not hear it; there would be dispute, and that was not the parting he wanted.

He hurled himself into the saddle, and she did likewise, and rode with him as far as the crossing of the road and the aisle, the arch that led through into Abarais, where Jhirun and Kithan awaited them.

“We are going on,” he said to them, the words strange and ugly to him, “we three.”

They looked puzzled, dismayed. They said nothing, asked nothing; perhaps the look of the two of them, ilin and liyo, made a barrier against them. He turned his horse into the passage, into the dark, and they went with him. Suddenly he looked back, in dread that Morgaine would already be gone.

She was not. She was a shadow, she and Siptah, against the light behind them, waiting.

Fwar and his kind, whatever remained of them, would be coming. Suddenly he realized the set of her mind: the Barrows-folk, that she once had led—ages hence. There was a bond between them, an ill dream that was recent in her mind, a geas apart from Changeling. He remembered her at the Suvoj, sweeping man after man away into oblivion—and the thing that he had seen in her eyes.

They were your own, Kithan had protested, even a qujal appalled at what she had done. They followed her; she waited for them this time, as time after time he had feared she might turn and face them, her peculiar nightmare, that would not let her go.

She waited, while the Gate prepared to seal. Here she stopped running; and laid all her burden upon him. Tears blurred his eyes; he thought wildly of riding back, refusing what she had set him to do.

And that she would not forgive.

They exited the passage into the light of rising Li, saw the valley of Abarais before them, the jagged spires of ruins, and in the far distance—campfires scattered like stars across the mountains: the host of all Shiuan.

He looked back; he could not see Morgaine any longer.

He rammed the spurs into the gelding’s flanks and led his companions toward the fires.

Chapter Eighteen

The vast disc of Li inclined toward the horizon. There was a stain of cloud at that limit of the sky, and wisps of cloud drifted across the moon-track overhead.

The sinking moon yet gave them light enough for quick traveling—light enough too for their enemies. They were exposed, in constant view from the cliffs that towered on either side of the road, above the ruins. Ambush was a constant possibility: Vanye feared it with a distant fear, not for himself, but for the orders he had been given—the only thing he had left, he thought, that was worth concern. That at some moment a shaft aimed from those cliffs should come bursting leather and mail links and bone—the pain would be the less for it, and quickly done, unlike the other, that was forever.

Until you have no choice, her words echoed back to him, a persistent misery, a fact that would not be denied. Until you have no choice—as I have none.

Once Jhirun spoke to him; he did not know what she had said, nor care—only stared at her, and she fell silent; and Kithan likewise stared at him, pale eyes sober and present, purged of the akil that had clouded them.

And the watchfires grew nearer, spreading before them like a field of stars, red and angry constellations across their way, that began to dim at last like those in the heavens, with the first edge of day showing.

“There is nothing left,” Vanye told his companions, realizing that their time grew short, “only to surrender to my cousin and hope for his forbearance.”

They were silent, Jhirun next to him and Kithan beyond. Their faces held that same restrained fear that had possessed them since they had been hastened, without explanation, from An-Abarais. They still did not ask, nor demand assurances of him. Perhaps they already knew he had none to give.

“At An-Abarais,” he continued while they rode, walking the horses, “we learned that there was no choice. My liege has released me.” He suppressed the tremor that would come to his voice, set the muscles of his jaw and continued, beginning to weave the lie that he would use for Roh. “There is more kindness in her than is apparent— for my sake, if not for yours. She knows the case of things, that Roh might accept me, but never her. You are nothing to her; she simply does not care. But Roh hates her above all other enemies; and the less he knows of what truly passed at Ohtij-in, the more readily he will take me—and you. If he knows that I have come directly from her, and you likewise from her company—he will surely kill me; and for me, he has some affection. I leave it to you how much he would hesitate in your case.”

Still they said nothing, but the apprehension was no less in their eyes.

“Say that Ohtij-in fell in the quake,” he asked of them, “and say that the marshlanders attacked when Aren fell—say whatever you like of the truth; but do not let him know that we entered An-Abarais. Only she could have passed its doors and learned what she learned. Forget altogether that she was with us, or I shall die; and I do not think that I will be alone in that.”

Of Jhirun he was sure; there was a debt between them. But there was one of a different nature between himself and Kithan: it was the qujal that he feared, and the qujal that he most needed to confirm his lie as truth.

And Kithan knew it: those unhuman eyes took on a consciousness of power, and a smug amusement.

“And if it is not Roh who gives the orders,” Kithan said, “if it is Hetharu, what shall I say, Man?”

“I do not know,” Vanye said. “But a father-slayer will hardly stick at brother-killing; and he will share nothing with you... not unless he loves you well. Do you think that is so, Kithan Bydarra’s son?”

Kithan considered it, and the smugness faded rapidly.

“How well,” Kithan asked, scowling, “does your cousin love you?”

“I will serve him,” Vanye answered, finding the words strange to his lips. “I am an ilin now without a master; and we are of Andur-Kursh, he and I... you do not understand, but it means that Roh will take me with him, and I will serve him as his right hand; and that is something he cannot find elsewhere. I need you, my lord Kithan, and you know it; I need you to set myself at Roh’s side, and you know that you can destroy me with an ill-placed word. But likewise you need me—else you will have to deal with Hetharu; and you know that I bear Hetharu a grudge. You do not love him. Stand by me; and I will give you Hetharu, even if it takes time.”

Kithan considered, his lips a thin line. “Aye,” he said, “I do follow your reasoning. But, Nhi Vanye, there are two men of mine that may undo it all.”

Vanye recalled that, the house guards that had fled, that added a fresh weight of apprehension to his mind;