looking to Chei. "Do you think you can walk through the night?"
"Yes," Chei said.
"He is telling you anything
he thinks he must," Vanye said in the other. "He fears you. He fears to
refuse any qhal, that is the trouble with him. Let him ride and I will
walk, and let us go the trails he says he knows, quietly as we may.
That is my advice. That is all the advice I have. Quickly and quietly,
and without bruising a leaf. It is Men here I
had rather trust. And you know that it is not my human blood makes me
say it: I had no such feeling in the arrhend, and you well know it."
"My conscience," she named
him. "And has thee forgotten—it is a world's honest men who will always
fight us. I dread them, Vanye, I do dread them, more than the Gaults
and all the rest."
"Not here," he said with conviction. "Not here, liyo. Nor, let me remind you, in my land, where you found me."
"Ah, no. Thee saw only the
end of it. In Andur-Kursh I did my very worst. And most I killed were
my friends." It was rare she would speak of that. There was a sudden
bleakness in her face, as if it were carved of bone, and as if there
were only the qhal-blood in her and nothing else. "But thee says it:
this is not Andur-Kursh. Thee trusts this man, and I had rather be
where I know what a man stands to gain—have I not said I have no
virtue? But so be it. I do not say I have always been right, either. We
will go his way."
He was frightened then, with a fear not unlike the moments before battle.
The north, she had said—an old enemy. And he argued against her instincts which had saved them a hundred times over, however unlikely her choices.
Heaven save them, who in this land could know her name, when they had never passed this way in their lives, nor had aught to do with the people of it?
"We are going on," he said
to Chei, who looked at them with bewilderment. "I will walk. You ride.
My liege thinks it too much risk to venture Morund for a horse."
There was still the bewilderment in Chei's eyes. And gratitude. "She is right," he said, in innocence.
He did not want to take it for omen.
He went up to the ridge and fetched the horses down. He saddled them, and arranged their gear.
"Get up," he said then to
Chei, who waited, no more enlightened than before. "I am leading the
horse. From time to time we will trade places."
"And hereafter," Morgaine
said, touching Chei on the shoulder before he could get to the saddle,
"should we meet anyone, if you have heard any other name than Morgaine
and Vanye—consider your own safety and forget that ever you heard it:
there are those who would do worse to you than ever Gault did, to have
their hands on anyone who knew different—and you could not tell them
what they would want. Do not ask me questions. For your own sake."
"Lady," Chei said to her, half-whispering. He looked straight into her eyes close at hand, and his face was pale. "Aye, lady."
Vanye walked, the
qhal-witch rode, when they had come down the streamside and found that
trail Chei knew—that narrow track the fey-minded deer and determined
borderers took which ended, often with like result, on Gault's land.
Chei watched them from his
vantage—the qhalur witch, the man who deferred to her at most times and
argued with her with a reckless violence that made his gut tighten
instinctively; a man knew, a Man knew lifelong, that the qhal-lords
were not patient of such familiarity—or Vanye himself had deceived him,
and was not human. But he could not believe that when he looked in
Vanye's brown and often-worried eyes, or when Vanye would do him some
small and unnecessary kindness or take his side—he knew that Vanye had
done that—in argument.
What these
two were to each other he still could not decide. He had watched all
their movements, the gestures, the little instants that an expression
would soften, or she would touch his arm at times when she gave an
order—but never did he touch her in that same way or truly bid
"Yes," Chei said.
"He is telling you anything
he thinks he must," Vanye said in the other. "He fears you. He fears to
refuse any qhal, that is the trouble with him. Let him ride and I will
walk, and let us go the trails he says he knows, quietly as we may.
That is my advice. That is all the advice I have. Quickly and quietly,
and without bruising a leaf. It is Men here I
had rather trust. And you know that it is not my human blood makes me
say it: I had no such feeling in the arrhend, and you well know it."
"My conscience," she named
him. "And has thee forgotten—it is a world's honest men who will always
fight us. I dread them, Vanye, I do dread them, more than the Gaults
and all the rest."
"Not here," he said with conviction. "Not here, liyo. Nor, let me remind you, in my land, where you found me."
"Ah, no. Thee saw only the
end of it. In Andur-Kursh I did my very worst. And most I killed were
my friends." It was rare she would speak of that. There was a sudden
bleakness in her face, as if it were carved of bone, and as if there
were only the qhal-blood in her and nothing else. "But thee says it:
this is not Andur-Kursh. Thee trusts this man, and I had rather be
where I know what a man stands to gain—have I not said I have no
virtue? But so be it. I do not say I have always been right, either. We
will go his way."
He was frightened then, with a fear not unlike the moments before battle.
The north, she had said—an old enemy. And he argued against her instincts which had saved them a hundred times over, however unlikely her choices.
Heaven save them, who in this land could know her name, when they had never passed this way in their lives, nor had aught to do with the people of it?
"We are going on," he said
to Chei, who looked at them with bewilderment. "I will walk. You ride.
My liege thinks it too much risk to venture Morund for a horse."
There was still the bewilderment in Chei's eyes. And gratitude. "She is right," he said, in innocence.
He did not want to take it for omen.
He went up to the ridge and fetched the horses down. He saddled them, and arranged their gear.
"Get up," he said then to
Chei, who waited, no more enlightened than before. "I am leading the
horse. From time to time we will trade places."
"And hereafter," Morgaine
said, touching Chei on the shoulder before he could get to the saddle,
"should we meet anyone, if you have heard any other name than Morgaine
and Vanye—consider your own safety and forget that ever you heard it:
there are those who would do worse to you than ever Gault did, to have
their hands on anyone who knew different—and you could not tell them
what they would want. Do not ask me questions. For your own sake."
"Lady," Chei said to her, half-whispering. He looked straight into her eyes close at hand, and his face was pale. "Aye, lady."
Vanye walked, the
qhal-witch rode, when they had come down the streamside and found that
trail Chei knew—that narrow track the fey-minded deer and determined
borderers took which ended, often with like result, on Gault's land.
Chei watched them from his
vantage—the qhalur witch, the man who deferred to her at most times and
argued with her with a reckless violence that made his gut tighten
instinctively; a man knew, a Man knew lifelong, that the qhal-lords
were not patient of such familiarity—or Vanye himself had deceived him,
and was not human. But he could not believe that when he looked in
Vanye's brown and often-worried eyes, or when Vanye would do him some
small and unnecessary kindness or take his side—he knew that Vanye had
done that—in argument.
What these
two were to each other he still could not decide. He had watched all
their movements, the gestures, the little instants that an expression
would soften, or she would touch his arm at times when she gave an
order—but never did he touch her in that same way or truly bid
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