her
anything, for all he might raise his voice and dispute her.
They are lovers, he thought sometimes. Then he was equally sure that they were not—not, in the way the man deferred to her: my lady, Vanye would say; or my liege, or a third word he did not understand, but which likely signified the same.
Now they raged at each
other, argued in voices half-whisper, half-shout, in which debate
he—Vanye had said it—was undoubtedly the center of matters.
It was not the threat to
his life that bewildered him. It was that there was argument possible
at all. And between arguments he saw a thing he had never, in all his
life, beheld. He watched them in a fascination which, increasing,
absorbed his fear.
Unholy, he thought. But
there seemed profound affection between them. There was more than
that—but not in the way of any man and any woman he had known. It was
that loyalty which bound the bands together.
It was that devotion for which men had followed Ichandren till he died.
It was that motion of the
heart which he thought had died in him; and it ached of a sudden, it
ached so that he rode along with the branches and the leaves raking
him, and the tears running down his face—not fear such as he had felt
in the night, but a quiet ache, for no reason at all that he could
think of except he was alone.
He reckoned even that it
was a spell the witch had cast over him, that from the time she
surprised him with that look into his eyes, from that moment his soul
had been snared. Now he found himself weeping again—for Falwyn and the
rest, and for Bron and Ichandren his lord, and even for his father,
which was foolish, because his father was many years dead.
He was weak, that was all.
When the lady reined back and the man stopped the horse under them,
saying they would rest, he was ashamed, and pretended exhaustion,
keeping his face toward the horse as he climbed down.
So he sat with them, at the
side of what had become a dirt track, and tucked his knees up and bowed
his head against his arms so he should not have to show his eyes damp.
He should find some means
to get a weapon and break from them—in this night, in this tangle he
knew and they did not. The man he had once been would have done
something to resist them, be it only slide off the horse and hope that
he could put brush between them and him, and lie hidden.
But he let go his hopes in
all other directions. He began truly to mean the oath that he had
sworn. He wiped his face, disguising tears as sweat, despite the night
air, and took the cup of water they passed him, and took their
concern—for all that he had thought Vanye's earlier anger was half for
him, Vanye's hand was gentle on his shoulder, his voice was gentle as
he inquired was he faint.
"No," he said. "No. I will walk a while."
"Horses will fly," Vanye muttered to that. "We have half the night gone. What do we look to find ahead?"
"I will know the border," he said. "We have come halfway."
"As you knew the plains yonder?"
"This, I know," he
insisted, anxious, and found the stirrup as the lady mounted up. He
heaved himself into the saddle and took his seat as the horse started
to move, Vanye walking ahead on the road, defined in a ray of moonlight
and gone again, ghostly warrior in forest-color and mail and leather,
the white scarf about his helm, the sheen of the sword hilt at his
shoulders the most visible aspect of him. And the lady was no more than
gray horse and shadow: she had put on her cloak and the dark hood made
her part of the night.
Only he himself was
visible, truly visible, to any ambush—helmless, in a pale linen shirt
and astride the white mare that shone like a star in the dark. He
thought of arrows, thought of the gates of Morund which lay beyond the
woods, across the ancient Road.
He thought of Ichandren's
skull bleaching there, and the bodies of the others cast on Morund's
midden heap, and shivered in the wind, taking up his gray blanket again
and wrapping it
anything, for all he might raise his voice and dispute her.
They are lovers, he thought sometimes. Then he was equally sure that they were not—not, in the way the man deferred to her: my lady, Vanye would say; or my liege, or a third word he did not understand, but which likely signified the same.
Now they raged at each
other, argued in voices half-whisper, half-shout, in which debate
he—Vanye had said it—was undoubtedly the center of matters.
It was not the threat to
his life that bewildered him. It was that there was argument possible
at all. And between arguments he saw a thing he had never, in all his
life, beheld. He watched them in a fascination which, increasing,
absorbed his fear.
Unholy, he thought. But
there seemed profound affection between them. There was more than
that—but not in the way of any man and any woman he had known. It was
that loyalty which bound the bands together.
It was that devotion for which men had followed Ichandren till he died.
It was that motion of the
heart which he thought had died in him; and it ached of a sudden, it
ached so that he rode along with the branches and the leaves raking
him, and the tears running down his face—not fear such as he had felt
in the night, but a quiet ache, for no reason at all that he could
think of except he was alone.
He reckoned even that it
was a spell the witch had cast over him, that from the time she
surprised him with that look into his eyes, from that moment his soul
had been snared. Now he found himself weeping again—for Falwyn and the
rest, and for Bron and Ichandren his lord, and even for his father,
which was foolish, because his father was many years dead.
He was weak, that was all.
When the lady reined back and the man stopped the horse under them,
saying they would rest, he was ashamed, and pretended exhaustion,
keeping his face toward the horse as he climbed down.
So he sat with them, at the
side of what had become a dirt track, and tucked his knees up and bowed
his head against his arms so he should not have to show his eyes damp.
He should find some means
to get a weapon and break from them—in this night, in this tangle he
knew and they did not. The man he had once been would have done
something to resist them, be it only slide off the horse and hope that
he could put brush between them and him, and lie hidden.
But he let go his hopes in
all other directions. He began truly to mean the oath that he had
sworn. He wiped his face, disguising tears as sweat, despite the night
air, and took the cup of water they passed him, and took their
concern—for all that he had thought Vanye's earlier anger was half for
him, Vanye's hand was gentle on his shoulder, his voice was gentle as
he inquired was he faint.
"No," he said. "No. I will walk a while."
"Horses will fly," Vanye muttered to that. "We have half the night gone. What do we look to find ahead?"
"I will know the border," he said. "We have come halfway."
"As you knew the plains yonder?"
"This, I know," he
insisted, anxious, and found the stirrup as the lady mounted up. He
heaved himself into the saddle and took his seat as the horse started
to move, Vanye walking ahead on the road, defined in a ray of moonlight
and gone again, ghostly warrior in forest-color and mail and leather,
the white scarf about his helm, the sheen of the sword hilt at his
shoulders the most visible aspect of him. And the lady was no more than
gray horse and shadow: she had put on her cloak and the dark hood made
her part of the night.
Only he himself was
visible, truly visible, to any ambush—helmless, in a pale linen shirt
and astride the white mare that shone like a star in the dark. He
thought of arrows, thought of the gates of Morund which lay beyond the
woods, across the ancient Road.
He thought of Ichandren's
skull bleaching there, and the bodies of the others cast on Morund's
midden heap, and shivered in the wind, taking up his gray blanket again
and wrapping it
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