She? he asked, with a nod toward Jhirun.
I will speak with her.
You rest, he urged her after a moment, inwardly braced against some irrational anger. Morgaine was distraught this night, exhaustedthey both were. Her slim hands were tightly laced about her knee, clenched until the strain was evident. Tired as he was, he sensed something greatly amiss. Liyo, let me have first watch.
She sighed, as if at that offer all the weariness came over her at once, the weight of mail that could make a strong mans bones ache, days of riding that wore even upon him, Kurshin and born to the saddle. She bowed her head upon her knee, then flung it back and straightened her shoulders. Aye, she said hoarsely, aye, that I will agree to gladly enough.
She gathered herself to her feet, Changeling in her hand; but to his amazement she offered it to him, sheathed and crosswise.
It never left her, never. By night she slept with that evil thing; she never walked from where it lay, not more than a rooms width before she turned and took it up again. When she rode, it was either under her knee on the gray horses saddle, or across her shoulders on her sword belt.
He did not want even to touch it, but he took it and gathered it to him carefully; and she left him so, beside the fire. Perhaps, he thought, she was concerned that the warrior who guarded her sleep not do so unarmed; perhaps she had some subtler purpose, reminding him what governed her own choices. He considered this, watching her settle to sleep in that corner of the ruin where the stones still made an arch. She had their saddles for pillow and windbreak, the coarse saddle-blankets, unfolded, for a covering: he had lost his own cloak the same way he had lost his sword, else it would have been his cloak that was lent their injured prisoner, not hers. The consciousness of this vexed him. He had come to her with nothing that would have made their way easier, and borrowed upon what she had.
Yet Morgaine trusted him. He knew how hard it was for her to allow another hand on Changeling, which was obsession with her; she need not have lent it, and did; and he did not know why. He was all too aware, in the long silence after she seemed to have fallen asleep, how clear a target the fire made him.
Roh, if his hands retained any of their former skill, was a bowman of the Korish forests; and a Chya bowman was a shadow, a flitting ghost where there was cover. Likely too the girl Jhirun had kinsmen hereabouts seeking her, if Roh himself did not. And perhapsVanyes shoulders prickled at the thoughtMorgaine set a trap by means of that bright fire, disregarding his life and hers; she was capable of doing so, lending him her chiefest weapon to ease her conscience, knowing that this, at least, he could use.
He rested the sword between his knees, the dragon-hilt against his heart, daring not so much as to lie down to ease the torment of the mail on his shoulders, for he was unbearably tired, and his eyes were heavy. He listened to the faint sounds of the horses grazing in the dark, reassured constantly by their soft stirrings. Nightsounds had begun, sounds much like home: the creak of frogs, the occasional splash of water as some denizen of the marsh hunted.
And there was the matter of Jhirun, that Morgaine had set upon him.
He tucked a chill hand to his belt, felt the rough surface of the Honor-blades hilt, wondering how Roh fared, wondering whether he were equally lost, equally afraid. The crackling of the fire at his side brought back other memories, of another fireside, of Ra-koris on a winters evening, of a refuge once offered him, when no other refuge existed: Roh, who had been willing to acknowledge kinship with an outlawed kin.
He had been moved to love Roh once, Roh alone of all his kinsmen; an honest man and brave, Chya Roh i Chya. But the man he had known in Ra-koris was dead, and what possessed Rohs shape now was qujal, ancient and deadly hostile.
The Honor-blade was not for enemies, but the last resort of honor; Roh would have chosen that way, if he had had the chance. He had not. Within Gates, souls could be torn from bodies and man and man confounded, the living with the dying. Such was the evil that had taken Chya Roh; Roh was truly dead, and what survived in him wanted killing, for Rohs sake.
Vanye drew the blade partly from its sheath, touched that razor edge with gentle fingers, a tightness in his throat, wondering how, of all possessions that Roh might have lost, it had been this, that no warrior would choose to abandon.
She has found you, the girl had said, mistaking them in their kinsmens resemblance. Are you not afraid?
It occurred to him that Roh himself had feared Morgaine, loathed her, who had destroyed his ancestors and the power that had been Koris.
But Roh was dead. Morgaine, who had witnessed it, had said that Roh was dead.
Vanye clenched both hands about Changelings cold sheath, averted his eyes from the fire and saw Jhirun awake and staring at him.
She had knowledge of Roh. Morgaine had left the matter to him, and he loathed what he had asked, realized it for what it truly wasthat he did not want the answers.
Suddenly the girl broke contact with his eyes, hurled herself to her feet and for the shadows.
He sprang up and crossed the intervening distance before she could take more than two stepsseized her arm and set her down again on the cloak, Changeling safely out of her reach in the bend of his other arm. She struck him, a solid blow across the temple, and he shook her, angered. A second time she hit him, and this time he did hurt her, but she did not cry outnot a sound came from her but gasps for breath, when woman might have appealed to womannot to Morgaine. He knew whom she feared most; and when she had stopped struggling he relaxed his grip, reckoning that she would not run now. She jerked free and stayed still, breathing hard.
Be still, he whispered. I shall not touch you. You will be wiser not to wake my lady.
Jhirun gathered Morgaines white cloak up about her shoulders, up to her chin. Give me back my pony and my belongings, she said. Her accent and her shivering together made her very difficult to understand. Let me go. I swear I will tell no one. No one.
I cannot, he said. Not without her leave. But we are not thieves. He searched in his belt and found the gull-ornament, offering it. She snatched it, careful not even to touch his hand, and clenched it with the other hand under her chin. She continued to stare at him, fierce dark eyes glittering. In the firelight. The bruised cheek gave the left eye a shadow. You are his cousin? she asked. And his enemy?
In my house, he said, that is nothing unusual.
He was kind to me.
He gave a sour twist of the lips. You are fair to look upon, and I would hardly be surprised at that.
She flinched. The look of outrage in her eyes was like a physical rebuff, reminding him that even a peasant girl was born with honor, a distinction that he could not claim. She looked very young, frightened of him and of her circumstances. After a moment it was he that looked aside.
I beg pardon, he said; and when she kept a long silence, still breathing as if she had been running: How did you meet him, and when?
Last night, she said, words that filled him with relief, on many accounts. He came to us, hurt, and my folk tried to rob and kill him. He was too quick for us. And he could have killed everyone, but he did not. And he was kind to me. Her voice trembled on the word, insistent this time on being understood. He went away without stealing anything, even though he was in need of everything. He only took what belonged to him, and what I gave him.
He is dai-uyo, he answered her. A gentleman.
A great lord.
He has been that.