Exile's Gate (46 page)

"I am well enough," he said again.

If he confessed otherwise, he thought, she might take alarm, might seek some place to rest, where they must not—
must
not go to hiding now, when Mante knew the vicinity to search, and might throw company after company into the field. Even
Changeling
had its limits—

—had them, more and more as they drew near the aching wound that was Mante

My fault, he kept thinking. All of this.
O Heaven,
what are we going to do?

And others, out of the muddle of heat and exhaustion, she has taken them
because
she
knows I am near to falling; she needs help; she takes it where she can,
against this stranger-lord in Mante—against this Skarrin—needs them in
place of me—to guard her back—

O God, that I leave her to these bandits—

It
is her own perverse way of managing them, putting them under my hand,
forcing the bitter draught down their throats—lest they think they can
leave me behind: it is her own stratagem, give them a captain like to
spill from his horse, and let them vie for her favor, whereby she keeps
Chei at bay, and in hope of succession, and he never dares strike at
me, lest he lose what gratitude he might win of her later—If he has not
betrayed us outright—if the ambush was not a trick, their own
arrangement—

A
man learned to think in circles, who companied with Morgaine kri Chya.
A man learned craft, who had before thought a sword-edge the
straightest way to a target.

She might manage Chei. Surely Rhanin. I should tell her to keep that man.

And: This weakness of mine may pass. It may well pass. She is winning time for me. Gaining ground.

And lastly: Why did she prevent me from Chei? Why strike my hand?

You care too much?

What did she mean by that?

Hills
closed about them, brushy ravines and rock and scrub, steep heights on
either side. He looked up and behind them, and never was there trace of
any watcher.

Except
in a fold between two hills, near a stand of scrub, where they came to
a stream: there Hesiyyn drew up by the grassy margin and signaled Chei.

They
were old tracks. It had surely been yesterday that some rider had
paused to water his horse, and ridden along the hillside, in this place
of tough, clumped grass which showed very little trace otherwise. The
track there went out onto that ground on their own side, not, Vanye
reckoned, hard to follow, if one had to wonder where that rider had
gone, or if one were interested in finding him.

As it was: "What is this place?" he asked angrily. "A highway their riders use? A known trail?"

"Doubtless," Hesiyyn said, "my lord human. We are all anxious to die."

He sent Hesiyyn a dark look.

"We
are no more anxious for a meeting than you are," Chei said. "They are
out here, that is all. I told you. Skarrin is no longer taking the
matter lightly.—I ask you again, lady, in all earnestness: lend me the
stone."

Morgaine
leaned her hands against the saddlebow and quickly restrained Siptah
from edging toward the roan. It was warfare, now. The red roan's ears
were flat, his eyes—red-rimmed, his least lovely feature—constantly one
or the other toward the gray stud.

"No,"
she said shortly, and reining Siptah sharply aside to gain room,
dismounted and threw her hand up to shy the roan. "Move him off! We
will rest here a little. At least they
have
passed here. And it is at least some cover."

"My lady," Chei said with heavy resentment, and drew the wild-eyed roan aside, along the stream.

So
the rest of them. Vanye glared a warning in their direction, threw his
leg over the horn and slid down. He dropped Arrhan's reins to let her
drink, and let the two horses he led move up to the water, then sank
down on his knees and bathed his face and the back of his shorn neck,
discovering that insult again, where it had passed in shock when Chei
had done it. For this one unjustified thing he was more and more angry,
an unreasoning, killing anger, of the sort he had not felt—

—since the day his brother died.

"We will rest here an hour," Morgaine said, sinking down to wash beside him, letting Siptah drink.

"Aye."
He dipped up another double handful. It was spring-fed, this stream,
and like ice, taking the breath. He stood up with a sudden effort.

The daylight went to gray and to dark.

"Vanye—" Morgaine said.

"Watch
them!" he said to her in the Kurshin tongue, and sat down hard where he
stood, his balance simply gone, his foot off the edge into the chill
water, his wounds jolted so he thought he would not get the next breath
at all.

"Vanye!"

"Watch them," he said again, calmly, fighting panic. He drew his foot out of the water.
"Liyo,
I will rest here a little. I am tired. That is all."

He
heard her bend near him, felt her shadow take the heat of the sun from
his face. He heard footsteps in the grass nearby and that frightened
him.

"Liyo,
do not turn your back on them."

She laid her hand on his brow. "Thee is fevered," she said.

"Liyo,
in the name of Heaven—"

"We
will rest here," she said. The daylight began to come back, but it was
still brass and full of illusion, with her as a darkness in the center
of it.

"We have no time—"

"Vanye, lie down."

He
did as she asked, reckoning if they must stop an hour for his sake, he
had as well not waste the time it cost them in argument. He let himself
back on the grass and rested his head on his arm, and shut his eyes
against the giddiness of the sky. The ground seemed to pitch and spin
under him. He had not felt that dizzy when he was riding, and now that
he let go it was hard not to lose all his senses. His stomach tried to
heave and he refused to let it, refused the panic that lay at the
bottom of his thoughts.

A
little time, he told himself. They had been pushing too long to keep
moving; and a battle and a ride with enemies-turned-comrades did not
count for rest. An hour on his back, and he would be good for another
ten.

Only, O God, he was weak. And his head spun.

And Morgaine was alone with these men.

She came back to him, knelt down by him, dampened a cloth in the cold stream and laid it on his brow.

"You are watching them," he murmured in his own tongue.

"I am watching them."

"Liyo,
kill them."

"Hush, rest."

"Kill
them!" He sat up on his elbow and caught the cloth in his hand, the
pulse at once hammering in his ears and his gut hurting and his ribs a
blinding pain. " 'Man and man,' you said. Then trust me to know. I am
telling you these men are after the weapons; they are only waiting to
see what more they can find out, whether we have anything else they
want—Kill them. And do not give them any warning."

Her hand rested on his chest, pressing him to lie back. He would not yield.

"Listen to me," he said.

"Hush," she said. "Hush. I have an eye to them."

"This
is a man who gave Chei to the wolves. This is the guide who lied to us,
whose brother I killed. If it is sane inside it is a wonder."

"Lie back. Lie down. Do not make me trouble. Please.
Please,
Vanye."

He
let go his breath and let himself back. She wet the cloth again and
wrung it out and laid it on his brow. It set him shivering.

"I will ride," he said, "in an hour."

"Only lie here. I will make some tea."

"We cannot be risking a fire—"

She touched his lips with her fingers. "Still, I say. Hush. A little one. Do not fret about it. Be still."

"Willow tea," he murmured, "if you are going to do it anyway. My head aches."

He
rested then with his eyes half-open, slitted on Chei and his two men,
who sat apart on the stream-bank. He watched Morgaine gather up twigs
and grass, and his gut tensed as he saw Chei rise and walk toward her
and have words with her.

What
they said he could not hear. But Morgaine settled down thereafter and
made a fire with that means she could, and Chei and the others began to
unsaddle the horses.

He
sat up then, and began to get to his feet in dismay, but Morgaine
looked at him and lifted her hand in that signal that meant no.

He
fell back again, and lay in misery while the pulse beat like a hammer
in his temples and the sun glared red behind closed lids.

She
brought him tea to drink, infused very strongly with something bitter;
and little pellets wrapped in leaves, that were from Shathan, and very
precious. He took them and drank the sour-bitter tea, as large
mouthfuls as he could bear, simply to get it down, and rested back
again.

"I will be all right," he murmured then.

"Thee is not riding in an hour. Or two."

"Dark." he said. "Give me till dark. We can cut closer to the plain at night. Gain back the time."

But he was no better. If anything, he hurt the worse. It is because of lying still, he thought.

Then, clearly and honestly: I am getting worse.

And we are too near the gate.

He
rested. It was not sleep that passed the hours into twilight, only a
dimness in which Morgaine came and went, and gave him cold water to
drink. "I will try," he said, then, "try to ride. Have them put me on
my horse. I will stay there."

There was fear in her eyes. It verged on panic. She smoothed the hair back from his face. "We will hold this place," she said.

"With
what?
With
them?
With—" Anger brought a pain to his skull. His eyes watered, blurring the sight of her. "It is foolishness. Foolishness,
liyo.
No more time. Too many of them. When will you sleep? You cannot—cannot depend on me to stay awake. Cannot depend on me."

"I will manage."

"Do not lose for
me!
Do not think of it! Ride out of here!"

"Hush."
She touched his face, bent and kissed him, weary, so very weary, her
voice. Her hand shook against his cheek. "Forgive me. Trust me. Will
you trust me?"

"Aye," he said, or thought he said. She unlaced his collar and took the stone from under his armor; and took it from him.

"Not to him—" he protested.

"No. I will keep it. I will keep it safe."

It
was too difficult to hold on. The dark grew too deep, a place unto
itself, tangled and mazed. He wanted to come back. He wanted to stay
awake to listen to her.

He dreamed of dark, like that between the Gates.

He dreamed of dark, in which she walked away, and he could not so much as tell where she had gone.

Chei rested his head in his hands, weary with his own aches, with the foolishness that would not let the woman see reason.

Will not leave him,
the
inner voice said, and it echoed a night in Arunden's camp, a
doorway—embarrassed youth, rebuffed and dismayed and made lonely all at
once, in a child's way; Pyverrn, seeking exile—riding into Morund on a
wretched, shaggy horse—
Ho, hello, old friend
—
Court grew deadly dull without you. . . .

Thoughts upon thoughts upon thoughts. He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, grimaced with the confusion of images.

"My lord," Rhanin said.

He
looked up to see the lady walking toward them—with further delay, he
reckoned. She looked distraught, her eyes shadowed and her face showing
exhaustion.

She
had to sleep. There would come a time she had to sleep. Then there was
a reckoning, with the weapons in his hands, and the lady brought to see
reason once for all.

He was not prepared to see her hand lift, and the black weapon in it, aimed straight at him. His heart froze in him:
death,
he thought.
Our death, only so a crazed woman dares sleep
—

"My lord Gault," she said quietly, "Qhiverin. Chei. I have a proposition for you."

"My lady?" he asked, carefully.

"I
am going to rest. You will tend him, you will do everything you can for
him, you will make him fit to ride, my lord; and if he is not better by
morning, I will kill you all. If he cries out—
once
—I will shoot one of you at random. Do you have any doubt of that, my lord?"

"He will not
be
fit to ride—the man is fevered—he is out of his head—"

"Do you doubt my word,
my lord?
Do you want an earnest of my intentions?"

"She is mad," Hesiyyn exclaimed.

Chei
gathered himself hastily to his feet. "Up," he said, dragging at
Hesiyyn, at Rhanin. And cast an anxious glance at Morgaine, whose
weapon stayed centered on him, whose eyes were, as Hesiyyn said—mad and
beyond all reason.