The company was forming up outside Merir’s tent . . . six arrhendim, all told: two younger; two older, the khemeis’s hair almost as white as his arrhend, with faces well-weathered by time; and an older pair of arrhendim, women of the arrhend . . . not quite as old, for the khemeis of that pair had hair equally streaked with silver and dark, while her arrhend, like all qhal, aged yet more slowly and had the look of thirty human years.
Horses had been readied for the two of them, and Vanye was well-pleased with them: a bay gelding for him and a sorrel for Roh, both deep-chested and strong, for all their gracefulness. Even the herds of Morija would have been proud of such as these.
They did not mount up; one horse remained riderless, a white mare of surpassing beauty, and the party waited. Vanye heaved his gear up to his saddle and bound it there, found also a waterflask and saddlebags and a good gray blanket, such things as he would have asked had he dared press at their charity. A khemeis from the crowd came offering them cloaks, one for him and one for Roh. They put them on gratefully, for the day was cool for their light clothing.
And when all that was done, they still waited. Vanye stood scratching the bay’s chin and calming his restiveness. He felt himself almost whole again, whether by Arrhel’s draught or by the touch of a horse under his hands and his weapons by him . . . fretting to be underway, to be beyond intervention or recall, lest some circumstance change Merir’s mind.
One of the khemi brought a chain of flowers, and bound it in the mane of the white horse; and came others, bringing such flower chains for each of the departing arrhendim.
But it was Ellur who brought a white one for Roh’s horse, and Sin came bearing a chain of bright blue. The boy reached high to bind it into the black mane, so that they swung there like a chain of tiny bells. And then Sin looked up at him.
Premonition came on him that he was looking on the boy for the last time, that there would be—one way or another—no return for him from this ride. Sin seemed to believe it too this time. Tears brimmed in his eyes, but he held them; he had been through Shathan: he was no longer the boy in Merrind.
“I have no parting-gift,” Vanye said, searching his memory for something left that he owned but his weapons; and never had he felt his poverty as much as in that moment, that he had nothing left to spare. “Among our people we give something when we know the parting will be long.”
“I made this for you,” said Sin, and drew forth from his shirt a carving of a horse’s head. It was made of wood, small, of surpassing skill, as there were so many talents in Sin’s hands. Vanye took it, and thrust it within his collar. Then in desperation he cut a ring from his belt, plain steel and blue-black; it had once held spare leather, but he had none of that left either. He pressed it into Sin’s hand and closed his brown fingers over it. “It is a plain thing, the only thing I have to give that I brought from home, from Morija of Andur-Kursh. Do not curse my memory when you are grown, Sin. My name was Nhi Vanye i Chya; and if ever I do you harm, it is not from wanting it. May there always be arrhendim in Shathan, and Mirrindim too. And when you are arrhendim yourselves, you and Ellur, see that it is so.”
Sin hugged him, and Ellur came and took his hand. He chanced to look up at Roh, then, and Roh’s face was sad. “Ra-koris was such a place,” Roh said, naming his own hall in forested Andur. “If I had no reason to oppose the Shiua for my own sake, I would have now, having seen this place. But for my part I would save it, not take from it the only thing that might defend it.”
The boys’ hands were clenched in either of his; he stared at Roh and felt defenseless, without any argument but his oath.
“If she is dead,” Roh said, “respecting your grief, cousin, I shall not even say evil of her—but you would be free then, and would you still carry out what she purposed? Would you take that from them? I think there is some conscience in you. They surely think so.”
“Keep silent. Save your shafts for me, not them.”
“Aye,” Roh murmured. “No more of it.” He laid his hand on his horse’s neck, and looked about him, at the great trees that towered so incredibly above the tents. “But think on it, cousin.”
There was a sudden murmuring in the crowd; it parted, and Merir passed through—a different Merir from the one they had seen, for the old lord wore robes made for riding; a horn bound in silver was at his side, and he bore a kit which he hung from the saddle of the white horse. The beautiful animal turned its head, lipped familiarly at his shoulder, and he caressed the offered nose and took up the reins. He needed no help to climb into the saddle.
“Be careful, Father,” said one of the qhal. “Aye,” others echoed. “Be careful.”
Arrhel came. Merir took the lady’s hand from horseback. “Lead in my absence,” he bade her, and pressed her hand before he let it go. The others were beginning to mount up.
A last time Vanye bade the boys farewell, and let them go, and climbed into the saddle. The bay started to move of his own accord as the other horses started away; and before he had ridden far he was drawn to look back. Sin and Ellur were running after him, to stay with him while they could. He waved at them, and they reached the edge of the camp. Trees began to come between. His last sight of them was of the two stopped forlornly at the forest margin, fair-haired qhalur lad and small, dark boy, alike in stance. Then the green leaves curtained them, and he turned in the saddle.
The company rode mostly in silence, with the two young arrhendim in the lead and the eldest riding close by Merir. Vanye and Roh rode after them, and the two arrhendim rode last . . . no swords did they bear, unlike the arrhendim, but bows longer than the men’s, and their slim hands were leathered with half-glove and bracer, old and well-worn. The khemeis of that pair often lagged behind and out of sight, serving apparently as rearguard and scout as the khemeis of the pair in front tended to disappear ahead of them to probe the way.
Sharrn and Dev were the names of the old arrhendim; Vanye asked of the arrhen Perrin, the qhalur woman, who rode nearest them. Her khemeis was Vis; and the young pair were Larrel and Kessun, cheerful fellows, who reminded him with a pang of Lellin and Sezar whenever he looked on them together.
They rested briefly halfway to dark. Kessun had vanished some time before that stop, and did not reappear when he ought; and Larrel paced and fretted. But the khemeis came in just as they were setting themselves ahorse again, and bowed apology, whispering something to lord Merir in private.
Then from somewhere in the far distance came the whistled signal of an arrhen, thin and clear as birdsong, advising them that all was well.
That was comforting to hear, for it was the first signal they had heard in all that ride, as if those who ranged the woods hereabouts were few or frightened. Lightness came on the arrhendim then, and a smile to Merir’s eyes for a moment, though they had been sad before.
Thereafter Larrel and Kessun both parted company with them, and rode somewhere ahead.
Nor did they appear at night, when they could no longer see their way and stopped to set up camp.
They were settled near a stream, and brazenly dared a fire . . . Merir decided that it was safe enough. They sat down together in that warmth and shared food. Vanye ate, although he had small appetite: he felt the fever on him after the day’s riding, and drank some of Arrhel’s medicine.
He would gladly have sought his blanket then and gone to sleep, for his wounds pained him and he was exhausted from even so short a journey; but he refused to leave the fireside with Roh able to say what he would, to use his cleverness alone with the arrhendim. Chances were that Roh would keep his word; but he did not think it well to put overmuch temptation in Roh’s way, so he rested where he was, bowed his head against his arms and sat savoring at least the fire’s warmth.
Merir gave some whispered instruction to the arrhendim, which was not unusual in the day; quietly the arrhendim moved, and Vanye lifted his head to see what was happening.
It was Perrin and Vis who had withdrawn, and they gathered up their bows where they stood, deftly strung them.
“Trouble, lord?” Roh asked, frowning and tense. But the arrhendim made no move to depart on any business.
Merir sat unmoved, wrapped in his cloak, his old face gaunt and seamed in the firelight. All pure qhal had a delicate look, almost fragile; but Merir was like something carved in bone, hard and keen. “No,” Merir said softly. “I have simply told them to watch.”
The old arrhendim still sat at the fire, beside Merir; and something in the manner of all of them betokened no outside enemies. The arrhendim quietly put arrows to their strings and faced inward, not outward, though no bow was drawn.
“It is ourselves,” Vanye said in a still voice, and a tremor of anger went through him. “I believed you, my lord.”
“So have I believed you,” Merir said. “Put off your weapons for the moment. I would have no misunderstanding. Do so, or forfeit our good will.”
Vanye unbuckled the belts and shed the sword and the dagger, laid them to one side; and Roh did likewise, frowning. Dev came and gathered them all up, returned to Merir’s side and laid them down on that side of the fire.
“Forgive us,” said Merir. “A very few questions.” He arose, Sharrn and Dev with him. He gestured to Roh. “Come, stranger. Come with me.”
Roh gathered himself to his feet, and Vanye started to do the same. “No,” said Merir. “Be wise and do not. I would not have you harmed.”
The bows had drawn.
“Their manners are marginally better than Hetharu’s,” Roh said quietly. “I do not mind their questions, cousin.”
And Roh went with them willingly enough, possessed of knowledge enough to betray them thoroughly. They withdrew along the bank of the stream, where trees screened them from view. Vanye stayed as he was, on one knee.
“Please,” said Perrin, her bow still bent. “Please do not do anything, sirren. Vis and I, we seldom miss even small targets separately. Together, we could not miss you at all. They will not harm your kinsman. Please sit down so that we may all relax.”
He did so. The bows relaxed; the arrhendim’s vigilance did not. He bowed his head against his hands and waited, with fever throbbing in his brain and desperation seething in him.
The arrhendim led Roh back finally, and settled him under the watchful eye of the archers. Vanye looked at Roh, but Roh met his eyes but once, and his look said nothing at all.
“Come,” Sharrn said, and Vanye rose up and went with them, into the dark, down where the trees overhung and the brook splashed among the stones.
Merir waited, sitting on a fallen log, a pale figure in the moonlight, wrapped in his cloak. The arrhendim stopped him at a few paces’ distance, and he stood, offering no respect: respect had been betrayed. Merir offered him to sit on the ground, but he would not.
“Ah,” said Merir. “So you feel misused. And yet have you been misused, khemeis, reckoning all things into the account? Are we not here, pursuing a course you asked of us—and in spite of the fact that you have not yet been honest with us?”
“You are not my sworn lord,” Vanye said, his heart sinking in him, for he was sure now that Roh had done his worst. “I never lied to you. But some things I would not say, no. The Shiua,” he added bitterly, “used akil, and force. Doubtless you would too. I thought you different.”
“Then why did you not deal with us differently?”
“What did Roh say to you?”
“Ah, you fear that.”
“Roh does not lie . . . at least not in most things. But half of him is not Roh; and half of him would cut my throat and I know it. I have told you how that is. I have told you. I do not think anything he would have told you would have been friendly to me or to my lady.”
“It is so, khemeis, that your lady bears a thing of power?”
Had it been daylight, Merir must have seen the color wash from his face; he felt it go, and fear gathered cold and small in his belly. He said nothing.
“But it is so,” said Merir. “She could have told me. She would not. She left me and sought her own way. She was anxious to reach Nehmin. But she has not done so . . . I know that much.”
Vanye’s heart beat rapidly. Some men claimed Sight; it was so in Shiuan . . . but something there was in Merir’s hardness which minded him less of those dreamers than of Morgaine herself.
“Where is she?” he demanded of Merir. “And do you threaten? Would you?”
He sprang to seize the old qhal to hostage before the arrhendim could intervene; and all at once he felt that thickness of sense that a Gate could cause. He caught at the qhal-lord, and as he did so his senses swam; he yet held to the robes, determined with all that was in him. Merir cried out; the dizziness increased; for a moment there was darkness, utter and cold.
Then earth. He lay on dew-slick leaves, and Merir with him. The arrhendim seized him—he hardly felt the grip—and drew him back. Weakly Merir stirred.
“No,” Merir said. “No. Do not harm him.” Steel slid back into sheath then, and Sharrn moved to help Merir, lifted him gently, set him on the log; but Vanye rested still on his knees, lacking any feeling in hands or feet. The void still gaped within his mind, dazing him, as it surely must Merir.
Gate-force. An area about the qhal-lord—charged with the terror of the Gates. I know, Merir had claimed; and know he must, for the Gates were still alive, and Morgaine had not stilled their power.
“So,” Merir breathed at last, “you are brave . . . to have fought that; braver surely than to sink to violence against one so old as I.”
Vanye bowed his head, tossed the hair from his eyes and met the old lord’s angry stare. “Honor I left long and far from here, my lord. I only wish I could have held you.”
“You know such forces. You have passed the Fires at least twice, and I could not frighten you.” Merir drew from his robes a tiny case and carefully opened it. Again that shimmering grew about his hand and his person, although what rested inside was a very tiny jewel, swirling with opal colors. Vanye flinched from it, for he knew the danger.
“Yes,” said Merir, “Your lady is not the only one who holds power in this land. I am one. And I knew that such a thing was loose in Shathan . . . and I sought to know what it was. It was a long search. The power remained hidden. You fit well into Mirrind, invisibly well, to your credit. I was dismayed to know that you were among us. I sent for you, and heard you out . . . and knew even then that there was such a thing unaccounted for in Shathan. I loosed you, hoping that you would go against your enemies; I did believe you, you see. Yet she would seek Nehmin . . . against all my advice. And Nehmin has defenders more powerful than I. Some of them she passed, and that amazes me; but she never passed the others. Perhaps she is dead. I might not know that. Lellin should have returned to me, and he has not. I think Lellin trusted you somewhat, else he would have returned quickly . . . but I do not even know for certain that he lived much past Carrhend. I have only your word. Nehmin stands. Perhaps the Shiua you speak of have prevented her . . . or others might. You cast yourself back into our hands as if we were your own kindred—in some trust, I do think; and yet you admit with your silence what it was she wished in coming here . . . to destroy what defends this land. And she is the bearer of the power I have sensed; I know that now, beyond doubt. I asked Chya Roh why she would destroy Nehmin. He said that such destruction was her function and that he himself did not understand; I asked him why then he sought to go to her, and he said that after all he has done, there is no one else who will have him. You say he rarely lies. Are these lies?”
A tremor went through him. He shook his head and swallowed the bile in his throat. “Lord, he believes it.”
“I put to you the same questions, then. What do you believe?”
“I—do not know. All these things Roh claims to know for truth . . . I do not; and I have served her. I told her once that I did not want to know; she gave me that—and now I cannot answer you, and I would that I could. I only know her, better than Roh knows—and she does not wish to harm you. She does not want that.”
“That is truth,” Merir judged. “At least—you believe that it is so.”
“I have never lied to you. Nor has she.” He strove to gain his feet; the arrhendim put their hands on him to prevent him, but Merir gestured to them to let him be. He stood, yet sick and dizzied, looking down on the frail lord. “It was Morgaine who tried to keep the Shiua out of your land. Blame me, blame Roh that they came here; she foresaw this and tried to prevent it. And this I know, lord, that there is evil in the power that you use, and that it will take you sooner or later, as it took the Shiua . . . this thing you hold in your hand. To touch that—hurts; I know that; and she knows best of all . . . she hates that thing she carries, hates above everything the evil that it does.”
Merir’s eyes searched over him, his face eerily lit in the opal fires. Then he closed the tiny case, and the light faded, reddening his flesh for a moment before it went. “One who bears what Roh describes would feel it most. It would eat into the very bones. The Fires we wield are gentler; hers consumes. It does not belong here. I would she had never come.”
“What she brought is here, lord. If it must be in other hands than hers—if she is lost—then I had rather your hand on it than the Shiua’s.”
“And yours rather than mine?”
He did not answer.
“It is the sword—is it not? The weapon that she would not yield up. It is the only thing she bore of such size.”
He nodded reluctantly.
“I will tell you this, Nhi Vanye, servant of Morgaine . . . that last night that power was unmasked, and I felt it as I have not felt it since first you came into Shathan. What would it have been, do you think?”
“The sword was drawn,” he said, and hope and dread surged up in him—hope that she lived, and agony to think that she might have been in extremity enough to draw it.
“Aye, so do I judge. I shall take you to that place. You stand little chance of reaching it alone, so bear in mind, khemeis, that you still ride under my law. Ride free if you will; attempt Shathan against my will. Or stay and accept it.”
“I shall stay,” he said.
“Let him walk free,” Merir said to the arrhendim, and they did so, although they trailed him back to the fire.
Roh was there, still under the archers’ guard; the arrhendim signalled them, and the arrows were replaced in their quivers.
Vanye went to Roh, anger hazing his vision so that Roh was all the center of it. “Get up,” he said, and when Roh would not, he seized him and swung. Roh broke the force with his arm and struck back, but he took the blow and drove one through. Roh staggered sidewise to the ground.
The arrhendim intervened with drawn swords; one drew blood, and he reeled back from that warning, sense returning to him. Roh tried to rise to the attack, but the arrhendim stopped that too.
Roh straightened and rose more slowly, wiped the blood from his mouth with a dark look. He spat blood, and wiped his mouth a second time.
“Henceforth,” Vanye said in Andurin, “I shall guard my own back. Take care of yours, clan-lord, cousin. I am ilin, and not your man, whatever name you wear. All agreements are ended. I want my enemies in front of me.”
Again Roh spat, and rage burned in his eyes. “I told them nothing, cousin. But have it as you will. Our agreement is ended. You would have killed me without asking. Nhi threw you out. Clan-lord I still am, and for my will Chya casts you out. Be ilin to the end of your days, kinslayer, and thank your own nature for it. I told them nothing they did not already know. Tell him, lord Merir, for his asking: What did I betray? What did I tell you that you did not first tell me?”
“Nothing,” said Merir. “He told us nothing. That is truth.”
The anger drained out of him, leaving only the wound. He stood there with no argument against Roh’s affront, and at last he shook his bead and unclenched his bloody hand. “I bore with everything,” he said hoarsely. “Now I strike back . . . when I am in the wrong. That is always my curse. I take your word, Roh.”
“You take nothing of me, Nhi bastard.”
His mouth worked. He swallowed down another burst of anger, seeing how this one had served him, and went away to his pallet. He lay down there, too distraught for sleep.
The others sought their rest; the fire burned to ash; the watch passed from Perrin to Vis.
Roh lay near him, staring at the heavens, his face set and still angry, and when Roh slept, if ever that night, he did not know it.
The camp came to slow life in the daylight, the arrhendim beginning to pack up and saddle the horses. Vanye rose among the first, began to put on his armor, and Roh saw him and did likewise, both silent, neither looking openly toward the other. Merir was last to rise, and insisted on breaking their fast. They did so; and quietly, at the end of the meal, Merir ordered their weapons returned to them both.
“So you do not break the peace again,” Merir cautioned them.
“I do not seek my cousin’s life,” Vanye said in a faint voice, only for Merir and Roh.
Roh said nothing, but slipped into his sword harness, and rammed the Honor-blade into place at his belt, stalking off to attend to his horse.
Vanye stared after him, bowed courtesy to Merir, empty reflex . . . and went after him.
There were no words. Roh would not look at him but with anger, making speech impossible, and he turned instead to saddling his horse.
Roh finished; he did, and started to lead his horse into line with the others that were mounting up. And on a last and bitter impulse he stopped by Roh’s side and waited for him.
Roh swung to the saddle; he did the same. They rode together into line, and the column started moving.
“Roh,” he said finally, “are we beyond reasoning?”
Roh turned a cold eye on him. “You are worried, are you?” he asked in the language of Andur. “How much did they learn of you, cousin?”
“Probably what they did of you,” he said. “Roh, Merir is armed. As she is.”
Roh had not known. The comprehension dawned on him slowly. “So that is what unnerved you.” He spat painfully to the other side. “And there is something here, then, that could oppose her. That is why you are so desperate. It was a bad mistake to set me at your throat; that is what you least need. You should not have told me. That is your second mistake.”
“He would have told you when he wished; now I know that you know.”
Roh was silent a time. “I do not know why I do not pay you what you have deserved of me. I suppose it is the novelty of hearing a Nhi say he was wrong.” His voice broke; his shoulders sagged. “I told you that I was tired. Peace, cousin, peace. Someday we shall have to kill one another. But not . . . not without knowing why.”
“Stay with me. I will speak for you. I said that I would, and I still mean it.”
“Doubtless.” Roh spat again to the side, wiped his mouth and swore with a shake of his head. “You loosened two of my teeth. Let it wipe out other debts. Aye, we will see how things stand . . . see whether she knows the meaning of reason, or whether these folk do. I have a fancy for an Andurin burial; or if things turn out otherwise, I know the Kurshin rite.”
“Avert,” he murmured, and crossed himself fervently.
Roh laughed bitterly, and bowed his head. The trail narrowed thereafter, and they rode no more together.
Larrel and Kessun returned; they were simply standing in the way as they rode around a bending of the trail, and met and talked with Merir.
“We have ridden as far as the Laur,” Larrel said, and both the arrhendim and their horses looked weary. “Word is relayed up from Merrind: no trouble; nothing stirs.”
“This is a strange silence,” Merir said, leaning on his saddle and casting a look back. “So many thousands—and nothing stirs.”
“I do not know,” said Vanye, for that look shot directly at him. “I would have expected immediate attack.” Then another thought came to him. “Fwar’s men. If any who fell behind were not killed—”
“Aye,” Roh said. “They might have given warning what that forest is, if any came out again; or Shien might. And perhaps others of Fwar’s folk could do us harm enough by talking.”
“Knowledge where she is to be sought?”
“All the Shiua know where she was lost. And having lost us . . . ”
“Her,” Merir concluded, taut-lipped. “An attack near Nehmin.”
The sword was drawn, Vanye recalled, two nights ago. There was time enough for the horde to have veered to Narn-side. A fine sweat broke out on him, cold in the forest shadow. “I pray you haste.”
“We are near the harilim’s woods,” Merir said, “and there is no reckless haste, not for our lives’ sake.”
But they kept moving, the weary arrhendim falling in with them, and they rested as seldom as the horses could bear, save that they stopped at midafternoon and rested until twilight; then they saddled up again, and set out into a deeper, older part of the woods.
Dark fell on them more quickly under these monstrous old trees; and now and again came small chitterings in the brush that frightened the horses.
Then from the fore of their party flared an opal shimmer that made Merir’s horse shy the more, horse and rider for a moment like an image under water. The flare died.
For a moment the forest was utterly quiet. Then the harilim came, stalking, rapid shapes. The first gave a chirring sound, and the horses threw their heads and fought the bits, dancing this way and that in a frenzy to run.
Then Merir led them forward, and their strange guides went about them, melting away into shadow after a time until there were only three left, which walked with Merir, chittering softly the while. It was clear that the master of Shathan had safe-passage where he would, even of these: they reverenced the power of the Fires which Merir held in his naked hand, and yielded to that, although the arrhendim themselves seemed afraid. Of a sudden Vanye realized what his chances had truly been, trifling with these creatures, and he shuddered recalling his passage among them: they served the Fires in some strange fashion, perhaps worshipped them. In his ignorance he had sought a passage in which even the lord of Shathan moved carefully and with dread . . . and one of them at least must have recalled him as companion to another who carried the Fires. Surely that was why he and Roh lived: the harilim had recalled Morgaine.
His heart beat faster as he scanned the dark, heron-like shapes ahead of him on the trail. They may know, he thought, if any living know where she is, they may know. He entertained a wild hope that they might lead them to her this night, and wished that there were some way that a human tongue could shape their speech or human ears understand them. Even Merir was unable to do that; when he did consult with them, it was entirely with signs.
The hope faded. It was not to any secret place that the harilim led them, but only through; they broke upon the Narn at the last of the night . . . black and wide it showed through the trees, but there was a place which might be a crossing, sandbars humped against the current. The haril nearest pointed, made a sign of passing, and as suddenly began to leave them.
Vanye leaped down from his horse, caught his balance against a tree and tried to stop one of them. Three persons, he signed to the creature. Where? Perhaps it understood something. The vast dark eyes flickered in the starlight. It lingered, made a sign with spidery fingers spread, hand rising. And it pointed riverward. The third gesture fluttered the fingers. And then it turned and stalked away, leaving him helpless in his frustration.
“The Fires,” said Sharrn. “The river. Many.”
He looked at the qhal.
“You took a chance,” said Sharrn. “It might have killed you. Do not touch them.”
“We could learn no more of them,” said Merir, and started the white mare down the bank toward the water.
The harilim were gone. The oppression of their presence lifted suddenly and the arrhendim moved quickly to follow Merir. Vanye swung up to the saddle and came last but for Roh and Vis. The anxiety that gnawed at him was the keener for the scant information the creature had passed. And when they went down to water’s edge he looked this way and that, for although it was not the place they had been ambushed, it was the same situation and as likely a trap. The only difference was that the harilim had guided them right up to the brink, and perhaps still stood guard over them in the coming of the light.
There was need of care for another reason in crossing at such a place, for quicksands were well possible. Larrel gave his horse into Kessun’s keeping and waded it first; at one place he did meet with trouble, and fell sidelong, working out of it, but the rest of the crossing went more easily. Then Kessun rode the way that he had walked, and Dev followed, and Sharrn and Merir and the rest of them, the women last as usual. On the other side the young arrhen Larrel was soaked to the skin, shivering with the cold and with the exhaustion of his far-riding and his battle with the sands. Qhal that he was, he looked worn to the bone, thinner and paler than was natural. Kessun wrapped him in his dry cloak and fretted about fevers, but Larrel climbed back into the saddle and clung there.
“We must get away from this place,” Larrel said amid his shivering. “Crossings are too easily guarded.”
There was no argument from any of them in that; Merir turned them south now, and they rode until the horses could do no more.
They rested at last at noon, and took a meal which they had neglected in their haste of the morning. No one spoke; even the prideful qhal sat slumped in exhaustion. Roh flung himself down on the sun-warmed earth, the only patch of sun in the cover they had found in the forest’s edge, and lay like the dead; Vanye did likewise, and although the fever he had carried for days seemed gone, he felt that the marrow had melted from his bones and the strength that moved them was dried up from the heat. His hand lying before his face looked strange to him, the bones more evident than they had been, the wrist scabbed with wounds. His armor was loose on his body—sun-heated misery at the moment where it touched him; he was too weary even to turn over and spare himself the discomfort.
Something startled the horses.
He moved; the arrhendim sprang up; and Roh. A whistle sounded, brief and questioning. Merir stood forth to be seen, and Sharrn answered the signal in such complexity of trills and runs that Vanye’s acquaintance with the system could make no sense of it. An answer came back, no less complex.
“We are advised,” Merir said after it fell silent, “of threat to Nehmin. Sirrindim . . . the Shiua you fled . . . have come up the Narn in great numbers.”
“And Morgaine?” Vanye asked.
“Of Morgaine, of Lellin, of Sezar . . . nothing. It is as if a veil has been drawn over their very existence. Alive or dead, their presence is not felt in Shathan, or the arrhendim this side could tell us. They cannot. Something is greatly amiss.”
His heart fell then. He was almost out of hopes.
“Come,” said Merir. “We have no time to waste.”