Wall of Shiuan

It was a large, rambling structure, seeming to wind irregularly about the keep wall, with most of the stalls empty, save those in the first row. On the right side he counted nine, ten horses, mostly bay; and on the left, apart from the others, he saw Siptah’s pale head, ears pricked, nostrils flaring at the presence of one he knew; in an empty stall farther stood a shadow that was his own Andurin gelding.

Racks at the end of the aisle held what harness remained: he saw what belonged to Siptah, and reckoned his own horse’s gear would be near it. He delayed at the stalls, offered his hand to Siptah’s questing nose, patted that great plate of a cheek, went further to assure himself his own horse was fit. The black lipped at his sleeve; he caught the animal by the mane and slapped it gently on the neck, finding that someone had been horseman enough to have rubbed both animals down, when he had not. He was glad of this: Kurshin that he was, he was not accustomed to leave his horse to another man’s care. He checked feet and found them sound: a shoe had been reset, not of his doing; it had been well-done, and he found nothing of which to complain, though he searched for it.

And then he set himself to prepare them. There would be need of grain, that as much as the supplies they would need for themselves: their way was always too uncertain to travel without it He searched the likely places until he had located the storage bins, and then cast about to see whether there was, amid all the gear remaining, a packsaddle. There was nothing convenient. At last he filled his own saddlebags with what he could, and took Morgaine’s gear and his own, and slung it over the rails of the respective stalls, ready to saddle.

Something moved in the straw, in the shadows. At first he took it for one of the other horses, but it was close. The sudden set of the gelding’s ears and the sound at once alarmed him: he whirled, reaching for the Honor-blade, wondering how many there were, and where.

“Lord,” said a small voice out of the dark, a female voice, that trembled.

He stood still, set his back against the rails of the stall, though he knew the voice. In a moment she moved, and he saw a bit of white in the darkness at the racks, where the windows were closed.

“Jhirun,” he hailed her softly.

She came, treading carefully, as if she were yet uncertain of him. She still wore her tattered skirt and blouse; her hair showed wisps of straw. She held to the rail nearest with one hand and kept yet some distance from him, standing as if her legs had difficulty in bearing her weight.

He slid the blade back into sheath, stepped under the uppermost rail and into the aisle. “We looked for you,” he said.

“I stayed by the horses,” she said in a thin voice. “I knew she had come. I did not know whether you were alive.”

He let go a long breath, relieved to find this one nightmare an empty one. “You are safe. They are Hiua that have this place now: your own people.”

She stayed silent for a long moment; her eyes went to the saddles on the rails, back again. “You are leaving.”

He took her meaning, shook his head in distress. “Matters are different There is no safety for you with us. I ca

She stared at him. Tears flooded her eyes; but suddenly there was such a look of violence there that he recalled how she had set out the marshland road, alone.

And that he must, having saddled the horses, go back to Morgaine and leave the animals in Jhirun’s care, or deal with her in some fashion.

“At least,” she said, “get me out of Ohtij-in.”

He could not face her. He started to take up one of the saddles, to attend his business with the horses.

“Please,” she said.

He looked back at her, eased the saddle back onto the rail. “I am not free,” he said, “to give and take promises. You are Myya; you have forgotten a great deal in Hiuaj, or you would have understood by looking at me that I am no longer uyo and that I have no honor. You were mistaken to have believed me. I said what I had to say, because you left me no choice. I ca

She turned her back, and walked away; he thought for a moment that she was going back into the shadows to sit and weep for a while, and he would allow her that before he decided what he must do with her.

But she did not return into the dark. She went to the harness rack and took bridle and saddle, tugging the gear into her arms and staggering with the weight of it. He swore, watching her come down the aisle toward him, dangling the girth in the foul straw and near to tripping on it, hard-breathing with the effort and with her tears.

He blocked her path and jerked it from her hands, cast it into the straw and cursed at her, and she stood empty-handed and stared up at him, her eyes blind with tears.

“At least when you go,” she said, “you could give me help as far as the road. Or at least do not stop me. You have no right to do that.”

He stood still. She bent, trying to pick up the saddle from the ground, and was shaking so that she had no strength in her hands.

He swore and took it from her, slung it up to the nearest rail. “Well enough,” he conceded. “I will saddle a horse for you. And what you do then, that is your business. Choose one.”

She stared at him, thin-lipped, and then walked to the stall halfway down, laid a hand on that rail that enclosed a bay mare. “I will take her.”

He came and looked at the mare, that was deep enough of chest, but smallish. “There might be better,” he said.

“This one.”

He shook his head, reckoning that she would have what she wished, and that perhaps a girl whose experience of horses extended most to a small black pony judged her limits well enough. He did as she wished.

And with Jhirun’s mare saddled, he returned to his own horse, and to Siptah—took meticulous pains with their own gear, that might have to stand a hard ride and few rests: he appropriated a coil of harness leather, and a braided leather rope as well; and at last he closed the stalls and prepared to leave.

“I have to go advise my lady,” he told Jhirun, who waited by her mare. “We will come as quickly as possible. Something might delay us a little time, but not for long.”

Anguish crossed her face: he frowned at it, turned all the same to leave, reckoning at least that the horses were safe while Jhirun had some gain from aiding them.

“No,” Jhirun whispered after him, ran suddenly and caught his arm; he looked back, chilled at the terror in her face: a sense of ambush prickled about him.

“Lord,” she whispered, “there is a man hiding here. Do not leave, do not leave me here.”

He seized her arm so hard that she winced. “How many more? What have you arranged for me?”

“No,” she breathed. “One. He—” With her head she gestured far off across the stalls, into the dark. “He is there. Do not leave me with him, not now, with the horses—Kithan. It is Kithan.”

She stifled a cry; he opened his hand, realizing he had wrenched her arm, and she rubbed the injured wrist, making no attempt to run.

“When the attack came,” she said, “he came here and could not get out. He has slept—I took a hayfork, and I came on him to kill him, but I was afraid. Now he will have heard us moving—he will come here when he thinks it safe, when you are gone.”

He slipped the ring of his sword, drew it carefully from sheath. “You show me where,” he said. “And if you are mistaken, Myya Jhirun i Myya—”

She shook her head. “I thought we were leaving,” she whispered, through tears. “I thought it would be all right, no need, no need for killing—I do not want to—”

“Quiet,” he said, and seized her wrist, pushing her forward. She began to lead him, as silently as possible, into the dark.

Small, square windows gave light within the stable, shafts of dusty light, and a maze of aisles and stalls, sheaves of straw, empty racks for harness. The building curved, irregularly, following the keep wall, and the aisles were likewise crooked, row upon row of box stalls, empty—a hay loft, a nesting-place for birds that fluttered wings and stirred restlessly.

Jhirun’s hand touched his, cautioning. She pointed down a row of stalls, where the shadow was darkest He began to go that way, drawing her with him, watching the stalls on either side of him, aware how easily it could prove ambush.

A white shape bolted at the end of the stalls, ru

The man raced—white hair flying—for a farther aisle, Vanye let Jhirun go, and ran, pursuing him, in time to see him scale a rail barrier and scramble for open windows. The lead was too great. The qujal disappeared outside, hurling himself through, as Vanye reached the stall railing.

He stood, cursing inwardly, whirled about on guard as a sound reached his ears; Jhirun came ru

And outside he heard the hue and cry, human hounds a-hunt, and Kithan loose for their quarry, the whole of Ohtij-in astir: they would not be long in taking him.

He swore, an oath that he had never used, and shook Jhirun’s fingers roughly from his arm and started back toward the front of the stable, she struggling along beside him, hard-breathing.

“Stay here,” he said. “Mind the horses. I am going to Morgaine. We are leaving here as quickly as may be.”

Chapter Thirteen

Then was chaos in the courtyard, men raced from doorways. Vanye walked through it, shouldered his way through a press that was coming out of the keep, folk giving back from him in fright when they saw him. He kept his sword, sheathed, in his left hand, and entered the halls of the keep, moving as quickly as he could without ru

He reached the lords’ halls, high in the tower, crossed through to the i

Morgaine faced him—she standing by the window, her hand upon the sill. Distress was in her look. Distantly the cries of men could be heard from the courtyard below.

“Thee’s stirred something?” she asked him.

“Kithan,” he said. “ Liyo , the horses are saddled, and we only need go—now, quickly. Someone will come into that stable and see things prepared if we wait overlong, and I do not think long farewells are fit for this place.”