Wall of Shiuan

A cry went up, outside. She turned and leaned upon the sill, gazing down into the yard. “They have taken him,” she said quietly.

“Let us go, liyo . Let us go from here, while there is time.”

She turned toward him a second time, and there was a curious expression in her eyes: doubt. Panic rose in him. In one thing he had lied to her, and the lie gathered force, troubling all the peace that had grown between them.

“I do not think that it would be graceful of us,” she said, “to try to pass them in the hall. They are bringing him into the hold. Doubtless they are bringing him here. So short a time from my sight, Vanye, and so much difficulty... Was it a chance meeting?”

He drew breath, let it go quickly. “I swear to you. Listen to me. There are things the lord Kithan can say that do not bear saying, not before these men of yours. Do not question him. Be rid of him, and quickly.”

“What should I not ask him?”

He felt the edge in that question, and shook his head. “No. Liyo , listen to me. Unless you would have all that Roh said made common knowledge in Ohtij-in—avoid this. There can be questions raised that you do not want asked. There is a priest down the hall... and Shiua out in the court, and servants, and whatever qujal are still alive... that would raise questions if they lost all care of their lives. Kithan will do you no good. There is nothing he can say that you want to hear.”

“And was it a chance meeting, Vanye?”

“Yes,” he cried, in a tone that shocked the silence after.

“That may be,” she said after a moment. “But if you are correct—then it would be well to know what he has said already.”

“Are you ready,” he asked her, “to leave upon the instant?”

“Yes,” she said, and indicated the fireside, where her belongings were neatly placed; he had none.

Outside, in the halls, there was commotion. It was not long in reaching them—the sounds of shouting, the heavy sound of steps approaching.

A heavy hand rapped at the door. “Lady?” one asked from outside.

“Let them in,” Morgaine said.

Vanye opened it, and in his other hand only his thumb held the sheath upon the longsword: a shake would free it.

Men were massed outside, a few of the marshlanders; but chief among them was the scarred Barrows-man, Fwar, with his kinsmen. Vanye met that sullen face with utter coldness, and stepped back because Morgaine had bidden it, because they were hers—violent men unlike the Aren-folk: he surmised seeing them now who had done most of the slaughter in Ohtij-in, that were murder to be ordered, they would enjoy it.

And among them, from their midst, they thrust the disheveled figure of the qujal –lord, thin and fragile-seeming in their rough hands. Blood dabbled the satin front of Kithan’s brocade garment, and his white hair was loose and wild, matted with blood from a cut on his brow.

Fwar cast the dazed halfling to the floor. Morgaine settled herself in a chair, leaned back, Changeling balanced on her knee, under her hand; she watched calmly as the former lord of Ohtij-in gathered himself to rise, but they kept him on his knees. Vanye, moving to his proper place at Morgaine’s shoulder, saw the force of the qujal ’s gray eyes, no longer full of dreams, no longer distant, but filled with heat and hate.

“He is Kithan,” said Fwar, his scarred lips smiling.

“Let him up,” Morgaine said; and such hate there was in Kithan that Vanye extended his sheathed sword between, cautioning him; but the captured halfling had some sense. He stumbled to his feet and made a slight bow of the head, homage to realities.

“I shall have you put with the others,” Morgaine said softly. “Certain others of your folk do survive, in the higher part of this tower.”

“For what?” Kithan asked, with a glance about him.

Morgaine shrugged. “For whatever these men allow.”

The elegant young lordling stood trembling, wiped a bloody strand of hair from his cheek. His eyes strayed to Vanye’s, who returned him no gentleness, and back again. “I do not understand what is happening,” he said. “Why have you done these things to us?”

“You were unfortunate,” said Morgaine.

The arrogance of that answer seemed to take Kithan’s breath away. He laughed after a moment, aloud and bitterly. “Indeed. And what do you gain of such allies as you have? What when you have won?”

Morgaine frowned, gazing at him. “Fwar,” she said, “I do not think it any profit to hold him or his people.”

“We can deal with them,” said Fwar.

“No,” she said. “You have Ohtij-in; and you have my order, Fwar. Will you abide by it, and not kill them?”

“If that is your order,” said Fwar after a moment, but there was no pleasure in it.

“So,” said Morgaine. “Fwar’s kindred and Haz of Aren rule in Ohtij-in, and you rule your own kind. As for me, I am leaving when the flood permits, and you have seen the last of me, my lord Kithan.”

“They will kill us.”

“They may not. But if I were you, my lord, I would seek shelter elsewhere—perhaps in Hiuaj.”

There was laughter at that, and color flooded Kithan’s white cheeks.

“Why?” Kithan asked when the coarse laughter had died. “Why have you done this to us? This is excessive revenge.”

Again Morgaine shrugged. “I only opened your gates,” she said. “What was waiting outside was not of my shaping. I do not lead them. I go my own way.”

“Not looking to what you have destroyed. Here is the last place where civilization survives. Here—” Kithan glanced about at the fine tapestries that hung slashed and wantonly ruined. “Here is the wealth, the art of thousands of years, destroyed by these human animals.”

“Out there,” said Morgaine, “is the flood. Barrows-hold has gone; Aren is going; there is nothing left for them but to come north. It is your time; and you chose your way of meeting it, with such delicate works. It was your choice.”

The qujal clenched his arms across him as at a chill. “The world is going under; but this time was ours, tedious as it was, and this land was ours, to enjoy it The Wells ruined the world once, and spilled this Barrows-spawn into our lands—that drove other humans into ruin, that plundered and stole and ruined and left of us only halfbreeds, the survivors of their occupations. They tampered with the Wells and ruined their own lands; they ruined the land they took and now they come to us. Perhaps he is of that kind,” he said, with a burning look at Vanye, “and came through the Wells; perhaps the one named Roh came likewise. The Barrow-kings are upon us again, no different than they ever were. But someone did this thing to us—someone of knowledge more than theirs. Someone did this, who had the power to open what was sealed.”

Morgaine frowned, straightened, drawing Changeling into her lap; and of a sudden Vanye moved, seized the slight halfling to silence him, to take him from the room: but Morgaine’s sharp command checked him. None moved, not he nor the startled peasants, and Morgaine arose, a distraught look on her face. She withdrew a space from them, looked back at him, and to Fwar, and seemed for a moment dazed.

“The Barrow-kings,” she said then: there was a haunted expression in her eyes... Vanye saw it and remembered Irien, ghosts that followed her, an army, lost in that great valley: ten thousand men, of which not even corpses remained.

His ancestors, that were to her but a few months dead.

“ Liyo ,” he said quietly, his heart pounding. “We are wasting time with him. Set the halfling free or put him with the others, but there are other matters that want attention. Now.”

Sanity returned sharply to Morgaine’s gaze, a harsh look bestowed on Kithan. “How long ago?”

“ Liyo ,” Vanye objected. “It is pointless.”

“How long ago?”

Kithan gathered himself with an intake of breath, assumed that pose of arrogance that had been his while he ruled, despite that Vanye’s fingers bit into his arm. “A very long time ago. Long enough for this land to become what it is. And surely,” he shot after that, pressing his advantage, “you are about to bid equally with the man Roh: life, wealth, restoration of the ancient powers. Lie to me, ancient enemy. Offer to buy my favor. It is—considering the situation—purchasable.”

“Kill him,” Fwar muttered.

“Your enemy has gone,” Kithan said, “to Abarais—to possess the Wells; to take all the north. Hetharu is with him, with all our forces; and eventually they will come back.”

Fear was thick in the room. Morgaine stood still. The Barrows-men seemed hardly to breathe.

“The Shiua spoke the same,” said one of the marshlanders.

“When the flood subsides,” said Morgaine, “then there will be a settling with Roh; and he will not return to Ohtij-in. But that is my business, and it need not concern you.”

“Lady,” said Fwar, fear distorting his face, “when you have done that—when you have reached the Wells—what will you do then?”

Vanye heard, mind frozen, the halfling held with one hand, the other hand sweating on the grip of his sword. It was not his to answer: with his eyes he tried to warn her.

“We have followed you,” a Barrows-man said. “We are yours, we Barrowers—We will follow you.”

“Take them,” Kithan laughed, a bitter and mocking laugh; and of a sudden the foremost of the Aren-folk fled, his fellows with him, thrusting their way through the tall Barrows-men, ru

Still Kithan laughed, and Vanye cursed and hurled him aside, into the midst of the Barrows-men, who hurled him clear again; Vanye unsheathed the sword, and Kithan halted, within striking distance of him, and knowing it.

“No,” Morgaine forbade him. “No.” And to the Barrowers: “Fwar, stop the Aren-folk. Find me Haz.”

But the Barrowers too remained as if dazed, pale of face, staring at her. One of them touched a luck-piece that he wore hanging from a cord about his neck. Fwar bit at his lip.

And Kithan smiled a wolf-smile and laughed yet again. “World’s-end, world’s-end, O ye blind, ye Barrows-rabble. She has followed you through the Wells to repay you for all you have done... your own, your personal curse. An eyeblink for her, from there till now, but there is no time in the Wells, nor distance. We are avenged.”

A knife whipped from sheath: a Barrows-man drew—for Morgaine, for Kithan, unknown which: Vanye looked toward it, and that man backed away, whey-faced and sweating.

There was silence in the room, heavy and oppressive; and of a sudden there was a stir outside, as the animals in the pens began bawling all at once. Furniture quivered, and the surface in the wine pitcher on the table shimmered and then men sprang one way and the other as chairs danced and the floor heaved sickeningly underfoot, masonry parting in a great crack down the wall that admitted dusty daylight. The fire crashed, a burning log rolled across the carpet, and there were echoing crashes and screams throughout the hold.