Gate of Ivrel

It was so, it was clearly so: from a man his enemy he would have resented those words; Morgaine he feared and he was not ashamed. His heart beat painfully at each direct glance of those gray, unhuman eyes. If he did not know of a certainty that he would die, he would flee this little place and her company; but there was the storm. It howled outside with the fury of winter. He knew the mountains. Sometimes there was no break in the snow for days. Men unprotected died, turned up in spring all twisted and stiff in the melting snow, along with carcasses of horses and deer that the wolves had somehow missed.

"There is no harm in words between us," she said. She offered him wine of her own flask. He took it hesitantly, but the night was chill, and he had already shared food with her. He drank a little and gave it back. She wiped the mouth fastidiously and drank also, and stopped the flask again.

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"I beg thee tell me the end of my tale," she said. "I was not able to know.

What became of the men I knew? What was it I did?"

He stared into her eyes, this most cursed of all enemies of Andur-Kursh, the traitor guide that had sent ten thousand men to die and sunk half the Middle Kingdoms into ruin. And those words would not come to him. He would easily say them of her to someone else: but in that fair and unguarded face there was something that unfolded to him, that strangled the curse in his throat.

He found no words for her at all.

"I do not think then," she said, "that it has a pleasant ending, since thee does not want to say. But say it, Nhi Vanye."

"There is no more to tell," he said. "After Irien, after so great a defeat for Andur-Kursh, Hjemur took Koris, took all the lands from Alis Kaje east.

You were not to be found, not after the chase the Aenorin gave you. You vanished. What allies you had left surrendered. All that followed you died.

They say that there were prosperous villages and holds in south Koris in your day. There are none now. It is as desolate as these mountains. And Irien itself is cursed ground, and no one enters there, even of Hjemur's men. There is rumor," he added, "that the Thiye who rules now is the same that ruled then. I do not know if that is true. The Hjemur-lord has always been called Thiye Thiye's-son. But the country people say that it is the same man, kept young a hundred years."

"It could be done," she said in a low and joyless voice.

"That is the end of it," he said. "Everyone died." And he thrust from his mind what she said of Thiye, for it occurred to him that she was living proof that it could be done, that things could be done for which he wanted no explanation. He must share this place with her: he wanted to share nothing else.

She let him be then, asking no more questions, and he retreated to the other side of the fire and curled up again to sleep.

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The morning came, miserable and still spitting snow. But soon there began to be a break in the clouds, which cheered Vanye's heart. He had feared one of those storms that stayed for days, that might seal him in this place with her unwelcome company, while the poor horses froze outside.

And she cooked strips of venison over the fire for their breakfast, and offered him a little of the wine too. He cut bits from the steaming venison with his knife against his thumb, and watched even with amusement as she, more delicate, cut hers most awkwardly into bits, and dusted each piece and inspected it, and only then cooked it further and prised it off the dagger tip for eating, tiny bites and manageable.

Then she wrapped up the rest in a square of leather that he had of his gear for the purpose.

"Will you not keep some," he asked, "or are you taking it all?"

"What means the white scarf?" she asked him.

He swallowed the last bit of venison as if it had turned to dust in his mouth. All at once the rest that he had eaten and drunk turned to sickness in his belly.

"I am ilin," he said.

"Thee has sheltered with me, taken food," she said. "And the Chya of Koris gave me clan-welcome, and gave me lord-right, ilin."

He bowed his head to his hands upon the floor. She spoke the truth: alone of women, this was true of Morgaine, killer of armies. He raged at himself, even while his stomach knotted in fear; he had not even reckoned of it, for her being a woman; he had sheltered at her fire as he would have taken shelter at that of some Aenish farmwife. Such folk had no claim to make against an ilin.

Morgaine did.

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"I beg exception," he said from that position. He was entitled to ask that, and he had no shame in asking. He dared look up at her. "I have kinsmen in Aenor-Pyvvn. I was going there. Lady, I am exiled in every province of Morija— I dare not go back there. I am little help to anyone." He took the helmet from his head— he had set it on again to go out into the cold—and, which he had not done, even for sleeping, he unlaced his coif at the throat and slipped it back from the shame of his shorn head, the fair brown hair falling free about his ears and across his brow. "I am outlawed in my clan: the Nhi and the Myya hunt me. So I became ilin.But I can find shelter only in Aenor-Pyvvn, and there you have said yourself you ca

"For what was this done to thee?" she asked him, and he saw that he had succeeded in bringing shock even to the eyes of Morgaine.

"For murder, for brother-killing." He had told this to none, had avoided men and shelters even of country folk. The words came with difficulty to his lips. "It was a fight he forced, lady, but I killed my brother— my half-brother— and he was Myya. So there are two clans with blood-debt against me, and I am no help to you. I am grateful for the shelter— I thank you: but it is no use to you to make claim against me. Only name me some reasonable service and I will do that for you in payment. You ca

They are savages that live there, but at least they have no bloodfeud with you and you can live there in safety. Listen to me and let me pay you with that thanks. That is the best that I can do for you, and I will do that honestly, grudging nothing."

"I refuse to grant exception," she said then, which was her right.

He swore, both foully and tearfully, and left her and went out and laid hands upon his horse's halter. He had time to think then, of the holy oath he had already made as ilin,and that oath-breaking was no light thing for his honor and least of all for his soul. He laid hand against the bay's rough 23

Gate of Ivrel

cheek, and his head against its warm neck, and stayed there, shivering in the cold, but numb to it. Easy it would be if he could die there in the wind, robbed of warmth, to sink into the numbing snow and simply die, untouched by qujalinoaths.

New snow crunched beneath Morgaine's boots. She came and stood beside him, waiting for him to decide which he would, to yield up his soul by oath-breaking, or to risk it by serving the likes of her. For a man who was lost in either case, the only thing left was life: and life was sure to be longer by ru