murder?"
"The murder was on their side. They murdered—"
"So?" Vanye asked when the man went suddenly silent.
Chei shook his head
angrily. Then his look went to one of entreaty, brow furrowed beneath
the drying and tangled hair as he looked up. "You have come here from
the gate," Chei said, "if that is the way you have come. I am not a
fool. Do not tell me that your lady is ignorant what land this is."
"Beyond the gate—" Vanye
considered a second time. It was a man's life in the balance. And it
was too easy to kill a man with a word. Or raise war and kill a
thousand men or ten thousand. There was a second silence, this one his.
Then: "I think you have come to questions my lady could answer for you."
"What do you want from me?" Chei asked.
"Simple things. Easy things. Some of which might suit you well."
Chei's look grew wary indeed. "Ask my lady." Vanye said.
It was a quieter,
saner-seeming man Vanye led, wrapped in one of their two blankets, to
the fireside where Morgaine waited, Chei with his hair and beard clean
and having some order about it once he had wet and combed it again. He
was barefoot, limping, wincing a little on the twigs that littered the
dusty ground. He had left all his gear down on the riverside—Heaven
knew how they would salvage it or what scouring could clean the
leather: none could save the cloth.
Chei set himself down and Vanye sat down at the fireside nearer him than Morgaine—in mistrust.
But Morgaine poured them
ordinary tea from a pan, using one of their smaller few bowls for a
third cup, and passed it round the bed of coals that the fire had
become, to Vanye and so to Chei. The wind made a soft whisper in the
leaves that moved and dappled the ground with a shifting light, the
fire had become a comfortable warmth which did not smoke, but relieved
what chill there was in the shade, and the horses, the dapple gray and
the white, grazed a little distance away, in their little patch of
grass and sunlight. There was no haste, no urgency in Morgaine.
Not to the eye, Vanye
thought. She had been quiet and easy even when he had come alone up the
hill bringing the cups, and told her everything he could recall, and
everything he had admitted to Chei—"He knows the gates," Vanye had
said, quickly, atop it all. "He believes that is how we got here, but
he insists we lie if we do not know this lord Gault and that we must
know where we are."
Morgaine sipped her tea
now, and did not hasten matters. "Vanye tells me you do not know where
we come from," she said after a moment. "But you think we should know
this place, and that we have somewhat to do with this lord of Morund.
We do not. The road out there brought us. That is all. It branches
beyond every gate. Do you not know that?"
Chei stared at her, not in defiance now, but in something like dismay.
"Like any road," said
Morgaine in that same hush of moving leaves and wind, "it leads
everywhere. That is the general way of roads. Name the farthest place
in the world. That road beyond this woods leads to it, one way or the
other. And this Gate leads through other gates. Which lead—to many
places. Vanye says you know this. Then you should know that too. And
knowing that—" Morgaine took up a peeled twig to stir her tea, and
carefully lifted something out of it, to flick it away. "You should
know that what a lord decrees is valid only so far as his hand reaches.
No further. And I have never heard of your lord Gault, nor care that I
have not heard. He seems to me to be no one worth my trouble."
"Then why am I?" Chei asked harshly, with no little desperation.
"You are not," Morgaine said. "You are a considerable inconvenience."
It was not what Chei had,
perhaps, expected. And Morgaine took a slow sip of tea, set the cup
down and poured more for herself, the while Chei said nothing at all.
"We cannot let you free,"
Morgaine said. "We do not care for this Gault; and having you fall
straightway into his hands would be no
"The murder was on their side. They murdered—"
"So?" Vanye asked when the man went suddenly silent.
Chei shook his head
angrily. Then his look went to one of entreaty, brow furrowed beneath
the drying and tangled hair as he looked up. "You have come here from
the gate," Chei said, "if that is the way you have come. I am not a
fool. Do not tell me that your lady is ignorant what land this is."
"Beyond the gate—" Vanye
considered a second time. It was a man's life in the balance. And it
was too easy to kill a man with a word. Or raise war and kill a
thousand men or ten thousand. There was a second silence, this one his.
Then: "I think you have come to questions my lady could answer for you."
"What do you want from me?" Chei asked.
"Simple things. Easy things. Some of which might suit you well."
Chei's look grew wary indeed. "Ask my lady." Vanye said.
It was a quieter,
saner-seeming man Vanye led, wrapped in one of their two blankets, to
the fireside where Morgaine waited, Chei with his hair and beard clean
and having some order about it once he had wet and combed it again. He
was barefoot, limping, wincing a little on the twigs that littered the
dusty ground. He had left all his gear down on the riverside—Heaven
knew how they would salvage it or what scouring could clean the
leather: none could save the cloth.
Chei set himself down and Vanye sat down at the fireside nearer him than Morgaine—in mistrust.
But Morgaine poured them
ordinary tea from a pan, using one of their smaller few bowls for a
third cup, and passed it round the bed of coals that the fire had
become, to Vanye and so to Chei. The wind made a soft whisper in the
leaves that moved and dappled the ground with a shifting light, the
fire had become a comfortable warmth which did not smoke, but relieved
what chill there was in the shade, and the horses, the dapple gray and
the white, grazed a little distance away, in their little patch of
grass and sunlight. There was no haste, no urgency in Morgaine.
Not to the eye, Vanye
thought. She had been quiet and easy even when he had come alone up the
hill bringing the cups, and told her everything he could recall, and
everything he had admitted to Chei—"He knows the gates," Vanye had
said, quickly, atop it all. "He believes that is how we got here, but
he insists we lie if we do not know this lord Gault and that we must
know where we are."
Morgaine sipped her tea
now, and did not hasten matters. "Vanye tells me you do not know where
we come from," she said after a moment. "But you think we should know
this place, and that we have somewhat to do with this lord of Morund.
We do not. The road out there brought us. That is all. It branches
beyond every gate. Do you not know that?"
Chei stared at her, not in defiance now, but in something like dismay.
"Like any road," said
Morgaine in that same hush of moving leaves and wind, "it leads
everywhere. That is the general way of roads. Name the farthest place
in the world. That road beyond this woods leads to it, one way or the
other. And this Gate leads through other gates. Which lead—to many
places. Vanye says you know this. Then you should know that too. And
knowing that—" Morgaine took up a peeled twig to stir her tea, and
carefully lifted something out of it, to flick it away. "You should
know that what a lord decrees is valid only so far as his hand reaches.
No further. And I have never heard of your lord Gault, nor care that I
have not heard. He seems to me to be no one worth my trouble."
"Then why am I?" Chei asked harshly, with no little desperation.
"You are not," Morgaine said. "You are a considerable inconvenience."
It was not what Chei had,
perhaps, expected. And Morgaine took a slow sip of tea, set the cup
down and poured more for herself, the while Chei said nothing at all.
"We cannot let you free,"
Morgaine said. "We do not care for this Gault; and having you fall
straightway into his hands would be no