once back to him, alarmed.
"Are there many of your sort?" Morgaine asked.
Fear, then. True fear. "Fewer than there were," Chei said at last. "My lord is dead. That is my crime. That I was both armed, and a free Man. So once was Gault. But they took him. Now he is qhal—inside."
"Is that," Vanye asked, "the general fate of prisoners?"
"It happens," Chei said, looking anxiously from one to the other side of him.
"Tell us," Morgaine said, shifting position to point at the road where it continued. "What lies ahead?"
"Other qhal. Tejhos. Mante."
"What sort of place?" Vanye asked.
"I have no knowledge. A qhalur place. You would know, better than I."
"But Gault knows them."
"I am sure," Chei said in a hoarse small voice. "Perhaps you do."
"Perhaps we do not," Morgaine said softly, very softly. "Describe the way north. On the old Road."
Chei hesitated, then moved
the stick and drew the line northward with a large westward jog halfway
before an eastward trend. "Woods and hills," he said. "A thousand small
trails. Above this—is qhalur land. The High Lord. Skarrin."
"Skarrin. Of Mante."
Morgaine rested her chin on her hand, her brow knit, her fist clenched,
and for a long moment were no more questions. Then: "And what place had
Men in this land?"
Unhesitatingly, the stick
indicated the west. "There." And the east, about Morund. "And there.
Those in the west and those who live in qhalur lands. But in the west
are the only free Men."
"Of which you were one."
"Of which I was one, lady."
There was no flinching in that voice, which had become as quiet as
Morgaine's own. "You are kinder than Gault, that is all I know. If a
man has to swear to some qhal to live—better you than the lord that
Skarrin sent us. I will get you through Gault's lands. And if I serve
you well—believe me and trust my leading when you come near humans, and
I will guide you through."
"Against your own," Vanye said.
"I was Gault's prisoner. Do
you think human folk would trust me again? There have been too many
spies. No one is alive who went through Gyllin-brook, except me. My
lord Ichandren is dead. My brother is dead—Thank God's mercy for both."
For a moment his voice did break, but he sat still, his hands on his
knees. "No one is alive to vouch for me. I will not raise a hand
against human folk. But I do not want to die for nothing. One of my
comrades on that hill—he let the wolves have him. The second night. And
I knew then I did not want to die."
Tears spilled, wet trails
down his face. Chei looked at neither of them. His face was still
impassive. There were only the tears.
"So," Morgaine said after a moment, "is it an oath you will give us?"
"I swear to you—" The eyes
stayed fixed beyond her. "I swear to you—every word is true. I will
guide you. I will guide you away from all harm. On my soul I will not
lie to you, lady. Whatever you want of me."
Vanye drew in a breath and wrapped his arms about him, staring down at the man. Such terms he had sworn, himself, ilin -oath,
by the scar on his palm and the white scarf about the helm—outcast
warrior, taken up by a lord, an oath without recourse or exception. And
hearing that oath, he felt something swell up in his throat—memory of
that degree of desperation; and a certain remote jealousy, that of a
sudden this man was speaking to Morgaine as his liege, when he knew
nothing of her; or of him; or what he was undertaking.
God in Heaven, liyo, do you trust this man, and do you take him on my terms — have I trespassed too far, come too close to you, that now you take in another stray dog?
"I will take your oath," Morgaine said. "I will put you in Vanye's charge."
"Do you believe him?"
Morgaine asked him later, in the Kurshin tongue, while Chei lay naked
in the sun on a blanket, sleeping, perhaps—far enough for decency on
the grassy downslope of the riverside, but still visible from the
campfire—sun is the best thing for such wounds, Morgaine had
"Are there many of your sort?" Morgaine asked.
Fear, then. True fear. "Fewer than there were," Chei said at last. "My lord is dead. That is my crime. That I was both armed, and a free Man. So once was Gault. But they took him. Now he is qhal—inside."
"Is that," Vanye asked, "the general fate of prisoners?"
"It happens," Chei said, looking anxiously from one to the other side of him.
"Tell us," Morgaine said, shifting position to point at the road where it continued. "What lies ahead?"
"Other qhal. Tejhos. Mante."
"What sort of place?" Vanye asked.
"I have no knowledge. A qhalur place. You would know, better than I."
"But Gault knows them."
"I am sure," Chei said in a hoarse small voice. "Perhaps you do."
"Perhaps we do not," Morgaine said softly, very softly. "Describe the way north. On the old Road."
Chei hesitated, then moved
the stick and drew the line northward with a large westward jog halfway
before an eastward trend. "Woods and hills," he said. "A thousand small
trails. Above this—is qhalur land. The High Lord. Skarrin."
"Skarrin. Of Mante."
Morgaine rested her chin on her hand, her brow knit, her fist clenched,
and for a long moment were no more questions. Then: "And what place had
Men in this land?"
Unhesitatingly, the stick
indicated the west. "There." And the east, about Morund. "And there.
Those in the west and those who live in qhalur lands. But in the west
are the only free Men."
"Of which you were one."
"Of which I was one, lady."
There was no flinching in that voice, which had become as quiet as
Morgaine's own. "You are kinder than Gault, that is all I know. If a
man has to swear to some qhal to live—better you than the lord that
Skarrin sent us. I will get you through Gault's lands. And if I serve
you well—believe me and trust my leading when you come near humans, and
I will guide you through."
"Against your own," Vanye said.
"I was Gault's prisoner. Do
you think human folk would trust me again? There have been too many
spies. No one is alive who went through Gyllin-brook, except me. My
lord Ichandren is dead. My brother is dead—Thank God's mercy for both."
For a moment his voice did break, but he sat still, his hands on his
knees. "No one is alive to vouch for me. I will not raise a hand
against human folk. But I do not want to die for nothing. One of my
comrades on that hill—he let the wolves have him. The second night. And
I knew then I did not want to die."
Tears spilled, wet trails
down his face. Chei looked at neither of them. His face was still
impassive. There were only the tears.
"So," Morgaine said after a moment, "is it an oath you will give us?"
"I swear to you—" The eyes
stayed fixed beyond her. "I swear to you—every word is true. I will
guide you. I will guide you away from all harm. On my soul I will not
lie to you, lady. Whatever you want of me."
Vanye drew in a breath and wrapped his arms about him, staring down at the man. Such terms he had sworn, himself, ilin -oath,
by the scar on his palm and the white scarf about the helm—outcast
warrior, taken up by a lord, an oath without recourse or exception. And
hearing that oath, he felt something swell up in his throat—memory of
that degree of desperation; and a certain remote jealousy, that of a
sudden this man was speaking to Morgaine as his liege, when he knew
nothing of her; or of him; or what he was undertaking.
God in Heaven, liyo, do you trust this man, and do you take him on my terms — have I trespassed too far, come too close to you, that now you take in another stray dog?
"I will take your oath," Morgaine said. "I will put you in Vanye's charge."
"Do you believe him?"
Morgaine asked him later, in the Kurshin tongue, while Chei lay naked
in the sun on a blanket, sleeping, perhaps—far enough for decency on
the grassy downslope of the riverside, but still visible from the
campfire—sun is the best thing for such wounds, Morgaine had
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