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Authors: C. J. Cherryh
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said. Sun
and clean wind.
Not mentioning the salve
and the oil and the matter of the man's fouled armor, which there was
some salvaging, perhaps, with oil and work.
"A man swears," Vanye said.
"The oath is as good as the man. But," he said after a moment, kneeling
there beside the dying fire, "a man might sell his soul, for something
of value to him. Such as his life."
She looked at him for a long time. "The question then, is for what coin, would it not be?"
"He believes," Vanye said, "in witchcraft."
"Does thee not, now?"
Vanye lifted his shoulders,
a small, uncomfortable movement, and shifted his eyes momentarily
toward the dragon sword, which had never left her side, not in all this
perilous day. Its ruby eyes gleamed wickedly in the gold hilt; it
reminded him of that stone which he carried against his own heart, a
foreign, a dangerous thing. "I have never seen any witch-working. Only
things qhal have made, most of which I can manage—" A sense of
dislocation came on him, a sense of panic, fear of what he had become,
remorse for the things that he had lost. "Or I have become a witch
myself," he murmured. "Perhaps that is what witchcraft is. Chei ep
Kantory would think so."
There was a great deal, he
thought, on Morgaine's mind. But for a moment he had distracted her,
and she looked at him in that way that once had made him vastly
uncomfortable. Her eyes were gray and clear to the depths of that gray
like the devouring sea; her lashes were, like no human and no qhal he
had ever seen at such range, dark gray next the lid and shading to pale
at the tips, and that shading was on her brows but nowhere about her
hair, which was altogether silver. Halfling, she had said. Sometimes he
thought it true. Sometimes he did not know at all.
"Thee regrets?"
He shook his head finally. It was the most that he could say. He drew a great breath. "I have learned your lesson, liyo. I look around me. That is all. Never back."
Morgaine hissed between her
teeth and flung a bit of burned stick, that with which Chei had drawn
the map. It was more than her accustomed restlessness. She rested with
her arms about her knees, and shifted to hunch forward, her arms tucked
against her chest, gazing into nothing at all.
He was silent. It seemed wisest.
It was their lives she was
thinking on. He was sure of that. She was wiser than he—he was
accustomed to think so. He missed things, not knowing what he should
see, things which Morgaine did not miss. She had taught him—skills
which might well horrify their prisoner: the working of gates, the
writing of qhal, the ideas which qhal held for truth—who swore by no
god and looked (some of them) back toward a time that they had ruled
and (some of them) forward to a time that they should recover their
power, at whatever cost to the immortal souls they disavowed.
Qhal in most ancient times
had taken Men, so Morgaine had told him, and changed them, and
scattered them through the gates, along with plants and creatures of
every sort, until Time itself abhorred their works and their confusing
what Was, and mixed all elements in one cataclysmic Now—the which
thought chilled his much-threatened soul, and unhinged the things Holy
Church had taught him and which he thought he knew beyond any doubt.
Qhal had taken Men to serve
them because they were most qhal-like . . . and thereby the ancient
qhal-lords had made a dire mistake: for Men in their shorter lives,
multiplied far more rapidly, which simple fact meant that Men
threatened them.
In his own land, in Kursh and Andur, divided by the mountain ridge, the
snowy Mother of Eagles—there qhal had been reduced virtually to rumor,
hunted for the most part, tolerated in a few rare cases—so frost-haired
Morgaine had been tolerated by the High Kings a hundred years before
his birth, while in his own ruined age even his own hair had been too
light a brown for Nhi clan's liking. And in this place—
In this place, qhal had adjusted that
and clean wind.
Not mentioning the salve
and the oil and the matter of the man's fouled armor, which there was
some salvaging, perhaps, with oil and work.
"A man swears," Vanye said.
"The oath is as good as the man. But," he said after a moment, kneeling
there beside the dying fire, "a man might sell his soul, for something
of value to him. Such as his life."
She looked at him for a long time. "The question then, is for what coin, would it not be?"
"He believes," Vanye said, "in witchcraft."
"Does thee not, now?"
Vanye lifted his shoulders,
a small, uncomfortable movement, and shifted his eyes momentarily
toward the dragon sword, which had never left her side, not in all this
perilous day. Its ruby eyes gleamed wickedly in the gold hilt; it
reminded him of that stone which he carried against his own heart, a
foreign, a dangerous thing. "I have never seen any witch-working. Only
things qhal have made, most of which I can manage—" A sense of
dislocation came on him, a sense of panic, fear of what he had become,
remorse for the things that he had lost. "Or I have become a witch
myself," he murmured. "Perhaps that is what witchcraft is. Chei ep
Kantory would think so."
There was a great deal, he
thought, on Morgaine's mind. But for a moment he had distracted her,
and she looked at him in that way that once had made him vastly
uncomfortable. Her eyes were gray and clear to the depths of that gray
like the devouring sea; her lashes were, like no human and no qhal he
had ever seen at such range, dark gray next the lid and shading to pale
at the tips, and that shading was on her brows but nowhere about her
hair, which was altogether silver. Halfling, she had said. Sometimes he
thought it true. Sometimes he did not know at all.
"Thee regrets?"
He shook his head finally. It was the most that he could say. He drew a great breath. "I have learned your lesson, liyo. I look around me. That is all. Never back."
Morgaine hissed between her
teeth and flung a bit of burned stick, that with which Chei had drawn
the map. It was more than her accustomed restlessness. She rested with
her arms about her knees, and shifted to hunch forward, her arms tucked
against her chest, gazing into nothing at all.
He was silent. It seemed wisest.
It was their lives she was
thinking on. He was sure of that. She was wiser than he—he was
accustomed to think so. He missed things, not knowing what he should
see, things which Morgaine did not miss. She had taught him—skills
which might well horrify their prisoner: the working of gates, the
writing of qhal, the ideas which qhal held for truth—who swore by no
god and looked (some of them) back toward a time that they had ruled
and (some of them) forward to a time that they should recover their
power, at whatever cost to the immortal souls they disavowed.
Qhal in most ancient times
had taken Men, so Morgaine had told him, and changed them, and
scattered them through the gates, along with plants and creatures of
every sort, until Time itself abhorred their works and their confusing
what Was, and mixed all elements in one cataclysmic Now—the which
thought chilled his much-threatened soul, and unhinged the things Holy
Church had taught him and which he thought he knew beyond any doubt.
Qhal had taken Men to serve
them because they were most qhal-like . . . and thereby the ancient
qhal-lords had made a dire mistake: for Men in their shorter lives,
multiplied far more rapidly, which simple fact meant that Men
threatened them.
In his own land, in Kursh and Andur, divided by the mountain ridge, the
snowy Mother of Eagles—there qhal had been reduced virtually to rumor,
hunted for the most part, tolerated in a few rare cases—so frost-haired
Morgaine had been tolerated by the High Kings a hundred years before
his birth, while in his own ruined age even his own hair had been too
light a brown for Nhi clan's liking. And in this place—
In this place, qhal had adjusted that
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