It was to the keep that they were being taken, that vast central barrel that supported all the rest of the structure. Above the wild faces and reaching hands Vanye saw those lichen-covered walls; and against them was a miserable tangle of buildings huddled under the crazy buttresses. The cobbled yard was buckled and cracked, splits filled with water, and rain-scarred puddles filled the aisle between the rough shelters that leaned against wall and towers. Next to the keep also were pent livestock, cattle and goats; and soil from those pens and the stables joined the corruption that flowed through the courtyard and through the shelters. Against the comer of the steps as they drew near the keep was a sodden mass of fur, dead rat or some other vermin lying drowned, an ugliness flushed out by the rains.
Men lived in such wretchedness. No lord of repute in Andur-Kursh would have kept his people so—would have even permitted such squalor, not even under conditions of war. Madness reigned in this place, and misery; and the guards used their weapons more than once as they cleared the steps.
A gate, barred and chained and guarded within, confronted them; a gatekeeper unlocked and ran back the chain to admit them all. Surely, Vanye thought, a lord must needs live behind chains and bars, who dwelled amid such misery of his people; and it promised no mercy for strangers, when a man had none for his own folk. Vanye wished now never to have seen this place; but the bars gaped for them, swallowed them up and clanged shut again. Jhirun looked back; so did he, seeing the keeper replacing the chain and lock at once, while the mob pressed at the gate, hands beginning to reach through the bars, voices shouting at them.
The inner doors opened to admit them, thundered shut after. They faced a spiral ramp, and with the priest and four of the escort bearing torches from the doorway, they began their ascent. The ramp led slowly about a central core with doors on this side and that, and echoes rang hollowly from the heights above. The whole of the place had a dank and musty smell, a quality of wet stone and age and standing water. The corridor floor was uneven, split in not a few places, with cracks in the walls repaired with insets of mortared rubble. The guards kept close about them the while, two torchbearers behind and three before, shadows running the walls in chaos. Behind them was the fading sound of voices from the gate; and softly, softly as they climbed, began to come the strains of music, strange and wild.
The musics grew clearer, uncanny accompaniment to the iron tread of armed men about them; and the air grew warmer, closer, tainted with sweet incense. Jhirun was breathing as if she had been running, and Vanye also felt the dizziness of exhaustion and hunger and sudden heat; he lost awareness of what passed about him, and cleared his senses only slowly as the guards shifted about and encountered others, as soft voices spoke, and doors opened in sequence before, them.
The music died, wailing: golden, glittering figures of men and women paused in mid-movement, tall and slim and silver-haired.
Qujal .
Jhirun’s touch held him, else he would have hurled himself at guards and doors and died; her presence, frightened, at his side, kept him still as the foremost of the tall, pale men walked toward him, surveyed him casually with calm, gray eyes.
An order was given, a language he did not know; the guards laid hand on his arms and turned him to the left, where was another door; and certain of the other pale lords left their places and came, quietly, as they were withdrawn from that bright hall and into an adjoining room.
It was a smaller hall, with a fire blazing in the fireplace, a white dog lying at the hearth. The dog sprang up and began to bark frantically, sending mad echoes rolling through the halls, drowning the music that had begun again next door, until one of the guards whipped her yelping into silence. Vanye stared at the act, jarred by that mistreatment of a beast, and looked about him, at wealth, luxury, carved woods, carpets, bronze lamps—and the qujal –lords gathered by the door, resplendent in brocades and jewels, talking together in soft, astonished accents.
Three moved to the fore, to seat themselves at the chairs of the long table: an old man, in green and silver, he it was who had come first to look at them—and because he was first and because of his years, Vanye reckoned him for lord in the hall. At his right sat a youth in black and silver; at his left, another youth in blue and green of fantastical design, whose eyes were vague and strange, and rested in distant speculation on Vanye’s when he looked him in the face. Vanye flinched from that one, and felt Jhirun step back. His impulse even now was to run, deserting her, though guards and chains and double gates lay between him and freedom: nothing that could befall Jhirun in this place seemed half so terrible as the chance that they would realize what he was, and how he had come.
Morgaine’s enemies: he had come her road, and set himself against her enemies, and this was the end of it. They stood studying him, talking together in whispers, in a language he could not understand. A black-robed figure edged through that pale and glittering company, past the scale-armored guards, and deferentially whispered to the seated lords: the priest, who deferred to qujalin powers.
They have lost their gods, Morgaine had told him once; yet here was a priest among them. Vanye stood still, listening to that whispered debate, watching: a priest of demons, of qujal –this he had trusted, and delivered himself into their hands. The room grew distant from him, and the buzz of their soft voices as they discussed him was like that of bees over a Kurshin meadow, the hum of flies above corruption, the persistent rush of rain against the shuttered windows. He grew dizzy, lost in the sound, struggling only to keep his senses from sliding away.
“Who are you?” the old man asked sharply, looking directly at him; he realized then it was the second asking.
And had it been a human lord in his own hall, he would have felt obliged to bow in reverence: ilin that he was, he should bow upon his face, offering respect to a clan lord.
He stood still and hardened his face. “Lord,” he said in the whisper that remained of his voice, “I am Nhi Vanye i Chya.” He touched the hand of Jhirun, which rested on his arm. “She is Myya Jhirun i Myya Ela’s-daughter, of a hold in Hiuaj. She calls this an honorable hold, and says,” he added in grim insolence, “that your honor will compel you to give us a night’s shelter and send us on our way in the morning with provisions.”
There was a silence after that, and the lesser lords looked at each other, and the old lord smiled a wolf-smile, his eyes pale and cold as Morgaine’s.
“I am Bydarra,” said the old lord, “master of Ohtij-in.” A gesture of his hand to left and right indicated the youth in black and him in blue, whose vague, chill eyes were those of one dreaming awake. “My sons,” said Bydarra, “Hetharu and Kithan.” He drew a long breath and let it go again, a smile frozen upon his face. “Out of Hiuaj,” he murmured at last. “Does the quake and the flood scour out more lostlings to plague us? You are of the Barrow-hills,” he said to Jhirun; and to Vanye, “and you are not.”
“No,” Vanye agreed, having nothing else to say; his very accent betrayed him.
“From the far south,” said Bydarra.
There was a hush in the room. Vanye knew what the lord implied, for in the far south were only waters, and a great hill crowned with a ring of Standing Stones.
He said nothing.
“What is he?” Bydarra asked suddenly of Jhirun. Vanye felt her hand clench: a peasant girl, barefoot, among these glittering unhuman lords.
And then it occurred to him that she was, though human, of them: of their priest, their gods, their sovereignty.
“He is a great lord,” she answered in a faint, breathless voice, with a touch of witlessness that for a moment seemed dangerous irony; but he knew her, and they did not. Bydarra looked on her a moment longer, distastefully, and Vanye inwardly blessed her subtlety.
“Stranger,” said Hetharu suddenly, he in black brocade: Vanye looked toward him, realizing something that had troubled him—that this one’s eyes were human-dark, despite the frost-white hair, but there was no gentleness in voice or look. “You mentioned a woman,” Hetharu said, “on a gray horse or a black, or afoot, it might be. And who is she?”
His heart constricted; he sought an answer, cursing his rashness, and at last simply shrugged, refusing the question, hoping that Jhirun too would refuse it; but she did not owe them the courage it would take to keep up her pretense of ignorance. There would come a time, and quickly, when they would not ask with words. And Jhirun—Jhirun knew enough to ruin them.
“Why are you here?” asked Hetharu.
For shelter from the rain, he almost answered, insolent and unwise; but that might advise them how Jhirun had subtly mocked them. He held his peace.
“You are not khal ,” said Kithan from the other side, his dreaming eyes half-lidded, his voice soft as a woman’s. “You are not even halfling. You style yourself like the southern kings. This is a charade. Some find it impressive. But if you are expert with the Wells, O traveller—then why are you at our gate, begging charity? Power ought to be better fed and better clothed.”
“My lord,” the priest objected.
“Out,” said Kithan, in that same soft tone. “Go impress the rabble in the courtyard... man.”
Bydarra stirred, rose stiffly to his feet, leaning on one arm of the chair. He looked at the priest, pursed his lips as if he would speak, and refrained. His gaze swept the other lords, and the guards, and lastly returned to Kithan and Hetharu.
Hetharu glowered; Kithan leaned back, eyes distant, moved a languid hand in a gesture of inconsequence.
The priest remained, silent and unhappy, and slowly Bydarra turned to Vanye, an old man in his movements, the seams of years and bitterness outlining his pale eyes and making hard his mouth. “Nhi Vanye,” he said quietly. “Do you wish to answer any of the questions my sons have posed you?”
“No,” said Vanye, conscious of the men at his back, the demon-helms that doubtless masked more of their folk. In Andur-Kursh, qujal had been fugitives, fearing to be known; but here qujal ruled. He recalled the courtyard where men lived, true men, who had cried out and reached for them, and instead they had trusted to qujal .
“If it is shelter you seek,” said Bydarra, “you shall have it. Food, clothing—whatever your needs be. Ohtij-in will give you your night’s hospitality.”