Wall of Shiuan

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?”