Wall of Shiuan

“O my lord,” Jhirun murmured in pity, and numbly he looked at himself and saw how the armor had galled his water-soaked skin, his linen shirt a soaked rag, rubbing raw sores where there had been folds. He rose, wincing, stripped it off and dropped it to the floor, shivering in the cold air.

Among the clothes on the table he found several shirts, soft and thin, that came of no fabric he knew; he disliked the feel of the too-soft weaving, but when he drew one on, it lay easily upon his galled shoulders, and he was grateful for the touch of something clean and dry.

Jhirun came, timidly searching among the qujalin gifts for her own sake. She found the proper stack, unfolded the brown garment uppermost, stood staring at it as if it were alive and hostile—a brown smock such as the servants wore.

He saw, and swore—snatched it from her hands and hurled it to the floor. She looked frightened, and small and miserable in her wet garments.

He picked up one of the shirts and a pair of breeches. “Wear these,” he said. “Yours will dry.”

“Lord,” she said, a tremor in her voice. She hugged the offered clothing to her breast. “Please do not leave me in this place.”

“Go dress,” he said, and looked away from her deliberately, hating the appeal and the distress of her—who looked to him, who doubtless would concede to anything to be reassured of his lies.

Who might the more believe him if she were thus reassured.

Unwed girls of the countryside of Andur and of Kursh were a casual matter for the uyin of the high clans—peasant girls hoping to bear an uyo’s bastard, to be kept in comfort thereafter: an obligation to the uyo, a matter of honor. But therein both parties knew the way of things. Such a thing was not founded in lies or in fear.

“Lord,” she said, across the room.

He turned and looked at her, who still stood in her coarse peasant skirts, the garments held against her.

The tread of men approached the door outside, an ominous and warlike sound. Vanye heard it, and heard them pause. Jhirun started to hurry to his side.

The bar of the door crashed back. Vanye looked about as it opened, whirling a chill draft into the room and fluttering the fire; and there in the doorway stood a man in green and brown, who leaned on a sheathed longsword—fronted him with a look of sincere bewilderment.

“Cousin,” said Roh.

Chapter Eight

“Roh,” Vanye answered, and heard a rustle of cloth at his left; Jhirun, who drew closer to him. He did not turn his head to see, only hoping that she would stay neutral. He himself stood in shirt and breeches; and Roh was armored. He was weaponless, and Roh carried a longsword, sheathed, in his hand.

There had been no weapons in the room, neither knife with the food nor iron by the fire. In desperation Vanye reckoned what his own skill could avail, a weaponless swordsman against a swordsman whose primary weapon had been the bow.

Roh leaned more heavily on the sword’s pommel and shouted over his shoulder a casual dismissal of the guards in the corridor, then stood upright, cast wide his arm in a gesture of peace.

Vanye did not move. Roh tossed his sword and caught it midsheath in one hand; and with a mocking flourish discarded it on the table by the door. Then he came forward several paces, limping slightly, bearing that sober, slightly worried expression that was Roh’s very self.

And his glance swept from Vanye to Jhirun, utterly puzzled.

“Girl,” he said wonderingly, and then shook his head and walked to a chair and sat down, elbows upon the chair’s arms. He gave a silent and humorless laugh. “I thought it would be Morgaine. Where is she?”

The plain question shot through other confusions, making sense—Roh’s presence making sense of many matters in Ohtij-in. Vanye set his face against him, grateful to understand at least one enemy, and wished Jhirun to silence.

“She is,” Roh said, “hereabouts.”

It was bait he was desired to take: he burned to ask what Roh knew, and yet he knew better—shifted his weight and let go his breath, realizing that he had been holding it. “You seem to have found welcome enough here,” he answered Roh coldly, “among your own kind.”

“I have found them agreeable,” said Roh. “So might you, if you are willing to listen to reason.”

Vanye thrust Jhirun away, toward the far corner of the room. “Get back,” he told her. “Whatever happens here, you do not want to be part of it.”

But she did not go, only retreated from his roughness, and stood watching, rubbing her arm.

Vanye ignored her, walked to the table where the sword lay, wondering when Roh would move to stop him; he did not. He gathered it into his hands, watching Roh the while. He drew it part of the way from the sheath, waiting still for Roh to react; Roh did not move. There was only a flicker of apprehension in his brown eyes.

“You are a lie,” Vanye said. “An illusion.”

“You do not know what I am,” Roh answered him.

“Zri... Liell... Roh... How many names have you worn before that?”