He was silent for a long time. Kurt did not break the silence.
“Let us wash,” said Kta at last. “And when I have cleansed my hands of blood I mean to light the hearth of Elas again, and return some feeling of life to these halls. If you dread to go upstairs, use my room, and welcome.”
“No,” said Kurt, and gathered himself to his feet. “I will go up, Kta. Do not worry for it.”
The room that had been his and Mini’s looked little different. The stained rug was gone, but all else was the same, the bed, the holy phusa before which she had knelt and prayed.
He had thought that being here would be difficult. He could scarcely remember the sound of Mim’s voice. That had been the first memory to flee. The one most persistent was that still shape of shadow beneath the glaring hearth-fire, Nym’s arms uplifted, invoking ruin, waking the vengeance of his gods.
But now his eyes traveled to the dressing table, where still rested the pins and combs that Mim had used, and when he opened the drawer there were the scarves that carried the gentle scent of aluel. For the first time in a long time he did remember her in daylight, her gentle touch, the light in her eyes when she laughed, the sound of her voice bidding him Good morning, my lord. Tears came to his eyes. He took one of the scarves, light as a dream in his oar-calloused hands, and folded it and put it back again. Elas was home for him again, and he could exist here, and think of her and not mourn any longer.
T’Nethim, his peculiar shadow, hovered uncertainly out on the landing. Kurt heard him, looked and bade him come in. The Indras uncertainly trod the fine carpeting, bowed in reverence before the dead phusa.
“There are clean clothes,” Kurt said to him, flinging wide the closet which held all that had been his. “Take what you need.”
He put off his own filthy garments and went into the bath, washed and shaved with cold water and dressed again in a change of clothing while Lhe t’Nethim did the same for himself. Kurt found himself changed, browner, leaner, ribs crossed by several ridged scars that were still sensitive. Those misfortunes were far away, shut out by the friendly wall of this house.
There was only t’Nethim, who followed, silent, to remind him that war hovered about them.
When they had both finished, they went downstairs to the rhmei to find Kta.
Kta had relit the holy fire, and the warm light of it leaped up and touched their faces and chased the shadows into the deeper recesses of the high ceiling and the spaces behind the pillars of the hall. Elas was alive again in Nephane.
T’Nethim would not enter here now, but returned to the threshold of Elas, to take his place in the shadows, sword detached and laid before him like a self-appointed sentinel, as in ancient times the chan was stationed.
But Kurt went to join Kta in the rhmei and listened while Kta lifted hands to the fire and spoke a prayer to the Guardians for their blessing.
“Spirits of my Ancestors,” he ended, “of Elas, my fathers, my father, fate has led me here and led me home again. My father, my mother, my friends who wait below, there is no peace yet in Elas. Aid me now to find it. Receive us home again and give us welcome, and also bear the presence of Lhe t’Nethim u Kma, who sits at our gate, a suppliant Shadow of Mim, one of your own has come. Be at peace.”
For a moment he remained still, then let fall his hands and looked back at Kurt. “It is a better feeling,” he said quietly. “But still there is a heaviness. I am stifling, Kurt. Do you feel it?”
Kurt shivered involuntarily, and the human part of him insisted it was a cold draft through the halls, blowing the fire’s warmth in the other direction.
But all of a sudden he knew what Kta meant of ill feelings. An ancestral enemy sat at their threshold. Unease