C J Cherryh – Morgaine 02 – Well Of Shiuan

He set his hands together on Changeling’s pommel, resting against it, all his peace destroyed by the things that she had said.

He understood her loyalty to Roh, even as a stranger; he knew his cousin’s manner, that way of reaching for the heart of any who dealt with him—as once Roh had drawn him in spite of Roh’s other failings. It was painful to know that this aspect of the man was still intact, that he had his former gentleness, his honesty—all those graces that had been Chya Roh.

But it was illusion. Nothing of Roh’s soul or essence could survive. Morgaine had said it, and therefore it was so. Return it to him, Morgaine bade him, arming him. He thought of racing Roh at weapons’ edge, and another nightmare returned to him, a courtyard in Morija—a flash of blades, a brother’s dying. Of that he was guilty. To destroy, to plunge home that blade when it was Roh’s face and voice, for this possibly he could prepare himself…. But, o Heaven, he thought, sickness turning in him, it should be more than outward seeming—

He was kind to me, the girl had said. He went away without stealing anything, even though he was in need of everything.

There was no kindness in the qujal, who had sought his life and taken Roh’s in its place, nothing so simple or so human as kindness, only sweet

persuasiveness, the power to convince with seeming logic, to play on a man’s worst fears and darkest impulses and promise what he had no intention of giving.

Nor was there honor—the manner of a high-clan warrior, a clan lord, who would not stoop to thievery, not even in great need: that was not the manner of the being who had lied and murdered and stolen through three generations of men, taking what he desired—even the body in which he lived. Generosity was unknown to him.

That was not the qujal. It was the manner of Roh himself, Chya and more prideful than practical, the blood they both shared; it was Roh.

“Vanye.”

He spun toward the whisper, the tread upon leaves, heart frozen at the sight of the shadowy figure, even when he knew it was only Morgaine. He was embarrassed that he had not heard her moving, though she was herself adopted Chya, and walked silently enough when she chose; but the more he was disturbed for the thoughts in which she had come upon him—that betrayed his oath, while she trusted him.

For a moment he felt that she read him. She shrugged then, and settled beside the fire. “I am not disposed to sleep,” she said.

Distress, displeasure—with what, or whom, he could not tell; her eyes met his, disturbing him, striking fear into him. She was capable of irrationality.

Knowing this, still he stayed with her; at such times he remembered that he was not the first who had done so—that she had far more of comrades’ blood to her account than that of enemies—that she had slain far more who had shared bread with her than ever she had of those she had wished to harm.

Roh was one such that had crossed her path, and deserved pity for it; Vanye thought of Roh, and of himself, and in that instant there was a distance between himself and Morgaine. He thrust Roh from his mind.

“Do we move on?” he asked her. It was a risk and he knew it, that she might seize upon it in her present mood; he saw that it tempted her sorely—but since he had offered, she was obliged to use reason.

“We will move early,” she said. “Go rest.”

He was glad of the dismissal, knowing her present mood; and his eyes burned with fatigue. He took the sword in his hands and gave it to her, anxious to

be rid of it, sensing her distress to be parted from it. Perhaps, he thought, this had disturbed her sleep. She folded it into her arms and leaned forward to the fire, as if having it comforted her. “It has been quiet,” he said.

“Good,” she answered, and before he could gather himself to his feet: “Vanye?”

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