C J Cherryh – Morgaine 02 – Well Of Shiuan

“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 tune, 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.

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