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?”
Liell, sardonic master of Leth, whose mocking humor and soft lies he well knew: he watched sharply for that, waited for the arrogant and incalculably ancient self to look out at him through Roh’s human eyes—for that familiar and grandiose movement of the hands, some gesture that would betray the alien resident within his cousin’s body.
There was nothing of the like. Roh sat still, watching him, his quick eyes following each move: afraid, that was evident. Reckless: that was like Roh, utterly.
He drew the sword entirely. Now, he thought. Now, if ever—before conscience, before pity. His arm tensed. But Roh simply stared at him, a little flinching when he moved.
“No!” Jhirun cried from across the room. It came near loosing his arm before he had consciously willed it; he stayed the blow—jolted to remember a courtyard in Morija, and blood, and sickness that knotted in him, robbing him suddenly of strength.
With a curse he rammed the sword into sheath, knowing himself, as Roh had known him.
Coward, his shorn hair marked him. He saw the narrow satisfaction in Roh’s eyes.
“It is good to see you,” Roh said in a hollow, careful voice. “Nhi Vanye, it is good to see any kindred soul in this forsaken land. But I am sorry for your sake. I had thought that you would have used good sense and ridden home. I never thought that you would have come with her, even if she ordered it. Nhi honor: it is a compulsion. I am sorry for it. But the sight of you is very welcome.”
“Liar,” Vanye said between his teeth; but the words, like a Chya shaft, flew accurately to the mark. He felt the wound, the desperation of exile, in which Roh—anyone who could prove that the things he remembered had ever existed—was a presence infinitely precious. The accents of home even on an enemy’s lips were beautiful.
“There is no point in quarreling before witnesses,” said Roh.
“There is no point in talking to you.”
“Nhi Vanye,” said Roh softly, “come with me. Outside. I have sent the guards elsewhere. Come.” He rose from the chair, moved carefully to the door, looking back at him. “Alone.”
Vanye hesitated. That door was what he most earnestly desired, but he knew no reason that Roh should wish him well. He tried to think what entrapment Roh needed use, and that was none at all.
“Come,” Roh urged him.
Vanye shrugged, went to the fireside, where his armor lay discarded—slung his swordbelt over his shoulder and hung the sword from it, ready to his hand: thus he challenged Roh.
“As you will,” Roh said. “But it is mine; and I will ask it back eventually.”
Jhirun came to the fireside, her eyes frightened, looking from one to the other of them: many, many things she had not said; Vanye felt the reminder in her glance.