He took her meaning, shook his head in distress. “Matters are different There is no safety for you with us. I cannot take you.”
She stared at him. Tears flooded her eyes; but suddenly there was such a look of violence there that he recalled how she had set out the marshland road, alone.
And that he must having saddled the horses, go back to Morgaine and leave the animals in Jhirun’s care, or deal with her in some fashion.
“At least” she said, “get me out of Ohtij-in.”
He could not face her. He started to take up one of the saddles, to attend his business with the horses.
“Please,” she said.
He looked back at her, eased the saddle back onto the rail. “I am not free,” he said, “to give and take promises. You are Myya; you have forgotten a great deal in Hiuaj, or you would have understood by looking at me that I am no longer uyo and that I have no honor. You were mistaken to have believed me. I said what I had to say, because you left me no choice. I cannot take you with me.”
She turned her back, and walked away; he thought for a moment that she was going back into the shadows to sit and weep for a while, and he would allow her that before he decided what he must do with her.
But she did not return into the dark. She went to the harness rack and took bridle and saddle, tugging the gear into her arms and staggering with the weight of it He swore, watching her come down the aisle toward him, dangling the girth in the foul straw and near to tripping on it, hard-breathing with the effort and with her tears.
He blocked her path and jerked it from her hands, cast it into the straw and cursed at her, and she stood empty-handed and stared up at him, her eyes blind with tears.
“At least when you go,” she said, “you could give me help as far as the road. Or at least do not stop me. You have no right to do that.”
He stood still. She bent, trying to pick up the saddle from the ground, and was shaking so that she had no strength in her hands.
He swore and took it from her, slung it up to the nearest rail. “Well enough,” he conceded. “I will saddle a horse for you. And what you do then, that is your business. Choose one.”
She stared at him, thin-lipped, and then walked to the stall halfway down, laid a hand on that rail that enclosed a bay mare. “I will take her.”
He came and looked at the mare, that was deep enough of chest, but smallish. “There might be better,” he said.
“This one.”
He shook his head, reckoning that she would have what she wished, and that perhaps a girl whose experience of horses extended most to a small black pony judged her limits well enough. He did as she wished.
And with Jhirun’s mare saddled, he returned to his own horse, and to Siptah—took meticulous pains with their own gear, that might have to stand a hard ride and few rests: he appropriated a coil of harness leather, and a braided leather rope as well; and at last he closed the stalls and prepared to leave.
“I have to go advise my lady,” he told Jhirun, who waited by her mare. “We will come as quickly as possible. Something might delay us a little time, but not for long.”
Anguish crossed her face: he frowned at it, turned all the same to leave, reckoning at least that the horses were safe while Jhirun had some gain from aiding them.
“No,” Jhirun whispered after him, ran suddenly and caught his arm; he looked back, chilled at the terror in her face: a sense of ambush prickled about him.
“Lord,” she whispered, “there is a man hiding here. Do not leave, do not leave me here.”
He seized her arm so hard that she winced. “How many more? What have you arranged for me?”
“No,” she breathed. “One. He—” With her head she gestured far off across the stalls, into the dark. “He is there. Do not leave me with him, not now, with the horses—Kithan. It is Kithan.”