“I do not think that it would be graceful of us,” she said, “to try to pass them in the hall. They are bringing him into the hold. Doubtless they are bringing him here. —So short a time from my sight, Vanye, and so much difficulty… Was it a chance meeting?”
He drew breath, let it go quickly. “I swear to you. Listen to me. There are things the lord Kithan can say that do not bear saying, not before these men of yours. Do not question him. Be rid of him, and quickly.”
“What should I not ask him?”
He felt the edge in that question, and shook his head. “No. Liyo, listen to me. Unless you would have all that Roh said made common knowledge in Ohtij-in—avoid this. There can be questions raised that you do not want asked. There is a priest down the hall… and Shiua out in the court, and servants, and whatever qujal are still alive… that would raise questions if they lost all care of their lives. Kithan will do you no good. There is nothing he can say that you want to hear.”
“And was it a chance meeting, Vanye?”
“Yes,” he cried, in a tone that shocked the silence after.
“That may be,” she said after a moment. “But if you are correct—then it would be well to know what he has said already.”
“Are you ready,” he asked her, “to leave upon the instant?”
“Yes,” she said, and indicated the fireside, where her belongings were neatly placed; he had none.
Outside, in the halls, there was commotion. It was not long in reaching them—the sounds of shouting, the heavy sound of steps approaching.
A heavy hand rapped at the door. “Lady?” one asked from outside.
“Let them in,” Morgaine said.
Vanye opened it, and in his other hand only his thumb held the sheath upon the longsword: a shake would free it
Men were massed outside, a few of the marshlanders; but chief among them was the scarred Barrows-man, Fwar, with his kinsmen. Vanye met that sullen face with utter coldness, and stepped back because Morgaine had bidden it, because they were hers—violent men unlike the Aren-folk: he surmised seeing them now who had done most of the slaughter in Ohtij-in, that were murder to be ordered, they would enjoy it
And among them, from their midst, they thrust the disheveled figure of the qujal-lord, thin and fragile-seeming in their rough hands. Blood dabbled the satin front of Kithan’s brocade garment, and his white hair was loose and wild, matted with blood from a cut on his brow.
Fwar cast the dazed halfling to the floor. Morgaine settled herself in a chair, leaned back, Changeling balanced on her knee, under her hand; she watched calmly as the former lord of Ohtij-in gathered himself to rise, but they kept him on his knees. Vanye, moving to his proper place at Morgaine’s shoulder, saw the force of the qujal’s gray eyes, no longer full of dreams, no longer distant, but filled with heat and hate.
“He is Kithan,” said Fwar, his scarred lips smiling.
“Let him up,” Morgaine said; and such hate there was in Kithan that Vanye extended his sheathed sword between, cautioning him; but the captured halfling had some sense. He stumbled to his feet and made a slight bow of the head, homage to realities.
“I shall have you put with the others,” Morgaine said softly. “Certain others of your folk do survive, in the higher part of this tower.”
“For what?” Kithan asked, with a glance about him.
Morgaine shrugged. “For whatever these men allow.”
The elegant young lordling stood trembling, wiped a bloody strand of hair from his cheek. His eyes strayed to Vanye’s, who returned him no gentleness, and back again. “I do not understand what is happening,” he said. “Why have you done these things to us?”
“You were unfortunate,” said Morgaine.
The arrogance of that answer seemed to take Kithan’s breath away. He laughed after a moment, aloud and bitterly. “Indeed. And what do you gain of such allies as you have? What when you have won?”
Morgaine frowned, gazing at him. “Fwar,” she said, “I do not think it any profit to hold him or his people.”