“We can deal with them,” said Fwar.
“No,” she said. “You have Ohtij-in; and you have my order, Fwar. Will you abide by it, and not kill them?”
“If that is your order,” said Fwar after a moment, but there was no pleasure in it.
“So,” said Morgaine. “Fwar’s kindred and Haz of Aren rule in Ohtij-in, and you rule your own kind. As for me, I am leaving when the flood permits, and you have seen the last of me, my lord Kithan.”
“They will kill us.”
“They may not But if I were you, my lord, I would seek shelter elsewhere—perhaps in Hiuaj.”
There was laughter at that, and color flooded Kithan’s white cheeks.
“Why?” Kithan asked when the coarse laughter had died. “Why have you done this to us? This is excessive revenge.”
Again Morgaine shrugged. “I only opened your gates,” she said. “What was waiting outside was not of my shaping. I do not lead them. I go my own way.”
“Not looking to what you have destroyed. Here is the last place where civilization survives. Here—” Kithan glanced about at the fine tapestries that hung slashed and wantonly ruined. “Here is the wealth, the art of thousands of years, destroyed by these human animals.”
“Out there,” said Morgaine, “is the flood. Barrows-hold has gone; Aren is going; there is nothing left for them but to come north. It is your time; and you chose your way of meeting it, with such delicate works. It was your choice.”
The qujal clenched his arms across him as at a chill. “The world is going under; but this time was ours, tedious as it was, and this land was ours, to enjoy it The Wells ruined the world once, and spilled this Barrows-spawn into our lands— that drove other humans into rum, that plundered and stole and ruined and left of us only halfbreeds, the survivors of their occupations. They tampered with the Wells and ruined their own lands; they ruined the land they took and now they come to us. Perhaps he is of that kind,” he said, with a burning look at Vanye, “and came through the Wells; perhaps the one named Roh came likewise. The Barrow-kings are upon us again, no different than they ever were. But someone did this thing to us—someone of knowledge more than theirs. Someone did this, who had the power to open what was sealed.”
Morgaine frowned, straightened, drawing Changeling into her lap; and of a sudden Vanye moved, seized the slight halfling to silence him, to take him from the room: but Morgaine’s sharp command checked him. None moved, not he nor the startled peasants, and Morgaine arose, a distraught look on her face. She withdrew a space from them, looked back at him, and to Fwar, and seemed for a moment dazed.
“The Barrow-kings,” she said then: there was a haunted expression in her eyes…. Vanye saw it and remembered Irien, ghosts that followed her, an army, lost in that great valley: ten thousand men, of which not even corpses remained.
His ancestors, that were to her but a few months dead.
“Liyo,” he said quietly, his heart pounding. “We are wasting time with him. Set the halfling free or put him with the others, but there are other matters
that want attention. Now.”
Sanity returned sharply to Morgaine’s gaze, a harsh look bestowed on Kithan. “How long ago?”
“Liyo,” Vanye objected. “It is pointless.”
“How long ago?”
Kithan gathered himself with an intake of breath, assumed that pose of arrogance that had been his while he ruled, despite that Vanye’s fingers bit into his arm. “A very long time ago.—Long enough for this land to become what it is. And surely,” he shot after that, pressing his advantage, “you are about to bid equally with the man Roh: life, wealth, restoration of the ancient powers. Lie to me, ancient enemy. Offer to buy my favor. It is—considering the situation— purchasable.”
“Kill him,” Fwar muttered.
“Your enemy has gone,” Kithan said, “to Abarais—to possess the Wells; to take all the north. Hetharu is with him, with all our forces; and eventually they will come back.”
Fear was thick in the room. Morgaine stood still. The Barrows-men seemed hardly to breathe.