“Leth has always been very kind to me.”
Kasedre reached out his hand, altogether against propriety—it was the action of a child fascinated by glitter—and his
trembling fingers touched the arm of Morgaine, and the hilt of Changeling.
She ceased to move, every muscle frozen for an instant; then gently she moved her arm and removed his fingers from the dragon blade’s hilt.
Vanye’s muscles were rock-hard, his left hand already feeling after the release of his nameless sword. They could perhaps reach the midpoint of the hall before fifty swords cut them down.
And he must guard her back.
Kasedre drew back his hand. “Draw the blade,” he urged her. “Draw it. I want to see it.”
“No,’ she said. “Not in a friendly hall.”
“It was forged here in Leth,” said Kasedre, his dark eyes glittering. “They say that the magic of the Witchfires themselves went into its forging. A Leth smith aided in the making of its hilt. I want to see it.”
“I never part with it,” said Morgaine softly. “I treasure it greatly. It was made by Chan, who was the dearest of my own companions, and by Leth Omry, as you say. Chan carried it a time, but he gave it to me before he died in Irien. It never leaves me, but I think kindly of friends in Leth when I remember its making.”
“Let us see it,” he said.
“It brings disaster wherever it is drawn,” she said, “and I do not draw it.”
“We ask this.”
“I would not—” the painted smile resumed, adamant— “chance any misfortune to the house of Leth. Do believe me.”
A pout was on Leth Kasedre’s features, a flush upon his sweating cheeks. His breathing grew quick and there was a sudden hush in the hall.
“We ask this,” he repeated.
“No,” said Morgaine. “This I will not.”
He snatched at it, and when she avoided his grasp, he spitefully snatched the book instead, whirled to his feet and cast it into the hearth, scattering embers.
The old scholar scuttled crabwise and sobbing after the book, spilling ink that dyed his robes. He rescued it and sat there brushing the little charring fire from its edges. His old lips moved as if he were speaking to it.
And Kasedre shrieked, railing upon his guests until the froth gathered at the corners of his mouth and he turned a most alarming purple. Ingratitude seemed the main burden of his accusations. He wept. He cursed.
“Qujalin witch,” he began to cry then. “Witch! Witch! Witch!”
Vanye was on his feet, not yet drawing, but sure he must.
Morgaine took a final sip of wine and gathered herself up also. Kasedre was still shouting. He raised his hand to her, trembled as if he did not quite have the courage to strike. Morgaine did not flinch; and Vanye began to ease his blade from the sheath.
Tumult had risen in the hall again: it died a sudden death, beginning at the door. There had appeared there a tall, thin man of great dignity, perhaps forty, fifty years in age. The silence spread. Kasedre began instead to whimper, to utter his complaints under his breath and petulantly.
And incredibly this apparition, this new authority, walked forward to kneel and do Kasedre proper reverence.
“Liell,” said Kasedre in a trembling voice.
“Clear the hall,” said Liell. His voice was sane and still and terrible.
There was no noise at all, even from the bandits at the rear; the uyin began to slink away. Kasedre managed to put up an act of defiance for a moment. Liell stared at him. Then Kasedre turned and fled, running, into the shadows behind the curtains.
Liell bowed a formal and slight courtesy to them both.
“The well-renowned Morgaine of the Chya,” he said softly. Here was sanity. Vanye breathed a soft sigh of relief and let his sword slip back. “You are not the most welcome visitor ever to come to this hall,” Liell was saying, “but I will warn you all the same, Morgaine: whatever brought you back will send you hence again if you bait Kasedre. He is a child, but he commands others.”