But Roh snapped his fingers a second time and they let him alone. “Get to your place,” said Roh, “ilin.”
He rose then, and bowed, and walked—it was incredible that he could walk steadily—to the place he had left at the hearth. There he lay down again, and wrapped himself in his cloak and clenched his teeth and let the fire warm the tremors from his muscles.
He wanted to kill. For every affront ever paid him, for all the terror ever set into him, he wanted to kill; and he squeezed the tears from his eyes and began to reckon that perhaps his father had been right, that his hand had been more honest than he knew. He feared a great many things: he feared death; he feared Morgaine and he feared Liell and the madness of Kase-dre; but there never was fear such as there was in being alone among kinsmen, among whom he was always bastard and outcast.
Once, when he was a child, Kandrys and Erji had lured him into the storage basements of Ra-morij, and there overpowered him and hung him from a beam in the deep cellars, alone in the dark and with the rats. They had only come after him after the blood had left his hands and he could not find the strength to scream any longer. Then they had come with lights, and cut
him down, hovering over him white-faced and terrified for fear that they had killed him. Afterward they had threatened worse if he showed the cruel marks the ropes had made.
He had not complained to anyone. He had learned the conditions of his welcome in Nhi even then, had learned to clutch his scraps of honor to himself in silence, had practiced, had bit his lip and kept his own counsel, until he had fairly won the honor of the warrior’s braid, and until the demands of uyin honor must keep Kandrys and Erij from their more petty tor-mentings of him.
But the looks were there, the subtle, hating looks and secret contempt that became evident when he committed any error that cost him honor.
Even the Chya tried him, in the same way—scented fear and went for it, like wolves to a deer.
Yet something there was in him that yearned to like the lord of Chya, this man so like himself, that showed kindred blood in his face and in his bearing. Roh was legitimate: Roh’s father had virtually abandoned the lady Ilel to her fate, captive and bearing Rijan’s bastard, that must in nowise return to confound the purity of Chya—to contest with his son Roh.
And Chya both feared him, and scented fear, and would have gone for his throat if not for their debt to Morgaine.
Late, late into the long night, his not-quite-rest was disturbed by a booted foot crunching a cinder not far from his head, and he came up on his arm as Roh dropped to his haunches looking down at him. In panic he reached for the sword beside him; Roth clamped his hand down on the hilt, preventing him.
“You came from Leth,” said Roh softly. “Where did you meet her?”
“At Aenor-Pyvvn.” He sat up, tucked his feet under him, tossed the loose hair from his eyes. “And I still say, ask Morgaine her business, not her servant.”
Roh nodded slowly. “I can guess some things. That she still purposes what she always did, whatever it was. She will be the death of you, Nhi Vanye i Chya. But you know that already. Take her hence as quickly as you can in the morning. We have Leth breathing at our borders this night. Reports of it have come in. Men have died. Liell will stop her if he can. And
there is a limit to what service we will pay this time in Chya lives.”
Vanye stared into the brown eyes of his cousin and found there a grudging acceptance of him: for the first time the man was talking to him, as if he still had the dignity of an uyo of the high clan. It was as if he had not acquitted himself so poorly after all, as if Roh acknowledged some kinship between them. He drew a deep breath and let it go again.