They rode knee to knee, he and Morgaine, with men all about them; and before they had ridden far, Morgaine made to pass the cloak-wrapped arms to him. He feared to take it, knowing how the Nhi would see it; and it was instant: weapons crowded them. A man of clan San, more reckless than the others, took them from him, and Vanye looked at Morgaine in distress, knowing how she would bear that.
But she was bowed over, looking hardly able to stay in the saddle. Her hand was pressed to her leg. Threads of blood leaked through her pale fingers.
“Bargain us a refuge,” she said to him, “however you can, ilin. There is neither hearth-right nor bloodfeud I have with clan Nhi. And have them stop when it is safe. I have need to tend this.”
He looked on her pale, tense face, and knew that she was frightened. He measured her strength against the jolting ride they would have up the road into Alis Kaje, and left her, forced his way through other riders to reach Nhi Paren.
“No,” said Paren, when he had pleaded with him. It was firm. It was unshakable. He could not blame the man, in the lands where they were. “We will stop at Alis Kaje.”
He rode back to her. Somehow she did keep the saddle, white-lipped and miserable. The sleet-edged wind made her flinch at times; the horse’s motion in the long climb and descent wrung now and then a sound from her: but she held, waiting even as they found their place to halt, until he had dismounted and reached up to help her down.
He made a place for her, and begged her medicines of the one who had her belongings. Then he looked round at the grim band of men, and at Paren, who had the decency to bid them back a distance.
He treated the wound, which was deep, as best he could
manage with her medicines: his soul abhorred even to touch them, but he reasoned that her substance, whatever it was, would respond best to her own methods. She tried to tell him things: he could make little sense of them. He made a bandage of linen from the kit, and at least had slowed the bleeding, making her as comfortable as he could.
When he arose, Nhi Paren came to him, looked down at her and walked back among his men/bidding them prepare to ride.
“Nhi Paren.” Vanye cursed and went after him, stood among them in the dark with men on all sides already mounting. “Nhi Paren, can you not delay at least until the morning? Is there such need to hurry now, with the mountains between us?”
“You are trouble yourselves, Nhi Vanye,” said Paren. “You and this woman. There is Hjemur under arms. No. There will be no stopping. We are going through to Ra-morij.”
“Send a messenger. There is no need to kill her in your haste.”
“We are going through,” said Paren.
Vanye swore blackly, choked with anger. There was no cruelty in Nhi Paren, only Nhi obdurate stubbornness. He changed his own saddleroll to the front of his saddle, lashing it to pad it. Anger still seethed in him.
He turned to lead the horse back to Morgaine. “Bid a man help me up with her then,” he said to Paren through his teeth. “And be sure that I will recite the whole of it to Nhi Rijan. There is justice in him, at least; his honor will make him sorry for this senseless stubbornness of yours, Nhi Paren.”
“Your father is dead,” said Paren.
He stopped, aware of the horse pushing at his back, the reins in his hand. His hands moved without his mind, stopping the animal. All these things he knew, before he had to take account of Paren, before he had to believe the man.
“Who is the Nhi?” he asked.
“It is your brother,” said Paren. “Erij. We have standing orders, should you ever set foot within Morija, to take you at once to Ra-morij. And that is what we must do. It is not,” Paren said in a softer tone, “to my taste, Nhi Vanye, but that is what we will do.”