And so she rested, one hand upon the rock, until at last with a gesture like one grown old she felt her way back from that place and turned to look at him.
“Let us find the horses before they gather courage for another attack,” she said. “Come, Vanye.”
She did not weep. He gathered himself up, caught her, fearing that she would fall, for she walked like one that would; and he thought then that she would have tears, but she leaned against him only a moment, shivering.
“Liyo,” he pleaded with her, “they will not come back. Stay, let me go find the horses.”
“No.” She freed herself of him, returned the black weapon to her belt, tried to lift the strap of Changeling to her shoulder, and her hands trembled too much. He helped her with it. She accepted its weight, eased it on her shoulder, and cast one backward look, before she began with him to seek the way the horses had gone.
And, brush rustling, there were with them brown men, gray men, men in green and mottled; men of Chya, who placed themselves across their path. With the men was Taomen, and another and another that they had seen before: they were Chya of Ra-koris, and leading them, last to appear, was Roh.
The eyes of the master of Chya swept the road behind them, gazed with horror on the thing that they had done.
Then with a quiet gesture he called Taomen, and gave orders to him, and Taomen led the others away, back into the wood.
“Come,” said Roh. “One of my men is holding your horses a little distance down the road. We knew them. It was they that brought us to help you, when we saw them bolt from this direction.”
Morgaine looked at him, as if doubtful whether she would trust this man, though she had slept lately in his hall. Then she nodded and set out, unneedful now of Vanye’s arm. He paused to clean his sword upon the grass before he overtook her: her blade needed no such attention.
It was indeed some distance. Men other than Roh walked with them all the same: there were rustlings in the forest about them, shadows whose nature they could not determine in the gathering dusk, but it was sure that they were Chya, or Roh would have been alarmed.
And there stood the horses, being tended and rubbed with dry grasses: the Chya were not riders, but they took tender care of the beasts, and Vanye for his part thanked the men when they took their animals back in hand. Then Morgaine thanked them too. He had thought her in such a mood she would not.
“May we camp with you?” Vanye asked of Roh, for the night was gathering fast about them and he was himself so weary he felt like to die.
“No,” Morgaine interrupted him with finality. She slipped the strap of Changeling, and hung the weapon on her saddle, then gathered the reins about Siptah’s neck.
“Liyo.” Vanye seldom laid hands on her. Now he caught her arm and tried to plead with her, but the coldness in her eyes froze the words in his throat.
“I will come,” he said quietly.
“Vanye.”
“Liyo?”
“Why did Ryn choose to die?”
Vanye’s lips trembled. “I do not think he knew he would. He thought he could stop you. He was not ilin, not under ilin law. One of the men was his lord, my brother. Another was Paren, his own father. Ryn was not ilin. He should have gone from us.”
He thought then that Morgaine would show some sign of grief, of remorse, if it was in her. She did not. Her face stayed hard, and he turned from her lest he shame himself—from anger, no less than grief. Half-blind, he sought his horse’s rein and flung himself to its back. Morgaine had mounted: she laid heels to Siptah and sped him down the road.
Roh held his rein a moment, looked up at him. “Chya Vanye, where does she go?”
“That is her concern, Chya Roh.”
“We of Chya have both eyes and ears in Morija, well-placed. We knew how you must come if you came from Kursh into Andur. We waited, expected a fight. Not—that.”