“Surely,” said Vanye, “we had better do without the fire tonight.”
“I think it would be wise,” she agreed. She slid down, shouldered the strap of Changeling, and began to undo her saddle. Siptah pawed disconsolately at the frozen earth. There was still grain left from the supply the Brothers had given them; there was food left too. It would not be a bitter camp, compared to others they had spent near Aenor-Pyvvn.
Vanye let Roh slide to the ground, and slid down after. The bowman fell, began at once to try to gather himself up, but Vanye knelt beside him and offered him drink, unfrozen, the flask carried next the horse’s warmth. Then he began to chafe
warmth into the man. There was danger of freezing in his extremities, particularly in his feet. Roh was not dressed for this.
Morgaine silently bent and exchanged her cloak for Roh’s, and the bowman nodded gratitude, his eyes fixed on her with thanks and anger so mingled in him that it was hard to know which prevailed.
They fed the horses and ate, which warmed them. There was little spoken. Perhaps there would have been, had Roh not been there; but Morgaine was not in the mood for speech.
“Why?” Roh asked, his voice almost inaudible from cold. “Why do you insist to go to this place?”
“That is the same question you asked before,” she said.
“I have not yet had it answered.”
“Then I cannot answer it to your satisfaction,” she said.
And she held out Roh’s cloak to him, and took her own again, and went over to a rock where there was shelter from the wind. There she slept, Changeling in her arms as always.
“Sleep,” said Vanye then to Roh.
“I am too cold,” said Roh; which complaint Vanye felt with a pang of conscience, and looked at him apologetically. Roh was silent a time, his face drawn in misery and fatigue, his limbs huddled within his thin cloak. “I think”—Roh’s voice was hoarse, hardly audible—”I think that I shall die on this road.”
“It is only another day more,” Vanye tried to encourage him. “Only one day, Roh. You can last that.”
“It may be.” Roh let his arms fall forward on his knees and bowed his head upon them, lifting his head after a moment, his eyes sunk in shadow. “Cousin. Vanye, for kinship’s sake answer me. What is it she is after, so terrible she cannot have me know it?”
“It is nothing that threatens Chya or Koris.”
“Are you sure enough to take oath on that?”
“Roh,” Vanye pleaded, “do not keep pressing me. I cannot keep answering question and question and question. I know what you would do, to have me defend my way step by step into answering you as you wish, and I will not, Roh. Enough. Leave the matter.”
“I think that you yourself do not know,” said Roh.
“Enough. Roh, if things go amiss at Ivrel, then I will tell
you all that I do know. But until that time, I am bound to remain silent. Go to sleep, Roh. Go to sleep.”
Roh sat a time with his arms folded again about him and his knees drawn up, plunged in thought, and at last shook his head. “I cannot sleep. My bones are still frozen through. I will stay awake a little while. Go and sleep yourself. My oath I will see you take no harm.”
“I have an oath of my own,” said Vanye, though he was bone-weary and his eyes were heavy. “She did not give me leave to trade my watch to you.”
“Must she give you leave in everything, kinsman?” Roh’s eyes were kind, his voice gentle as a brother’s ought to be. It recalled a night in Ra-koris, when they had sat together at the hearth, and Roh had bidden him return someday to Chya.
“That is the way of the thing I swore to her.”
But after an hour or more, the forest still, the weight of the long ride and days of riding and sleeplessness before began to settle heavily upon him. He had a dark moment, jerked awake to find a shadow by him, Roh’s hand on his shoulder. He almost cried out, stifled that outcry as he realized in the same instant that it was only Roh, waking him.