Exile's Gate by C. J. Cherryh Page A

been, a handful of days ago, under a fair sun, too willing to
hope—Heaven save them—for something other than this.

    Fool, he thought again. For
disaster went about the gates. Where power was, there the worst men
gathered—too rarely, the best. He had ridden out among the twisted
trees, among ruins, into murder and wars—

    And all his subtle
plans—for Morgaine was mad, at times, and drove them too hard and wore
herself to bone and will—all his plans, ill-thought that they were,
involved a means to travel at a saner pace. For that, he had accepted
the mare, knowing there was a risk—but hoping for a more peaceful
passage, for leisure and time, even to drop a foal of the Baien stud:
such thoughts the arrhend had made reasonable, and now they seemed mad.

    Now it was his own instincts urged they run.

    He hugged the mare about
the neck, pressed his head against her cheek, patted her hard, all with
a pang of bitter guilt. "So we go," he whispered to her. She ducked her
head free and nosed him in the side with a horse's thoughtless strength.

    No stopping the stallion or
the mare. No stopping any horse from what it truly willed to do, even
if it was a fatal thing. It was always their own vitality that killed
them, a horseman knew that.

    He heard a step behind him,
and turned his head. It was Morgaine, bringing the saddlebags. She let
them down at his feet, then, standing close, rested her hand on his
shoulder, and walked away, so startling him by that gesture he simply
stood and stared at her retreating back.

    What was that? he wondered.

    Apology, of a kind? Sympathy?

    She did these things to
him, and walked away in her silences, and left him to saddle the horses
and wonder, in a kind of biding panic, what had moved her to that.

    He did not even know,
Heaven witness, why he should be disturbed, or why his heart was
beating in panic, except it was the old familiar business of snatched
sleep and arming by dark and riding through hostile lands, sleeping by
turns in the daylight, tucked close in some concealment.

    Except it was Morgaine who,
like Heaven, decided where they should go and when; and there had been
all too much of comradely understanding in that small gesture—as if she
had confessed that she was weary, too, and there were no miracles.

    From his liege, he did not want such admissions.

    He finished his work. He
overtook her at the buried fire, leading the horses; and having the
horses between him and Chei, he took his Honor-blade sheathed from his
belt and gave it to her without a word—for safety's sake. She knew. She
slipped it into her belt next her own ivory-hilted Korish blade, and
pulled and hooked the belt ring which slid the dragon sword up to ride
between her shoulders, before she took Siptah's reins from his hand and
climbed into the saddle. The gray stud snorted his impatience and
worked at the bit.

    Vanye set his foot in
Arrhan's stirrup and settled himself in the saddle, reining her about,
where Chei waited, dressed in his borrowed clothing and his own mended
boots, and holding his sleeping blanket rolled in his arms.

    "You will want that on the
ride," Vanye said, taking the blanket roll into his lap, and cleared
his left stirrup for the man. Chei set his foot, took his offered hand
as Arrhan shifted weight, and came astride and well-balanced so quickly
that Vanye gave the mare the loose rein she expected. It made the mare
happier about the double load; she pricked her ears up and switched her
tail and took a brisk stride behind Siptah.

    Through the trees and down
along the river which had guided them—by the light of an incredible
starry heaven and a slivered moon, so brilliant a night as the sunlight
left the sky utterly, that the pale grass shone and the water had sheen
on its darkness.

    Behind him, Chei wrapped
the blanket about himself, for the breeze was chill here in the open;
and Vanye drew an easier breath, bringing Arrhan up on Siptah's
left—the left, with Morgaine,