“Did you want to die there, too!” Mama whispered.
“You could not have helped her. You could not have helped either of them. Did you want to die with them, for nothing?”
Zephy could smell the food Mama had brought. It nauseated her. She did not speak, or look at Mama, and Mama turned away at last. She must have paused, though; perhaps she turned back toward the cot. “Whatever you think of Kearb-Mattus,” she said evenly, “it was Kearb-Mattus who pulled you out of that. It was Kearb-Mattus who saved your life. For me, child. He did it for me. Not for the love of you.”
When Mama had gone, Zephy sat up in the darkness. She was sore with anguish and wanting Mama badly. But she would not call out to her.
She could not seem to sort anything out, could not come to grips with anything. Vaguely, she sensed that she was the only one left, that she must do what was necessary without Meatha, without the stone. And this was impossible. She stared at the black oblong window and wondered where the stone was. But it didn’t matter, it was over; the things that Anchorstar had told them, had shown them, they did not matter now.
The shock of her own thoughts stirred her at last. She knew the pain of Meatha’s death like a knife—and she knew there was no choice, that she must do as Meatha would have done. She rose, her hands shaking as she fastened her cloak against the night. Had Meatha dropped the stone in the street? She could not have kept it hidden, stripped of her clothes as she was. Had the Deacons taken it from her?
But Meatha would have flung it away somehow, she would not have let them know. Had she been able to cast it into the gutter? Zephy went to the window once more and leaned against the cold sill, waiting.
Much later Shanner came, looked at her strangely, flung himself into bed, and slept. He seemed like a stranger to her. When at last Burgdeeth’s lights were snuffed and the town was silent, she crept out and down the stairs and into the street, lifting the door to keep it from creaking. She kept to the shadows. Waytheer was caught square between the two moons. She thought it should give her courage, but it didn’t. She felt numb and mindless.
In front of Clytey’s house she knelt and began to search in the gutter. Her hands were immersed in cold dishwater, spit, little boys’ pee, animal dung, garbage. Her legs and tunic became splattered. Could the stone be here? Or would it be lying, still, among the cobbles even after that crowd?
When she finished the gutters on both sides she crossed and recrossed the rough cobbled street on her hands and knees. She was terribly exposed, alone on the moonlit street. She felt around the steps of each house and even searched hopefully in the bowls of grain that had been set out at each door for the Horses of Eresu, for luck on this night before Fire Scourge. Could Meatha have slipped the stone into one of the bowls before she was bound? All the doors had been decorated with tammi and otter-herb and the leaves of the painon, which gave off a wonderful scent, and with swords hanging point downward to show respect.
She searched futilely until first light, then crept back to her own sculler to scrub off the muck from the gutter. Then she stood watching the first rays of sun through the open window, listening disconsolately to the sounds of Burgdeeth stirring as people came out to begin the third morning of Harvest.
She knew the girls’ clothes had been burned at the last rites. Had the Landmaster found the runestone among them or perhaps at the bottom of the sacred fire, black among the ashes? If he had found it, had he any idea what it was?
And were there more Children to be gotten out of Burgdeeth than Meatha had guessed? Was Elodia Trayd too old for Kearb-Mattus to bother drugging, did he mean to kill Elodia as he must have meant to kill Meatha, at the time of attack? And me, too? Zephy wondered. Does he know about me? Or does he think it was only because I was Meatha’s friend that I tried to help her?
She went to harvest as she was expected to, sick and shaken. At midmorning she sought out Elodia in the fields, then Toca, and stood staring at each in turn, then went away again silently. Elodia had glanced up from her work, staring back for a moment with that steady gray-eyed gaze that made her seem so much older than a child of nine. But Toca, a rosy little boy, had only looked at Zephy and grinned and gone on snatching up bits of whitebarley behind the wake of his buxom mother.
Zephy did nothing more about the Children, on this harvest day or the next two. She could think of nothing else to do. Her mind seemed to be in limbo, resigned to the idea that she would fail, that she would be responsible for the deaths of the very children she was committed to save. By Fire Scourge night she felt so drained and uncertain of herself that she was constantly on the verge of tears. Mama, thinking she was grieving for Meatha, left her alone. Zephy could not have held up if Mama had put her arms around her, had asked her what was the matter. She thought of Anchorstar with the terrible knowledge that she would fail him, thought of Thorn with sick shame.
After supper on the eve of Fire Scourge, she dressed herself in her good tunic and her cloak and brushed her hair carefully, then went to join the procession to Temple. But her eyes were cast down in more than submission; and her heart scudded uncertainly as she followed along in the twilight, hastily making a plan.
THIRTEEN
One candle burned in the dark temple, in the center of the dais. When the first prayer began, the Landmaster’s voice rang out alone. Then candles were lit one by one, flame after flame leaping, and when a bank of candles burned across the dais, the Deacons’ voice rose. “Bless these our people, and bless this flame we raise to you. Bless this fire and bid it cleanse our lands. Lay your sanction upon your humble servants this holy night.” And the people answered in a quick staccato, “The fire, the sacred fire.” The Deacon’s voices raised an octave. “Bring upon our land the peace of resignation.” And the people answered, “Bless us, we are humble.” The flame burned higher. “Look upon our submission,” moaned the Deacons. Look down upon our reverence and bless this sacred flame. Oh Revered Ones, bless the ground this flame will sanctify.”
“The Fire, the sacred Fire.”
Zephy mouthed the prayers, but her mind was filled with a terrifying coldness. Would she be brave enough? She knew, as surely as the stone brought true vision, that tonight would come the attack. With all her strength she fought the very submission the Deacons were praying for.
What would happen if she failed? Or if the attack came too soon? There would be little time, there in the field as the fires were set. She had a wild, terrible urge to snatch the three Children out of Temple at once and make off with them. She sat with pounding heart, willing herself to be still.
She saw Elodia turn once and stare at her. Did the child sense something? Did she know? Was Elodia Trayd a Child of Ynell? Or was she only different? Brighter, rebellious, but without the sight?
“Bless our Master for he is holy. Bless our crops and our works. And keep our children from worldly affliction. Keep them from the Curse of Ynell. Pity us in our trials and sanctify us in our duties.”
“Bless us, we are humble.”
The sacred grain was poured into the chalice. The flame burst forth and was blessed. The Deacons’ voices rose in the litany, and in prayers to Waytheer, in special obligations and beguilings on this year of Waytheer.
“Bless us, we are humble. We kneel before Waytheer in humility.”
Then at last the Deacons’ hands raised in the final benediction. The grain was blackened now, but the flame still burned. The Landmaster took up torches and began to light them in the flame. The crowd rose, to file forward one by one and receive the burning torches. Zephy seized this moment to slip forward in line to just behind Toca Dreeb and his mother. The top of Toca’s head shone yellow in the light of the flame. The back of his childish neck looked tender, very sweet. She shivered for him; he was so small and vulnerable.
Elodia was at the beginning of the line. And the thin, bent figure of Tra. Thorzen was there in back, carrying little Bibb over her shoulder as if the baby had gone to sleep during the ceremony. Zephy wonde
red again if she should be so sure about a child yet unable to speak. It was lucky, she thought, that half the men of Burgdeeth would ride guard this night, and among them Tr. Thorzen and Tr. Dreeb—she had winnowed that information out of Shanner who, though curious, had talked freely enough. Shanner! she thought, and a pang touched her. What would happen to him this night in the attack? He rode front guard in the Burgdeeth Horse. Shanner could help me, she thought for the second time. If I’d asked him, somehow he could. But she would not have dared to ask him. And he would never have believed her, anyway; not about what Kearb-Mattus planned for the Children of Ynell; not about how he had stolen them. He would only laugh, in spite of his hate for Kearb-Mattus, and say she was imagining things. And he would never believe about Anchorstar or the stone; surely not that she was a Child of Ynell; nor about the wonder of the vision she had seen.
Where was Kearb-Mattus now? The Kubalese never came to Temple. What was he doing, had he slipped out of Burgdeeth to join the Kubalese army? Or was he lying in wait, to create havoc when the time came? She moved forward, received her taper, felt shaken with guilt for her thoughts, and followed the line down the steps.
Ahead, the moons touched the statue just behind the Luff’Eresi’s wings. The blowing, moonlit clouds were pale as silk. All their lives she and Meatha had walked this procession together, carrying their lit torches side by side. All their lives they had watched the sky, but on this night most of all, for sight of the Luff’Eresi or the Horses of Eresu, moving on the moon-washed clouds. And they had thrilled beyond speaking when dark winged shapes did move there, silent on the winds, looking down on Fire Scourge.
The marching line of guttering torches wound beneath the statue’s raised hooves, then moved away toward the cut whitebarley field that had been chosen for the ceremony this year; the other fields would be burned in secondary ceremonies after the flames from this field died. The chant of the Deacons was soft now, sibilant, their low voices making a prayer that was snatched away by the breeze and muted by the shuffle of feet. The line was beginning to curve, to make the circle of the field, winding like a fiery snake. Zephy’s heart scurried—not yet—not yet . . .
Her torch smelled of rancid oil. She followed Toca’s low-held torch, nearly paralyzed with fear. The stubble of the cut field crackled under her feet. She shivered, then suddenly bile came into her mouth and she ran, stumbling, and heaved her supper into the irrigation ditch.
The line had moved ahead. She hurried, swallowing the ugly taste as people near her turned to stare. She found Toca and slipped in behind him, sweating and shaken. Toca marched on, perhaps unknowing, perhaps not. She tried to shield her thoughts from him, to calm them, to think only of the ceremony, the fire, and not what she was about to do. But in her memory she saw Clytey’s pale face and heard her cry, “The fire, they are behind the fire.” She almost grabbed Toca and ran; not now, she thought. Not yet.
How could she get all three Children away when they were so spread out? And then she knew that she must try to speak to Elodia silently. Even without the stone, she must try. Could she make the younger girl understand? Washed with doubt, she stared at the licking flame of her torch and tried to center her thoughts, to bring her very being into Elodia, to feel she was Elodia . . .
She could not make words, words did not come. Only a feeling. Of desperation and fear and of challenge. She tried to give Elodia what she had felt with Anchorstar, to press a sense of urgency upon her. Elodia marched resolutely, staring straight ahead. Zephy had no idea whether she was reaching the child. She thought of Elodia slipping out of line and following her unseen, thought of her wanting to. But Elodia only walked on with her usual straight, light pace, her taper held high, away from the heads of her elders. Follow me, Zephy thought. Follow me when the field is lit. She tried to think of herself as someone else would see her, tried to make a yearning for herself in Elodia, a desire to follow. The procession had wound almost completely around the field now, the ring of fire wavering and bright. Zephy could see the dark shapes of the Burgdeeth Horse riding behind the marchers. Were the Kubalese there in the night too? But the moons were higher now, and brighter; wouldn’t such riders be seen? They could be in the groves, though, or behind the rises north of the housegardens. But the Captains of the Burgdeeth Horse must have thought of that. She shivered. In spite of the Landmaster’s traitorous plan, she felt sure the men of the Horse did not know. At least she felt Shanner didn’t. Could the Captains be part of it? Surely they must think that the Horse would all go free, then; that the battle would be but a mock one. And that was not the case.
She felt a cold terror for Shanner.
And Anchorstar was there among the hills waiting for her and the Children. Were the Kubalese there around him, had they discovered him? But she couldn’t think of that now. Her distress and uncertainty made her falter. I can’t do it, she thought suddenly. Think of Elodia, she cried silently. Bring Elodia to me . . .
The snake of fire had joined itself, the field was surrounded by flame. There was a hush as the Deacons stepped forward. They raised their arms to begin the blessing of the field. The Landmaster’s torch blazed high above his head against the sky. The cry of the Deacons rang out in a prayer harsh on the night breeze, high and piercing.
Then at last the gentler litany began, like a honey-song, like a true blessing, and the voices of Burgdeeth rose with it in unison and in joy, in thanks for the successful harvest and for another year of safety and surcease from the wrath of the Luff’Eresi.
When the prayer was finished and the Deacons had stepped back, the Landmaster knelt, and all Burgdeeth knelt as one around the edge of the field. They brought their torches forward and struck the fire in unison so the field burst into flame with a sharp crack. Zephy stood frozen, then dropped her taper in a panic and turned to little Toca. “Come with me, Toca, I have a surprise. It’s beautiful . . .” She searched Toca’s blue eyes, trying to think what would rouse him. He looked up at her blankly. This moment when his mother was praying and not attending to him would last but an instant. “Come on,” Zephy breathed, smiling. “We will go to Elodia and find the triebuck in the moonlight . . .” and she thought hard of the triebuck standing with his head lifted and his three horns gleaming the way she had always pictured it The little boy’s eyes grew huge. He put his hand in hers and stepped out of line, away from the blazing field.
They ran across the stubble in the darkness behind the line. When they reached Elodia, Toca flung himself at her shouting, “The triebuck, we’re going to see the triebuck,” so that Zephy dropped his hand and clapped her own hand over his mouth. “It’s a secret,” she whispered, terrified. “We must keep it a secret” A few heads turned and stared, but most were too caught up in the ceremony.
Elodia gave Zephy a strange, cool look and rose at once. She put her hand in Zephy’s without question and her arm around Toca and began to pull the little boy away. When they were somewhat back from the fire and the kneeling line, she said softly, “You spoke to me. You spoke like Ynell.” Zephy said nothing. She could feel Elodia’s trust and her fear mixed. She wished they could run now, at once, get away. But there was still the baby. “Bibb,” Zephy whispered. “It’s Bibb Thorzen, too.” She searched the younger girl’s face. “Can you see him?”
‘There,” Elodia said, pointing. “Lying on the ground by his mother . . .”
Bless Eresu, the woman was not holding him. “Wait for me!” Zephy put Toca’s small hand firmly into Elodia’s and was gone.
She came up behind the slight, kneeling figure of Tra. Thorzen, clapped a hand over the baby’s mouth, snatched him away, and ran—headlong into utter confusion, dark horsemen pounding toward her, the worship line broken and people running, women screaming, the clash of sword on sword, the fire flaring up behind. Zephy ran toward Elodia, grappling with the strong, struggling baby. He smelled of wet pants. She saw Elodia’s terrified face, grabbed Toca’s other hand, and they plunged away, half dragging the running little boy. Three
huge Kubalese horses loomed before them, they swerved, there was a cry of pain and terror behind them.
The baby was fighting to get away. Perhaps his fear was magnified by Zephy’s own. Toca was pulled off his feet, she tried to scoop him up and nearly fell. They plunged into the housegardens where the attack had not yet come. The cries behind them were terrible.
They stumbled among tangles of vetchpea in their frantic flight, blundered into mawzee, terrified at the noise they made, but pushing frantically toward the north and the upper housegardens—they must get past them, to Anchorstar. Then a platoon of Kubalese horses filled the night before them, they turned and fled in panic. Had they been seen? Zephy pulled the Children into the Husbandman’s cow pens, but there were men there, soldiers. She dragged Toca and Elodia out, the baby heavy as lead in her aching arms. Where could they go? They must get past the upper housegardens, they must get to the north and Anchorstar; but the fighting was there now, trampling the gardens, and there was fighting in the village streets to their left. Frantically she pulled Elodia back in the direction they had come . . .
They ran, panting, toward the plum grove.
In the darkness of the grove she could not tell what might be waiting; but the grove was silent, no horses plunged, no voices shouted. She found the boulder at last, wrenched it free, and shoved the children through as a dark shape moved between the trees. “Hide,” she hissed. “There’s nothing to fear in the tunnel. Don’t come out, not for anything. I’ll come back for you.” She shoved the boulder back and ran. Could she lead whatever it was away from there? She dodged and nearly fell, could hear hooves behind her now. The air in her lungs was like fire. She swerved down the main street and into a group of fleeing women, then spun into the Candler’s open doorway, and stood gasping for breath. A horse pounded hard behind her, lurched past. She stood shaking uncontrollably. There was shouting and commotion ahead of her, screams. Then she watched as women were herded back down the street by a mounted Kubalese soldier.
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