Five

Offer an enemy a false show of hospitality in order to damn him and the fires will fall on your head, not his. Give him the truth with his meat and drink, and trust it not to sour the wine ...

—s’Jheren, Advice Unasked, 199

 

It was a long walk, full of halts, hesitations, and confusions, for the voices seemed to grow no nearer as she walked. Then abruptly she discovered that she had a seeming-body again, by walking into a wall, hard. She staggered back from it, momentarily seeing white with pain—then stepped forward with arms outstretched, and bashed her fingertips into the wall. She pushed close to it, spreading her arms wide, embracing the familiar roughness; she laid her face against it and squeezed her eyes shut against tears of vast relief. At last this place was beginning to behave as it should.

Any trained sorcerer has an inner milieu into which he or she retreats for contemplation or preparation of sorceries. This, at last, was hers—not an abstraction of blackness and things buried, but the old cavern a mile down the seacoast from the house at Asfahaeg, her favorite secret place as a child.

Long ago the coast dwellers had broken a thirty-foot hole through the cavern’s high, domed ceiling, turning it into a rude temple where they performed wreakings and weather-sorceries to the sound of the waves crashing just outside. As an adult sorcerer Segnbora had made its image part of her, a great airy cave full of sunlight or moonlight and the smell of the ocean.

She opened her eyes again, pushed back cautiously from the wall and looked up, trying to find the shaft-hole in the ceiling. After a moment she located it, though the shaft was distinguishable from the rest of the ceiling only by two or three faint stars that shone through. Odd. The cavern had never been this dark before ... She turned and looked the other way, trying to get herself oriented somehow. The faint rumble of the Sea bounced all around her, difficult to localize, but at last she thought she detected a slight difference in sound right across from her, a deadness that might mean the cave’s opening onto the beach. She stepped cautiously away from the wall, then started to walk.

She touched something, It wasn’t the wall. It was smooth, and dry, and hot. In her shock she stumbled forward instead of jerking back, and the something clamped down on her outstretched right hand, hard. She cried out wordlessly in rage and horror at the frightening violation.

“It seems rude to put your hand in the Dragon’s mouth and then scream before you know whether you’ve been injured,” said a huge, slow, deep bass viol of a voice, from right in front of her.

Whatever had been holding her hand released it. Segnbora backed away and stood there rubbing the hand, which had been held tightly but not hurt. She was bitterly angry at herself for having shown fear, “What the Dark are you doing in here?” she yelled,

“We were invited,” said the voice, puzzled. “Your accent is poor,” it added. “Speak more slowly.”

“Accent—” She stopped and realized that she hadn’t been speaking Darthene, or any human language, but the odd and terrible one that the voices in the darkness had been using. “‘Never mind that! You can’t be in here, this is me!”

“‘What is ‘me’”?” the voice said without curiosity. “Rather, say “We are here.”

There was a pause.

“May we ask why you keep it so dark in here? Were you keeping it so because the place where we met was dark?”

“I can remedy that,” Segnbora said, annoyed. She lifted a hand, called up a memory of noon sunlight pouring in through the shaft—

—and nothing happened.

“You are leaving us out of the reckoning,” said the deep, slow voice as calmly as before.

“Perhaps you would assist me then,” Segnbora, said, annoyed and uneasy. She concentrated again. “Sunlight ...”

This time the light came, streaming down through the shaft from a sky that seemed bluer and deeper than usual. Segnbora looked down and away from the blinding light—and was blinded instead by the intruder.

The rough dark textures of the face she had touched in the Fane were dark no longer. The sunlight spilling down from above shattered and rainbowed from scales like black sapphires, every one with its shifting star. The Dragon blazed and glittered like a queen’s ransom, his every breath and movement creating a shower of dazzle around him.

Now, Segnbora thought in wonder, I begin to understand that old story about Dragons spending their time lying on piles of jewels ....

His head hung above and before her, no longer an inert, half-perceived shape as it had been in the Morrowfane cave. It was an elongated head: sleeker and more slender than a snake’s. Its mouth was a beak, like that of a snapping turtle. It was the point of the beak, at the very end of the immense serrated jaw, that had closed on her hand.

Her gaze traveled upward. From the beak to the place where the jaw met the neck was twenty feet at least The eyes were great pupilless globes filled with liquid fire, blazing a brilliant white even in the full sunlight. In the iron braziers of the nostrils the same light glowed, though not so brightly.

The Dragon was watching her with no less interest. “Casting one’s skin for the last time is always a nuisance,” it said, “but it’s still one of the more pleasant things about going mdahaih. You like this body better than the one you saw in the cave?”

“No!” Segnbora started to say, but the thought snagged on the new language living in her throat, and wouldn’t move. The Dracon tongue, she realized then, put a great emphasis on accuracy of expression, and her one, bald, angry word was therefore insufficient.

“You look absolutely beautiful,” she said at last, “and I wish to the Dark you’d go away.”

“It wasn’t my idea to become mdahaih in a human, believe me,” the Dragon said. “Nor was it that of the rest of the mdeihei. They’ve been making a great deal of noise about it.”

She had never heard the words before, and she understood them instantly. Mdahaih: indwelling within a host body and mind. Mdeihei: the indwellers, the souls of linear ancestors, the thousand-voiced consensus, the eternal companions.

The thought made Segnbora’s hair stand up. She realized then that the sound she had been hearing in the background was not the Sea. It was other voices, like that of the Dragon. It’s a pleasant enough sound, she thought. A single Dragon sounded like a bass viol talking to itself—a deep breathy voice full of hisses and rumbles and vocal bow-scrapes. But Dragons in a group seemed to prefer speaking together, and had been doing just that ever since she walked back into her cavern. The result was a constant quiet mutter of seemingly sourceless voices: scores of them, maybe hundreds, coiling together words and meaning-melodies in decorous, dissonant musics.

Now they were growing louder, They didn’t approve of Segnbora, of her clumsy gropings and, her rudeness to them in the darkness into which they had been thrust. Nor did they approve of the abnormal singleness of her mind, and they said so, in a dark-hued melody that sounded like a consort of bass instruments upbraiding its audience.

“I don’t much care whose idea this whole thing was,” Segnbora said. “But won’t you, creatures please—” She fumbled for the right word, but there was no word for undoing the mdahaih relationship. “Won’t you just go away?” she said finally, feeling uneasy about, the vagueness of the term.

“Where?” the Dragon, said, puzzled.

“Out of us!” She stopped, then, annoyed. In this language there seemed to be no singular pronouns. The only singular forms in the language were for inanimate objects, and human beings, and other such crippled, single-minded, entities.

“That is impossible,” the Dragon explained patiently. It had lowered its voice into its deepest register, the one used for addressing the very young. “You are mdeihei, and will be until you die.”

The word it used was res’uu: lose-the-old-body-and-move-into-a-new-one. Segnbora rubbed at her aching head in bewilderment.

“Listen,” the Dragon said, “if you were one of us, you’d bring about hatchlings in time, and the soulbond between you and them would be established once they broke shell. The bond would grow stronger in them as they grew, and weaker in you as you became old. Finally, when you left your body, you would be drawn into them: become mdahaih. And so it would be with their hatchlings, on through the generations, forever ...”

“Forever,” Segnbora whispered, feeling weak. “But all those voices—they can’t all be your ancestors .... we wouldn’t be able to hear for the noise!”

“The ones furthest back are hardest to hear. They fade out in time—which may be as well. The mdeihei are for advice, among other things, and what kind of advice can someone gone mdahaih fifty generations ago give to the sdaha, the out-dweller? The strongest voices are the newest, the first four generations or so.”

Segnbora sat down on the floor, miserable. The great head inclined slightly to watch her, causing another brief storm of rainbows.

“What happens,” she said eventually, “if I die, and there are no children, and no one is close by to accept the linkage, the soulbond, as I seem to have done for you?”

She could see no change of expression in the iron-and-diamond face, but the Dragon’s tone went grave. “A few have died and gone rdahaih,” he said: not “indwelling” or “out-dwelling,” but “un-d welling.”

“They are lost. They and their mdeihei vanished completely, and from the mdeihei of every Dragon everywhere. They cease to be ...”

Segnbora shuddered.

The Dragon’s wings rustled in its own unease. “Your people have a word,” he said. “A Marchwarder taught it to us: ‘immortality.’ He said that humans desire it the way we desire doing-and-being. We have ‘immortality’ already; only rarely do we lose it. Had you not come to the Fane, we would have gone rdahaih. Mercifully the Immanance at the heart of what-was-and-is saw to it that you were there.”

I’ll never get married, then, Segnbora thought, heavy-hearted. Humans had a Responsibility: They had to reproduce themselves at least once, and until the Responsibility was fulfilled she was not free to marry any man or woman or group. She couldn’t take the chance of passing this curse along to a child. She couldn’t! It was going to be hard to die without knowing whether she would see the Shore—

“O sdaha,” the Dragon said quietly, “since we’re going to be together for a long time—regardless of your plans for hatchlings—perhaps we might know your name?”

She stared upward, angry again in the midst of her pain. “I don’t remember asking you to listen to me think!”

“Among sda’tdae, there’s no use in asking for permission or refusing it,” the Dragon said. “One hears. You’ll find there’s little I will hide from you. Nor do I understand why so many of your memories are lying here sealed in stone, though doubtless answers will become plain in time.”

The pattern of notes the Dragon wove around them said plainly that he considered her something of a disappointment. Still, there was compassion in the song behind the words, and amusement mixed with wry distaste at the situation he found himself in.

Segnbora rose slowly, She was finding it difficult to be angry for long with someone so relentlessly polite—especially when, he was so large. She was also getting the uneasy feeling that all the courtesy and precision built into the Dracon language was there to control a potential for terrible savagery.

“Segnbora d’Welcaen tai-Enraesi,” she said, giving him the eyes-up half bow due a peer.

“Hasai s’Vheress d’Naen s’Dithe d’Rr’nojh d’Karalh mes’-en-Dhaa’lhhw’ae,” the Dragon said, giving his name only to the nearest five generations.

The named ancestors sang quiet acknowledgment from the shadows beyond the sunlight. Hasai lowered his head almost to the floor and raised his wings in greeting, spreading them fully upward and outward in an awesome double canopy. Membranes, like polished onyx stretched between batlike finger-struts, and the sunlight was blocked suddenly away.

Her breath went out of her again, in sheer amazement. “Oh, my,” she said, awed, “you are big. May I look at you?”

“Certainly.”

Segnbora walked around to her left, putting some fifteen yards between herself and Hasai so she could see more of him at once. Fifty feet of jeweled neck led down to two immense double shoulders, from which sprang both the backward-bent forelimbs, now folded underneath Hasai, and the first “upper arm” strut of the wings. Each of these struts ended at the first bend of the wing in a curved crystalline spur, as sharp as the diamond talons on each forelimb’s four claws, but much longer.

Segnbora walked the length of the Dragon, out of the shadow of his wings, past the great corded hindlimbs, which were taloned as the forelimbs were. Slowly she walked along the crystal-spined tail, scaled in sapphires above, crusted in diamond below—and walked, and walked, and walked. Finally she came to the end of it, where the sapphires were small enough to be set in an arm-ring, and the last crystalline barb, sharp as a sword, lanced out ten feet or so from the foot-thick tailtip.

She looked back up the length of the body between the wings. It was like looking at a hill wrought of gems and black metal. Even supine on the stony floor, the slenderest part of Hasai’s body, his abdomen, was at least fifteen feet high and perhaps forty around. His upper shoulders were at least thirty feet across. There was just too much of him.

“I can’t understand how you fly,” Segnbora said, starting back up the other side.

“The proper frame of mind,” Hasai said, arching his head backwards to watch her. “After all, our people aren’t built like the flying things you have here. We are light. Observe.” Hasai lifted up the last ten feet of his tail and dropped it on her. Reflexively, knowing she was about to be crushed, Segnbora threw her arms up to ward the tail away—and found herself supporting it on her hands. It was very heavy, but not at all the crushing weight she had expected.

“See?” Hasai said, flicking the tail away to lie at rest again.. Segnbora shook her head in wonder. The rough under-crusting looked like diamond, the scales looked like sapphire. “What are you made of?” she said, starting to walk again.

“Flesh, bone, hide. And you?”

Segnbora blinked. “About the same ....”

“You’re not quite as tough, however,” the Dragon said, sounding mildly rueful. “I remember the beast you will be riding, biting you there—” The glittering tail snaked up at Segnbora again, prodding her delicately in the chest. “You will be bleeding, and wishing for hide more like mine, that the beast would have broken its teeth on—”

As politely as she could, Segnbora undid the tailspine from her surcoat’s embroidery, where it had snagged. She was wrestling with an unease that was no longer vague. She had noticed before, while fumbling for words, that in Dragon language there seemed to be several extra tenses for verbs. Now they all became clear. They were precognitive tenses—future possible, future probable, future definite. Dragons, she realized, remember ahead as well as back.

She shuddered, wanting to reject the possibility of ever doing that herself.

“We’re not built to remember everything that happens to us,” she said then to Hasai, resentfully. “Not consciously, anyway. Listen ..... I can feel the mdeihei back there remembering everything that ever happened to them, every sunset and conversation and breath of wind. We don’t do that.”

“It makes sense that you would reject ahead-memory,” Hasai said. “‘You do not have it, the warders tell us. You even have trouble dealing with what is. But to reject our past-memories as well—”

Segnbora shrugged, “What good, are fifty generations of Dragon memories to a human?”

“But you’re not a human,” Hasai said calmly. “Not totally. Not anymore.” He looked, away from her, a Dragon shrug, matching hers, “Sooner or later you will look and see. Doubtless not soon.”

Segnbora went narrow-eyed with anger at the Dragon’s cool dare—and at the realization that this situation was completely out of her control.

“Show me now,” she said.

Hasai bent, his head, down beside her and dropped his jaw slightly in an expression of mild amusement. His action gave Segnbora a frightfully clear view of diamond fangs as long and sharp as scythes, and of the three-forked smelling-tongue in its recess beneath the blunt one used for speech. Worst of all, she could see the fulminous magma-glow of the back of the throat, where Dragonfire seethed blindingly.

“Well,” Hasai said, watching her calmly as a sleepy volcano, “will you put your hand in the Dragon’s mouth willingly this time?”

“Why not,” Segnbora said, nervous, and irritated for being so. “Here, take the whole arm—”

Without giving herself time to hesitate, she went over to his great toothy table of a lower jaw and thrust her arm up to the shoulder between two huge forefangs, resting the forearm on the dry hot tongue. Slowly and carefully Hasai closed his mouth, holding Segnbora’s arm immobile but not hurting it.

(Comfortable?) he said wordlessly, his inner voice sounding, if possible, bigger than his outer one,

“Yes, thank you.”

(Well, then ... )

Without warning, Segnbora found that her body felt wonderful. Her eyes could suddenly see colors she had been missing: the black reds, the white violets. She felt for the first time the curves and planes of the energy flows that were as much a Dragon’s medium as the currents and flows of atmosphere. Her muscles slid lithe and warm beneath gemmed skin. Her eyes held light within them as well as beholding it without. An old, yet delightful burning banished the cold from her throat and insides. Power was there, and strength—the dangerous grace of limb and talon and tail. She felt reborn. She also felt hungry.

(We’ll eat,) she heard one of her selves suggest,.

Agreeing, she crouched and coiled her way over to the door of the cavern, folded her wings carefully and slipped out.

(Wait a moment—that door’s only a few feet wide!)

(That was your memory,) said one of the mdeihei, a strong voice, fairly recently alive. (This is mine.)

Out they went into the brilliant light of noon at Onoli. (This isn’t my beach, either!)

(No, my old one.)

Immediately she spread her wings right out to their fullest, to feel the sunfire soak into the hungry membranes and run through her like white-hot wine. She basked, drinking her fill of the light, lazing while the strange-familiar thoughts of a Dragon’s day-to-day life flowed through her.

The mdeihei rumbled lazy assent, a placid rush of low voices blending with the sound of the waves. She got up after a while, raising her wings, feeling with them the flows of all the forces that Dragons manipulated and took for granted, as fish accept water or birds the air. It was an old delight: the chief joy of the Dragonkind, dearer even than, speech.

(What else are we for?)

The wings were hands. She grasped the currents she felt moving about her, pulled herself upward, sprang and flew.

The first leap took her high over the shore, and she watched with amazement and delight as she gained altitude. Boulders dwindled to pebbles and the huge crash of the breakers shrank to a soft-spoken crawl.

(Inland, perhaps?) said the mdaha who had spoken, her song calm with her own joy.

(Oh, please!)

She wheeled, catching currents of air and fields of force with her wings and her mind, gaining more altitude and speed as she soared south and west, over northern Darthen. Below them, the sunlit headlands of Sionan and Rul Tyn lay patched and quilted, with small field-squares. There were threads of brown road, and toy houses like a child’s carved playthings. Southward stretched wilder, emptier lands, tree-stippled hills, forests like green shadows on the fields.

She leaned up toward the sky and gained more height, watching the sunlight flash on a river-strung series of little lakes.. Upward still she dove, through a furry fog of cloud-cover, and saw the Darst below go pewter-shadowed. More distant lakes and rivers seem to hover unsupported in the haze below. She dipped one wing, stretched the other up and out in a bank. Over her the patterned sky turned as if on a pivot, wheeled like a starry night about her center ...

The higher and farther she went, the lovelier it all became. Thick clouds as white as drifting snow rose up before her, blazing in the sunlight. Bounded by these mountains of the sky, drowned far down in the depths of air, the land lay dim and still. Pacing her above the silence, the white Sun rode, swimming soundlessly in an unfathomable eternity of blue.

Still higher she climbed. Above her the sky went royal blue, then violet. Her wings lost the wind entirely and began to stiffen in the great cold above the air. She stopped beating them and fixed them at full soaring extension. Her mind was doing all the work now, manipulating fields and flows, triggering the shutdown of some body functions, the initiation of others which would protect her in the utter cold of the Emptiness.

The sky went black, and the stars came out, the winter stars that summer daylight hid, burning steady as beacons. In the same sky with them hung the ravening Sun, unshielded now by the thick cloak of the world’s air. It was a searing agony on her membranes but an ecstatic heat within. Quite suddenly the mdaha whose memory this was flipped forward, tumbling end for end—

Had she been breathing, breath would have gone out of her. Below her, she saw an impossibility. The flat world was curved. The black depths of the Mother’s night rested against that curvature, holding it as if in a careful hand. The whole great expanse of the Middle Kingdoms, from Arlen in the west to the Waste in the east, could be seen in a single glance. Beyond them were unknown lands, unsailed seas—the whole of human experience and possibility held under a fragile crystal skin of air.

Awed, she spread wings and bowed her head to the wonder. Surely this was the way the Dragons had seen, the world on the day they came falling out of the airless depths: a jewel, a treasure, life—

(Perhaps you understand now,) Hasai said, his voice hushed with old love, old pain, (why we decided to stand and fight for a home.)

She hung there, unmoving in the silence beyond all silences, and understood.

(Not that we’ve forgotten what we left,) said the other mdaha. (Turn and see—)

Something happened to the Sun hanging behind her back. It fell suddenly strange, but welcome, like the touch of a friend coming up from behind. She turned and found that it had changed, was bigger, hotter, pinker. Close beneath her hung the memory of the ancient Homeworld, red-brown and dry; a harsh place, a birthplace, dear and dead.

A great mournful love for the lost lands where her kind was born rose up in her at the sight. But the mournfulness turned to something deeper and more piercing as she looked off to one side. Suspended there, seeming to cover half the endless night, was a great swirled pattern of stars. They seemed frozen in midturn—a whirlpool spraying drops and gemlets of rainbow fire, its arcs sinuous and splendid as the curve of a tail, its heart ablaze like the memory of the Day of Dawning, when, the World’s Heart beat its first.

Oh, My Maiden, my Queen, they know You too—

She could find no other thought. Thinking was driven out of her by the immensities. After a while she realized she was leaning against Hasai’s face, her cheek resting on the great sapphired one, her left arm holding the Dragon close and her right in his mouth, up to the shoulder. And her face was wet. She straightened up, abashed.

Hasai let her arm loose, and Segnbora spent a few moments brushing herself off and trying to find some composure. Hasai watched her gravely, waiting.

“It felt real!”

‘“And so it was.”

“But that happened a, long time ago!”

“Certainly. And, it happened again, right, then.”

“But it was a memory,” Segnbora said, confused. “If I had tried to change what was happening, I couldn’t have.”

“Of course you could have changed, it,” Hasai said, politely. “We wondered that you didn’t try.”

She shook her head again. Perhaps she was just not thinking well in this language yet.

“It was very beautiful,” she said after a pause.

“We thank you, sdaha.” There was nothing in Dragon life more important than memories, and the sharing of them. “It’s well that you find value in who we were, and are, for we cannot leave. Henceforward, you will have to deal with us as we are—as we shall deal with you.”

Segnbora looked up in sudden anger at the immense face above her. “Who are you to dictate terms to me in my own mind?” she cried.

“You say ‘your own mind’,” Hasai said. “You imply ownership—or at least control. Prove your claim. Leave this ‘mind’ and then come back. Or better still, remove us.”

There was a long silence, during which Hasai watched her, and neither of them moved.

“We cannot leave, either,” said Hasai.

Baffled, Segnbora shook her head. “Now what?” she said finally.

“Now,” Hasai said, “we sue for pardon of wrongs done in haste.”

He bowed to her, his wings going up again, and his great head sinking low; lower than ever, this time, till it almost touched the floor. Those eyes as tall as her body were below her own.

“I am—sorry—about the mdeihei.” The words came out of him oddly; to a Dragon this was like apologizing for breathing. “They were trying to find out what kind of place they were in. That can be very important. We are large as your kind reckons size, true enough; and well armed, and long-lived. But we have our fears too.”

Segnbora became conscious that the rustling in the shadows had stopped, and that many eyes were gazing out of it at her with a frightening and alien directness.

“I am aware of your dislike for others delving in your memories. I will keep the mdeihei out of your past—though you are of course welcome to ours. But I don’t know what I can do about your future—”

“Neither do I,” Segnbora said, with a rueful laugh. “The present is giving me enough problems already.” Suddenly she was thinking about Lorn, and Lang, and the others. Had they left her in Chavi as planned? She had to get out and see where she was ...

“Since you are us now,” Hasai said, sensing both the joy and danger her liege represented, “you must be more conscientious in safeguarding your body. There is more than just one of you to go rdahaih if you’re careless.”

“And you of course will take care of me for the same reason—”

“We would take care of you anyway, shared mindspace or no,” Hasai said. “Life is the Immanence’s gift, not to be thoughtlessly cast away even when it is alien—or angry.”

Segnbora bit the inside of her lip, ashamed of herself. I did ask for a change at the Fane, she thought after a moment. The request has certainly been granted! But it’s just like the old stories: If you don’t specify what you want when you wish for something, you may get a surprise ....

“I must go.” Segnbora turned and headed for the little low door of the cavern.

“Sehe’rae, sdaha,” said the huge viol-voice from behind her: Go well, outdweller.

Segnbora paused. “Sehe’rae—” she said, and tasted the next word. “—mdaha.” Mindmate.

The mdeihei, pacified at last, settled back into the song of the ages, the litany of all their memories, all their lives. Segnbora threw a last glance at Hasai, burning in iron and diamond in the light from the shaft. Then she turned and ducked through the door—

—to stare at the dawn from her blanket-roll. The Sun hadn’t yet climbed over the edge of the world, and gray mist lay low over the grassy lea in which the camp was set. Off to one side the horses stood together, stamping and quietly snorting their way toward wakefulness; three or four feet in front of her, the campfire was down to ashes and embers.

“Thank You, Goddess,” she tried to say; but her throat, after some days of disuse, refused to do anything but squeak like the sparrows trying their voices all around. She was about to try clearing her throat a bit when the fire before her flared up wildly.

(Took you long enough!) it shouted, annoyed and delighted. (Herewiss!)

From behind her came hurried rustling: blankets being thrown aside, wet grass whispering as someone came quickly through it. Then Herewiss was down on his knees in front of her, staring at her.

“Are you sure? The last time it was just a coughing spell—”

Segnbora looked up at Herewiss and very distinctly croaked a rude word in the oldest of the dead Darthene dialects, a word having to do with one of the less sanitary habits of sheep.

“Now I’ll cough,” she said, and she did.

A thump occurred during the coughing spell, and Freelorn was beside Herewiss. He grabbed Segnbora by the shoulders and shook her. “Are you all right? Are you?”

“I will be when you stop that ....” she gasped. As Lorn helped her sit up, she looked around at the approaching morning with appreciation too great for words. “Can I have a drink?”

Herewiss got water for her and sat with Freelorn staring at her while she drank, as if at someone returned from the dead. “How long was I out?” she said between sips.

“Six days,” Herewiss said. “We thought we’d have to leave you in—”

“I know. I heard you. I would have done the same thing.”

Freelorn and Herewiss glanced at one another in relief. To the sound of more rustling, Lang dropped to the grass beside them. He stared at Segnbora and said nothing; but her under-hearing woke up as if it had been kicked, bringing her a flood of worry, not nearly as relieved as that of the others.

She took another drink to gather her composure, and then looked at Lang and said quietly, “You told me so ....”

He shrugged and looked away.

“Here,” Freelorn said, “you ought to see—” He got up, went off and rummaged around in his bags for a moment, then came back with a small square of polished steel, a mirror.

Segnbora looked at herself. The same old face—prominent nose, pointed chin, deep-set eyes with circles smudged a bit darker than usual. But her hair wasn’t the same: It was coming in shockingly silver-white at the roots, “Oh dear,” she said, and couldn’t find anything else to say.

Lang got up abruptly and went away.

Segnbora handed Freelorn back his mirror and looked at Herewiss. “I had quite a night. Can I sleep a little more? Then I’ll be able to ride.”

Herewiss nodded. “Rest,” he said. “Chavi is still a day away, and we’re not in such a hurry that you can’t recuperate.”

She nodded back, suddenly very weary, and lay down, gratefully wrapping her blankets around her. Some time after she closed her eyes, she realized that neither her liege-lord nor his loved had moved, but were still watching her, wondering.

“’Berend,” Freelorn said very quietly, “the thing that happened to you at the Fane—What was it?”

“Not   ‘it’,”   she   sighed,    without   opening   her   eyes. “‘Them.’”

This time the darkness was only sleep, and she embraced it.