tenar woke, struggling up from bad dreams, out of places where she had walked so long that all the flesh had fallen from her and she could see the double white bones of her arms glimmer faintly in the dark. she opened her eyes to a golden light, and smelled the pungency of sage. a sweetness came into her as she woke, a pleasure that filled her slowly and wholly till it overflowed, and she sat up, stretching her arms out from the black sleeves of her robe, and looked about her in unquestioning delight.

it was evening. the sun was down behind the mountains that loomed close and high to westward, but its afterglow filled all earth and sky: a vast, clear, wintry sky, a vast, barren, golden land of mountains and wide valleys. the wind was down. it was cold, and absolutely silent. nothing moved. the leaves of the sagebushes nearby were dry and gray, the stalks of tiny dried-up desert herbs prickled her hand. the huge silent glory of light burned on every twig and withered leaf and stem, on the hills, in the air.

she looked to her left and saw the man lying on the desert ground, his cloak pulled round him, one arm under his head, fast asleep. his face in sleep was stern, almost frowning; but his left hand lay relaxed on the dirt, beside a small thistle that still bore its ragged cloak of gray fluff and its tiny defense of spikes and spines. the man and the small desert thistle; the thistle and the sleeping man...

he was one whose power was akin to, and as strong as, the old powers of the earth; one who talked with dragons, and held off earthquakes with his word. and there he lay asleep on the dirt, with a little thistle growing by his hand. it was very strange. living, being in the world, was a much greater and stranger thing than she had ever dreamed. the glory of the sky touched his dusty hair, and turned the thistle gold for a little while.

the light was slowly fading. as it did so, the cold seemed to grow intenser minute by minute. tenar got up and began to gather dry sagebrush, picking up fallen twigs, breaking off the tough branches that grew as gnarled and massive, in their scale, as the limbs of oaks. they had stopped here about noon, when it was warm, and they could go no farther for weariness. a couple of stunted junipers, and the westward slope of the ridge they had just descended, had offered shelter enough; they had drunk a little water from the flask, and lain down, and gone to sleep.

there was a litter of larger branches under the little trees, which she gathered. scooping out a pit in an angle of earth-embedded rocks, she built up a fire, and lit it with her flint and steel. the tinder of sage leaves and twigs caught at once. dry branches bloomed into rosy flame, scented with resin. now it seemed quite dark, all around the fire; and the stars were coming out again in the tremendous sky.

the snap and crack of the flames roused the sleeper. he sat up, rubbing his hands over his grimy face, and at last got up stiffly and came close to the fire.

"i wonder-" he said sleepily.

"i know, but we can't last the night here without a fire. it gets too cold." after a minute she added, "unless you have some magic that would keep us warm, or that would hide the fire..."

he sat down by the fire, his feet almost in it, his arms round his knees. "brr," he said. "a fire is much better than magic. i've put a little illusion about us here; if someone comes by, we might look like sticks and stones to him. what do you think? will they be following us?"

"i fear it, yet i don't think they will. no one but kossil knew of your being there. kossil, and manan. and they are dead. surely she was in the hall when it fell. she was waiting at the trapdoor. and the others, the rest, they must think that i was in the hall or the tombs, and was crushed in the earthquake." she too put her arms round her knees, and shuddered. "i hope the other buildings didn't fall. it was hard to see from the hill, there was so much dust. surely all the temples and houses didn't fall, the big house where all the girls sleep."

"i think not. it was the tombs that devoured themselves. i saw a gold roof of some temple as we turned away; it still stood. and there were figures down the hill, people running."

"what will they say, what will they think... poor penthe! she might have to become the high priestess of the godking now. and it was always she who wanted to run away. not i. maybe now she'll run away." tenar smiled. there was a joy in her that no thought nor dread could darken, that same sure joy that had risen in her, waking in the golden light. she opened her bag and took out two small, flat loaves; she handed one across the fire to ged, and bit into the other. the bread was tough, and sour, and very good to eat.

they munched together in silence awhile.

"how far are we from the sea?"

"it took me two nights and two days coming. it'll take us longer going."

"i'm strong," she said.

"you are. and valiant. but your companion's tired," he said with a smile. "and we haven't any too much bread."

"will we find water?"

"tomorrow, in the mountains."

"can you find food for us?" she asked, rather vaguely and timidly.

"hunting takes time, and weapons."

"i meant, with, you know, spells."

"i can call a rabbit," he said, poking the fire with a twisted stick of juniper. "the rabbits are coming out of their holes all around us, now. evening's their time. i could call one by name, and he'd come. but would you catch and skin and broil a rabbit that you'd called to you thus? perhaps if you were starving. but it would be a breaking of trust, i think."

"yes. i thought, perhaps you could just...

"summon up a supper," he said. "oh, i could. on golden plates, if you like. but that's illusion, and when you eat illusions you end up hungrier than before. it's about as nourishing as eating your own words." she saw his white teeth flash a moment in the firelight.

"your magic is peculiar," she said, with a little dignity of equals, priestess addressing mage. "it appears to be useful only for large matters."

he laid more wood on the fire, and it flared up in a juniperscented fireworks of sparks and crackles.

"can you really call a rabbit?" tenar inquired suddenly.

"do you want me to?"

she nodded.

he turned away from the fire and said softly into the immense and starlit dark, "kebbo... o kebbo..."

silence. no sound. no motion. only presently, at the very edge of the flickering firelight, a round eye like a pebble of jet, very near the ground. a curve of furry back; an ear, long, alert, upraised.

ged spoke again. the ear flicked, gained a sudden partner-ear out of the shadow; then as the little beast turned tenar saw it entire for an instant, the small, soft, lithe hop of it returning unconcerned to its business in the night.

"ah!" she said, letting out her breath. "that's lovely." presently she asked, "could i do that?"

"well-"

"it is a secret," she said at once, dignified again.

"the rabbit's name is a secret. at least, one should not use it lightly, for no reason. but what is not a secret, but rather a gift, or a mystery, do you see, is the power of calling."

"oh," she said, "that you have. i know!" there was a passion in her voice, not hidden by pretended mockery. he looked at her and did not answer.

he was indeed still worn out by his struggle against the nameless ones; he had spent his strength in the quaking tunnels. though he had won, he had little spirit left for exultation. he soon curled up again, as near the fire as he could get, and slept.

tenar sat feeding the fire and watching the blaze of the winter constellations from horizon to horizon until her head grew giddy with splendor and silence, and she dozed off.

they both woke. the fire was dead. the stars she had watched were now far over the mountains and new ones had risen in the east. it was the cold that woke them, the dry cold of the desert night, the wind like a knife of ice. a veil of cloud was coming over the sky from the southwest.

the gathered firewood was almost gone. "let's walk," ged said, "it's not long till dawn." his teeth chattered so that she could hardly understand him. they set out, climbing the long slow slope westward. the bushes and rocks showed black in starlight, and it was as easy to walk as in the day. after a cold first while, the walking warmed them; they stopped crouching and shivering, and began to go easier. so by sunrise they were on the first rise of the western mountains, which had walled in tenar's life till then.

they stopped in a grove of trees whose golden, quivering leaves still clung to the boughs. he told her they were aspens; she knew no trees but juniper, and the sickly poplars by the riversprings, and the forty apple trees of the orchard of the place. a small bird among the aspens said "dee, dee," in a small voice. under the trees ran a stream, narrow but powerful, shouting, muscular over its rocks and falls, too hasty to freeze. tenar was almost afraid of it. she was used to the desert where things are silent and move slowly: sluggish rivers, shadows of clouds, vultures circling.

they divided a piece of bread and a last crumbling bit of cheese for breakfast, rested a little, and went on.

by evening they were up high. it was overcast and windy, freezing weather. they camped in the valley of another stream, where there was plenty of wood, and this time built up a sturdy fire of logs by which they could keep fairly warm.

tenar was happy. she had found a squirrel's cache of nuts, exposed by the falling of a hollow tree: a couple of pounds of fine walnuts and a smooth-shelled kind that ged, not knowing the kargish name, called ubir. she cracked them one by one between a flat stone and a hammerstone, and handed every second nutmeat to the man.

"i wish we could stay here," she said, looking down at the windy, twilit valley between the hills. "i like this place."

"this is a good place," he agreed.

"people would never come here."

"not often... i was born in the mountains," he said, "on the mountain of gont. we shall pass it, sailing to havnor, if we take the northern way. it's beautiful to see it in winter, rising all white out of the sea, like a greater wave. my village was by just such a stream as this one. where were you born, tenar?"

"in the north of atuan, in entat, i think. i can't remember it."

"they took you so young?"

"i was five. i remember a fire on a hearth, and... nothing else."

he rubbed his jaw, which though it had acquired a sparse beard, was at least clean; despite the cold, both of them had washed in the mountain streams. he rubbed his jaw and looked thoughtful and severe. she watched him, and never could she have said what was in her heart as she watched him, in the firelight, in the mountain dusk.

"what are you going to do in havnor?" he said, asking the question of the fire, not of her. "you are -more than i had realized- truly reborn."

she nodded, smiling a little. she felt newborn.

"you should learn the language, at least."

"your language?"

"yes."

"i'd like to"

"well, then. this is kabat," and he tossed a little stone into the lap of her black robe.

"kabat. is that in the dragon-tongue?"

"no, no. you don't want to work spells, you want to talk with other men and women!"

"but what is a pebble in the dragon's tongue?"

"tolk," he said. "but i am not making you my apprentice sorcerer. i'm teaching you the language people speak in the archipelago, the inner lands. i had to learn your language before i came here."

"you speak it oddly."

"no doubt. now, arkemmi kabat," and he held out his hands for her to give him the pebble.

"must i go to havnor?" she said.

"where else would you go, tenar?"

she hesitated.

"havnor is a beautiful city," he said. "and you bring it the ring, the sign of peace, the lost treasure. they'll welcome you in havnor as a princess. they'll do you honor for the great gift you bring them, and bid you welcome, and make you welcome. they are a noble and generous people in that city. they'll call you the white lady because of your fair skin, and they'll love you the more because you are so young. and because you are beautiful. you'll have a hundred dresses like the one i showed you by illusion, but real ones. you'll meet with praise, and gratitude, and love. you who have known nothing but solitude and envy and the dark."

"there was manan," she said, defensive, her mouth trembling just a little. "he loved me and was kind to me, always. he protected me as well as he knew how, and i killed him for it; he fell into the black pit. i don't want to go to havnor. i don't want to go there. i want to stay here."

"here- in atuan?"

"in the mountains. where we are now."

"tenar," he said in his grave, quiet voice, "we'll stay then. i haven't my knife, and if it snows it will be hard. but so long as we can find food-"

"no. i know we can't stay. i'm merely being foolish," tenar said, and got up, scattering walnut shells, to lay new wood on the fire. she stood thin and very straight in her torn, dirt-stained gown and cloak of black. "all i know is of no use now," she said, "and i haven't learned anything else. i will try to learn."

ged looked away, wincing as if in pain.

next day they crossed the summit of the tawny range. in the pass a hard wind blew, with snow in it, stinging and blinding. it was not until they had come down a long way on the other side, out from under the snow clouds of the peaks, that tenar saw the land beyond the mountain wall. it was all green- green of pines, of grasslands, of sown fields and fallows. even in the dead of winter, when the thickets were bare and the forests full of gray boughs, it was a green land, humble and mild. they looked down on it from a high, rocky slant of the mountainside. wordless, ged pointed to the west, where the sun was getting low behind a thick cream and roil of clouds. the sun itself was hidden, but there was a glitter on the horizon, almost like the dazzle of the crystal walls of the undertomb, a kind of joyous shimmering off on the edge of the world.

"what is that?" the girl said, and he: "the sea."

shortly afterward, she saw a less wonderful thing than that, but wonderful enough. they came on a road, and followed it; and it brought them by dusk into a village: ten or a dozen houses strung along the road. she looked at her companion in alarm when she realized they were coming among men. she looked, and did not see him. beside her, in ged's clothing, and with his gait, and in his shoes, strode another man. he had a white skin, and no beard. he glanced at her; his eyes were blue. he winked.

"will i fool 'em?" he said. "how are your clothes?"

she looked down at herself. she had on a countrywoman's brown skirt and jacket, and a large red woolen shawl.

"oh," she said, stopping short. "oh, you are- you are ged!" as she said his name she saw him perfectly clearly, the dark, scarred face she knew, the dark eyes; yet there stood the milk-faced stranger.

"don't say my true name before others. nor will i say yours. we are brother and sister, come from tenacbah. and i think i'll ask for a bite of supper if i see a kindly face." he took her hand and they entered the village.

they left it next morning with full stomachs, after a pleasant sleep in a hayloft.

"do mages often beg?" asked tenar, on the road between green fields, where goats and little spotted cattle grazed.

"why do you ask?"

"you seemed used to begging. in fact you were good at it."

"well, yes. i've begged all my life, if you look at it that way. wizards don't own much, you know. in fact nothing but their staff and clothing, if they wander. they are received and given food and shelter, by most people, gladly. they do make some return."

"what return?"

"well, that woman in the village. i cured her goats."

"what was wrong with them?"

"they both had infected udders. i used to herd goats when i was a boy."

"did you tell her you'd cured them?"

"no. how could i? why should i?"

after a pause she said, "i see your magic is not good only for large things."

"hospitality," he said, "kindness to a stranger, that's a very large thing. thanks are enough, of course. but i was sorry for the goats."

in the afternoon they came by a large town. it was built of clay brick, and walled round in the kargish fashion, with overhanging battlements, watchtowers at the four corners, and a single gate, under which drovers were herding a big flock of sheep. the red tile roofs of a hundred or more houses poked up over the walls of yellowish brick. at the gate stood two guards in the red-plumed helmets of the godking's service. tenar had seen men in such helmets come, once a year or so, to the place, escorting offerings of slaves or money to the godking's temple. when she told ged that, as they passed by outside the walls, he said, "i saw them too, as a boy. they came raiding to gont. they came into my village, to plunder it. but they were driven off. and there was a battle down by armouth, on the shore; many men were killed, hundreds, they say. well, perhaps now that the ring is rejoined and the lost rune remade, there will be no more such raiding and killing between the kargish empire and the inner lands."

"it would be foolish if such things went on," said tenar. "what would the godking ever do with so many slaves?"

her companion appeared to ponder this awhile. "if the kargish lands defeated the archipelago, you mean?"

she nodded.

"i don't think that would be likely to happen."

"but look how strong the empire is- that great city, with its walls, and all its men. how could your lands stand against them, if they attacked?'

"that is not a very big city," he said cautiously and gently. "i too would have thought it tremendous, when i was new from my mountain. but there are many, many cities in earthsea, among which this is only a town. there are many, many lands. you will see them, tenar."

she said nothing. she trudged along the road, her face set.

"it is marvelous to see them: the new lands rising from the sea as your boat comes towards them. the farmlands and forests, the cities with their harbors and palaces, the marketplaces where they sell everything in the world."

she nodded. she knew he was trying to hearten her, but she had left joy up in the mountains, in the twilit valley of the stream. there was a dread in her now that grew and grew. all that lay ahead of her was unknown. she knew nothing but the desert and the tombs. what good was that? she knew the turnings of a ruined maze, she knew the dances danced before a fallen altar. she knew nothing of forests, or cities, or the hearts of men.

she said suddenly, "will you stay with me there?"

she did not look at him. he was in his illusory disguise, a white-skinned kargish countryman, and she did not like to see him so. but his voice was unchanged, the same voice that had spoken in the darkness of the labyrinth.

he was slow to answer. "tenar, i go where i am sent. i follow my calling. it has not yet let me stay in any land for long. do you see that? i do what i must do. where i go, i must go alone. so long as you need me, i'll be with you in havnor. and if you ever need me again, call me. i will come. i would come from my grave if you called me, tenar! but i cannot stay with you."

she said nothing. after a while he said, "you will not need me long, there. you will be happy."

she nodded, accepting, silent.

they went on side by side towards the sea.