most of the people of valmouth came down to the docks to see the ship from havnor, when they heard that the king was aboard, the new king, the young king that the new songs were about. they didn't know the new songs yet, but they knew the old ones, and old relli came with his harp and sang a piece of the deed of morred, for a king of earthsea would be the heir of morred for certain. presently the king himself came on deck, as young and tall and handsome as could be, and with him a mage of roke, and a woman and a little girl in old cloaks not much better than beggars, but he treated them as if they were a queen and a princess, so maybe that's what they were. "maybe it's his mother," said shinny, trying to see over the heads of the men in front of her, and then her friend apple clutched her arm and said in a kind of whispered shriek, "it is-it's mother!"

"whose mother?" said shinny, and apple said, "mine. and that's therru." but she did not push forward in the crowd, even when an officer of the ship came ashore to invite old relli aboard to play for the king. she waited with the others. she saw the king receive the notables of val-mouth, and heard relli sing for him. she watched him bid his guests farewell, for the ship was going to stand out to sea again, people said, before night fell, and be on her way

home to havnor, the last to come across the gangplank were therru and tenar. to each the king gave the formal embrace, laying cheek to cheek, kneeling to embrace therru. "ah!" said the crowd on the dock. the sun was setting in a mist of gold, laying a great gold track across the bay, as the two came down the railed gangplank. tenar lugged a heavy pack and bag; therru's face was bent down and hidden by her hair. the gangplank was run in, and the sailors leapt to the rigging, and the officers shouted, and the ship dolphin turned on her way. then apple made her way through the crowd at last.

"hello, mother," she said, and tenar said, "hello, daughter." they kissed, and apple picked up therru and said, "how you've grown! you're twice the girl you were. come on, come on home with me.

but apple was a little shy with her mother, that evening, in the pleasant house of her young merchant husband. she gazed at her several times with a thoughtful, almost a wary look. "it never meant a thing to me, you know, mother," she said at the door of tenar's bedroom-"all that-the rune of peace-and you bringing the ring to havnor. it was just like one of the songs. a thousand years ago! but it really was you, wasn't it?"

"it was a girl from atuan," tenar said. "a thousand years ago. i think i could sleep for a thousand years, just now.

"go to bed, then." apple turned away, then turned back, lamp in hand. "king-kisser," she said.

"get along with you," said tenar.

apple and her husband kept tenar a couple of days, but after that she was determined to go to the farm. so apple walked with her and therru up along the placid, silvery kaheda. summer was turning to autumn. the sun was still hot, but the wind was cool. the foliage of trees had a weary, dusty look to it, and the fields were cut or in harvest.

apple spoke of how much stronger therru was, and how sturdily she walked now.

"i wish you'd seen her at re albi," tenar said, "before-'" and stopped. she had decided not to worry her daughter with all that.

"what did happen? " " apple asked, so clearly resolved to know that tenar gave in and answered in a low voice, "one of them."

therru was a few yards ahead of them, long-legged in her outgrown dress, hunting blackberries in the hedgerows as she walked.

"her father?" apple asked, sickened at the thought.

"lark said the one that seems to be the father called himself hake. this one's younger. he's the one that came to lark to tell her. he's called handy. he was.., hanging around at re albi. and then by ill luck we ran into him in gont port. but the king sent him off. and now i'm here and he's there, and all that's done with.""

"but therru was frightened," apple said, a bit grimly. tenar nodded.

"but why did you go to gont port?"

"oh, well, this man handy was working for a man

. . . a wizard at the lord's house in re albi, who took a dislike to me she tried to think of the wizard's use-name and could not; all she could think of was tuaho, a kargish word for a kind of tree, she could not remember what tree.

"so?"'

"well, so, it seemed better just to come on home.'"

"but what did this wizard dislike you for?"'

"for being a woman, mostly."

" bah," said apple. "old cheese rind."

"young cheese rind, in this case."

"worse yet. well, nobody around here that i know of has seen the parents, if that's the word for "em. but if they're still hanging about, i don't like your being alone in the farmhouse.'"

it is pleasant to be mothered by a daughter, and to behave as a daughter to one's daughter. tenar said impatiently, "i'll be perfectly all right!"

"you could at least get a dog."

"i've thought of that. somebody in the village might have a pup. we'll ask lark when we stop by there."

"not a puppy, mother. a dog."

"but a young one-one therru could play with," she pleaded.

"a nice puppy that will come and kiss the burglars," said apple, stepping along buxom and grey-eyed, laughing at her mother.

they came to the village about midday. lark welcomed tenar and therru with a festivity of embraces, kisses, questions, and things to eat. lark's quiet husband and other villagers stopped by to greet tenar. she felt the happiness of homecoming.

lark and the two youngest of her seven children, a boy and a girl, accompanied them out to the farm. the children had known therru since lark first brought her home, of course, and were used to her, though two months' separation made them shy at first. with them, even with lark, she remained withdrawn, passive, as in the bad old days.

"she's worn out, confused by all this traveling. she'll get over it. she's come along wonderfully," tenar said to lark, but apple would not let her get out of it so easily. "one of them turned up and terrified her and mother both,'" said apple. and little by little, between them, the daughter and the friend got the story out of tenar that afternoon, as they opened up the cold, stuffy, dusty house, put it to rights, aired the bedding, shook their heads over sprouted onions, laid in a bit of food in the pantry, and set a large kettle of soup on for supper. what they got came a word at a time. tenar could not seem to tell them what the wizard had done; a spell, she said vaguely, or maybe it was that he had sent handy after her. but when she came to talk about the king, the words came tumbling out.

"and then there he was-the king!-like a sword blade- and handy shrinking and shrivelling back from him- and i thought he was spark! i did, i really did for a moment, i was so-so beside myself-"'

"well," said apple, "that's all right, because shinny thought you were his mother. when we were on the docks watching you come sailing in in your glory. she kissed him, you know, aunty lark. kissed the king-just like that. i thought next thing she'd kiss that mage. but she didn't."

"i should think not, what an idea. what mage?" said lark, with her head in a cupboard. "where"s your flour bin, goha?'"

"your hand's on it. a roke mage, come looking for a new archmage."

"here?"

"why not?"' said apple. "the last one was from gont, wasn't he? but they didn't spend much time looking. they sailed straight back to havnor, once they'd got rid of mother."

"how you do talk."

"he was looking for a woman, he said,'" tenar told them. "'a woman on gont.' but he didn't seem too happy about it."

"a wizard looking for a woman? well, that's something new,"' said lark. "i'd have thought this'd be weevilly by now, but it's perfectly good. i'll bake up a bannock or two, shall i? where's the oil?'"

"i'll need to draw some from the crock in the cool-room. oh, shandy! there you are! how are you? how's clear-brook? how's everything been? did you sell the ram lambs?"

they sat down nine to supper. in the soft yellow light of the evening in the stone-floored kitchen, at the long farm table, therru began to lift her head a little, and spoke a few times to the other children; but there was still a cowering in her, and as it grew darker outside she sat so that her seeing eye could watch the window.

not until lark and her children had gone home in the twilight, and apple was singing therru to sleep, and she was washing up the dishes with shandy, did tenar ask about ged. somehow she had not wanted to while lark and apple were listening; there would have been so many explanations. she had forgotten to mention his being at re albi at all. and she did not want to talk about re albi any more. her mind seemed to darken when she tried to think of it.

"did a man come here last month from me-to help out with the work?"

"oh, i clean forgot!'" cried shandy. "hawk, you mean- him with the scars on his face?"

"yes,'" tenar said. "hawk."

"oh, aye, well, he'll be away up on hot springs mountain, above lissu, up there with the sheep, with serry's sheep, i believe. he come here and says how you sent him, and there wasn't a lick o' work for him here, you know, with

. clearbrook and me looking after the sheep and i been dairying and old tiff and sis helping me out when needed, and i racked my brains, but clearbrook he says, 'go ask serry's man, farmer serry's overseer up by kahedanan, do they need herders in the high pastures,' he said, and that hawk went off and did that, and got took on, and was off next day. 'go ask serry's man,' clearbrook told him, and that's what he done, and got took right on. so he'll be back down with the flocks come fall, no doubt. up there on the long fells above lissu, in the high pastures. i think maybe it was goats they wanted him for. nice-spoken fellow. sheep or goats, i don't remember which. i hope it's all right with you that we didn't keep him on here, goha, but it's the truth there wasn't a lick o' work for him what with me and clearbrook and old tiff, and sis got the flax in. and he said he'd been a goatherd over there where he come from, away round the mountain, some place above armouth he said, though he said he'd never herded sheep. maybe it'll be goats they've got him with up there."

"maybe," said tenar. she was much relieved and much disappointed. she had wanted to know him safe and well, but she had wanted also to find him here.

but it was enough, she told herself, simply to be home- and maybe better that he was not here, that none of all that was here, all the griefs and dreams and wizardries and terrors of re albi left behind, for good. she was here, now, and this was home, these stone floors and walls, these smallpaned windows, outside which the oaks stood dark in starlight, these quiet, orderly rooms. she lay awake awhile that night. her daughter slept in the next room, the children's room, with therru, and tenar lay in her own bed, her husband's bed, alone.

she slept. she woke, remembering no dream.

after a few days at the farm she scarcely gave a thought to the summer passed on the overfell. it was long ago and far away. despite shandy's insistence on there not being a lick o' work to be done about the farm, she found plenty that needed doing: all that had been left undone over the summer and all that had to be done in the season of harvest in the fields and dairy. she worked from daybreak till nightfall, and if by chance she had an hour to sit down, she spun, or sewed for therru. the red dress was finished at last, and a pretty dress it was, with a white apron for fancy wear and an orangey-brown one for everyday. "now, then, you look beautiful!"" said tenar in her seamstress's pride, when therru first tried it on.

therru turned her face away.

"you are beautiful," tenar said in a different tone. "listen to me, therru. come here. you have scars, ugly scars, because an ugly, evil thing was done to you. people see the scars. but they see you, too, and you aren't the scars. you aren't ugly. you aren't evil. you are therru, and beautiful. you are therru who can work, and walk, and run, and dance, beautifully, in a red dress."

the child listened, the soft, unhurt side of her face as expressionless as the rigid, scar-masked side.

she looked down at tenar's hands, and presently touched them with her small fingers. "it is a beautiful dress,'" she said in her faint, hoarse voice.

when tenar was alone, folding up the scraps of red material, tears came stinging into her eyes. she felt rebuked. she had done right to make the dress, and she had spoken the truth to the child. but it was not enough, the right and the truth. there was a gap, a void, a gulf, on beyond the right and the truth. love, her love for therru and therru's for her, made a bridge across that gap, a bridge of spider web, but love did not fill or close it. nothing did that. and the child knew it better than she.

the day of the equinox came, a bright sun of autumn burning through the mist. the first bronze was in the leaves of the oaks. as she scrubbed cream pans in the dairy with the window and door wide open to the sweet air, tenar thought that her young king was being crowned this day in havnor. the lords and ladies would walk in their clothes of blue and green and crimson, but he would wear white, she thought. he would climb up the steps to the tower of the sword, the steps she and ged had climbed. the crown of morred would be placed on his head. he would turn as the trumpets sounded and seat himself on the throne that had been empty so many years, and look at his kingdom with those dark eyes that knew what pain was, what fear was. "rule well, rule long," she thought, "poor boy!'" and she thought, "it should have been ged there putting the crown on his head. he should have gone.

but ged was herding the rich man's sheep, or maybe goats, up in the high pastures. it was a fair, dry, golden autumn, and they would not be bringing the flocks down till the snow fell up there on the heights.

when she went into the village, tenar made a point of going by ivy's cottage at the end of mill lane. getting to know moss at re albi had made her wish to know ivy better, if she could once get past the witch's suspicion and jealousy. she missed moss, even though she had lark here; she had learned from her and had come to love her, and moss had given both her and therru something they needed. she hoped to find a replacement of that here. but ivy, though a great deal cleaner and more reliable than moss, had no intention of giving up her dislike of tenar. she treated her overtures of friendship with the contempt that, tenar admitted, they perhaps deserved. "you go your way, i go mine," the witch told her in everything but words; and tenar obeyed, though she continued to treat ivy with marked respect when they met. she had, she thought, slighted her too often and too long, and owed her reparation. evidently agreeing, the witch accepted her due with unbending ire.

in mid-autumn the sorcerer beech came up the valley, called by a rich farmer to treat his gout. he stayed on awhile in the middle valley villages as he usually did, and passed one afternoon at oak farm, checking up on therru and talking with tenar. he wanted to know anything she would tell him of ogion's last days. he was the pupil of a pupil of ogion's and a devout admirer of the mage of gont. tenar found it was not so hard to talk about ogion as about other people of re albi, and told him all she could. when she had done he asked a little cautiously, "and the archmage-did he come?"

"yes," tenar said.

beech, a smooth-skinned, mild-looking man in his forties, tending a little to fat, with dark half-circles under his eyes that belied the blandness of his face, glanced at her, and asked nothing.

"he came after ogion's death. and left," she said. and presently, "he's not archmage now. you knew that?"

beech nodded.

"is there any word of their choosing a new archmage?" the sorcerer shook his head. "there was a ship in from the enlades not long ago, but no word from her crew of anything but the coronation. they were full of that! and it sounds as if all auspices and events were fortunate. if the goodwill of mages is valuable, then this young king of ours is a rich man. . . . and an active one, it seems. there's an order come overland from gont port just before i left valmouth, for the nobles and merchants and the mayor and his council to meet together and see to it that the bailiffs of the district be worthy and accountable men, for they're the king's officers now, and are to do his will and enact his law. well, you can imagine how lord heno greeted that!" heno was a notable patron of pirates, who had long kept most of the bailiffs and sea-sheriffs of south gont in his pocket. "but there were men willing to face up to heno, with the king standing behind them. they dismissed the old lot then and there, and named fifteen new bailiffs, decent men, paid out of the mayor's funds. heno stormed off swearing destruction. it's a new day! not all at once, of course, but it's coming. i wish master ogion had lived to see it."

"he did," tenar said. "as he was dying, he smiled, and he said, 'all changed . . . . "

beech took this in his sober way, nodding slowly. "all changed," he repeated .

after a while he said, "the little one's doing very well."

"well enough. . . . sometimes i think not well enough."

"mistress goha," said the sorcerer, "if i or any sorcerer or witch or i daresay wizard had kept her, and used all the power of healing of the art magic for her all these months since she was injured, she wouldn't be better off. maybe not as well as she is. you have done all that can be done, mistress. you have done a wonder."

she was touched by his earnest praise, and yet it made her sad; and she told him why. "it isn't enough," she said. "i can't heal her. she is . . . what is she to do? what will become of her?" she ran off the thread she had been spinning onto the spindle-shank, and said, "i am afraid."

"for her," beech said, half querying.

"afraid because her fear draws to it, to her, the cause of her fear. afraid because- "

but she could not find the words for it.

"if she lives in fear, she will do harm," she said at last. "i'm afraid of that."

the sorcerer pondered. "i've thought," " he said at last in his diffident way, that maybe, if she has the gift, as i think she does, she might be trained a bit in the art. and, as a witch, her . . . appearance wouldn't be so much against her-possibly." he cleared his throat. "there are witches who do very creditable work," he said.

tenar ran a little of the thread she had spun between her fingers, testing it for evenness and strength. "ogion told me to teach her. 'teach her all,' he said, and then, 'not roke.' i don't know what he meant."

beech had no difficulty with it. "he meant that the learning of roke-the high arts-wouldn't be suitable for a girl," he explained. "let alone one so handicapped. but if he said to teach her all but that lore, it would seem that he too saw her way might well be the witches' way." he pondered again, more cheerfully, having got the weight of ogion's opinion on his side. "in a year or two, when she's quite strong, and grown a bit more, you might think of asking ivy to begin teaching her a bit. not too much, of course, even of that kind of thing, till she has her true name.

tenar felt a strong, immediate resistance to the suggestion. she said nothing, but beech was a sensitive man. "ivy's dour," he said. "but what she knows, she does honestly. which can't be said of all witches. weak as women's magic, you know, and wicked as women's magic! but i've known witches with real healing power. healing befits a woman. it comes natural to her. and the child might be drawn to that-having been so hurt herself."

his kindness was, tenar thought, innocent.

she thanked him, saying that she would think carefully about what he had said. and indeed she did so.

before the month was out, the villages of middle valley had met at the round barn of sodeva to appoint their own bailiffs and officers of the peace and to levy a tax upon themselves to pay the bailiffs' wages with. such were the king's orders, brought to the mayors and elders of the villages, and readily obeyed, for there were as many sturdy beggars and thieves on the roads as ever, and the villagers and farmers were eager to have order and safety. some ugly rumors went about, such as that lord heno had formed a council of scoundrels and was enlisting all the blackguards in the countryside to go about in gangs breaking the heads of the king's bailies; but most people said, "just let 'em try! " " and went home telling each other that now an honest man could sleep safe abed at night, and what went wrong the king was setting right, though the taxes were beyond all reason and they'd all be poor men forever trying to pay them.

tenar was glad to hear of all this from lark, but did not pay it much heed. she was working very hard; and since she had got home she had, almost without being aware of it, resolved not to let the thought of handy or any such ruffian rule her life or therru"s. she could not keep the child with her every moment, renewing her terrors, forever reminding her of what she could not remember and live. the child must be free and know herself to be free, to grow in grace.

she had gradually lost the shrinking, fearful manner, and by now went all about the farm and the byways and even into the village by herself. tenar said no word of caution to her, even when she had to prevent herself from doing so. therm was safe on the farm, safe in the village, no one was going to hurt her: that must be taken as unquestionable. and indeed tenar did not often question it. with herself and shandy and clearbrook around the place, and sis and tiff down in the lower house, and lark's family all over the village, in the sweet autumn of the middle valley, what harm was going to come to the child?

she'd get a dog, too, when she heard of one she wanted, one of the big grey gontish sheep-guards, with their wise, curly heads.

now and then she thought, as she had at re albi, "i must be teaching the child! ogion said so." but somehow nothing seemed to get taught to her but farm work, and stories, in the evening, as the nights drew in and they began to sit by the kitchen fire after supper before they went to bed. maybe beech was right, and therru should be sent to a witch to learn what witches knew. it was better than apprenticing her to a weaver, as tenar had thought of doing. but not all that much better. and she was still not very big; and was very ignorant for her age, for she had been taught nothing before she came to oak farm. she had been like a little animal, barely knowing human speech, and no human skills. she learned quickly and was twice as obedient and diligent as lark's unruly girls and laughing, lazy boys. she could clean and serve and spin, cook a little, sew a little, look after poultry, fetch the cows, and do excellent work in the dairy. a proper farm-lassie, old tiff called her, fawning a bit. tenar had also seen him make the sign to avert evil, surreptitiously, when therru passed him. like most people, tiff believed that you are what happens to you. the rich and strong must have virtue; one to whom evil has been done must be bad, and may rightly be punished.

in which case it would not help much if therru became the properest farm-lassie in gont. not even prosperity would diminish the visible brand of what had been done to her. so beech had thought of her being a witch, accepting, making use, of the brand. was that what ogion had meant, when he said "not roke" - when he said "they will fear her"? was that all?

one day when a managed chance brought them together in the village street, tenar said to ivy, "there's a question i want to ask you, mistress ivy. a matter of your profession. "

the witch eyed her. she had a scathing eye.

"my profession, is it?"

tenar nodded, steady.

"come on, then," ivy said with a shrug, leading off down mill lane to her little house.

it was not a den of infamy and chickens, like moss's house, but it was a witch-house, the beams hung thick with dried and drying herbs, the fire banked under grey ash with one tiny coal winking like a red eye, a lithe, fat, black cat with one white mustache sleeping up on a shelf, and everywhere a profusion of little boxes, pots, ewers, trays, and stoppered bottles, all aromatic, pungent or sweet or strange.

"what can i do for you, mistress goha?" ivy asked, very dry, when they were inside.

"tell me, if you will, if you think my ward, therru, has any gift for your art-any power in her."

"she? of course!" said the witch.

tenar was a bit floored by the prompt and contemptuous answer. "well,"' she said. "beech seemed to think so."

"a blind bat in a cave could see it," said ivy. "is that all?"

"no. i want your advice. when i've asked my question, you can tell me the price of the answer. fair?"

"fair."

"should i prentice therru for a witch, when she's a bit older?"'

ivy was silent for a minute, deciding on her fee, tenar thought. instead, she answered the question. "i would not take her," " she said.

"why?"

"i'd be afraid to,'" the witch answered, with a sudden fierce stare at tenar.

"afraid? of what?"

"of her! what is she?'"

"a child. an ill-used child!"

"that's not all she is."

dark anger came into tenar and she said, "must a prentice witch be a virgin, then?"

ivy stared. she said after a moment, "i didn't mean that."

"what did you mean?'"

"i mean i don't know what she is. i mean when she looks at me with that one eye seeing and one eye blind i don't know what she sees. i see you go about with her like she was any child, and i think, what are they? what's the strength of that woman, for she's not a fool, to hold a fire by the hand, to spin thread with the whirlwind? they say, mistress, that you lived as a child yourself with the old ones, the dark ones, the ones underfoot, and that you were queen and servant of those powers. maybe that's why you're not afraid of this one. what power she is, i don't know, i don't say. but it's beyond my teaching, i know that-or beech's, or any witch or wizard i ever knew! i'll give you my advice, mistress, free and feeless. it's this: beware. beware her, the day she finds her strength! that's all."

"i thank you, mistress ivy," tenar said with all the formality of the priestess of the tombs of atuan, and went out of the warm room into the thin, biting wind of the end of autumn.

she was still angry. nobody would help her, she thought. she knew the job was beyond her, they didn't have to tell her that-but none of them would help her. ogion had died, and old moss ranted, and ivy warned, and beech kept clear, and ged-the one who might really have helped- ged ran away. ran off like a whipped dog, and never sent sign or word to her, never gave a thought to her or therru, but only to his own precious shame. that was his child, his nurseling. that was all he cared about. he had never cared or thought about her, only about power-her power, his power, how he could use it, how he could make more power of it. putting the broken ring together, making the rune, putting a king on the throne. and when his power was gone, still it was all he could think about: that it was gone, lost, leaving him only himself, his shame, his emptiness.

"you aren't being fair," goha said to tenar.

"fair!" said tenar. "did he play fair?"

"yes," said goha. "he did. or tried to".

"well, then, he can play fair with the goats he's herding; it's nothing to me," said tenar, trudging homeward in the wind and the first, sparse, cold rain.

"snow tonight, maybe," said her tenant tiff, meeting her on the road beside the meadows of the kaheda.

"snow so soon? i hope not."

"freeze, anyway, for sure."

and it froze when the sun was down: rain puddles and watering troughs skimming over, then opaqued with ice; the reeds by the kaheda stilled, bound in ice; the wind itself stilled as if frozen, unable to move.

beside the fire-a sweeter fire than ivy's, for the wood was that of an old apple that had been taken down in the orchard last spring-tenar and therru sat to spin and talk after supper was cleared away.

"tell the story about the cat ghosts,'" therru said in her husky voice as she started the wheel to spin a mass of dark, silky goat's-wool into fleecefell yarn.

"that's a summer story."

therru cocked her head.

"in winter the stories should be the great stories. in winter you learn the creation of e`a, so that you can sing it at the long dance when summer comes. in winter you learn the winter carol and the deed of the young king, and at the festival of sunreturn, when the sun turns north to bring the spring, you can sing them."

"i can't sing," the girl whispered.

tenar was winding spun yarn off the distaff into a ball, her hands deft and rhythmic.

"not only the voice sings," she said. "the mind sings. the prettiest voice in the world's no good if the mind doesn't know the songs." she untied the last bit of yarn, which had been the first spun. "you have strength, therru, and strength that is ignorant is dangerous."

"like the ones who wouldn't learn," therru said. "the wild ones." tenar did not know what she meant, and looked her question. "the ones that stayed in the west," therru said.

"ah-the dragons-in the song of the woman of kemay. yes. exactly. so: which will we start with-how the islands were raised from the sea, or how king morred drove back the black ships?" "

"the islands," therru whispered. tenar had rather hoped she would choose the deed of the young king, for she saw lebannen's face as morred's; but the child's choice was the right one. "very well," she said. she glanced up at ogion's great lore-books on the mantel, encouraging herself that if she forgot, she could find the words there; and drew breath; and began.

by her bedtime therru knew how segoy had raised the first of the islands from the depths of time. instead of singing to her, tenar sat on the bed after tucking her in, and they recited together, softly, the first stanza of the song of the making.

tenar carried the little oil lamp back to the kitchen, listening to the absolute silence. the frost had bound the world, locked it. no star showed. blackness pressed at the single window of the kitchen. cold lay on the stone floors.

she went back to the fire, for she was not sleepy yet. the great words of the song had stirred her spirit, and there was still anger and unrest in her from her talk with ivy. she took the poker to rouse up a little flame from the backlog. as she struck the log, there was an echo of the sound in the back of the house.

she straightened up and stood listening.

again: a soft, dull thump or thud-outside the house-at the dairy window?

the poker still in her hand, tenar went down the dark hall to the door that gave on the cool-room. beyond the cool-room was the dairy. the house was built against a low hill, and both those rooms ran back into the hill like cellars, though on a level with the rest of the house. the cool-room had only air-vents; the dairy had a door and a window, low and wide like the kitchen window, in its one outside wall. standing at the cool-room door, she could hear that window being pried or jimmied, and men's voices whispering.

flint had been a methodical householder. every door but one of his house had a bar-bolt on each side of it, a stout length of cast iron set in slides. all were kept clean and oiled; none were ever locked.

she slipped the bolt across the cool-room door. it slid into place without a sound, fitting snug into the heavy iron slot on the doorjamb.

she heard the outer door of the dairy opened. one of them had finally thought to try it, before they broke the window, and found it wasn't locked. she heard the mutter of voices again. then silence, long enough that she heard her heartbeat drumming in her ears so loud she feared she could not hear any sound over it. she felt her legs trembling and trembling, and felt the cold of the floor creep up under her skirt like a hand.

"it's open," a man's voice whispered near her, and her heart leapt painfully. she put her hand on the bolt, thinking it was open-she had unlocked not locked it- she had almost slid it back when she heard the door between the cool-room and the dairy creak, opening. she knew that creak of the upper hinge. she knew the voice that had spoken, too, but in a different way of knowing. "it's a storeroom," handy said, and then, as the door she stood against rattled against the bolt, "this one's locked." it rattled again. a thin blade of light, like a knife blade, flicked between the door and the jamb. it touched her breast, and she drew back as if it had cut her.

the door rattled again, but not much. it was solid, solidly hinged, and the bolt was firm.

they muttered together on the other side of the door. she knew they were planning to come around and try the front of the house. she found herself at the front door, bolting it, not knowing how she came there. maybe this was a nightmare. she had had this dream, that they were trying to get into the house, that they drove thin knives through the cracks of the doors. the doors-was there any other door they could get in? the windows-the shutters of the bedroom windows- her breath came so short she thought she could not get to therru's room, but she was there, she brought the heavy wooden shutters across the glass. the hinges were stiff, and they came together with a bang. now they knew. now they were coming. they would come to the window of the next room, her room. they would be there before she could close the shutters. and they were.

she saw the faces, blurs moving in the darkness outside, as she tried to free the left-hand shutter from its hasp. it was stuck. she could not make it move. a hand touched the glass, flattening white against it.

"there she is."

"let us in. we won't hurt you."

"we just want to talk to you."

"he just wants to see his little girl."

she got the shutter free and dragged it across the window. but if they broke the glass they would be able to push the shutters open from the outside. the fastening was only a hook that would pull out of the wood if forced.

"let us in and we won't hurt you," one of the voices said. she heard their feet on the frozen ground, crackling in the fallen leaves. was therru awake? the crash of the shutters closing might have wakened her, but she had made no sound. tenar stood in the doorway between her room and therru's, it was pitch-dark, silent. she was afraid to touch the child and waken her. she must stay in the room with her. she must fight for her. she had had the poker in her hand, where had she put it? she had put it down to close the shutters. she could not find it. she groped for it in the blackness of the room that seemed to have no walls.

the front door, which led into the kitchen, rattled, shaken in its frame.

if she could find the poker she would stay in here, she would fight them.

"here!" one of them called, and she knew what he had found. he was looking up at the kitchen window, broad, unshuttered, easy to reach.

she went, very slowly it seemed, groping, to the door of the room. it was therru's room now. it had been her children's room. the nursery. that was why there was no lock on the inner side of the door. so the children could not lock themselves in and be frightened if the bolt stuck.

around back of the hill, through the orchard, clearbrook and shandy would be asleep in their cottage. if she called, maybe shandy would hear. if she opened the bedroom window and called-or if she waked therru and they climbed out the window and ran through the orchard-but the men were there, right there, waiting.

it was more than she could bear. the frozen terror that had bound her broke, and in rage she ran into the kitchen that was all red light in her eyes, grabbed up the long, sharp butcher knife from the block, flung back the door-bolt, and stood in the doorway. "come on, then!" " she said.

as she spoke there was a howl and a sucking gasp, and a man yelled, "look out!" another shouted, "here! here!"

then there was silence.

light from the open doorway shot across the black ice of puddles, glittered on the black branches of the oaks and on fallen silver leaves, and as her eyes cleared she saw that something was crawling towards her on the path, a dark mass or heap crawling towards her, making a high, sobbing wail. behind the light a black shape ran and darted, and long blades shone.

"tenar!"

"stop there," she said, raising the knife.

"tenar! it's me-hawk, sparrowhawk!"

"stay there," she said.

the darting black shape stood still next to the black mass lying on the path. the light from the doorway shone dim on a body, a face, a long-tined pitchfork held upright, like a wizard's staff, she thought. "is that you?" she said.

he was kneeling now by the black thing on the path.

"i killed him, i think," he said. he looked over his shoulder, stood up. there was no sign or sound of the other men.

"where are they?"

"ran. give me a hand, tenar."

she held the knife in one hand. with the other she took hold of the arm of the man that lay huddled up on the path. ged took him under the shoulder and they dragged him up the step and into the house. he lay on the stone floor of the kitchen, and blood ran out of his chest and belly like water from a pitcher. his upper lip was drawn back from his teeth, and only the whites of his eyes showed.

"lock the door," ged said, and she locked the door.

"linens in the press," she said, and he got a sheet and tore it for bandages, which she bound round and round the man's belly and breast, into which three of the four tines of the pitchfork had driven full force, making three ragged springs of blood that dripped and squirted as ged supported the man's torso so that she could wrap the bandages.

"what are you doing here? did you come with them?"

"yes. but they didn't know it. that's about all you can do, tenar. " he let the man's body sag down, and sat back, breathing hard, wiping his face with the back of his bloody hand. "i think i killed him," he said again.

"maybe you did." tenar watched the bright red spots spread slowly on the heavy linen that wrapped the man's thin, hairy chest and belly. she stood up, and swayed, very dizzy. "get by the fire," she said. "you must be perishing."

she did not know how she had known him in the dark outside. by his voice, maybe. he wore a bulky shepherd's winter coat of cut fleece with the leather side out, and a

shepherd's knit watch cap pulled down; his face was lined and weathered, his hair long and iron-grey. he smelled like woodsmoke, and frost, and sheep. he was shivering, his whole body shaking. "get by the fire," she said again. "put wood on it."

he did so. tenar filled the kettle and swung it out on its iron arm over the blaze.

there was blood on her skirt, and she used an end of linen soaked in cold water to clean it. she gave the cloth to ged to clean the blood off his hands. "what do you mean, she said, "you came with them but they didn't know it?"

"i was coming down. from the mountain. on the road from the springs of the kaheda. " he spoke in a flat voice as if out of breath, and his shivering made his speech slur. "heard men behind me, and i went aside. into the woods. didn't feel like talking. i don't know. something about them. i was afraid of them."

she nodded impatiently and sat down across the hearth from him, leaning forward to listen, her hands clenched tight in her lap. her damp skirt was cold against her legs.

"i heard one of them say 'oak farm' as they went by. after that i followed them. one of them kept talking. about the child."

"what did he say?"

he was silent. he said finally, "that he was going to get her back. punish her, he said. and get back at you. for stealing her, he said. he said-" he stopped.

"that he'd punish me, too."

"they all talked. about, about that."

"that one isn't handy." she nodded toward the man on the floor. "is it the. . . " . . . "

"he said she was his." ged looked at the man too, and back at the fire. "he's dying. we should get help."

"he won't die," tenar said. "i'll send for ivy in the morning. the others are still out there-how many of them?"

"two."

"if he dies he dies, if he lives he lives. neither of us is going out." she got to her feet, in a spasm of fear. "did you bring in the pitchfork, ged!" "

he pointed to it, the four long tines shining as it leaned against the wall beside the door.

she sat down in the hearthseat again, but now she was shaking, trembling from head to foot, as he had done. he reached across the hearth to touch her arm. "it's all right," he said.

"what if they're still out there?"

"they ran."

"they could come back."

"two against two? and we've got the pitchfork."

she lowered her voice to a bare whisper to say, in terror, "the pruning hook and the scythes are in the barn lean-to."

he shook his head. "they ran. they saw-him-and you in the door."

"what did you do?"

"he came at me. so i came at him."

"i mean, before. on the road."

"they got cold, walking. it started to rain, and they got cold, and started talking about coming here. before that it was only this one, talking about the child and you, about teaching-teaching lessons-" his voice dried up. "i'm thirsty," he said.

"so am i. the kettle's not boiling yet. go on.

he took breath and tried to tell his story coherently. "the other two didn't listen to him much. heard it all before, maybe. they were in a hurry to get on. to get to valmouth. as if they were running from somebody. getting away. but it got cold, and he went on about oak farm, and the one with the cap said, 'well, why not just go there and spend the night with-" " .

"with the widow, yes."

ged put his face in his hands. she waited.

he looked into the fire, and went on steadily. "then i lost them for a while. the road came out level into the valley, and i couldn't follow along the way i'd been doing, in the woods, just behind them. i had to go aside, through the fields, keeping out of their sight. i don't know the country here, only the road. i was afraid if i cut across the fields i'd get lost, miss the house. and it was getting dark. i thought i'd missed the house, overshot it. i came back to the road, and almost ran into them-at the turn there. they'd seen the old man go by. they decided to wait till it was dark and they were sure nobody else was coming. they waited in the barn. i stayed outside. just through the wall from them."

"you must be frozen," tenar said dully.

"it was cold." he held his hands to the fire as if the thought of it had chilled him again. "i found the pitchfork by the lean-to door. they went around to the back of the house when they came out. i could have come to the front door then to warn you, it's what i should have done, but all i could think of was to take them by surprise-i thought it was my only advantage, chance. . . . i thought the house would be locked and they'd have to break in. but then i heard them going in, at the back, there. i went in-into the dairy-after them. i only just got out, when they came to the locked door." he gave a kind of laugh. "they went right by me in the dark. i could have tripped them. . . . one of them had a flint and steel, he'd burn a little tinder when they wanted to see a lock. they came around front. i heard you putting up the shutters; i knew you'd heard them. they talked about smashing the window they'd seen you at. then the one with the cap saw the window-that window-" he nodded toward the kitchen window, with its deep, broad inner sill. "he said, 'get me a rock, i'll smash that right open,' and they came to where he was, and they were about to hoist him up to the sill. so i let out a yell, and he dropped down, and one of them-this one-came running right at me.

"ah, ah," " gasped the man lying on the floor, as if telling ged's tale for him. ged got up and bent over him.

"he's dying, i think."

"no, he's not," tenar said. she could not stop shaking entirely, but it was only an inward tremor now. the kettle was singing. she made a pot of tea, and laid her hands on the thick pottery sides of the teapot while it steeped. she poured out two cups, then a third, into which she put a little cold water. "it's too hot to drink," she told ged, "hold it a minute first. i'll see if this'll go into him." she sat down on the floor by the man's head, lifted it on one arm, put the cup of cooled tea to his mouth, pushed the rim between the bared teeth. the warm stuff ran into his mouth; he swallowed. "he won't die," she said. "the floor's like ice. help me move him nearer the fire."

ged started to take the rug from a bench that ran along the wall between the chimney and the hall. "don't use that, it's a good piece of weaving," tenar said, and she went to the closet and brought out a worn-out felt cloak, which she spread out as a bed for the man. they hauled the inert body onto it, lapped it over him. the soaked red spots on the bandages had grown no larger.

tenar stood up, and stood motionless.

"therru," she said.

ged looked round, but the child was not there. tenar went hurriedly out of the room.

the children's room, the child's room, was perfectly dark and quiet. she felt her way to the bed, and laid her hand on the warm curve of the blanket over therru's shoulder.

"therru?"

the child's breathing was peaceful. she had not waked. tenar could feel the heat of her body, like a radiance in the cold room.

as she went out, tenar ran her hand across the chest of drawers and touched cold metal: the poker she had laid down when she closed the shutters. she brought it back to the kitchen, stepped over the man's body, and hung the poker on its hook on the chimney. she stood looking down at the fire.

"i couldn't do anything," she said. "what should i have done? run out-right away-shouted, and run to clear-brook and shandy. they wouldn't have had time to hurt therru."

"they would have been in the house with her, and you outside it, with the old man and woman. or they could have picked her up and gone clear away with her. you did what you could. what you did was right. timed right. the light from the house, and you coming out with the knife, and me there-they could see the pitchfork then-and him down. so they ran."

"those that could," said tenar. she turned and stirred the man's leg a little with the toe of her shoe, as if he were an object she was a little curious about, a little repelled by, like a dead viper. "you did the right thing," she said.

"i don't think he even saw it. he ran right onto it, it was like-" he did not say what it was like. he said, "drink your tea," and poured himself more from the pot keeping warm on the hearthbricks. "it's good. sit down," he said, and she did so.

"when i was a boy," he said after a time, "the kargs raided my village. they had lances-long, with feathers tied to the shaft-"

she nodded. "warriors of the god-brothers," she said. "i made a . . . a fog-spell. to confuse them. but they came on, some of them. i saw one of them run right onto a pitchfork-like him, only it went clear through him. below the waist."

"you hit a rib," tenar said.

he nodded.

"it was the only mistake you made," she said. her teeth were chattering now. she drank her tea. "ged," she said, "what if they come back?"

"they won't."

"they could set fire to the house."

"this house?" he looked around at the stone walls.

"the haybarn-"

"they won't be back," he said, doggedly.

"no."

they held their cups with care, warming their hands on them.

"she slept through it."

"it's well she did."

"but she'll see him-here-in the morning-"

they stared at each other.

"if i'd killed him-if he'd die!" ged said with rage. "i could drag him out and bury him-"

"do it."

he merely shook his head angrily.

"what does it matter, why, why can't we do it!" tenar demanded .

"i don't know."

"as soon as it gets light-"

"i'll get him out of the house. wheelbarrow. the old man can help me."

"he can't lift anything any more. i'll help you."

"however i can do it, i'll cart him off to the village. there's a healer of some kind there?"

"a witch, ivy."

she felt all at once abysmally, infinitely weary. she could scarcely hold the cup in her hand .

"there's more tea," she said, thick-tongued.

he poured himself another cupful.

the fire danced in her eyes. the flames swam, flared up, sank away, brightened again against the sooty stone, against the dark sky, against the pale sky, the gulfs of evening, the depths of air and light beyond the world. flames of yellow, orange, orange-red, red tongues of flame, flame-tongues, the words she could not speak.

"tenar."

"we call the star tehanu," she said.

"tenar, my dear. come on. come with me."

they were not at the fire. they were in the dark-in the dark hall. the dark passage. they had been there before, leading each other, following each other, in the darkness underneath the earth.