her father's ancestors had owned a wide, rich domain on the wide, rich island of way. claiming no title or court privilege in the days of the kings, through all the dark years after maharion fell they held their land and people with firm hands, putting their gains back into the land, upholding some sort of justice, and fighting off petty tyrants. as order and peace returned to the archipelago under the sway of the wise men of roke, for a while yet the family and their farms and villages prospered. that prosperity and the beauty of the meadows and upland pastures and oak-crowned hills made the domain a byword, so that people said, "as fat as a cow of iria', or, "as lucky as an irian'. the masters and many tenants of the domain added its name to their own, calling themselves irian. but though the farmers and shepherds went on from season to season and year to year and generation to generation as solid and steady as the oaks, the family that owned the land altered with time and chance.

a quarrel between brothers over their inheritance divided them. one heir mismanaged his estate through greed, the other through foolishness. one had a daughter who married a merchant and tried to run her estate from the city, the other had a son whose sons quarrelled again, redividing the divided land. by the time the girl called dragonfly was born, the domain of iria, though still one of the loveliest regions of hill and field and meadow in all earthsea, was a battleground of feuds and litigations. farmlands went to weeds, farmsteads went unroofed, milking sheds stood unused, and shepherds followed their flocks over the mountain to better pastures. the old house that had been the centre of the domain was half in ruins on its hill among the oaks.

its owner was one of four men who called themselves master of iria. the other three called him master of old iria. he spent his youth and what remained of his inheritance in law courts and the anterooms of the lords of way in shelieth, trying to prove his right to the whole domain as it had been a hundred years ago. he came back unsuccessful and embittered and spent his age drinking the hard red wine from his last vineyard and walking his boundaries with a troop of ill-treated, underfed dogs to keep interlopers off his land.

he had married while he was in shelieth, a woman no one at iria knew anything about, for she came from some other island, it was said, somewhere in the west, and she never came to iria, for she died in childbirth there in the city.

when he came home he had a three-year-old daughter with him. he turned her over to the housekeeper and forgot about her. when he was drunk sometimes he remembered her. if he could find her, he made her stand by his chair or sit on his knees and listen to all the wrongs that had been done to him and to the house of iria. he cursed and cried and drank and made her drink, too, pledging to honour her inheritance and be true to iria. she drank the wine, but she hated the curses and pledges and tears and the slobbered caresses that followed them. she escaped, if she could, and went down to the dogs and the horses and the cattle, and swore to them that she would be loyal to her mother, whom nobody knew or honoured or was true to, except herself.

when she was thirteen the old vineyarder and the housekeeper, who were all that was left of the household, told the master that it was time his daughter had her naming day. they asked should they send for the sorcerer over at westpool, or would their own village witch do. the master of iria fell into a screaming rage. "a village witch? a hex-hag to give irian's daughter her true name? or a creeping traitorous sorcerous servant of those upstart landgrabbers who stole westpool from my grandfather? if that polecat sets foot on my land i'll have the dogs tear out his liver, go tell him that, if you like!" and so on. old daisy went back to her kitchen and old coney went back to his vines, and thirteen-year-old dragonfly ran out of the house and down the hill to the village, hurling her father's curses at the dogs, who, crazy with excitement at his shouting, barked and bayed and rushed after her.

"get back, you black-hearted bitch!" she yelled. "home, you crawling traitor!" and the dogs fell silent and went sidling back to the house with their tails down.

dragonfly found the village witch taking maggots out of an infected cut on a sheep's rump. the witch's use-name was rose, like a great many women of way and other islands of the hardic archipelago. people who have a secret name that holds their power the way a diamond holds light may well like their public name to be ordinary, common, like other people's names.

rose was muttering a rote spell, but it was her hands and her little short sharp knife that did most of the work. the ewe bore the digging knife patiently, her opaque, amber, slotted eyes gazing into silence; only she stamped her small left front foot now and then, and sighed.

dragonfly peered close at rose's work. rose brought out a maggot, dropped it, spat on it, and probed again. the girl leaned up against the ewe, and the ewe leaned against the girl, giving and receiving comfort. rose extracted, dropped, and spat on the last maggot, and said, "just hand me that bucket now." she bathed the sore with salt water. the ewe sighed deeply and suddenly walked out of the yard, heading for home. she had had enough of medicine. "bucky!" rose shouted. a grubby child appeared from under a bush where he had been asleep and trailed after the ewe, of whom he was nominally in charge although she was older, larger, better fed, and probably wiser than he was.

"they said you should give me my name," said dragonfly. "father fell to raging. so that's that."

the witch said nothing. she knew the girl was right. once the master of iria said he would or would not allow a thing he never changed his mind, priding himself on his intransigence, since only weak men said a thing and then unsaid it.

"why can't i give myself my own true name?" dragonfly asked, while rose washed the knife and her hands in the salt water.

"can't be done,"

"why not? why does it have to be a witch or a sorcerer? what do you do?"

"well," rose said, and dumped out the salt water on the bare dirt of the small front yard of her house, which, like most witches' houses, stood somewhat apart from the village. "well," she said, straightening up and looking about vaguely as if for an answer, or a ewe, or a towel. "you have to know something about the power, see," she said at last, and looked at dragonfly with one eye. her other eye looked a little off to the side. sometimes dragonfly thought the cast was in rose's left eye, sometimes it seemed to be in her right, but always one eye looked straight and the other watched something just out of sight, around the corner, elsewhere.

"which power?"

"the one," rose said. as suddenly as the ewe had walked off, she went into her house. dragonfly followed her, but only to the door. nobody entered a witch's house uninvited.

"you said i had it," the girl said into the reeking gloom of the one-roomed hut.

"i said you have a strength in you, a great one," the witch said from the darkness. "and you know it too. what you are to do i don't know, nor do you. that's to find. but there's no such power as to name yourself."

"why not? what's more yourself than your own true name?"

a long silence.

the witch emerged with a soapstone drop-spindle and a ball of greasy wool. she sat down on the bench beside her door and set the spindle turning. she had spun a yard of grey-brown yarn before she answered.

"my name's myself. true. but what's a name, then? it's what another calls me. if there was no other, only me, what would i want a name for?"

"but," said dragonfly and stopped, caught by the argument. after a while she said, "so a name has to be a gift?"

rose nodded.

"give me my name, rose," the girl said.

"your dad says not."

"i say to."

"he's the master here."

"he can keep me poor and stupid and worthless, but he can't keep me nameless!"

the witch sighed, like the ewe, uneasy and constrained.

"tonight," dragonfly said. "at our spring, under iria hill. what he doesn't know won't hurt him." her voice was half-coaxing, half-savage.

"you ought to have your proper name day, your feast and dancing, like any young 'un," the witch said. "it's at daybreak a name should be given. and then there ought to be music and feasting and all. not sneaking about at night and no one knowing..."

"i'll know. how do you know what name to say, rose? does the water tell you?"

the witch shook her iron-grey head once. "i can't tell you." her 'can't' did not mean 'won't'. dragonfly waited. "it's the power, like i said. it comes just so." rose stopped her spinning and looked up with one eye at a cloud in the west; the other looked a little northward of the sky. "you're there in the water, together, you and the child. you take away the child-name. people may go on using that name for a use-name, but it's not her name, nor ever was. so now she's not a child, and she has no name. so then you wait. you open your mind up, like. like opening the doors of a house to the wind. so it comes. your tongue speaks it, the name. your breath makes it. you give it to that child, the breath, the name. you can't think of it. you let it come to you. it must come through you to her it belongs to. that's the power, the way it works. it's all like that. it's not a thing you do. you have to know how to let it do. that's all the mastery."

"mages can do more than that," the girl said.

"nobody can do more than that," said rose.

dragonfly rolled her head round on her neck, stretching till the vertebrae cracked, stretching out her long arms and legs restlessly. "will you?" she said.

after some time, rose nodded once.

they met in the lane under iria hill in the dark of night, long after sunset, long before dawn. rose made a dim glow of werelight so that they could find their way through the marshy ground around the spring without falling in a sinkhole among the reeds. in the cold darkness under a few stars and the black curve of the hill, they stripped and waded into the shallow water, their feet sinking deep in velvet mud. the witch touched the girl's hand, saying, "i take your name, child. you are no child. you have no name."

it was utterly still.

in a whisper the witch said, "woman, be named. you are irian."

for a moment longer they held still; then the night wind blew across their naked shoulders, and shivering, they waded out, dried themselves as well as they could, struggled barefoot and wretched through the sharp-edged reeds and tangling roots, and found their way back to the lane. and there dragonfly spoke in a ragged, raging whisper: 'how could you name me that!"

the witch said nothing.

"it isn't right. it isn't my true name! i thought my name would make me be me. but this makes it worse. you got it wrong. you're only a witch. you did it wrong. it's his name. he can have it. he's so proud of it, his stupid domain, his stupid grandfather. i don't want it. i won't have it. it isn't me. i still don't know who i am. i'm not irian!" she fell silent abruptly, having spoken the name.

the witch still said nothing. they walked along in the darkness side by side. at last, in a placating, frightened voice, rose said, "it came so ..."

"if you ever tell it to anyone i'll kill you," dragonfly said.

at that, the witch stopped walking. she hissed like a cat. "tell anyone?"

dragonfly stopped too. she said after a moment, "i'm sorry. but i feel like - i feel like you betrayed me."

"i spoke your true name. it's not what i thought it would be. and i don't feel easy about it. as if i'd left something unfinished. but it is your name. if it betrays you, then that's the truth of it." rose hesitated and then spoke less angrily, more coldly: 'if you want the power to betray me, irian, i'll give you that. my name is etaudis."

the wind had come up again. they were both shivering, their teeth chattering. they stood face to face in the black lane, hardly able to see where the other was. dragonfly put out her groping hand and met the witch's hand. they put their arms round each other in a fierce, long embrace. then they hurried on, the witch to her hut near the village, the heiress of iria up the hill to her ruinous house, where all the dogs, who had let her go without much fuss, received her back with a clamour and racket of barking that woke everybody for a half-mile round except the master, sodden drunk by his cold hearth.