"I would rather think," said Bego, "of what my king is trying to do, and how I might help him."
Motiak nodded, his eyes heavy-lidded. "If I can't be your brother in our belief in the Keeper, then I will have to make do with your loyalty to me as your king."
"In that you can trust perfectly," said Bego.
"I know I can," said Motiak.
"I beg you not to stop me from teaching your children," said Bego.
Motiak closed his eyes entirely. "I'm so tired, Bego. I need to sleep before I can think any more about these things. As you leave, please ask the servants to come and carry my children to their beds."
"It won't be necessary," said Bego. "They're both awake."
Motiak looked at Mon and Edhadeya, whose heads still rested on their arms and who had not stirred from their motionless slumber. But now, sheepishly, they both raised their heads. "I didn't want to interrupt," said Mon.
"No, I imagine not," answered Motiak wryly. "Well, then, we can spare the servants the onerous labor of carrying you. Go to bed, both of you. You earned the right to witness the translation, but not to hear my private counsel with my friend."
"Forgive me," Edhadeya whispered.
"Forgive you?" echoed Motiak. "Already I've forgiven you. Now go to bed."
They followed Bego wordlessly out the door.
Motiak remained alone in the library for a little while, touching now the gold leaves, now the Index.
In a short while, the head copyist came in to take away Bego's carefully-written waxed barks. While he was there, Motiak wrapped up the Index; and when the copyist was gone, the king carried both the Index and the gold leaves to the inmost chamber of his treasury, down in the belly of the house.
As he walked, he spoke to the Keeper in his mind, asking questions, pleading for answers, but finally asking only this: Give me help. My priests will answer as they always answer, interpreting the old texts in the same ways their predecessors already decided to interpret them. This new history won't even wake them from their intellectual slumber-they already think they understand everything, but now I think they understand nothing. Give me help, someone else who can bear this burden with me, someone who can hear my fears and worries, who can help me know what you want of me.
Then, standing in the doorway of the treasury, the ten guards lined up at the entrance, watching him intently, Motiak had a sudden vision. As clearly as if he was standing in front of him, Motiak saw the man that Edhadeya had seen in her dream. Akmaro, the rebel priest of Nuab.
As quickly as it came, the vision was gone.
"Are you all right?" asked the nearest guard.
"Now I am," said Motiak. He strode away, climbing the stairs up into the living quarters of the house.
He had never seen any vision of Akmaro before, but he knew that the man he had glimpsed for that one moment was him. Surely he had been shown that face because the Keeper meant Akmaro to be the friend that Motiak had pleaded for. And if Akmaro was to be his friend, the Keeper must plan to bring him to Darakemba.
On the way to his bedroom, he passed Dudagu's room. Normally she would still be asleep at this early hour of the morning, but she came to the door as he walked by. "Where were you all night, Tidaka?"
"Working," he answered. "Don't let them waken me until noon."
"What, am I supposed to look for all your servants and tell them what your schedule is? How have I offended you, that you suddenly treat me like a common. ..."
Her voice faded out as he drew the curtain across the door to his inner chamber. "Send me a friend and counselor, Keeper," whispered Motiak. "If I am a worthy servant of yours, send Akmaro to me now."
Motiak slept almost as soon as he lay down, slept and did not dream.
As they walked to the sleeping quarters of the king's house, Mon and Edhadeya talked. Or rather, at first Mon talked.
"The Index did the translating, right? Father only spoke whatever appeared before him. Bego only wrote whatever Father said. So who is the machine?"
Sleepily Edhadeya murmured, "The Index is the machine."
"So we're told. And before tonight, Bego worked and puzzled and guessed about the language of the twenty-four leaves. Then he tested his answers with me as if against the multiplication table. Is this right, Mon? Yes or no, Mon? One answer or the other was all I could give. I barely even had to understand. Yes. No. Yes. Who is the machine?"
"A machine that talks nonsense instead of letting you sleep," said Edhadeya. "Everyone will want one."
But Mon wasn't listening to her. He was already off in another direction. He knew he was desperately unhappy about something that happened tonight; if he tried enough guesses as to what it was, one of them was bound to be right. "Dedaya, do you really want your dreams? The true ones? Don't you wish they didn't come to you?"
In spite of herself, Edhadeya awakened to this question; it had never occurred to her to question her gift. "If I hadn't dreamed, Mon, we wouldn't know what was in the book."
"We still don't know. We slept through most of it." Fully alert now, Edhadeya continued. "And I don't wish the dream had come to someone else. I wanted it-I was glad of it. It makes me part of something important."
"Part of something? A piece of something? I want to be whole. Myself. Not part of anything but me."
"That's so stupid, Mon. You've spent your whole life wanting to be someone else. Now suddenly you want to be you?"
"I wish I were better than I am, yes. I wish I could fly, yes." Edhadeya was used to this. Boys always argued as if they knew they had the forces of logic on their side, even when they were being completely irrational. Even when their "logic" defied the evidence. "You wish you could be part of the games, the air dances of the young angels. Part of them. And part of the evening song. You can't very well do any of that by yourself."
"That's different," said Mon.
Oh, yes, let's redefine our terms to eliminate the contradiction. It drove Edhadeya crazy, because after discussions like this, the boys would turn around and talk about how girls weren't reasonable, they were emotional, so you couldn't even have an intelligent discussion with them-but it was the boys who fled from the evidence and constantly shifted their arguments to fit what they wanted to believe. And it was Edhadeya who was ruthlessly realistic, refusing to deny her own feelings or the facts she observed around her. And refusing to deny that she reached her conclusions first, because of her inmost desires, and only afterward constructed the arguments to support them. Only boys were so foolish that they actually believed that their arguments were their reasons.
But there was no use explaining any of this to Mon. Edhadeya was tired. She didn't need to turn this into a lengthy argument about arguments. So she answered him in the simplest possible way. "No it's not," she said.
Mon took this as license to ignore her, of course. "I don't want to be part of the Keeper, that's what I don't want to be part of. Who knows or cares what he's planning? I don't want to be part of his plans."
"We all are," said Edhadeya. "So isn't it better to be an important part?"
"His favorite puppet?" asked Mon scornfully.
"Her willing friend."
"If he's a friend, let's see his face once in a while, all right? Let's see him come for a visit!"
Edhadeya decided it was time to inject a little reality into the discussion. "I know what you're really angry about."