"I'm sorry it's been so rough," he said again, idiotically, and closed the door. As he turned away he heard them all laughing.
He went to stand by the steersman. Looking into the gusty, rainy darkness lit by fitful, distant lightning, he could still see everything in the stern cabin, the black fall of Tehanu's hair, Tenar's affectionate, teasing smile, the dice on the table, the princess's round arms, honey-colored like the lamplight, her throat in the shadow of her hair, though he did not remember looking at her arms and throat but only at her face, at her eyes full of defiance, despair. What was the girl afraid of? Did she think he wanted to hurt her?
A star or two was shining out high in the south. He went to his crowded cabin, slung a hammock, for the bunks were full, and slept for a few hours. He woke before dawn, restless as ever, and went up on deck.
The day came as bright and calm as if no storm had ever been. Lebannen stood at the forward rail and saw the first sunlight strike across the water, and an old song came into his mind:
O my joy! Before bright Ea was, before Segoy Bade the islands be, The morning wind blew on the sea. 0 my joy, be free!
It was a fragment of a ballad or lullaby from his childhood. He could remember no more of it. The rune was sweet. He sang it softly and let the wind take the words from his lips.
Tenar emerged from the cabin and, seeing him, came to him. "Good morning, my dear lord," she said, and he greeted her fondly, with some memory that he had been angry at her but not knowing why he had been or how he could have been.
"Did you Kargs win Havnor last night?" he asked.
"No, you may keep Havnor. We went to bed. All the young ones are still there, lolling. Shall we—what is it? lift Roke today?"
"Raise Roke? No, not till early tomorrow. But before noon we should be in Thwil Harbor. If they let us come to the island."
"What do you mean?"
"Roke defends itself from unwelcome visitors."
"Oh: Ged told me about that. He was on a ship trying to sail back there, and they sent the wind against him, the Roke wind he called it."
"Against him?
"It was a long time ago." She smiled with pleasure at his incredulity, his unwillingness that any affront should ever have been offered to Ged. "When he was a boy who had meddled with the darkness. That's what he said."
"When he was a man he still meddled with it."
"He doesn't now," Tenar said, serene.
"No, it's we who have to." His face had grown somber. "I wish I knew what we're meddling with. I am certain that things are drawing to some great chance or change—as Ogion foretold—as Ged told Alder. And I am certain that Roke is where we need to be to meet it. But beyond that, no certainty, nothing. I don't know what it is we face. When Ged took me into the dark land, we knew our enemy. When I took the fleet to Sorra, I knew what the evil was I wanted to undo. But now—Are the dragons our enemies or our allies? What has gone wrong? What is it we must do or undo? Will the Masters of Roke be able to tell us? Or will they turn their wind against us?"
"Fearing—?"
"Fearing the dragon. The one they know. Or the one they don't know…"
Tenar's face was sober too, but gradually it broke into a smile. "What a ragbag you are bringing them, to be sure!" she said. "A sorcerer with nightmares, a wizard from Paln, two dragons, and two Kargs. The only respectable passengers on this ship are you and Onyx."
Lebannen could not laugh. "If only he were with us," he said.
Tenar put her hand on his arm. She started to speak and then did not.
He laid his hand over hers. They stood silent thus for some time, side by side, looking out at the dancing sea.
"The princess has something she wants to tell you before we come to Roke," Tenar said. "It's a story from Hur-at-Hur. Off there in their desert they remember things. I think this goes back before anything I ever heard except the story of the Woman of Kemay. It has to do with dragons… It would be kind of you to invite her, so that she doesn't have to ask."
Aware of the care and caution with which she spoke, he felt a moment of impatience, a flick of shame. He watched, far south across the sea, the course of a galley bound for Kamery or Way, the faint, tiny flash of the lifted sweeps. He said, "Of course. About noon?"
"Thank you."
About noon, he sent a young seaman to the stern cabin to request the princess to join the king on the foredeck. She emerged at once, and the ship being only about fifty feet long, he could observe her entire progress towards him: not a long walk, though perhaps for her it was a long one. For it was not a featureless red cylinder that approached him but a tall young woman. She wore soft white trousers, a long shirt of dull red, a gold circlet that held a very thin red veil over her face and head. The veil fluttered in the sea wind. The young sailor led her round the various obstacles and up and down the descents and ascents of the crowded, cumbered, narrow deck. She walked slowly and proudly. She was barefoot. Every eye in the ship was on her.
She arrived on the foredeck and stood still. Lebannen bowed. "Your presence honors us, princess." She performed a deep, straight-backed courtesy and said, "Thank you."
"You were not ill last night, I hope?" She put her hand on the charm she wore on the cord round her neck, a small bone tied with black, showing it to him. "Kerez akath akatharwa erevi," she said. He knew the word akath in Kargish meant sorcerer or sorcery.
There were eyes everywhere, eyes in hatchways, eyes up in the rigging, eyes that were like augurs, like gimlets.
"Come forward, if you will. We may see Roke Island soon," he said, though there was not the remotest chance of seeing a glimmer of Roke till dawn. With a hand under her elbow though not actually touching her, he guided her up the steep slant of the deck to the forepeak, where between a capstan, the slant of the bowsprit, and the port rail was a little triangle of decking that—when a sailor had scurried away with the cable he was mending—they had quite to themselves. They were as visible as ever to the rest of the ship, but they could turn their backs on it: as much privacy as royalty can hope for.
When they had gained this tiny haven, the princess turned to him and pushed back the veil from her face. He had intended to ask what he could do for her, but the question seemed both inadequate and irrelevant. He said nothing.
She said, "Lord King. In Hur-at-Hur I am feyagat. In Roke Island I am to be king's daughter of Kargad. To be this, I am not feyagat. I am bare face. If it please you."
After a moment he said, "Yes. Yes, princess. This is—this is well done."
"It please you?"
"Very much. Yes. I thank you, princess."
"Barrezu," she said, a regal acceptance of his thanks. Her dignity abashed him. Her face had been flaming red when she first put back the veil; there was no color in it now. But she stood straight and still, and gathered up her forces for another speech.
"Too," she said. "Also. My friend Tenar."
"Our friend Tenar," he said with a smile.
"Our friend Tenar. She says I am to tell King Lebannen of the Vedurnan."
He repeated the word.
"Long ago long ago—Karg people, sorcery people, dragon people, hah? Yes? — All people one, all speak one—one—Oh! Wuluah mekrevt!"
"One language?"
"Hah! Yes! One language!" In her passionate attempt to speak Hardic, to tell him what she wanted to tell him, she was losing her self-consciousness; her face and eyes shone. "But then, dragon people say: Let go, let go all things. Fly! — But we people, we say: No, keep. Keep all things. Dwell! — So we go apart, hah? dragon people and we people? So they make the Vedurnan. These to let go—these to keep. Yes? But to keep all things, we must to let go that language. That dragon people language."