Then suddenly he was juggling. She didn’t see him start, one minute he was still, and the next he was tossing a dozen glinting spinning objects high in the air. His expression and stance had not changed. Most jugglers—though they had few enough in Burgdeeth where the Landmaster hardly tolerated them—would be grimacing and frowning now, dancing around to keep their wares balanced, smiling and scowling as they performed their simple tricks. Anchorstar’s face was quiet, his eyes vivid and cool. His hands seemed hardly to move as the objects flew and twisted and fell to be tossed again, twelve tumbling golden cages glinting and winking in the sunlight And in the cages—birds! Bright little birds, each one lifting to the rise and fall of the golden cages with little lithe movements as if they had done this trick a hundred times and in truth were enjoying it. There was no frantic fluttering, only the graceful, delicate balancing as the cages tumbled and gleamed.
And then she saw Meatha, standing farther along the edge of the square. She was staring up at Anchorstar as if she had been turned to stone. And, though Anchorstar seemed to be looking beyond her across the crowd, Zephy felt sure it was Meatha on whom his attention really dwelt.
Meatha, pale as whitebarley flour. Meatha, caught in something—caught . . . And then Zephy knew: they were speaking. Like Ynell, silently speaking across the heads of the crowd. This was the vision Meatha had seen: the old man, the wagon, the silent communication.
When Anchorstar had finished juggling, the crowd remained quiet, as if it had been mesmerized with the flirting circle of motion and light; and then their silence broke, they roared with applause, stamping and shouting and pressing closer around the wagon.
Where the back of the wagon had been dropped to make the stage, and the sides folded back, you could see that the inside was painted in small intricate patterns of red and gold. The tailgate was supported on the carven legs. And there around the juggler’s feet was the paraphernalia he used to entertain, cages and boxes and jars, and a brightly painted barrel, which he now held up, pouring water out into three cups and passing them down into the crowd. He had ceased to look at Meatha; and Meatha herself seemed dazed, shrinking into the crowd as if she wished not to be touched or disturbed.
The banners in the square hung slack in the windless afternoon; the statue of the Luff’Eresi shone blindingly in the harsh sun, a small pool of shadow dark around its feet. Now the juggler was holding up the cask, and the liquid he poured was red wine; it was tasted, was passed around, and a sigh of wonder escaped the crowd. Zephy learned later that he had made an egg jump in the air from one hat to another, and then had put it into a yellow silk bag, handed it to a trader and, when the trader opened the bag, a full-grown rooster had flown out. He had made divvot cards appear in the hats and pockets of the crowd; and he had pointed out silver coins in empty pails presented to him, pails which he never touched. But the juggling—the juggling of the cages was the most wonderful.
He held up a silver staff now, and the noise of the crowd died as sharp and quick as if a knife had sliced it
And there . . . Oh, but the Deacons had ridden into the square. They paused as one, silent and ominous, their swords across their saddles and the purple flag of Burgdeeth hanging limp but commanding atop the color-bearer’s staff. The crowd began to shift and mutter, to glance around, some to leave the square.
And Zephy saw that in the opposite corner the Landmaster waited, his gray stallion pawing. The Landmaster’s girth and height were impressive; his uniform shone. The people glanced at him and shrank more quickly from the painted wagon, pushing and shouldering each other.
The space around the wagon widened. Soon the juggler stood alone.
Zephy pushed through the crowd to the hedge where Meatha stood staring in frozen panic. The shadow of wings darkened her face.
The Deacons surrounded the wagon. The girls watched as Anchorstar descended and began to tighten his harness, and to close up the tailgate and the sides. There were no harsh words, hardly any words. They seemed unnecessary. The Deacons’ intent was clear.
When Anchorstar climbed into the wagon at last, he looked terrifying in his calmness. He lifted the reins without comment, backed the horses, and turned them toward the south as the Deacons were directing—there was nowhere else to go. To the north lay only Dunoon. And that, of course, would be forbidden to him.
When Anchorstar had gone, when the wagon could no longer be seen down the road and people had at last begun to return to the square, Zephy and Meatha slipped out through the housegardens, past the plum grove, and into the Landmaster’s southern whitebarley field. The grain was tall and heavy-headed, ready for harvest, and they would be dealt with harshly if they were caught there, knocking heads off the stalks as they crept through. They slipped along as gently as they could, trying not to shake the stalks, planning that when they came out onto the road at the end of the field they would run to catch up with the wagon.
But three mounted Deacons guarded the road, Zephy’s blood went cold as she stared up at their closed, stern faces. “A donkey,” she cried, desperate for an excuse. “Have you seen a brown donkey? Dragging her halter rope. . .”
The Deacons did not comment They stared back toward the village in clear command as to the direction the girls should take. There was nothing you could do, there was no way to battle Deacons. Defeated, they turned around and started back up the road.
“I hate them!” Meatha whispered vehemently.
“They don’t have to be so overbearing just because—just because . . . Oh, to Urdd with the flaming Deacons!”
Meatha seemed utterly destroyed. Zephy watched her, concerned. Sometimes you couldn’t tell with Meatha; there was something about her, a kind of delicate, tight-strung stubbornness that . . . Then Zephy caught her breath as Meatha dissolved into sudden shaking sobs. Alarmed, Zephy shoved her into the whitebarley where she would not be seen, and put her arms around her. She could feel the wracking sobs, could feel Meatha’s heart pounding. She looked down the road, terrified that the Deacons would come, then pushed Meatha deeper into the field, propelling her away from the road until they were well out in the middle of the tall stand of grain.
Never in her life had she seen Meatha so out of control. She had seen her cry silent tears when she was hurt by someone, but never tears like this, crying as if her very soul was lost.
When it seemed Meatha could cry no longer, she stared up at Zephy, her face blotched, her eyes swollen. “He spoke to me, Zephy. Anchorstar spoke to me. He couldn’t tell me all of it, and now they’ve driven him away. There was something . . .” She pressed her fist to her mouth, then at last began again, “It was like a fog, when you know things are in it but you can’t see them. He said we must talk together. There is something I must do. For Anchorstar, something I must do for him,” she said with awe. And then the hopelessness of her defeat seemed to fill her and shake her utterly, and she dissolved into tears again, her face growing so white Zephy was frightened for her. “He said that the Children . . . that the Children . . . Oh, I wish I understood . . .
“It wasn’t anything in words, just in knowing. Then he made me go away from him in my mind. He wanted his mind free because he could feel the Deacons coming.
“And when he drove away I tried to speak with him, but I couldn’t. There was nothing. And now it’s too late.” She sat staring miserably at the whitebarley that made a wall around them.
“It’s not too late. We’ll think of something.” Zephy’s anger surged at the Deacons, at her own helplessness. “Don’t cry! It doesn’t help to cry/”
Only a faint rustle of the whitebarley told Zephy they were not alone; she blanched with fear as they crouched, frozen; it would do no good to run.