The heavy sheaves parted.
And Thorn of Dunoon stood looking down at them, his red hair catching the sun, his eyes quiet and concerned.
“It’s all right, the Deacons have gone back. You can come out now. Here . . .” He knelt and lifted Meatha as easily as he might lift a new fawn and began to make his way back through the whitebarley toward the road. Zephy followed him in silent confusion.
Then in a flash of memory she saw a picture of Thorn and Anchorstar beside the goats, facing Kearb-Mattus together. Thorn of Dunoon—and Anchorstar!
They went up the road quickly and through the plum grove to a vetchpea patch on the other side, pausing to talk only when they were at last sheltered.
And there in the shade of the heavy vines Thorn told them about Anchorstar and about how the old man had come to him at night on the mountain. If he paused sometimes, perhaps it was to remember.
He told them how Anchorstar had appeared suddenly, coming so silently in the night that even the guardbucks didn’t hear him, and had spoken to him about the Children of Ynell. He told how Anchorstar had known about the spark in Thorn’s own being that made him like Ynell. Did Thorn leave something out, hold something back, or did Zephy only imagine that? Yet why would he? He had given them his trust implicitly: for Thorn’s confession to them of his own skills put his very life in their hands.
He told them how he had slipped into Anchorstar’s wagon before Anchorstar started his act, had been there inside all the time the juggler was doing his tricks, then had ridden out with him, the two of them laying a plan to get Anchorstar to Dunoon. “For he would speak with you two,” he said matter-of-factly, brushing a gnat from his face—a flock of them buzzed among the vetchpea vines, annoying in the later afternoon heat. “He would speak with you both,” he repeated in answer to Zephy’s surprised look. “For you are the only two older ones in Burgdeeth.”
“The only two older what?” Zephy whispered, going cold.
“The only two . . .” He studied her as he waited for her to understand. But she refused to understand and only stared at him blankly.
“The only two Children of Ynell,” Meatha breathed at last her eyes never leaving Thorn’s.
“I’m not . . .” Zephy began. But she could not say more, she could not deny it not after the vision in the tunnel. “I’m not . . .” she tried again, almost inaudibly. Then she gave it up and sat staring at Thorn. She did not speak of the tunnel. Nor did Meatha.
“I have a trace of the gift,” Thorn said. “But only a trace. Anchorstar will need all three of us.” He would say nothing more. He bent the talk instead to laying out the plan he had discussed with Anchorstar. It sounded simple enough, to bring the wagon through Burgdeeth after midnight, after the Singing was finished and people had gone to bed. Simple, and dangerous. For if Anchorstar were caught Thorn felt he would be killed.
“Couldn’t he leave his horses and wagon somewhere and go on foot?” Zephy asked. “It would be safer.”
“But how?” Thorn said. “Near Burgdeeth they would be seen, and anywhere off in the hills there would be no one to care for the horses. Tied animals run out of grazing, loose animals stray . . .” he gazed at her, questioning, and she realized what a silly question it had been. His eyes were such a dark green, like the river where it ran deep and still. And direct, so direct they made her self-conscious—yet they made her trust him, too. She felt that the three of them were bound together suddenly in something as bizarre and terrifying as anything she could imagine. The three of them . . . You three—and three—the words seemed to echo from a long way off. You three—you will reach out—if you are the chosen. She stared at Thorn and felt her spirit twist in sudden confusion.
It was Meatha who seemed transported into a joy of spirit so absolute that Zephy was sobered by it, for Meatha was lifted into a passion that encompassed her utterly. Was this what Anchorstar was capable of? And then she thought, could he be other than what they believed, could he be leading them into something evil?
But Thorn—Thorn would not deceive them.
And when she thought of the stone in the tunnel she knew that an aura of otherness, of mystery and wonder, truly did exist. She thought of telling Thorn about the stone.
But she would wait. If Anchorstar had tricked them, tricked Thorn, then it would be too late; and she vowed to keep the thought of it hidden when at last she faced Anchorstar.
It was nearly evening when they left the housegardens and went to fetch Loke and the bucks. They took the bucks to be bedded down with Nida and Dess, watered and fed them, then stood leaning silently on the rail. “The Singing will begin soon,” Thorn said. “We’d best make a spectacle of it. More eyes than mine saw you two staring at Anchorstar in the square when everyone else had gone. And saw you leave it, too. We’d best make it appear that Anchorstar is well out of our thoughts, that we’re wild with the pleasure of Market Night. Do you remember last year, Zephy, when you danced ‘Jajun Jajun’ alone atop the Storemaster’s wagon, with Shanner and half a dozen clapping and playing for you?”
Did he remember that? She flushed, feeling as simple and hot-faced as any Burgdeeth girl. “Tonight,” he said lightly, “we’ll dance ‘Jajun Jajun’ as it’s never been danced before.” His smile was so full of easy friendliness that she couldn’t help but smile back. But she thought later, I’m not so shy with other boys. What’s the matter with me?
Well, you couldn’t be shy with the music playing; you couldn’t be shy when you were singing. Caught up in the rhythm of the music and the blaze of lantern light that drove back the darkness, they danced and sang and forgot everything else. Zephy forgot her shyness in the laughter of Thorn’s eyes, in his voice as they sang the old songs.
She played her gaylute for the singing but quickly handed it to Meatha when Thorn swept her into a Sangurian reel that lifted her, made her forget the danger that lay ahead of them—the music was a river that carried them churning wildly down its length so no other thought was possible.
Again and again she saw Mama dancing with Kearb-Mattus. She was embarrassed when Mama danced the wild, clapping Rondingly with him, for he did not know the steps and stumped clumsily beside her. In spite of his strange appeal, the Kubalese was not made for dancing. And Mama made a spectacle of herself, clapping and whirling like a girl. It was embarrassing to see her own mother behaving with such abandon.
Late in the night Elij presented Thorn with a sheaf of whitebarley and claimed Zephy as partner. He was so drunk he could hardly keep his feet Zephy tried to stay out of his way, but she was well-trodden on before the music stopped and she turned away from him—only to be pulled back to face him.
“What’s th’ matter, Zephy? One more dance—one dance . . .” His arm went around her too tight and when he saw Thorn approaching, his grip tightened further and his voice came loud and slurred. “How c’n you lower yourself to dance w’th a—w’th a goatherd!”
She stared at Elij, then pushed him away and went boldly to Thorn. Elij’s gaze followed her, his eyes like ice.
When the music stopped again, Elij was beside them, his voice carrying across the square, “A girl pregnant by a goatherd—a Cherban goatherd—would be driven from Cloffi in rags.”
Zephy’s face flamed. Someone snickered. She could not look at Thorn. Someone else hooted, and several boys began to laugh. When she did glance sideways at Thorn, she saw his fists clenched as if he were trying to hold his temper.
“C’me here, Zephy Eskar. Come over here and let’s see what the young goatherd finds so appealing. C’m on—let’s pass it around a little . . .”