Thorn had him down, pounding him, and Elij so drunk he could hardly fight back. Thorn’s fury made Zephy go cold as she grabbed his arm, dragged at him. “He’s drunk, Thorn, he’s too drunk . . .” And Thorn, comprehending finally, pulled back and stood up, ashamed, Elij crouching before him in the street. The catcalls and laughter were ugly, were all directed at Thorn; though no one made a move toward him. “Come on,” Zephy whispered. He stood belligerently, furious. Then he seemed to collect himself, and took her arm at last, and led her away from the street. She wondered if his fury would spill over and lash out at her, too. It was strange that the Deacons, who had watched from their elevated seats at the side of the square, had not come forward to beat Thorn. What devious punishment did they have in their minds for later?
Fog had begun to drift in from the river and settle between the buildings as they stood together in a side street “I’m sorry,” Thorn said, “to cause talk like that about you. Goatherd. It’s not a nice word in Burgdeeth.”
“It wasn’t you that caused Elij’s rudeness. If I’d been nice to him, if I’d danced with him—he stepped all over my feet” she said trying to make light of it.
“Does he—does he court you?”
“Me?” She didn’t know whether to laugh or to scream at him. “Me and Elij Cooth? Oh no, Thorn. I wouldn’t have him.”
“That shows good taste,” Thorn said, grinning. “I never thought you’d have him. But sometimes . . .” he paused and studied her. “Usually a girl has little choice.”
She grinned back. “I’d feed him painon bark and ashes and make him so sick he’d be sorry he ever known me.”
Thorn smiled. He was so close she trembled. Surely he would kiss her. She was terrified. Then when he didn’t, when he took her hand instead and turned back toward the square, there was an emptiness like lead inside.
In the square, the music was quieter. Elij had gone and interest in the fight had died away. Other couples had drifted off, and the crowd was smaller. Soon four of the Deacons retired. The fog settled down thicker, fuzzing the lantern light to a glistening haze, then growing brighter as the moons rose behind it.
When the music was stilled and the square empty at last, Zephy and Thorn and Meatha met in the housegardens, each going separately through back ways. There they woke Loke where he slept wrapped in blankets by the donkey pen.
TEN
The thin radiance of moonlight through fog made the street much too light, a diffused brightness. One couldn’t be sure whether there was clarity of vision or only the glittering haze masking things unseen. Zephy peered out of the alley. “Why couldn’t it be dark.”
“It wouldn’t be dark so close to Fire Scourge,” Meatha whispered reasonably. The full moons behind the fog were like two lamps in their brilliance. Meatha shifted deeper into the shoulder-narrow alley, pressing against Zephy who was, in turn, pressed against the damp stone.
The bright fog would surely set the wagon off too plainly, though Zephy guessed it was better than the bare full moons shining down. The night was utterly silent; strange, after so much music. She felt as if an echo of music still vibrated, unheard. Meatha sighed, nervy with apprehension, then slipped out of the alley and away, a dark shape beside the wall disappearing at once into the fog. She would stand watch between Zephy and the square, prepared to whistle softly if anyone appeared in the street. It had taken Thorn a long time to teach them the whistle of the river-owl. Thorn would be in the square now. And Loke, with the bucks, would be watching from the north end of town. Even in the silence the wagon should not be heard, for the wheels and the horse’s hooves would be wrapped with rags.
Alone, Zephy felt very exposed, even in the narrow alley. She hardly dared breathe for listening. Once she thought she heard a door open softly. But it could have been inside a house. She tried to see deeper into the mist. If someone were standing across the street, would she see them? But of course there was no one; all Burgdeeth slept after the night of dancing. The dampness of the stone against which she was pressed chilled her. She stood away from the wall shivering, disliking the fog suddenly.
Among the coastal countries, Aybil and Farr, Pelli and Sangur, fog was said to be the breath of SkokeDirgOg, and men kept to their closed houses. How much superstition men lived by. If it were not for Tra. Hoppa, would she and Meatha be the same? Were they being as foolish now, just as believing of falsehood when they put their trust in Anchorstar as they were doing?
But to speak to Anchorstar, to speak without words, that was not superstition. That was real, something they had done themselves—or, Meatha had.
And did Meatha see truly? Or was her vision as warped as the Cloffi history of Ere? Was what she thought truth just another falsehood?
A faint hollow sound shook her, a ghost of a sound. Then almost at once the wagon was looming out of the fog, its muffled hoofbeats like blunt whispers, the horses warm-smelling; the wagon was nearly on top of her, the muffled wheels and rag-shod hooves sucking strangely at the damp street. For an instant Anchorstar’s face was above her, his eyes looking into hers, speaking a message she could not doubt; how could she ever have doubted him, the direct, honest warmth of his gaze that seemed to see right into her, to bare his own soul for her. Then he was gone, swallowed up. From the back of the wagon Thorn reached down to touch her cheek, then he too was gone; the wagon had disappeared, gone as if it had never been. No sound remained. Ahead in the fog, had Loke joined them? They must meet the river high above the last fields where the path was rough and stony; to use the lower road would have been foolish. She shivered at what tomorrow would bring. It seemed a wild plan, to slip out of Burgdeeth during the reaping. To stand before Anchorstar in a meeting that, Zephy felt, would change her life in ways that terrified her.
She slipped out into the street. Meatha would be finding her way home now. The fog made distances seem different; she quailed as something moved close by, then saw it was her own fog-distorted shadow against a door. She found her stairway and climbed it, lifting the door with all her strength to keep it from creaking. She climbed the two flights and the ladder, undressed in darkness, and was in bed at last. But she couldn’t sleep. She thought of Thorn’s green-eyed gaze, and Anchorstar’s dark, penetrating look, that were in some way alike. Both challenged and both comforted her. Then she dropped into sleep as suddenly as a stone drops into water.
*
The chanting of Prayer Morning woke her. She tried to slip back into sleep, felt as exhausted as if she had not slept at all. She pulled the covers up, but the Deacons’ voices raised in unison were so insistent that at last she rose. She washed and dressed in a stupor with the chanting annoying her. The demanding voices seemed to destroy what little privacy she had. Outside, the fog still shrouded Burgdeeth, veiling the houses below her. She scowled down at the fog-muffled street and thought about dumping her dirty washwater down on the Deacons’ righteous heads; and that shocking idea made her feel a good deal better.
At least she wouldn’t have to start breakfast, for Prayer Mornings meant fasting. Her stomach rumbled in protest and she was at once ravenous. She pulled on her cloak and went down; maybe she could slip a little bread from the sculler.
But Kearb-Mattus was there before her, rummaging. He didn’t fast; he didn’t go to services. She went out again, feeling irritable.
In the street the banners hung limp and pale as if the fog had robbed them of their colors. The wet cobbles were slippery; and people, coming out of their houses, paused and stared at the cloistered morning in annoyance. Zephy shivered and pulled her cloak tighter. She glanced back to see Mama coming out behind her, joining the Cobbler’s wife. She went on ahead, not wanting to talk to Mama.