Zephy could smell the food Mama had brought. It nauseated her. She did not speak, or look at Mama, and Mama turned away at last. She must have paused, though; perhaps she turned back toward the cot. “Whatever you think of Kearb-Mattus,” she said evenly, “it was Kearb-Mattus who pulled you out of that. It was Kearb-Mattus who saved your life. For me, child. He did it for me. Not for the love of you.”
When Mama had gone, Zephy sat up in the darkness. She was sore with anguish and wanting Mama badly. But she would not call out to her.
She could not seem to sort anything out, could not come to grips with anything. Vaguely, she sensed that she was the only one left, that she must do what was necessary without Meatha, without the stone. And this was impossible. She stared at the black oblong window and wondered where the stone was. But it didn’t matter, it was over; the things that Anchorstar had told them, had shown them, they did not matter now.
The shock of her own thoughts stirred her at last. She knew the pain of Meatha’s death like a knife—and she knew there was no choice, that she must do as Meatha would have done. She rose, her hands shaking as she fastened her cloak against the night. Had Meatha dropped the stone in the street? She could not have kept it hidden, stripped of her clothes as she was. Had the Deacons taken it from her?
But Meatha would have flung it away somehow, she would not have let them know. Had she been able to cast it into the gutter? Zephy went to the window once more and leaned against the cold sill, waiting.
Much later Shanner came, looked at her strangely, flung himself into bed, and slept. He seemed like a stranger to her. When at last Burgdeeth’s lights were snuffed and the town was silent, she crept out and down the stairs and into the street, lifting the door to keep it from creaking. She kept to the shadows. Waytheer was caught square between the two moons. She thought it should give her courage, but it didn’t. She felt numb and mindless.
In front of Clytey’s house she knelt and began to search in the gutter. Her hands were immersed in cold dishwater, spit, little boys’ pee, animal dung, garbage. Her legs and tunic became splattered. Could the stone be here? Or would it be lying, still, among the cobbles even after that crowd?
When she finished the gutters on both sides she crossed and recrossed the rough cobbled street on her hands and knees. She was terribly exposed, alone on the moonlit street. She felt around the steps of each house and even searched hopefully in the bowls of grain that had been set out at each door for the Horses of Eresu, for luck on this night before Fire Scourge. Could Meatha have slipped the stone into one of the bowls before she was bound? All the doors had been decorated with tammi and otter-herb and the leaves of the painon, which gave off a wonderful scent, and with swords hanging point downward to show respect.
She searched futilely until first light, then crept back to her own sculler to scrub off the muck from the gutter. Then she stood watching the first rays of sun through the open window, listening disconsolately to the sounds of Burgdeeth stirring as people came out to begin the third morning of Harvest.
She knew the girls’ clothes had been burned at the last rites. Had the Landmaster found the runestone among them or perhaps at the bottom of the sacred fire, black among the ashes? If he had found it, had he any idea what it was?
And were there more Children to be gotten out of Burgdeeth than Meatha had guessed? Was Elodia Trayd too old for Kearb-Mattus to bother drugging, did he mean to kill Elodia as he must have meant to kill Meatha, at the time of attack? And me, too? Zephy wondered. Does he know about me? Or does he think it was only because I was Meatha’s friend that I tried to help her?
She went to harvest as she was expected to, sick and shaken. At midmorning she sought out Elodia in the fields, then Toca, and stood staring at each in turn, then went away again silently. Elodia had glanced up from her work, staring back for a moment with that steady gray-eyed gaze that made her seem so much older than a child of nine. But Toca, a rosy little boy, had only looked at Zephy and grinned and gone on snatching up bits of whitebarley behind the wake of his buxom mother.
Zephy did nothing more about the Children, on this harvest day or the next two. She could think of nothing else to do. Her mind seemed to be in limbo, resigned to the idea that she would fail, that she would be responsible for the deaths of the very children she was committed to save. By Fire Scourge night she felt so drained and uncertain of herself that she was constantly on the verge of tears. Mama, thinking she was grieving for Meatha, left her alone. Zephy could not have held up if Mama had put her arms around her, had asked her what was the matter. She thought of Anchorstar with the terrible knowledge that she would fail him, thought of Thorn with sick shame.
After supper on the eve of Fire Scourge, she dressed herself in her good tunic and her cloak and brushed her hair carefully, then went to join the procession to Temple. But her eyes were cast down in more than submission; and her heart scudded uncertainly as she followed along in the twilight, hastily making a plan.
THIRTEEN
One candle burned in the dark temple, in the center of the dais. When the first prayer began, the Landmaster’s voice rang out alone. Then candles were lit one by one, flame after flame leaping, and when a bank of candles burned across the dais, the Deacons’ voice rose. “Bless these our people, and bless this flame we raise to you. Bless this fire and bid it cleanse our lands. Lay your sanction upon your humble servants this holy night.” And the people answered in a quick staccato, “The fire, the sacred fire.” The Deacon’s voices raised an octave. “Bring upon our land the peace of resignation.” And the people answered, “Bless us, we are humble.” The flame burned higher. “Look upon our submission,” moaned the Deacons. Look down upon our reverence and bless this sacred flame. Oh Revered Ones, bless the ground this flame will sanctify.”
“The Fire, the sacred Fire.”
Zephy mouthed the prayers, but her mind was filled with a terrifying coldness. Would she be brave enough? She knew, as surely as the stone brought true vision, that tonight would come the attack. With all her strength she fought the very submission the Deacons were praying for.
What would happen if she failed? Or if the attack came too soon? There would be little time, there in the field as the fires were set. She had a wild, terrible urge to snatch the three Children out of Temple at once and make off with them. She sat with pounding heart, willing herself to be still.
She saw Elodia turn once and stare at her. Did the child sense something? Did she know? Was Elodia Trayd a Child of Ynell? Or was she only different? Brighter, rebellious, but without the sight?
“Bless our Master for he is holy. Bless our crops and our works. And keep our children from worldly affliction. Keep them from the Curse of Ynell. Pity us in our trials and sanctify us in our duties.”
“Bless us, we are humble.”
The sacred grain was poured into the chalice. The flame burst forth and was blessed. The Deacons’ voices rose in the litany, and in prayers to Waytheer, in special obligations and beguilings on this year of Waytheer.
“Bless us, we are humble. We kneel before Waytheer in humility.”
Then at last the Deacons’ hands raised in the final benediction. The grain was blackened now, but the flame still burned. The Landmaster took up torches and began to light them in the flame. The crowd rose, to file forward one by one and receive the burning torches. Zephy seized this moment to slip forward in line to just behind Toca Dreeb and his mother. The top of Toca’s head shone yellow in the light of the flame. The back of his childish neck looked tender, very sweet. She shivered for him; he was so small and vulnerable.