Harruel told himself it would be wise to keep closer watch on Salaman. He could be very valuable. He could also be a problem.
Konya said, “We can see the rock lying in the mud. Why can’t we see the death-star still there in front of us? There’s nothing in the center of this thing but greenery.”
“It’s been many years,” said Salaman. “Perhaps the death-star disappeared long ago.”
“While the crater itself remained?”
Shrugging, Salaman said, “Death-stars might have been made of some material that doesn’t last long. They could have been huge balls of ice, perhaps. Or solid masses of fire. How would I know? Hresh might know such a thing, but not I. All I tell you is that I think that is how the bowl in front of us was formed. You may agree with me or not, as you wish, Konya.”
They went closer. When they were near the rim Harruel saw that it was not a tenth as sharply outlined as it had seemed from above. It was worn and rounded, and barely apparent in some places. From the ridge it had stood out because of its contrast to the meadow around it, but down here he could see how the storms of time had smoothed and eroded it. That gave Harruel all the more respect for Salaman’s theory, and for Salaman.
Konya said, “If a death-star really did land here, we should not enter.”
Harruel, standing on the rim looking down into the dense shrubbery beyond, where he could already see plump animals moving about, glanced back at him.
“Why not?”
“It is a place cursed by the gods. It is a place of death.”
“It looks pretty lively to me,” said Harruel.
“The death-stars were sent as a sign of the anger of the gods. Should we go near the place where one lies buried? The breath of the gods is on this place. There is fire here. There is doom here.”
Harruel considered that a moment.
“Let’s go around it,” Konya said.
“No,” said Harruel finally. “This is a place of life. Whatever anger the gods may have had, it was intended for the Great World, not for us. Else why would the gods have seen us through the Long Winter? The gods meant to take the world from those who used to live upon it and give it to us. If a death-star struck here, this is a holy place.”
He was impressed with his own cunning reasoning, and his surprising burst of eloquence, which had made his head throb from the effort. And he knew that he could not let Konya’s caution rule him here. The thing to do was to go forward, always to go forward. That was what kings did.
Konya said, “Harruel, I still think we should—”
“No!” cried Harruel. He scrambled up the side of the crater’s rim and over the edge, down into the green basin below. The animals that were grazing there gazed calmly at him, unafraid. Possibly they had never seen human beings before, or enemies of any kind. This was a sheltered place. “Follow me!” Harruel called. “There’s meat for the taking here!” And he plunged forward, with all the rest, even Konya, losing no time in coming after him.
There was rage burning in Koshmar’s breast all the time now; but she kept it hidden, for the tribe’s sake, and Torlyri’s, and her own.
There was no hour when she did not relive the Day of the Breaking Apart. It obsessed her by day and it came back to haunt her by night. “The rule of women is over,” she heard Harruel saying, again and again. “From this day forth I am king.” King! Nonsensical word! Man-chieftain! Man-chieftains were for creatures like the Bengs, not for the People! “Who will come with me?” Harruel asked. His harsh voice echoed and echoed and echoed within her. “This city is a sickness, and we must leave it! Who will join me in founding a great kingdom far from here? Who will go with Harruel? Who? Who?”
Konya. Salaman. Bruikkos. Nittin. Lakkamai.
“Who will go with Harruel? Who? Who? Be chieftain all you like, Koshmar. The city is yours. I will go from it and cease to trouble you any longer.”
Minbain. Galihine. Weiawala. Thaloin. Nettin.
One by one going to Harruel’s side, while she stood like a woman of stone, letting them go, knowing there was nothing she could do to stop them.
The names of those who had gone were a burning rebuke to her. She had thought of asking Hresh not to enter them, or any of this, in the chronicles. And then she had realized that it must be entered, all of it, the splitting of the tribe, the defeat of the chieftain. For that was what it was, a defeat, the worst defeat any chieftain of the tribe had ever suffered. The chronicles must not be only a record of triumph. Koshmar told herself sternly that they must hold the truth, the totality of the truth, if they were to have any value for those who will read them in ages yet unborn.
One adult out of every six had chosen to turn away from her rule. Now the tribe was strangely and sadly shrunken, some of its boldest warriors gone, and promising young women, and two babes, the hope of the future. Hope? What hope could there be now? “The city is yours,” Harruel had said, but then he had gone on to say, “Or rather, it belongs to the Helmet People, now.” Yes. That was the truth. They swarmed in Vengiboneeza. They were everywhere. It was truly their city now. When they encountered members of the People in some outlying district there were angry glares, sometimes, and harsh words, as though the Bengs resented such an intrusion on their domain. Only occasionally now did Hresh and his Seekers go out to roam the ruins in search of the treasures of the Great World, though Hresh still seemed to go fairly often into the Beng sector for his meetings with their old man. That relationship appeared to have an existence of its own, wholly outside the tensions that were building up between the two peoples. But otherwise the tribe had pulled back, staying close to its settlement, licking the wounds that the Day of the Breaking Apart had inflicted.
Koshmar wondered now and then whether the thing to do was to get out of Vengiboneeza altogether, to return to the open country and begin all over again. But whenever the thought arose in her she choked it back. In this city they were supposed to find their destiny: that was what the Book of the Way said. And what kind of destiny was it to go slinking away like beasts, relinquishing the city to another tribe? The People had come here for a purpose, and that purpose was not yet fulfilled. Therefore we must stay, Koshmar thought.
If ever I see Harruel again, she told herself, I will kill him with my own hands. Whether he is awake or asleep when I find him, I will kill him.
“Are you in pain?” Torlyri asked her one afternoon.
“Pain? What pain?”
“You had the side of your mouth pulled in in a strange way. As though something was hurting you, and you were struggling with it.”
Koshmar laughed. “A piece of food, stuck between my teeth. Nothing more than that, Torlyri.”
She allowed no one to see the torment within her. She went about the settlement with her head held high and her shoulders squared, as though nothing had happened. When she twined with Torlyri — and they twined often now, for Torlyri had been badly hurt by the defection of Lakkamai, and was in great need of Koshmar’s love and support — she worked hard to conceal the troubles of her spirit. When she went among tribesfolk, she radiated cheer, optimism, goodwill. She had to. They were all shaken by the Breaking Apart and by the coming of the Helmet People. A delayed reaction had set in, and it affected almost everyone. These people who throughout all their time in the cocoon had been the only people in their world now had strangers virtually in their midst, and that was not easy to swallow. They felt the pressure of the Helmet People’s souls nearby, pushing against their own spirits like the close, dense air that weighs heavy before a summer storm. And the loss of the Eleven — the ripping apart of the fabric of the tribe, the breaking of friendships and family ties that had endured all their lives, the sheer impact of change on such a scale — oh, that was hard too, that was very hard.