"Instead I cover you with my tears," he said, thinking all the while, She kissed me, she loves me, she's proud of me, she belongs beside me.
"Why don't you say what you're thinking?" she said.
"What makes you think you want to hear it?" he said, laughing in embarrassment.
"Because the way you looked at me, Didul, I knew that what you were thinking was, I love her, I want her beside me forever, I want her to be my wife, and Didul, I tell you honestly, I'm sick and tired of waiting for you to say it out loud."
"Why should I tell you what you already know?"
"Because I need to hear it."
So he told her. And when Shedemei called them back into the school, Luet had promised to be his wife, as soon as they could both get back to Darakemba, "Because," as Luet said, "Mother would kill us and steal all our children to raise herself if you had one of the priests marry us here." In vain did Didul point out that if Chebeya killed them they wouldn't have produced any grandchildren for her to steal. The wedding would wait. Still, knowing that she wanted him, that she knew him so well and yet wanted to be with him-that was all the comfort that he wanted. Miserable as this day was, he felt himself filled with light.
Shedemei led them to the comatose child. "He's sleeping now," she said. "The bones have been adequately set, except the compound break in the left humerus, which I reset and resplinted. There is no brain damage, though I think he might not remember anything about what happened-which would be nice, not to have those nightmares."
"No brain damage?" asked Didul, incredulous. "Did you see what they did to him? The skull was open, did you see that?"
"Nevertheless," said Shedemei.
"What did you do?" asked Luet. "Teach me."
Grim-faced, Shedemei shook her head. "I did nothing that you could do. I couldn't teach it to you because I can't give you the tools you'd need. That has to be enough. Don't ask me any more."
"Who are you?" asked Didul. And then an answer occurred to him. "Shedemei, are you the true child of the Keeper that Binaro talked about?"
She blushed. Didul had not thought her capable of such a human reaction. "No," she said, and then she laughed. "Definitely not! I'm strange, I know, but I'm not that."
"But you know the Keeper, right?" asked Luet. "You know-you know things that we don't know."
"I told you," said Shedemei. "I came here in search of the Keeper. I came here precisely because you are the ones with the true dreams, and I'm not. Is that clear? Will you believe me? There are things I know, yes, that I can't teach you because you aren't ready to understand them. But the things that matter most, you know better than me."
"Healing that boy's damaged brain," said Didul. "You can't tell me that doesn't matter."
"It matters to him. To you, to me. To his family. But in ten million years, Didul, will it matter then?"
" Nothing will matter then" said Didul, laughing.
"The Keeper will," said Shedemei. "The Keeper and all her works, she will matter. Ten million years from now, Didul, will the Keeper be alone on Earth again, as she was for so many, many years? Or will the Keeper tend an Earth that is covered with joyful people living in peace, doing the Keeper's works? Imagine what such a good people could do-diggers, humans, angels all together-and maybe others, too, brought home from other planets of exile-all together, building star-ships and taking the Keeper's word of peace back out to worlds uncountable. That's what the people who founded Harmony meant to do. But they tried to force it, tried to make people stop destroying each other. By making people stupid whenever they... ." Suddenly she seemed to realize she had said too much. "Never mind," she said. "What does the ancient planet matter to you?"
Luet and Didul both looked at her wordlessly as, to cover her embarrassment, she busied herself in gathering up the unused medicines and returning them to her sack. Then she rushed out of the school, murmuring about needing air.
"Do you know what I was thinking just then, Luet?" said Didul.
"You were wondering if she might not be Shedemei. The real one. The one Voozhum prays to. Maybe her prayers brought the One-Who-Was-Never-Buried to us."
Didul looked at her in shock. "Are you serious?"
"Wasn't that what you were thinking?"
"Do you think I'm crazy? I was thinking-she's you in twenty years. Strong and wise and capable, teaching everyone, helping everyone, loving everyone, but just a little embarrassed when the depth of her passion shows. I was thinking she was what you might turn out to be, with one difference, just one. You won't be lonely, Luet. I swear to you that twenty years from now, you will not be lonely the way Shedemei is. That's what I was thinking."
And now that they were alone in the school, except for one sleeping boy and two young angels who watched in fascination, Didul kissed her as she should have been kissed long before. There was nothing girlish about her as she kissed him back.
It was too big a jump, from helping out secretly at Rasaro's House to running it. The month she had spent learning medicine from Shedemei hadn't helped prepare her for running a school. Edhadeya knew from the start that "running" the school simply meant tending to the details that no one else felt responsible for. Checking that the doors were locked. Buying needed supplies that no one else noticed were running out. She certainly didn't need to tell any of the other teachers how to do their work.
She taught no students herself. Instead she went from class to class, learning what she could from each teacher, not only about the subjects they taught, but also about their methods. She soon learned that while her tutors had been knowledgeable enough, they had had no understanding about how to teach children. If she had started teaching right away, she would have taught as she had been taught; now, she would begin very differently, and whatever students she might someday have would be far happier because of it.
One duty she kept for herself and no others-she answered the door. Whatever the Unkept might try at this school, it would happen first to the daughter of the king. See then whether the civil guard looks the other way! Several times she answered the door to find unaccountable strangers with the lamest sort of excuse for being there; once there were several others gathered nearby. To her it was obvious that they had been hoping for an opportunity-one of the other teachers, perhaps, or, best of all, a little digger girl they could beat up or humiliate or terrify. They had been warned, though, about Edhadeya, and after a while they seemed to have given up.
Then one day she answered the door to find an older man standing there, one whose face she had once known, but couldn't place at once. Nor did he know her.
"I've come to see the master of the school," he said.
"I'm the acting master these days. If it's Shedemei you want, she should be back soon from the provinces."
He looked disappointed, but still he lingered, not looking at her. "I've come a long way."
"In better times, sir, I would invite you in and offer you water at least, a meal if you would have it. But these are hard times and I don't allow strangers in this school."
He nodded, looked down at the ground. As if he was ashamed. Yes. He was ashamed.
"You seem to feel some personal responsibility for the troubles," she said. "Forgive me if I'm presumptuous."
When he looked at her there were tears swimming in his old eyes under the fierce, bushy eyebrows. It did not make him look soft; if anything, it made him seem more dangerous. But not to her. No, she knew that now-he was not dangerous to her or anyone here. "Come in," she said.