The Thargian had done one good thing, though—he had unwittingly told Eleal a lot about the Filoby Testament. She would not be required to deliver any messy baby. A grown man was going to arrive—young and handsome, undoubtedly—either here or somewhere ... how? Nobody had said how he would arrive, she decided. And when the Liberator arrived, Eleal Singer was going to help him. Wash him and clothe him, T'lin had said that morning. She could do with a good wash again herself, to get rid of all the mud and perspiration. The flies had reappeared. Her smock was ripped and filthy. Her legs were so weary they would hardly hold her up.
She staggered and lurched through the thickets, stumbling over hidden blocks of stone. If she kept the sun on her right, she would come to the city.
What she would do when she arrived was another problem altogether. To return to the hostelry would be to put herself back in the hands of the despicable dragon trader and his Thargian overlord, but she had no money and no other friends. Gim would jump at the chance of going to the festival and would probably be gone before she returned anyway.
She must seek out some sympathetic peasant family to take her in and let her stay a while. She could wash dishes or something for them in return for her keep. Sew, maybe—she was handy with a needle. She would pretend to be a refugee from Filoby! My name is Antheala Battlemaster. My father is chief of the Jurgian army and loves me dearly. He plans to betroth me to one of the king's sons when I am a little older. Fearing that his enemies would strike at him by kidnapping me, he sent me to Iilah's convent for safekeeping. That had been two fortnights ago, she decided, so she had not had time to learn very much about the convent, in case she was asked. The green monks had arrived at dawn and there had been terrible shouting and raping and she had fled out into the dark and had walked all day until...
She stepped where there was no ground. Her short leg betrayed her, and she pitched forward through the shrubbery—smashed her shoulder into something—twisted her ankle—screamed—landed hard on her side—rolled—fell again—banged her head—slithered down a steep hill—pitched into a torrent of icy-cold water—was twirled around, thumped against a rock or two, and then wrapped around a submerged tree trunk. She flailed wildly, struggled against the deadly press of the current, and finally managed to get her head up. Spluttering and gasping, she could breathe again. She would freeze to death. How could water be so cold in this hot land? She shook her ears dry and was horrified by the roar of the stream. She must be very close to the edge of the canyon, and might even have been swept into a waterfall had she not caught on the tree.
Struggling back to the bank was fairly easy. Clambering up the long, steep slope was not. Near the precipice, the little brook had dug a canyon of its own, narrow and dark. Eventually she hauled herself up into the bushes and just lay there, sore and cold and shaking.
Tion! she thought, Tion, lord of art and youth, hear my prayer. I do not believe what those men said about you. I do not believe in that heretical Undivided god of T'lin's. Tion, save me!
After a while she concluded that her sufferings were not going to elicit a miracle. Perhaps Tion could not hear her prayer over the racket of the stream. Bigfangs had sharp hearing. The sun was close to setting. She tried to imagine climbing a tree to sleep in. She would surely fall out, and a tree would be a very uncomfortable bed anyway. Scrambling wearily to her feet, she set off along the edge of the little gorge again, limping through the prickles. The stream had stolen her sandals, but it would guide her back to Ruatvil. Thorns tugged at her smock and scraped her limbs.
In just a few moments there were no more trees ahead, only shrubs, with the sky above them. She had reached the town already! She could see the peaks of Susswall glowing pink, and off to the right, just rising clear of them, the green disk of Trumb. When Trumb rose shortly before sunset, he was due to eclipse. Reapers...
As she pushed her way out of the last of the bushes, her foot came down on nothing. Everything happened in a flash and yet seemed to take hours. She yelled in terror; she grabbed at a shrub; the ground crumbled away beneath her heel. She realized where she was—gazing at the sky, she had not been watching where she was going. She had climbed out of the stream on the far side, and followed it the wrong way. Her seat hit the ground and seemed to bounce her out into space. Her right hand had hold of something. The left joined it.
Her shoulders struck rock, skidded, and stopped. The one green cane she clutched so tight had bent double, like a rope, but not broken—yet. She dangled from it, a sharp edge digging into her back, her arms above her head, and her legs flailing in empty air. Hundreds of feet below her, muddy Susswater roiled in its canyon.
"Help!” she screamed. Then she just screamed. Off to her left, the stream emerged from its narrow gorge and sprayed out in a shiny cataract that faded away to the river below. It was much louder than she was.
There was no one around to hear her, anyway.
Her feet could find no purchase; nothing at all. The cane was liable to come out by the roots any minute, and her hands were crushed between it and the rock, so she could not even free them to try and pull herself back up.
Her hands were slipping on the sappy twig.
She tried to swing a leg up to the rock, but it wouldn't reach, and the bush made ominous cracking noises. She tried to turn over, and couldn't.
"Help! Oh, help! Tion!” Her cries were a croak: she could not breathe against the pressure on her back and her arms were about to pull out of their sockets.
I don't want to die! I don't want to fulfill any stupid prophecies! I am only twelve years old! I don't want to deliver babies or wash grown men or do any of those things! I don't want to be a holy whore for Ois. I don't want to be a Historic Personage. I don't want to be killed by a reaper! I just want to be Eleal Singer and a great actor and faithful to Tion and beautiful! I didn't ask for all this and I don't want it and it isn't fair! And I don't want to die!
Then strong fingers gripped her wrist and hauled her upward.
42
THE THARGIAN HAD MENTIONED A CAVEMAN.
Eleal had found him.
Where the stream neared the great canyon of Susswater, it had undercut its bank on one side, to make a hollow roofed with rock and paved with sand and fine gravel. Ferns masked the entrance, so no one would ever find it. Someone had planted those ferns. Someone had made the shelter deeper and fitted it out with a little hearth, a bed of boughs covered with a fur robe, a store of firewood, a few misshapen jars and baskets. Someone was living there.
He was sitting there now with his skinny legs crossed and a crazy leer on his face. His hair and beard were white, flowing out in all directions. He wore only a loincloth of dirty fur. His skin was dried leather. In the flickering light of the tiny fire, he looked more like a bird's nest than a man.
Eleal sat on the bed, bundled inside another robe, and gradually managing to stop shaking. She was even nibbling some of the roots and berries the hermit had brought her, just to please him. She just couldn't stop talking, though. She was telling him the whole story for at least the third time.
He was not speaking. He couldn't speak.
He did not look as scary now as he had when she first saw him, but perhaps she had just grown used to him. He had explained with signs, and by writing on sand, that his name was Porith Molecatcher. He had lived here for many years—he did not seem to know how many. She was the first visitor who had ever come to his cave. He was originally from Niolland, which was many vales away. He had been a priest of Visek until he had been convicted of blasphemy and his tongue had been cut out. At that point Eleal concluded he was fantasizing. Visek's temple at Niol was supposed to be the greatest in all the Vales and hence the greatest in the world. On the other hand, she could not recall any other crime for which tongues were punished.