"I'm not crying," Tiriki averred, raising a tearless face. "Only—can't I do anything for you, Kiha Domaris? I—you—it hurts you a lot, doesn't it?"
Under the child's great-eyed gaze, Domaris only said, quietly, "Yes, child."
"I wish I could have it instead of you!"
The impossible smile came then and flickered on the colorless mouth. "Anything rather than that, Tiriki darling. Now run away, my little one, and play."
"I'm not a baby, Kiha! Please, let me stay with you," Tiriki begged, and before the intense entreaty Domaris closed her eyes and lay silent for a space of minutes.
I will not betray pain before this child! Domaris told herself—but a drop of moisture stood out on her lower lip.
Tiriki sat down on the edge of the couch. Domaris, ready to warn her away—for she could not bear the lightest touch, and sometimes, when one of the slave-women accidentally jarred her bed, would cry out in unbearable torture—realized with amazement that Tiriki's movements had been so delicate that there was not the slightest hurt, even when the girl bent and twined her arms around Domaris's neck.
Why, Domaris thought, she's like a little kitten, she could walk across my body and I would feel no hurt! At least she's inherited something good from Riveda!
For weeks now, Domaris had borne no touch except her sister's, and even Deoris's trained hands had been unable to avoid inflicting torment at times; but now Tiriki ... The child's small body fitted snugly and easily into the narrow space at the edge of the couch, and she knelt there with her arms around her foster-mother for so many minutes that Domaris was dumbfounded.
"Tiriki," she rebuked at last—reluctantly, for the child's presence was curiously comforting—"you must not tire yourself." Tiriki only gave her an oddly protective, mature smile, and held Domaris closer still. And suddenly Domaris wondered if she were imagining it—no, it was true the pain was gradually lessening and a sort of strength was surging through her worn body. For a moment the blessedness of relief was all Domaris could understand, and she relaxed, with a long sigh. Then the relief disappeared in sudden amazement and apprehension.
"Are you better now, Kiha?"
"Yes," Domaris told her, resolving to say nothing. It was absurd to believe that a child of thirteen could do what only the highest Adepts could do after lengthy discipline and training! It had been but a fancy of her weakness, no more. Some remnant of caution told her that if it were true, then Tiriki, for her own safety, must be kept away ... But keeping Tiriki away was easier to resolve than to do.
In the days that followed, though Tiriki spent much time with Domaris, taking a part of the burden from the exhausted Deoris, Domaris maintained a severe control over herself. No word or movement should betray her to this small woman-child.
Ridiculous, she thought angrily, that I must guard myself against a thirteen-year-old!
One day, Tiriki had curled up like a cat beside her. Domaris permitted this, for the child's closeness was comforting, and Tiriki, who had been a restless child, never fidgeted or stirred. Domaris knew she was learning patience and an uncanny gentleness, but she did not want the girl to overtax herself, so she said, "You're like a little mouse, Tiriki. Aren't you tired of staying with me?"
"No. Please don't send me away, Kiha Domaris!"
"I won't dare, but promise me you will not tire yourself!"
Tiriki promised, and Domaris touched the flaxen hair with a white finger and lay still, sighing. Tiriki's great grey cat's eyes brooded dreamily ... What can the child be thinking about? What a little witch she is! And that curious—healing instinct. Both Deoris and Riveda had had something like that, she remembered, I should have expected as much ... But Domaris could not follow the train of thought for long. Pain was too much a part of her now; she could not remember what it was like to be free of it.
Tiriki, her small pointed face showing, faintly, the signs of exhaustion, came out of her reverie and watched, helpless and miserable; then, in a sudden surge of protectiveness she flung her arms lightly around Domaris and pressed gently to her. And this time it was not a fancy: Domaris felt the sudden quick flow of vitality, the rapid surging ebb of the waves of pain. It was done unskillfully, so that Domaris felt dizzy and light-headed with the sudden strength that filled her.
The moment she was able, she sharply pushed Tiriki away. "My dear," she said in wonder, "you mustn't ..." She broke off, realizing that the girl was not listening. Drawing a long breath, Domaris raised herself painfully up on one elbow. "Eilantha!" she commanded shortly. "I am serious! You must never do that again! I forbid it! If you try—I will send you away from me altogether!"
Tiriki sat up. Her thin face was flushed and a queer little line was tight across her brow. "Kiha," she started, persuasively.
"Listen, precious," Domaris said, more gently, as she lay herself on her pillow again, "believe me, I'm grateful. Someday you will understand why I cannot let you—rob yourself this way. I don't know how you did it—that is a God-given power, my darling ... but not like this! And not for me!"
"But—but it's only for you, Kiha! Because I love you!"
"But—little girl—" Domaris, at a loss for words, lay still, looking up into the quiet eyes. After a long moment, the child's dreamy face darkened again.
"Kiha," Tiriki whispered, with strange intentness, "when—where—where and when was it? You said—you told me ..." She stopped, her eyes concentrated in an aching search of the woman's face, her brows knitted in a terrible intensity. "Oh, Kiha, why is it so hard to remember?"
"Remember what, Tiriki?"
The girl closed her eyes. "It was you—you said to me—" The great eyes opened, haunted, and Tiriki whispered, "Sister—and more than sister—here we two, women and sisters—pledge thee, Mother—where we stand in darkness." Her voice thickened, and she sobbed.
Domaris gasped. "You don't remember, you can't! Eilantha, you cannot, you have been spying, listening, you could not ..."
Tiriki said passionately, "No, no, it was you, Kiha! It was! I remember, but it's like—a dream, like dreaming about a dream."
"Tiriki, my baby-girl—you are talking like a mad child, you are talking about something which happened before ..."
"It did happen, then! It did! Do you want me to tell you the rest?" Tiriki stormed. "Why won't you believe me?"
"But it was before you were born!" Domaris gasped. "How can this be?"
White-faced, her eyes burning, Tiriki repeated the words of the ritual without stumbling—but she had spoken only a few lines when Domaris, pale as Death, checked her. "No, no Eilantha! Stop! You mustn't repeat those words! Not ever, ever—until you know what they mean! What they imply ..." She held out exhausted, wasted arms. "Promise me!"
Tiriki subsided in stormy sobs against her foster-mother's breast; but at last muttered her promise.
"Some day—and if I cannot, Deoris will tell you about it. One day—you were made Devotee, dedicated to Caratra before your birth, and one day ..."
"You had better let me tell her now," said Deoris quietly from the doorway. "Forgive me, Domaris; I could not help but hear."
But Tiriki leaped up, raging. "You! You had to come—to listen, to spy on me! You can never let me have a moment alone with Kiha Domaris, you are jealous because I can help her and you cannot! I hate you! I hate you, Deoris!" She was sobbing furiously, and Deoris stood, stricken, for Domaris had beckoned Tiriki to her and her daughter was crying helplessly in her sister's arms, her face hidden on Domaris's shoulder as the woman held her with anxious, oblivious tenderness. Deoris bent her head and turned to go, without a word, when Domaris spoke.