and unable to. I sat in dumb wonder. I tried to believe that they were consoling each other for losing Yaven, but I knew it wasn't that. It wasn't grief I saw, or love. It was fear.
And when Sotur's eyes met mine, over my sister's head, there was a fierce indignation in her look, which softened gradually. Whatever enemy she had been seeing in me, she saw me again at last.
She said, "Oh, Gavir! If you could get Everra to ask for Sallo to help him teach the little ones—some-thing—anything to get her out of the silk rooms! I know, you can't, he can't ... I know! I asked for her as my maid. I asked the Mother—for my nameday present—just while Yaven is away—may I have Sallo? And she said no, it was not possible. I have never asked for anything. Oh, Sallo, Sallo—you must get sick! You must starve again! Get thin and ugly, like me!"
I didn't understand.
Sotur couldn't comprehend my incomprehension. Sallo did. She kissed Sotur's cheek and turned to me and hugged me, saying, "Don't worry, Gav. It'll be all right, you'll see!"
And she went off, back to the chambers of the wellborn and the silk rooms, and I went back to the slave barrack, puzzled and worried, but always coming back to the belief, the sure belief, that the Father and Mother and Ancestors of our House would not let anything go really wrong.
PART TWO
7
I am lying in the dark in a strange, strong-smelling bed. Not far above my face is a ceiling, a low vault of raw black rock. Beside me lies something warm, pressing heavily against my leg. It raises its head, a long, grey head, grim black lips, dark eyes that gaze across me: a dog, a wolf? I remembered this many times, remembered waking up with the dog or wolf pressed close beside me, lying among rank-smelling furs in the dark place with a rock ceiling, a cave it must be. I remember it now. I am lying there now. The dog gives a whining groan and gets up, steps over me. Someone speaks to it, then comes and crouches beside me and speaks to me, but I don't understand what he says. I don't know who he is, who I am. I can't lift my head. I can't lift my hand. I am weak, empty, nothing. I remember nothing.
I will tell you what happened in the order it happened, as historians do, but there is deep untruth in doing so. I did not live my life as history is written. My mind used to leap ahead, remembering what had not yet come to pass; now, what was past was lost to me. What I tell you now, it took me a long time to find again. Memory hid from me and buried itself in darkness, as I lay buried in that dark place, that cave.
It was early in the morning, in the first warmth of spring. The open inner courtyards of Arcamand were cheerful in the sunlight.
"Where's Sallo? Oh, Sallo and Ris both went off with Torm-dí, Gav."
"With Torm-dí?"
"Yes. He took them off to the Hot Wells. Last night, pretty late."
Falli was talking to me. Falli was the gate guard to the silk rooms. She sat in the western court with her spinning, a heavy, slow-spoken woman who had long ago been one of the Father's gift-girls. She made a reverence whenever she spoke of the Father or the Mother or any of the Family or any other wellborn family. She worshipped them as gods. People used to laugh at her for it—"Falli thinks they're already Ancestors," Iemmer said. Falli was a foolish woman. What foolish thing had she just said, bobbing her head when she said "Torm-dí"—that Torm had taken Ris and my sister to the Hot Wells?
The Hot Wells belonged to Corric Runda, son of the Senator Granoc Runda, the wealthiest and most powerful man in the government of Etra. Corric had wanted to marry our Astano, and failed, but seemingly he held no grudge; lately he'd become Torm's friend or patron. Torm was always with him and his circle of young, rich men. Young, rich men could live the high life, now that Etra was free and prosperous again—endless feasts, women, drinking parties that ended up as riots in the city streets ... A strange friendship for Torm, it seemed to some of us, with his stiff grim ways and his warrior's training, but Corric had taken