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distances, and Deoris, wandering in the vague silences again, could not understand a word. At last he
turned abruptly and went to the reed-basket, bending, lifting the baby in his arms. Deoris, still gripped by
the static fingers of nightmare, watched as he wandered about the room, the child on his shoulder; then he
approached again, and from the pallet where Deoris was lying he lifted a long loose blue shawl, woven
and fringed deeply with knots the garment of a Priestess of Caratra. In this he carefully wrapped the
baby, and, carrying her clumsily in his hands, he went away.
The closing of the door jarred Deoris wholly awake, and she gasped; the room was lurid with the dying
sunlight, but altogether empty of any living soul except herself. There was no sound or motion anywhere
save the pounding of the waves and the crying of the wheeling gulls.
She lay still for a long time, while fever crawled in her veins and throbbed in her scarred breasts like a
pulsing fire. The sun set in a bath of flames, and the darkness descended, folding thick wings of silence
around her heart. After hours and hours, Elis (or was it Domaris?) came with a light, and Deoris gasped
out her dream but it sounded delirious even to her own ears, all gibberish and wild entreaties. And then
there were eternities where Domaris (or Elis) bent over her, repeating endlessly, "Because you trust
me . . . you do trust me . . . do this because you trust me . . ." There was the nightmare pain in her
broken arm, and fever burning through her veins, and the dream came again and again and never once,
except in her unquiet slumber, did she hear the crying of the small and monkey-like child who was
Riveda's daughter.
She came fully to her senses one morning, finding herself in her old rooms in the Temple. The feverish
madness was gone, and did not return.
Elis tended her night and day, as gently as Domaris might have; it was Elis who told her that Talkannon
was dead, that Karahama was dead, that Domaris had sailed away weeks before for Atlantis, and that
the chela had disappeared, no one knew where; and Elis told her, gently, that Riveda's child had died the
same night it was born.
Whenever Deoris fell asleep she dreamed and always the same dream: the dark hut where her child
had been born, and she had been dragged unwillingly back from death by the chela, whose face was
bloodied by the red sunlight as he carried away her child, wrapped in the bloodstained fragments of
Karahama's priestly robes . . . And so she came at last to believe that it had never happened. Everyone
was very kind to her, as to a child orphaned, and for many years she did not even speak her sister's
name.
BOOK FIVE
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Tiriki
"When the Universe was first created out of nothing, it at once fell apart for lack of cohesion. Like
thousands of tiny tiles that have no apparent meaning or purpose, all the pieces are identical in shape and
size, though they may differ in color and pattern; and we have no picture of the intended mosaic to guide
us. No one can know for sure what it will look like, until the last tile is finally fitted into place . . . There
are three tools for the task: complete non-interference; active control over each and every movement;
and interchange of powers until a satisfactory balance is achieved. None of these methods can succeed,
however, without consent of the other two; this we must accept as a fundamental principle else we
have no explanation for what has already transpired.
"The problem is, as yet, unsolved; but we proceed, in waves. An advance in general knowledge is
followed by a setback, in which many things are lost only to be regained and excelled in the next wave
of advancement. For the difference between that mosaic and the Universe is that no mosaic can ever
become anything more than a picture in which motion has ended a picture of Death. We do not build
toward a time when everything stands still, but toward a time when everything is in a state of motion
pleasing to all concerned rock, plant, fish, bird, animal and man.
"It has never been, and never will be, easy work. But the road that is built in hope is more pleasant to the
traveler than the road built in despair, even though they both lead to the same destination."
fromThe Teachings of Micon of Ahtarrath,
as taken down by Rajasta the Mage
Chapter One
THE EXILE
It was deep dusk, and the breeze in the harbor was stiffening into a western wind that made the furled
sails flap softly and the ship rise and fall to the gentle rhythm of the waves. Domaris stared toward the
darkening shores, her body motionless, her white robes a spot of luminescence in the heavy shadows.
The captain bowed deeply in reverence before the Initiate. "My Lady "
Domaris raised her eyes. "Yes?"
"We are about to leave the port. May I conduct you to your cabin? Otherwise, the motion of the ship
may make you ill."
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"I would rather stay on deck, thank you."
Again the captain bowed, and withdrew, leaving them alone again.
"I too must leave you, Isarma," said Rajasta, and stepped toward the rail. "You have your letters and
your credentials. You have been provided for. I wish . . ." He broke off, frowning heavily. At last, he said
only, "All will be well, my daughter. Be at peace."
She bent to kiss his hand reverently.
Stooping, Rajasta clasped her in his arms. "The Gods watch over thee, daughter," he said huskily, and
kissed her on the brow.
"Oh, Rajasta, I can't!" Domaris sobbed. "I can't bear it! Micail my baby! And Deoris . . ."
"Hush!" said Rajasta sternly, loosing her pleading, agonized hands; but he softened almost at once, and
said, "I am sorry, daughter. There is nothing to be done. Youmust bear it. And know this: my love and
blessings follow you, beloved now and always." Raising his hand, the Guardian traced an archaic Sign.
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