The Other Wind by Ursula K. Le Guin
Tenar shook her head.
“Well, that’s why I got scared, you see, because it can be a human sacrifice. If things weren’t going well, they’d sacrifice a king’s daughter. Otherwise it would just be some ordinary girl. But they haven’t done even that for a long time. Not since I was little. Since my father defeated all the other kings. Since then, they’ve only sacrificed a she-goat and a ewe. And they catch the blood in bowls, and throw the fat into the sacred fire, and call to the dragons. And the dragons all come crawling up. They drink the blood and eat the fire.” She shut her eyes for a moment; so did Tenar. “Then they go back up into the mountains, and we go back to Mesreth.”
“How big are the dragons?”
Seserakh put her hands about a yard apart. “Sometimes bigger,” she said.
“And they can’t fly? Or speak?”
“Oh, no. Their wings are just little stubs. They make a kind of hissing. Animals can’t talk. But they’re sacred animals. They’re the sign of life, because fire is life, and they eat fire and spit out fire. And they’re sacred because they come to the spring sacrifice. Even if no people came, the dragons would come and gather at that place. We come there because the dragons do. The priests always tell all about that before the sacrifice.”
Tenar absorbed this for a while. “The dragons here in the west,” she said, “are large. Huge. And they can fly. They’re animals, but they can speak. And they are sacred. And dangerous.”
“Well,” the princess said, “dragons may be animals, but they’re more like us than the accursed-sorcerers are.”
She said “accursed-sorcerers” all as one word and without any particular emphasis. Tenar remembered that phrase from her childhood. It meant the Dark Folk, the Hardic people of the Archipelago.
“Why is that?”
“Because the dragons are reborn! Like all the animals. Like us.” Seserakh looked at Tenar with frank curiosity. “I thought since you were a priestess at the Most Sacred Place of the Tombs you’d know a lot more about all that than I do.”
“But we had no dragons there,” Tenar said. “I didn’t learn anything about them at all. Please, my friend, tell me.”
“Well, let me see if I can tell the story about it. It’s a winter story. I guess it’s all right to tell it in summer here. Everything here is all wrong anyway.” She sighed. “Well, in the beginning, you know, in the first time, we were all the same, all the people and the animals, we did the same things. And then we learned how to die. And so we learned how to be reborn. Maybe as one kind of being, maybe another. But it doesn’t matter so much because anyhow you’ll die again and get reborn again and get to be everything sooner or later.”
Tenar nodded. So far, the story was familiar to her.
“But the best things to get reborn as are people and dragons, because those are the sacred beings. So you try not to break the taboos, and you try to observe the Precepts, so you have a better chance to be a person again, or anyhow a dragon… If dragons here can talk and are so big, I can see why that would be a reward. Being one of ours never seemed like much to look forward to.
“But the story is about the accursed-sorcerers discovering the Vedurnan. That was a thing, I don’t know what it was, that told some people that if they’d agree never to die and never be reborn, they could learn how to do sorcery. So they chose that, they chose the Vedurnan. And they went off into the west with it. And it turned them dark. And they live here. All these people here—they’re the ones who chose the Vedurnan. They live, and they can do their accursed sorceries, but they can’t die. Only their bodies die. The rest of them stays in a dark place and never gets reborn. And they look like birds. But they can’t fly.”
“Yes,” Tenar whispered.
“You didn’t learn about that on Aruan?”
“No,” Tenar said.
Her mind was recalling the story the Woman of Kemay told Ogion: in the beginning of time, mankind and the dragons had been one, but the dragons chose wildness and freedom, and mankind chose wealth and power. A choice, a separation. Was it the same story?
But the image in Tenar’s heart was of Ged squatting in a stone room, his head small, black, beaked…
“The Vedurnan isn’t that ring, is it, that they kept talking about, that I’m going to have to wear?”
Tenar tried to force her mind away from the Painted Room and from last night’s dream to Seserakh’s question.
“Ring?”
“Urthakby’s ring.”
“Erreth-Akbe. No. That ring is the Ring of Peace. And you’ll wear it only if and when you’re King Lebannen’s queen. And you’ll be a lucky woman to be that.”
Seserakh’s expression was curious. It was not sullen or cynical. It was hopeless, half humorous, patient, the expression of a woman decades older. “There is no luck about it, dear friend Tenar,” she said. “I have to marry him. And so I will be lost.”
“Why are you lost if you marry him?”
“If I marry him I have to give him my name. If he speaks my name, he steals my soul. That’s what the accursed-sorcerers do. So they always hide their names. But if he steals my soul, I won’t be able to die. I’ll have to live forever without my body, a bird that can’t fly, and never be reborn.”
“That’s why you hid your name?”
“I gave it to you, my friend.”
“I honor the gift, my friend,” Tenar said energetically. “But you can say your name to anybody you want, here. They can’t steal your soul with it. Believe me, Seserakh. And you can trust him. He doesn’t—he won’t do you any harm.”
The girl had caught her hesitation. “But he wishes he could,” she said. “Tenar my friend, I know what I am, here.
In that big city Awabath where my father is, I was a stupid ignorant desert woman. Afeyagat. The city women sniggered and poked each other whenever they saw me, the barefaced whores. And here it’s worse. I can’t understand anybody and they can’t understand me, and everything, everything is different! I don’t even know what the food is, it’s sorcerer food, it makes me dizzy. I don’t know what the taboos are, there aren’t any priests to ask, only sorcerer women, all black and barefaced. And I saw the way he looked at me. You can see out of the feyag, you know! I saw his face. He’s very handsome, he looks like a warrior, but he’s a black sorcerer and he hates me. Don’t say he doesn’t, because I know he does. And I think when he learns my name he’ll send my soul to that place forever.”
After a while, gazing into the moving branches of the willows over the softly moving water, feeling sad and weary, Tenar said, “What you need to do, then, princess, is learn how to make him like you. What else can you do?” Seserakh shrugged mournfully. “It would help if you understood what he said.”
“Bagabba-bagabba. They all sound like that.”
“And we sound like that to them. Come on, princess, how can he like you if all you can say to him is bagabba-bagabba? Look,” and she held up her hand, pointed to it with the other, and said the word first in Kargish, then in Hardic.
Seserakh repeated both words in a dutiful tone. After a few more body parts she suddenly grasped the potentialities of translation. She sat up straighter. “How do sorcerers say ‘king’?”
“Agni. It’s a word of the Old Speech. My husband told me that.”
She realised as she spoke that it was foolish to bring up the existence of yet a third language at this point; but that was not what caught the princess’s attention.
“You have a husband?” Seserakh stared at her with luminous, leonine eyes, and laughed aloud. “Oh, how wonderful! I thought you were a priestess! Oh please, my friend, tell me about him! Is he a warrior? Is he handsome? Do you love him?”
After the king went dragon hunting, Alder had no idea what to do; he felt utterly useless, unjustified in staying in the palace eating the king’s food, guilty for the trouble he had brought with him. He could not sit all day in his room, so he went out into the streets, but the splendor and activity of the city were daunting
On the third day after the king’s departure he went down to walk among the garden pools. The day had been very hot; the evening was still and sultry. He brought Tug with him and let the little cat loose to stalk insects under the bushes, while he sat on a bench near the big willow and watched the silver-green glimmer of fat carp in the water. He felt lonely and discouraged; he felt his defense against the voices and the reaching hands was breaking down. What was the good of being here, after all? Why not go into the dream once and for all, go down that hill, be done with it? Nobody in the world would grieve for him, and his death would spare them this sickness he had brought with him. Surely they had enough to do fighting dragons. Maybe if he went there he would see Lily.
If he was dead they could not touch each other. The wizards said they would not even want to. They said the dead forgot what it was to be alive. But Lily had reached to him. At first, for a little while, maybe they would remember life long enough to look at each other, to see each other, even if they did not touch.
“Alder.”
He looked up slowly at the woman who stood near him. The small grey woman, Tenar. He saw the concern in her face, but did not know why she was troubled. Then he remembered that her daughter, the burned girl, had gone with the king. Maybe there had been bad news. Maybe they were all dead.
“Are you ill, Alder?” she asked.
He shook his head. It was hard to talk. He understood now how easy it would be, in that other land, not to speak. Not to meet people’s eyes. Not to be troubled.
She sat down on the bench beside him. “You look troubled,” she said.
He made a vague gesture—it’s all right, it’s no matter.
“You were on Gont. With my husband Sparrowhawk. How was he? Was he looking after himself?”
“Yes,” Alder said. He tried to answer more adequately. “He was the kindest of hosts.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “I worry about him. He keeps house as well as I do, but still, I didn’t like leaving him alone… Please, would you tell me what he was doing while you were there?”
He told her that Sparrowhawk had picked the plums and taken them to sell, that the two of them had mended the fence, that Sparrowhawk had helped him sleep.
She listened intently, seriously, as if these small matters were as weighty as the strange events they had talked about here three days ago—the dead calling to a living man, a girl becoming a dragon, dragons setting fire to the islands of the west.
Indeed he did not know what weighed more heavily after all, the great strange things or the small common ones.
“I wish I could go home,” the woman said.
“I could wish the same thing, but it would be in vain. I think I’ll never go home again.” He did not know why he said it, but heard himself say it and thought it was true.
She looked at him a minute with her quiet grey eyes and asked no question.
“I could wish my daughter would go home with me,” she said, “but it would be in vain, too. I know she must go on. I don’t know where.”
“Will you tell me what gift it is that she has, what woman she is, that the king sent for her, and took her with him to meet the dragons?”
“Oh, if I knew what she is, I’d tell you,” Tenar said, her voice full of grief and love and bitterness. “She’s not my daughter born, as you may have guessed or known. She came to me a little child, saved from the fire, but only barely and not wholly saved… When Sparrowhawk came back to me she became his daughter too. And she kept both him and me from a cruel death, by summoning a dragon, Kalessin, called Eldest. And that dragon called her daughter. So she’s the child of many and none, spared no pain yet spared from the fire. Who she is in truth I may never know. But I wish she were here now, safe with me!”
He wanted to reassure her, but his own heart was too low.
“Tell me a little more about your wife, Alder,” she said.
“I cannot,” he said at last into the silence that lay easily between them. “I would if I could, Lady Tenar. There’s such a heaviness in me, and a dread and fear, tonight. I try to think of Lily, but there’s only that dark desert going down and down, and I can’t see her in it. All the memories I had of her, that were like water and breath to me, have gone into that dry place. I have nothing left.”
“I am sorry,” she whispered, and they sat again in silence. The dusk was deepening. It was windless, very warm. Lights in the palace shone through the carved window screens and the still, hanging foliage of the willows.
“Something is happening,” Tenar said. “A great change in the world. Maybe nothing we knew will be left to us.”
Alder looked up into the darkening sky. The towers of the palace stood clear against it, their pale marble and alabaster catching all the light left in the west. His eyes sought the sword blade mounted at the point of the highest tower and he saw it, faint silver. “Look,” he said. At the sword’s point, like a diamond or a drop of water, shone a star. As they watched the star moved free of the sword, rising straight above it.
There was a commotion, in the palace or outside the walls; voices; a horn sounded, a sharp imperative call.
“They’ve come back,” Tenar said, and stood up. Excitement had come into the air, and Alder too stood up. Tenar hurried into the palace, from which the harbor could be seen. But before he took Tug back inside, Alder looked up again at the sword, now only a faint glimmer, and the star riding bright above it.
dolphin came sailing up the harbor in that windless summer night, leaning forward, urgent, the magewind bellying out her sails. Nobody in the palace had looked for the king to return so soon, but nothing was out of order or unready when he came. The quay was instantly crowded with courtiers, off-duty soldiers, and townspeople ready to greet him, and song makers and harpers were waiting to hear how he had fought and defeated dragons so they could make ballads about it.
They were disappointed: the king and his party made straight for the palace, and the guards and sailors from the ship said only, “They went up into the country above On-neva Sands, and in two days they came back. The wizard sent out a message bird to us, for we were down at the Gates of the Bay by then, since we were going to meet them in South Port. We came back and there they were awaiting us at the river mouth, all unharmed. But we saw the smoke of forests afire over the South Falierns.”
Tenar was in the crowd on the quay, and Tehanu went straight to her. They embraced fiercely. But as they walked up the street among the lights and the rejoicing voices, Tenar was still thinking, “It has changed. She has changed. She’ll never come home.”
Lebannen walked among his guards. Charged with tension and energy, he was regal, warlike, radiant. “Erreth-Akbe,” people called out, seeing him, and “Son of Morred!” On the steps of the palace he turned and faced them all. He had a strong voice to use when he wanted it, and it rang out now silencing the tumult. “Listen, people of Havnor! The Woman of Gont has spoken for us with a chief among the dragons. They have pledged a truce. One of them will come to us. A dragon will come here, to the City of Havnor, to the Palace of Maharion. Not to destroy, but to parley. The time has come when men and dragons must meet and talk. So I tell you: when the dragon comes, do not fear it, do not fight it, do not flee it, but welcome it in the Sign of Peace. Greet it as you would greet a great lord come in peace from afar. And have no fear. For we are well protected by the Sword of Erreth-Akbe, by the Ring of Elfarran, and by the Name of Morred. And by my own name I promise you, so long as I live I will defend this city and this realm!”
They listened in a breathless
He ordered that his full Council meet in the morning at the fourth hour, and then they all dispersed, but he kept Tenar with him a minute while Tehanu went on. “It’s she who protects us,” he said.
“Alone?”
“Don’t fear for her. She is the dragon’s daughter, the dragon’s sister. She goes where we can’t go. Don’t fear for her, Tenar.”
She bowed her head in acceptance. “I thank you for bringing her safe back to me,” she said. “For a while.”
They were apart from other people, in the corridor that led to the western apartments of the palace. Tenar looked up at the king and said, “I’ve been talking about dragons with the princess.”
“The princess,” he said blankly.
“She has a name. I can’t tell it to you, since she believes you might use it to destroy her soul.”
He scowled.
“In Hur-at-Hur there are dragons. Small, she says, and wingless, and they don’t speak. But they’re sacred. The sacred sign and pledge of death and rebirth. She reminded me that my people don’t go where your people do when they die. That dry land Alder tells of, it’s not where we go. The princess, and I, and the dragons.”
Lebannen’s face changed from wary reserve to intense attention. “Ged’s questions to Tehanu,” he said in a low voice. “Are these the answers?”