me a hero? I’d be myself in clothes that didn’t fit, is all, hardly able to walk.”
She sipped her wine.
“So I took it all off,” she said, “and put on my own clothes.”
“What did Ogion say when you left him?”
“What did Ogion usually say?”
That roused the shadowy smile again. He said nothing.
She nodded.
After a while, she went on more softly, “He took me because you brought me to him. He wanted no prentice after you, and he never would have taken a girl but from you, at your asking. But he loved me. He did me honor. And I loved and honored him. But he couldn’t give me what I wanted, and I couldn’t take what he had to give me. He knew that. But, Ged, it was a different matter when he saw Therru. The day before he died. You say, and Moss says, that power knows power. I don’t know what he saw in her, but he said, ‘Teach her!’ And he said ...”
Ged waited.
“He said, ‘They will fear her.’ And he said, ‘Teach her all! Not Roke.’ I don’t know what he meant. How can I know? If I had stayed here with him I might know, I might be able to teach her. But I thought, Ged will come, he’ll know. He’ll know what to teach her, what she needs to know, my wronged one.”
“I do not know,” he said, speaking very low. “I saw—In the child I see only—the wrong done. The evil.”
He drank off his wine.
“I have nothing to give her,” he said.
There was a little scraping knock at the door. He started up instantly with that same helpless turn of the body, looking for a place to hide.
Tenar went to the door, opened it a crack, and smelled Moss before she saw her.
“Men in the village,” the old woman whispered dramatically. “All kind of fine folk come up from the Port, from the great ship that’s in from Havnor City, they say. Come after the Archmage, they say.”
“He doesn’t want to see them,” Tenar said weakly. She had no idea what to do.
“I dare say not,” said the witch. And after an expectant pause, “Where is he, then?”
“Here,” said Sparrowhawk, coming to the door and opening it wider. Moss eyed him and said nothing.
“Do they know where I am?”
“Not from me,” Moss said.
“If they come here,” said Tenar, “all you have to do is send them away—after all, you are the Archmage—”
Neither he nor Moss was paying attention to her.
“They won’t come to my house,” Moss said. “Come on, if you like.”
He followed her, with a glance but no word to Tenar.
“But what am I to tell them?” she demanded.
“Nothing, dearie,” said the witch.
Heather and Therru came back from the marshes with seven dead frogs in a net bag, and Tenar busied herself cutting off and skinning the legs for the hunters’ supper. She was just finishing when sheheard voices outside, and looking up at the open door saw people standing at it—men in hats, a twist of gold, a glitter—“Mistress Goha?” said a civil voice. “Come in!” she said.
They came in: five men, seeming twice as many in the low-ceilinged room, and tall, and grand. They looked about them, and she saw what they saw.
They saw a woman standing at a table, holding a long, sharp knife. On the table was a chopping board and on that, to one side, a little heap of naked greenish-white legs; to the other, a heap of fat, bloody, dead frogs. In the shadow behind the door something lurked—a child, but a child deformed, mismade, half-faced, claw-handed. On a bed in an alcove beneath the single window sat a big, bony young woman, staring at them with her mouth wide open. Her hands were bloody and muddy and her dank skirt smelled of marsh-water. When she saw them look at her, she tried to hide her face with her skirt, baring her legs to the thigh.
They looked away from her, and from the child, and there was no one else to look at but the woman with the dead frogs.
“Mistress Goha,” one of them repeated.
“So I’m called,” she said.
“We come from Havnor, from the King,” said the
She sipped her wine.
“So I took it all off,” she said, “and put on my own clothes.”
“What did Ogion say when you left him?”
“What did Ogion usually say?”
That roused the shadowy smile again. He said nothing.
She nodded.
After a while, she went on more softly, “He took me because you brought me to him. He wanted no prentice after you, and he never would have taken a girl but from you, at your asking. But he loved me. He did me honor. And I loved and honored him. But he couldn’t give me what I wanted, and I couldn’t take what he had to give me. He knew that. But, Ged, it was a different matter when he saw Therru. The day before he died. You say, and Moss says, that power knows power. I don’t know what he saw in her, but he said, ‘Teach her!’ And he said ...”
Ged waited.
“He said, ‘They will fear her.’ And he said, ‘Teach her all! Not Roke.’ I don’t know what he meant. How can I know? If I had stayed here with him I might know, I might be able to teach her. But I thought, Ged will come, he’ll know. He’ll know what to teach her, what she needs to know, my wronged one.”
“I do not know,” he said, speaking very low. “I saw—In the child I see only—the wrong done. The evil.”
He drank off his wine.
“I have nothing to give her,” he said.
There was a little scraping knock at the door. He started up instantly with that same helpless turn of the body, looking for a place to hide.
Tenar went to the door, opened it a crack, and smelled Moss before she saw her.
“Men in the village,” the old woman whispered dramatically. “All kind of fine folk come up from the Port, from the great ship that’s in from Havnor City, they say. Come after the Archmage, they say.”
“He doesn’t want to see them,” Tenar said weakly. She had no idea what to do.
“I dare say not,” said the witch. And after an expectant pause, “Where is he, then?”
“Here,” said Sparrowhawk, coming to the door and opening it wider. Moss eyed him and said nothing.
“Do they know where I am?”
“Not from me,” Moss said.
“If they come here,” said Tenar, “all you have to do is send them away—after all, you are the Archmage—”
Neither he nor Moss was paying attention to her.
“They won’t come to my house,” Moss said. “Come on, if you like.”
He followed her, with a glance but no word to Tenar.
“But what am I to tell them?” she demanded.
“Nothing, dearie,” said the witch.
Heather and Therru came back from the marshes with seven dead frogs in a net bag, and Tenar busied herself cutting off and skinning the legs for the hunters’ supper. She was just finishing when sheheard voices outside, and looking up at the open door saw people standing at it—men in hats, a twist of gold, a glitter—“Mistress Goha?” said a civil voice. “Come in!” she said.
They came in: five men, seeming twice as many in the low-ceilinged room, and tall, and grand. They looked about them, and she saw what they saw.
They saw a woman standing at a table, holding a long, sharp knife. On the table was a chopping board and on that, to one side, a little heap of naked greenish-white legs; to the other, a heap of fat, bloody, dead frogs. In the shadow behind the door something lurked—a child, but a child deformed, mismade, half-faced, claw-handed. On a bed in an alcove beneath the single window sat a big, bony young woman, staring at them with her mouth wide open. Her hands were bloody and muddy and her dank skirt smelled of marsh-water. When she saw them look at her, she tried to hide her face with her skirt, baring her legs to the thigh.
They looked away from her, and from the child, and there was no one else to look at but the woman with the dead frogs.
“Mistress Goha,” one of them repeated.
“So I’m called,” she said.
“We come from Havnor, from the King,” said the
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