climbed the
hill again, alone. She filled her flask from the well in the room behind the Throne, and
took the water and a big, flat, unleavened cake of buckwheat bread down to the Painted
Room in the Labyrinth. She set them just within the prisoner’s reach, inside the
door. He was asleep, and never stirred. She returned to the Small House, and that night
she too slept long and sound.
In early afternoon she returned alone to the Labyrinth. The bread was
gone, the flask was dry, the stranger was sitting up, his back against the wall. His
face still looked hideous with dirt and scabs, but the expression of it was alert.
She stood across the room from him where he could not possiblyreach her, chained as he was, and looked at him. Then she looked
away. But there was nowhere particular to look. Something prevented her speaking. Her
heart beat as if she were afraid. There was no reason to fear him. He was at her
mercy.
“It’s pleasant to have light,” he said in the soft but
deep voice, which perturbed her.
“What’s your name?” she asked, peremptory. Her own
voice, she thought, sounded uncommonly high and thin.
“Well, mostly I’m called Sparrowhawk.”
“Sparrowhawk? Is that your name?”
“No.”
“What is your name, then?”
“I cannot tell you that. Are you the One Priestess of the
Tombs?”
“Yes.”
“What are you called?”
“I am called Arha.”
“The one who has been devoured—is that what it means?”
His dark eyes watched her intently. He smiled a little. “What is your
name?”
“I have no name. Do not ask me questions. Where do you come
from?”
“From the Inner Lands, the West.”
“From Havnor?”
It was the only name of a city or island of the Inner Lands that she
knew.
“Yes, from Havnor.”
“Why did you come here?”
“The Tombs of Atuan are famous among my people.”
“But you’re an infidel, an unbeliever.”
He shook his head. “Oh no, Priestess. I believe in the powers of
darkness! I have met with the Unnamed Ones, in other places.”
“What other places?”
“In the Archipelago—the Inner Lands—there are places
which belong to the Old Powers of the Earth, like this one. But none so great as this
one. Nowhere else have they a temple, and a priestess, and such worship as they receive
here.”
“You came to worship them,” she said, jeering.
“I came to rob them,” he said.
She stared at his grave face. “Braggart!”
“I knew it would not be easy.”
“Easy! It cannot be done. If you weren’t an unbeliever
you’d know that. The Nameless Ones look after what is theirs.”
“What I seek is not theirs.”
“It’s yours, no doubt?”
“Mine to claim.”
“What are you then—a god? a king?” She looked him up and
down, as he sat chained, dirty, exhausted. “You are nothing but a
thief!”
He said nothing, but his gaze met hers.
“You are not to look at me!” she said shrilly.
“My lady,” he said, “I do not mean
offense. I am a stranger, and a trespasser. I do not know your ways, nor the courtesies
due the Priestess of the Tombs. I am at your mercy, and I ask your pardon if I offend
you.”
She stood silent, and in a moment she felt the blood rising to her cheeks,
hot and foolish. But he was not looking at her and did not see her blush. He had obeyed,
and turned away his dark gaze.
Neither spoke for some while. The painted figures all around watched them
with sad, blind eyes.
She had brought a stone jug of water. His eyes kept straying to that, and
after a time she said, “Drink, if you like.”
He hitched himself over to the jug at once, and hefting it as lightly as
if it were a wine cup, drank a long, long draft. Then he wet a corner of his sleeve, and
cleaned the grime and bloodclot and cobweb off his face and hands as best he could. He
spent some while at this, and the girl watched. When he was done he looked better, but
his cat-bath had
hill again, alone. She filled her flask from the well in the room behind the Throne, and
took the water and a big, flat, unleavened cake of buckwheat bread down to the Painted
Room in the Labyrinth. She set them just within the prisoner’s reach, inside the
door. He was asleep, and never stirred. She returned to the Small House, and that night
she too slept long and sound.
In early afternoon she returned alone to the Labyrinth. The bread was
gone, the flask was dry, the stranger was sitting up, his back against the wall. His
face still looked hideous with dirt and scabs, but the expression of it was alert.
She stood across the room from him where he could not possiblyreach her, chained as he was, and looked at him. Then she looked
away. But there was nowhere particular to look. Something prevented her speaking. Her
heart beat as if she were afraid. There was no reason to fear him. He was at her
mercy.
“It’s pleasant to have light,” he said in the soft but
deep voice, which perturbed her.
“What’s your name?” she asked, peremptory. Her own
voice, she thought, sounded uncommonly high and thin.
“Well, mostly I’m called Sparrowhawk.”
“Sparrowhawk? Is that your name?”
“No.”
“What is your name, then?”
“I cannot tell you that. Are you the One Priestess of the
Tombs?”
“Yes.”
“What are you called?”
“I am called Arha.”
“The one who has been devoured—is that what it means?”
His dark eyes watched her intently. He smiled a little. “What is your
name?”
“I have no name. Do not ask me questions. Where do you come
from?”
“From the Inner Lands, the West.”
“From Havnor?”
It was the only name of a city or island of the Inner Lands that she
knew.
“Yes, from Havnor.”
“Why did you come here?”
“The Tombs of Atuan are famous among my people.”
“But you’re an infidel, an unbeliever.”
He shook his head. “Oh no, Priestess. I believe in the powers of
darkness! I have met with the Unnamed Ones, in other places.”
“What other places?”
“In the Archipelago—the Inner Lands—there are places
which belong to the Old Powers of the Earth, like this one. But none so great as this
one. Nowhere else have they a temple, and a priestess, and such worship as they receive
here.”
“You came to worship them,” she said, jeering.
“I came to rob them,” he said.
She stared at his grave face. “Braggart!”
“I knew it would not be easy.”
“Easy! It cannot be done. If you weren’t an unbeliever
you’d know that. The Nameless Ones look after what is theirs.”
“What I seek is not theirs.”
“It’s yours, no doubt?”
“Mine to claim.”
“What are you then—a god? a king?” She looked him up and
down, as he sat chained, dirty, exhausted. “You are nothing but a
thief!”
He said nothing, but his gaze met hers.
“You are not to look at me!” she said shrilly.
“My lady,” he said, “I do not mean
offense. I am a stranger, and a trespasser. I do not know your ways, nor the courtesies
due the Priestess of the Tombs. I am at your mercy, and I ask your pardon if I offend
you.”
She stood silent, and in a moment she felt the blood rising to her cheeks,
hot and foolish. But he was not looking at her and did not see her blush. He had obeyed,
and turned away his dark gaze.
Neither spoke for some while. The painted figures all around watched them
with sad, blind eyes.
She had brought a stone jug of water. His eyes kept straying to that, and
after a time she said, “Drink, if you like.”
He hitched himself over to the jug at once, and hefting it as lightly as
if it were a wine cup, drank a long, long draft. Then he wet a corner of his sleeve, and
cleaned the grime and bloodclot and cobweb off his face and hands as best he could. He
spent some while at this, and the girl watched. When he was done he looked better, but
his cat-bath had
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