They went in what state they could muster. Medlo wore his best coat, somewhat wrinkled from long packing but clean, and his fringed, embroidered sash across his shoulders holding the defiantly slung jangle. His narrow face was weary but composed. During the agony of the last few days he had realized that Alan was gone, dead, destroyed by the black-robed ones of Murgin, so long ago. The thought that Alan might not be dead hovered at the edge of consciousness, but he would not allow it into the front of his mind. No, Alan was dead, must be dead, could be grieved for and forgotten. It was enough for the moment.
Leona was dressed as they had first seen her, white breeches and shirt with leather long-vest, her hair drawn up through the maiden circlet of the Fales. She had an air of angry impatience. She was angry at herself for not taking the flask to Anisfale at once, and yet she could not make up her mind to go. She wanted to fetch Mimo and Werem, at most only a day’s journey away for a healthy traveller. She wanted, or thought she wanted, to go away by herself to think. There were certain half memories of flight, of ravening, of angry tearing at squeaking creatures, certain firelight memories of wild longing, inchoate desires which boiled monstrously within her, promising sensations strange and terrible. Still, when she was alone, she did not find herself thinking. Quite the opposite. She found herself rocking slightly to and fro, rhythmically distracting herself from thought. The need to stay and to stay quiet irritated her. Only Terascouros’s stern bidding kept her reasonably still.
As for Terascouros, she had recovered some strength and a not inconsiderable dignity. The Sisterhood had given her proper dress and sandals and a queenly braiding of hair. She came into the chamber resolutely, knowing that every word would be a struggle. Sybil had taken a position many years ago from which she would not now retreat, and her voice carried great weight in this Council. She had the great strength of the single-minded, the inability to be distracted. She had the great desire of the fanatic, to prove false all doctrines save her own. And also, said Terascouros to herself, Sybil had the monstrous power of ignorance, that which can act without the hampering restraints of knowledge.
Thus, in the dim room beneath the Hill, full of the shadowy rustle of Robes of Observance and the murmur of voices, when Medlo spoke of meeting Jaer and of the great sea serpent which reared out of the deep onto the moon track between Candor and Hynath Port, Sybil disbelieved this in scoffing declamation. When he spoke of the quest book and of the buying of Jasmine in accordance with that quest, Sybil laughed and disparaged his trustworthiness. What was he after all, she asked, but a wandering labourer, a musician of taverns, a cheapjack for hire? When Leona spoke, unwillingly, of her own transformation, when Terascouros spoke of the fall of Murgin, Sybil spoke firmly of the symptoms of hysteria and the senile infirmities which came with age.
Finally, in anger, Terascouros spoke of Mawen.
‘Some of you will remember old Mawen, Mute Mawen, who was often called The Woman Who Talks to Birds? Some in this chamber will remember her coming to us sixteen years ago this summer to tell us that Ahl di lasurra sai would soon >be born. Some here will remember that Sybil doubted, as she doubts now; that she discredited old Mawen, as she discredits us now; that she sent Mawen away into the world to die shortly thereafter. Some of you will recall that I then rebelled at Sybil’s doubt and disparagement, and that I went from this Sisterhood into the world.
‘Some here will remember my going, my words to you then. I said I would find the Ahl di lasurra sai or die in the world as Mawen had died, unconsidered, unbelieved, discredited, denied. Some in this chamber will remember that Mawen was my mother.
‘I return to you now to say that the Ahl di has come. I do not care whether you believe it or not. I, myself, had despaired of this search. I had been near death. I had been rescued by chance – if this may be called chance – and had resolved to return here only because others came this way. On that journey I learned of that one with us named Jaer, sought by strange forces. Why should they search if not for a danger to them? Who should be a danger to them if not the one who was foretold? Recall now the words of the prophecy of Hanar: You shall know the time by its precursor sign, the sound of a baby crying in the deep night One who cannot speak will speak of its coming. The day of its coming will be marked by the River of Hanar. It shall not be male nor female, but of Earthsoul, whole. Those signs have come. That time is now. That person is here. I say the Ahl di has come, unwittingly, unknowingly, sleeping now, but soon to wake.
‘I say let Sybil be blind, let Sybil be deaf, let Sybil lead herself into still greater darkness. Let Sybil mock and lead you astray as she did in the time of Mute Mawen, my mother. But, let this Sisterhood see, hear, and know.’
Sybil rose haughtily, her
