“Have you seen Phaed?” she asked.
“No,” he replied. “Did you talk to Jep about Phaed, when he and Saturday returned?”
She shook her head, wonderingly.
“Jep says he was at the citadel in Cloud when Phaed learned you were coming back. He knew nothing about it. Fm not sure he even knows you’re here.”
She turned a dumbfounded face upon her son. “Phaed didn’t know?”
“Jep says not.”
She became very thoughtful. “Son. Listen to me. Suppose you were right about the reason they brought me here. Suppose it was a silly business of convincing women to stay in Voorstod—or to come back if they had escaped to better places. Then the thing happened in Fenice, which they planned to happen, but now there is this blockade, which they never counted on. And now the Awateh wants you dead, and Saturday, and probably me, too, which means … which means what?”
“That their earlier reason for the plot no longer seems so valid. Or that the blockade has driven it from their heads.”
“Say the first is true. That their reason doesn’t seem so important anymore. That they don’t need the women to come back.”
“Because?” asked Sam.
“Because … because something important, Sam. What could it be? And Phaed knew nothing about it. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it at all.”
He understood it no more than she did. They offered one another possible solutions, none of which was satisfying. Maire fretted and rubbed her brow and lay quiet with her eyes closed, trying not to think of anything. Sam could not leave the area of the farm, because of the collar. The two of them were trapped, not knowing how long it would take for the trapper to come by and decide whether they were to be turned loose or skinned and eaten.
Sam wanted Phaed to come. When Phaed came, it would all be straightened out. Phaed had no intention of hurting either of them, or letting anyone else hurt them. When his mother wept, full of frustration and fear, he sat beside her and held her hand.
“Let’s take it day by day, Mam. Sooner or later somebody is going to have to talk to us.”
• Phaed came up the hill a few days later to talk with his wife and son. He came ostensibly alone—that is, without his usual comrades—for reasons of his own, not least because he had come to distrust his fellow conspirators. Things had turned sour, with much pointing of fingers and laying of blame, and he wanted no one overhearing what he said and then quoting it to his disadvantage. Also, Mugal Pye had recommended that Phaed leave Sarby without seeing Maire or Sam, and Phaed was angry at the suggestion. Everyone seemed intent upon doing things behind his back, and he told himself he would make his own decisions—but still, he brought three bullyboys along, though he left them outside in the mists.
The two prisoners were seated before the smoky fire, drinking an infusion of familiar fragrant herbs that Maire had found growing at the edge of the woods. In the steam of the kettle she had momentarily forgotten her fears. The sweet smell reminded her of similar times during childhood, before she knew enough to be afraid, for herself or for anyone. So Phaed saw her, first, as a woman not unlike the girl he had known, her eyes clear and her face untroubled.
“Well, Maire Manone,” he said, almost fondly.
“Well, Phaed,” she responded, as though she had been expecting him at any moment. Inside herself she felt only dismay. She had thought he would have changed, but he had not changed at all. He was older, but unchanged. Like stone, he had only weathered. She stood up to face him.
“Dad,” said Sam, standing up cautiously. “I’ve been hoping you’d come.”
“So this is Samasnier,” Phaed said, looking him up and down. “He’s grown some in thirty-odd years. But then, so have you, my bird. You’re fatter.”
“Some women get fatter when they get gray,” she said, showing no spark at his words. He had once enjoyed teasing her into anger, making her lose both temper and control. He had been able to do it easily. She wondered if he still could. Not by talking about her weight or appearance, certainly. She did not care that much about either.
“I’ve been getting messages every day,” Phaed confided, shutting the door behind him, shuffling across the room to lean on the back of a chair between them. “Messages from this one and that one, tellin’ me what ought to be done with you two. The Awateh wants you, Maire. He wanted you before, you understand. So I’m told. As a symbol. They tell me you were to be the centerpiece of some great recruitment of females.”
Maire smiled, a sad, reluctant, and fearful smile. “So Sammy thought, Phaed. He guessed that’s what it was.”
“Well, but now, with this blockade, poor old prophet’s forgotten what he wanted you for in the first place. Furious, he is. Like an old bull, running after some little cow, willing to kill her to stop her running off.”
“It seems I’ve nowhere to run to, Phaed.”
“Everyone’s thinking of letting him have you, just as a sop, to keep him quiet. Poor old man, he’s half mad now, thinks he’s going to die with none of the Great Work accomplished.” He stared at Sam, making it a contest.
Sam stared back, expressionlessly. There was no contest between them. Why did his father want to challenge him? Hadn’t he come here of his own free will?
“Great Work?” he asked.
“The final victory of Almighty God,” said Phaed, with a grin. “In the book it is revealed that we shall put whole worlds to the sword.” Phaed dusted off a chair and sat down. “So say the prophets, and since they say it, so do I.”
“You never spoke so directly when I
