'Gentlemen, you will please remember that you constitute the Council. We are not at festival, but at deliberation. Aryan, you may speak.'
The man took his time. A skilled orator he knew the value of suspense and, thought Vestaler grimly, had much support from others less gifted.
'Aryan?'
'With respect, Master, I was assembling my thoughts.' Rising, as custom demanded, so that all could see every play of expression Aryan cleared his throat. 'The matter, as I see it, is basically simple. In fact, I am surprised that the Council has been convened to deal with it at all. Strangers are not allowed. All coming within the vicinity are to be destroyed. These two are strangers. Therefore, they should have been destroyed. Varg Eidhal failed in his sworn duty and should be punished.' Pausing he added, 'It is the rule.'
Aryan knew the value of brevity in making a telling point. As he sat Vestaler said, 'Croft?'
'I agree with all that Aryan has said.' Croft, a small man, was eager to gain height by backing what he thought was the winning side. 'The purpose of the rule is to ensure our isolation. Only by secrecy have we managed to remain apart and able to follow our ancient traditions. Once that is broken we will be subject to disruptive influences, the extent of which we can easily imagine.'
'Usdon?'
'It seems that certain members of the Council are missing the point. We are not here to determine Eidhal's guilt, or to determine his punishment. Personally, I think the man acted with intelligent appreciation of the situation. The failure to kill is an error simple to rectify. The main object of concern, surely, is the man Dumarest and the message he claims to be carrying.'
Sense at last, and Vestaler allowed himself to relax a little. Aryan and his supporters were evidence of a disturbing trend, an inward-turned concern with minutia and tradition. Blinded to the fact, though isolated, Nerth still existed in a larger universe than that of the valley.
Forgetting, too, the import of the message Dumarest might bear. If he had met Leon, and if the boy had- but that was to hope for too much.
He glanced at the photograph lying before him on the table, the smiling face. Zafra's face, younger than it was now. He hoped that she would be spared more hurt.
'Master?'
It was Byrute. He rose at Vestaler's nod.
'Why can't we summon the man and demand that he gives us the message?'
'He insists on giving it to one person only.'
'We could demand-'
'And be refused.' Vestaler was sharp in his interruption. 'We are dealing with no ordinary man. The mere fact of his survival is proof of that.'
'He could have lied,' said Byrute stubbornly. 'There may have been no raft, no crash as he claimed.'
'I have considered the possibility, but how else could he have reached us? And there is no denying the physical condition of both of them. The woman was so near to collapse that she had to be carried on a litter. Dumarest was in need of medical attention, and the state of his body proves that he had suffered in a manner consistent with what he says happened. To question him now would gain us little. Therefore, I propose that both he and the woman be granted a limited freedom until a final resolution can be made as to their fate.'
The vote was carried as he knew it would be. The entire session had, in a sense, been a waste of time. Yet, the formalities had to be observed. A commune worked, not on dictatorial lines, but on common agreement. No one man could ever be allowed to become truly the master. The title he had won was by courtesy, not by right.
Later Usdon joined him, entering the Alphanian Chamber to walk towards the altar, to stand looking at what it contained.
He said, for no apparent reason, 'Three failed, Master.'
'I know.'
'One of them was my daughter's son.'
The extension of his line, a metaphorical continuation of his body. Vestaler remembered the boy. Sharp and bright and impatient to become a man. His pinnacle had been empty at dawn.
'He wasn't weak,' said Usdon fiercely. 'He wasn't full of guilt. There was no reason for him to have failed.'
Vestaler remained silent. At such times there was nothing to say.
'I wish-' Usdon reached out and touched the artifact before him. 'Now I wish that-' He shook his head, a man hurt, helpless to ease his pain. He found refuge in a greater hurt, a more poignant loss. 'Do you think it possible that Dumarest can help?'
The odds were against it and yet, hope still survived. Hope, but Vestaler could only be honest.
'I doubt it, Marl.' His hand fell to the shoulder of his friend. 'I can't see how he could.'
Chapter Twelve
Dumarest stretched, remembering. There had been food and drink, hot water in which to bathe, a cup of something pungent, a bed in which to fall. And there had been pain, a searing agony in his scalp, hands which had held him fast, a voice which had murmured soft instructions.
His hand lifted to touch his scalp, the fingers resting on a patch of something smooth.
'Don't touch it,' said a voice. 'You will aggravate the wound.'
Dumarest sat upright, looking at a room he barely remembered. Small, the walls of stone, the window heavily barred. A door of wooden planks held the grill of a Judas window. The bed was solid, the mattress firm, the covers of thick, patch-work material. Reds and greens and diamonds of yellow. Blue and amber squares, and triangles of puce, purple and brown.
'We had to clean and cauterize,' said the voice. 'The infection was deep.'
She sat on a chair set hard against the wall, a position beyond the range of his vision until he turned. A woman no longer young, one with blonde hair held by a fillet of metal. The eyes were amber, the face strongly boned.
'I am Zafra Harvey.'
'Leon's mother?'
'Once I had a son.' Her voice was distant, as if she spoke of another life at another time. 'You claimed to have something to tell me. A message.'
'It can wait.' Dumarest rose higher in the bed. He was naked. 'Did you take care of me?'
'Yes, I am skilled in healing.'
'A doctor? A nurse? How is Iduna?'
'Your woman is well. She was suffering only from exhaustion. Now that she has eaten and slept, she will be fine.'
'She isn't my woman,' said Dumarest. He looked at Zafra's face, seeing the mesh of tiny lines at the corners of the eyes, the aging of the lips, the neck. 'How long has it been since that photograph was taken?'
'A long time. In happier days.'
'Here?' And then, as she made no answer. 'In the town? Do you often leave Nerth?'
'Nerth?'
'The valley. Do you?'
'We call it Ayat. No, we never leave.'
The name they would use to others-and the woman had lied.
She said, 'Please. The message?'
'Later.'
'But Leon-'
'Your son?' Dumarest nodded as he caught her faint inclination. 'What happened to him? Why did he run?'
'He is dead. We do not talk of him.'
A symbolical death perhaps attended by appropriate ceremonies, his name stricken from any records there
