“Therru, run into town and ask anyone to come-anybody strong- There’s a man hurt on the cliff.”

Therru stood there. She had never gone alone into the village. She was frozen between obedience and fear. Tenan saw that and said, “Is Aunty Moss here? Is Heather? The

three of us can carry him. Only, quick, quick, Therru!” She felt that if she let Ged lie unprotected there he would surely die. He would be gone when she came back-dead, fallen, taken by dragons. Anything could happen. She must hurry before it happened. Flint had died of a stroke in his fields and she had not been with him. He had died alone. The shepherd had found him lying by the gate. Ogion had died and she could not keep him from dying, she could not give him breath. Ged had come home to die and it was the end of everything, there was nothing left, nothing to be done, but she must do it. “Quick, Therru! Bring anyone!”

She started shakily towards the village herself, but saw old Moss hurrying across the pasture, stumping along with her thick hawthorn stick. “Did you call me, dearie?”

Moss’s presence was an immediate relief. She began to get her breath and be able to think. Moss wasted no time in questions, but hearing there was a man hurt who must be moved, got the heavy canvas mattress-cover that Tenar had been airing, and lugged it out to the end of the Over-fell. She and Tenan rolled Ged onto it and were dragging this conveyance laboriously homeward when Heathen came trotting along, followed by Therru and Sippy. Heathen was young and strong, and with hen help they could lift the canvas like a litter and canny the man to the house.

Tenar and Therru slept in the alcove in the west wall of the long single room. There was only Ogion’s bed at the fan end, covered now with a heavy linen sheet. There they laid the man. Tenar put Ogion’s blanket over him, while Moss muttered charms around the bed, and Heather and Therru stood and stared .

“Let him be now,” said Tenar, leading them all to the front pant of the house.

“Who is he?” Heather asked.

“What was he doing on the Overfell?” Moss asked.

“You know him, Moss. He was Ogion’s-Aihal’s prentice, once.

The witch shook her head. “That was the lad from Ten Alders, dearie,” she said. “The one that’s Anchmage in Roke, now.”

Tenan nodded.

“No, dearie,” said Moss. “This looks like him. But isn’t him. This man’s no mage. Not even a sorcerer.”

Heathen looked from one to the other, entertained. She did not understand most things people said, but she liked to hear them say them.

“But I know him, Moss. It’s Sparrowhawk.” Saying the name, Ged’s use-name, released a tenderness in her, so that for the first time she thought and felt that this was he indeed, and that all the years since she had first seen him were their bond. She saw a light like a star in darkness, underground, long ago, and his face in the light. “I know him, Moss.” She smiled, and then smiled more broadly. “He’s the first man I ever saw,” she said.

Moss mumbled and shifted. She did not like to contradict “Mistress Goha,” but she was perfectly unconvinced. “There’s tricks, disguises, transformations, changes,” she said. “Better be careful, dearie. How did he get where you found him, away out there? Did any see him come through the village?”

“None of you-saw-?”

They stared at her. She tried to say “the dragon” and could not. Her lips and tongue would not form the word. But a word formed itself with them, making itself with her mouth and breath. “Kalessin,” she said.

Therru was staring at her. A wave of warmth, heat, seemed to flow from the child, as if she were in fever. She said nothing, but moved her lips as if repeating the name, and that fever heat burned around her.

“Tricks!” Moss said. “Now that our mage is gone there’ll be all kinds of tnicksters coming round.”

“I came from Atuan to Havnon, from Havnor to Gont, with Sparnowhawk, in an open boat,” Tenar said drily.

“You saw him when he brought me here, Moss. He wasn’t archmage then. But he was the same, the same man. Are there other scars like those?”

Confronted, the olden woman became still, collecting herself. She glanced at Therru. “No,” she said. “But-”

“Do you think I wouldn’t know him?”

Moss twisted her mouth, frowned, rubbed one thumb with the other, looking at hen hands. “There’s evil things in the world, mistress,” she said. “A thing that takes a man’s form and body, but his soul’s gone-eaten- “The gebbeth?”

Moss cringed at the word spoken openly. She nodded.

“They do say, once the mage Sparrowhawk came here, long ago, before you came with him. And a thing of dankness came with him-following him. Maybe it still does. Maybe-”

“The dragon who brought him here,” Tenar said, “called him by his true name. And I know that name. Wrath at the witch’s obstinate suspicion rang in hen voice.

Moss stood mute. Her silence was better argument than her words.

“Maybe the shadow on him is his death,” Tenan said. “Maybe he’s dying. I don’t know. If Ogion-”

At the thought of Ogion she was in tears again, thinking how Ged had come too late. She swallowed the tears and went to the woodbox for kindling for the fire. She gave Therru the kettle to fill, touching hen face as she spoke to her. The seamed and slabby scars were hot to touch, but the child was not feverish. Tenar knelt to make the fire. Somebody in this fine household-a witch, a widow, a cripple, and a half-wit-had to do what must be done, and not frighten the child with weeping. But the dragon was gone, and was there nothing to come any more but death?

He lay like the dead but was not dead. Where had he been? What had he come through? That night, in firelight, Tenar took the stained, worn, sweat-stiffened clothes off him. She washed him and let him lie naked between the linen sheet and the blanket of soft, heavy goat’s-wool. Though a short, slight-built man, he had been compact, vigorous; now he was thin as if worn down to the bone, worn away, fragile. Even the scars that ridged his shoulder and the left side of his face from temple to jaw seemed lessened, silvery. And his hair was grey.

I’m sick of mourning, Tenar thought. Sick of mourning, sick of grief. I will not grieve for him Didn’t he come to me riding the dragon? Once I meant to kill him, she thought. Now I’ll make him

live, if I can. She looked at him then with a challenge in her eye, and no pity.

“Which of us saved the other from the Labyrinth, Ged?”

Unhearing, unmoving, he slept. She was very tired. She bathed in the water she had heated to wash him with, and crept into bed beside the little, warm, silky silence that was Therru asleep. She slept, and her sleep opened out into a vast windy space hazy with rose and gold. She flew. Her voice called, “Kalessin!” A voice answered, calling from the gulfs of light.

When she woke, the birds were chirping in the fields and on the roof. Sitting up she saw the light of morning through the gnarled glass of the low window looking west. There was something in her, some seed or glimmer, too small to look at or think about, new. Therru was still asleep. Tenar sat by her looking out the small window at cloud and sunlight, thinking of her daughter Apple, trying to remember Apple as a baby. Only the faintest glimpse, vanishing as she turned to it-the small, fat body shaking with a laugh, the wispy, flying hair..., And the second baby, Spark he got called as a joke, because he’d been struck off Flint. She did not know his true name. He had been as sickly a child as Apple had been a sound one. Born early and very small, he had nearly died of the croup at two months, and for two years after that it had been like rearing a fledgling sparrow, you never knew if he would be alive in the morning. But he held on, the little spark wouldn’t go out. And growing, he became a wiry boy, endlessly active, driven; no use on the farm; no patience with animals, plants, people; using words for his needs only, never for pleasure and the give and take of love and knowledge.