Read Online The Other Wind by Ursula K. Le Guin - Free Book Online
Authors: Ursula K. Le Guin
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the center of the world resolved out of the haze of distance. Alder stood at the prow as they came in and looking up saw on the pinnacle of the highest tower a flash of silver light, the Sword of Erreth-Akbe.
Now he wished he could stay aboard and sail on and not go ashore into the great city among great people with a letter for the king. He knew he was no fit messenger. Why had such a burden been laid on him? How could it be that a village sorcerer who knew nothing of high matters and deep arts was called on to make these journeys from land to land, from mage to monarch, from the living to the dead?
He had said something like that to Sparrowhawk. “It’s all beyond me,” he had said. The old man looked at him a while and then, calling him by his true name, said, “The world’s vast and strange, Hara, but no vaster and no stranger than our minds are. Think of that sometimes.”
Behind the city the sky darkened with a thunderstorm inland. The towers burned white against purple-black, and gulls soared like drifting sparks of fire above them.
Pretty Rose
was moored, the gangplank run out. This time the sailors wished him well as he shouldered his pack. He picked up the covered poultry basket in which Tug crouched patiently, and went ashore.
The streets were many and crowded, but the way to the palace was plain, and he had no idea what to do except go there and say that he carried a letter for the king from the Archmage Sparrowhawk.
And that he did, many times.
From guard to guard, from official to official, from the broad outer steps of the palace to high anterooms, staircases with gilded banisters, inner offices with tapestried walls, across floors of tile and marble and oak, under ceilings coffered, beamed, vaulted, painted, he went repeating his talisman: “I come from Sparrowhawk who was the Archmage with a letter for the king.” He would not give his letter up. A retinue, a crowd of suspicious, semi-civil, patronising, temporising, obstructive guards and ushers and officials kept gathering and thickening around him and followed and impeded his slow way into the palace.
Suddenly they were all gone. A door had opened. It closed behind him.
He stood alone in a quiet room. A wide window looked out over the roofs northwestward. The thundercloud had cleared and the broad grey summit of Mount Onn hovered above far hills.
Another door opened. A man came in, dressed in black, about Alder’s age, quick moving, with a fine, strong face as smooth as bronze. He came straight to Alder: “Master Alder, I am Lebannen.”
He put out his right hand to touch Alder’s hand, palm against palm, as the custom was in Éa and the Enlades. Alder responded automatically to the familiar gesture. Then he thought he ought to kneel, or bow at least, but the moment to do so seemed to have passed. He stood dumb.
“You came from my Lord Sparrowhawk? How is he? Is he well?”
“Yes, lord. He sends you—” Alder hurriedly groped inside his jacket for the letter, which he had intended to offer to the king kneeling, when they finally showed him to the throne room where the king would be sitting on his throne—“this letter, my lord.”
The eyes watching him were alert, urbane, as implacably keen as Sparrowhawk’s, but withholding even more of the mind within. As the king took the letter Alder offered him, his courtesy was perfect. “The bearer of any word from him has my heart’s thanks and welcome. Will you forgive me?”
Alder finally managed a bow. The king walked over to the window to read the letter.
He read it twice at least, then refolded it. His face was as impassive as before. He went to the door and spoke to someone outside it, then turned back to Alder. “Please,” he said, “sit down with me. They’ll bring us something to eat. You’ve been all afternoon in the palace, I know. If the gate captain had had the wits to send me word, I could have spared you hours of climbing the walls and swimming the moats they
Now he wished he could stay aboard and sail on and not go ashore into the great city among great people with a letter for the king. He knew he was no fit messenger. Why had such a burden been laid on him? How could it be that a village sorcerer who knew nothing of high matters and deep arts was called on to make these journeys from land to land, from mage to monarch, from the living to the dead?
He had said something like that to Sparrowhawk. “It’s all beyond me,” he had said. The old man looked at him a while and then, calling him by his true name, said, “The world’s vast and strange, Hara, but no vaster and no stranger than our minds are. Think of that sometimes.”
Behind the city the sky darkened with a thunderstorm inland. The towers burned white against purple-black, and gulls soared like drifting sparks of fire above them.
Pretty Rose
was moored, the gangplank run out. This time the sailors wished him well as he shouldered his pack. He picked up the covered poultry basket in which Tug crouched patiently, and went ashore.
The streets were many and crowded, but the way to the palace was plain, and he had no idea what to do except go there and say that he carried a letter for the king from the Archmage Sparrowhawk.
And that he did, many times.
From guard to guard, from official to official, from the broad outer steps of the palace to high anterooms, staircases with gilded banisters, inner offices with tapestried walls, across floors of tile and marble and oak, under ceilings coffered, beamed, vaulted, painted, he went repeating his talisman: “I come from Sparrowhawk who was the Archmage with a letter for the king.” He would not give his letter up. A retinue, a crowd of suspicious, semi-civil, patronising, temporising, obstructive guards and ushers and officials kept gathering and thickening around him and followed and impeded his slow way into the palace.
Suddenly they were all gone. A door had opened. It closed behind him.
He stood alone in a quiet room. A wide window looked out over the roofs northwestward. The thundercloud had cleared and the broad grey summit of Mount Onn hovered above far hills.
Another door opened. A man came in, dressed in black, about Alder’s age, quick moving, with a fine, strong face as smooth as bronze. He came straight to Alder: “Master Alder, I am Lebannen.”
He put out his right hand to touch Alder’s hand, palm against palm, as the custom was in Éa and the Enlades. Alder responded automatically to the familiar gesture. Then he thought he ought to kneel, or bow at least, but the moment to do so seemed to have passed. He stood dumb.
“You came from my Lord Sparrowhawk? How is he? Is he well?”
“Yes, lord. He sends you—” Alder hurriedly groped inside his jacket for the letter, which he had intended to offer to the king kneeling, when they finally showed him to the throne room where the king would be sitting on his throne—“this letter, my lord.”
The eyes watching him were alert, urbane, as implacably keen as Sparrowhawk’s, but withholding even more of the mind within. As the king took the letter Alder offered him, his courtesy was perfect. “The bearer of any word from him has my heart’s thanks and welcome. Will you forgive me?”
Alder finally managed a bow. The king walked over to the window to read the letter.
He read it twice at least, then refolded it. His face was as impassive as before. He went to the door and spoke to someone outside it, then turned back to Alder. “Please,” he said, “sit down with me. They’ll bring us something to eat. You’ve been all afternoon in the palace, I know. If the gate captain had had the wits to send me word, I could have spared you hours of climbing the walls and swimming the moats they
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