The Tombs of Atuan

Manan came shuffling down the hall between the double rows of columns, when the light had long since ceased to shaft the hall’s darkness, and the cold had grown intense. Manan’s doughy face was very sad. He stood at a distance from her, his big hands hanging; a torn hem of his rusty cloak dangled by his heel.

“Little mistress.”

“What is it, Manan?” She looked at him with dull affection.

“Little one, let me do what you said… what you said was done. He must die, little one. He has bewitched you. She will have revenge. She is old and cruel, and you are too young. You have not strength enough.”

“She can’t hurt me.”

“If she killed you, even in the sight of all, in the open, there is none in all the Empire who would dare punish her. She is the High Priestess of the Godking, and the Godking rules. But she won’t kill you in the open. She will do it by stealth, by poison, in the night.”

“Then I will be born again.”

Manan twisted his big hands together. “Perhaps she will not kill you,” he whispered.

“What do you mean?”

“She could lock you into a room in the… down there… As you have done with him. And you would be alive for years and years, maybe. For years… And no new Priestess would be born, for you wouldn’t be dead. Yet there would be no Priestess of the Tombs, and the dances of the dark of the moon would not be danced, and the sacrifices would not be made, and the blood not poured out, and the worship of the Dark Ones could be forgotten, forever. She and her Lord would like it to be so.”

“_They_ would set me free, Manan.”

“Not while they are wrathful at you, little mistress,” Manan whispered.

“Wrathful?”

“Because of him… The sacrilege not paid for. Oh little one, little one! They do not forgive!”

She sat in the dust of the lowest step, her head bowed. She looked at a tiny thing that she held on her palm, the minute skull of a mouse. The owls in the rafters over the Throne stirred a little; it was darkening towards night.

“Do not go down into the Labyrinth tonight,” Manan said very low. “Go to your house, and sleep. In the morning go to Kossil, and tell her that you lift the curse from her. And that will be all. You need not worry. I will show her proof.”

“Proof?”

“That the sorcerer is dead.”

She sat still. Slowly she closed her hand, and the fragile skull cracked and collapsed. When she opened her hand it held nothing but splinters of bone and dust.

“No,” she said. She brushed the dust from her palm.

“He must die. He has put a spell on you. You are lost, Arha!”

“He has not put any spell on me. You’re old and cowardly, Manan; you’re frightened by old women. How do you think you’d come to him and kill him and get your `proof’? Do you know the way clear to the Great Treasure, that you followed in the dark last night? Can you count the turnings and come to the steps, and then the pit, and then the door? Can you unlock that door?… Oh, poor old Manan, your wits are all thick. She has frightened you. You go down to the Small House now, and sleep, and forget all these things. Don’t worry me forever with talk of death… I’ll come later. Go on, go on, old fool, old lump.” She had risen, and gently pushed Manan’s broad chest, patting him and pushing him to go. “Good night, good night!”

He turned, heavy with reluctance and foreboding, but obedient, and trudged down the long hall under the columns and the ruined roof. She watched him go.

When he had been gone some while she turned and went around the dais of the Throne, and vanished into the dark behind it.

The Ring of Erreth-Akbe

In the Great Treasury of the Tombs of Atuan, time did not pass. No light; no life; no least stir of spider in the dust or worm in the cold earth. Rock, and dark, and time not passing.

On the stone lid of a great chest the thief from the Inner Lands lay stretched on his back like the carven figure on a tomb. The dust disturbed by his movements had settled on his clothes. He did not move.

The lock of the door rattled. The door opened. Light broke the dead black and a fresher draft stirred the dead air. The man lay inert.

Arha closed the door and locked it from within, set her lantern on a chest, and slowly approached the motionless figure. She moved timorously, and her eyes were wide, the pupils still fully dilated from her long journey through the dark.

“Sparrowhawk!”

She touched his shoulder, and spoke his name again, and yet again.

He stirred then, and moaned. At last he sat up, face drawn and eyes blank. He looked at her unrecognizing.

“It’s I, Arha– Tenar. I brought you water. Here, drink.”

He fumbled for the flask as if his hands were numb, and drank, but not deeply.

“How long has it been?” he asked, speaking with difficulty.

“Two days have passed since you came to this room. This is the third night. I couldn’t come earlier. I had to steal the food -here it is-” She got out one of the flat gray loaves from the bag she had brought, but he shook his head.

“I’m not hungry. This… this is a deathly place.” He put his head in his hands and sat unmoving.