Pamra nodded sleepily. “She does, sometimes.”
“I hadn’t heard her before.”
“She talks about the River a lot. Mostly that.” She rubbed her forehead fretfully. The sweet smell of the Jarb had soaked into the top of her nose and was filling it, like syrup. She turned to find the three smokers knocking the dottle from their pipes onto the hearth. The immediacy of the smell was dissipating.
The woman raked the baked Jarb root from the fire, brushing it off and placing it upon a little plate. This she placed before Pamra with a spoon. “Try a little.”
Pamra spooned off a bite, blowing on it to cool it. The root was sweet, too, but delicious. The slightly ashy taste only complemented it. She took another spoonful, then hesitated.
“Go ahead, eat it all,” the woman said. “There are people bringing plenty of food for you and for the others.”
By the fire, Trale sat, rocking back and forth.
“Did you have a vision?” asked Peasimy curiously, studying the man’s face.
“Oh, yes.”
“What was it of?”
“Of you, Peasimy Plot. And of Pamra Don. And of what is to come.”
“Oh!” Peasimy clapped his hands, delighted. “Tell us!”
Trale shook his head. “I’m afraid it can’t be told. There are only colors and patterns.”
“Red and orange and yellow of flame,” said the woman. “Black of smoke.”
“Red and orange and yellow of flowers,” said the man. “Black of stony mountains.”
“Red and orange and yellow of metal,” said Trale. “Black of deep mines.”
“That doesn’t sound like much of a vision,” pouted Peasimy.
“Or too much of one,” said Pamra, one side of her mouth lifted in a half smile. The Jarb root had settled into her, making some of the same kind of happiness Glizzee spice often made. Not rapture. More a contentment. Warmth. It had been a sizable root, and her sudden hunger was appeased. She smiled again, head nodding with weariness. “I’m so sleepy.”
“Come with me,” the woman said. “We’ll find a place for you to rest.”
They went out into the great hall again and up the spiraling balcony. A twist and a half up the huge trunk, the woman pointed into a room where a wide bed was spread with gaily worked quilts. The door was fastened back with a strap, and the woman loosened it now, letting the door sag toward its latch.
“Sleep. When you’ve slept enough, come back down to the place we were. I’ll be there, or Trale. Will the baby be all right, here with you?”
Pamra nodded, so weary she could hardly hold her head up. She heard the latch click as she crawled into the bed, felt Lila curl beside her with a satisfied murmur, then was gone into darkness.
Outside the room people moved to and fro, some of them pausing to stare curiously at the door before moving away to be replaced by someone else. Inside the room, Lila squirmed out of Pamra’s grasp, turned to let her feet drop off the edge of the bed, then stagger-crawled to the door to sit there with her own hands pressed to its surface, smiling, nodding, sometimes saying something to herself in a chuckling baby voice, as though she watched with her fingers what transpired outside the wooden barrier.
Below in the firelit room, the three Mendicants crouched before the fire, staring into the flames. Peasimy had fallen asleep where he sat, as had the men with him.
“Mad,” said Trale at last. “There’s no doubt.”
“None,” agreed the woman. “She hasn’t eaten for weeks or months. She’s all skin and eyes. She’s an ecstatic. A visionary. The fasting only makes it worse. The minute the smoke hit her, she felt hungry. She’s half starved herself.”
“How long do you think we can get her to stay?” the man asked.
“No time at all. Tomorrow morning, perhaps. If the storm goes on, perhaps until the rain stops.”
“Not long enough to do any good.”
“No.”
“It’s too bad, isn’t it?”
Trale nodded, poking at the fire. “Well, a time of changes is often unpleasant. I don’t see the Jarb Houses seriously threatened. Or the Mendicants.”