She tried to explain this as well, and Tharius Don’s soul, ever eager for proof of his thesis; took it in like water upon sun-parched earth. Even in this unlikely soil, goodness would grow! Oh, if Pamra Don could find a soul in Jondrigar and warm it to thaw, what might she not do for the Thraish! He longed for someone to discuss this with. Kessie. Kessie had told him the girl had this talent. Why had he not understood what Kessie meant? She had called it “recruiting’ but it was so much more than that! Oh, if Kessie were here. But she was not! No one was. Only himself, and Pamra Don, and the world out there waiting a message from him.
Which he had dreaded to send. Which he had put off sending for some little time. The cause had been ready for a year or more, ready as it would ever be, and yet he had not sent the word. Why? He had asked himself this, morn and evening, wondering whether his own dedication was as great as it once had been. Was it failing purpose? Or did he fear his own inevitable death when the elixir was no longer available?
Or was his delay, his procrastination, foreordained, perhaps, in order to allow this thing, this miraculous thing, to happen.
“You told the general the truth,” he urged, “and the general accepted that?”
She nodded. That was what had happened.
He shook his head, awestruck into silence. She had told the truth, and the general had accepted it. Tharius Don had never doubted the existence of the divine, and her statement confined his belief. Yes. He had delayed in ordering the strike because something greater than himself had chosen that he do so. Perhaps the Dons had indeed been chosen for something marvelous, for some great purpose. But it might be Pamra Don, not Tharius, who was to accomplish this great thing. He stared at her, watching the glitter of her eyes as though it had been stars, moving in the heavens to spell out a command.
There was a knock at the door, a knock too soft to break through his reverie, which was then repeated until he heard it. A messenger with a letter from Shavian Bossit. He broke the seal and read it, read it without really seeing it. “The Jondarite captain at Split River Pass has received a delegation of Talkers, and they bear a written message as well. Sliffisunda demands Pamra Don be sent to him. The Thraish want her at the Talons for questioning. Gendra and I are inclined to agree it is a good idea, and Gendra offers to escort her and oversee her safety.”
Pamra was saying something, but he didn’t hear her. He read the message again. At first it made no sense, but then its purpose bloomed in him like some gigantic, fiery flower, its perfume enwrapping him, spinning him in a sudden delirium. Pamra Don was wanted at the Talons, by the Thraish. Pamra Don, who had done a thing for the cause that Tharius Don had never thought of doing. Pamra Don, who had converted the general in one day. Pamra Don, who saw the souls of Treeci and people reborn as angels.
And yet, how could he know? How could he be sure? He turned to her with a fierce and longing love to demand the answer.
“If you were to speak to the Talkers—to the fliers, Pamra. If you were to tell them the truth, would they believe?”
She looked at him uncertainly, past him at the glowing figure of Neff, outside the window. Radiant. Breast stained with red, nodding to her as he always did. Yes, yes, anything was possible, anything was conceivable. Yes. “Talkers?” she asked.
“The fliers. The fliers who talk. You know.” She did not know. Still, anything that talked should be told the truth.
“It’s better to know the truth,” she said. Neff would know. Wasn’t he kin to the fliers? Wouldn’t he know?
“If I send you to them, Pamra? Can you convert them as you did General Jondrigar?”
“It’s better when people know the truth,” she said again, a thing she often said when nothing else seemed to fit, for that is what Neff often said to her. Her voice was calm, her face serene, still colored by the rapture that often came over it. “It’s better to know the truth.”