“We say,” Mim commented, “that the mist is the cloak of the imiine, the sky-sprite Nue, when she comes to visit earth and walk among men. She searches for her beloved, lost long ago in the days when god-kings ruled. He was a mortal man who offended one of the god-kings, a son of Yr whose name was Knyha; poor man, he was slain by Knyha, and his body scattered over all the shore of Nephane so that Nue would not know what had become of him. She still searches and walks the land and the sea and haunts the rivers, especially in the springtime.”
“Do you truly think that?” Kurt asked, not sarcastically- one could not be that with Mim. He was prepared to mark it down to be remembered with all his heart if she wished him to.
Mim smiled. “I do not, not truly. But it is a beautiful story, is it not, my lord? There are truths and there are truths, my lord Kta would say, and there is Truth itself, the yhia. Since mortals cannot always reason all the way to Truth, we find little truths that are right enough on our own level. But you are very wise about things. I think you really might know what makes the mist come. Is it a cloud that sits down upon the sea, or is it born in some other way?”
“I think,” said Kurt, “that I like Nue best. It sounds better than water vapor.”
“You think I am silly and you cannot make me understand.”
“Would it make you wiser if you knew where fog comes from?”
“I wish that I could talk to you about all the things that matter to you.”
He frowned, realizing that she was in earnest. “You matter. This place, this world matters to me, Mim.”
“I know so very little.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
“Well, you owe me breakfast first.”
Mim flashed a smile, put in the last combs and finished her hair with a pat. She slipped on the chatem, the overdress with the four-paneled split skirt which fitted over the gossamer drapery of the pelan, the underdress. The chatem high-collared and long-sleeved, tight and restraining in the bodice, rose and beige brocade, over a rose pelan. There were many buttons up either wrist and up the bodice to the collar. She patiently began the series of buttons.
“I will have tea ready by the time you can be downstairs,” she said. “I think Aimu will have been-”
There was a deep hollow boom over the city, and Kurt glanced toward the window with an involuntary oath. It was the sighing note of a distant gong.
“Ai,” said Mim. “Intaem-lnta. That is the great temple. It is the beginning of Cadmisan.”
The gong moaned forth again through the fog-stilled air, measured, four times more. Then it was done, the last echoes dying.
“It is the fourth of Nermotai,” said Mim, “the first of the Sufak holy days. The temple will sound the Inta every morning and every evening for the next seven days, and the Sufaki
will make prayers and invoke the Intain, the spirits of their gods.”
“What is done there?” Kurt asked.
“It is the old religion which was here before the Families. I am not really sure what is done, and I do not care to know. I have heard that they even invoke the names of god-kings in Phan’s own temple, but we do not go there, ever. There were old gods in Chteftikan, old and evil gods from the First Days, and once a year the Sufaki call their names and pay them honor, to appease their anger at losing this land to Phan. These are beings we Indras do not name.”
“Bel said,” Kurt recalled, “that there could be trouble during the holy days.”
Mim frowned. “Kurt, I would that you take special care for your safety, and do not come and go at night during this time.”
It hit hard. Mim surely spoke without reference to the Methi, at least without bitterness; if Mim accused, he knew well that Mim would say so plainly. “I do not plan to come and go at night,” he said. “Last night-“