“The omphalos,” I breathed. “This is the house of the omphalos!” Then I saw a hive at the foot of the cliffs, east of the temple. “That must be where the spirit people live. Songfather says the omphalos is guarded by spirit people.”
Far to the south, the canyon walls, diminished by distance, thrust in from the west over a diamond glitter, where the river Tahs Ahlai turned eastward toward the sea. Leelson pointed in that direction.
“Something moving.”
Trompe, meantime, had spotted movement in the west, and when we all stopped marveling at the view and concentrated on people, we found traffic in every direction: lines and clumps of people and gaufers on the spiderweb of roads, wagons of all sizes and types crossing meadows, all of them moving toward the common center we looked upon.
“Drawn to Tahs-uppi,” said Lutha. “Like moths to a flame. Unable to resist, no matter how dangerous the way.”
“Commanded to come,” I murmured. “Some of these wagons have been on the way since early winter. It takes a long while to come from the far side of Dinadh. The delegation from Cochim-Mahn is probably not far behind us. Songfather will soon be here, and he will be very angry with us.”
He would be angry with me most of all, for he expected obedience from me. Lutha put her arm around my shoulders and hugged me.
“You’re such a little thing,” she said. “But you’re stronger than I.” She said it to be comforting, knowing how apprehensive I was. She took my hand, and we continued our inventory of the travelers coming toward us.
One particularly impressive procession had come over a saddle in the cliffs southwest. It included a chariot, several wagons, and files of marching persons, one of them glittering as though dipped in jewels. Above this line of march a long banner floated, like a superscription.
Lutha said, “That flag has a familiar look to it.”
Trompe reached into his pack for glasses, and looked again.
“What in … ” he blurted. “It’s the Great Flag of the Alliance.”
“The Procurator?” she questioned. “Here?”
“Doesn’t have to be the Procurator,” murmured Leelson. “Could be an envoy.”
I looked up to see that Lutha had gone red in the face. Her lips were tight, her nostrils flared. She was furious!
“What?” I whispered.
“I came all this way! Unwillingly, at considerable danger and discomfort! Then Leelson turned up, out of nothing, trying to send me home, trying to get rid of me and Leely, but I stuck to my duty, and now, before I’ve had any chance to do what I was sent for, here’s the man who sent me, or his envoy! Why was I needed at all? Why disrupt my life? This person has probably come directly from the port! He has not been forced to endure a hover car for endless wearying days, plus a strenuous canyon climb, plus the danger of being maimed by the Kachis!”
I touched her cheek. She dropped her eyes, seemingly ashamed.
“Drama,” I whispered.
“I’m ridiculous,” she agreed. “As the Gauphin taught, people are ridiculous! We have language and history, we have technology and philosophy, and we still have not achieved good sense and self-control! And those of us who pretend to, as Fastigats do, are so damned smug about it!”
I patted her, evoking a smile. I smiled in return, though she could not see it. She knew there was nothing to be gained by being annoyed with the Procurator, or with Leelson. No gain from lying sleepless over Leelson. No gain from weeping over Leelson. No gain remembering that time at the pool, before the Burning Springs …
“Shhh,” I whispered. “It’ll be all right.”
Her eyes said it wouldn’t be all right. “The next few moments will be all right. That will have to do. I must live from one set of moments to the next.”
“Shall we go down?” Trompe asked, nudging Lutha impatiently.
“Of course.” She and I moved off in a purposeful manner, ignoring the sidelong glances Leelson and Trompe cast in our direction, feeling for our feelings.
She snorted, saying under her breath, “One’s feelings, one’s love-making, and one’s letters should be strictly private! In my opinion, when these things are dragged out and displayed to strangers, affection is corrupted and destroyed. It is what bad biographers do, this digging into what might have been intended, what possibly had been felt. See here, she feels; see there, she says; look here, she promises! Even I do not always know what I feel or what I intend. What arrogance for these Fastigats to presume to know me better than I know myself!”